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Authors: Maggie Robinson

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January 1, 1821
 
T
heir week was over. Well,
almost
over. Each day had brought them closer together. One evening, Ben had surprised Evie by taking her for a private supper at a discreet hotel. Their suite had been lovely and every one of her desires had been fulfilled, once she had gotten over her nervousness at the opulence. It was the first time they had actually shared a bed—and the bed had been magnificent, with silk hangings, a deep feather mattress and an array of tasseled pillows that had cushioned them sublimely as they varied their positions. Evangeline said she had felt as if she was posing for one of those naughty gentlemen’s books, the kind usually titled
One Hundred and One Ways to Heaven
or something like it.
Heaven had certainly been at hand, and she’d been able to make as much noise as she deemed necessary, which was quite a lot.
At the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve, Ben had solemnly kissed Evie and helped her back into her clothes. She had been in her mannish disguise this evening, as he’d taken her to a party first before they’d returned to his house to privately ring in the New Year. The party was not his choice, but Evie had been curious when she’d picked up the invitation on his desk and had badgered him until he gave in. The revels felt forced and flat to him, and he wondered how he could have spent so many similar nights in such company, but Evie had claimed she needed
something
to write about to keep her readers amused. She’d promised not to be too harsh on the lords and ladies who’d tippled too much, and would not print one word about finding Lady Farrington fucking a man who was not Lord Farrington against the music room wall.
They had ridden almost all the way to her house when he remembered to tell her. How could he have forgotten? He’d realized it the first moment she’d put pen to paper, but had been lulled by her every wistful sigh and fleeting look of regret as they spent their last night together he didn’t make his case.
It was not their last night.
“Wait.”
Her head was on his shoulder, though he assumed that in her mind they were no longer officially having an affair. She might claim that she was sleepy—that he had worn her out—but he hoped it was something more.
“Our agreement. I’ve got it right here.” He’d carried it next to his heart every day since he’d signed it.
“Mm.”
“Let me check something.” He unfolded the paper and held it under the flickering carriage light.
“Just as I thought. January First.”
“Yes. Today is the first. Just.”
“Well, it says here we are to terminate our arrangement on the first day of January.”
She yawned. “Didn’t we just say that?”
“Yes, but it’s still the first day of January, and will be until it’s the second day of January.”
“You are giving me a headache.”
“Too much champagne for you. You are mine until midnight.”
Evie seemed to wake up suddenly. “What kind of trick is this?”
“No trick. Look, you signed it. You have lovely handwriting, by the way. You know the old superstition. I was wondering how to get a well-favored dark-haired lad to cross my threshold for luck on New Year’s Day, and here you are in those tight evening breeches! I’ll just get my driver to turn around.”
“You can’t do that! I’ve got to get home! And we’re
finished,
Ben. You promised.”
“I did. And we’re
finished
tomorrow. Tonight—today you will sleep in my bed in my house. We’ve never done that.”
“And we’re not going to do that! I’m expected home.”
“I’ll get you there by daylight. No one will think it odd you’re out celebrating on New Year’s Eve. It’s not as if you have a proper chaperone to convince. You’re a grown woman. Independent. And as good as your word, absolutely reeking with honor.”
She couldn’t argue with that, although she did like to argue about most everything. Ben couldn’t see her face very well in the shadows, but he thought if he did he might consider ducking right about—
Now.
“How long have you been planning to pull the rug out from under me, you miserable worm?”
“I like you on the rug, Evie. And, we’ve discovered, on beds, too.”
“Oh! You let me go on and on all night long about the last night we’d spend together, you, you—”
Ben grabbed her hand. “You never said one word, Evie, not one. Now you may have been thinking it—even I have no idea what’s going on in your frighteningly fertile mind. I imagine it’s pretty harrowing in there some of the time. I meant to remind you of the exact terms of our bargain, but the opportunity never came up.” But other things had. Something was coming up right now and he settled her hand in his lap.
“You are a wretched, wretched man.”
But she did seem pleased by the evidence of her influence on him. He’d make their last day as memorable as possible if it was the very last thing he did.
If she was the very last woman he ever took to bed.
Somehow that thought did not bother him as much as it should. Perhaps he was destined for holy orders.
Or a lunatic asylum.
He tapped the roof of the carriage and changed his instructions.
Evie tsked. “Your poor coachman. Staying up late to take me home and then going right back on your whim.”
“I pay him well enough, believe me. And let’s agree to let him sleep in. Never mind about you returning by dawn.”
“Ben—”
“I’ll send a footman with a message so that no one worries about you. Let’s spend the whole of the day together and make the most of it.”
“I haven’t any clothes!”
“Evie, darling, you will not need any clothes.”
She grumbled but Ben couldn’t hear the invective over the clip of the horses’ hooves. This was turning out even better than he’d planned. For once they’d spend the day in quiet domestic bliss, no newspaper to print, no ads to compose, nothing to argue over. As was his New Year’s Day tradition, he’d given his servants the day off, so Ben would take care of her himself. Bring up her bathwater. Feed her—
Hm. Something. He was no cook but sure Mrs. Hargreaves’s larder was full. It was a tradition to begin the year as you meant to go on, and Mrs. Hargreaves was nothing if not traditional. An empty cupboard signaled a hungry year ahead, and she’d have none of that.
They’d spend the day in dressing gowns when they weren’t out of them. This was one New Year’s Day when he didn’t have a sore head or a need to lie in a silent dark room, eschewing all human contact. He wanted plenty of human contact—Evie’s, to be specific.
The entire day. The horizon was limitless. He might even be able to steal a few hours of sleep for himself knowing that Evie was lying next to him.
Evie entered the darkened house just ahead of him, and Ben gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. “First across the threshold. For luck.”
“You won’t have any. I’m not really a man, you idiot. Female first footers are supposed to bring disaster, you know.” She stomped up the stairs as though he was sending her to her doom. He wondered where these traditions came from. Superstitions, really. Technically as the “lucky bird,” Evie should have coal or silver or salt in her pocket, too, which he doubted. And if he were to be absolutely technical, she was right—she was no tall, dark-haired man, even if she had fooled a roomful of drunken partygoers tonight.
His bed was as wrecked as they had left it. Evie, looking glum, chose to sit on a chair by the fireplace.
“Why so blue-deviled?” Ben asked.
“I was ready for all this to be over.”
“Were you?”
She didn’t meet his eyes, but nodded.
“I imagine I cannot get you to extend our contract,” he said softly.
“No! Nothing good can come of this, Ben. We’re different as chalk and cheese.”
“What does that mean, anyway? And which of us is the cheese?”
“You know what it means! We have nothing in common.”
“Don’t we?” He begged to differ, but there was no point in reminding her of their mutual purpose among the crumpled sheets just an hour ago.
“No, we don’t. This is folly.”
She was right. To prolong their affair even for a day was the purest folly. He had been vastly better off before he had found her bending over the printing press the first full week of December. Now he was—
What, exactly? Close to being lovelorn.
He couldn’t be
in love,
could he? Love was rubbish, meant only for silly novels and stage plays where everyone inevitably died in Act III. Blood and bodies everywhere with some narrator reflecting philosophically on the futility of life. Ben didn’t feel for Evie now what he had felt when he was twenty and was sure what love was. So sure that he’d proposed marriage and had his love thrown back in his face. He had not allowed himself to feel anything like that again.
But he was feeling
something
. And dash it, it felt like honor. He could not force Evie to stay here with him all day no matter how much he wanted her to.
He gave the fire a vicious poke. “My coachman is not going to be happy with me.”
She straightened from her slump. “What do you mean?”
“We don’t seem to understand each other at all this evening, do we? Maybe we never have. I’m taking you home, Evangeline, just as you wish. I’ll not press my point on our agreement—we’re not before a court of law, are we? But I’ll want one last kiss before I give you up.”
Even asking for that was a mistake. He was not sure he could stop at a single kiss.
“Here or there?”
“Pardon?”
“Here in this room, or on my doorstep? Perhaps in the carriage would be better. There are too many people abroad tonight who might see us and come to the wrong conclusion.”
That was Evie, always thinking, looking around the corner for calamity.
“Here would be best, then, although you know my carriage is comfortable.”
“Much
too
comfortable. I’ll want to go home alone to keep you to your word about the ‘last kiss’ business. I don’t trust you for a minute. Shall I remain seated or stand? I don’t think we should even consider the bed.”
He couldn’t help himself—he grinned at the absurdity of the conversation. “Quite right. That might lead to all sorts of complications. But I’m hurt you don’t trust me, Evie. I don’t know what more I can do to prove my worth to you.”
Her lashes dropped, casting long shadows on her cheeks. He’d only been trustworthy for less than a month, and only because he’d been working so hard to get into her breeches. Perhaps she was correct in doubting him.
“I trust you, Ben. It’s me I don’t trust.”
His heart soared briefly, but in the end it was still the same—this was their last night. Soon she would leave his employ altogether. But the last few days had been very worth it.
“Stand up, sweetheart. I don’t want to get a crick in my back.”
She faced him, lifting her proud chin. “Good-bye, then.”
“Good-bye. Thank you for everything.”
Lord, what a lummox he was. She hadn’t done him any ordinary favor, but gifted him with her body and loaned him her soul.
Stolen his heart.
She touched his cheek and pressed her lips against his. Soft, familiar now, yielding. He was afraid to touch her, certain his resolve would unravel and he’d be unwrapping her from her linen and wool in a trice. He concentrated on their connection—smooth lips and tongue, sweet moisture, artful sweep. His breath hitched when Evie moaned into his mouth but he refused to step further into the kiss.
Control.
Common sense.
Confound it, he was not a saint. He carried her to the bed. She made no objection he was aware of, and he was aware of
everything
. Her hands tore at his trousers and her own, grabbing his cock almost painfully. She assuaged his discomfort immediately by guiding him inside her. So much for his sensual fantasy of candlelit skin on skin. Once again they were scratched and smothered by clothing.
It was still perfect.
And over too soon. There were a few tears to wipe again—only Evie’s he was sure. He was merely perspiring from exertions, wasn’t he? Clothes to straighten, the coachman to summon, the quiet of his bedroom to endure as the carriage carried her away. It was a new year, but not precisely a happy one.
January 5, 1821
 
B
en was hungry enough to eat roasted chestnuts for lunch, but the little urchin who’d lingered on their corner for days had disappeared some time before Christmas. Evie had already gone home to her father, so the Witch and Anchor it was. He was in the process of rolling down his sleeves when the door opened and a gust of cold wind hurtled a slender woman into the office. She wore a sable tippet over a dark gray walking dress and was heavily veiled. Even with the fur at her throat, she must be freezing. Ben’s instincts went on alert.
“May I help you, madam?” he asked smoothly, as if he knew what to do with one of Evie’s strays. But he had dealt with Lord Egremont professionally just a little while ago, when the man came to him in desperation. His impetuous daughter Imaculata was missing again, and despite hiring the best in the business to find her, the poor man had spent a lonely Christmas without her. Ben had taken the particulars down and pledged to run the advertisement for the next month. He’d felt so sorry for the earl he was tempted to offer to do it for nothing, but Evangeline would give him hell. Egremont could afford whatever rates they charged, and the paper was a business, after all.
“M-Mr. Ramsey?”
“I am his associate. Mr. Ramsey has gone to lunch but should return shortly. Would you care to wait?”
He thought he could see the woman’s misery right through the veil. “But I’m sure I can be of as much service as Mr. Ramsey,” he added quickly. “Do you wish to place an ad?”
“What? No, no. Never mind. I was foolish to come.” She turned to the door, but Ben knew he couldn’t let her leave.
“I promise to help you, no matter what it is you need,” he said in all earnestness.
“What I need . . . would be illegal. And immoral.”
A cultivated voice expressing unconventional sentiments. This was no lady’s maid seeking a new position.
“Then you’ve come to just the right place. I’m Benton Gray. Perhaps you’ve read about me on the pages of this very paper. I’m known for my immorality.” Though not lately. He was biting his tongue clean through trying not to lick Evie in some sensitive spot as she brusquely went about their newspaper business. The past four days had been nearly unbearable.
She promised to be gone soon, and then licking would be out of the question. But he had made a promise, too, hellish as it was to keep it, and his tongue stayed firmly where God put it.
“
You
are Lord Gray? You look so . . . normal.”
“Yes, no horns to speak of, as you can see. And I
have
reformed, no matter what everyone else thinks. Please sit down. May I get you a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you. I came to give Mr. Ramsey a . . . tip. For the front page.”
Ben frowned. “Since taking over the ownership of
The London List,
I am no longer publishing scurrilous news.”
“I noticed. But I thought—forget I ever came.” Her gloved hand touched the doorknob.
“Please don’t go! Perhaps it would help if you talked to me about what is troubling you. I—
we
might be able to do something about it without putting anything in black and white.”
The woman hesitated. Ben worked up his usual charming smile to reassure her.
Her reluctance was evident, but then Ben noted a definitive dip of the gray bonnet on her head. “Very well. I don’t have much time. He doesn’t know I’ve gone out. And when he discovers I’m not in my room—” She shivered.
“Are you in danger?” Ben thought of the days and nights of his father’s rages and his fist clenched.
“No.
I
am not. But he will take his displeasure out on the servants. And my son.” The lady wilted into the chair Ben pushed toward her.
“Is it your husband you speak of? You don’t have to tell me his name if you are uncomfortable.”
The woman laughed weakly. “I came to give his name. To expose him. But you won’t.”
“I might change my mind. Are you sure about the tea?”
“Perfectly.” She took a deep breath. “I am Lady Dustin. Do you know my husband?”
Ben recalled a rather nondescript earl, brown eyes, receding hairline—the type of man you might pass a thousand times without noticing. “I believe so. He belongs to my club, lunches there nearly daily, correct? Then is good for a few hands of whist to while away the afternoon.”
Lady Dustin nodded. “When he comes home, he brutalizes the staff. Bullies the men. F-fornicates with the women and sometimes makes me watch. He beats our son. ‘To make a man out of him,’ he says. I cannot do a thing about any of it. When I’ve tried to intercede, I only made the situation worse. He . . . enjoys my humiliation, and is ruthless to those who try to stand by me. He broke my last maid’s arm, then dismissed her without a reference. I do without a maid now—I don’t want to bring anyone else into the house to suffer.” She lifted her veil. Ben saw a bleak exhaustion on her unpowdered face—a very young, attractive face, save for the dark circles under her eyes. “It would be better if he just hurt
me
, but he won’t. Not physically at any rate. I’ve even thought about killing myself—or killing
him
—but that would make it too easy for him. I worry about our boy. He’s only three.” There were no tears during this grim recitation, just a dull, matter-of-fact delivery. Ben thought if she were not telling the truth, then she was a marvelous actress.
But it was difficult to think of Dustin as this kind of predator. Ben did not know the man well, but there had never been any whispers of impropriety. And if anyone knew improper gentlemen, it was Ben. He rubbed his ink-stained fingers together, marshaling his thoughts.
“You don’t believe me,” the countess said, sounding as if she hadn’t really expected anything else.
“I didn’t say that, did I? What about your family?”
“They tell me if anything is wrong with my marriage, it is my fault for being an undutiful wife. That if I satisfied my husband he would not be so angry.”
Dear God
. But no. Where was God when such things happened? Ben had prayed to God for years as a boy in Scotland and had come to the conclusion that Scotland must be much too far from Heaven to be heard.
But then his father had died in the middle of one of his tirades. Dropped to the stone floors of Castle Gray, blood bright from the wound to his head. Ten-year-old Ben knew then that God
had
heard, and that he’d killed his father with all those prayers and was glad of it.
A man might do as he pleased in his own home. It was the law of the land. If Dustin beat his pretty wife as Ben’s father had beaten his, no one would intercede, and his treatment of his staff wouldn’t merit even a flick of an eyelash. In these days of high unemployment and unrest, there were plenty of servants who would put up with most anything to keep food in their bellies.
“I am sympathetic to your plight, Lady Dustin. More than you know. But even if Ev—Mr. Ramsey were here, I could not agree to publish your accusations without corroboration. No one should be pilloried in the press—I have reason to know. And have you thought of the repercussions if this degenerate behavior is known to society? Your husband would suspect you provided the information and might turn his designs upon you.”
Her words were determined. “I—I want to run away. With my son. I have some money put by.”
Children belonged to their father, or their father’s family. It was almost unheard of for an estranged wife to be permitted to raise a child, and the heir to an earldom would definitely be under the purview of his father.
What would Evie say to all this? He didn’t have to ask her—he knew. Ben made up his own mind, feeling a kind of thrill he’d never experienced before. No wonder Evie had been so insistent to keep
The London List
going. This do-gooding was exhilarating. No doubt she would be dealing with this domestic dilemma in a far more creative fashion, but Ben was a simple man. A rich man. He had the necessary means to resolve Lady Dustin’s problems, at least temporarily. He hoped she liked Scotland.
“I will help you, if you swear not to breathe a word of your whereabouts to anyone.”
Her lips flattened. “That won’t be hard. There is no one in my family who cares enough about me to care where I’ve gone.”
“You and your son may stay at my estate in Scotland for the time being, until we can get this business sorted out with your husband. It’s winter, though, and it will be damned cold—snowdrifts above your head and everyone goes to bed when it’s dark at three o’clock in the afternoon. Are you sure you want to leave society?”
“Society means nothing to me. Because of its expectations, at seventeen I married a man who has made my life a misery. But why would you do this, Lord Gray? If Horace discovers what you’ve done, he will ruin you.”
“I’d like to see him try. Can you get your boy away without notice? You would of course take nothing with you, just the clothes on your backs to attract no attention. I’ll provide you with whatever’s necessary—I’m a regular Croesus, you know.”
“You are serious? Truly, truly serious?”
“I believe I am. Give me a week to work out the particulars.”
Her face fell. A week would seem like an eternity to her. Anything could happen to her child in the next seven days.
“Forget that. Come back here tomorrow—whenever you can. I’ll spirit you and the boy away somehow. You may have to do without everything you’re used to for a bit.”
“I’d be willing to go naked if it meant my son was safe, Lord Gray.” Her blush was fierce but her chin was high.
Ben almost wished the child was with her now, so he could make them disappear immediately. A man like Dustin, who liked to make people squirm and suffer, would be a dangerous, unpredictable enemy. Odd, because he looked so innocuous. Unremarkable. Ben had never heard anything much about the man, had never seen him in his usual low company haunts. Apparently Dustin kept his vices close to home, terrorizing his wife by proxy.
Whatever faults Ben had, they had been on full view in the sunshine and in the moonlight. Perhaps it was time to shine a light on the Earl of Dustin and make sure he never had power over anyone again.
Lady Dustin fidgeted in her chair. Ben could appreciate her anxiety—he wanted to set his non-plan in motion. Evie would be back soon, and two heads were better than one.
Wouldn’t she be surprised? Perhaps even proud of him. Of course he was not acting the knight for Evangeline Ramsey’s benefit, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a mite of Evie’s admiration.
“You are sure you weren’t followed here?”
“Reasonably. I walked a few blocks from Dustin House and hailed a hackney. No one would have reason to suspect I’d come here.”
“Take no one in your household in confidence, not even if they may have a grievance almost as great as yours. Perhaps you shouldn’t try to get back here with your boy—it may be too difficult.”
“I can dose Peter’s nurse with my laudanum—at least that’s what I planned to do. She is one of my husband’s more willing victims, and I don’t care a jot if she wakes with a headache and he chooses to punish her for misplacing his son. I take breakfast in the nursery with them nearly every morning. No one would think it strange if I went up there early.”
“Excellent. I’ll have a carriage around the western corner—that’s the left—of Margaret Street for you at six o’clock. Can you manage that, do you think? It will be dark yet.”
“I’m not afraid of the dark. Will you be there?”
Ben did not relish the prospect of a flight to Scotland in January with Lady Dustin and her toddler. They would require stout protection, but he was too well-known—thanks to Evie and her clever little drawings that sometimes accompanied her articles. And Lord Dustin must be diverted before he realized his wife and son were missing, much more up his alley. Ben could be quite a diverting figure.
He’d have to hire Veronique back, and probably bribe her to boot, even though he was still providing for her. She was unmolested in his Jane Street house, tapping her toes until spring, when Ben had indicated he’d probably sell the house. No doubt she was examining a slew of offers from other gentlemen, biding her time to pick the perfect one. She was a luscious morsel, Ben thought ruefully, always agreeable, as far from being anything like Evangeline Ramsey as possible. He’d warn all the Jane Street servants to be especially vigilant for the next few days while he temporarily fell back into his wicked ways.
Ben reached across the desk and patted her gloved hand. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. I’ll send some reliable servants with you. I have plans for your husband, Lady Dustin. By the time he turns up at home, you will be long gone. Have courage. This will all come to rights, I promise.”
He’d better make sure of it to earn the look of gratitude on Lady Dustin’s face. After escorting her to the door, he scribbled a note to Evie. He couldn’t wait for her to come back, and besides, he was rather proud of all the ideas he was coming up with on his own. There wasn’t much time—he had a great many details to attend to, one of which was lunch at his club. His appetite may have disappeared, but there was something oddly tasty on the menu.

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