Page 4 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke (The Unwanted Sisters #3)

Chapter Two

“ A bsolutely not,” Mr. Archibald Finch declared, his voice rising as his spectacles slipped down his nose. “You’ve gone too far this time. Lady Silverquill must soften her tone.”

Mr. Finch, the balding and perpetually perspiring sixty-year-old editor and publisher of The Gazetteer , sat behind a desk littered with papers.

Across from him stood Wilhelmina, her arms folded, her expression unyielding.

“How many times have you said that, Mr. Finch?” she asked with a slow arch of her eyebrow. “If I had a shilling for every warning, I might’ve bought this building by now, and secured my freedom along with it.”

Whenever she spoke to her publisher, Wilhelmina adopted the polished cadence and poise of Lady Silverquill, an inherited persona she wore with both pride and mischief. The column was more than gossip and wit; it was her way of drawing out the secrets people preferred to keep buried.

Mr. Finch, in contrast, was red-faced and flustered, dabbing his temple with a handkerchief that had long since given up the fight.

“You may find this amusing,” he huffed, fanning himself to little effect, “but I assure you, the matter is grave. Several of our patrons have threatened to cancel their subscriptions. Most notably, the Dowager Viscountess Ellesmere is beside herself.”

Wilhelmina gave a faint, amused smile. “Let us hope my next letter is even more poisonous. Arsenic, perhaps. Tasteless but perfectly fashionable.”

“You cannot say such things,” Mr. Finch groaned, rubbing his ink-stained fingers together. “You know you cannot. The Gazetteer may thrive on wit, but it survives on the gold of the easily scandalized.”

“I suppose,” she said, her tone more thoughtful now, “I have been writing on principle… and impulse. But they read the column because no one else dares to tell them the truth. Imagine living one’s entire life surrounded by flatterers too frightened to speak plainly.”

Mr. Finch let out a sigh and slammed a fresh stack of letters onto the desk. The papers fluttered like startled birds.

“More correspondence for Lady Silverquill,” he said grimly.

“From now on, I expect you to find merit in each, be it penned by a child or a countess. I don’t object to your opinions, Lady Slyham.

But for heaven’s sake, temper them. Be gentle.

Like you were with the boy asking advice on his father’s behalf. ”

She hesitated. That letter had touched her in a way few others did.

“I was kind because he was innocent,” she argued quietly.

“A child’s voice ought not to be met with cruelty.

But most of these letters come from those who know precisely what they’ve done, hiding their guilt behind poetic phrases and indignant protests.

You’ve read them, Mr. Finch. Pompous mothers.

Unfaithful husbands. Employers who treat their servants like beasts of burden. ”

“I know,” Mr. Finch said, his voice softer now. “But they are also the ones paying your salary. And keeping this paper afloat.”

Wilhelmina rolled her eyes and began to sift through the letters. Some were signed with names—real or otherwise—though most chose the safety of pseudonyms, as was wise. She skimmed a few, already forming responses in her mind.

Balanced, polished, diplomatic.

Then, she paused.

Her eyes lingered on one envelope, her fingers tightening ever so slightly as she tugged out the folded page.

“What is it?” Mr. Finch asked, watching her closely.

“It’s the boy,” she murmured.

“The boy?” He leaned forward, peering over his spectacles.

“The one who wrote about his lonely father,” she clarified. “The one you said I responded to with uncharacteristic gentleness a fortnight ago.”

“He’s written again?”

“Yes. It’s not signed, but I can tell it’s from him. No grown man would write like that; there was a distinct innocence in his tone. A man of status and standing would not phrase things so plainly, or so earnestly.”

“Hm. A remarkably perceptive child,” Mr. Finch muttered, frowning. “How did I miss that? It reminds me, the father?—”

“—likely doesn’t know how to speak to his son,” Wilhelmina cut in smoothly. “Let alone express himself in ink. Many among the nobility are barely literate in emotion, Mr. Finch.”

He grunted. “Perhaps. Regardless, our agreement remains unchanged. You will continue to respond, but with greater care.”

Wilhelmina returned her eyes to the letter, reading aloud, half to herself , “Dear Lady Silverquill, I have tried all I can to find someone who can make my papa happy, but ? —”

Finch suddenly snatched the letter from her hands.

“Mr. Finch!” she protested.

“You will not respond to this,” he said flatly, his cheeks flushing.

“And why ever not?” she demanded.

“Because you must not ,” he said firmly. “That boy made very clear what he did with the first letter—he sent it to your column. We cannot encourage correspondence between children and a column meant for adults.”

Wilhelmina narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re hiding something, Mr. Finch.”

He froze. Caught. She could always tell.

“Hiding? Nonsense, My Lady. I?—”

“Mr. Finch,” she shot him a pointed look, one that would hopefully show him she could see right through him.

He looked down, then up again, and sighed, his shoulders slumping under the weight of discretion. “His father has insisted on anonymity. He threatened to sue the Gazetteer if you write back to his son again.”

Wilhelmina felt her face flush, not with shame, but something far sharper. Indignation.

“Sue us? For what? Kindness?” She straightened in her chair, her voice hardening. “Surely there’s a mistake. If they believe I?—”

“You may not have meant harm,” Mr. Finch said, cutting her off, “but you humiliated him. He claims your letter was far too transparent. Those who read it deduced correctly who he was.”

“That may be,” she relented, her lips thinning. “But then I must ask: why did his son feel the need to write at all? Why seek help from a stranger in print? Why not go to the man himself? Unless?—”

“Don’t start imagining things,” Mr. Finch warned. “You know how quickly that mind of yours runs off.”

“Perhaps the boy is looking for something his father cannot give. A mother figure. A confidante.”

Mr. Finch held her gaze. “You, Lady Slyham, of all people, should know what it means to be embarrassed before one’s peers. You’re a member of the ton.”

“I do not trouble myself with gossip,” Wilhelmina replied coolly, though her tone was a touch too restrained. Her gaze dropped briefly to her fingernails, avoiding his eyes.

Mr. Finch scoffed. “And yet your livelihood depends on it.”

“I speak truth, not idle rumors.”

“You write an advice column, My Lady,” he said sharply. “Your ears must always be open, your pen swift. But now, you must also be cautious.”

She sighed, her eyes flicking to the stack of letters. “All this fuss for one line of kindness?”

“No. All this fuss for a powerful man’s pride,” Mr. Finch replied grimly. “He warned us: any further correspondence, and he’ll see to it that the Gazetteer is ruined. Do you understand me?”

Wilhelmina narrowed her eyes at him. He was still hiding something.

But before she could press further, the door burst open.

Miss Cottle, the secretary, stood breathless in the doorway, her eyes wide.

“Mr. Finch!” she squeaked.

“Good God, Miss Cottle! You scared me half to death!” Mr. Finch exclaimed, fanning himself once more. “What on earth possessed you to barge in here like that?”

“Well, you see, Sir…” Miss Cottle responded between shaky breaths. “There’s a little boy in the lobby, and he refuses to speak to anyone except Lady Silverquill.”