Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
‘All right.’ I shrug, backing away on a bow. ‘A pleasure, Your Majesty.’
‘I forbid you to print lies about me, Melrose!’
‘I do not print lies, Your Majesty, only truths.’
‘Have it your way.’ He waves his glass of wine, and it splashes all over the oriental rug. ‘Seize him!’
The doors fly open immediately, and I am circled by eight footmen. ‘Oh, well, this is getting rather ugly, isn’t it?’ I muse, craning my head to get the Prince in my sights. He looks smug. Idiot. ‘I am afraid, Your Majesty, that the story has been passed and approved, and with word of my incarceration, it will be distributed far and wide. Did you know we have partnered with Fleming?’ I smile brightly as his face drops. ‘A very lucrative deal indeed, it is.’ I am uncomfortable at how well I am lying. Perhaps it is because my life, quite literally, is depending on it. Or is it because my love’s life does? Stupid question.
The guards back off with a wave of his hand. ‘What do you want, Melrose?’
‘It is our duty as a media outlet to report on all manner of news to the people. I realise, Your Majesty, that censorship is the foundation on which your relationship with the media is built, smoke and mirrors, if you will, but …’
‘But …?’ he prompts, impatient.
‘But, Your Majesty, I’m afraid that arrangement does not work for us any more, and I need to renegotiate the terms of our deal.’ I stroll across to a chair and lower myself into it. ‘I think I will have that drink, after all. We can go over my proposal while we enjoy what I am certain will be the finest of wines.’
I leave the palace rather relieved. The Prince was at Point Non Plus, so my offer should have been received with grace and appreciation. Except it was not. Of course it was not. The Prince is not only a glutton, but he is also an arrogant fool. Still, he is not what matters. Saving my business is what matters, as well as my family name. And, more important than all of that, Taya’s life. I have to ensure that no one can ever discover that it was she who reigned holy hell on the members of the ton – she and two others, who names I am yet to learn. My curiosity in that regard will not relent, but if I am to right my wrongs, I must force it into submission. It is a tricky situation to juggle, be sure of that, but, by God, I might have found a way.
After stopping off at the printworks to deliver the story to Grant, I head to Kentstone’s to track down Fleming. His portly body is, as expected, wedged into a chair that should without question be double the size to accommodate him comfortably, and even then I think it would perhaps be a squeeze. Ruby is perched on his lap, and my eyes home in on her cheek, where a blemish has been poorly concealed with paint and powder. My teeth grit, my jaw ticking.
‘Fleming,’ I all but growl. ‘A private word, if you will.’
Ruby starts to lift from his lap, but he seizes her arm harshly and yanks her back down. She winces but tries to hide it. ‘I’m busy, Melrose,’ he grunts.
‘Have it your way,’ I say, approaching, giving Ruby eyes to suggest she should move quickly, and she does, jumping off his lap, leaving the fat old pig grappling at thin air before him, struggling up from his seat, demanding she come back or so help her. I soon knock him back into his chair with a swift, accurate right hook.
He yelps and grabs his nose, stunned. ‘The deal is off!’ he yells, his eyes watering something terrible.
‘Then you won’t want to know who has been raining holy hell all over London and beyond, stealing purses and merchandise,’ I say, settling in the chair.
‘You know?’ he asks, releasing his nose.
I smile.
‘Who?’ he demands. ‘God damn it, Melrose, who is it?’
I inhale, considering him for a moment, watching him watch me with impatience and curiosity. He is absolutely ravenous for this name. ‘Why, Fleming,’ I muse quietly. ‘It is you.’
‘What?’
I toss a paper on the table. ‘That is tomorrow’s news.’ Fleming’s name is splattered on the front, along with a very damning headline.
‘What is this?’ he asks.
‘This is my newspaper telling the people of London and beyond that you are the highwayman. Or one of them.’
He laughs, low and nervously. ‘You want this deal, do you not? You want my boats and carriages.’
‘Oh, you must mean the knackered boats and the carriages no one dare use because you are wholly reckless with their cargo and take shortcuts no sane businessman would take in order to save a few pennies.’