Page 23 of The Devil to Pay

1stMarch 1845, Llun-y-mynydd, Monmouthshire.

Jules stared down at the book in his hands. Pride and Prejudice was one of his mother’s favourite titles and one she often held up as an example of a wonderfully written, clever romance novel. He wondered if the authoress ever had misgivings about a published book and had ever wished to go back and change things. For he ought to feel very pleased with himself about now. His publisher had enclosed the sales report, and it far exceeded anything Jules had expected. To commit to a second run so quickly meant that they were confident of sales continuing. They also loved the outlines of the story he had sent them, which was to have been his revenge on Davenport.

He glanced across the table to where her unruly red curls were just visible as she stooped to pick up more books. They had made good progress since the cleaners had been in and the stacks around the rooms were looking orderly and arranged rather than like an explosion in a library. Davenport had decreed that they would arrange all the books first, before attempting to put them on the shelves, an edict Jules had agreed with but had scowled over anyway, for appearance’s sake. The truth was, he had rather enjoyed himself these past days. It was soothing work, and a lovely environment to be in when it was damp and cold outside. Davenport seemed indefatigable, never cross no matter how many times one of her many siblings interrupted her, or how often the servants required she answer every question posed from the head gardener to the head groomsmen or household staff. It seemed as if the entire enterprise would grind to a halt if Davenport weren’t there to oversee it.

“Have you read it?”

Jules looked up, shaken out of his reverie by the demand. He considered lying but decided against it. She knew he was a gentleman by birth, if nothing else.

“I have.”

“Really?”

He looked around at the surprise in her voice and frowned. “Yes, why not?”

She shrugged, squinting a little at the title on a very ancient-looking tome she was trying to place. “Most of the men I know don’t admit to reading romance novels, even if they do it.”

The words I am not most men hovered on his tongue, but he swallowed them down.

She smiled, a glint in her eyes that made him believe she knew what he’d been going to say, and he gave a reluctant laugh.

“I suppose you fell in love with Darcy?”

“Wasn’t I supposed to?” she returned with an arch look.

“Certainly, but do you always?”

“No,” she admitted, dusting the book she was holding with her sleeve. “Sometimes the villains are far more dashing and intriguing, but that’s why novels are so entertaining. They aren’t real.”

“But they mirror real life, condensed perhaps, for the reader’s gratification, but a good writer must draw on reality, or at least their own reality. Austen omits to mention the war that was raging through Europe at the time she was writing, for it did not enter the world she inhabited, unless you take note of the dashing army officers, but her books are no less compelling.”

She shrugged, conceding this point. “Yes, indeed, but a writer must also seek out those things that are a part of their world that are perhaps seen but not understood. Like an upper-class gentleman writing the perspective of a lowly serving maid when he hasn’t the first idea of what her day looks like.”

“But how can he do so, when the maid would never speak to him openly about her life?” he demanded, knowing they were on dangerous ground here but enjoying the conversation too much to stop.

“Then perhaps he ought to get her to read his work and speak to an intermediary about how she has been portrayed, if he really cared for realism and authenticity,” she retorted, and with such a sharp note to her voice, he did not venture to push her any further.

Her words, though an echo of the review she had written, lost a little of their sting, for he had accepted the truth of them some time since. He’d had little idea of what it meant to work for a living, and though his ‘working life’ had so far numbered mere days, he’d been given a little glimpse of how the other half lived he knew would stay with him, and that he intended to build upon.

Jules turned his attention back to sorting the novels he’d been working through, gratified to discover many titles he had read himself and enjoyed, as well as his own work. The Ghosts of Castle Madruzzo was gratifyingly well worn. Giving a surreptitious glance at his nemesis to check he wasn’t being observed, he set the book on its spine and let it fall open. He grinned as it revealed the part in the book where the heroine bested the villain, and then had a moment of regret at his grisly demise. For he was a wicked devil, but entertaining, and though the hero was a worthy sort and bound to be an excellent husband, Jules knew there was often something women found intriguing about an arrogant devil with a quick wit. Making a woman laugh was always his tactic for getting closer to them, and a woman who sparred with him was catnip, as far as his libido was concerned.

Jules looked up as the door opened and a little boy waddled in, trundling a toy wagon behind him full of wooden blocks and shapes.

“Play wiv’ Jammy, Lina?” the boy demanded.

“Benjamin!” Davenport exclaimed, setting down the book she was studying and hurrying across the room. “Where is Hilly?”

“Sleep,” the boy said succinctly.

She sighed and picked the child up, wiping absently at a grubby mark on his cheek before kissing it. “Oh, dear. What about Abigail?”

Benjamin pulled a face and shook his head.

“Charlie?” she asked with resignation.

“Charlie, out wiv horsey. I want horsey, Lina,” the boy protested.

“Yes, I know you do, and you shall have one too, when you are just a little bit bigger.”