Suddenly You(22)

“I already know what she will say.” Amanda kept her fingers wrapped around the hot china bowl of the teacup. “Mrs. Bradshaw was clearly amusing herself at our expense.”

“We’ll see.” Devlin stood and tended the fire, moving the gilded screen back in order to rearrange the logs with a few industrious jabs of an iron poker. The fire reawakened to new life, sending a pleasant infusion of heat into the air.

Amanda was mesmerized by the sight of him. It seemed, in the intense glow of firelight, that his easy confidence was balanced by something she had not seen in him before, a tenacity that knew no limits. She realized he was the kind of man who would woo, cajole, argue, perhaps bully and threaten anyone who got in the way of what he wanted. Half Irish, not wellborn despite his looks and bearing…it had to have been a hard-won victory for him to have climbed to this level of success. Devlin must have worked and sacrificed a great deal. If only he weren’t such a cocky, infuriating rogue, she would have found much in him to admire.

“A paltry ten pounds,” he said, recalling her to their earlier discussion about her pay for the unpublished novel. “And a royalty agreement if the book was ever published?”

Amanda smiled wryly and shrugged. “Well, I knew there was little chance of receiving anything. Authors have no way of making a publisher accountable for his expenses. I fully expected Mr. Steadman to claim there were no profits, no matter what the sales might have been.”

Devlin’s face was suddenly expressionless. “Ten pounds wasn’t a bad sum for a first novel. However, your work is worth much more than that now. Obviously I can’t expect your cooperation unless I offer you suitable payment for Unfinished Lady.”

Amanda poured fresh tea into her cup, doing her best to appear supremely uninterested in the conversation. “What sum would you consider ‘suitable,’ I wonder?”

“In the interest of fairness and an amiable working relationship, I’m prepared to pay you five thousand pounds for the rights to publish An Unfinished Lady as I described, first as a serial novel and then in a three-volume edition. I’ll also pay you the entire sum in advance, rather than divide it into monthly publication payments.” He arched one dark brow questioningly. “What do you think of that?”

Amanda nearly dropped her spoon. She fumbled to stir a little more sugar into her tea with a few unsteady swirls while her brain buzzed. Five thousand…it was nearly twice what she had been paid for her last novel. And this was for work that was already mostly done.

She felt her heart thump against the cage of her ribs in impatient blows. The offer seemed too good to be true…except that she might lose a great deal of prestige if the novel were brought out as a serial. “I suppose your offer is worth consideration,” she said carefully, “although I don’t care for the idea of being known as a magazine novelist.”

“Then allow me to give you some numbers to mull over, Miss Briars. I would estimate that you’ve sold three thousand copies of your last novel—”

“Thirty-five hundred,” Amanda said a touch defensively.

Devlin nodded, a smile catching at the corners of his mouth. “Impressive numbers for a three-decker. However, if you allow me to publish you in a shilling serial edition, we’ll start the printing at ten thousand, and I fully expect it to double the following month. By the last installment, I’ll be printing about sixty thousand copies. No, Miss Briars, I’m not joking—I’m always sober when I discuss business. Surely you’ve heard of young Dickens, the reporter from the Evening Chronicle? He and his publisher, Bentley, are selling at least a hundred thousand each month of The Pickwick Papers.”

“A hundred thousand,” Amanda repeated, not bothering to hide her astonishment. Of course, she and every literate person in London had become familiar with Mr. Charles Dickens, as his serial novel Pickwick had charmed the public with its liveliness and humor. Each installment was frantically sought by booksellers’ representatives on Magazine Day, while quips and phrases from each edition were exchanged in taverns and coffeehouses. Shopkeepers kept copies of Pickwick behind the counters to read between customers. Schoolboys tucked editions between the pages of their grammar books, despite the severe knuckle-rappings they would earn should their transgression be discovered. Despite the public excitement over Pickwick, however, Amanda had not expected Dickens’s sales to be quite so high.

“Mr. Devlin,” she said thoughtfully, “I am never accused of modesty, false or otherwise. I know that as a novelist, I possess a certain ability. But my work is not comparable to that of Mr. Dickens. My writing is not humorous, nor am I capable of imitating him—”

“I don’t want you to imitate anyone. I want to publish a serial novel written in your style, Miss Briars…something resonant and romantic. I promise you, the public will follow An Unfinished Lady every bit as faithfully as they read the more humorous serials.”

“You can’t guarantee such a thing,” Amanda said.

Devlin’s white teeth flashed in a sudden grin. “No. But I’m willing to take the risk if you are. Whether or not the thing succeeds, Miss Briars, you’ll have the money in your pocket…and you’ll be free to spend the rest of your life writing three-volume novels, if that is your desire.”

He startled Amanda by leaning over her chair, bracing his hands on the mahogany arms. She could not rise, had she wished to, without bringing her body directly against his. She felt his legs brush against the front of her skirts. “Say yes, Amanda,” he coaxed. “You’ll never regret it.”