Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance) by Wilma Counts Read Free Book Online Page A

it, Thorne! It is embarrassing to walk into a room knowing people have been laughing behind your back!”
    “Yes, it is. But you might have considered that before you became a party to bandying about a lady’s name as you did.”
    Luke’s face reddened. “How did you—? I did not—”
    “I doubt you actually told any of those scurrilous tales—I grant you that much. But you apparently did nothing to quell the gossip either—as a gentleman should have done.”
    “I don’t see how you came to that conclusion.” Luke’s voice was full of petulance and injured youth.
    “For starters, I asked around. Obviously, this . . . this thing was written in reaction to some perceived abuse. The writer makes that point quite clear.”
    Luke apparently did not want to examine that idea too closely. “I still think I should leave town for a few days.”
    “Turn tail and run? Absolutely not! That is not the Wainwright way—and you well know it!”
    “But—”
    Thorne held up his hand. “No buts. You will stay here. And, we will accept every invitation that comes our way. We will ride or drive in the park at the most fashionable hour. And we shall make calls on the most notorious gossips in the ton.”
    “Oh, Lord—” Luke groaned.
    “What is more,” Thorne added, “we shall ask Miss Richardson to join us on occasion.”
    “Why?” Shocked surprise forced out this single word. “She will never agree. She hates me.”
    “Because doing so may help divert the talk. And she did not seem to ‘hate’ you when I met her at the Harts’ party.”
    “What if Annabelle refuses? And what if she is privy to who did this?”
    “She may well be. I would not rule out that possibility. However, I doubt the current talk redounds to her credit any more than it does to ours.”
    “So that’s it? That is all we do? We just smile and pretend all is well? I cannot like this at all.” Luke sounded rebellious.
    “No, that is not all we do.” Thorne’s words were all the more menacing for the soft tone he adopted. “I intend to find out precisely who this Emma Bennet is. No one subjects me or a member of my family to public humiliation and gets away with it.”
     
     
    In his usual manner of attacking a problem head-on, Thorne’s first step was a visit to the publisher of the questionable pamphlet. The man invited Rolsbury to a seat in his office.
    “I am sorry, my lord.” Mr. Murray was polite but unhelpful. “I cannot give you the information you seek.”
    “Can not?” Thorne raised a skeptical eyebrow.
    The publisher looked away. “I am bound by contract, sir.”
    “I am willing to make it worth your while. No one need ever know.” Thorne watched the man’s expression turn decidedly cold at this suggestion.
    “I have explained that I have a contractual obligation to the writer.” Murray sounded offended.
    Thorne nodded and stood. “So be it. In truth, I am sorry not to obtain the information I seek, but I am glad to make the acquaintance of a man of your principles.” He offered Murray his hand, which the publisher took without hesitation.
    Thorne’s next stop was the printer. Publishers usually sent their work out to independent firms for the actual printing. In this case he encountered a stroke of luck, for the same printer had been listed for the last three of the Bennet books Thorne had found in a bookshop.
    Here, too, however, he initially met a blank wall. The printer was a harried-looking man of middle age with thinning black hair and thick eyeglasses. He stood behind the battered counter of his shop and Thorne could hear the slap of presses in a rear room.
    “I honestly do not know the identity of the writer,” the man said, wiping ink-stained hands on a canvas apron. “I hardly know Mr. Murray. He just sends the stuff over with one of his clerks, we print it, and send it back to Murray.”
    “What if you have questions that need to be answered?”
    “Have to go through Murray.”
    “That seems