Newspapers had been the mainstay of the Deverill family for many years, encompassing a vast journalistic empire that in its heyday had included seventeen newspapers and twelve magazines. Clara’s father, however, had never been much of a businessman, and under his tutelage, the business built by the two previous generations had rapidly deteriorated, dwindling at last to only one paper, the Weekly Gazette, with its offices in what had once been the family’s own library.

It was Irene who had salvaged this last vestige of the Deverill newspaper chain, a fact which had often led Clara to laughingly accuse her sister of having ink, rather than blood, running through her veins. For her own part, though Clara enjoyed reading the papers, she’d never really shared Irene’s passion for the business of running one.

Clara’s primary ambition in life had always been a simple one: to marry and have children, but hampered by her acute shyness, she’d found this goal an elusive one to achieve. Making matters worse, her father’s estrangement from her mother’s family had left her few opportunities to move in society and meet young men. She did have one marriage proposal to her credit, but the unappealing circumstances under which it had been offered had impelled her to refuse it, and since then, no other chances for matrimony had presented themselves.

Clara knew that if she was ever to achieve her most cherished dream, she had to find a way to overcome her reticence with strangers and take an active rather than passive role in her future, so when Irene married Torquil, Clara had accepted the invitation of the duke’s family to stay with them for the coming season, and despite the extension of Irene’s trip and Jonathan’s now-permanent defection, Clara had no intention of abandoning her own plans.

She soon discovered, however, that Fate was not going to make this easy. For one thing, Mr. Beale was becoming more truculent with each day her brother did not appear. She knew she ought to tell him the truth, that Jonathan wasn’t coming after all, but afraid he’d quit, she kept putting it off. She tried her best to ignore his sour demeanor and work with him as amicably as possible, for at present, she had a much more serious problem than one cranky editor.

Clara stared down at the two letters in front of her, the same two letters to Lady Truelove that she’d been perusing in the tea shop the other day. Many more letters had come for the columnist since then, of course, but these two had engendered within her a powerful sense of empathy. She badly wanted to find solutions for them, perhaps because she knew that in doing so, she might also find a solution for herself.

But as she sat at her desk studying their letters, she was forced to acknowledge that no advice for either of these correspondents had magically invaded her brain since that afternoon at Mrs. Mott’s. And Lord Galbraith was not located within earshot to provide her with any inspiration.

In a way, that was rather a pity. For though the man’s advice to his friend had been morally appalling, it had been based on a solid, if cynical, awareness of human nature. He’d make, she realized in chagrin, a better advice columnist than she was proving to be. He knew a lot about people, particularly women. And he certainly knew how to charm them. Hell, she knew him for a rake, she didn’t like him a jot, and hadn’t a shred of respect for him, and yet, as a woman, she’d felt his pull like the force of a magnet.

Ravish you would be a sight more likely.

Remembering those words, Clara felt rather aggrieved. The only time in her life a man had ever expressed the desire to ravish her, and it had to be a man she had no use for. Just her luck.

A kiss during a dance would break quite a few rules, wouldn’t it?

“Enough rules to ruin a girl’s reputation,” she muttered, and with that, she reminded herself that she had work to do and returned her attention to the task at hand.

After several moments of consideration, she decided to focus her efforts on The Devastated Debutante. After all, the girl was someone with whom she had so much in common. If she could determine how to advise her, maybe she could apply that same advice to herself.

A knock on the door interrupted her contemplations, and Clara hastily pulled a handful of other correspondence over the letters she was studying. “Come in,” she called, and when the door swung wide, Evie came through the doorway.

“The evening papers, Miss Deverill,” the secretary said, bringing them to Clara’s desk.

“Are our competitors penning anything of interest?” she asked, even as she appreciated that she could not allow herself to be distracted by any of the competition’s juicy tidbits.

“Nothing much.” The secretary set the stack on one corner of Clara’s desk. “The London Inquirer has an advice column now. They are calling it ‘Mrs. Lonely Hearts.’”

Clara gave a snort of derision. “Mrs. Lonely Hearts? Mrs. Copycat is more like it.”

Evie laughed. “I put that paper on top, in case you wanted to have a look at it.”

Clara wasn’t sure she did. If their fiercest rival was trying to steal the Gazette’s readers with their own version of Lady Truelove, that made it even more crucial for Clara to do her job well. “Thank you, Evie. You may go.”

The secretary departed with a nod, closing the door behind her, and Clara opened the Inquirer to take a peek at the latest threat to Lady Truelove’s reign as queen of the advice columns, but after turning only a few pages, she stopped, her attention caught by a particular headline.

“Oh, dear,” she murmured, a little smile curving her lips.

It wasn’t right, she supposed, to take a measure of delight in someone else’s difficulties, even if that someone was Lord Galbraith. On the other hand, the man’s notorious reputation had been well-earned and something he seemed proud of.

I enjoy life, Miss Deverill, and I fail to see why I should be condemned for it.

Clara glanced at the headline again, and her smile widened. The viscount, it seemed, was about to pay a price for all his enjoyment of life.

Feeling a rather wicked sense of anticipation, Clara decided she could spare five minutes from her task to find out just how he’d blotted his copybook, and she settled back in her chair to read the article she’d stumbled upon. She’d barely finished the first paragraph, however, before her attention was again diverted by a tap on her door.

She straightened at once, wiping any trace of a smile off her face as she folded the paper and placed it back on the stack Evie had brought her. “Come in,” she called, reaching for her pen, striving to appear hard at work as the secretary once again appeared in the doorway.

“There’s a gentleman here to see you, Miss Deverill,” she said as she approached Clara’s desk, a certain amount of awe in her voice and a card in her hand. “Viscount Galbraith.”

“What?” That the subject of her reading material and the primary object of her thoughts today was right outside her door brought Clara to her feet. Dismayed, she snatched the card from the other woman’s outstretched hand. “What on earth does he want?”

Even as she asked the question, she began to fear she already knew, and a knot of apprehension formed in her stomach.

“Does it matter?” Evie countered, grinning as Clara looked up. “He’s such a treat to look at, who cares what he came for?”

Clara offered a reproving frown in reply, and the other woman’s smile vanished at once. She gave a cough and resumed her usual air of brisk efficiency. “He didn’t state the purpose of his call. He merely asked me to inquire if you will receive him.”

“No, I—” Clara broke off, reconsidering even as her apprehension deepened. She could refuse to see him, of course, but would that do her any good? He could pay a call at the duke’s house any time, or ask her to dance at the next ball, or corner her at some party during the season. If he had found her out somehow, it might be better to face the music here in her private office than in front of anyone else’s prying eyes. And if he hadn’t told anyone Lady Truelove’s identity, she could reason with him, perhaps persuade him somehow to keep mum.

“Show him in,” she said, tossing his card onto her desk.

The secretary departed, and Clara worked to dampen her growing apprehension as she gathered up the letters on her desk. She might be wrong. Galbraith might be here for some other purpose, something wholly unconnected with Lady Truelove.

Ravish you would be a sight more likely.

Clara sucked in a deep breath, that unthinkable notion doing nothing to calm her jangled nerves. She shoved the letters to Lady Truelove into a drawer and strove to find some of the same bravado she’d managed to display the other night, but the attempt faltered the moment Galbraith entered the room.

Unmistakable anger glittered in those gorgeous eyes, and there was a hard, uncompromising cast to his countenance that confirmed Clara’s worst fear and told her reason or persuasion would probably prove useless. Every line of his body as he halted in front of her desk made it clear he’d come to do battle, an impression underscored by the dark purple bruise under his eye and the gash at his temple.

Clara swallowed hard, looking past him. “Thank you, Evie,” she said, donning a pretense of unflappable calm she was far from feeling. “You may go. And close the door behind you.”

The secretary’s auburn brows lifted at this rather scandalous instruction, but she complied, smiling a little, a smile that widened into a meaningful grin and a girl-to-girl wink just before she closed the door.

“Lord Galbraith,” Clara greeted him, dipping her knees in a quick curtsy.

“Miss Deverill.” He bowed in return. “Or,” he added, straightening, “perhaps within the walls of your own offices, it would be more correct to refer to you by your nom de plume?”

Her worst fear now confirmed beyond any doubt, Clara nonetheless worked to keep any hint of emotion off her face. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He tilted his head, studying her for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, he gave a laugh, though Clara feared there was no humor in it. “Appearances can be so deceiving,” he murmured. “You look the sweetest, most dulcet little thing, with those big brown eyes of yours, and yet, you are also one of the coolest liars I have ever encountered. I doubt butter would melt in your mouth.”

Clara stirred at his accusation of deceit, not only because she was in no position to refute it, but also because to her mind, it was a case of the pot and the kettle if ever she’d heard one. “Do you have a point?”

He raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t answer her question directly. “When we first met, I thought you looked familiar,” he said instead, “that I’d seen you somewhere before, but I couldn’t place you. You, however, insisted otherwise, and I was inclined to think I’d been mistaken. But later that evening,” he added as he reached into the breast pocket of his morning coat and pulled out a newspaper cutting, “when my friend Lionel confronted me with Lady Truelove’s most recent column, I realized I had made no mistake.”

Clara’s heart sank as she watched him unfold the wrinkled, ragged-edged sheet of newsprint. Not only he, but also his friend, knew her secret. Even if she could somehow convince Galbraith to exercise discretion, she could never ensure that his friend would do so. Lady Truelove’s identity would soon be known to the world, the mystique would be utterly spoiled, the column condemned, and Deverill Publishing’s competitors overjoyed. And it would all be her fault. What would she tell Irene? How could she face her sister with the news that Lady Truelove was ruined because of her?

“In offering advice to her correspondent, your columnist made some very specific predictions as to the behavior and motives of the gentleman in question,” he went on, looking down at the cutting in his hands. “So specific, in fact, as to be uncanny. Both Lionel and I appreciated how familiar her words seemed. Lionel actually suspected me of being Lady Truelove, but when he saw me dancing with you, he formed an alternative theory.”

“Oh?” Clara swallowed hard, stalling for time as her mind raced to find a way out of this mess. “What theory is that?”

“That I had been played for a fool.” He looked up, his eyes glittering like aquamarines. “He concluded that you and I were acquainted—so well acquainted, in fact, that I had betrayed his confidences to you. And that you, in your role as the publisher of Lady Truelove, had passed on these confidences to your columnist, who then used them as inspiration.”

Clara seized on that contention at once, feeling a faint hint of relief. If he could be persuaded that his friend was right, that she had merely overheard and passed on the information, perhaps it could all end here and Lady Truelove’s identity could remain a secret.

“Lionel,” he went on before she could speak, “did not take kindly to what he perceived as my betrayal of his confidence.” His free hand lifted, gesturing to his own face. “As you can see from the state of my appearance.”

Despite the awful situation, Clara’s lips twitched a little. “Your friend is the one who hit you in the face?”

“He did.” Galbraith shoved the cutting back into his breast pocket. “I’m gratified you find that fact amusing.”

She pressed any hint of a smile from her lips at once. Laughing at his expense would hardly help her cause. “Lord Galbraith,” she began, but he cut her off.

“I knew Lionel was a bit out in his assumptions, of course, for I hadn’t told you anything, and that’s when I realized why your face was familiar. You were in the tea shop that day in Holborn. You were the girl at the next table. You eavesdropped on our conversation, our private conversation, and used it as newspaper fodder. Do you deny it?” he asked when she did not reply.

“Would there be any point?” she asked, spreading her hands in a gesture of capitulation. “I doubt you would be convinced of any denial I might make.”

“I don’t often read the papers, it’s true. God knows, I’ve no use for them, but in making inquiries of friends today, I have learned that Lady Truelove’s identity is a closely guarded secret. It is also, from what I gather, a matter of intense speculation, and one of the main reasons the column is so popular. What would happen, do you suppose, if people discovered who Lady Truelove really is?”

Clara’s heart sank, but she tried to rally. “You don’t know who Lady Truelove is. You don’t know to whom I may have passed on the information I overheard.”

“On the contrary, I know exactly. It wasn’t necessary for you to pass on the information to Lady Truelove, because you are Lady Truelove.”

She forced a laugh. “And what is the basis for this absurd conclusion?”

He smiled grimly. “Your eyes, Miss Deverill. Your big, expressive brown eyes.”

Clara didn’t know what she’d been expecting him to say, but that wasn’t it. She stared, unable to fathom what he was talking about. “What do my eyes have to do with anything?”

“You noted the other night that I have a notorious reputation. How do you suppose I acquired it?” He leaned over the desk, coming close enough that she could see the gilded tips of his lashes and the dark blue ring around each of his irises, close enough that she caught the scent of sandalwood shaving lotion. “I acquired it because I know a great deal about women.”

“Obviously,” she snapped, her tension fraying. “But I don’t see—”

“When we danced, I discovered that my reputation had preceded me, and in a most unfavorable way, for you made it quite clear I cut no ice with you. It was not only in your words, it was in your eyes, narrowed on me so disapprovingly when I shrugged off the things that have been said about me. I didn’t take your disapproval of me seriously—in fact, I found it rather refreshing. Most women are quite happy to overlook my peccadilloes and forgive me for them.”

“What a nauseating fact about my sex,” she ground out. “But I’m gratified you found me such a novelty.”

He ignored the biting sarcasm of her latter remark. “When I was with Lionel, and he was expounding his theory about how my exact words had managed to appear in your paper, a picture formed in my mind. I saw the same narrowed eyes, the same disapproving look, of the girl I’d just been dancing with, only the setting was different. In my mind, I saw an image of those eyes peeking at me from the other side of some potted palm trees, and I realized just why you seemed so familiar.”

“I still don’t see how you can possibly conclude—”

“You were feeling more on that day than disapproval, weren’t you, Miss Deverill? You were angry. The conversation you overheard had outraged your maidenly sensibilities.”

“All right, yes, I was angry. Upon discovering how cavalierly your friend—and you—treat women, anyone would be angry. For a gentleman, you seem to have a quite a flexible moral code.”

For some reason, that description made him smile, though the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You might be surprised if you knew the vast number of people who find morality a flexible concept.”

She didn’t want to think about how true that might be. “Well, I don’t.”

“Quite so. And your moral outrage spurred you to write what you did?”

“I already told you—”

“You did it purely out of spite,” he interrupted. “You wanted to pay us out. You wanted to get revenge for what you perceived as a slight upon your sex—”

“I didn’t write it for spite or revenge!” she shot back, exasperated beyond bearing, beyond caution. “I wrote it to warn an innocent woman that she was being taken advantage of in the worst possible way by a deceiving scoundrel!”

The admission made her want to bite her tongue off, especially when she saw the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “Oh,” she breathed, her frustration deepening into outrage, at him for trapping her, and even more at herself for falling into that trap. “You are a devil.”

“Yes, morally outraged ladies often deem me so.” He paused, donning an expression of penitent earnestness as he pressed a hand to his chest. “But only until I am able to convince them of the true goodness of my soul.”

“There is no goodness in you. You are a cad. And so is your friend for attempting to play on a young woman’s affections with such cavalier disregard. It’s disgraceful. It’s appalling.”

“So, you decided to interfere in something that was none of your business?”

“When I perceive that another person is in harm’s way, I think it a good idea to warn that person. I’m strange that way.”

He made a scoffing sound. “And just which party did you think was in jeopardy?”

She stared at him. “Her, of course!”

“Or perhaps,” he countered, “it’s my friend who is truly in danger? Have you considered that?”

“Nonsense.”

“Dina’s starting to feel guilty about what they’re engaged in, that’s what this is about. The morality she’s been stuffed with all her life is starting to prey on her conscience. That’s why she’s bringing marriage into it now. It’s expected of her to want it. Is guilt a good reason to jump into matrimony?”

“People don’t want marriage merely to soothe their consciences!”

“Many do. Society’s prudish, downright ridiculous dictates about where love should lead play merry hell with people’s minds, filling them with guilt about physical desires—desires that are natural and just, and almost always transient.”

Clara stirred, hot embarrassment flooding through her at the mention of physical desires. “This is hardly an appropriate topic for conversation.”

“As a result of their guilt,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken, “people often feel compelled to chain themselves to each other for life when they barely even know each other and haven’t the least understanding of whether or not a life together could make them happy.”

“Barely know each other?” she echoed. “The two people we are talking about are intimately acquainted.”

The moment the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to take them back, for she knew what he would make of them.

“Very intimately,” he agreed, his voice grave, the corners of his mouth curved in a faint smile. “But only in a biblical sense.”

Clara gave a laugh, one borne of astonishment and embarrassment, not amusement. She pressed her hands to her burning cheeks, hardly able to believe that she was discussing this sort of thing with a man, though from what she knew of this particular man, she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. “You speak as if such intimacy is a trivial thing!”

“Not trivial, no, but it’s a poor reason to wed. Lionel and Dina have known each other a month. One month,” he added, as if to underscore the point. “Do you really think they are in any position to commit to each other for the rest of their lives?”

“They are sleeping together!”

He gave a shout of laughter. “God, I hope that’s not all they’re doing. I should hate to think their trysts are for a purpose as dull as mere sleeping.”

She folded her arms, glaring at him. “This is not something to laugh about. Although the fact that you would describe this sort of situation as a harmless entertainment is quite in keeping with what I know of your character. As is your attempt to take the credit of it.”

“Well, I think I’m entitled to take a little credit. I did introduce them.”

“And yet, you don’t feel any responsibility for the fact that you encouraged him in a despicable courtship?”

“We’re not talking about an innocent young girl here. Dina knew just what she was getting into when she launched this affair with Lionel—and yes, she was the one who launched it. To put it bluntly, she wanted to bed him and she did.”

“More fool her, then, for ever wanting more?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying both parties are culpable here, so describing his actions as despicable is a rather harsh judgement, don’t you think? In any case,” he added before she could reply, “they are not involved in a courtship. Courtship implies a view to matrimony, and as I said, neither of them is ready to take that step. They may never be ready.”

“She seems quite ready, from what I overheard. She’s in love with your friend, though why that is so, I’m sure I can’t fathom. And he has told her he’s in love with her—”

“Yes, yes, they’re in love. At least, they’re madly infatuated with each other and both are willing to call it love. Why should they ruin such a blissful state of affairs by getting married?”

Clara shook her head, wondering if this man’s capacity for depravity would ever cease to shock her. “Ruin it?”

“Yes, ruin it. Again, they have been acquainted for a month. Do you think that’s a sound amount of time for two people to decide they want to spend their lives together?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think, since it’s not my decision to make. It’s theirs.”

He laughed. “Says the woman who blatantly interfered in their love affair and brought about its end, thereby causing a great deal of unnecessary pain and heartbreak to both parties.”

Clara shifted her weight, hating to think he might have a point and that her judgement may have been a bit clouded by anger.

“If they are indeed heartbroken,” she said after a moment, “then I am sorry for it. But though a month isn’t much time, I grant you, not everyone finds it insufficient. My sister and the Duke of Torquil had known each other three weeks when they became engaged, and they are quite happily married.”

“It’s called a honeymoon for a reason,” he countered dryly. “When the duke and your sister have been married a dozen years or so, if they’re still blissfully happy, I might deem them an exception. Either way, right now we’re talking about Dina and Lionel, two people I know quite well, and I can honestly say they are not ready to get married, despite any guilt over their affair Dina may be feeling at the moment.”

“Perhaps your low opinion of marriage is affecting your judgement.”

“Miss Deverill, I’m not so against marriage that I don’t think anyone should ever do it. If my friends decide, after serious consideration, to wed, then I shall don my best morning coat, put a carnation in my buttonhole, and give a congratulatory groomsman speech at their nuptials, expressing my absolute belief in their true love and their bright, happy future. I daresay I shall even manage to make it sound convincing. But it is my fervent hope that they take a bit more time to enjoy each other and confirm they are ready to spend their lives together before committing to it irrevocably.”

“And in the meantime, free love is an acceptable option?”

He shrugged. “As long as marriage remains a situation from which it is virtually impossible to extricate oneself, then yes. And why not? There’s no harm in it.”

“It’s harmful in so many ways, I can’t begin to list them all!”

“Try. I’m curious what you would define as harmful.”

She could have done. She could have pointed out the burden borne by the bastard children of free-love unions. She could have talked of the inevitable degradation of a society that did not have the bedrock of marriage to support it. She could have mentioned the comfort and emotional sustenance that a lifetime together could bring to a couple. But she didn’t have time for all that. She had an important problem, one that would not be resolved by arguing with him or antagonizing him.

Having inadvertently confirmed that she was Lady Truelove, she now had to find a way to persuade him to keep silent. It wasn’t as if she could appeal to his chivalry, but what other card did she have to play?

“Lord Galbraith, it’s clear you and I do not see eye to eye on this subject, so perhaps we should set it aside and discuss why you are here. You have stumbled upon my secret. What do you intend to do about it?”

“Hmm . . .” He paused as if considering. “That is the question, isn’t it?”

She worked to muster her dignity. “If you do indeed have such goodness in your soul as you claim, then I hope you are willing to demonstrate it by keeping Lady Truelove’s identity to yourself.”

“One could argue that in this case goodness is best demonstrated by warning people. You’re fond of that particular activity, after all.”

“Warning people? Of what, in heaven’s name?”

“That the woman dispensing all this knowledgeable advice about love and romance is really the daughter of the publisher, perhaps? That she is unscrupulous enough to eavesdrop on private conversations, and meddlesome enough to interfere—”

“It’s my scruples that impelled me to interfere!”

“To interfere,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken, “in affairs that do not concern her, and to offer her advice even to those who have not asked for it.”

“You have no proof that I am Lady Truelove.”

“I may not move much in respectable society, Miss Deverill, but I have many influential friends who do, and with the exception of Lionel two days ago, not one of my friends has ever had cause to question my word. If I were to tell them you are Lady Truelove, they will believe me. If I were to warn them about you and how you use private conversations as fodder for your newspaper, they will warn others.”

“And if your friends ask how you have come by this information, you will have to reveal your part in what happened, as well as Lionel’s illicit relationship. He is a Member of Parliament, and such news would hardly impress his constituents favorably. He is your friend. Would you really be such a cad as to expose him?”

“I don’t have to reveal the source of my information. I merely have to assure my friends that my source is reliable. You may be the sister-in-law of a duke, but Torquil and his family are not being viewed with favor this season, so that connection will do you little good. And you may be the granddaughter of a viscount on your mother’s side, but on your father’s, you come from a line of newspaper hawkers. In addition, you are presently in charge of your paper’s operations. All these things will come back to hurt you if what you did is exposed. I am the son of an earl, and my friends know me to be a discreet and loyal friend. If I warn them about you, they will accept my word without questioning the source of my information. And once that happens, your debut in society will come to an abrupt and ignoble end.”

She glared at him, hating that he was right. “With that, I think we can put paid to any notions of goodness in your soul.”

That shot seemed to hit the mark, for a trace of his earlier anger flashed in his blue eyes and tightened the corners of his mouth. “My friends are brokenhearted wrecks because of you. I can think of no reason not to tell my entire circle of acquaintance about you.”

Clara began to feel desperate. The notion of being conciliatory with this man flicked her decidedly on the raw, but what else could she do? “Lady Truelove is the Weekly Gazette’s most popular feature, and the main reason for our advertising revenue and our income. Shall you enjoy taking away a family’s livelihood?”

He made a scoffing sound. “Do not make me out to be the villain here. I think I would be quite justified in warning others about your so-called advice column. And since your brother-in-law is a duke, I hardly think you and your father will be turned out into the street if your identity is exposed.”

“That’s not the point—”

“One of my best friends, a man who has known me since we were boys at school, has questioned my discretion, accused me of betraying his trust, and struck me in the face. The latter action not only gave me a black eye, knocked me unconscious, and gave me a concussion, it also seems to have appalled my great-aunt, who has been chomping at the bit the past two days for the chance to give me a sound lecture on the subject.”

“The desire to lecture you is one your aunt no doubt experiences with tiresome regularity.”

“Either way, Miss Deverill, I’m finding it hard to care about how your decision to meddle affects you.”

“You meddled as well.”

“I was asked by my friend for my advice. I gave it. You can claim no such high ground. As Lady Truelove, I’m sure you adore offering your advice to all and sundry, but in this case, your advice was catastrophic for all concerned.”

She grimaced, fearing this episode might very well be a metaphor for her future as the famous advice columnist. Unless—

“Lord Galbraith,” she said abruptly, “do your friends often ask you for advice?”

He blinked, startled by the abrupt question. “Yes,” he said after a moment, “I suppose they do.”

“Why?”

He laughed a little, as if bemused. “I suppose because I’m a good listener? Or perhaps it’s because I have a knack for finding solutions to problems? I don’t know, really.”

He might not know, but she did, and suddenly, she also knew how she could persuade him to keep Lady Truelove’s identity a secret. The idea in her head was wild, downright mad, in fact. On the other hand, she seemed to be developing quite a talent of late for wild, mad ideas.

Her gaze slid to the stack of newspapers on her desk. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t have leverage—

“Miss Deverill?”

The prompt brought her attention back to him, and she lifted her hands in a gesture of seeming capitulation. “You’ve uncovered my secret, but I’m still not quite sure what you want from me.”

“What makes you think I want anything?” But even as he asked the question, she knew she was about to be offered a bargain. That boded well for her own crazy plan.

“Because you wouldn’t have come here otherwise,” she answered. “If your intent was to reveal Lady Truelove’s identity to the world, you’d simply have begun doing so. Warning me of what you are at present only thinking to do seems to serve no purpose. I can only conclude that you want something from me, in exchange for which you will keep my secret.”

“I applaud your perspicacity, Miss Deverill.”

She gestured to the chair opposite her own. “Perhaps we should sit down and discuss it, then?”

He frowned, looking understandably skeptical of this sudden show of amiability on her part, but when she sat down behind her desk, he took the offered chair opposite her. “There is very little to discuss. There is only what I require you to do.”

“And what is that?”

“Lionel is no longer speaking to me because of you. When I paid a call on him today, he refused to see me. I want you to go to him and tell him the truth. You will explain who you really are, what you did, and why you did it, and you will assure him that I did not betray his confidence in any way.”

It was bad enough that circumstances required her to trust Galbraith with her secret, but Clara knew she could not afford to trust the discretion of his friend. Nonetheless, she pretended to consider his demand. “If I tell your friend the truth,” she said, straightening the stack of newspapers on her desk as her mind raced to consider the ramifications of the idea rattling around in her head, “he’ll never be convinced.”

“He might, if you underscore the fact that you are sharing a piece of information that would damage your column’s success if it came out publicly. Lionel, you see, is rather susceptible to women in distress, especially those with big brown eyes, and he might soften enough that he’ll let me talk to him.”

“If I tell him the truth, I have no guarantee he will keep my secret.”

“True, but if you don’t tell him the truth, I definitely won’t keep your secret. What he does with the information,” Galbraith went on before she could reply, “I cannot predict. Nor do I care. Your choice is simple: you have a slim chance of keeping your columnist’s identity unknown, or you have no chance. You must decide which possibility you prefer.”

She left off fiddling with the newspapers, her mind made up. “I cannot do what you ask, Lord Galbraith. I do not know your friend, and I cannot afford to trust to his discretion. But . . .”

She paused, taking a deep breath and shoving down any misgivings over what she was about to do. “But I would like to offer you an alternative proposition.”