Mary pushed to her feet and followed Cecelia toward the door. “Just tell me, Cece, does Lady Magnolia marry the duke in the story? Do they fall in love and live happily ever after?” The girl pressed both hands to her cheeks, wheezing slightly.
Cecelia couldn’t help her smile. “I can’t tell you that, silly. It would ruin the story.” She rumpled her sister’s hair. She and Mary shared a love of happy endings. And why shouldn’t they? Real life was difficult enough. In addition to their parents’ deaths and Uncle Herbert’s taking over as their guardian, Mary was sick with a lung disease. She needed expensive medicine that they could ill afford. They were little more than paupers, even if they could claim a connection to the ton on their father’s side. Father had been the youngest son of a viscount. Their mother’s younger brother, Herbert, could claim no such distinction and hoped to exploit what little familial claim to Society there was by marrying his only child to Cecelia. Cecelia would rather be hanged than marry Percy. She shuddered, then plastered her best false smile to her face for her sister.
“Don’t worry, Mary. I will sell the novel, and then we’ll move away to the countryside and—”
Mary’s face fell. “Oh, but we can’t leave the town house. Not Father’s town house.”
Cecelia turned away so her sister wouldn’t see the worry on her face. They couldn’t afford to keep the house. The creditors were sure to take it, not to mention it would be a feat to see Uncle Herbert and his corpulent wife and son removed from the premises. But she didn’t want to burden her sister. Mary’s wheezing worsened when she was upset. “We’ll talk about it later, darling. I must go.” Cecelia pulled her worn bonnet off the back of the chair and placed it atop her head. She tied a neat bow under her chin and nearly flew from the room.
“Wait!” Mary called, launching into another coughing fit.
Cece popped back into the room. Her sister pushed the stack of papers into her arms.
Cece laughed. “Oh yes, mustn’t forget this.” She glanced down at the first page, where she’d carefully written the title of the novel in large, scrolling letters.
Lady Magnolia and the Duke
Cecelia squeezed the papers to her chest. Oh, it just had to be good enough to be published. “Wish me luck, Mary.”
“Best of luck,” Mary said, picking up Esme and waving her tiny paw at Cecelia.
“And you, Esme?”
The rabbit blinked solemnly in response.
Laughing, Cece swiveled around again, rushed out of the room, and hurried down the servants’ staircase. When she reached the ground floor, winded, she darted her gaze about to ensure Uncle Herbert and Cousin Percy wouldn’t see her. There was no danger of being discovered by Aunt Selene. That lady rarely left her bedchamber. Thankfully, the space was deserted. Cece scurried out the back doors and passed the nearly vacant mews. Only Uncle Herbert’s half-deaf old mare sat inside, unhappily chewing at an exceedingly questionable pile of hay.
Cecelia clutched the manuscript. Writing it had been a joy. One of the few joys in her otherwise bleak life of late. And yes, of course Lady Magnolia and the duke fell in love and lived happily ever after, just as Cecelia would one day. But more important, just as Mary would, because even if Cecelia failed to save herself, she refused to allow her lovely, smart sister to fall victim to a loveless marriage. That was a fate worse than death. First Cecelia would sell her novel, then she’d get Mary the medicine the girl so desperately needed, then she’d find a way to leave London and her aunt, uncle, and cousin far behind. But first things first. Lifting her head and saying a prayer that Mr. Cornwall was in a buying mood today, Cecelia strode off toward the better part of Mayfair and the home of one Mr. Eugene Cornwall. She might not have a proper lady’s maid to accompany her, but that wasn’t about to stop her. No matter what happened, Cecelia would save Mary.
CHAPTER TWO
One hour later, as Mr. Cornwall’s half-asleep butler handed Cecelia her bonnet, she decided that happily-ever-after was much more elusive than it sounded.
“My dear Miss Harcourt. No one wants to read romantic novels,” Mr. Cornwall had informed her while pushing a bit of snuff up his pale nostril.
“Yes, they do!” Cecilia had insisted, thumping her fist atop the stack of manuscript pages that sat between them on the top of Mr. Cornwall’s fine mahogany desk in his sparse study.
The man had eyed her over the rim of his golden spectacles. “Not anyone of good sense.”
“My sister and I do, and I assure you we both have quite a lot of sense and all of it good.” Cecelia took a deep breath and tried to remind herself that raising her voice to this man could not end well. But she wasn’t about to allow him to tell her that no one wanted to read the sort of story she’d written. She knew for certain it wasn’t true.