How to Claim a Governess’s Heart - Bridget Barton Page 0,71
John had no idea where this conversation was going, but he got caught up in Higgins’s excitement.
“I met the very man yesterday at the club. He was there with your brother!”
“My brother?”
“Yes, they seemed to be having some sort of meeting. I thought to slip by, but the duke spotted me, so I had no choice but to greet him. He introduced the man to me but said little of his employment.”
“My brother was having a meeting with Bakersten right after I dropped off my manuscript to him,” Lord John related out loud to let it sink in.
“I assumed they had some private business together at the time, but now. What are the odds that the duke would seek a meeting with the man you offer your manuscript to the very day you do it?”
“Very unlikely. He would have no reason at all to seek any member of the writing community, unless...”
Lord John took a few slow puffs of his own cigar before stubbing it out in a crystal bowl.
“He is paying them off! I bet he has contacted every publisher in London and is bribing them to not even read my manuscript! Uh! I should have known!”
Lord John stood up in a fit of rage and started to pace the room.
“He said something. It wasn’t a threat, but he made it clear that he had something in the works to ensure that he would win. This is it!”
“Do you really think your brother would go this far?” Higgins asked.
He knew well the relationship that Lord John and the duke had. Still, he was an optimist at heart and hated to think ill of anyone.
“This far?” Lord John scoffed. “I’m surprised he didn’t just buy them all up and burn every printing press in London. He will stop at nothing to see that I fail!”
Chapter 23
Bridget was surprised when a note was found on her morning breakfast plate. She didn’t know anyone who would write to her, let alone know she was here in London.
Her only close friend from her days in the school had returned to her family estate near Bath, and she had only had minimal correspondence with her since. Her last letter to her friend had been before the passing of the Smeltings. In all honesty, so much had happened this short year, she wasn’t even sure where she would begin to explain things to her.
But the handwriting on the outside of the letter was not that of her friend. She didn’t recognise it, in fact. She turned the letter over, studying it. There was no other distinguishing mark, and even the wax that closed it bore no seal. It had merely dripped and hardened. It was curious to have it waxed closed but still not have an identifying mould in it.
She opened the letter and skimmed it, her face growing more panicked with each passing sentence. She let out a little yip when the breakfast doors opened again.
Quickly she stuffed the letter into her skirt pocket while Lord John looked at her with questioning eyes.
“You just frightened me,” she responded to his unspoken question.
“Where is Betsy?” He asked, seeing that she was alone.
“Mrs. Smith caught us at the bottom of the stairs. She said the cook was taking out a fresh batch of rolls. You know how much Betsy loves to see the bread come out. So Mrs. Smith offered to take her back to watch.”
“Oh, I see. I’m sure they will be back presently.”
He settled into his usual seat and rifled through his own letters that were at his place. The one in Bridget’s pocket seemed to be burning a hole in it.
“If you would just excuse me for a moment,” Bridget said, coming to stand suddenly.
Lord John automatically stood too.
“Is there something the matter?” he asked.
Worry stretched over his golden brows.
“No, nothing at all. I just forgot something in my room that I need for today’s lesson.”
As Bridget turned, she bit her tongue. She hated lying, especially to Lord John.
“Miss Thatcher, I’m carrying the rolls,” Betsy called out to her in the hall.
“Yes, I see that,” Bridget replied with a smile plastered to her lips. “Those look lovely. I will return in just a moment,” she finished before rounding the corner and hurrying up the steps as fast as her skirts would allow.
In the quiet of her room, Bridget fished the now crumpled letter back out of her pocket to reread it properly by the small window light.