Authors: Maggie Robinson
Lord Gray's List (13 page)
“And why not?” Ben asked softly. “My company is not a total anathema to you, is it?”
“You are my employer. It’s unseemly for us to fraternize beyond the workplace.”
Ben slid across the seat. “Dinner must have been diabolical for you. All that fraternizing. I suppose it’s unseemly for me to kiss you now as well.”
“Very.” But she didn’t dart away, and Ben took that as an invitation to continue. He was a bloody fool for her—he’d already lost his head without the assistance of Mme. Guillotine or a brick aimed at it.
Ben traced her pout with a gloved fingertip. “It might even be construed as a master taking advantage of his servant.”
“I am no one’s servant! And yes, it would. There should be laws against such things in the workplace. Women should not have to put up with—” She paused, her eyes dark.
“Harassment.” Ben’s hand glided down her caped greatcoat to where he estimated her breasts to be. It was devilish difficult to tell beneath all the layers of wool and linen.
“Exactly so. Like poor Lizzie and Lord Basingstoke. You are harassing me right now.”
“I am, aren’t I?” He slipped under the clasp of her coat. More fabric, but he was an expert at getting what he wanted.
“You must stop,” she whispered.
“Must I?” He nuzzled her neck, nearly cutting his nose on her starched collar points.
“I’ll scream.”
“Yes, I believe you will. Sit back, Evie. We’ve a ways to go before I get you home. I pledge to be efficient. You’ll enjoy your harassment, I promise.”
“Ben—”
He kissed her to shut her up, covering up her insincere objections with his boldness. He met no resistance; she opened her mouth to him with greedy generosity. Her falls were unbuttoned with ease after years of his own experience undressing in dark places, and wetness drenched his suede-gloved fingers. Too late to think about removing his gloves. Perhaps the friction of the leather was apt to give her a new sensation he could only envy, as she made no move to relieve him of his agony.
He’d promised to be efficient, and he was a man of his word. Evie heaved against him, her moans swallowed up in their unbroken kiss. He ruthlessly brought her over twice more as she clutched his shoulders in what could be described only as a death grip.
The hackney slowed. With all the traffic, they would have gotten home faster on foot, but then Evie would not have been so thoroughly harassed. From her dazed dishevelment, Ben wondered if he would have to carry her to her front door.
“Take tomorrow off.” He kissed her forehead. Somewhere along the way, her hat had been knocked off, and his hand swept down to find it on the floor.
“I cannot. The boys will come for their bundles,” she said, breathless.
“What time?”
“Around five. And no,” she said, pushing him away, “you do not have to be there. I can handle it myself as I always do.” She scrambled out the door, holding her hat over her misbuttoned breeches.
“All right,” he called after her. Ben was grateful he wouldn’t have to crawl out of bed before dawn again to try to impress Evangeline Ramsey.
Although he had a feeling his impression, like the first fresh sheet of newsprint, was improving ever so slightly.
December 19, 1820
T
hank God Ben had not shown his bloody handsome phiz at the office this morning. Sleeping his sins away—who knew what he’d been up to after he’d so shamelessly taken advantage of her in the cab? Evangeline was probably just the innocent hors d’oeuvre before his banquet of debauchery.
hank God Ben had not shown his bloody handsome phiz at the office this morning. Sleeping his sins away—who knew what he’d been up to after he’d so shamelessly taken advantage of her in the cab? Evangeline was probably just the innocent hors d’oeuvre before his banquet of debauchery.
The boys were long gone, and there was nothing for her to do but lock up the office. She’d come back later to check the post—there was bound to be the usual slew of letters, and sometimes people came in person to check their boxes or place an ad. But right now she wanted nothing more than to crawl in Lady Pennington’s well-padded lap and have a morning cup of chocolate. She and Lady Pennington had a standing date every Tuesday morning to discuss what was in the paper. And out of it.
Evangeline was nothing if not methodical, and she made one last round to inspect the premises to see that everything had been put away properly yesterday. When she got to the box of sorts, she frowned. And sniffed. A glop of something had been poured on all the letter Es. Gingerly she picked up a sticky lead tile and brought it closer. Honey, if her prominent nose was doing its work.
How very odd. She did not keep any honey with her tea things in her cupboard, and in any event, no one had drunk or eaten over the sorts as far as she knew. Unless the sign painter or John the footman had done so yesterday when Ben dragged her down the street for their dinner.
Damn. What a nuisance. One could not put out a newspaper without the letter
E,
or even spell the word
spell
. Grumbling, she scooped up the sorts and put them in a bag. She’d have to take them all home and wash them.
E,
or even spell the word
spell
. Grumbling, she scooped up the sorts and put them in a bag. She’d have to take them all home and wash them.
Suspicious now, she made another sweep of the office, but nothing else seemed out of place or damaged in any way. Maybe she was the victim of sweet-toothed mice, or perhaps one of the boys had played a prank when her back had been turned this morning. She didn’t like to think that she’d been taken advantage of by a member of the male species yet again—her young employees might be a wild bunch, but she’d been good to them and they to her.
Evangeline left the bag on her desk. She was not going to burden herself by the weight of the lead letters as she visited Lady Pennington. She tied her muffler right up to her nose. People had been predicting a white Christmas this year—the brief taste of snow the other day had whet the appetites of those who would like to see London’s gray winter gloom frosted with white icing. She didn’t care one way or the other, but at least there was money now to replace her old fur-lined cloak with something more stylish.
Evangeline sighed. She loved gentlemen’s clothes—they were warm and practical, and her movement in them was unrestricted. Unfettered. If she had to chase a footpad down the street, she could do so and had.
Deciding to walk—though she hoped not to encounter any footpads in broad daylight—Evangeline locked up and left the office.
A grubby little chestnut seller held a battered tray up on the corner. “Mornin’, guv! Some hot chestnuts for your missus?”
“No, thank you,” Evangeline said, feeling for a coin in her pocket anyway. The poor girl looked half frozen. Evangeline would bring her old cloak to her once she bought a new one.
“Come from the newspaper, ’ave ye? Wot’s ever ’appened to that Lady Im-Imaculata wot gets ’erself in all that tr-trouble regular like? I d-do likes to read about ’er, I do,” the girl stuttered, her teeth chattering.
“I’ll keep that under advisement,” Evangeline said, dropping the coin on the tray. “Try to keep warm, my dear.”
“Oi’ll d-do that, guv.”
The chestnut seller would be doomed to disappointment to read of Lady Imaculata any time soon, and probably frostbite if she stayed on the street today. Evangeline picked up her pace, really looking forward to that hot chocolate now. Scraps of paper skittered down the street in the wind, and she hoped the boys had safely delivered today’s edition into the hands of customers instead of leaving it on their stoops. She preferred not to field complaints from any more readers about missing papers after last week’s debacle.
Evangeline skipped up the steps of Lady Pennington’s handsome house and rapped the lion’s head knocker. Everything looked just as it should in this proper Mayfair neighborhood—it appeared to be the home of a conventional aristocrat, its rigidly geometric clipped boxwood bushes behind an iron fence, front door painted an unexceptional black like most of its neighbors. Lady Pennington shattered that image when she opened the door herself, a capacious apron covering a dove-gray silk dress. Her fading blond curls were covered by a cap whose lace she had probably made herself. She took Evangeline’s gloved hands in her work-roughened ones and pulled her into the marble foyer.
“Mr. Ramsey!” she cried in a speaking tone in case any of her servants were nearby. “How good of you to call.”
“Good day to you, Lady Pennington. You must know how much I look forward to our Tuesdays.”
“You must be frozen! Come upstairs to my sitting room. Garwood has a nice wood fire going—none of that nasty coal for us. I’ll tell him to fetch us some tea.”
“Chocolate for me if you please, Lady Pennington. I confess I’ve thought of nothing else since I left my bed in the middle of the night.”
“Of course, of course. Garwood, dear!” Lady Pennington called as they climbed the stairs. The butler appeared instantly, looking pained by the blandishment. His employer was not one’s typical society matron. “A tray for Mr. Ramsey, with hot chocolate.” She turned on the stairs and squeezed Evangeline’s frozen fingers. “Perhaps a dram of brandy to go in it, too? To get your blood moving again. Your nose is quite pink.”
Evangeline must have looked a sight, but she knew Lady Pennington wouldn’t mind. The woman had been the only one in two years besides Ben to see through her disguise, and had never judged her for it.
“We’re both of us tricksters, aren’t we?” Lady Pennington had said on one occasion. “You posing as a gentleman, me pretending to be a viscountess.”
“But you
are
a viscountess,” Evangeline had protested.
are
a viscountess,” Evangeline had protested.
“Thanks to you. But I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it.”
Her marriage and nearly instant widowhood had scandalized the ton. Many assumed that Amy Pennington would go back to the country and obscurity, but Evangeline was delighted that her friend was still here.
When Viscount James Pennington first came to enlist her help, Evangeline had been touched by his reminiscences of his boyhood love. Amy Burton had been the daughter of his father’s gamekeeper, entirely unsuitable in terms of marriage, but that had not stopped them both at sixteen from sealing their bond with something more than a kiss. Pennington’s father had sent him to his sugar plantation in Jamaica, and Amy was hastily married off to a second cousin, a local farmer, and she bore Pennington’s daughter and four living sons besides. This much Pennington knew from the discreet inquiries he made once he returned to England, but he’d not worked up the courage to contact Amy himself. He was ill, suffering from some malady he’d picked up in the tropics, his wife dead, his legitimate daughter settled in New Orleans with her own family. His regret was palpable.
Evangeline had known that the usual sort of ad would not do, and volunteered to be Lord Pennington’s personal emissary to the Kentish countryside. Mrs. Burton’s grown children had been horrified when Evangeline found her and presented Pennington’s proposition. He hoped to see Amy again, and marry her if she’d have him. He intended to leave her a goodly chunk of his fortune in any case to make up for her youthful suffering.
In truth, Amy had not suffered much, except for the first few months of her marriage. But the morning sickness and disappointment did not last forever. Her late husband had been patient with her and kind to her daughter, treating the child like his own. Amy’s gratitude had grown if not to love, then affection, and they had almost forty years together before he died. She had been comfortably settled among her children and grandchildren on the farm, a prosperous venture achieved through the hard work of all concerned. But the chance to do more for her family was too tempting to pass up, so she agreed to go back to London with Evangeline.
Evangeline had hosted the reunion in the freshly swept room above
The London List
’s office. Amy Burton had told her that after one look at James Pennington, she knew she’d be widowed too soon again if she married him. He was not the boy of her occasional dreams, but then she was no longer the girl of his. James had stared at her as if she was, though, and that and the prospect of financial security had overcome any reservations she might have had.
The London List
’s office. Amy Burton had told her that after one look at James Pennington, she knew she’d be widowed too soon again if she married him. He was not the boy of her occasional dreams, but then she was no longer the girl of his. James had stared at her as if she was, though, and that and the prospect of financial security had overcome any reservations she might have had.
They had been married a mere week before Amy’s premonition came true. She’d left off her black mourning clothes a month ago and was planning to sponsor her only granddaughter—James’s daughter’s child—in the spring with Evangeline’s help. Not that she had proper social contacts, but Evangeline had snuck into enough events to know how things were done. There would of course be no Presentation Drawing Room, but there was no reason why Lady Pennington could not have a modest party to launch the girl. Susan was very pretty and now well-dowered. Evangeline had promised to mention the event on the front page of the paper several weeks running to ensure the girl’s success.
If she still had access to the front page. It was difficult picturing herself working with Ben for the next four months. Working seemed to lead to kissing. And more. Evangeline slumped down in a chair and sighed.
“What is it, dear?” Lady Pennington unpinned her apron and folded it on the settee.
“It’s nothing. I’m only a bit tired. Did I interrupt you from a domestic chore?”
“You could never interrupt, Evangeline. You know how much I look forward to your visits. But lest you think I’ve been dipping into the brandy myself so early in the morning, I want to assure you if you smell something untoward I was only pouring some on my Christmas fruitcakes. I do so love a drunken fruitcake, and the recipe has been handed down in my family for generations. Cook has tried to quit twice already this week because I wouldn’t use hers.”
“Some women are very territorial in their kitchens.” Not that
she
was. Evangeline could prepare basic things—had to when her father had a losing streak and there were no servants—but was grateful someone else was cooking for her household.
she
was. Evangeline could prepare basic things—had to when her father had a losing streak and there were no servants—but was grateful someone else was cooking for her household.
The household she felt she was neglecting. Since Ben was back in her life, she’d spent even more time at the office than usual. Her father might not even notice, but Evangeline felt guilty anyway.
Garwood entered with the tray, and the next few minutes were taken up with pouring and passing. The nip of brandy in Evangeline’s chocolate was delicious, and she felt the knot of tension at the back of her neck relax a fraction.
“So, tell me about your baron.”
“He’s not
my
baron! I can barely stand the man.”
my
baron! I can barely stand the man.”
“Yes, you have painted him to be a thorough blackguard in your stories.”
“He’s not a blackguard—to me that implies intentional cruelty and cunning, and Ben never thinks or plans. He’s just so—heedless.”
“Drifting about, is he? Perhaps the ownership of the newspaper will be the making of him.”
“It’s probably too late.” No matter what he’d said or how hard he’d worked this week, there was little chance Benton Gray would give up his degenerate behavior. How was it that men were admired for their casual morals and women were pilloried? Society was so unjust.
Lady Pennington waggled a plump finger at her. “It’s never too late, Evangeline. People can change. Especially if they have reason to.”
“Do you honestly feel a rake can be reformed? I confess I have not seen it except within the pages of a novel. It’s rather ludicrous to presume a sinner will suddenly prefer virtue to vice. Vice is much more fun.”
“Ah, but vice becomes tiresome, don’t you think? How long can one gorge on sweets before one gets sick?” Lady Pennington patted her stomach ruefully. “Do have one of those tarts before I eat them all.”
Evangeline picked up the tart and studied the ruby-jeweled fruit at its center. She could remember days when she was so hungry she would have sold her soul for a bite of it. Her father’s vice—gambling—had never abated, not even when she’d begged him to stop. His face would shutter and he’d tell her she didn’t understand, that of course he’d win again, and win big. The odds were in his favor. In the meantime, there were no foodstuffs in the larder and bill collectors pounded at the door. How Robert Ramsey escaped debtors’ prison all the years of her girlhood was a wonder.
To his credit, he’d never tried to bargain her away to settle his markers. Few of his associates knew he even
had
a daughter. They would not have been interested in a gangly, big-nosed fright anyway—she’d had a most unspectacular development into womanhood. Her feet had grown, but not her breasts. It had been such a relief to borrow men’s clothing and hide her lack of feminine charms under them.
had
a daughter. They would not have been interested in a gangly, big-nosed fright anyway—she’d had a most unspectacular development into womanhood. Her feet had grown, but not her breasts. It had been such a relief to borrow men’s clothing and hide her lack of feminine charms under them.
What had Ben said? That next week she’d be sipping tea in skirts. Insipid. She took a chunk off the tart and popped it into her mouth.
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