“I should have known.”
“How could you possibly have known?”
Lucy’s eyes were tragic. “It’s not like Papa to pass up an opportunity to make money and—oh! That’s what he meant by that last part in his letter—when he apologized to you, Alice, and claimed he had no choice. I thought at the time he was apologizing for the blackmail. Why didn’t I realize there was more to it? No choice, indeed.” She bit her lip, then glanced at Gerald. “Is there nothing we can do?”
“There certainly is,” James said decisively. “I only came here to warn you. I’m off to the publisher’s.” He picked up Letters to a Mistress and pocketed it. “I’ll do what I can to stop this nasty little book from being distributed.”
“I’ll come with you,” Gerald said.
Alice rose to her feet, a little shaky but determined. “I’ll go, too.”
James shook his head. “It would be better if you didn’t. So far, given that only initials have been used, there’s nothing concrete to link you with the book. But if you’re seen going into the publisher’s . . .”
Alice could see his point, but she didn’t like it. “But I can’t just sit here and wait.” That would be too feeble for words.
Lucy linked her arm through Alice’s. “We planned to go shopping this morning. It’s probably the last thing either of us feels like doing, but . . .”
Alice took a shaky breath, then nodded. Lucy was looking pale and shamefaced. The poor girl must be feeling dreadful about her father’s betrayal. This morning, after Gerald had left, Lucy had been radiantly happy; now she looked pinched and miserable. Alice could wring Bamber’s neck.
“Very well, it’s not the kind of bold action I’d prefer, but I will not allow this horrid little book to get in the way of your wedding plans. So we will go out and shop. In style. Heads held high.”
James squeezed her hands. “That’s the spirit. Come, Gerald, let us deal with this grubby little publisher.”
* * *
* * *
The publisher’s premises was a narrow building in a lane off Fleet Street. It was a small operation, and as James and Gerald entered, they could see men and women at work, printing, binding and packing books. All with red linen bindings and bearing the title Letters to a Mistress. The leather ones that had gone out were no doubt to entice members of the ton to open them. Elegant and salacious. And vicious.
Their entry caused a stir, but there was no lull in the activity. A plump, fussily dressed little man peered out from an office and emerged smiling. “Ebenezer Greene at your service, gentlemen. How can I help you?”
James pulled the small red book from his pocket. “You are responsible for this, I believe?”
The smile vanished. “Yes,” Greene said cautiously. “What do you—”
“The original letters, if you please,” James said crisply.
“The orig—?” Greene glanced toward his office. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What letters?”
“The letters you’ve printed in this grubby little book.” James seized him by the collar. “Now, unless you want to see the inside of a prison cell . . .” He marched the man into his office and thrust him with a shove toward a large iron safe.
“But, but, but—”
“Those letters were obtained illegally, and I will have no hesitation in prosecuting you to the limit of the law. Now, give me the letters and I will be prepared to purchase all the copies currently printed. Otherwise . . .”
There was a crash from the room outside. Greene rushed out. “My formes! No! You can’t—”
“Can’t what?” Gerald said, heaving another frame full of print to the floor and smashing it up with his boots. Tiny metal letters burst from their confinement and scattered across the floor. The workers, some of whom were women, stood back watching. Nobody seemed interested in interfering.
Gerald picked up another frame and tipped it onto the ground. The wooden frame shattered. Pages of type broke into a thousand pieces, becoming meaningless. James smiled. No chance of reprinting the book now.
Greene moaned and wrung his hands.
James said, “So far we’re only interested in preventing you from printing any more copies of this nasty little publication. But if I don’t get those letters, my friend and I will destroy your printing press as well as the—what did you call them?—the formes. I fancy a press will be harder to replace.”
Another forme crashed to the floor, another sixteen pages destroyed. Tiny metal letters were scattered everywhere.
“No, no, I beg you, stop it. I bought those letters in good faith.”
“Vile letters that don’t deserve to see the light of day.”
Crash! It sounded as though Gerald was enjoying himself. James glanced at the printing press and said meditatively, “I’ve never tried to destroy a printing press before, but it can’t be too difficult.”
“Oh please, no.” The plump little man was almost weeping. “I’ll give you the cursed letters, just leave my press alone.” He hurried into his office, opened the safe and pulled out a thick sheaf of letters tied with a ribbon. “Here—take them. And then leave.”
James flicked through the sheaf. “They’d better all be here, because if not . . .”
“They’re all there, I assure you, all that that wretched man sold me. It’s him you should be punishing, not me.”
“You’re both despicable,” James said coldly. He held up the leather-bound copy. “How many of these did you send out?”
Greene glanced at a piece of paper on his desk. “Twenty-five,” he said sulkily. “They cost a fortune, too.”
“That’s the list, is it? Good.” James picked it up, glanced at the list of names, and pocketed it, ignoring Greene’s protests.
He returned to the print room and held up the book to the watching workers. “There is a large black carriage waiting in the lane outside. Sixpence for every box of these books that you load into it. My coachman is expecting you—he will keep tally and pay you.”
The workers glanced at one another, then rushed to grab boxes of books and carry them downstairs. In minutes not a single box or book remained. James glanced around the room and gave a satisfied nod. He turned to Greene and held out a ten-pound note.
Greene eyed it suspiciously. “What’s that for?”
“To pay for the books, of course,” James said in a bland voice.
“You’re paying me for them?” he said incredulously.