Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Oh dear me.
‘He should be reported to the Prince Regent,’ I say over an exhale, clearing my throat and moving into the crowd. I am so incredibly hot, my underclothes sticking to my clammy skin. My goodness, I am dizzy with shock. Well, I suppose that answers the burning question as to who will be moving into number one Belmore Square. Damnation, my next story has just ridden away on his steed and taken the mystery of it all with him for the whole of London to see.
‘Are you all right, Eliza?’ Clara says, joining me as the crowd disperses. Thank goodness.
‘Yes, I am fine.’ I laugh, and it is a shockingly terrible fake laugh. ‘What an awfully rude man.’ And unfathomably handsome. Tall, broad, manly. I bet the Duke of Chester would not think twice about having his hands on me in public. Saving me from a runaway horse. Or man. I wince at my own filthy thoughts, getting them straight. And my breathing under control. And my mind clear of the vision of such an impressive male upon such an impressive stallion.
A man who isn’t dead after all. A man who apparently murdered his family.
Goodness, Eliza. Perhaps I should visit a doctor.
‘Mama,’ I breathe, seeing her coming towards me. ‘I am fine, be assured.’
‘Why did you not move?’
‘I think I must have become frozen.’ I look back down the track, seeing the Duke on his horse clip-clopping along leisurely towards the gilded gates, now seemingly in no rush at all. He has the attention of every person in the park, the women looking somewhat breathless and giddy, the men looking somewhat wary.
When he arrives at the gates, he stops and gazes back.
At me.
My breath is lost again, and I quickly look away from him before Mother becomes privy to my peculiar behaviour.
‘Is this a joke?’ Lymington says, joining us, taking his quizzing glass and looking towards the gate
‘I don’t see anyone laughing.’
He falters, his crabby face wrinkling as he turns his eyes onto me. Accusing eyes. Disapproving eyes. I have not the faintest idea what comes over me, but I bow my head in respect and apology, moving away before my runaway mouth gets me into trouble. Or even more trouble. The whole town will hear about this, I am sure. In fact, it will be written and published in Father’s newspaper by sunrise tomorrow. Except the story will not be embellished, it really doesn’t need to be. It was rather dramatic and heart-stopping without exaggeration.
I look back towards the gates.
The Duke is gone.
But my rickety body, goose skin and crashing heart remains.
Chapter 4
The moment I arrived home, I hurried to my room, penned my story about the shocking return of Johnny Winters to London, detailing every moment, except, of course, the obvious tension between he and I. I slip into Father’s study and pop the story on his desk with a note from Porter.
‘I bloody well knew it.’
I whirl round. Caught red-handed. Bugger! ‘Oh, Frank, please don’t tell, I beg you.’ I go to him and fist the front of his coat – another new coat, I note – and give him my most pleading expression, my lip jutting out, my eyes big, round and, hopefully, irresistibly adorable.
‘You can’t get away with things here in London like we did in the countryside, Eliza.’
‘Then don’t tell!’
‘How long do you think it’ll be before Porter makes a point of discovering who the mystery writer is?’
‘He doesn’t care,’ I grumble. ‘So long as he’s getting the credit.’
Frank detaches me from his new coat and shuts the door. ‘No, Eliza.’
I scowl and bump him on his bicep. ‘It is the only thing keeping me sane. I cannot travel, explore, write about my experiences. At least give me this if I am to be controlled.’ I quickly think of something, a bargaining chip. ‘I have a proposition.’
‘No.’ He turns away and marches to the window. ‘This sounds like it could be similar to the time you promised silence in exchange for twenty shillings.’
‘I was silent, was I not?’
‘Yes, and you bankrupted me at the same time. Took all of my savings.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t take your coat fund.’ I smile sarcastically. ‘But I will give you something you desperately want.’
He cocks a brow, nervous. ‘What?’
‘Time.’
‘Huh?’
‘It’ll be our little secret. I know you hate writing for the newspaper. I know it takes up so much time because you’re a terrible writer.’
‘Charming, you are, sister.’
I won’t apologise, I am right. ‘What do you say? I write the stories when inspiration strikes me, and you can be the reporter. Papa need never know.’ I’ve got him. I can tell by the way he’s rolling his jaw in contemplation. ‘Call it delegation.’
‘Fine.’
I laugh. ‘Why do you speak as if you’re doing me a favour with no gain.’