Suddenly You(13)

The central block of rooms was crowded, and Amanda nodded in greeting as various smiling faces turned toward her. She had an awareness of being popular in the manner that a favorite great-aunt might be…often she was slyly teased about this gentleman or that, although no one had any real belief that she entertained any romantic interests. She was fixed far too firmly “on the shelf” for that.

“My dear Miss Briars!” a robust masculine voice exclaimed, and she turned to see the hearty, cheerfully ruddy countenance of Mr. Talbot. “At last the evening holds true to its promise…it wanted only you to be complete.”

Although Talbot was at least ten years her senior, he possessed an eternally boyish quality that belied his distinctive shock of long white hair. His fleshy cheeks bulged with a mischievous grin. “And how attractive you are tonight,” he continued, taking her hand and pressing it between his chubby palms. “You put all the other ladies to shame.”

“I am accustomed to your easy flattery, Mr. Talbot,” Amanda informed him with a smile. “And I am far too sensible to fall prey. You’d do better to direct your pleasing words to some unfledged girl who will prove far more gullible.”

“You are my preferred target, however,” he said, and she rolled her eyes and again smiled at him.

Taking Talbot’s proffered arm, Amanda accompanied him to a massive mahogany sideboard, flanked by two large silver urns, one steaming with hot rum punch and the other filled with cold water. Talbot made a great show of directing a servant to fill a goblet of punch for her.

“Now, Mr. Talbot, I insist that you attend to your other guests,” Amanda said, letting the spicy aroma of the punch fill her nostrils. She relished the warmth that seeped through the glass goblet. Despite the thin covering of her gloves, her fingers were cold. “I see several people I wish to speak with, and you will hinder my progress.”

Talbot laughed jovially at the mock reprimand, and took his leave of her with a deep bow. Sipping her steaming punch, Amanda surveyed the crowd. Authors, publishers, illustrators, printers, lawyers, and even a critic or two—all mingled, separated, and regathered in constantly shifting groups. Conversation rippled through the room, punctuated by frequent bursts of laughter.

“Amanda, dear!” came a light, silvery voice, and Amanda turned to greet an attractive blond widow, Mrs. Francine Newlyn. Francine was the successful author of a half-dozen “sensation” novels, stories of high drama that often involved bigamy, murder, and adultery. Although Amanda privately considered Francine’s books a bit overwrought, she enjoyed them nevertheless. Slim, feline, and a lover of gossip, Francine made it a point to cultivate friendships with any writers she deemed successful enough to be worthy of her attention. Amanda always relished her conversations with the woman, who seemed to know everything about everyone, but she was also cautious not to tell Francine anything she wouldn’t care to be embellished and repeated.

“Dear Amanda,” Francine purred, her slender gloved fingers curved daintily around the heavy stem of a goblet, “how nice to see you here. You may be the only person of good sense to have walked through the door so far.”

“I don’t know that ‘good sense’ is all that desirable at an affair such as this,” Amanda replied with a smile. “Charm and beauty are doubtless much more welcome.”

Francine answered the smile with a wicked one of her own. “How fortunate, then, that you and I both possess all three qualities!”

“Isn’t it,” Amanda replied dryly. “Tell me, Francine, how is your latest novel progressing?”

The blonde stared at her with mock reproof. “If you must know, my novel is not progressing at all.”

Amanda smiled sympathetically. “You’ll come through it eventually.”

“Oh, I don’t like to work sans inspiration. I’ve abandoned all attempts to write until I find something—or someone—to stimulate my creativity.”

Amanda couldn’t help laughing at Francine’s predatory expression. The widow’s predilection for love affairs was well known in the publishing community. “Have you affixed your interest to a particular someone yet?”

“Not yet…although I do have a few candidates in mind.” The widow sipped delicately from her goblet. “I wouldn’t mind becoming friends with that fascinating Mr. Devlin, for example.”

Although Amanda had never met the man, she had heard his name mentioned frequently. John T. Devlin was a notorious figure in London’s literary culture, a man with a mysterious background who in the past five years had turned a small printing shop into the largest publishing house in the city. Apparently his rise to power had been unimpeded by any concern for morality or fair business practices.

Using charm, deception, and bribery, he had stolen the best authors from other publishers and encouraged them to write scandalous sensation novels. He placed advertisements for these novels in all the popular periodicals, and paid people to rave about them at parties and taverns. When critics complained that the books Devlin printed were destructive to the values of an impressionable public, Devlin obligingly published statements to warn potential readers that perhaps a certain novel might be especially violent or lurid; and, of course, sales skyrocketed.

Amanda had seen John T. Devlin’s five-story, white stone building located at the busy intersection of Holborn and Shoe Lane, but she had not yet set foot inside the place. Behind the swinging glass doors, she had been told, there were hundreds of thousands of books stacked on shelves that went from floor to ceiling, to provide the benefits of a circulating library to an eager public. Each of its twenty thousand subscribers paid a yearly fee to Devlin for the privilege of borrowing his books. The upper galleries contained stacks of books for sale, not to mention a bindery and printing department, and, of course, Mr. Devlin’s private offices.