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Authors: Maggie Robinson

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BOOK: Lord Gray's List
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“I’m s-sure all that’s not necessary,” Evie chattered.
Ben added more coal to the stove. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to go home.”
“I’m not quite finished. We’ll do the printing tomorrow, but there are still a few things left to do.”
“Lunch first,” Ben said firmly, pushing her down in a chair near the stove. “Mrs. Hargreaves would never forgive me if we wasted the food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Nonsense.” He rummaged in the basket he’d brought in from the street. At one time the crock of soup had been piping hot, but lukewarm was better than nothing. He ladled some into a mug and brought it to Evie’s lips, his fingers on the back of her marble-cold neck. “I’ll get the window boarded up this afternoon after I see you home. We’ll get a glazier in tomorrow. Take a sip, love.”
For a change, Evie obeyed. He broke a roll apart and placed it in her upturned grubby hand. “Eat. There’s wine, too. Some cold chicken. Apple tart.” He spread the feast on the desk, taking care to neatly stack Evie’s papers off to one corner. “Warm enough?”
“Yes, thank you.”
When Ben thought of Evie, she was like a blaze in a stove, crackling with energy, unpredictable. This afternoon, she was drained of her light.
“You were frightened, weren’t you? There’s no shame to it.” He passed her a tumbler of Madeira, which she gulped.
“Silly of me. I was startled, but I’ve been in worse spots. Last winter I was nearby when they arrested Thistlewood and his friends.”
Ben choked on a mouthful of chicken. “Jesus Christ, Evie! You could have been killed or arrested for high treason!” Thistlewood had stabbed a Bow Street runner during the arrest, and had wanted to kill all the king’s cabinet ministers in a fantastical scheme to overthrow the government.
“I didn’t organize the conspiracy, Ben. I was perfectly safe.”
“Damn me. Are you a Radical, Evie?”
“Of course not. But you must admit society isn’t fair. The government has a lot to answer for, and every now and again I write about it.”
Privately Ben agreed. He supposed he ought to take his seat in the House of Lords more seriously and show up now and then. “Promise me you will undertake no more foolish endeavors just to fill up the front page of my newspaper.”
“My subscribers aren’t really interested in politics anyway,” she sighed. “They’d much rather read about you climbing down a drain pipe to escape a cuckolded husband.”
“I’ve never done such a thing!”
Evie fixed him with a gimlet eye.
“Well, just the once. And it was the lady’s overbearing brother I was escaping from and she was a widow. I was only offering her comfort in her time of loss.”
“
That
makes it all right.”
Hell. He was tired of Evangeline Ramsey being his judge, jury, and executioner.
“In any event, my life has changed, as has your reporting. There will be no more embarrassing disclosures.” He bit savagely into a tart.
“People will be bored. They’ve come to expect a little titillation every Tuesday.”
“Well, they won’t get it from us! There’s a challenge for you—use that pointed poison pen for good for a change.”
Evie batted her lashes. “May I go to riots then or hang out in the halls of Parliament?”
“No, you may not! There must be something innocuous you can write about without putting yourself at risk. It’s time you stayed home. In your
skirts
.”
Evie stood, hands fisted, her linen napkin floating to the floor. “Are you telling me you don’t want my help here?”
“Yes! No! Of course I need you until I can sell the paper. But I won’t have you in danger. People are throwing bricks through the window, for heaven’s sake! Who else have you targeted?”
“Maybe someone holds a grudge against
you
, my lord. They know you own
The London List
now.”
“I haven’t got an enemy in the world. Everyone likes me. Except you, as you tell me day after day.”
“Perhaps one of your many discarded mistresses doesn’t.”
Ben rose, too. “I am not going to discuss my private life with you. You are my employee. And if you do not leave the premises within the next quarter of an hour, I shall carry you bodily out the door.” He began to shove the remains of their lunch back into the basket while Evie stalked over to the press, fiddling with something or other. Blast the woman. She was going to give him an apoplexy yet.
Mayhap the act of vandalism was a meaningless prank, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. Once he got her home safely, he’d come back with Callum and see to fixing the window, then get someone to guard the place while they worked tomorrow. He didn’t much care what happened to the building tonight as long as Evie was unharmed tomorrow.
Riots.
Mother of God. The woman was incorrigible. She might think her trousers and top hat and vicious tongue protected her, but Ben knew better. He couldn’t help but stare at her shapely bum as she bent over the equipment, banging something with a spanner.
“I’m done,” she said mulishly. She wiped her hands on a rag and tossed it aside. “I’ll meet you here tomorrow at nine.”
“No, you will not. I’ll see you home now and pick you up tomorrow.”
Evie rolled her eyes but got dressed and followed him out into the deserted street. They had to walk a bit before they found a jarvey. His dilapidated hackney smelled of too many unwashed passengers, but it boasted warm bricks.
This time there was no lap-sitting and no extraordinary kisses. But tomorrow was another day.
December 18, 1820
 
H
is arm was going to fall off if it didn’t wash away with sweat first, but Ben was too proud to utter one word of protest as he cranked out this week’s edition of
The London List
. Evie was his able printer’s assistant, providing fresh sheets of paper and changes of type. Outside, one of his footmen was supervising the installation of a new window. The tobacconist Mr. Kemble had recommended a man to paint new signage on the glass with a tin of gold leaf, and he sat patiently waiting on an extra chair by Evie’s desk. Anyone who chose to make mischief on
The London List
today would be wise to think twice with all the manpower on the premises.
Ben eyed the tower of finished newspapers. Everyone in London must read the wretched thing judging from the number of copies and the state of his wobbly arm. Beads of perspiration clung to his eyelashes—he must smell like a resident of the vilest slum by now. Or a pig farmer who’d thrown his lot in with the animals and rolled in muck. Or a syphilitic blind man without a nose who’d mistaken an open sewer for a bathing pool. When he got home, he would take the hottest bath he could stand and scrub every filthy inch.
Evie looked slightly the worse for wear, too. Her dark curls were damp and clinging to her well-shaped head. Her face was flushed well beyond a maiden’s blush. Her neckcloth was wilted and perspiration stained her linen shirt.
Maybe she could take a bath with him.
Ben imagined her long white body slipping into the copper tub in his dressing room. He would soap her up personally, paying special attention to her dark cleft and the ruby within. He would raise her hips and settle her on his shaft and fuck her speechless with his last ounce of strength. He’d die a happy man.
“What are you smiling at?” Evie asked, placing a sheet of paper on the press.
Ben rubbed his arm, trying to regenerate some sort of feeling. “I was thinking how I would celebrate this workday’s ending.”
“
I
plan to fall into bed.”
Ben’s lips twitched. “My thoughts exactly.”
“Well, you should never have to do this again. We will be inundated with applicants after the ad in tomorrow’s paper. The pay you offered is outrageous.”
“I certainly hope so. And I can afford an investment in our business.”
Evie’s brow lifted. “
Our
business?”
“Figure of speech. You must admit we make an excellent team.”
“I’ll grant that you’re not as stupid as I thought you were.”
“Oh, please. Your excessive compliments will go to my head.”
“We wouldn’t want that. You’re already too self-satisfied,” Evie said crisply.
If she only knew how he’d been self-satisfying last night, picturing her bent over the press as he entered her from behind. In his fantasy, she’d been strapped in place so she couldn’t escape him again, a silk scarf covering her mouth so she could not object to her predicament. Ben was not generally into that sort of thing, but he had to admit the image was inordinately vivid and intriguing. To have independent and inconvenient Evangeline Ramsey subdued and at his mercy probably would never happen, but a man could dream.
The door to the street opened, and a windblown band of urchins tumbled in like a litter of rowdy puppies. Evie’s paperboys. Without even being spoken to, they attacked the pile of papers, folding and bundling them for their delivery routes and mail delivery. Ben noted they took every chance they could get to stare at him as he muscled his way through his task. Likely they had never seen a lord engaged in sweat-inducing work before. Most of Ben’s peers would be appalled if they wandered through the door and caught him. It was one thing to exert oneself riding or fencing in Town, but physical labor was reserved for the countryside and a brief appearance in solidarity with one’s tenants during haying season.
Of course, there was no hay at Castle Gray. The sheep saw to that. The rocky soil was nibbled right down to the ground. Ben had not been to his ancestral home in several years, but was assured by his steward that all was well. The Gray fortunes had profited by the war and its need for wool for uniforms and mutton for rations, but Ben had made sure his money was not tied to one industry or investment.
“I think,” Evie said, interrupting his thoughts, “that we just might be finished.”
Ben did not need to hear that twice. He stepped back from the press and mopped his brow with a soiled handkerchief. His valet would recommend burning it.
Evie huddled with the boys, dropping coins into their palms for tomorrow’s work. It was to Evie’s credit that they all would show up before dawn—paying them in advance was unheard of, but they had proven themselves to be loyal. She had a motherly way with them, which on the face of it was ridiculous—they thought her to be a fashionable young gentleman.
“Let’s celebrate. I’ll stand you to a pint and pasty at The Witch and Anchor.”
“What about the window?”
“My footman John is still here. He can lock up with my key when the painter’s finished.”
Evie hesitated. “All right. Though we’re both in a rather disreputable state.”
“I won’t sniff your armpits if you don’t sniff mine. And the pub’s not a grand place. Surely you’ve been there, as it’s just down the street.”
“I’ve never been, actually. I’m usually too busy, and I go home to my father for lunch.”
“How is he?”
A shadow crossed her face. “About the same. He’ll never get better, only worse.”
“I’m sorry, Evie. He was great fun when I knew him.”
Robert Ramsey had been a legend, a gambler who risked all and kept his good humor even when he lost. Which was probably more often than Evie would have liked, poor girl. As a fellow Scot, Ramsey had taken Ben under his wing when he came down from university, introduced him to the highest and lowest hells.
And his daughter. Few in London even knew she existed. Ramsey kept her away from his cronies, but must have seen some good in Ben to allow them to meet. Evie had dazzled him, then dumped him on his arse.
He spoke to John while she instructed the sign painter, and they were off. The December wind was brisk, and by the time they got to the pub, Evie’s cheeks had lost their pallor. To Ben’s eyes, she looked even less like a young man with roses on her cheeks, so he tucked her into a booth in a dark corner to avoid discovery and ordered dinner.
Her appetite was as great as any man’s, however. Ben sat back in wordless amusement as she made considerable inroads on her meal and his besides. After three tankards of ale, she leaned back on the wooden bench, her long limbs relaxed for the first time in days. The burden of the paper had been a heavy one, and Ben was glad he could share it in some small way, even if his muscles were currently in agony.
“Next week at this time I expect you will not be swilling ale but a proper cup of tea at home by the fire.”
“That’s if we find someone suitable.”
“We will.
You
wrote the ad.”
“
Your
writing skill has improved. Your original ad was good—I just embellished it a little,” Evie said, returning the compliment.
Ben had exercised his brain muscles as well this past week. He’d found his role of publisher surprisingly stimulating.
And that wasn’t all he’d enjoyed. Spending time with Evie, whether she was sour or sweet, had been—what? Pleasant? Far too innocuous a word. She stirred his blood, annoyed him, and challenged him. The sight of her now with her beaver hat rakishly dipping over one dark eye made him want to toss her on top of the table and have his wicked way with her. That would alarm the patrons of this relatively respectable establishment, and alarm her, too.
“I’ll take you home if you’re done.”
“Really, Ben, I’m perfectly safe.” She brushed a few crumbs from her waistcoat. It must be freeing for her to break out of the boundaries set for a woman, but she was still vulnerable. Whoever had thrown the brick through the window might be lurking on the dusk-dimmed street right now, waiting to club Evie’s beaver hat off her head.
“I insist.”
“Damn it. You cannot tell me what to do or how to do it, Ben.”
“Someone should take you in hand.” From the moment he spoke the words, he knew they were a mistake.
“As if I’ll allow you or any man dominion over me!”
“Quiet. People will think we’re having a lovers’ quarrel.”
Evie sputtered but shut her lovely mouth.
“Come. I’ll hail a cab.”
“You’re not the bloody boss of me.”
“Tsk. Language, Mr. Ramsey. There might be a lady present. Somewhere underneath all that.” He gave her what he hoped to be a scorching look, mentally peeling off the man’s attire that flattered her so outrageously.
But Evie naked on a night like this, so tempting, would never do. The temperature had dropped considerably since their earlier stroll down the street. Ben could see Evie’s breath in the air as she stomped in irritation at the curb. She reminded him a little of an unbroken Thoroughbred, all lean lines and attitude. But according to her, she’d never be broken to bridle.
Ben wouldn’t even bother trying.
Evie was a shrew. A confirmed spinster. True, she could be softhearted with all her cases of people to place and protect. He’d now seen the drawers full of begging letters for which she took no coin. What kind of businesswoman was she? She was more like some demented fairy godmother.
Anyone looking less fairy-like would be hard to find. Although perhaps his mother’s tales of sweet, inoffensive winged creatures dancing at the bottom of the garden were at odds with some of the older legends. Some fairies were spiteful—clever and capricious, quick to trick the unsuspecting innocent into giving up their best chance for happiness. Or even their babies. Ben drew the line at thinking Evie would kidnap a child, but he could see her meting out her own brand of justice from her Fairy Court in solemn pronouncements and punishing seduction.
Right now she wasn’t speaking to him, not even thanking him as he helped her into the hack. Which he shouldn’t have done, as she was still in her trousered disguise. The merchants on the street would think it very odd.
The streetlights had been turned on, and Ben saw people locking up and scurrying home to their suppers.
The List
’s office was dark, the new window glimmering in the gaslight. A raggedy girl selling roasted chestnuts tended the flames on her brazier at the corner, and if Ben weren’t so full he would have asked the driver to stop. The carriage lurched through the thick evening traffic, the familiar sounds and smells of London Ben’s only stimulation. Evie seemed determined to ignore him despite their working so seamlessly together just hours before. How was it that the glow of their mutual accomplishment had dimmed so suddenly? One minute they’d been chuckling over their ale, and the next Evie looked ready to chuck him out in the street.
He’d insulted her independence, he supposed, but really, she
was
just a lady beneath her clothes, even if she chose not to act like one. She might have a walking stick and be taller than the average man, but it wasn’t as if she fenced and boxed and built up her slender limbs. Anything could happen to her as she walked the chill streets of London. Anything at all.
Yesterday it was the shattered window, when she wasn’t even out in the elements. What if she’d been cut by flying glass, or worse yet, conked on the head with the brick?
Perhaps some sense might have been knocked into her, but Ben doubted it. She was the most stubborn, most vexing creature he’d ever met. His usual tricks to charm women were proving useless, but damn him if he was going to sit across from her like a lump as she shot daggers at him the whole way home. So he took a time-tested, easy route.
“I’m sorry.”
“What for?” she asked, suspicious.
Ben grinned. “I don’t really know. It seemed like the right thing to say.”
She did not grin back. “If you don’t know, then your words are meaningless. Like your life.”
Ben fought his own flare of temper. “Give it a rest, Evie. I’ve worked like a slave all week.”
“One paltry week in a lifetime of indolence. And it’s only been about four days anyway. You can’t count the wedding.”
“Spending four days with
you
seems like a lifetime. Damn it. I suppose you’d like to roll out your personal guillotine and deprive me of my head for being a useless aristocrat.”
“It is tempting. But likely to be messy.” Evie’s mocking lips twitched. But apparently she didn’t want his blood quite yet.
“I thought we were friends again.” He leaned forward and clasped her hand. She didn’t withdraw her clenched fist or try to kick him. That was a good sign, no matter what horrible thing she was going to say next.
“Friends!” She said the word as if she spat worms from her mouth. “I cannot be your friend.”
BOOK: Lord Gray's List
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