Mr. Cornwall’s nose twitched in a way that reminded Cecelia of Esmeralda. She briefly wondered if the man had rabbits in his ancestry. Or a carrot in his desk.
“It’s not a sound investment,” the publisher continued, plucking at his spectacles. “I need works like history books or treatises or tomes on science. I was under the impression that you’d written an adventure story.”
Cecelia cleared her throat. “Falling in love is the greatest adventure there is. Besides, those other subjects are dull.”
He narrowed his eyes on her. “Those things sell.”
Cece’s knee was bouncing up and down in front of Mr. Cornwall’s monstrosity of a desk. “What about Emma?” That particular novel had been published last Christmastide, and Cecelia had devoured every word of it. Multiple times.
Mr. Cornwall wiggled his nose. “A stroke of luck.”
“What about Pride and Prejudice?” Another favorite of hers and written by a lady. A glorious lady who had provided Cecelia with the courage to try her own hand at writing such novels.
Mr. Cornwall patted down the mat of his graying hair. Come to think on it, that looked rabbit-like as well. “Nonsense. And more a discourse on the class system than a romantic novel.”
Cecelia’s fingertips tingled with the urge to slap the man for denigrating her favorite book. Still, she wasn’t finished arguing her point. “What about—? What about—?” She’d planned to say Lady Magnolia and the Duke but that was ridiculous. How in the world would Lady Magnolia’s story see the light of day if she failed to convince this man how important it was?
She squared her shoulders and calmly folded her hands in her lap. “My sister is ill. I need to sell this novel,” she nearly whispered.
“My dear Miss Harcourt,” the publisher replied with a look in his eyes that was not unkind. “While I agree with you that there may be some interest in such works, unfortunately, I am nearing the end of my career, and I cannot afford the risk such a venture would entail. However, I’d be happy to meet with you again if you’ll bring back another type of book.”
Cecelia pressed her lips together firmly. If he called her “mydearmissHarcourt” one more time she would not be responsible for her actions. She stood, smoothed her worn skirts, and expelled her breath. She would regroup. She would think of something. She had to. “I understand. Thank you for the opportunity, sir.” She leaned down, gathered her treasured manuscript into her arms, and turned toward the door.
She had eventually been escorted from the room by the somnolent butler, been presented with her bonnet, and was well on her way down the street toward home again, her rejected novel clutched forlornly against her chest.
She kicked at the dust in the road as carts and carriages bustled around her. A history book? A treatise? Was she capable of writing either? A tome on science was simply out of the question. She supposed she must try to write something else, for Mary’s sake. But it was not as if one could simply write a book in a fortnight’s time. Lady Magnolia’s story had taken Cece the better part of six months to complete. Six entire months. And she needed money now. Before now, actually. Yesterday. Last week. Last month! If she took another six months to write another book, Uncle Herbert would surely see her married to Percy before the time was out. She trudged back toward her house on the outskirts of Mayfair while contemplating the matter. Could she write faster? Could she find another publisher? Could she do something else to earn money, like selling flowers on the street corner? (Where she’d obtain said flowers was anyone’s guess.) Did she know anything about science? She absently turned a corner and strolled into the street just as the thundering of hooves rushed up behind her.
CHAPTER THREE
Lieutenant Adam Hunt didn’t slow his pace as he slapped his gloves against his thigh. He was purposefully striding toward his temporary residence—his brother’s town house in Mayfair—with one thing on his mind.
Damn it. How could he make Derek understand? The man was a war hero and a duke, for God’s sake. The Duke of Claringdon. He’d settled a considerable sum of money on his younger brother, money that had been given to him as part of his dukedom after his bravery at Waterloo, but Adam saw it only as a handout. An unwanted handout.
Adam was the youngest of the three Hunt brothers and as such had always been treated as a child by both Derek and their middle brother, Collin. Now at the age of five and twenty, infuriating though it might be, Adam was still treated as a child by his brothers, and he was damn well tired of it. And today, today had been the final straw. He’d been called to the Home Office at noon and told that due to his familial connections he was being offered a position there. Basically a glorified secretary. He’d requested to be sent back to the Continent to work as a spy with his brother, Collin, investigating the anti-English sentiment and small sects of soldiers attempting to mount further aggression toward England after Napoleon had been vanquished. Derek had obviously had a hand in his being offered the secretarial position. Adam squeezed his gloves so hard his fist turned white. The duke was about to hear his brother’s thoughts on the subject. Loud and long.