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ominously.
    “Yes, I know, with this earring and my long hair I’ll never get into bloody boring Almack’s,” Wycliff said, utterly sarcastically.
    “Bugger Almack’s. I mean The London Weekly ,” Burke said, holding the issue up.
    “It’s a newspaper,” Wycliff stated plainly, sipping his coffee.
    “ Au contraire . It’s not just any newspaper,” Burke contradicted, and his lips curved into a smile . . . the same one Wycliff had seen just before towering waves crashed down on their ship, or before he uttered the news about his father and the dukedom, tainting that beautiful day in Paradise. It was the smile reserved for unpleasant information.
    He sipped his coffee and waited. He looked at Burke, and then shifted his gaze to the left where Eliza was pouring tea with a faint smile on her lips, and then back to Burke for his explanation of the special newspaper.
    D amn right, it’s not just any paper, Eliza thought as she poured more tea for this Burke fellow. Was it from the regular pot, or the one for Harlan with Mrs. Buxby’s special blend of whiskey tea? She couldn’t recall.
    Oh well, a little whiskey in the morning never hurt anyone. She caught the duke’s eye and moved to refill his coffee cup. He drank an excessive amount.
    “And just what is so special about this one?” the duke asked, clearly skeptical.
    “The Writing Girls, for one thing,” Burke answered, and she tried not to smile.
    “Ah, it’s written by women? I suppose it contains the latest reports on hair ribbons, hemlines, and face paint. I can assure you that is of no interest to me,” the duke said.
    Eliza considered allowing the steaming hot liquid to overflow from the cup to his lap. She hated such typical comments about women’s interests. But then again, that was similar to the hotheaded letter she had written to Knightly, demanding he hire a woman writer—herself— covering Serious Issues instead of weddings, gossip, and love advice.
    And now here she was as a maid, for Lord’s sake, reporting gossip about a scandalous, handsome duke. She was tempted to sigh.
    Get the story. Get the story . . .
    “It’s not hair ribbons, you dolt,” Burke replied. “I doubt even girls in the schoolroom are interested in that. This paper is full of tawdry news and gossip, always veering on the salacious and the scandalous. Everyone reads it.”
    Eliza’s heart fluttered with pride. For his passionate description of The Weekly, this Mr. Monroe Burke would see himself flatteringly portrayed in her next article.
    “Everyone?” Wycliff lifted one brow questioningly.
    “One cannot have a conversation in the ton without having read it. Both high- and lowborn alike follow it avidly,” Burke explained. It was true; the rest of the staff was poring over it in the kitchens this very minute.
    “Another caller, Your Grace,” Saddler intoned, and Eliza nearly jumped from the surprise. How a man could move so silently was beyond her.
    The duke’s idiot cousin bounded in behind him.
    “I say, are you talking about The London Weekly ?” He asked. Today he wore a violet-colored waistcoat that clashed violently with his complexion.
    “Even Basil knows about it,” Burke pointed out.
    “Well, now that is saying something,” the duke said.
    “Did you read the story about you, cousin? I say, I expected you to be in a roar of a temper, but since you are not, I reckon you hadn’t seen it yet.”
    “Is that why you’re here, too? To witness a scene?” the duke asked Burke.
    “In part,” Burke answered. “That, and Timbuktu.”
    “Timbuktu?” Wycliff echoed with interest.
    “It’s warm there. And dry,” Harlan added. “No English lasses, though.”
    “Are we going to read The Weekly or not?” Basil interrupted.
    Wycliff snatched the paper from Burke, who said, “It’s on the second page.”
    The second page! Her stories usually appeared on, oh, the seventeenth or eighteenth page, in the back next to the ads for magical cure-all