Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

October blew into London in a cold, dark rush.

Marjorie glanced up at the sky before darting out of her carriage, fearful the storm clouds would unleash a driving rain down upon her.

She couldn't meet Percy looking utterly bedraggled.

Her lady's maid followed quickly behind as she knocked on the door of Percy's London home and waited. If his mother or sister answered, she was sure to be sucked into staying for tea, and she wanted to make this as brief as possible.

Finally, the door cracked open to reveal the stodgy butler, Herbert. "Yes, Miss Merryweather?"

"Yes, good afternoon." The first fat raindrop struck the side of her face. She sputtered, surprised, then wiped it away. "I'm here to see Lord Chadwick. I will make it brief."

"He is not interested in seeing you."

Oh? She had feared that as well. "Is he home?" she pressed.

Unfettered, the butler blinked slowly. "He will not see you. He has a previous engagement."

"Miss," her lady's maid leaned in to whisper. "The viscount is there in the window."

Marjorie whipped around to see the curtains fluttering.

The blackguard!

"Now listen, Herbert. I understand you have a job to do, but if you do not let me in, heaven?—"

"For Christ's sake, Marjorie," the viscount whined from behind the door. "A touch dramatic, don't you think?"

She folded her arms, ignoring the rain slashing against the stone facade of the building and splashing back upon her. "I only need a moment, my lord."

There was more mumbling behind the doorway before Herbert stepped aside and she was allowed into the front hall.

Percy was immaculate. His suit bespoke, not a hair out of place on his head, and the grin on his face didn't falter.

Marjorie sucked in a deep breath, unsure of where to start or what to say. "I need to speak with you," she said, her voice wavering. She hated herself for it.

He nodded tersely, turned on his heel, and strode toward the first room off the front hall—a small sitting room. She walked in, dismissing her lady's maid to stand outside the door before he shut it with a loud click .

"I'm very busy," he said curtly.

Marjorie clasped her hands in front of her. "I'm aware. I understand you have another event tonight."

"So, you've read my book?"

She studied his face. Nothing, not even his posture, changed to give away a hint that he suspected she knew.

"I heard the book." That caught his attention because ever so slightly he tipped his chin forward in anticipation. "Percy?"

"I don't have all evening," he snapped.

Marjorie smiled and stepped forward, balling her hands next to her hips. "Yes, you're very busy, I understand. But that book you read was mine."

"Your book?" He laughed, and it was such an ugly sound.

"It was an old draft of mine. And it's gone missing. I can't find anything. And when word spread about your new novel, I thought I would attend your salon and listen to you read from it. Imagine my surprise when you read my novel back to me."

He scoffed. "What are you accusing me of?"

Marjorie wished she was taller, bigger, and louder at that moment. She hated feeling stuck as the quiet, strange wallflower. "That was my manuscript," she said. "And it's gone missing."

"Why does that concern me?"

She felt the embarrassment rush to her cheeks. There were only two nights it could have gone missing, and guessing at how he cut her off after the second, she knew very well when he stole her manuscript.

"Do you honestly forget?"

"Marjorie," he said in warning. "I don't want this to become ugly. I know you have aspired to become an author for years now."

"And I am one. That is my manuscript. You stole it."

"You can't prove it," he sneered.

And even though she had the journal, she wasn't ready to confront him with that yet, still hoping he would come clean. And this could be solved quietly, out of public and away from the rest of London. She was already embarrassed enough as it was. Because for him to have stolen the manuscript meant he had been in her bedchamber, something he now swore to forget entirely.

"Marjorie," he said, "I don't want to embarrass you. I understand you may be jealous. But I don't know what you're speaking of. And I do have a very large event tonight that I must attend. I'm reading again. If you have an issue, please write in the future. We have no further business with one another."

"We were engaged." Those words were louder. Still, they weren't enough.

"We were never engaged," he corrected. "They were promises—promises that never resulted in a marriage. We haven't been with one another for years now. And I don't wish to see you again. I don't know what delusions you have in your head. We all know how you spin webs of lies and wicked tales to help spend the time as a lonely spinster in London."

"That's going to be your answer?" she asked. "Are you sure?"

"Am I sure?" he scoffed once more. "Marjorie, I don't know what you're speaking about. The book is my own, published under my name. And whether you want to accuse me of stealing it or not, you have no proof that I did so. And now I must leave." He walked to the door and tore it open, pointing for her to follow out. His dismissal felt like he struck her cheek.

She had followed him around, so sickly in love. She was younger then, and to think what she missed because of it, who she missed because of it. It left her feeling hollow.

"Very well, Percy," she said. "I gave you a chance. But if you've chosen?—"

"Goodbye."

She nodded, gesturing for her lady's maid. As they ran outside in the pouring rain and into the carriage, Marjorie folded forward, crying and laughing all the same. She felt as if she were going mad.

"What is it, miss?" The maid's concern was clear.

Marjorie sat up, shaking her head and wiping her tears. "I don't think I can be a wallflower any longer. Can you help me ready for this evening?"

"Tonight, miss?"

"I have an important event. It's time all of London knows who I really am."

* * *

Hours later, the rain hadn't let up.

Despite her best efforts, Marjorie arrived at the event soaked through. She brushed back her hair and sniffed, the cold October night chilling her to the bone as she stepped inside the grand hall. Busy and buzzing, it was full of London society.

She had given Percy a chance to do this quietly. But he had chosen to lie, deny it, and make her feel as if she had gone mad when it was her truth and her work. Did he expect her to be quiet and let him take credit?

Probably.

There weren't many friendly faces in the audience. In fact, many people gave her strange looks. The carriage hadn't been able to pull close, and pressed for time, she had jumped out and walked a few blocks. Instead of slipping in quietly, she stood out, her dress clinging to her body, her skin covered in gooseflesh as she shivered, sick to her stomach with the knowledge of what she was about to do.

She took her seat and blew out a steadying breath as the first gentleman came to make an introduction. Her palms were sweaty, and she clutched her reticule in her hands. Her back was straight, her knees ready to launch her to standing so she could cut through the crowd, wasting no time.

Rain slashed against the window of the hall, loud and relentless.

An older gentleman, tall with rounded shoulders and wild, silver side whiskers, approached the podium and gave a short nod before his mouth pulled into a smile. "Thank you all for attending this evening. You certainly have heard by now how this novel has swept through London, and we are lucky to have the author here tonight reading for us." He held up his hands in a grand sweeping measure. "Without further ado, please welcome Lord Chadwick to the stage."

Percy stepped onto the stage, clutching the novel and giving a brief wave to the audience. He leaned in and whispered to the older gentleman before taking his place before the podium.

Marjorie stood up, then dashed onto the stage. The older gentleman laughed. "Miss, you can't be up here," he said, calmly trying to shoo her away. Percy laughed and pointed, playing off the whole event as if it were some pre-planned jest.

But Marjorie persisted, turning around to face the audience. For weeks now, she had been terrified to admit the truth, but finally, it poured out of her. "I am the true author of this novel."

The audience gasped collectively, then a few laughs began, followed by mumbled insults. She looked upon the audience, her eyes eager to find one friendly face but finding none.

Percy, a few feet away, growled. "What are you doing?" he snapped. "Get off the stage, Marjorie. Enough with this nonsense."

"I am the true author of this novel," she repeated, louder this time. "You may know me, if at all, as Marjorie Merryweather. But for the past few years, I have written successfully as M.E. Gastrell."

The crowd gasped. A few chairs scraped against the floor as people stood and began making their way out of the room.

"Wait!" She held up her hands, pleading. "Wait, please."

"Are we expected to believe you're M.E. Gastrell?" one man called out.

Percy stepped in front of her.

"Exactly, good man. I am sad to say this woman is not speaking from reality. Please, is there a surgeon here? Someone who can help us?"

"I'm fine and of sound mind." And though she glared at Percy, she kept her voice soft and even. In her experience, the male sex never appreciated a woman confident in her voice. Funny that they didn't prefer wallflowers either.

"Do not humiliate me," he said slowly. "Get off the stage now."

"I can prove it," she called out.

Boos erupted.

Marjorie sensed the tide was turning, and the momentary lapse of them allowing her to continue was quickly fading. She felt she would soon be forcibly taken off the stage, marked forever as a madwoman: Marjorie Merriweather, the crazed spinster who hangs around with her raven and writes until her hands are stained black.

"I can prove it!" She dug through her reticule, pulling out her journal. "These are my notes from when I was writing this manuscript. The viscount obtained the original and published it under his name, but it's my story. It's been stolen from me, and I wish to make that right."

Percy laughed, a cruel, wicked sound cut short when the door swung open.

Across the stage stood Alfie, his friendly green eyes now filled with untapped rage. He marched forward down the aisle and stepped onto the stage before ripping off his coat and draping it over Marjorie.

"Miss Merryweather is telling the truth, and I ask you to hear her pleas instead of dismissing her."

Percy mumbled something under his breath, and Alfie spun around to face him. "We will speak after. Now, I want an apology. Go ahead. Make one."

"I will not be making an apology," Percy said. "I didn't do anything wrong."

"You have. That book is hers, and you will no longer be profiting from it."

Soon, a few more people filed into the room—two gentlemen and the Duchess of Abinger herself.

Marjorie's hands wouldn't stop shaking as her heart drummed in her ears. She stuffed her hands inside the pockets of Alfie's coat, surprised to feel paper against her fingertips.

"Go ahead," Alfie urged.

She slowly removed the papers from his coat, stunned to discover they were the notes she had been searching for all along.

Alfie leaned forward, his lips brushing against her ear. "They were in that desk at the folly all along."

He reached for her hand and clasped it, turning back toward the crowd.

* * *

"Finally, the formidable Duke of Abinger returns to London," someone shouted from the crowd.

The stage swayed beneath Alfie as he clutched Marjorie's hand, his mouth dry as he scanned the crowd.

When he had entered, it had been chaos. Now, an eerie silence.

He cleared his throat, glancing down at her for a moment. At least she wasn't shivering any longer under his coat.

"I have known Marjorie's secret these past years, and she tells the truth. Along with her journals, I have her original notes with dates."

"They could be fake," Percy shot back. Alfie glanced over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes at his former friend, satisfied when Percy dropped back a step.

"I welcome anyone to come and examine them," Alfie continued. "I have bought the company and the printing presses of this publisher. The story will no longer be published as Chadwick's work because it does not belong to the viscount. Yes, it is true Miss Merryweather is M.E. Gastrell, and I urge you to consider holding back your disbelief when so many of you are true fans. It was an act of bravery today to confront Lord Chadwick onstage in front of you all. And it is just a sliver of who Marjorie Merryweather is as a person. If you must condemn anybody, it is not her today, but the man who is profiting off her hard work."

Marjorie sagged against him, and he peeked over once more at Percy, who was slipping toward the edge of the stage.

"I will pursue legal action if the viscount does not stop claiming this novel as his own. My lawyers are here in attendance today along with my mother." Alfie pointed his hand toward the two gentlemen standing by his mother, who had been working out how best to handle Marjorie's conundrum these past few days.

"She is a dear friend," he continued, "and she deserves credit for her hard work. She certainly doesn't deserve any of your scrutiny."

He heard her softly cry beside him, but he couldn't chance looking away from the crowd who sat there quietly, as if they were seeing a ghost. An uncomfortable quiet washed over the room at his pleas.

His mother stood at the back of the room and clasped her hands together. "Ladies and gentlemen, as this event has been canceled for the evening, I have refreshments in my ballroom, and I invite you all there now. Perhaps Miss Merryweather will join us to read."

Alfie couldn't fight the urge any longer. He glanced down at Marjorie, worried his mother had asked too much. But she nodded, squeezing his hand as if silently saying, "I love you."

Despite it all, it had been a long, horrible ride to London. He felt ill. But he wouldn't let that ruin her night. She would have her moment, and he would see that all of London fell at her feet, as they should, because Marjorie Merriweather was no wallflower.

"I would be delighted, Your Grace." Her voice wavered, but she forced a smile.

Alfie wished for nothing more than to gather her up in his arms and kiss her, to press his nose to her hair and smell her, to feel the weight of her in his arms.

But not now.

As the crowd began to filter out of the crowded hall, Alfie released Marjorie's hand and stormed toward Percy who remained on the side of the stage.

"An apology, Percy," Alfie demanded. "Now."

"I haven't done anything."

"Not to me, you blackguard, to Marjorie." He held his hand up, ignoring how it shook. "Now, damn it."

Percy scoffed. "If Marjorie is so prolific?—"

"It's not yours," Alfie snarled.

"Like how she's not yours?"

"Actually—" Marjorie spun from her spot on the stage and slowly walked up to Alfie. She laced her hand back into his and smiled. "I believe you told me earlier today we were never engaged."

Alfie was a little stunned by Marjorie's confession, fighting back a pleased smile. "When we were at Eton together, you stole my work, and I allowed it to happen because I was never like you. I couldn't walk into a room and demand attention. I hated that about you, envied it even. But we are no longer schoolboys, and you cannot live your life taking whatever you please, Percy."

"I didn't realize I would be receiving a lecture from you. I heard you couldn't?—"

Marjorie stepped forward. "An apology, Percy. And then you can be on your way." She reached into her reticule and tossed his mask at him.

"I'm sorry." He sneered as he lifted the mask from the floor. "Will that suffice?"

Tempting as it was, no. "A sincere apology. With feeling."

Alfie wanted nothing more than to toss a fist into his former friend's smug face. But he relented, falling back to Marjorie as she held up her hand.

Percy rolled his eyes. "I don't believe I have it in me at the moment."

"Let me help, then," Alfie said. "You will apologize, or you can admit your theft to the entire audience. If you do not, you will be hearing from my lawyers because you will be paying back all royalties and damages to the publisher. Including the lovely advance you received, which we both know you have already spent." He turned to Marjorie. "Is that better?"

She shrugged, swallowed by Alfie's coat. "Yes, I think it will do fine. Given you were never able to commit to our engagement because of…" she dropped her voice to a cold whisper, " financial difficulties , I think an apology is fair given your sudden windfall."

Faced with the audience, Percy quickly glanced between Marjorie and Alfie. "We were never engaged."

"News to me, but please continue. I don't think we have time for specifics." Marjorie pasted on a shaky smile.

"I want to thank you all for attending this evening. It seems there has been some confusion."

"Try again, Chadwick," Alfie hissed.

"Ladies and gentleman, it appears Miss Merryweather's contributions to this novel were more significant than I first believed, and for that I apologize. However, let us not forget it is through my influence the work found this audience, and for that, I am proud."

It was absurd. Every last word, and yet, she found she didn't care.

Percy turned and bowed with a smug grin on his face before storming off stage. Marjorie finally sighed, feeling the stage waver once again under her feet as she was left there to face the confused crowd. She spun toward Alfie and stepped forward until they were toe-to-toe.

"You came," she said softly.

"For you? Always."

"Will you marry me, then?"

He cupped her cheeks and pulled her down for a slow, lingering kiss. "Happily."