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“Should I? He looks like every other man in London from where I stand.”
“Because you’re standing at a funny angle. Here,” he ordered and pulled her to the center of the door—the glass was not so warped there. It took only a second for her to realize who was waiting for her in the publishers, and her heart sank to her stomach.
“You don’t suppose that’s the poet from last night, do you? The one with whom you danced. Oh, what was his name?”
“Mr. Charles Huxley,” she bit out, each word tasting like ash in her mouth. She could not begin to conceive of what he was doing here, today of all days, this morning of all mornings. Surely, he was not tailing her as well as stealing her work. Constantly one step ahead of her he was, fantastically so. It made no sense. “What do you suppose he’s doing?”
“I thought you were the bookworm among us. Most like, he’s publishing something new.”
Or picking up a note on my behalf,Charlotte realized, and quickly turned to Matthew. Time was of the essence. “Oh, Matthew. I have done something so terribly silly.” She lifted up her hands. “My gloves. I seem to have… forgotten them. Yes, in the carriage. Would you be a dear and go fetch them for me? I should be so embarrassed if one of our friends was to catch me without them.”
The look Matthew gave her could have frosted over a lake. “You are joking. I refuse to walk all the way back to Booth on account of your gloves. No, I simply won’t do it.”
Well, she had not accounted for Matthew’s stubbornness in her plan. Every detail, but that. Every detail, but the sudden appearance of the thief. “Please. Oh, please, Matthew. I am begging you. Do me this kindness.”
“That you might make a habit of asking me for favors?” Matthew shook his head. “Come on, let’s say hello at the very least.”
“What? No!” Before she could protest any more or run, Matthew had practically thrust her through the door of the publishing office. She landed heavily inside, her Court Shoes announcing their presence with a resoundingthumpagainst the marble floors, a bell chiming above them.
And then, there he was, looking right at her. The fakeHuxley.
He was dressed top to bottom in beige, save for his boots which were a rich black. He looked far less coiffed than the night prior, a little rough around the edges. His hair seemed darker, his eyes too, but he was still irrevocably handsome. He was holding a large leather purse in one hand while coins graced the gloved palm of the other. Her commission, she realized, or some sort of advance for promised work.
“Sir, madam,” the man from behind the counter said. He was a crane in human form, with a long neck, torso, and beak. Stacks of books and paper surrounding him, no doubt some manuscripts among them. The smell of stale tea in the air, and the place was dank and dark—nothing like her dreams. “I’ll be with you in just a moment,” he added when they did not move.
Matthew dragged Charlotte by the arm to a pair of matching wooden chairs. She sat down, unable to focus on anything but the man before her. She was seething, top to bottom, so hot with anger she worried she might explode. She leaned forward a little more than needed, hoping to catch their low conversation.
“Right,” the man behind the counter said, looking over some sort of paperwork Charlotte could not spy. Every word grated on her nerves. “We’ll settle on a piece a week for the first month, assuming you only want to be published in ‘The Lady’s Monthly Gallery of Arts’ as you have been. Two pounds a week for now, with your advance.”
Huxley simply nodded. Charlotte guessed his reserve had something to do with their presence. “Sounds good,” he replied, and his voice rang strangely different than it had the night before.
“Now, I’d much rather you drop them off yourself from now on instead of sending those boys as you have been. I’ve noted your new address, so I’ll send the notes down there, all right?”
The publisher beamed. He picked up one of the papers from his desk. To her utter surprise, Charlotte recognized the stationary as her own. The small blue filigree pattern in its corner was unmistakably from one of her writing sets. She guessed it was one of the poems she had sent off a few weeks prior that had yet to be published.
She writhed in her seat, unbridled fury coursing through her. Matthew put a hand on her knee, which was bobbing up and down, and mouthed silently, “Stop it.” She ceased her fidgeting and leaned in even further.
“As the sun said to the earth, I do; And were joined for the first day, for all days; So do I, my love, swear my heart to a cause as natural as your breath,” the publisher read aloud. As expected, it was indeed of her creation. A favorite of hers too, which only made the slight greater. He nodded in approval.
When she turned back to Matthew, hoping he might have dozed off so she could intervene, she found him staring up at some sketches of ladies framed and hung up above the entrance to the offices.
There was nothing she could do but sit and stew as the publisher uttered, “Beautiful, just beautiful, Mr. Huxley. A fine choice for next week’s journal.” He paused. “Dare I ask why the writing on these is quite different from your own?”
She sawHuxley’sshoulders shake as he laughed. “Trick of the trade,” he answered, his voice sending a shock of something dark through Charlotte. “I have my sister pen them for me so as not to interfere with the creative process. I don’t want to be… shackled by paper when capturing something as effervescent as poetry.”
Charlotte almost gagged. The man behind the counter was awed, his mouth agape, and she had half a mind to jump over and close it for him. She had never heard such meandering, mewling, creative diatribe in all her life. If only etiquette was not so, she might proclaim the truth for herself.
But it wouldn’t matter, would it? Even if she were to claim the poems were her own, penned by her own hand, she had no concrete proof. Her penmanship was not so brilliant as to be unique. No one would believe her word against a man’s. She was too late—byminutes.
Thankfully, the two men’s ghastly conversation came to a close. They shared some formal greetings, and the publisher looked over to Charlotte and her brother. She was on her feet so quickly her head began to spin.
Huxleyturned to them, and Charlotte smirked as she realized she was blocking the way out. If Matthew wanted to sayhello, he would get that and so much more. She tugged on his arm to make introductions.
“Mr. Huxley, correct?” he asked and dipped his head. “It is a pleasure to see you again. St Chett, from the Singberry ball. I assume you remember my sister, Lady Charlotte.”
The man dared to look at her, but he was unreadable, implacable. He smiled courteously, but his eyes were like two green gemstones on his face, unmoving. “Of course, I remember. It is an honor to see both of you again.” As expected, his voice had taken on the same artificial lilt and accent as the night prior.
Charlotte spoke before her mind could stop her. “What are you doing here?” she asked, and Matthew smacked her arm discreetly with his hat. “I mean to say, I had not realized you were yet publishing your work in journals, good sir.”
