Читать книгу The Perfect Mistress - Victoria Alexander - Страница 7

London, 1885

“… and I would therefore be most delighted to publish your great-grandmother’s memoirs.” Benjamin Cad-wallender’s voice rang in Lady Julia Winterset’s small parlor as if he were offering eternal salvation and choirs of celestial angels would appear at any moment to accompany his words.

She raised a brow. Eternal salvation was not what she sought from Cadwallender and Sons, Publishers but rather rescue of a more down-to-earth nature. Financial salvation as it were. “I must confess I am surprised, Mr. Cadwallender, that you would make such an offer on the basis of what little I allowed you to read. No more than a chapter if I recall.”

“Yet what a chapter it was.” He chuckled. “If the rest is even a fraction as interesting as what I have already read, The Perfect Mistress, the Memoirs of Lady Hermione Middlebury, shall be a rousing success.”

Julia considered him. “Do you really think so?”

“Oh, I do indeed.” He nodded vigorously. “I have mentioned this project, in a most discreet manner, mind you, to a few trusted colleagues and they concur. Do not underestimate the appetite of the public for works of this nature, especially if they are factual.”

“By ‘this nature’ do you mean scandalous?”

“Well, yes, to an extent. But as Lady Middlebury has been dead these past thirty years, and the incidents she reveals are older yet, it is not nearly as disreputable as it might be if she were alive today and in the midst of—”

“Her adventures?” Julia said with a smile.

“Exactly.” Mr. Cadwallender’s handsome face flushed. “Admittedly, the writing itself is not as fine as Mr. Trol-lope’s or Mr. Dickens’s or even Mrs. Gaskell’s or Mrs. Carik’s but, as it is written in your ancestor’s own words and in a remarkably engaging and enthusiastic style, a certain lack of polish can be overlooked. Particularly given the nature of the, er, adventures she relates.”

“And you think it will sell well?”

“Lady Winterset.” He lowered his voice in a conspiratorial manner. “Scandal sells books. I predict this will be a book that will be the subject of a great deal of discussion, which will only make those who haven’t read it wish to do so.”

“I see. How very interesting.”

“And profitable,” he said pointedly.

“That too,” she murmured.

There was a time, not so long ago, when she would have considered the word profitable in a conversation somewhat distasteful. Proper ladies did not discuss matters of a profitable nature nor did they discuss finances with anyone other than their husbands. Indeed, if anyone had asked her before her husband’s death three years ago, if she had a head for finances, aside from administering the household accounts, she would have laughed. But everything had changed since William’s death. Thus far, she had managed to stretch the little savings her husband had left with frugal living and an eye toward a bargain. Nonetheless, if she did not take action soon, she would be penniless. She had far too many responsibilities to permit that to happen. Life had changed and so had she.

Three years ago, the eminently proper wife of Sir William Winterset would have been shocked at the very thought of making public her great-grandmother’s scandalous remembrances, even if she had no idea of the work’s existence until recently. The woman she had become was different, stronger hopefully, than the woman she had been. That woman was dependent upon her husband. This woman depended on no one but herself and would do what she must to survive. Even though she had not finished her reading of her great-grandmother’s memoirs, what she had read thus far, as well as odd dreams triggered by her reading, convinced her that her great-grandmother would not only approve of Julia’s plan but applaud it.

She drew a deep breath. “I assume you have a sum in mind for the rights of publication.”

“I do indeed.” Mr. Cadwallender pulled an envelope from his waistcoat pocket and placed it on the table between his chair and hers.

Julia picked up the envelope, pulled out the paper inside, unfolded it, and stared at the figure written in Mr. Cadwallender’s precise hand. Her heart sank but she refused to let disappointment show on her face.

“That figure does not take into account continued royalties which I expect to be considerable,” Mr. Cadwallen-der said quickly.

She refolded the paper and replaced it in the envelope. “It does strike me as rather meager, Mr. Cadwallender.” She cast him her most pleasant smile. “For a book you expect to be a rousing success.”

“Yes, well …” Mr. Cadwallender shifted in his chair. “Might I be completely candid, Lady Winterset?”

“I expect nothing less.”

“As well you should.” Mr. Cadwallender paused, his brow furrowed. “My grandfather began the publication of Cadwallender’s Weekly World Messenger nearly eighty years ago. When he began publishing books as well, he named the firm Cadwallender and Sons, overly optimistic as it turned out as he only had one son and several daughters. That son, my father, surpassed his father and sired six sons as well as two daughters. My two older brothers, myself, and my next younger brother joined in the family business as was expected.” He directed her a firm look. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be in the position of a middle son in both one’s family and one’s business?”

“No idea at all. I imagine it could be somewhat awkward.”

“Somewhat? Hah!” He snorted and rose to his feet to pace the room. “My voice is heard only after my father and my two older brothers have had their say. I am consistently overruled in any matter in which my opinion differs from theirs. My ideas are scarcely ever considered.” He paused in midstep and met her gaze. “And I have ideas, Lady Winterset. Excellent ideas. The world is changing. We are a scant fifteen years from the dawn of a new century. Progress is in the air and we must seize the opportunities for change and advancement. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, I would think so,” she said cautiously.

He stared at her for a moment then recovered his senses. “My apologies. I should not allow myself to be carried away in this manner.

“Nonsense, Mr. Cadwallender. There is no need to apologize for the passion of one’s convictions.” She smiled. “But I fear I don’t see what this has to do with my great-grandmother’s book.”

“Lady Winterset.” Mr. Cadwallender retook his seat and met her gaze with a fervor akin to that of a missionary converting heathens. “I think this book will be a very great success. The sort of success publishing houses are built upon. That establishes a publisher as a legitimate force in the market.”

“I don’t understand.” She pulled her brows together. “As you mentioned, Cadwallender and Sons has been in business for a very long time. Its reputation is well known.”

“It is indeed. However, the reputation of Cadwallender Brothers Publishing has yet to be established.” He grimaced. “Not unexpected as the company has yet to publish a single book.”

She shook her head. “I still don’t—”

“My younger brother and I have started our own firm. We have experience, funding, and investors confident of our future. Neither of us are averse to the hard work that lies ahead and I have no doubt as to our ultimate success.” He met her gaze. “I would very much like The Perfect Mistress to be our first offering.”

“I see.” She studied him for a moment. “You’re going to compete against your father?”

“My father has decided to turn over the management of the company to my brothers. I do not wish to spend the rest of my life engaged in battles I cannot win. Furthermore, the publishing of books is of far less importance to them than the Messenger, which has always been the primary focus of the firm. My brothers are intent upon launching additional publications as well.” He squared his shoulders. “I do not see this as competition as much as the development and expansion of a field they have little interest in. A field, I think, that is the way of the future.”

“Your enthusiasm is commendable, however—”

A knock sounded at the door and immediately it opened.

“Beg pardon, my lady,” her butler, Daniels, said with his usual air of cool competence. “Lady Smithson and Lady Redwell have arrived.”

“Oh dear.” She glanced at the ormolu clock on the overmantel. “I didn’t realize the time.” She rose to her feet, the publisher immediately following suit. “Mr. Cad-wallender, my initial inquiry was predicated on the upstanding reputation of Cadwallender and Sons. I am not at all certain I have the … the courage required to trust the fate of this book to a new venture. I fear, therefore, I shall have to query another publisher and—”

“Lady Winterset.” Mr. Cadwallender clasped her hand in his and met her gaze directly. “I beg you not to make a hasty decision. Please give me the opportunity to further plead my case. I assure you, you will not regret it.”

She stared into his earnest, hazel eyes. Very nice eyes really that struck her as quite trustworthy, even if that might be due as much to his fervor as anything else. Still, there was no need to make a decision today.

“Very well, Mr. Cadwallender.” She smiled and withdrew her hand. “I shall give your proposal due consideration.”

“Thank you,” he said with relief. “Perhaps I can arrange for a higher advance as well. May I call on you again in a day or two to discuss it further?”

“Of course.”

“Again, you have my gratitude.” He smiled and his eyes lit with pleasure, very nice eyes in a more than ordinarily handsome face. “I am confident, Lady Winterset, this is the beginning of a profitable relationship for us both.” With that, he nodded and took his leave, offering a polite bow of greeting to her friends who entered the parlor as he left.

“I can see why you are late,” Veronica, Lady Smithson, said in a wry manner, her gaze following the publisher. “I would certainly forgo tea with my friends for a liaison with a man like that.”

“It was not a liaison,” Julia said firmly.

“Still, he is quite dashing, isn’t he?” Portia, Lady Red-well, craned her neck to see past the parlor door and into the entry hall. “If one likes fair hair and broad shoulders …” Her gaze jerked back to the other women, a telltale blush washing over her face. “Not that I do. Although, of course, what woman wouldn’t? That is to say …” She raised her chin. “One can appreciate art without being in the market for a painting. That’s what I meant.”

“Yes, of course you did,” Veronica said in an absent manner, her attention again on Julia, much to Portia’s obvious relief.

Of the three widows, Portia was the most concerned with propriety. Veronica had, on more than one occasion, observed privately that it was those who walked the narrowest paths that were the most likely to plunge over a cliff when the opportunity presented itself. Fortunately for Portia, or unfortunately in Veronica’s view, Portia had yet to so much as peer over the edge of a cliff.

For that matter, neither had Julia. But she had discovered a great deal about herself since her husband’s death. Her character was far stronger than she had imagined. One did what one had to do to survive in this world. As for propriety, while she had always considered herself most proper in both behavior and manner, it was no longer as important as it once was.

“If it wasn’t a liaison,” Veronica continued, “which, I might add, is a very great pity as surely Portia agrees, given that she is an excellent judge of art …” Portia offered her friends a weak smile. “Who was he and what sort of profitable relationship is he confident about?”

Julia narrowed her eyes. “How much of the conversation did you hear?”

“Not nearly enough.” Veronica breezed farther into the room, settled on the sofa, and began taking off her gloves. “You should call for tea.”

“I thought we were to have tea at Fenwick’s?” Julia said slowly.

“We were.” Portia moved past Julia and seated herself beside Veronica. The three women had first met several years ago at the reading room at Fenwick and Sons Booksellers, which did seem to attract young widows who had little else to occupy their time. Indeed, it had become something of a unofficial club for ladies, as well as the home of the loosely organized Ladies Literary Society. It was Veronica who had suggested to the elder Mr. Fenwick or perhaps one of the sons—as they were all of an indeterminate age, somewhat interchangeable, and nearly impossible to tell apart—that the reading room could prove profitable by simply offering refreshments. Although Veronica had never admitted it, Julia suspected her suggestion had carried with it financial incentive. It would not surprise Julia to learn Veronica was now a part owner of Fenwick and Sons. “But you failed to appear at the appointed time.”

Julia glanced at the clock. “I am scarcely half an hour late.”

“Yes, but while Veronica and I are rarely on time, you are always punctual.” Portia pinned her with a firm look. “Your note said you had something of importance to discuss. When you did not appear, we were naturally concerned.”

Julia folded her arms over her chest. “You were naturally curious.”

“Regardless.” Veronica studied her closely. “It was concern that compelled us to fly to your rescue.” She raised a brow. “Tea?”

“Of course,” Julia murmured and stepped out of the room to direct Daniels to have tea prepared. She would have much preferred to have had refreshments at Fen-wick’s rather than here. It wasn’t that she did not like her modest home, it was simply not as grand as either Portia’s or Veronica’s. As such it pointed out the vast differences between her life and that of her friends. Now, as she often had in the past, she marveled that they had become friends at all.

At first it seemed the three women had nothing in common save that they were all of a similar age and their respective widowhoods had begun at very nearly the same time. Veronica’s husband had been involved in the sort of financial dealings open only to those of great family wealth. Portia’s had been a literary sort, something of a scholar from what she had said. And Julia’s husband had been engaged in the practice of law. Three years ago, their husbands had died within months of each other of accident or illness or mishap. That they had forged a true friendship was attributable only to the whims of fate and perhaps the fact that they had met at a time when each needed a friend who was neither a relation nor considered them an obligation. And now they had come to rescue her.

Julia fetched her great-grandmother’s manuscript from the library and returned to the parlor. She took a seat, keeping the memoirs on her lap. “This is what I wished to discuss with you.”

Veronica eyed the stack of papers curiously. “And what, may I ask, is it?”

Portia sniffed. “It doesn’t look very interesting.”

“Appearances, my dear Portia, are often deceiving.” Julia drew a deep breath. “Do you recall my telling you that my grandmother’s brother died oh, about six months ago?”

Portia brightened. “And you have at last received an inheritance? Monies that will allow you to take care of the responsibilities that should have rightfully been his?”

“Yes, and no.” Julia shook her head. “His property went to a relative so distant I was not even aware of his existence. As for money, well, it seems he had none to speak of.”

“Of course not.” Portia’s expression hardened. “Vile creature.” Portia could not understand a family not caring for its own. Her parents had died when she was very young and her aunt and uncle had taken her in.

“This”—Julia laid her hand on the manuscript—“is my inheritance. It was left to my mother by my great-grandmother. For reasons unknown to me, although I have my suspicions, my great-uncle kept it in his possession.”

“And now that it is rightfully yours, what—” Veronica paused to allow a maid to enter with a tea cart then take her leave. She waited until the door closed to continue. “Now, what is it?”

“These are my great-grandmother’s memoirs.”

Portia sighed with disappointment. “Oh yes, that is interesting.”

“Julia, dear,” Veronica eyed her thoughtfully. “Who was your great-grandmother?”

“Lady Hermione Middlebury.” Julia held her breath.

“Oh my,” Veronica murmured. “That is interesting.”

“Why?” Portia’s impatient gaze slid from one woman to the other.

Veronica chose her words with care. “Is this the same Lady Middlebury who was reputedly the mistress of—”

Julia nodded. “Yes.”

“And involved in the scandal surrounding the prince of—”

“That too.” Julia winced.

“And the rather infamous incident with a prime min—”

“Yes, yes, all of that.” Julia waved away Veronica’s words.

“Well, I don’t know what either of you are talking about.” Portia huffed.

“My apologies, Portia.” Julia paused to gather her thoughts. “My great-grandmother was widowed at an early age and then proceeded to live her life exactly as she pleased.”

“In a most … independent manner,” Veronica said with an amused smile.

“By ‘independent’ do you mean scandalous?” Portia asked.

“Of course.” Veronica poured a cup of tea. “But it was a very long time ago.”

Julia cleared a space and set the manuscript on the cart. “She passed away more than thirty years ago.”

“Still,” Portia said, “scandal is scandal.”

“As I was saying,” Veronica continued, “these are the memories of a woman who has been dead for these past thirty years and her …”

“She calls them adventures.” Julia wrinkled her nose.

“Amorous adventures, no doubt,” Portia said darkly.

“Adventures? How delightful. Oh, I do like that.” Veronica paged through the manuscript. “The amorous adventures of a woman long in her grave may well have been scandalous when they occurred. But today, they are more in the realm of …” She thought for a moment. “Oh, history, I would think, as those who shared her adventures are long dead and buried as well.”

“History?” Portia stared at the manuscript as if she wasn’t sure if she wished to spirit it away and read it in the dead of night or burn it. “I daresay no one would look at this as history.”

“The history of society as it were, for better or ill,” Veronica said in a superior manner. “These amorous exploits of Julia’s great-grandmother happened so long ago they are only of interest in a literary sense.”

“More prurient than literary, no doubt.” Portia directed a warning look at Julia. “Some people have very long memories.”

“And some people are fast reaching a point of financial ruin.” Julia tapped her fingertip on the manuscript. “Hopefully, this will provide salvation.” She drew a deep breath. “My finances are dwindling quickly.”

Veronica stopped paging through the manuscript and cast a startled look at the other woman. “Why haven’t you said anything?”

“It’s rather embarrassing to admit that one’s resources are limited,” Julia said with a wry smile.

Surprise crossed Veronica’s face. “Even among friends?”

Julia nodded. “Especially among friends.”

Veronica huffed. “I tell you everything. Why, you know very nearly all my secrets.”

Portia ignored Veronica, directing her words to Julia. “You should marry again. That would solve all your problems.”

“I would very much like to marry again,” Julia said, her tone a bit sharper than she intended. “However, it was not easy to find the right man once.”

“It would be much easier if you were looking for financial stability rather than love,” Veronica noted, not for the first time.

“At this particular moment, I would turn my life over to a man without hesitation if it would mean financial salvation,” Julia said staunchly.

Veronica raised a brow. “You do not lie well, my dear. You would beg on the streets before you wed a man you did not care for.” She paused. “How bad is it?”

Julia blew a long breath. “I have approximately three months before my circumstances are serious.”

Veronica frowned. “I thought I noted a look of concern about you in recent weeks.”

Julia grimaced. “I have not been sleeping well.”

Veronica leaned toward her and lowered her voice. “Do allow me to give you what you need. I have more money than I could possibly spend in a lifetime.”

“I cannot take your money, although your offer is most appreciated,” Julia said.

“Why ever not? She certainly has the money.” Portia poured her tea. Veronica’s spending habits were the subject of great amusement and, on Julia’s part, who had to watch every penny, some envy. “Why, the amount she spends on hats alone would fund a small country for a year.”

“Longer probably,” Veronica said, the fanciful concoction of feathers and flowers on the hat she wore today bobbing with her movements. “I see no reason not to indulge myself as I have the means to do so. And I simply adore a hat that makes a statement.”

“Oh, your hats make all sorts of statements.” A wicked light sparked in Portia’s eye. “I would say the statement that particular hat makes is—”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.” Veronica cast Portia a narrowed look. “Or wise.” She turned back to Julia. “Nor is your refusal to take my money.” She met her friend’s gaze and took her hand. “I have never had a great number of friends but I understand friends do things like this for one another. And, in truth, I have come to think of us as somewhat more than friends. You are the sister I have never had.”

Julia swallowed the lump that abruptly rose in her throat. “I never had a sister either.”

“And I’ve never had a real sister,” Portia said quickly, not to be outdone, and fairly slapped her hand on top of her friends’. “And, while my finances are not as vulgarly excessive as Veronica’s, I too have a tidy fortune. I should like to give you money as well.”

Julia stared at Portia, glaring at Veronica, then met the other widow’s gaze and the gleam of amusement in her eye. Both women laughed and Portia huffed. “I am quite sincere, even if a bit tardy.”

“I know you are.” Julia smiled. “And I am most grateful.” She withdrew her hand, settled back in her chair, and considered her friends. “That you would both make such an offer touches me more than I can say, however I cannot—”

“Of course you can. You simply won’t. Pride, my dear, is not nearly as becoming as you might think.” Veronica straightened. “But do understand this, regardless of your refusal, the offer—both offers I assume—stand.”

“We do not want to see you destitute.” Portia flicked her gaze over Julia’s serviceable but well-worn dress and wisely kept her opinion on the topic of Julia’s wardrobe to herself. “You will never find a wealthy husband if you look like you need one.”

“I should quite like to marry again, but as no potential suitor has yet to appear on my doorstep, I must take matters into my own hands.” Julia nodded at the manuscript. “This might well be my salvation and, like any true miracle, arrived just when I needed it.”

Veronica raised a brow. “Left to you by your late great-uncle then?”

“Not exactly.” Annoyance sounded in Julia’s voice. “According to her memoirs, my great-grandmother had always intended for this to be left in the care of my mother as she thought her children were too proper to appreciate it.”

Veronica nodded. “Byron’s memoirs were burned after his death, by friends I believe, who were concerned as to the scandal they might cause.”

“For reasons unknown to me, it instead fell into the hands of my great-uncle who did not see fit to give it to my mother.”

“No doubt because of its scandalous nature. You can scarcely blame the man for that.” Portia’s brow furrowed. “I never knew you had a scandalous great-grandmother.” She glanced at Veronica. “And why is it that you know about this Lady Middlebury and I don’t?”

“My grandmother quite enjoys a good story and considers them even better if they include an element of truth.” Veronica smiled with the memory.

“Gossip?” Portia scoffed. “My family has never been prone to gossip.”

“How sad for you, my dear.” Veronica cast Portia a sympathetic look then turned her attention back to Julia. “I, for one, think this is fascinating. Why haven’t you mentioned this before?”

“There is much about my family I don’t know. I always thought we were quite ordinary, but apparently we are a family of many secrets.” Julia thought for a moment. “I did know that my great-grandmother was considered quite notorious in her day but she died before I was born and my mother rarely spoke of her. I know as well that she was not close to her children—my grandmother and her brother—and spent the later years of her life living in France.” She shook her head. “But I didn’t even know my grandmother was still living until six years ago when my parents died.”

“Which is when you became responsible for her support,” Veronica said slowly.

“A responsibility that should have fallen to your great-uncle,” Portia pointed out, again.

“It’s all quite tangled and convoluted. After all, including me, it encompasses four generations.” Julia paused in an apologetic manner. “And you have heard much of this before.”

“And like any good story, we shall enjoy hearing it again.” Veronica refilled her cup.

“My great-grandmother and her children were estranged. She lost her husband at twenty-four, the same age I was when I lost William.” Julia sipped her tea. “Spouses do not seem to live overly long in my family.”

“There’s something to be said for that,” Veronica said coolly.

Julia bit back a smile. In spite of Veronica’s skeptical comments, she knew full well her friend had cared deeply for her late husband.

“My mother and my grandmother at some point had a falling-out which led to their estrangement for a time although I have never known why. But then, as I understand it, she became ill—”

“Mad.” Portia nodded sagely.

“She’s not mad,” Julia said quickly. “Eccentric, yes, but—”

“You told us she hears voices,” Portia said. “That’s the very definition of mad.”

“She’s not mad.” Julia’s tone was sharper than she intended even if she didn’t quite believe her own words. “She has lived quietly in the country for years with a housekeeper who is more friend than servant. Indeed, they …” She hesitated then looked at her friends. “They both seem quite happy. I first went to see her when my parents died and I learned of her existence—”

“Kept secret because of the madness no doubt,” Portia said under her breath.

Julia met Veronica’s gaze. “I had to meet her and see for myself, you understand, how ill she was.”

Veronica nodded. “And?”

“And, I would not call her mad.” Julia smiled. “I thought she was delightful. Quite witty and most amusing.”

“And her voices?” Portia asked. “Were they witty as well?”

“I visit whenever I can and her company is most enjoyable. And”—Julia turned to Portia—“I have never seen behavior that I would truly call mad. Certainly her memories are muddled on occasion. She has a tendency to speak of matters long past as if they were yesterday—gentlemen callers and treasures lost and found and paths not taken. But it seems to me she is merely eccentric which, as a woman of advanced age, she has earned the right to be.”

“Perhaps the voices simply don’t speak to her when you are there.” Portia’s smile was entirely too sweet and not the least bit legitimate.

Veronica frowned. “You’re being exceptionally nasty today, Portia. What on earth has possessed you?”

Portia opened her mouth to issue a sharp retort then apparently thought better of it. “My apologies. It’s my mood I’m afraid.” She rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “My cousin is having yet another dinner party tonight. Inevitably I shall be seated next to the most eligible gentleman there who has been invited with the sole purpose of marrying me.”

Veronica smirked. “Again.”

Julia stifled a laugh. In recent months, Portia’s loving and well-meaning family had apparently decided it was time for her to remarry. While she did indeed wish to marry again, her family’s interference did not sit well. The woman who had never had a rebellious bone in her body found herself in the unfamiliar role of mutineer.

“Whether she is truly mad or merely odd with the eccentricities of age scarcely matters. After my husband died, I wanted to bring her to London to live with me but she refused. She insists she is happy where she is.” Julia shook her head. “But I am reaching a point where I can barely support one household let alone two. Therefore …” Resolve straightened her spine. “I shall sell my great-grandmother’s manuscript and use whatever it fetches to support her daughter. The gentleman you saw here is a publisher.”

Portia gasped. “Surely you’re not serious?”

“I have never been more serious in my life.”

“I’m not sure publishing will provide you with the funding you need,” Veronica said thoughtfully.

“If it sells well, it should provide a steady income.” Julia wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince herself or her friends. Still, she had nothing else.

“Perhaps it isn’t scandalous enough to sell well.” Portia’s gaze settled on the manuscript. “As your friends, it might be wise if we all read—”

“It is a risky proposition.” Veronica thought for a moment. “I think Portia’s suggestion might better serve.”

Portia glanced at the other woman. “What suggestion?”

“Blackmail,” Veronica said in an offhand manner.

“I suggested nothing of the sort.” Portia huffed then paused. “Did I?”

Julia stared. “I don’t recall blackmail being mentioned nor would I consider such a thing.”

“You should,” Veronica said, “although blackmail might be the wrong word as it implies something, well, wrong.”

Julia’s brows drew together. “Probably because it is.”

“What did I suggest?” Portia said.

“You said some people have very long memories.” Veronica nodded at Julia. “There are no doubt any number of people who would prefer that past scandals stay in the past.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Julia waved away the comment. “You said it yourself. My great-grandmother’s adventures were half a century ago. No one cares about those scandals now but hopefully they are interesting to read. However, I shall allow you to judge for yourself.” She selected a section she had copied and handed it to Veronica. “This chapter is about a gentleman related to you.”

“How delightful,” Veronica murmured, and paged idly through the pages.

“Isn’t there anything in there about a relation of mine?” Portia craned her neck to peer at the manuscript.

Julia shook her head. “Not that I’ve found thus far.”

“We have never been a scandalous lot. Still …” Portia eyed the manuscript with barely concealed longing. “It would be advisable to look. Just to make certain, you understand. For no other reason than that.”

“Of course not.” Veronica’s innocent tone belied the amusement in her eye.

“Besides, who among us is better suited to assess just how scandalous the work is?” Portia said primly. “I know scandal when I see it.”

“Then you should certainly read a chapter.” Julia selected another section she had copied, anticipating Portia’s request, and handed the pages to her friend.

Portia frowned at the small number of pages. “Is that enough? To be able to ascertain the scandalous nature of the work, that is. Perhaps I should read more?”

“I’m certain when you finish reading, Julia would be happy to provide you with more,” Veronica said smoothly. “For purposes of assessing the level of scandal, of course. Nothing more than that.”

“My life is exceptionally dull,” Portia said under her breath, leafing through the pages. Her gaze jerked to her friends as if she were surprised by her own words. “Not that I am interested in this in any way other than to help my dear Julia.”

Veronica smiled. “We never thought otherwise.”

“Not for a moment,” Julia added, casting Portia a reassuring smile.

It was indeed odd that this disparate trio had become friends but friends they were and, Julia suspected, friends they would be for the rest of their days. She sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward for these women, adding an additional prayer that the memoirs were indeed scandalous enough to provide true financial salvation even if that might not be the type of request the Almighty would be amenable to granting. Still, she would be most grateful if he would consider it.

And perhaps, she cringed to herself at the absurd thought, she would have to thank her great-grandmother as well.