Free The Other Daughter by Lauren Willig Page A

opportunist.”
    â€œBaseborn, no less,” said Mr. Montfort, and Rachel realized that she had, somehow, walked herself right into that. “But no one cares about a few marriage lines more or less once one has a crown on one’s head.”
    Rachel poked violently at a walnut. “If I had wanted a history lesson, I would have applied to Cousin David. This is all very entertaining, but—”
    â€œYour cousin David was my tutor,” said Mr. Montfort, taking a leisurely sip of tea. “He’s very sound on the twelfth century but somewhat wobbly when it comes to the Conquest.”
    â€œOh?” said Rachel. The sudden shift to the neutral was a bit dizzying. “And are you also a don?”
    Silly that there was something reassuring about that. Dons were just as prone to poor behavior as other mortals, but one tended to think of them as something akin to monks, closed into their cloisters, their minds on higher things. When they weren’t swilling port in hall, that was.
    Mr. Montfort leaned back in his chair. “The hortus conclusus of academe has been closed to me. These are degenerate times. Where once learning flourished, now plus valet pecunia .”
    â€œEnglish, please,” said Rachel. “I’m a nursery governess, not a scholar.”
    â€œI was once one of your cousin David’s students. Now, for my sins, I have to get my own living. I write tittle tattle. For the Daily Yell .” He brushed an invisible speck off his immaculate cuffs. “You’d be amazed at how lucrative a bit of libel can be.”
    A gossip columnist. That was what it translated to, in plain English. And Rachel had trotted meekly along like a lamb to slaughter.
    Her hands tightened around her purse.
    â€œNo wonder you offered to take me to tea.” Rachel did her best to keep her voice calm. Flinging a cup of tea in Mr. Montfort’s face would only provide him more copy. “Lost daughter of earl confides in our columnist.… Full feature on page six?”

 
    FIVE
    How could she have been so gullible? He must have seen her coming, Rachel thought wrathfully.
    She leaned forward, across the table. “Did Cousin David even ask you to give me a cup of tea? Or was this an investment in pursuit of a story?”
    â€œI haven’t sunk that low.” Mr. Montfort took a quick pull on his cigarette, his dark brows drawing together. “I said I’d be deaf and dumb, didn’t I? Your guilty secret is safe with me.”
    â€œMy father’s guilty secret, you mean.” She had needled him; there was some comfort in that. “What reason do I have to trust you?”
    â€œNone,” Mr. Montfort said equably. “I won’t do you the injustice of asking you to take my word. Words are cheap. Let’s just say that in this your interest and mine align.”
    â€œI don’t see how.” Rachel poked viciously at her cake. “You need a story. I am one.”
    â€œI’d sooner fish for carp in the corporation garbage dump,” said Mr. Montfort bluntly. “It would create less stink.”
    â€œStink for me. Not for you.”
    Nursery governess one day, scandal the next. What would this do to her hopes of employment? Rachel couldn’t imagine most businesses would want to hire an earl’s by-blow—made notorious in the popular press—to type their letters and file their invoices. They certainly wouldn’t want one living in their homes and educating their children.
    â€œMy dear girl.” Mr. Montfort leaned his well-tailored elbows against the table. “My job depends on my victims being willing. They like seeing themselves spread across the pages of the Daily Yell —provided the spread is largely favorable. I write about who wore what, who went where, and who might possibly be engaged to whom.” He paused, lifting his teacup to his lips. “Groundbreaking stuff, I know.”
    â€œYour