How to Impress a Marquess(52)
He couldn’t think about it. He had to keep moving or he would be paralyzed.
He had the cab driver deposit him at Fleet Street in front of a brick building with “McAllister’s” printed across the top. George clutched the portfolio holding Lilith’s chapter under his arm. As he crossed the walk, he accidentally rubbed shoulders with a lady in a vibrant orange dress and possessing a yellow parasol.
“Pardon me,” he murmured.
The woman gasped. “You! It’s you!”
George raised a brow. “Are we acquainted?”
“You’re Sultan Murada.”
“No, I’m Lord Marylewick,” George explained nervously, realizing this woman was off her nut. “The sultan is fictional.”
“Murderer! Murderer!” The woman shook her parasol at him. “How dare you hurt dear little Colette?”
People were stopping on both sides of the street and not to observe the mad, ranting woman but the vile sultan. They pointed to him and whispered to each other.
“What?” George flung up his hand. “I didn’t murder Colette. At most, I tried to…” Wait! Was he trying to defend some fictional version of himself? He spun on his heel.
He opened the door to find a narrow set of stairs and a sign that read “Office” with an arrow pointing upward. The floors shook with the pounding of presses. He lifted his cane and took the steps two at a time, coming to an open stairwell where a young clerk with an air of put-upon sullenness hunched at a desk. The man peevishly thumped the stack of papers he was reading with his pencil. “Relative clause! For God’s sake, use a comma!” he cried in agony and then added one with a great flourish.
“I am seeking the editor of this paper,” George said. “Presumably, a Mr. McAllister.”
The clerk’s indolent gaze drifted from George’s face to the portfolio he held. A bored glaze came over his large, slightly bulging eyes. “Mr. McAllister is busy. If you would like to leave your manuscript for consideration, I shall add it to my pile.” He flicked his pencil toward a mini Leaning Tower of Pisa made of paper and stacked suspiciously close to the rubbish bin.
The clerk continued in a bored drone, returning his attention to the pages he was reading. “You may expect an answer in four to six weeks. Any inquiries before that time will be politely ig—”
“I’m Lord Marylewick.”
The man’s mouth dropped. He shot out of his chair, scurried to a closed door, and tapped it. “Mr. McAllister. You have a v—”
“Not now!” a voice boomed from inside.
The clerk gave George a nervous smile and knocked on the door again. “Mr. McAllister, Lord Marylewick is here. Standing right here. Eyeing me. He’s very angry.”
Not five seconds later the door flew open and a man with unkempt, greasy curls and a beard that needed trimming scrambled out of his office. His shirt, waistcoat, and brown plaid trousers had the ruffled appearance of having been slept in. He performed a series of curt bows as he approached George.
“Lord Marylewick, you honor us with your presence. A great honor, indeed. We are humbled.” He glanced around and behind George and added, “I see you are alone?” There was an arch in his voice that left his question dangling. George looked at the man’s anxious eyes and guessed the reason for worry.
“My solicitor is attending a funeral—his mother’s,” replied George in a deep intimidating voice. “I elected to visit you myself.”
“Sorry to hear about your solicitor’s mother. Very sorry indeed. Please come in.” He made a shooing motion to the clerk. “Stuart, bring us some tea.”
The man’s small office appeared to have been hit by a tidal wave of paper. Great towering stacks on the verge of tipping over covered every surface. Pages were even tacked to the walls. McAllister removed a stack of illustrations from a chair. “A new artist we are considering for future volumes. Please, please sit down.”
George sat, keeping the portfolio in the crook of his arm.
The editor leaned against his desk and rubbed his hands together. “I want to say that Miss Dahlgren never gave me any indication that the sultan character was inspired by anyone she knew. I see no reason to get the courts involved.”
“That remains to be seen,” replied George coolly, even though he would cut off several of his less-needed appendages before dragging his name through the courts. “Do you know where I might find Miss Dahlgren?”
“Of course, of course, let me get her address.” He began to flip through the mountain of documents on his desk. “Now, where is it?” Seeing the futility of this scavenger hunt, he opened the door and shouted. “Stuart! Fetch Miss Dahlgren’s address.”
“When did you last see Miss Dahlgren?” George continued.
“Over two weeks ago. She turned in the installment of Colette and the Sultan that we last published. Naturally, we’ll cease to print the story.” He forced a chuckle and then his features turned hawkish. “Unless, of course, you would care to write a letter releasing us of any defamation and libel. Not that those terms apply in this case.” Another forced chuckle. “No, no. Merely a precaution. Better safe than sued—I mean sorry!” He wiped his damp brow with this sleeve.
“Whether I sue depends on my meeting with Miss Dahlgren.”
McAllister edged toward the door. “Stuart, hang the tea. Get the address.”
Stuart walked into the office holding a teapot that he set down on a stack, and pulled a random page from the sea of disorganization. “Ah yes, here it is,” said Mr. McAllister. He read off the address of Lilith’s old residence. The one George had visited. His spirits flagged.
George rose, restless to continue his search. “Please let me know if you hear from her in any regard, else my solicitor might bandy about those terms of defamation and libel. Do not print any work of hers until you talk to me.”
“Perhaps we could work out an agreement. A most lucrative agreement. The story is very popular. People will be quite angry if we couldn’t finish it.”
“Perhaps not.” George strolled from the office, letting his cane strike the floor.
He stepped outside and gazed at the soot-filled sky cluttered with hundreds of roofs and chimney stacks. The image began to shift. The building, sky, street all turned to a watery, despondent gray with thick black lines outlining the streetlamps and roofs.
“Murderer! Sultan!” The crazy woman had waited for him. Her vivid yellow parasol broke through the gray. A crowd had swelled around her.
Bloody hell.
He quickly waved down a hackney to head back to the safety and sanity of Grosvenor Square. Outside the carriage window, London passed. Building after building. London housed three million people. The metropolis could easily swallow Lilith. If she were even in London. She said she would come back when she was stronger. But could he wait that long? What if something happened to her?
What if…
What if she found someone else?
He couldn’t stomach the idea of another man touching her. She was his. She was his art. He would find her if he had to seek out every tormented artist and writer in England.
Two streets later, he tapped the window, halting the carriage. He stepped down and asked the driver to wait. He walked into the art store. A hunched woman with metallic silvery hair and pale, almost translucent blue eyes was busy organizing paintbrushes into canisters according to size.
George removed his hat. “Pardon me, I would like to know where I might find some prominent artists’ studios…and…and…”
“Yes?” The woman smiled, forming kindly crinkles at the corners of her eyelids.
“I would like to purchase some paint.”
Day after day, the headlines became more ridiculous. Penelope continued to read them, fretting, upset, questioning her decisions. George recommended that she stop paying the stupid rags any heed, as he had. He had spent a lifetime catering to people and this was how they treated him? To hell with them. He accepted no visitors nor replied to any summons. He pushed to the back of his mind that Parliament returned in a week’s time. A letter from the prime minister lambasting his behavior and demanding an audience remained unanswered. He couldn’t muster his old self, the conscientious George who kept everything in its place.
But as George faltered, his secretary eagerly assumed more responsibility. He competently handled all the business correspondence and interactions with the housekeeper and butler. Rather than wander idly about without direction, George’s staff worked harder when their master loosened his rein on them. Why had he not trusted them sooner? Why had he tried to control everyone?
During the day, he urged Penelope to stay at home and wait for any letter or communication from Lilith while he wandered off, in disheveled clothes and a hat worn low, to the haunts of artists in the underbelly of London. If he found no refuge in proper society, he was offered plenty by the artist community. Humbled by his desperation to find Lilith, he had to temper his usual contempt and request help. He learned Lilith possessed a great number of interesting friends, albeit poor. Everyone had a story to share about her wild spirits but also her kindness and charity. It only broke his heart even more.