Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

" T hat cheeky, rotten swine," huffed Victoria. Other readers of the Morning Herald might not have noticed the sleight of hand, but she had caught it straight away. The sly dog had run an updated piece for an establishment he'd already reviewed last year.

Seated at her writing desk, which overlooked the green space of Berkely Square, Victoria steamed with rage. Her efforts to get people to see reason had included sending the editor some of her own reviews covering older places the newspaper had featured. Something she considered to be more than fair. But the restaurant reviewer's response had been nothing short of an outrage.

Victoria slowly shook her head. "Did he just look at one of the letters I sent and decide that since I liked that particular restaurant, he could just repurpose old material? This fraud of a reviewer has to resign."

It was beyond her comprehension that anyone could think to stoop so low. The last of her good regard for the restaurant critic was gone.

But in dusting off his old review, he'd now left her with the thorny issue of what to do with it. Victoria's beloved scrapbook sat on the desk, full of all the clippings she'd carefully pasted into it. If she went ahead and put today's review piece in, it would sully the book. She would have two reviews for the same restaurant. But if she didn't, today would forever be missing from her collection.

He has no regard for the feelings of others.

While her thoughts were torn as to what to do about this latest review, her mind was firmly made up as to her next course of action. Pushing the book aside, Victoria reached for a fresh piece of paper and began to pen her response to this monstrous outrage.

Robert lingered on the corner of Catherine and Tavistock Streets, casually munching on an apple, watching with interest as to who came and went through the front doors of the Morning Herald. He'd deliberately rerun an old review in yesterday's newspaper, dressing it up as a new piece. The deadline-focused editor hadn't noticed his underhanded move.

If there was one thing which he presumed would get a hot rise from his vexatious, letter-writing enemy, it would be this dishonorable, disgraceful act of wickedness.

Robert chuckled under his breath.

I wish I could have seen her face when she opened the newspaper yesterday.

He'd been standing out here without success for several hours. So far, only clerks and delivery boys had passed in and out the door. But he had learned long ago to trust his gut. That quiet perseverance was always rewarded.

After taking the last bite of his apple, Robert waved the remains of it under the nose of the nearest carriage horse, who quickly nipped the apple between its teeth.

"Here you go, girl, enjoy."

As the chestnut mare happily chewed on the unexpected gift, Robert moved back into position. Anyone passing by would see a man in a plain brown suit, reading The Times and minding his own business. His manner of dress was not that of a nobleman. Even his closest friends would have to take a second look in order to check that the man leaning against the Portland stone wall was not a merely an office clerk but rather the Duke of Saffron Walden.

Movement at the end of the street caught his eye, and Robert shifted the newspaper in order to get a better look.

Hello my little precious. What do we have here?

Striding down Catherine Street with all the importance of someone who worked in a grand house was a liveried servant. His colored vest and fine black suit marked him out from the rest of the London crowd.

Robert's gaze tracked the man's progress as he marched up the steps and into the offices of the Morning Herald . When the footman reappeared a few minutes later, Robert pushed off from the wall and silently followed.

Half an hour later, he'd trailed his quarry across London and all the way to Berkeley Square, where to his stunned disbelief, the footman disappeared down the steps of the servants' entrance to Mowbray House. His brows furrowed in confusion.

Why the devil is someone from the Duke of Mowbray's family writing to the newspaper?

Later that afternoon, after notes had been exchanged between him and the editor of the Morning Herald , Robert had all the confirmation he needed. A letter of barely restrained indignation had indeed been received from the same gentleman regarding the dining reviewer of the newspaper. Today's missive had apparently branded him an outright fraud.

William intended to print the letter in tomorrow's edition of the Morning Herald , after which Robert's tenure as food critic would surely be untenable.

Back at Tolley House, Robert paced the floor of his study, his hands clenched into tight fists. A better man might take his medicine quietly, accept that the letter was in direct response to his own dishonorable conduct, offer his resignation, and move on. The Duke of Spice was not that man.

Reaching the window, he glanced out at Pye Street, then turned and headed back toward the door. Back and forth he marched across the room. "The nerve of this female."

He was in half a mind to go back to the newspaper and demand the editor hand him over the letter. After which he would go to Mowbray House and bash loudly on the duke's front door and demand an answer.

This was in dangerous territory. His blood was up, and he was ready for a knock down, no-holds-barred punch-up with someone.

But that someone was a woman. And he'd have firm words with any man who sought to cause physical harm to a female.

Robert's steps came to a halt. He sighed and let his head drop back.

Fool. You brought this upon yourself. You baited her and she bit.

He'd started a war, and unless he could find a way to end it outside of the pages of the newspaper, he was going to have to battle it out. But if he lost, it would mean having to resign.

A member of the Duke of Mowbray's family was writing to the Morning Herald , but exactly who that was, still remained a mystery.

From the bookcase he selected the latest copy of Debrett's Peerage , the book which listed all the noble families of England, and their respective members. He thumbed through the pages, stopping when he reached the entry for the Kembal family. Robert dropped into a comfy fireside chair and began to read.

Clifford Kembal, Duke of Mowbray. Duchess, Lady Anne (nee Radley) sister of Ewan Radley, the Duke of Strathmore.

He pursed his lips. Hadn't there been some sort of scandal between the duke and duchess? Something about her tripping off to Rome and being away for far too long. Making a mental note to follow up on that juicy little titbit, he continued reading.

Daughters. Lady Augusta (nee Kembal), Countess Bramshaw. Wife of Flynn Cadnam, Earl Bramshaw .

He paused again. "Now I know this one. He's the chap who was tried for murdering his father." Robert had sat in the House of Lords as a member of the jury during the recent trial. He'd been mightily relieved when the poor mistreated earl had been found not guilty and released from the Tower of London.

But if Lady Augusta was now the Countess Bramshaw, then she wouldn't be in residence at Mowbray House. He mentally crossed her off his list.

Daughters. Lady Victoria Kembal. Lady Coco Kembal.

A niggling worry settled in his mind as he took in the name Lady Victoria Kembal. There was something about that name, something which… hmm .

Memories of an unpleasant encounter in the supper room at a recent party slipped into his mind. He'd been rude. She'd been rude. And it had all been over the state of the food.

He didn't bother worrying about the other sister. He doubted there would be two of them writing caustic letters to the newspaper.

"Lady Victoria Kembal." Her name lingered enticingly on his tongue. The memory of her in that golden gown had his cock twitching with anticipation, but he pushed his lust down. She might well be a tasty morsel, but she was also his enemy.

The well-endowed chit might currently be lingering under the false impression that her anonymity and sex would protect her from incurring his wrath, but she was about to discover that his gentlemanly manners only went so far.

"Lady Victoria Kembal, consider yourself at war."