Unclaimed by Courtney Milan

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?”
    He seemed genuinely puzzled on that point. Hadn’t he managed to come by his daughter in the usual fashion?
    “Surely a gossip columnist can manufacture an explanation of why a woman would want to talk with a man.”
    “But everyone knows Sir Mark is immune to all feminine blandishments,” he mused. “I’ve watched him for months and months. Look—I don’t suppose you’d care to report for me?”
    She choked.
    “It would be worth a great deal to you,” he said slyly. “What is he reading? Is he working on his next volume?” Parret smiled at her, which made him look weaselly rather than friendly. “I would be willing to reward you.”
    “You’re mad,” she informed him.
    He didn’t deny it. “My card.” He held it out to her. When she made no move to take it, he shrugged and set it on her threshold. He walked off whistling. Jessica watched him leave through the side window, his footsteps punctuated by the thud of her heart.
    Her hands were clammy. She waited until he slipped through the hedgerow and was gone.
    She didn’t know what to think.
    She didn’t know what to say.
    She almost wanted to laugh. He’d thought she was a reporteress, come here to tell Sir Mark lies, to ferret a story out of him? No—she practiced a different species of dishonesty.
    Not so different, she remembered. She was here to seduce him, to ruin him—and if she wanted to have any chance of collecting at the end, she was going to need this man to believe her story. She had more in common with mad Mr. Parret than she did with Sir Mark, and it wouldn’t do to forget it.
    Grimly, she opened her door and knelt down. His card weighed nothing in her hand. So why did it seem so heavy?
    Because, her conscience answered grimly, she still intended to seduce Sir Mark. Even now, even knowing he was unwilling. Her