Amelia Donnelly, Robert’s elder sister, tilted her head in front of the standing mirror in her bedroom. She had been going through her hats and discarding what she no longer cared for. The hat she was currently modeling was a maybe. One moment she liked it, and the next she detested it. She finally threw it on her bed—the maybe pile. But she noticed her rejection pile was much larger than her acceptance pile.

“Next,” she shouted out to her personal maid.

The poor girl brought out the last hat which Amelia immediately snatched from the girl’s hand and carefully placed atop her head. She studied it and sighed. Reject. She tossed it aside. And her only consolation was that she would now need to go hat shopping, which meant a trip to the London house, which she always enjoyed—especially when it involved spending Robert’s money.

She turned to her maid. “Get rid of all of those—but not to any of the servants. I do not want to see any of them parading around as though they were some sort of a duchess. Understand?”

“Yes, your ladyship.”

She pointed. “And those I am keeping. Put them away.”

She then turned to her maybe pile and studied them again. She picked up only one hat and dismissed the rest.

Amelia turned to, once again, study herself in the mirror. She took stock—looking for subtle changes. She pinched the bridge of her nose where there was a slight pain. It appeared to be nothing. She shook her head and let her long dark hair fall freely after removing the combs that held her hair in place. She was a tall woman with finely chiseled, aristocratic features, with a long lean nose and dark brown eyes. The set of her mouth generally fluctuated between neutral and harsh—with only the occasional smile which was quite pleasing when it rarely appeared. She was a strong woman, a determined woman—and she had plans.

She was seven years older than her brother and had taken care of his upbringing from the age of thirteen when their parents were lost on a scientific expedition in Africa. She was so used to managing his life she gave very little thought to how he might resent her continued interference in his affairs. But despite the fact that he was now the Earl of Donnelly, she still thought of herself as ruler and head of the family as she had a distinctive appetite for control.

Amelia knew that Robert would be at his desk this morning in the magnificent Balfour library—a room of such rococo beauty it had been written about in a number of architectural books and journals. A large fireplace dominated the center interior wall of the spacious room. It was tall enough for a man to stand in upright. The library’s vaulted ceiling was capped by a windowed dome that let in light to illuminate the painted gods and goddesses sporting amongst mythical animals and cherubs. And one entire wall alternated book shelves with tall windows overlooking the entrance-park to the estate.

“Robert, I do not know if you remember or not but we have guests coming up this weekend,” Amelia said as she stood firmly in front of his desk.

“Guests? Remind me again. Is this another one from your parade of tender maidens dragged onto the auction block to tempt the eligible but reluctant Earl?” he asked.

Amelia’s mouth was hard set. “It is Sir Benjamin Daniels, his lovely wife, Caroline and their most enchanting daughter, Charlene—a charming young lady of eighteen.”

“Then I am sure you will greatly enjoy their company. However, I shall not be here. I am going down to London on Friday for at least the entire weekend,” Robert said with a great deal of self-satisfaction.

Amelia’s nostrils flared, and her eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about? I asked you specifically several weeks ago if you were free this weekend and you assured me you were.”

Robert stared her down. “However, plans change, my darling sister. And I can quite assure you that I shall not be here.”

Amelia turned from him and began pacing. “Robert, Robert how can you be so negligent of your duty? You are thirty-years-old and still unmarried. You need an heir and, still, you thwart all my well-meaning efforts to find you a suitable bride.” She turned to face him again and accused. “I do not know why I bother. I really do not, when you care so little for my efforts on your behalf.”

She lowered her head and brought a handkerchief to her eyes while emitting a low whimper.

“Amelia, your eyes are as dry as a desert. Stop playacting. Remember I know all your tricks.”

Her head snapped up and she glowered at him. “And what exactly is so important that you must go to London this weekend?”

“I have not had the opportunity to tell you but Cecil is to publish my novel once I have made certain arrangements.”

She felt another blow. “What are you talking about? That piece of balderdash you have been working on is to be published? That is ridiculous. You know you cannot possibly publish such a piece of trash as the Earl of Donnelly. You would be laughed out of all proper society.”

“And that is exactly what the arrangements are for. I am to publish under another name. And Sir Cecil assures me the book will be a huge success. I am going down to London to meet with possible surrogate authors and hopefully find an eager and willing participant to stand as my front.”

“I swear you will hound me into an early grave,” Amelia wailed.

“I doubt that. You are as strong as a horse and as stubborn as a mule. I am quite certain you will be just fine. And by the way, I see I must remind you, once again, that I am now the head of this house and these estates. And I am more than entirely capable of finding a satisfactory wife by myself.”

* * *

Dexter Cabot lived in a three-story house that had been tastefully converted into single floor flats in the fashionable Bayswater section of London. The building, although with only three flats, maintained a concierge to welcome and screen guests and accept deliveries.

“May I help you sir?” the welcoming gentleman enquired.

“Earl of Donnelly to see Dexter Cabot.”

The concierge bowed and extended his hand toward the lift. “Yes, Milord, Mr. Cabot is expecting you. Top floor.”

He scurried over to the lift doors and invited Robert inside.

“Splendid morning, is it not, Milord?”

“Exceptional,” Robert muttered, anxious to get out of the slow moving box. He was not accustomed to using such a dubious contraption.

Finally, he was deposited on the top floor and rang the doorbell.

The door was flung open with a great deal of force and a red-faced, portly man greeted him.

“My lord. Welcome. What a great, but unexpected, pleasure to meet you,” he said, ushering Robert inside his pleasant flat.

“This way. My office where I write is such a terrible mess. Please, let us visit in the sitting-room if you please.”

Robert followed Dexter into a large room with tall windows overlooking the street that had a small strip of grass and trees running down the middle.

“Sherry? Whiskey? Or I can have the Misses put together a pot of tea. What’s your pleasure?” Dexter asked.

“Nothing for me. I am soon to have luncheon with Sir Cecil at his club. Want to keep a clear head for the business at hand.”

“As you like.”

He indicated an overstuffed chair for Robert to sit and he took a similar chair opposite.

“Now then,” Dexter began, “I was surprised but also intrigued by your letter. You say you are looking to publish, but cannot under your own name?”

“That is correct,” Robert answered, and proceeded to explain the situation to his fellow author.

When Robert had finished, Dexter rubbed his chin several times with his plump hand.

“Most interesting situation. However, I am not quite certain what you wish of me. How could I be of assistance?”

“I am looking for a surrogate whose name I can publish under. I am willing to offer a substantial portion of the royalties from the book, which Sir Cecil assures me will sell quite well.”

“But what about my writing? How could I continue if you are publishing under my name?”

“Cecil believes he can make other arrangements.”

“But my readers? I have a substantial group of loyal followers who would immediately identify a book written by another author as not being mine—it would not be what they expect from me.”

“I was thinking there might be a preface in the book explaining that you are going in a new direction with your writing.”

Dexter stood up and went over to a bookshelf. “You see these—the nine books that I have written? Each one a great labor of love. Each one a success, and I could show you the many admiring letters I get from my readers expressing the great pleasure and satisfaction they get from reading my humble offerings.”

“And that is why I am asking you to consider my offer—so that I might tap into that enthusiastic readership. And I will certainly make it worth your while financially. And you can still keep writing and publishing—only under another name.”

“But how will my readers find me?”

“I believe Sir Cecil can help with that.”

Dexter came back to his chair and sat, but didn’t say anything. However, he was clearly mulling the offer over in his mind.

Finally, he said, “I am sorry My Lord. I just do not think that is a proposition that will work for me. I must honestly say I am a trifle set in my ways at my age and do not feel that I want to basically start over again building a new readership. I am afraid I must decline your most interesting and generous offer.”

Robert stood. “Then I thank you for your time, Mr. Cabot. And I wish you all the very best with your new book.”

* * *

Sir Cecil was waiting at his table in the large open dining room of his club, the Athenaeum, as Robert approached him—a few minutes late.

“Scotch?” Cecil asked as Robert sat.

Robert nodded and Cecil held up two fingers to the waiter who knew what he wanted.

“How did it go with Cabot?”

“Disappointing, I am sad to say.”

“Ah… I thought as much. One of my least promising prospects for you.”

“Then why didn’t you say? Waste of a whole morning,” Robert said a bit testily.

“Because he has one of the largest readerships, and I thought if he went along, it would be a good base for you.”

The waiter brought the drinks.

“The Dover sole is especially good here today. Very fresh Stevens assures me,” Cecil suggested.

“With buttered potatoes and peas, if you please,” Robert instructed the waiter.

“I’ve sent your manuscript to the editors. Should have it back in a month or so. Hopefully, I can have galley proofs for you in another two or three.”

“Beastly slow process, is it not?” Robert complained.

Cecil wagged his head. “It is, but there is no rush. You do not have your surrogate author yet either. It will take some time to set up that whole process once you find the suitable candidate.”

Robert sighed, and took another swig of Scotch.”

“Who are you interviewing this afternoon?” Cecil asked.

“The second of the three names you gave me—Sir Reginald Burbidge.”

“Ah…” Sir Cecil said with a certain air of mystery.

“What does that Ah mean?”

Sir Cecil smiled. “He is a bit of a character, but a cracking good author, and a good prospect. He might be just what you are looking for.”

* * *

Robert’s afternoon appointment was with the author of the moderately successful Thornton Abbey by Sir Reginald Burbidge—a tale of ghosts, mystery, and intrigue.

Sir Reginald lived in a splendid crescent house in Mayfair. Robert was greeted at the door by a butler and shown into a comfortable parlor with a warming fire.

“Sir Reginald will be with you shortly, Milord.”

“Thank you.”

The room was stately but somewhat lacking feminine charm. There were many shelves of books and a suit of armour and crossed pikes behind a shield above the fireplace. Robert speculated that Sir Reginald was most likely a bachelor.

“Welcome,” a voice rang out and Robert turned from studying the weapons to see Sir Reginald coming toward him.

They shook hands and Sir Reginald offered Robert a chair by the fire where there was a table set with tea service.

Robert never remembered meeting a man so tall and thin. He had his thin wispy, mouse-colored hair parted in the middle, and his gaunt face was sporting more of a beak than a nose. It was large but not wide, with a hook and a slight twist as though it might have been broken at some time in the past. However, Sir Reginald had an intelligent and piercing gaze and Robert knew he was dealing with a man to be reckoned with.

“Are you ex-military?” Robert asked with a nod toward the weapons?

Sir Reginald laughed. “Oh, my good man, not at all. All of this rubbish is my father’s old swag. Fancied himself a medievalist. Collected all this rot to impress the ladies, don’t you know.”

“And what does your wife think about all of this? Certainly, she must wish for a softer touch to the décor.”

Sir Reginald gave a huffed laugh that was more like a bark and inclined his head to the side. “No wife. Not my cup of tea. My tastes run otherwise.”

“Oh…”

“Now then, about your letter,” Sir Reginald continued, “Most intriguing proposition. Are you serious about such an offer?” Sir Reginald asked as he poured two cups of tea. “Milk? Sugar? Lemon?”

“Milk, no sugar.”

“As I like it too.”

“I most certainly am serious. I am not in a position where I can have my name attached to a publishing project of fiction and Sir Cecil suggested that you might be amenable to a project such as I outlined in my letter.”

“It certainly is worth a consideration.”

“Then you would be open to my proposal?”

“And what are you offering in exchange.”

“Fifty percent of the royalties. And Sir Cecil says he can continue to publish your work under another name—details to be worked out between the two of you.”

“Hmm,” Sir Reginald crooned as he cast his eyes toward the ceiling to contemplate the arrangement.

He took another sip of tea, then put the cup down and folded his hands in his lap. “Yes, I believe we might come to an arrangement.”

“Excellent,” Robert said smiling and leaning forward in his chair.

“Except I want five thousand pounds up front and a seventy-five percent cut of the royalties.”

Robert collapsed back into the chair, stunned.

“I am afraid that is out of the question,” he responded. “I might consider your request for seventy-five percent, but five thousand pounds is an outrageous request.”

Sir Reginald held his gaze and tilted his head to the side. “However, that is my request. And the only deal I will allow.”

Robert was speechless. Certainly, it was an offer he could afford, but not one he could accept. “Don’t you think that is rather excessive for not providing anything but your name?”

“Ah, but my name, my reputation, and my readers are all I have to offer—and they are exactly what you need.”

“Then I am afraid that I must decline,” Robert said, rising abruptly.

“As you wish,” Sir Reginald said, leaning back in his chair and picking up his cup to take another sip of tea.