Yearn by Tobsha Learner

had been published a little over a week earlier and was already the scandal of London, Scotland, and the Continent, the coverage of which was only matched by the reportage of an unusually severe outbreak of cholera just streets away from D’Arcy’s own dwellings, ironically in Golden Square in Soho, the very square in which dwelled both Harry the chimney sweep and Prudence. Swept away by the demands of his literary success, D’Arcy hadn’t even had time to read about the outbreak, never mind actually visit his two new “friends.” Life had become a whirlwind of press appointments, interviews, several public lectures, invitations to numerous salons both literary and social, and a worrying demand to appear before a committee of the Royal Institute to explain his source material. There was even a rumor that Her Majesty herself had made a request for a covert delivery of the book. D’Arcy Hammer had become the enfant terrible of the literary world overnight, and London couldn’t have enough of him.
    â€œBanned? But surely that would be the ruin of me, Crosby!”
    â€œThe ruin? It will be your making. Everyone lusts after the clandestine, my dear young author. Isn’t that right, Mr. Bingham?” Crosby asked the framed portrait of his esteemed but deceased partner. “After all, where would the Bible be without Mary Magdalene,
Justine
without the notoriety of the Marquis de Sade, Elisha without Jezebel?” he added obliquely. “Besides,” he said, turning back to D’Arcy, “they wouldn’t dare to
actually
ban you.” With a clatter, Dingle plonked down a tray with four glasses and the bottle of sherry onto a small table before the desk, then poured out four drinks. He placed one solemnly under the portrait of Mr. Bingham, then handed a glass each to D’Arcy and Crosby. The publisher raised his glass.
    â€œGentlemen, I propose a toast—to both Hermes and Dionysus. Long may they rain down good fortune upon this dear young author!” The three men had just clinked and then lifted their glasses to drink when a loud and persistent ring of the front doorbell interrupted them. It was a messenger from Horace Tuttle’s publisher and main rival of Bingham and Crosby, the notorious and ruthless Bill Scrunch. The messenger, a young man with sleek, oiled black hair reaching down below his ears and a well-cut suit, dusty at the trouser cuffs from running, silently held out a plain white envelope.
    â€œA challenge, sir?” Crosby, whose hatred of Scrunch rivaled D’Arcy’s hatred of Tuttle, spat, then silently ordered Dingle to take the envelope from the messenger as if he did not wish to demean himself by touching it.
    â€œIt might be, then again it might not, but Mr. Scrunch told me to tell you you’ve got till this evening to respond,” the messenger informed him. Then, after a flick of his coattails and a short, mocking bow, he departed.
    Once the door had slammed behind him, Mr. Crosby tore open the envelope and scanned the contents. He looked grimly across at D’Arcy.
    â€œIt is from Horace Tuttle. He claims your biography contains fictionalized material and he queries your sources. He has challenged you to a public debate, to be held in the Great Hall of the Royal Exhibition Building this Wednesday afternoon.”
    â€œBut that is only two days away! I refuse to lower myself to his pettiness!”
    The publisher carefully placed the letter upright and open on the mantelpiece above the small grate. He considered D’Arcy thoughtfully until his uncharacteristic silence rattled the young writer. “D’Arcy, the material is authentic, is it not?” Crosby finally asked.
    Startled by this new vein of skepticism, D’Arcy leapt to his feet. “I swear, Crosby, I would never have endangered both your reputation and mine!” Appalled, he stepped toward the door. The publisher patted his arm reassuringly,