At Monday’s Lady Patronesses’ meeting, after the usual business of making voucher decisions, Sally began the rest of the day’s business by saying, “Annabel has something to tell us that we may find of…well, for lack of a better word, interest.”
Georgiana Bathurst sniffed. “I trust that this won’t take long.”
“As long as necessary, Georgiana,” Sally replied pleasantly but with a slight edge to her voice. “Annabel?”
Annabel rose from her seat. When would Georgiana forgive her for not being a forger? “I shall endeavor to be brief,” she said and launched into a description of the last several days, treading carefully around the visit to E.C. Spruce.
“A demon!” Maria Sefton said wonderingly when she was through. “Mr. Marjoribanks summoned a demon to take the books? How dreadfully…excessive.”
“Dreadful is hardly a strong enough word,” Clementina put in, her voice hoarse. “I’ve had to read volumes one and two to Titivillus over the last two days. It keeps interrupting me to say things like, ‘Aha! So that’s why she did that! I should never have seen that coming if I hadn’t already read it.’ It’s horribly irritating!”
“I can imagine, you poor dear.” Emily patted her arm. “You’re an angel to put up with that horrid creature!”
Clementina hesitated. “Oh, not really. Titi—er, Titivillus has sworn to bring me a copy of the third volume the instant its contract is voided.”
“Titi?” Dorothea repeated. “Do my ears deceive me, or did I just hear you refer to that odoriferous blue hedgehog as ‘Titi?’”
She blushed. “It can be quite sweet when it wishes to. It always sits next to the window to cut down on the odor and takes care to see that I have a footstool and cushions for my back before we begin to read.”
Dorothea, eyes glinting mischievously, opened her mouth to speak, but Sally cut her off. “I am glad to hear that even demons can have manners, Clementina, and thank you for your help. Now, the question is, what shall we do about this situation? Clearly we cannot countenance authors summoning the denizens of hell to vanquish their rivals.”
“Why can’t we send Georgiana or Annabel to Mr. Marjoribanks’ house to take away the demon’s contract, as they did with the forged vouchers?” Frances asked.
“That won’t do. What’s to keep him from doing the same thing again tomorrow or the next time E.C. Spruce or anyone else publishes a book more popular than his?” Sally answered. “No, I’m afraid we must be more direct than that. He must be confronted and told in no uncertain terms that such behavior is not acceptable in modern London. Summoning demons! The man must be positively gothic.”
Emily smothered a giggle. Sally frowned at her. “The question is, whom shall we send?”
“Annabel ought to go, since she’s done most of the work on this and should be on hand to see it resolved,” Clementina said.
Annabel smiled at her. “Perhaps Emily should go as well, to ensure Mr. Marjoribanks deals with us honestly.”
“Should Dorothea go, to stun him in case he becomes violent?” Maria suggested.
“Authors are not generally known for their violent tendencies, most of the time,” Dorothea said. “But I will go if you wish me to. It might be amusing to see this summoner of demons.”
“I wouldn’t mind going. For my part, I wish to give Mr. Marjoribanks a piece of my mind for doing what he’s done!” Frances put in.
“I appreciate your sentiments, Frances, but I believe I shall go,” Sally said, after a moment’s reflection. “We should present a temperate, measured demeanor when we confront him. I do not think that displays of overt emotionalism will be effective in this case. We must bring him to his senses with calm and logic. I am certain he must be a reasonable man.”
Frances nodded, chastened, and Emily said, “When shall we go, then?”
“The sooner the better, I think,” Sally said. “I will come by for you tomorrow at two.”
Sally and Emily arrived at Annabel’s shortly after the allotted time. Emily moved to the rear-facing seat, leaving the preferred front-facing seat next to Sally for Annabel.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Annabel scolded as the footman let down the stair for her.
“Yes, I did. This is your investigation,” Emily promptly replied. She glanced over the back of the landau as she sat. “Oh, it appears someone’s coming to call on you.”
Annabel looked quickly at the plain traveling coach just pulling up behind them. “It’s no one’s carriage that I know. Probably someone calling on the Maitlands next door.” She sat down next to Sally, and they set out for Hanover Square.
“You look well,” Sally said approvingly. They had agreed to appear in their most elegant afternoon costumes and hats to present as imposing an appearance as possible. Annabel hoped her topaz muslin and brown velvet spencer would help bolster her confidence; confronting Mr. Marjoribanks in his own home was going to be awkward in the extreme.
“I just hope he’s at home,” Emily said. “Wouldn’t it be ridiculous if we called on an empty house? Oh, sorry, Annabel. Didn’t mean to look.”
Fortunately, he was at home. An astonished-looking, elderly butler let them into Mr. Marjoribanks’ front hall, looked even more astonished as he surveyed their calling cards, and ushered them into a dark, over-furnished sitting room.
“I take it there’s no Mrs. Marjoribanks,” Emily murmured, looking at the dull maroon velvet of the curtains and the equally dark carpet. “No woman of any mettle would put up with a room that looked like this to receive callers in. It’s positively funereal.”
“Perhaps he finds it conducive to his writing,” Annabel said. “Are his books very dark and brooding? I haven’t read any.”
“No. They’re mostly about extraordinarily tall, firm-jawed, argumentative, and hot-at-hand heroes and rather colorless, adoring heroines who stand by admiringly while the hero lops the limbs off his adversaries and fall into fatal declines if he’s killed.”
“Oh dear. I hope Mr. Marjoribanks isn’t like his heroes. Perhaps we should have brought Dorothea after all.”
Sally frowned. “Don’t forget, we are trying to convince him without a display of our abilities—”
She fell silent as the door to the sitting room opened, and the butler announced, “Mr. Marjoribanks.”
A small, stooped man of early middle age came into the room, clad in a dark coat of an old-fashioned cut and knee breeches; his graying, mousy hair was worn in a short queue. He paused just inside the threshold, rapidly blinking his small, dull blue eyes at them, and bowed. “Your ladyships,” he said, his voice surprisingly deep for one of his slight stature. “To what may I ascribe this honor?”
Sally waited until the butler had ponderously closed the sitting room doors and gave Mr. Marjoribanks a brief curtsy and an appraising look. “Good afternoon, sir. I believe we have the honor of addressing not only Mr. Marjoribanks, but—ah, Miss Gilbert?”
Mr. Marjoribanks’ sour expression deepened into outrage. “Who told you that?” he demanded.
“We have it on very good authority, sir,” Annabel said.
He scowled at her. “Who told you? I’ll warrant it was that scoundrel who calls himself my printer. I’ll have the blackguard flogged through the streets!” he declaimed, puffing out his thin chest. “We had an understanding that my name would remain—”
Sally had put on her severest Lady Patroness manner. “Your printer did not tell us. We did not even consult with him. And be assured that no one else knows your identity, nor will anyone learn it from us. May I suggest we be seated? We have a serious matter to discuss with you.”
Mr. Marjoribanks’ frown deepened. “I’m a very busy man, my lady, and don’t have time to make idle chatter with besotted readers—”
Emily snorted. “Does the name ‘Titivillus’ mean anything to you, Mr. Marjoribanks?” she asked.
He paled. “Wha—where did you hear about Titivillus?”
Sally sat down on the hideously dark sofa. “Please, Mr. Marjoribanks.” She gestured to a chair opposite.
Mr. Marjoribanks stumbled toward it, then seemed to change his mind. He straightened his back and glared at Emily. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about!”
“Sir, we’ve spoken with Mr.—er, with the demon Titivillus. We know what you engaged it to do, and we must say we think it reprehensible behavior and not the least the action of a gentleman. We are here to ask you to destroy the contract you made with it and never undertake such action again,” Sally said.
“And I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mr. Marjoribanks said, drawing himself up even more stiffly.
“It’s true, sir,” Annabel said gently. “We caught Titivillus in the act of taking a copy of the third volume of The Fifty Shades of Udolpho. It told us what you had compelled it to do; it’s who told us your name and address.”
Mr. Marjoribanks appeared in imminent danger of combustion. “Why, that villain—” He coughed. “That is, I’ve never heard such nonsense before in my life.”
Sally sighed. “We should have brought Titivillus with us. Really, Mr. Marjoribanks, there isn’t much use in denying any of this.”
Mr. Marjoribanks gripped the back of the chair behind which he stood. “It is your word against mine, madam. And furthermore, what authority do you possess that you feel you can invade a man’s home and throw such accusations in his face? If you were not a female of such elevated rank, I should know how to deal with you. As it is, I must ask you to leave my house with all due celerity.” He went to the bell-pull by the fireplace. “Now if you will excuse me—”
But before he could pull it, a knock sounded on the sitting room door, and the lugubrious butler came in, bearing a small tray. “More callers, sir,” he intoned, and presented the tray to Mr. Marjoribanks, who scowled and snatched up the cards it held.
“‘The Marquis of Quinceton and Mrs. James Denton,’” he read aloud. “More of your friends come to persecute me, hey?”
Annabel gasped. Mrs. Denton, here? But how? And why?
Sally glanced at her but spoke to Mr. Marjoribanks. “We are acquainted with the marquis, but we have no idea why he should be calling on you, and no idea whom his companion might be,” she said calmly.
“Send them away.” Mr. Marjoribanks made shooing gestures with his hands. “I am outraged—outraged—by these invasions of my privacy—”
Just then the sitting room door flew open, revealing Mrs. Denton in an elegant calling costume, with the marquis standing behind her. He caught Annabel’s eye and nodded to her. But Mrs. Denton quickly drew her—and everyone else’s—attention.
“You!” she exclaimed in tones equally accusatory and loathing, her flashing eyes fixed on Mr. Marjoribanks. “So you are my tormentor!”
Mr. Marjoribanks grew even paler but stood his ground. “My good woman, I have no idea who you are, much less what you are talking about—”
Mrs. Denton advanced into the room, somehow making her small frame look tall and terrible. “You are that heartless, soulless creature who is destroying my livelihood and taking the bread from the mouths of my poor, fatherless children! Oh, how can you hold your head up? How can you even meet our eyes?”
Since Mr. Marjoribanks was doing anything but that, his eyes swiveling in panicked fashion from window to window as if in search of escape, that question seemed unanswerable. When they came to rest on the figure of his butler, who seemed transfixed, his face grew furious. “You! Out!”
The butler started and scuttled from the room.
Sally, however, was undaunted. “Madam, I am receiving the impression that your errand might coincide with ours. If I might be allowed to ask who you are—?”
Mrs. Denton’s face softened, and Annabel was sure she caught a twinkle in her eyes just before she raised one trembling hand to her forehead. “Oh, did you come to support me in my affliction? It is of the greatest comfort to know I am not alone, that my sisters are here to support me in my time of persecution—”
“You’re her sister?” Mr. Marjoribanks said, turning furiously on Sally.
“I have never seen her before in my life,” Sally replied coldly.
“I was speaking metaphorically,” Mrs. Denton said, lowering her hand and looking haughtily at Mr. Marjoribanks. “Not that you would know a good metaphor if it clubbed you over the head!”
Emily made a choking noise, and a light of understanding appeared in Sally’s eyes. “Ah. Do I have the pleasure of addressing E.C. Spruce?”
“You do,” Mrs. Denton said with great dignity. “I am E.C. Spruce. I was forced to take on a man’s name when I turned to writing to support my family.”
Emily giggled. “So you took a man’s name to publish under, and he took a woman’s? It’s all quite mad.” Then her eyes widened. “Great heavens! You’re E.C. Spruce? I’m actually talking to E.C. Spruce?” Her sentence ended in a squeal.
Lord Quinceton cleared his throat. “Mr., er, Spruce is the widow of one of my oldest school friends.”
“Yes, except now I am all but ruined, because that man has used means most foul to suppress my books! Oh, what shall I do?” Mrs. Denton blinked several times, and tears were seen welling up in her blue eyes. “My poor, fatherless sons! We shall be cast out in the street to starve if my books continue to disappear.” She raised her hand to her forehead again. “Oh, I am faint.”
The marquis leapt forward, arms outstretched to catch her. “My dear Eliza, you are overcome!” He glanced at Annabel, and she was sure he winked and gave her a tiny, encouraging nod. Good heavens, did he want her to join in as well? Mrs. Denton hardly seemed to need the help; she was making Mr. Marjoribanks’ sitting room resemble the stage at Drury Lane. But it was too tempting not to leap in.
“It is quite disgraceful!” she said, coming to Mrs. Denton’s side after a moment’s hesitation. “This poor woman! What can be done? Her livelihood all but destroyed—”
Mr. Marjoribanks stood statue-like. “You’re E.C. Spruce?” he croaked.
Lord Quinceton was helping Mrs. Denton into a chair. “Indeed, she is. And a braver, more gallant soul cannot be met. Of course, bearing up under this latest onslaught of fate may be her undoing. She has withstood so much, but even the strongest heart breaks when the burden is too great.”
“Why, you—you brute!” Emily cast Mr. Marjoribanks a quite authentic-looking look of loathing. “Do you see what you’ve done? This poor, poor woman!” She too crossed the room to join Annabel next to Mrs. Denton.
Mr. Marjoribanks opened his mouth and attempted to speak, but no sound came out, giving him the appearance of a beached fish. At last, he seemed to master himself. “Madam, I…I had no idea!”
Mrs. Denton sniffed frantically and groped in her reticule for her handkerchief. “It is scarcely to be expected that you would. No one was supposed to know who I am. Ohh!” She found her handkerchief, buried her face in it, and began to weep loudly.
“Madam, please—” Mr. Marjoribanks looked aghast. He groped for the bell-pull and jerked it four or five times. “Madam, you must compose yourself, I beg you! You will make yourself ill!”
“What if I do?” Mrs. Denton moaned. “I have nothing left to live for. My life is in ruins! Ashes! Dust!” Her sobs redoubled.
The sitting room door opened, and the butler cautiously poked his head into the room as if fearful of having it bitten off. “Sir?” he quavered.
“Jackson, in the top right-hand drawer of my desk you will find a sealed document bearing the word ‘contract’ written in my hand. Bring it to me immediately,” Mr. Marjoribanks said loudly, above Mrs. Denton’s sobs.
The butler cast her a terrified look. “At once, sir,” he said and shut the door so quickly that Annabel was surprised that he didn’t catch his nose in it. She risked a glance at Lord Quinceton’s solemn face as he bent solicitously over Mrs. Denton; again there was the hint of a twinkle there as he met her gaze.
“I trust you are satisfied, sir,” Emily said severely to Mr. Marjoribanks.
He took a pace or two toward them then stopped, obviously afraid to venture closer. “I—I had no idea!” he cried, wringing his hands. “I didn’t intend such an outcome! I merely thought—it’s just that…that—that E.C. Spruce’s books always do so much better than mine!”
Mrs. Denton gave forth a particularly heart-rending wail, and Mr. Marjoribanks blanched even whiter. He crossed the room in a dramatic rush and dropped to his knees at Mrs. Denton’s feet. “No, my dear Mr.—er—Mrs.—er, madam. Cry no longer, for I will destroy the contract with the fiend Titivillus! He will steal no more of your work! Had I but known, I should never have done the foul deed! Never shall it be said that Gilbert Marjoribanks achieved greatness at the expense of widows and orphans!”
Mrs. Denton’s shoulders positively shook, no doubt with the force of her tears. Annabel turned away, struggling to keep her countenance. If Mr. Marjoribanks were to know what effect his scheme had had on the sales of The Fifty Shades, he would probably sob as loudly as Mrs. Denton. They would have to take good care that he never found out.
There was a discreet knock on the door, and the butler came in, bearing a folded and wax-sealed document. “Sir,” he said and handed it to Mr. Marjoribanks before beating a hasty retreat.
“Thank you, Jackson.” Mr. Marjoribanks rose with great dignity, cracked open the wax seal, and unfolded the paper. He held it out toward the marquis. “My lord, see you this?”
Lord Quinceton straightened and surveyed the paper. “Yes. It appears to be a contract drawn up between you and someone called Titivillus.”
Mr. Marjoribanks threw back his shoulders and tore the page in two, then in half again, with a sweeping gesture. “There!” he cried, throwing the pieces to the floor and grinding them with his heel. “The contract is no more! We are free, free of its pernicious influence!”
Annabel pressed her lips tightly together. Good heavens, if the man wrote the way he spoke…!
Mrs. Denton gave one last great, gulping sob. “T-truly?” she said, lowering her handkerchief so that one astonishingly unswollen eye peeped out. “You’ve t-torn it up?”
“Truly, madam! And never again will I venture to do such a dastardly deed! The demon is vanquished!” Once again, he fell to his knees, seized Mrs. Denton’s hand, and kissed it. “You have my word as a gentleman!”
“Oh!” She let the handkerchief fall and gave him a radiant smile. “Oh, I knew you could not be so cruel!”
“Thank you, sir,” Sally said. “We are much obliged.” She turned away, carefully not meeting Annabel’s eyes.
An hour and a half later, after Mr. Marjoribanks had insisted on tea being served to help poor Mrs. Denton recover her shattered nerves and had begged her permission to call upon her in the near future to share war stories of their common profession, his five unexpected callers stood on the pavement before his house.
“Will you receive him if he calls on you?” Annabel asked Mrs. Denton.
“She’ll have to. I think he’s smitten. He might take it into his head to treat her like one of his reluctant heroines, and she’ll find herself tossed across his saddle as he gallops across Hampstead Heath on his destrier,” Lord Quinceton said, looking solemn.
Mrs. Denton snorted. “You’re being absurd, Geoffrey.”
“Says the woman who just out-Siddoned Mrs. Siddons.”
She laughed. “I did, didn’t I? I wasn’t certain of what I would say to the man while we stood on his threshold, but as soon as that terrified-looking butler let us in, I knew. We used to do family theatricals when I was a girl; I shall have to tell my father that the experience served me in good stead. Ah, here we are.”
Annabel started when she saw the carriage just drawing up behind Sally’s. “Why, it was you at my house when we were leaving,” she said to Mrs. Denton, who nodded.
“Yes, it was. We were on our way to call on you and saw you leaving. For some reason Quin thought there might be something afoot with my book and made my coachman follow you. We arrived here a few minutes after you did and made sure that this was Mr. Marjoribanks’ house before we followed you in.”
Emily was gazing at her worshipfully. “I still can’t believe you’re E.C. Spruce,” she said and added, sotto voce, to Annabel, “And I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”
“I couldn’t betray her confidence, Emily. You know that,” Annabel muttered back.
“I know. You’re far too good.”
“Is she? I shall have to bear that in mind,” Lord Quinceton said, suddenly looming next to them.
Annabel jumped. “Don’t do that!”
“Did I startle you?”
“What do you think?” she snapped.
He made her a small bow. “Pardon me for interrupting your tête-à-tête, Fellbridge, but Eliza asks if you won’t accept a ride home in her carriage, as she was coming to call on you anyway.”
Annabel shook her head. “Thank you, sir, but as Lady Jersey was kind enough to bring me here, I think I—”
“Oh, go with them, Annabel. Sally won’t mind,” Emily said, and turned away.
Annabel hesitated and looked at Mrs. Denton, who was chatting with Sally, then said stiffly, “If Mrs. Denton wishes it, I would be glad to.”
“What if I wish it too? No, never mind. I might not care for the answer.” He paused, and asked, “Are you too good, Fellbridge?”
Annabel felt herself flush. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Mostly nonsense, but it was worth it to see that lovely blush creep up your cheeks. You are a deucedly attractive woman, you know. I’ve thought so ever since I first laid eyes on you.”
Annabel tried to snort derisively, but she was too flustered. Was this his latest way to tease her—compliment her into utter confusion? “I doubt you even recall when that was.”
“On the contrary, I recall precisely when it was: at a party at your parents’ house to celebrate your engagement. I was on the list of guests requested by Freddy. It was the 28th of June 1801, at 9:22 in the evening. Or it might have been 9:23,” he added, after a moment’s consideration. “I’m afraid my vision was somewhat dazzled, which made reading my watch difficult. You were receiving with your parents and Freddy at the top of the stairs. You wore pink silk with a gold-spangled gauze overdress—if I had the dressing of you, you would always wear pink and gold—and a pearl and diamond set. Your hair was in long curls on your shoulders, and you looked absurdly young.” A smile glimmered in his eyes as he looked at her, and he offered his arm. “And now that I have basely rendered you speechless and unable to resist, let us join Eliza, shall we?”
I hope you enjoyed the second installment of The Ladies of Almack’s! There’s more—much more!—to come. Keep reading for a sample of the next story, Lyrics and Larceny. And if you’d like to keep up with the news from King Street, sign up for my newsletter for new release announcements, extras, and more about the ladies: https://marissadoylenewsletter.link/
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