Page 101 of The Runaway Duchess

“The interested party you mentioned?” She looked away, scanned the garden, the summer crowds drifting around the rings of roses and down the avenues of ornamental beds. “Will we be interrupting his family outing?”

Bankers did business in banks. Lawyers did business in law offices. But it seemed the literati did business everywhere. Why not, given that their business was interpreting the human condition?

Mr. De’Ath spoke smoothly. “He specializes in selling serial rights of novels to illustrated papers.”

“Illustrations?” Lucy interjected. “The novel—isn’t it a maritime romance?” She didn’t wait for Lavinia’s answer but addressed Mr. De’Ath. “You have seen Gwen’s marine sketches. She displayed a few of them at the salon in March. You were taken with them.”

“The studies of the river in pen and ink? I was indeed.” Mr. De’Ath’s eyes narrowed as he reflected. “Marine views, I believe she called them.”

“She’d make the novel come alive! And illustrating it will raise her spirits.” Lucy rose on tiptoe, most likely unaware, in her enthusiasm, that she was illustrating her own point. “I know she must be dashed by that review. You should go by her studio . . .”

Lavinia ceased to follow the flow of conversation. Gwen Burgess again. Finally, she cleared her throat. Wasn’t her career the point of this excursion? She’d be better off if she didn’t lollygag interminably in broad daylight. Sooner or later, someone who knew her was bound to wander by.

Or worse, someone Cranbrook had paid to hunt her down.

“This syndicator,” she interrupted. “He’s here? Do you plan to introduce me?”

“I do plan to introduce you. But first . . .” He swung his cane, pointing it at a building on the other side of the garden’s inner ring, a humble affair in comparison with the massive conservatory, which towered in the foreground, all mortared brick, iron, and glass.

Lucy screwed up her face. “I can’t countenance a lecture in my near future. Not today.”

“I’d wager the lecture has concluded.” Mr. De’Ath began to walk through the trees, setting a leisurely pace. “But there’s work to be done on the libretto.”

Lucy and Lavinia looked at each other, and Lucy shook her head.

“Don’t ask me.” She sighed, then set off after him. A moment later, Lavinia followed.

Chapter Nineteen

The questions and comments started up the instant the applause died down. Muriel leaned on the lectern, beaming, as plump, dyspeptic Professor Murray—always popping up in lecture halls like a poison mushroom—delivered uncharacteristic praise from the front row.

Neal’s knees began to vibrate as a pharmaceutical student stood and quizzed her about the medicinal properties of Chinese sage. Then Winston Reeves, a onetime colleague of Neal’s father, took the floor. Reeves believed women incapable of rigorous scientific investigation; Neal’s mother had once tossed him out of a faculty dinner by the ear.

“The ferns you described, the ones growing in the groves by the waterfall in Penang. They should be studied by experts. I hope you carried back specimens for the scientific community. I know a pteridologist who—”

“I did. I sent specimens to Kew.” Muriel cut him off, nodding with enthusiasm. “In fact, I’m preparing a paper on their morphological features for the Magazine of Botany, with a focus on the reproductive structures. This species has helped me understand more fully the alternation of the spore-bearing and the sexual generations.”

At the word sexual a few gasps and guffaws sounded. Reeves opened his mouth wider. Muriel continued smiling. “If you give me your direction, I’ll see to it that a copy of the magazine makes its way to you.”

Her air of indulgence chafed Reeve’s vanity visibly. Neal could see him twitching.

How his mother would cackle.

“Ah,” said Muriel. “I see a hand in the back.”

The questions continued.

Neal felt an elbow in his side and glanced over at Simon Hitchens, who was giving him a significant look from the neighboring chair. He took his meaning and sighed.

Yes, Muriel was magnificent.

He didn’t want to marry her, that was all.

Instead of communicating this directly, he’d been avoiding her. He’d like to have confided in Alan, but Alan had been avoiding him, or else had gotten caught up in his new writing project. He hadn’t even come to the lecture.

As the questions tapered off and the audience disaggregated into chattering cliques, Neal rose and drifted forward, intending to offer Muriel his congratulations. Others had had the same idea. He joined the disorderly queue and stood rocking on his heels, hands in his pockets.

Muriel was gesturing broadly as she spoke to a round, whiskery man dressed in clashing plaids. Her former employer, and Varnham’s biggest competitor, Robert Edevane. Neal looked away and saw Alan making his way down the side of the room. He went to meet him, frowning.