Jane Bites Back (28 page)

“Penelope hasn’t arrived yet,” Rebecca said. “I’m actually surprised that she’s coming at all.”

Chiara made a sound of agreement. Jane resisted saying anything, lest she appear even more ignorant, but she couldn’t resist. “Why is that?” she asked.

“Well, nobody’s ever seen her,” Chiara said, as if this was common knowledge and Jane had once again failed a simple test.

“She doesn’t put any author photos on her books, she does all of her interviews by email, and she’s never come to any of the conferences,” Rebecca explained. “I’ve been trying to get her for years. I have no idea what made her change her mind this year, but I’m so glad she did. Her identity is one of the big mysteries of the genre.” She nodded at the audience. “That’s why it’s so packed.” She patted Chiara’s arm. “And of course because they want to see you,” she added.

Chiara smiled demurely. “And Jane,” she said.

“Of course,” said Rebecca. “And Jane.”

Jane wished Sally Higgins-Smythe were there.
At least she likes me
, she thought.
These two would just as soon push me off a cliff
. For a moment she wondered if perhaps Charlotte had somehow told them about her supposed theft of her own manuscript. Perhaps the panel was even an elaborate setup, and she was going to be exposed.

You’re just being paranoid
, she told herself.
Everything is going to be fine
.

“Excuse me.”

As soon as she heard the deep voice, she knew it was not going
to be fine after all. Jane turned to see Byron standing behind her. He was dressed in jeans, a black leather coat, and a white shirt open at the neck to expose a triangle of pale skin. He had grown a goatee, and if she hadn’t known him so well, she almost wouldn’t have recognized him.

“What are you doing—” she began.

He ignored her, extending his hand to Rebecca. “You must be Rebecca,” he said in his most charming voice. He smiled, showing his white teeth. “I’m Penelope Wentz.”

Chapter 28

R
EBECCA COULD DO LITTLE BUT STARE AT
B
YRON
. C
HIARA DID THE
same. Jane, although she was more than a little annoyed, could hardly blame them. He
was
handsome, even more so with the addition of the goatee. It hid his chin, which Jane had never found to be his best feature.

“You?” Rebecca said when she finally regained her voice. “You’re Penelope Wentz?” She giggled and looked around, as if surely someone must be playing a joke on her. Then she looked at Chiara, who continued to stare at Byron, completely speechless.

“I know this must come as a bit of a surprise,” Byron said smoothly. “But I assure you that I am indeed she.” He then turned to Jane and pretended to see her for the first time. “I don’t
believe we’ve met,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Tavish Osborn.”

Jane gave him a look that said she didn’t think this latest caper of his was at all funny. “Jane Fairfax,” she said.

Byron stepped back. “Jane Fairfax!” he exclaimed. “The author of
Constance.”

“That would be I,” said Jane without enthusiasm.

Byron turned to Rebecca and Chiara. “Have you read her book?” he asked. “In my opinion, it’s the finest romance to come out in the past century. Er, decade.”

“Aren’t you kind,” said Jane as Rebecca and Chiara exchanged puzzled glances.

Finally Chiara cleared her throat. “Pardon my surprise,” she said to Byron. “I—we—” She looked at Rebecca, who nodded. “We assumed you were a woman.”

Byron laughed lightly. “I can understand why,” he replied. Then he fixed Chiara with one of his most sensual looks. “But I promise you that I’m very much a man.”

Chiara blushed as Jane caught Byron’s eye. “Oh, please,” she mouthed at him. He grinned and winked.

“Well, this is certainly going to be a
huge
revelation!” Rebecca said. “Honestly, I don’t know what to think.” She looked Byron up and down. “You. Penelope Wentz.” She giggled again.

Byron looked at his watch. “I believe it’s just about time to begin,” he said.

“Of course,” Rebecca said, shaking her head as if she’d been dreaming and needed to wake up. “Why don’t we take our seats?”

The four of them ascended the platform. Chiara took the first chair, and Jane took the one farthest from her. She was relieved when she saw Rebecca start to take the seat beside her. Then Byron stepped between them.

“Would you mind?” he asked Rebecca.

Rebecca shot Jane a disapproving look. “Not at all,” she said flatly. Jane saw Chiara crane her neck around to see what was happening and frown when she saw where Byron had chosen to sit.
She assumed he would sit between her and Rebecca
, she thought.
That way they could both pretend, he wanted to be near them
.

“Penelope Wentz?” Jane said in a low voice when Byron was seated. “I suppose you killed the real one.”

“Not at all,” Byron replied. “I am indeed Penelope Wentz.” He raised one eyebrow. “I am, after all, the most romantic man in the world.”

Jane snorted. “I can’t believe you,” she said, shaking her head. “You promised to stay away.”

Byron held up one finger. “But I also said that I would be back one day.”

“That was three months ago!” Jane said. “I’d hardly call that a suitable intermission.”

“Welcome to this morning’s panel.” Rebecca’s announcement prevented any further discussion between Jane and Byron. Jane sat back in her chair and tried very hard not to look at him.

“We’re thrilled to have with us today some of the most exciting names in romance fiction,” she continued. “You all know Chiara Carrington, author of such novels as
Whichever Way the Wind Blows
and
The Gift of Love
.”

She paused to allow the audience to applaud. “And we’re pleased to introduce Jane Fairfax, whose novel
Constance
is making big waves in the book world.”

Jane noted with some disappointment that the applause for her was less enthusiastic than the response Chiara had received. Beside her, however, Byron clapped loudly. She resisted an urge to kick him under the table.

Rebecca took an audible breath. “I’m sure that many of you are here because you want to see the face behind the Penelope Wentz novels,” she said.

A murmur passed through the crowd, and several people clapped.

“Well, I think you’ll be as surprised as I was to meet her for the first time.” There was a dramatic pause. “Or I should say to meet
him,”
she concluded, indicating Byron with her hand. “May I present Mr. Tavish Osborn, the man behind Penelope Wentz!”

Gasps were heard all over the room, and several cameras went off, their flashes momentarily blinding Jane as she was caught in their glare. She tried to lean away from Byron.

A woman in the front row stood up. Dressed entirely in pink, she was clutching a copy of one of Penelope Wentz’s books. She held it to her chest as she looked at Byron accusingly. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “No man could understand what it’s like to be a …” She paused for a moment. “Woman of a certain age,” she concluded.

“That’s an excellent point,” said Rebecca quickly. “After all, the theme of our panel is what women want from romance fiction. Perhaps you could answer this reader’s question with that in mind,” she suggested, looking over at Byron.

“I’m more than happy to, Rebecca,” Byron said. He fixed his gaze on the woman who had spoken. Jane watched as she took a step back and sat down as if she’d been pushed. She knew Byron was casting a glamor on the audience.
As if he needs to
, she thought.
Half the people in here are already in love with him
.

“I know it will come as a shock to many of you that I’m a man,” said Byron. “After all, you’re wondering, how can I know what it’s like to be a woman? Well, I’ll tell you my secret.” He leaned forward, as if inviting them to come closer. And indeed many in the
audience did lean toward the table. “I absolutely love women,” Byron said. “I love everything about you, and most of all I love listening to you.” He leaned back. “And that’s my secret,” he said. “I listen. When you read my books, it isn’t
me
telling the story, it’s
you.”
He pointed to the woman who had questioned him, who blushed deeply. “And you,” he continued, indicating another woman. “And you.” He pointed somewhere in the middle of the audience.

They all think he’s talking just to them
, Jane thought.
He’s glamored each and every one of them
.

“That’s cheating,” she hissed softly, knowing that Byron could hear her.

“When I write, I’m giving voice to what you feel,” Byron continued, ignoring her. His voice was practically a purr.

The room erupted in applause. Half of the audience rose to their feet, their hands slapping together like the flippers of trained seals. Watching them, Jane wanted to tell them all to sit down and shut up. Byron looked over at her and gave a cocky grin.
You horrid, horrid man
, Jane thought at him.

“What an eloquent answer.” Rebecca had resumed control over the panel. Jane, looking at her, saw that she was wiping her eyes. Was she actually weeping? She was. Jane felt sick. Byron had them all in the palm of his hand.

“And just what
is
it women want?” Jane heard herself ask.

All eyes turned to her, including Byron’s. Jane felt herself flush, but she knew she had to continue. She took a breath and faced Byron. “I would like to hear what Penelope believes women want,” she said.

“I don’t think we—” Rebecca began.

“But I do,” Jane interrupted. “After all, Mr. Osborn has sold a great number of books based on his
deep
understanding of what
women want. I’m wondering if he might care to share that secret with us—his readers,” she added.

Byron’s mouth twitched at the corners, and Jane knew she had landed a blow. But he quickly composed himself. “I’d be happy to,” he said.

“Without glamoring them,” Jane whispered as she pretended to take a drink of water from the glass set before her on the table.

Byron ignored her. “What women want,” he began. There was a long pause, which grew longer as Byron seemed to think. Jane sensed the audience growing restless. Someone coughed.

“What women want is to be accepted for who they are,” Byron said finally. “Not what the media tells them they should be, but who they
really
are.”

As the audience clapped, Byron turned to Jane with a triumphant look in his eyes.

“I see,” Jane said loudly. “Yet your books don’t really depict women as they are, do they?”

“Why don’t we move on,” said Rebecca, glaring openly at Jane.

“In a moment,” Jane said. “Mr. Osborn,” she addressed Byron. “Do you really mean for us to believe that you aren’t just as guilty of presenting women with an idealized version of themselves?” Having never read a Penelope Wentz novel, she hoped she was correct in her assessment of Byron’s prose.

“I think we can all agree that fiction, particularly
romantic
fiction, works best when it contains some elements of fantasy,” Byron said smoothly. “After all, a world of laundry, carpools, and helping with homework is hardly the setting for romance, do you think?”

“I absolutely do,” said Jane. “In fact, some of the most romantic
novels in the world feature perfectly ordinary women. Take
Sense and
—”

“I think we should move on,” Rebecca interrupted loudly. “Mr. Osborn, perhaps you could tell us more about how you came to write as Penelope Wentz. I’m sure it’s a
fascinating
story.”

Jane sat back in her chair. She knew she’d been bested. Byron’s glamor was too strong, and she was out of practice. He had upstaged her, taking away what should have been a triumphant moment for her and her book.

For the next hour, Byron fielded questions from the audience. Jane and Chiara were barely noticed. Every so often one of them would start to answer a question, only to be cut off by someone who preferred to hear Byron’s thoughts on the topic at hand. While Jane was annoyed by the proceedings, Chiara seemed not to mind being eclipsed by Byron. Finally Jane tuned everything out and just sat there pretending to pay attention.

Only when she heard another wave of applause did she listen to what was going on. It seemed the panel was over.

“And now Mr. Osborn will sign copies of his books,” Rebecca announced. “Oh, and so will the other authors,” she added hastily. “Please form an orderly line.”

It seemed to Jane that nearly every person in the room rushed toward the platform simultaneously. For a moment she feared she would be trampled, but they came to a halt a few feet away and somehow managed to organize themselves into a queue stretching off to Jane’s right. The first person, a girl of maybe twenty, stepped onto the platform and approached her. Jane smiled, anticipating the first signing of her novel. However, the woman didn’t even glance at Jane as she went right to Byron.