Page 4 of Courting Claudia

Illustrating, making her own money these past six months, embodied her dreams as if she’d been living someone else’s life. But she couldn’t continue living the fantasy, so she’d have to settle for the entire experience being a sweet memory.

She had made the right decision. The only decision. No matter how much she longed to continue drawing and no matter how tempting Mr. Middleton and his offer were, she’d stick by her resignation.

“You shouldn’t scowl like that, dear, makes you look dangerous.”

Derrick looked up from his dinner and gave his aunt a weak smile.

“Bad day?”

“Rotten.” He pushed his food around on his plate with his fork. He still hadn’t figured out what to do about Miss Prattley’s resignation.

“Your vocabulary is too much for my feeble mind,” she said dryly.

Leave it to Aunt Chloe to give him a chuckle.

She leveled her gray eyes to his. Her silver hair piled atop her head like a crown gave her the illusion of being a tall woman. But it was her confidence and boldness that made her regal, not her appearance.

He knew better than to come home expecting to keep his troubles to himself. She was simply too nosy. She certainly loved him, but more than that she had a streak of curiosity as wide as the Thames.

“One of my illustrators resigned today.”

“And now you have to find a replacement?”

“It’s not likely. It was the illustrator who’s been doing the Society Fashion Report.”

She frowned. “I know I’m a dreadful aunt for not even glancing at your paper since I’ve been back in town. So forgive this old woman and be a dear and explain yourself—Society Fashion Report?”

“The Society Fashion Report was my answer to persuading more of the nobility to purchase the paper. A weekly segment featuring illustrations of the latest fashions. I figured even if it was women who initially bought the paper, it would get into the hands of their husbands eventually. This particular illustrator is on the inside of Society and draws her peers. It’s quite the rage, as you know how those gossips love to be the center of attention.”

“Brilliant plan, dear boy. And I should like to see these illustrations. But you mustn’t forget that the paper is already a success. You have plenty of readers.”

“Yes, but not enough. At least not enough of the right kind.”

“Your paper doesn’t have to be like your father’s, you know. You’ve exceeded his success with the first fully illustrated paper. And you’ve made it available to the common man. Look around you, look at all you’ve accomplished. Your father would have been proud.”

He didn’t need to look around. This was his dining room. His house. He knew what it looked like. Tasteful yet simple decor. He hadn’t picked any of it himself, because he didn’t really care. He only cared that he had a dining table, not that it was mahogany and sat eight. None of the details mattered. The house, the money—yes, he’d done well for himself, and his father would have been proud. But his father had worked to bring political news to the public; for him it had never been about the money.

“My father loved political news,” he replied.

“Your father loved you.”

She was right, his father had loved him, but Phillip Middleton had lived and breathed for his paper. The paper had come first with him, and then his family. And with one story, that paper had been destroyed, the credibility and honor stripped away. Derrick hadn’t penned another story since.

“It’s not your fault, and he knew that. It’s a shame you can’t see it.”

Derrick took a bite of roasted hen and let the silence settle in around them. He should send for new lighting for this room. It was too damned bright.

“Back to this illustrator,” Aunt Chloe ventured. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure. She won’t be replaced easily.”

“I’m rather intrigued that you hired a woman. You never mentioned that in your letters.”

“I didn’t know I’d hired a woman. Not until she came into the office today.”

“Who is she?”

“Claudia Prattley. She made mention of her father deeming it inappropriate that she have a paid position, so I’m assuming that he’s titled and finds men like me who work for our money nothing more than scuff marks on his boots.”