Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

V ictoria was seated at the breakfast table at Mowbray House several days later, quietly reading the morning paper, when a letter in the social pages caught her eye.

By the time she'd finished reading the piece, her hands were shaking. Rage simmered in her blood. It took all her willpower to slowly lower the newspaper and rest it gently on the table. She'd much rather have thrown it into the fireplace and let it burn.

The reviewer for the Morning Herald had struck back. He had taken umbrage at her second letter, the one where she had said he should resign.

A response from our esteemed restaurant reviewer

A better man would admit that he doesn't know enough about the culinary arts and retire from the field of battle. Though from your rather feeble attempts at tackling the important issue of what constitutes good food, I can only surmise that you are not that sort of man. One hopes that your close friends are able to talk sense into you.

"Are you quite well?" asked Richard from his place further along the table. The expression on his face was one of guarded disquiet. He'd been paying court to his sister all morning. No doubt he had already burned through the money Victoria had given him on Thursday and was softening her up to ask for more.

Was she well? No, she was bloody furious.

I've a good mind to go down to Fleet Street and tell them…

She let out a slow, calming breath. What would she tell them? That she was the unwed daughter of a duke and thought she knew more about food than the gentleman the newspaper employed to write their culinary column. They'd laugh her straight out the front door.

And then someone would tell her parents.

But I can't sit here and expect to keep my temper at bay.

Richard, along with the rest of the Kembal family members residing at Mowbray House, didn't have a clue that Victoria was the mysterious gentleman who'd been sending letters to the Morning Herald . She'd entrusted her missives to various household footmen who had then delivered them to the offices of the paper. With an extra coin in his hand, a footman had no reason to think anything more about the task other than where he was going to spend his sudden and unexpected windfall.

"Victoria?"

"No. I am not quite myself, thank you for asking, brother dearest. I think I should go back to bed."

She rose from the table and snatched up the newspaper. Once her ire had calmed, she'd undertake her usual morning trip to the nearby German bakery and purchase her breakfast.

But first she was going to go back to her bedroom and pen a response to the dunderhead of a reviewer who thought he could bully his way into forcing her to stay silent.

No my good man. I am more than the better man. I am a woman, and I've only just got started. Whereas you are finished.

An educated reader defends himself.

I am disappointed but not entirely surprised that the restaurant reviewer for this esteemed newspaper has seen fit to attack me personally. One would think that a better man would address the issue of the review rather than casting aspersions on the character of a reader whose money pays his wages. Again I say it is time for the Morning Herald to look for a new restaurant reviewer.

A reader who will not be cowered.

Robert closed his eyes and sighed. Damn. This was not the sort of start to the day he needed.

He'd barely slept. A shipment of stolen East India spices had arrived at Tolley House just after four this morning, and he'd been up all night waiting by the back door, a loaded pistol in his hand, watching just in case any trouble might have followed the wagon to his home. The sun was already peeking over the horizon by the time he and George finished unloading the illicit goods and hiding them in the cellar.

A public slanging match with some ill-informed half-wit was not on his to-do-list for the day.

But if I don't nip this thing in the bud, it will gain momentum.

And he would be out of his reviewer job before he could stop things. The weekly coin he got from the Morning Herald was nice. It kept him in quality brandy and the occasional cigar. But it was the publicity which his column gained for his clients that was the most important aspect of his newspaper career. Convincing tavern and restaurant owners to take a chance on his spice contracts was hard, but the lure of a review in a major London newspaper was an added sweeter to any deal he could offer them.

His coffee had gone cold by the time he had come up with a plan to deal with the problem of the letter writer. This person had clearly decided to take the bit between his teeth and was not going to let up.

"Right, if it's a fight you want, then I'll gladly give you one," muttered Robert. He glanced at the half drunken coffee and decided against finishing it. He was in a bad enough mood and cold beverages would only set him in a worse one.

He headed upstairs to his study. The creak of his boots on the stairs was a reminder of how empty Tolley House was without any servants at this hour of the day. Having to do things for himself was the price he'd been forced to pay for running a smuggling operation out of his family's elegant townhouse.

Seated at his desk, Robert pulled out a piece of paper and began to write. The only way he was going to get somewhere with this letter-writing pest was to challenge them. Make them come out from behind their pen and ink and expose themselves.

A dual. But not just any old dual, those things were illegal, rather he would face off with his nemesis across the table of London's finest dining establishment Rules . Get the measure of the man who sought to take him down, and then teach him that when it came to the matter of knowing what good food was and what it was not, few men could match the Duke of Spice.

The letter took several attempts. His temper and lack of sleep kept getting the better of him.

I doubt the editor of the Morning Herald would appreciate me using the words know- it-all sod in my column.

When he had finally put together a more civilized missive, Robert carefully folded it, added a plain wax seal, and walked the letter over to the offices of the newspaper in Catherine Street, just off the Strand.

As he walked through the front door of number eighteen, he spied the clerk at the reception desk. The man took one look at Robert's noble demeanor and well-cut attire and immediately got to his feet. "Good morning, sir, how may I help you?"

Robert paused for a moment. It wouldn't do for him to publicly announce himself as being the Duke of Saffron Walden. Dukes didn't tend to visit newspapers. His presence here might raise all manner of questions. And gossip.

He hated gossip. Especially when his name was involved.

Clearing his throat, he approached the clerk. "Is the editor in this morning?" He gave the man a look which dared him to ask for a name or a calling card.

The newspaper clerk worried his bottom lip. "Will he know what this is about?"

Reaching into his coat pocket, Robert pulled out the letter. He hesitated before handing it over. "I will ask him if the seal has been broken."

The man nodded, the implied threat understood. "If you would please wait here for a moment, I shall go and deliver him your letter."

Robert pointed to the chair behind the clerk's desk. "You don't mind if I sit there and wait for your return? I don't particularly wish to be standing in the foyer for any longer than necessary."

If he remained where he was, he risked people passing by on the busy street and catching sight of him through the glass-fronted door.

The folly of coming here in person was beginning to pester at him. Sleep deprived brains didn't always make good judgements.

He'd barely touched the clerk's chair before the door leading into the main office of the newspaper opened. The wiry-haired editor of the Morning Herald appeared. He took one look at Robert, then at his clerk, and quickly announced, "That will be all Gerald, I shall deal with this gentleman."

He headed toward the staircase on the other side of the foyer, motioning for Robert to follow.

Once upstairs on the first floor, the editor hurried along a narrow hallway. A little way down, he stopped and turned left. The room the editor had entered was barely the size of a cupboard. Robert halted at the door. He wasn't one for confined spaces. Even the cellar in his kitchen made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace, but this is the only place in the building where you and I can talk without my staff overhearing. If I'd known you were coming, I would have made more suitable arrangements."

"It was a bit of a spur of the moment thing," replied Robert.

More like a rush of blood to the head, which I am now regretting.

He shuddered as the man closed the door behind them. The only light in the room was a small window up high. It reminded Robert a little too uncomfortably of the cells in the Marshalsea Prison, where he had been forced to spend the night under a false name on the odd occasion. His bribes to the marshal of the prison had cost him a small fortune, but he wasn't about to complain. He was a free man. Greasing palms in order to keep on the right side of the law was an occupational hazard in his line of work.

The editor, whose name Robert was busily racking his brain to recall, waved the letter at him. "Are you sure about this, Your Grace? I mean, if you sit down to dine with this reader, it will unmask you as our restaurant reviewer."

Damn. I hadn't thought about that. Fool.

He really ought to stop making rash decisions without the benefit of a good night's sleep. "Well I can't allow him to call me names and demand my resignation, now, can I?"

William. I think his name is William.

"What would you suggest, William?"

The editor ran his fingers through his gray mess of hair. "Perhaps keep the challenge going in the newspaper. Hold off on calling this chap out. I'm sure our readers are lapping up every word of this exchange over their tea and kippers and would be keen to hear more."

He hasn't corrected me on his name, so it must be William. I've finally gotten something right this morning.

"Yes, and I expect it helps to sell more newspapers. What would you suggest?" Remembering the man's name had pretty much used up the rest of his brain's good ideas.

"What about another personal attack? Something that calls his honor into question."

Robert shook his head. He didn't like this sort of thing. His business dealings might well be a bit shady. On the darker side of gray. Many would suggest outright illegal. But he was still a duke, and nobles with ancient bloodlines didn't normally stoop to that sort of behavior.

They don't normally hold up supply wagons at gunpoint either. But I digress.

He had just talked himself out of turning up the heat on the public battle, when a thought popped into his head.

What if I engage in a private battle with this chap, away from the pages of the newspaper?

Now that was something he could see himself readily doing. Intimidating his opponent from the shadows.

"Do you have the letters that our esteemed reader has sent to you? I mean it would be good for me to read them. It might serve to better inform me as to how I should proceed."

William gave him a considering look. Even in this poor light, Robert could tell that the newspaper man wasn't buying this story for one single minute.

"I will give you the letters, but on the proviso that you don't embark on a personal vendetta against him. I have a newspaper to run, and owners who expect me to make them a profit."

Robert held back a huff of disappointment. What was the point of seeking to identify his enemy if he couldn't attack him?

"You clearly don't have a military background, do you?" he mused. The moment he spied his foe on the battlefield, he was going to fire off a volley of shots.

"No, I don't. Why do you ask?"

"No reason," replied Robert, making a mental note to keep his nefarious plans to himself. "Now may I have the letters?"

"Wait here, Your Grace."

William disappeared. When he returned, he was carrying a bundle of letters in his hand. "I have assumed that these have all come from the one person, as the handwriting is the same in each."

How many letters has this idiot penned?

Robert took the letters and stuffed them into the folds of his greatcoat. "Thank you. Now if you would be so kind as to release me from this tiny prison, I shall be on my way."

The editor cleared his throat. "About the reviews. Is there a chance that the one you intend to submit this week will be for an establishment that our readers would be happy to visit? I mean, I wouldn't want to impose, but the idea of these reviews is to inform people as to places where they may actually want to dine."

Touché.

The man had a valid point, one Robert couldn't deny. "I shall make it my personal business to ensure that this week's review is for a restaurant which is open and serves delicious fare. I apologize for the recent problems that I might have caused both you and your valuable readers."

He made his hasty escape and headed back to Tolley House. Shrugging out of his clothes, Robert climbed into bed, snuggling under the warmth of the blankets. Lack of sleep tugged at him, and he was embarrassed over the matter of offering reviews for dining establishments that couldn't deliver, but as he drifted off a soft smile sat on his lips. He had the letters which his review rival had sent the Morning Herald .

Come tomorrow, his campaign to bring his newspaper nemesis to his knees would begin. And while his eventual victory would be a private one, he would still savor the taste of sweet revenge.