Page 7 of Dallying with the Diamond

“One copy of the entire journal. Yes.”

“Has it been set to print?”

“Not yet. It will be set to print tonight and copies of each section will be sold under a new title.”

“Actually, it won’t.” Ath propped his ankle on his knee. “We’re here to fetch the original and any copies you might have to destroy them.” He fixed Lord Whitcombe with his best icy stare. He’d allowed thetonto take everything from him, but not this. He’d protect his friends and every person named in the journal no matter what he had to do.

CB sighed heavily. “You will have to excuse Captain Atherton. One too many blows to the head when he served in His Majesty’s cavalry. What he meant to say was that we are here to purchase any copies you have and the names of the individuals to which your clerk sold the first two parts of the journal. We are aware the last two portions are in the hands of El Goodrum, and our friends are negotiating for their return from her.”

“Negotiate? With Captain El?” Lord Whitcombe laughed.

“I would not worry about that if I were you. Let us address the matter at hand.” Ath lowered his propped foot to the floor and moved forward in his chair.

“The matter at hand?”

“How much?” CB asked suddenly. The room grew silent save for the ticking of a clock on the mantel over a fireplace with a small fire in the hearth.

“How much?” Whitcombe sounded genuinely confused. He wasn’t the only one.

“How much did you expect to make from selling the parts of our journal? You are a man of business, Lord Whitcombe. I suspect you do not invest the time nor the money to copy a book, set it to type, and print it to sell until you have calculated the profit of such a venture. How much do you want in compensation for giving us any copies you have made, cancelling the printing and providing us with the names of the two customers who bought the originals of our sections?” Ath stared at his friend and forced himself not to appear shocked by CB’s offer.

Whitcombe hesitated and then reached into a desk drawer. He flipped open the account book he’d dragged out of the drawer and began to flip through the pages. Above them the incessant humming stopped. Printing presses. Ath suddenly understood what the thrum and noise was. From what he knew most printing concerns were on the ground floor or in basements. The placement of these presses was actually quite clever. The authorities would never think to search a building’s attics.

The duke’s younger brother named a ridiculous amount of money. Ath exploded from his chair, which fell back and danced across the floor. CB put a hand on his arm. He drew a bank draft from his coat pocket and reached across the desk for Whitcombe’s quill.

“CB, what are you—” Ath clamped his mouth shut at CB’s raised hand. He and Whitcombe exchanged a glance.

CB returned the quill to its place, sanded the bank draft, wafted it back and forth a few times, and handed it to the stunned gentleman behind the desk. He stood and extended his hand. “I want all copies you have. I want your word you will not print any of the contents of the journal now or in the future. And I want the names of the two people to whom your rather dim clerk sold the first two sections. Agreed?”

Whitcombe gazed at the bank draft as he got to his feet. He dropped the valuable piece of paper onto the desk and shook CB’s hand. “You have my word.” He found a scrap of paper and hastily wrote two names down before he handed the scrap to Ath. With a casual air, as if gentlemen wrote him a bank draft for an obscene amount of money every day, he strode to a door set into the wall next to his fireplace. He disappeared behind the door for several minutes.

“Precisely how much money do you have?” Ath whispered as he leaned closer to CB.

“A disgusting amount actually. Don’t concern yourself.”

Whitcombe reappeared with a thick banded sheaf of foolscap in his hand. “This is the only copy.” Ath snatched the bundle from him.

“Should I discover you have lied to us in any way, Whitcombe, you will be dealing with our friends, not us. A barrister and a Bow Street Runner are not to be trifled with, not even by a duke’s brother.”

Whitcombe snorted. “Don’t threaten me, Captain Atherton. I am not afraid of your friends.”

“No?” CB asked as he and Ath headed towards the door. “You should be, my lord. You should be.” He closed the door far more gently than Ash would. Almost in the same moment the scurrying of feet drew their attention to the far end of the narrow passageway where a young clerk fumbled at the latch of a door and stumbled out of sight. Not until they stood on the landing to the stairs that led into the alley courtyard did Ash speak again.

“Will Whitcombe go back on his word?” He studied the bundle of paper in his hand.

“No,” CB replied. “He despises his brother and all he stands for, but he was raised a gentleman.”

“Now all I have to do,” Ath said as he fished the small note Whitcombe had written out of his jacket pocket. “Is find a way to meet this…Lady Honoria Eveleigh.”

“You already have.” CB lit one of the expensive cigars he always carried in a silver case in his waistcoat inside pocket. He drew on the cigar and blew the smoke out across the alley.

“What?” Ath shook his head. What the devil was his friend up to now?

“The lovely lady whosearseyou studied so assiduously as she descended these very stairs? That is Lady Honoria Eveleigh—only daughter of the Duke of Avonlea, this season’sDiamond of the First Water, and practically betrothed to the Duke of Bitworth.”

“Why did you not introduce us?”

CB gave Ath his famous up-and-down,what-the-devil-are-you-wearingglance. Ath rolled his eyes and snatched the cigar away to take a few long puffs.