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She waved a hand, cutting him off. Not that he could blame her. “Oh, just stop. Just stop talking. It is bad enough that we are both trapped and miserable.”

“Pomona…” He wasn’t miserable. And he hadn’t once thought of himself as trapped. “Please. This is merely a misunderstanding. Let us talk about it later. We will both look back on this and... Well. Let us not say anything else that either of us may regret. I came here to suggest that we leave Venice, and go on to Garda.”

“Garda?” Her eyes were blazing. “What on earth are you talking about? I am not going to Garda with you.”

“Pomona. You are making far too much of”—

“I am not going anywhere with you. I am going home. To London.”

Chapter Sixteen

Leadenhall Street, London

June 1819

“Well, Mrs. Brown!” Mr. Wynde took off his spectacles. “I was not certain that you would be able to do it—though of course, I did not say so to you. It would have been bad for your morale. But what a book you have written!”

“Then… then you liked it?” Pomona was clutching her reticule so tightly that her fingers were cramping.

“Liked it!” He clapped a hand to his chest. “I could not put it down! It is hair-raising! Positively hair-raising! The passage in which Violetta escapes her captors and flees through the salt marsh? And the flash of lightning that reveals Sir Aloysius aiming the musket? Ladies all over England will shriek aloud when they read that scene! I very nearly did so myself!” He laid his other hand over the stacked pages of the manuscript. “I promise you, Mrs. Brown, that this is quite the most sensational fiction anyone will publish this year! And—as I shall be the one publishing it—I am very pleased indeed.”

Mr. Wynde’s reaction was so far beyond what she’d dared to hope that she had to bite her tongue to keep from asking him if he was certain. “I—I know that the story lacks cliffs, and dungeons, and… and things that readers like.”

His frown was puzzled. “But it is my understanding that Venice has no cliffs.”

“But I thought...” For a moment she found herself unable to speak. There was a lump in her throat that could be either relief, or grief at how much time she’d wasted struggling to force her story into a mold in which it would never fit. “I thought that… There was another novel…”

“Another novel?” He peered at her. “Oh. I hope that you are not speaking of The Prisoner of San Severino. That, of course, was utter tripe. Now!” He patted the manuscript again. “Let us speak of your book. And business matters.”

He took a document from his desk, returned his spectacles to his nose and frowned at it, reading. “Yes. Quite.” He set it down. “Now. We shall release your book in three volumes, with a first printing of six thousand copies. Handbills announcing its publication will be displayed in the windows of all my lending libraries, as well as in print shops, other book shops and lending libraries, and so forth, up and down the country.”

She swallowed hard. “I beg your pardon. Did you say six”—her voice failed again— “six thousand copies?”

“I did indeed. However!”—he held up a finger— “there is a caveat! There is always a caveat. One of my other authors has failed to turn in her book. This has left a gap in my schedule. Gaps mean that my presses sit idle and that my pressmen have no work. Gaps mean that my readers have no fresh reason to enter my shops, and so on. I am certain that you see the problem. And you, Mrs. Brown, are about to solve this problem for me. Because you are about to take this book of yours, make the minor corrections that I have marked, and return it to me one week hence. And then we shall set the type, cast the plates, and get it onto the presses. What say you?” He sat back in his chair, his fingers steepled, beaming.

Pomona realized that she was clutching the edge of her chair. She forced her hands to relax. "Did you say one week?”

“I have every confidence in you, Mrs. Brown.” He rang a bell. A clerk rushed in. “Wrap Mrs. Brown’s manuscript for her, please, and bring it back. Now. Of course, you must be wishing to see your contract.” He handed Pomona a letter in elegant script. “I shall pay you an advance of four hundred pounds against your royalties.”

“Four”— Her voice failed her. She sat staring at the sheet of paper in disbelief. Four hundred pounds. Four hundred pounds meant an escape. She wouldn’t have to ask West for a single penny. Four hundred pounds meant that she could rent a house, hire her own servants—and even keep a carriage, provided that she kept working, of course, and didn’t spend extravagantly.

She could be free. She need not spend her life with a husband who snooped through her work and who didn’t respect her.

The clerk hurried back into the office, with the manuscript now elegantly wrapped. When the door had closed again Mr. Wynde held up a finger. “One more point.”

Her heart seemed to stop. He was about to give her some terrible news. She just knew it. All of this had been too good for there not to be a catch.

“You have titled the book Violetta, Or, A Tale of Terror. That will not do. It will not do at all. Readers want Venice, so we must assure them that they are getting Venice. The title must be The Specter of Venice.”

She saw Mr. Wynde’s point. “I… er… Yes. Of course.”

“Excellent. I look forward to seeing the manuscript, Mrs. Brown. Just as I am certain that you are looking forward to seeing your advance.” He tapped his spectacles on his desk. “So. We shall see each other in one week.”

West frowned at the reports that he’d received from March Castle while he’d been in Venice. So many acres of wheat planted, so many lambs born, so many bushels of coal sold… It was all laid out in neat columns of figures. And all of the figures added up to one thing: He was a very rich man.

But something was still missing. The mine supervisor hadn’t responded to West’s three letters. One letter might go astray. Two, even. But three?

No. He would have to dismiss the man.