Page 5 of The Devil to Pay

Lady Rose Carmichael.

Jules muttered a curse and snatched up the newspaper cutting. So, Miss Selina Davenport had been at it again, had she? Why her comments riled him so much, he could not fathom. He’d received hundreds—thousands—of positive reviews for his work, yet her prickly little digs at things she’d thought less than perfect never failed to get under his skin.

How disappointing that our mystery writer seems to have developed a character about which he or she knows nothing at all. Perhaps they come from an elevated position in life and have never experienced what it is to work for a living, for I found the blacksmith entirely unconvincing, and as for the housekeeper…

Jules read on, becoming increasingly incensed as she highlighted how he had failed to capture the lives of the servants and lower-class characters in his novel.

“I’ll murder her!” he exclaimed, screwing the cutting up into a tiny ball and lobbing it across the table. Pip caught it before it could fall to the floor and carefully smoothed it out again, reading it through.

“Oh dear,” he said, amusement in his voice as he shot Jules a look of mingled sympathy and far too much enjoyment at his annoyance. “She’s got your measure, old fellow.”

“Take it back!” Jules said, bristling. “I am always careful to observe the lives of those around me and illustrate them faithfully.”

“Observation is not the same as experiencing, I suspect,” Pip replied, sounding so damn smug that Jules’ temper lit.

“Well, do you seriously expect me to take the position of housekeeper for a few months to understand the role?”

Pip laughed and shook his head. “No, but you might speak to a housekeeper or two.”

“Oh, yes, because they’re going to give the Marquess of Blackstone honest answers about their lives, aren’t they?” Jules said with a sneer, throwing down his napkin in disgust. “Be reasonable. They’d tell me everything was wonderful, and their lives were filled with sunshine and roses, for fear I’d get them dismissed if they complained.”

“Perhaps, but it’s the kind of thing you ought to figure out if you’re serious about your work.”

“I am serious!” Jules replied, stung by the comment. “It’s the one bloody thing I’m actually good at! Or at least I thought I was,” he added mulishly, folding his arms.

“Oh, grow up!” Pip stood suddenly, apparently no longer entertained. “You’re spoiled, Jules, and you’ve spent your entire life indulging yourself. Yes, you’re a damned good writer, but this woman’s comments would not get to you so badly if there wasn’t a little truth in them, and you know it.”

“I’m spoiled?” Jules shot back at him, ignoring the other comment which had hit rather too close to home for comfort. “Well, if that’s not the pot calling the kettle black!”

“Yes! But I at least know it,” Pip retorted, angry now. “Perhaps if you allowed yourself a bit of time in the real world and just occasionally removed your head from under whatever petticoat you’ve tucked it, you might see the lady had a point.”

Jules glared at him. “So you agree with her?”

“Miss Davenport is an intelligent young woman with more good sense and capability than most men I know,” Pip said, shocking Jules to his bones.

“You know her!” he said, outraged.

Pip sent him an impatient glare. “Well, if you thought about it for above a moment, you’d realise her father is General Davenport,” he snapped.

Jules considered this and brought to mind a fit, red headed military man who could talk a man to death. “Not that prosy old bore who’s always in his cups, rambling on about hunting?”

“The very same, and the marvellous hunting country he is always bleating about, is where?” Pip suggested, quirking an eyebrow.

“I don’t know, somewhere in the back end of beyond and… Oh, bloody hell. Monmouthshire!” he exclaimed, clapping a hand to his forehead. “You don’t mean to say she’s somewhere here?”

“She’s one of my bloody neighbours, you halfwit!”

Jules gaped, too stunned to speak for a moment. Finally, he summoned a terse, “Where?”

Pip’s eyes narrowed. “Why? What do you intend to do?”

“I don’t know yet,” Jules replied with dignity. “I’m just curious to meet the woman who so enjoys tearing my work to shreds and discover what literary talent she owns that puts her in a place to criticise.”

Pip groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. “I ought never to have told you.”

“Too late now,” Jules said savagely.

“Jules.” Pip stared at him, his expression deadly serious. “She’s a good sort, and she has enough to contend with, so don’t—”