Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

“Here you are,” Parret was saying, “tramping all over the turf that I have so faithfully developed, without so much as a by-your-leave. From what I’m hearing in the village, you somehow managed to get an exclusive interview with him.”


“What are you speaking about?”

“Oh, don’t play so innocent,” he sneered. “I’m all too familiar with your type—inviting confidences, taking in good men who otherwise would not stray.”

The comments cut rather too close to the bone. “That’s quite enough. Good day, sir.” Jessica took the man’s elbow and guided him the three steps out the door. But before she could slam it on his nose, Parret insinuated his foot in the doorway.

“And you think you can get rid of me so easily! After stealing from me. Yes, stealing!” He nodded emphatically as Jessica stared at him in astonishment. “That’s what I call it! Theft! Taking the very bread from my daughter’s table!”

“Sir, you seem to have forgotten yourself. I must insist—”

Mr. Parret had gradually turned red all over his bald head, as if he were a sunburnt little egg.

“Insist! You have no right to insist upon anything. Now, who are you working for?”

His hands were on his hips, his chest thrust forward. Jessica felt her cheeks chill. He knew. Somehow, he knew what she was trying to forget. She’d come here for money; she planned to betray Sir Mark to his enemies, to ruin his reputation. This man knew.

“Ha!” His face lit, and he jabbed a finger at her. “I knew it. Your silence reveals everything. Is it Miller, of Today’s Society? Or Widford, at The Daily Talk?”

Jessica shook her head, confused all over again.

“You can’t hide it now,” Parret gloated. “I know what you are. You,” he said, in stentorian tones, “are a reporteress.” His hands landed on his hips in righteous indignation. His chin jerked, once, in satisfaction. And his nose twitched, as if being a female reporter were somehow an occupation that made one smell more vile than a chimney sweep on the day before his yearly bath.

“I see you don’t deny it,” he continued on. “We must stand together and resist all such incursion! We must come together in brotherhood and toss out those like you—women who take a man’s job, who rob a man of the ability to feed his family.”

“Who is ‘we’?” Jessica peered at the empty green hedge behind him. “You appear to be alone.”

“I speak for all working men! Sir Mark is my territory. My story. I developed him. I created his reputation. I made him the darling of all London. And now you seek to profit from my hard work. I heard all about what happened in the churchyard the other day—he greeted you privately, away from all the others. He’s agreed to allow you an interview, hasn’t he?”

“You’re laboring under a misapprehension,” Jessica said. “I’m not working for anyone—”

“A mercenary?” The word came out as an indignant howl. “Thinking to auction off your story to the highest bidder! Such crass concerns with filthy lucre show your true colors.”

Jessica was still shaking her head and contemplating kicking his foot out of the door when he leaned in, crafty once more.

“Sell it to me,” he suggested. “We can split the proceeds evenly, yes? For an exclusive interview with Sir Mark on the most mundane of subjects, I could promise you at least five pounds. Think of that staggering sum.”

“Are you trying to drum me out of business, or prop me up?” Jessica asked in bewilderment. “If you’re going to browbeat me, the least you can do is be consistent.”

At that, Parret’s shoulders sank, and he let out a mighty exhale. “Whichever happens to be most lucrative,” he admitted, his righteous indignation evaporating. “Business has been bad, with Sir Mark away from London. Revenues have fallen. Mrs. Farleigh, you see before you a desperate man. I have a daughter, not yet five years of age. She is an angel—and I’ve put everything I have into educating her as a proper lady. I have the highest of hopes that she might marry high indeed.”

“You think she can catch Sir Mark?”

Parret paled and shook his head. “Oh, no. No. Never. But…a wealthy tradesman, yes? A captain in the navy. Maybe a man of the cloth, you see?” He made a fist and ground it against his palm. “Every ha’pence to my name, I have dedicated to her. Surely you would not steal from so worthy a cause as a young girl’s dowry?”

“Mr. Parret,” she said gently, “I don’t believe a word that you’ve said. What in heaven’s name am I supposed to think, when you accuse me of theft, offer me a business partnership and then try to enlist me in a charitable cause? The only thing I am certain of is that you care about money, and you somehow think that I am either going to deprive you of it, or hand it to you in quantity. Both beliefs, I assure you, are idiotic. I am not a reporteress. I have no intention of hurting your…your trade.”

Parret gave his head a short little nod. “I see.” He looked at her. “Well. Perhaps it is so. And yet why else try to inveigle him into your confidence?”