Suddenly You(71)

In the four months since Jack had begun publishing regular installments of An Unfinished Lady, it had become a sensation. The clamoring on the “Row,” that section of Paternoster Row north of St. Paul’s, was deafening each month on Magazine Day, and the booksellers’ representatives all wanted one thing—the latest issue of Unfinished Lady.

Demand was climbing higher than Jack’s most optimistic estimations. The success of Amanda’s serial publication could be attributed to the excellent quality of the novel, the intriguing moral ambiguity of the book’s heroine, and the fact that Jack had paid for extensive publicity, including advertisements in all the notable London newspapers.

Now vendors were selling Unfinished Lady merchandise: a specially created cologne inspired by the novel, ruby-colored gloves similar to the ones the heroine wore, gauzy red “Lady” scarves to be worn around the throat or tied around the brim of a hat. The most requested music at any fashionable ball was “The Unfinished Lady” waltz, composed by an admirer of Amanda’s work.

He should be pleased, Jack told himself. After all, he and Amanda were both making a fortune from her novel and would continue to do so. There was no doubt that he would sell many editions of the final book when he finally brought it out in a handsome three-volume format. And Amanda seemed agreeable to the prospect of writing a brand-new serial novel for his publishing division.

However, it had become impossible for Jack to take pleasure in any of the things he used to. Money no longer excited him. He did not need further wealth—he had made far more than he could spend in a lifetime. As London’s most powerful bookseller as well as publisher, he had acquired so much influence over the distribution of other publishers’ novels that he could exact huge discounts from them for any book they wished him to carry. And he did not hesitate to make use of his advantage, which had made him even richer, if not exactly admired.

Jack knew that he was being called a giant in the publishing world—a recognition he had long worked for and craved. But his work had lost its power to absorb him. Even the ghosts of his past had ceased to haunt him as they once had. Now the days passed in a dull gray haze. He had never felt like this before, impervious to all emotion, even pain. If only someone could tell him how to break free of the suffocating gloom that enshrouded him.

“Merely a case of ennui, my boy,” an aristocratic friend had informed him sardonically, using the upper-class term for a case of terminal boredom. “Good for you—a solid case of ennui is quite the fashion nowadays. You would hardly be a man of significance if you didn’t have it. If you wish for relief, you need to go to a club, drink, play cards, diddle a pretty light-skirts. Or travel to the Continent for a change of scene.”

However, Jack knew that none of these suggestions would help worth a damn. He merely sat in his prison of an office and dutifully negotiated business agreements, or stared blankly at piles of work that seemed exactly like the work he had finished last month, and the month before. And waited intently for news of Amanda Briars.

Like a faithful hunting hound, Fretwell brought him tidbits whenever he came across them…that Amanda had been seen at the opera with Charles Hartley one evening, or that Amanda had visited the tea gardens and had looked quite well. Jack mulled over each piece of information incessantly, damning himself for caring so deeply about the minutiae of her life. Yet Amanda was the only thing that seemed to reawaken his pulse. He who had always been known for his insatiable drive could now only seem to work up an interest in the sedate social activities of a spinster novelist.

When he found himself too frustrated and restless to attend to his work one morning, Jack decided that physical exertion might do him some good. He was accomplishing nothing in his office, and there was work to be done elsewhere in the building. He left a pile of unread manuscripts and contracts on his desk and occupied himself instead with carrying chests of freshly bound books to a wagon at street level, where they would be carted off to a ship moored at the wharf.

Removing his coat, he worked in his shirtsleeves, lifting the chests and crates to his shoulder and carrying them down long flights of stairs to the ground floor. Although the stock lads were a bit unnerved at first to see the owner of Devlin’s performing such menial work, the hard labor soon caused them to lose all trace of self-consciousness.

After Jack had made at least a half-dozen trips from the fifth floor to the street, lugging book-filled crates to the wagon behind the building, Oscar Fretwell managed to find him. “Devlin,” he called, sounding perturbed. “Mr. Devlin, I—” He stopped in amazement as he saw Jack loading a crate onto the wagon. “Devlin, may I ask what you are about? There’s no need for you to do that—God knows we hire enough men to carry and load crates—”

“I’m tired of sitting at my damn desk,” Jack said curtly. “I wanted to stretch my legs.”

“A walk in the park would have accomplished the same thing,” Fretwell muttered. “A man in your position does not have to resort to stockroom labor.”

Jack smiled slightly, dragging his sleeve across his damp forehead. It felt good to sweat and exercise his muscles, to do something that did not require any thought, but merely physical effort.

“Spare me the lecture, Fretwell. I was of no use to anyone in my office, and I’d rather do something more productive than stroll through the park. Now, is there something you wished to tell me? Otherwise, I have more crates to load.”