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Authors: Maggie Robinson

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“Ben Gray, is it? My, my. Have you come for my Evangeline at last? I won’t hold it against you that you didn’t come up to scratch before, y’know. Boys will be boys.”
“Good afternoon, Robert. I’m afraid your daughter wouldn’t have me then, and surely won’t have me now. I believe she holds me in some aversion.”
“Ah! That silly paper of hers. I know she helps Frank Hallett with it sometimes. Bookkeeping, editing, that sort of thing. Don’t credit anything in it.” He waved a hand. “Sit down, my boy, sit down. A hand of piquet, perhaps? A penny a point.”
Frank Hallett again, but Ben was fairly sure
The London List
was entirely Evie’s domain. He eased himself down in the chair opposite. He imagined Evie sat in it, keeping her father company. Keeping vigil. “I’m afraid I haven’t come to play cards, sir, but I have come about the newspaper.”
“Can’t sue me for defamation. Look around you. The place is a dump. Haven’t a turnip to suck blood from. Doctors take it all. The lot of them quacks. Have me chewing bark from some damn tree and drinking the most vile potions. Evie won’t let ’em bleed me, thank God. Day nurses, night nurses. Wilfred—you remember Wilfred?—always lurking about to make sure I don’t wander off and get lost, too. My mind’s shot. Won’t bore you with the worst of it, because I can’t remember half of it. Hah! Poor Evie.” He cracked a smile, revealing the charming old gambler he used to be.
“I don’t want to sue you. I’d like to purchase
The London List,
though,” Ben said, getting right to the point. If this was one of Robert’s more lucid afternoons, he’d better make haste. Ben named a figure, impulsively doubling what he originally thought was fair and had written down for Evie to deliver. He could afford it, and it was clear the Ramseys were in dire straits. The debts must have been crippling for them to come to this pass.
“You’re mad. No, that would be me, wouldn’t it?” Robert chuckled, though his dark eyes remained bleak.
“Not mad. I hope my faculties are as intact as anyone’s. But I am somewhat perturbed to see each and every breath catalogued each and every Tuesday. I take it Evangeline didn’t mention my offer when you took lunch together.”
“If she did, I simply don’t remember,” Robert shrugged. “Evie does hold a grudge, but not with me. Don’t know why she takes such good care of me. I wasn’t much of a father.”
Ben silently agreed. Robert Ramsey had dragged his impressionable daughter throughout the British Isles and the rest of Europe in search of an elusive golden jackpot. It had been feast or famine for the Ramseys, probably one reason Evie had been so reluctant to throw her lot in with the youthful, feckless, gambling Ben.
She might have noted in her constant investigation of his activities that the only risks he took currently were on the Exchange. He wagered now in only the most minimal way, as any gentleman did to pass the time and keep boredom at bay. He had never been struck with her father’s fever, but at twenty-two—older than he by two long years—Evie had thought she knew everything. She had seen what she had wanted to see—a careless, good-natured youth anxious to rub elbows with more experienced men at the tables. Become a man of the world. She had helped in that effort, and not entirely against her will.
Only her better judgment.
Gad, but there was no point in crying over spilt milk. He’d been better off without Evangeline Ramsey to harass and harangue him in person—bad enough she did it in the poisonous pages of her news rag.
“What say you, Robert? I mean to make my offer tempting—you could leave this address, perhaps go to Italy to get out of the worst of the winter.”
The old man turned up a card. The Jack of Hearts. He slipped it back into the deck and continued to shuffle. “It will be rainy season there. The south of France might be better. A jolly Joyeaux Noel, what? Evie might like that now that Boney’s settled.”
“Anywhere in the world, Robert,” Ben said with patience he did not feel.
The Ace of Spades dropped to the table, and Robert’s mouth turned down. “I’ll have to talk to Evie. She won’t like it that you’re here, going behind her back.”
“I spoke to her this morning. She knows full well that I intend to buy the paper from you. In fact, I charged her to make my offer.”
“She may have . . . but I don’t think so. We had toasted cheese, though. My favorite.”
Ben could sense the man withdrawing into his private world. Robert’s mouth slackened and his eyes slipped from his cards to a corner of the room.
“We can draw up a simple agreement now, right here. I’ll get my solicitor to work up something more formal if you wish later. I’ll place no stipulations on the sale—you’ll have the full amount before the day is done.”
Robert was silent for a long while, lining his cards face-down on the table in a concentric circle. When all fifty-two had been placed where he wanted, he nodded his head. “I’ll talk to Evie.”
“This is in her best interest, Robert.” He waited a beat. “Do you know she goes about town dressed as a man?”
To Ben’s surprise, the man’s eyes lit. “Does she now? She used to do that. When she was a girl. Sometimes the places we were—it wasn’t quite safe for her to be a young lady. I’m sorry for that.”
Ben played his own last card. “Robert, she’s a girl no longer. Imagine the scandal if people discovered her disguise. She’d be shunned. If you sell me
The London List
there will be no need of her to risk her reputation. You’ll have enough to provide her with a handsome dowry.” Not that any man in his right mind would ever marry Evangeline Ramsey—Ben’s offer was more than generous but still not enough to sufficiently bribe some poor soul into losing his heart to that vixen.
“All right, all right. You can have the paper. I don’t care anything about it.”
“Truly?”
“Aye, I said it, didn’t I? Let’s shake on it before I forget I did. You say you’ll get me the money today?”
Ben breathed an inward sigh of relief as he took the old gentleman’s hand. “You have my word.”
It would be a scramble, and his banker wouldn’t like it, but Baron Benton Gray was not a man to be argued with. In haste, Ben opened up the small leather-bound notebook he always carried and sketched out the terms of their agreement with a pen he found on the dresser. He signed it with a bold flourish, then tore the page from the book. “If you will sign it yourself, now, I’ll get to the City this afternoon to make the arrangements.”
“Get me my spectacles, boy.”
Ben’s honor made him oblige, and he sat for a few uncomfortable minutes while Robert seemed to be committing his words to memory. A white eyebrow raised. “We’re to leave London?”
“I think it for the best.”
“Evie won’t like that either. I think, on the whole, I’d better cross that part out and you can initial it.”
Ben bit his tongue. What difference did it make where Evie was, as long as she wasn’t sneaking around after him at night and writing about him in the morning? Her platform would be closed, locked up, the balky printing press sold or destroyed. Ben would rent the space to some other business and that would be that.
Before he left, he shook Robert’s palsied hand again, nearly wanting to spin the old gambler around and kiss him. Ben’s life was about to get back to normal at last.
“Y
ou bloody bastard!”
Ben ducked from the whoosh of what he thought was a walking stick, though it was too dark to see. The youth who wielded it as a weapon was no youth, however, but Evangeline Ramsey, rigged out in evening clothes. Her top hat flew off with the force of her sweep and rolled into the gutter in front of his townhouse.
“Good evening, Evie,” he said genially. “Come to thank me?”
“You arrogant son of a bitch! How dare you go to my father? He—he’s not in full possession of his faculties!”
“He seemed quite well to me this afternoon. He reminded me a bit of my great-uncle Mackenzie. As Uncle Hal aged, he became forgetful at times, but other days he was as sharp as a tack. Even Mrs. Spencer said this was one of your father’s good days.”
In the flickering gaslight, Evie’s face was as white as the silk scarf she wore wrapped around her throat. “I don’t care what she said! You had no right to go to the house today. I told you I would discuss the sale of the paper with him.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I would have! I didn’t have the opportunity.”
“Shush. You’ll wake the household. Why don’t you come in with me and we can discuss this like . . . gentlemen.”
Evie expelled a breath, her huff a white cloud in the frigid air. How long had she been lurking in front of his house? The woman was mad—this might be Mayfair, but footpads were known to strike with impunity throughout London. And the air was damp with moisture. Judging from the ring around the moon, it might even snow before dawn.
“You must be freezing.”
Her tone certainly was, icicles dripping from each syllable. “I am perfectly fine.”
Ben doubted it. She didn’t have an ounce of fat on her—she probably didn’t even have to bind her breasts for this ridiculous masculine masquerade. She was not wearing a greatcoat, and impulsively he slipped out of his and tossed it across the pavement to her.
“Here. Put this on before you sicken yourself and have no one to care for your father.”
“You—you—
bastard
.”
“Now you’re repeating yourself. I thought you had a famous way with words, Evie. Even I have to admit that ‘The Jane Street Jackanapes’ does have a certain ring to it.”
“As if you didn’t deserve it! I’ve only printed the truth. And now you’ve cheated me out of the paper!”
“Cheated? Did your father disclose what I paid for the damned thing? You can hardly object, Miss Ramsey. You might even attract a fortune hunter so you might know wedded bliss.”
“I’ll never marry. Not after—” She stopped herself. “Oh, this is useless. I should have kept better rein on my temper—you’re not worth the effort.” She turned away, but Ben’s arm shot out and stopped her.
“Come inside. I’ll arrange for my carriage to bring you home. It’s not safe for you to wander about the city at night.”
Evie struggled beneath his gloved hand. “I’ll be fine. I’m always fine.”
“So you say. You look tired, my girl. And snow’s in the air.” As if on cue, a tiny flake swirled and settled on Evie’s crisp black hair. Ben had an unaccountable longing to brush it off, but he kept hold of her elbow as she continued to pull back with a fair degree of determination.
An imp whispered in his ear, and he released her as she tugged away, causing her to stumble and fall flat on her backside at his feet. She looked up, her great dark eyes glittering with fury. Praise God for the invention of lamplight—she was as beautiful as she would ever get in its glow. Really rather magnificent. Ben looked away.
“You—you—”
“I believe we’ve established the word you’re looking for is
bastard,
although I assure you my parents were married, more’s the pity.” Deciding quickly, he bent over and scooped her and her hat up as if she didn’t weigh even a stone. She was too light in his arms. All her braggadocio about the paper’s profits didn’t seem to spell an extra éclair for her. “Come, Evie. Let’s cry truce. You must want to do something else with your life besides follow me around and advertise my indiscretions.”
She wriggled in his arms, causing a frisson that could have been assuaged by his visit with Veronique tonight but had not been. “Where are you taking me?”
“I told you. I’m going to deposit you in my library—”
“You read?” she asked scornfully.
“Of course not. The books are hollow, all for show,” he snapped. “Certainly I read. I’m not the stupid boy you knew a decade ago. For your information, there are even
two
libraries in this house. We will have a brandy, and I will see you home.”
“I don’t drink.”
“You used to,” he said, a cruel reminder of what went wrong—or right—between them.
Before he had a chance to mount the steps with her, the front door opened. Callum stood in nervous anticipation, the hall light glowing behind him.
“Where’s Severson?”
“Gone to bed, my lord, with a touch of the gout. He begs your pardon most sin—sincerely.”
“And Lady Gray?”
“She sent word that she is staying the night at Lady Applegate’s. Her friend is also unwell.”
Lady Applegate was, in fact, dying a little bit every day. His mama was a mainstay in the Applegate household, and had probably spent the day reading
The London List
out loud to amuse the invalid. Ben would go himself in the morning and see what he could do to assist her and the family.
There was no further need for a bleary Callum to prop himself up in the hall chair. Ben kept a generous supply of brandy on the shelf along with various improving tomes in his private library.
“Go to bed, laddie.”
“Is this gentleman unwell also?” Callum blurted.
Ben realized Evie was still crushed to his chest, no matter how she writhed in his grip.
“Dead drunk.” He was rewarded for this prognostication by a sharp elbow to his ribs.
“Shall I make coffee to sober him up, my lord? My mam taught me how.”
“Nay, Callum. I’ve my own method in dealing with inebriation. Dinna fash yourself,” Ben said, breaking out his limited Scots brogue. “Go on to bed now. I’ll deal with Mr. Rams—Montague.” It would not do for the household to cotton to the fact that the ex-publisher of
The London List
was trapped in his arms.
“I hope Mr. Rams–Montague improves, my lord. Shall I wake up Lizzie to make up one of the guest rooms?”
“I don’t believe that will be necessary.” When would this stripling leave them alone? Callum’s earnest ambition was beginning to grate, and Evie’s elbow was like a knife to his gut.
“Verra good then, my lord. Good night to you, my lord, Mr. Rams-Montague.” With an absurd bow, Callum left them standing in the pool of light. Ben blew out the candle in the sconce and marched to the rear of the house, where he had turned what had been intended as a housekeeper’s office into his small library. There was a larger room upstairs, with leather–bound and gilt books, maps and charts and all the other accoutrements of a civilized English gentleman, but this little room was his simple bolt–hole.
“Put me down at once or I’ll scream,” Evie gritted against his shoulder.
“No, you won’t, Mr. Rams–Montague. You’ll frighten that boy to death. And gentlemen don’t scream.” He set her down in a leather chair, his coat still wrapped around her too–slender frame, and set about coaxing a fire out of the languishing coals in the grate.
He’d spent time in here earlier this evening before he’d seen Veronique, planning what he was going to say. She had taken it remarkably well, perhaps because she was as tired of courtesan contests as he was, and even offered a farewell fuck, which he had politely declined. Ben had assured her she could remain on Jane Street until she could find a new protector. Hell, he’d even offered to find one for her—he might dispose of his mistress and the charming little house all in one fell swoop. It was time he sold the Jane Street property and did the unthinkable.
Damn Evangeline Ramsey for putting him on the path to boring respectability. His mama would be happy even if he felt the noose tighten around his neck. In response to his mental dread, he loosened his neckcloth and went to the shelf. What had come over him today, all this talk of turning over new leaves and dismissing mistresses? Perhaps he’d wake up tomorrow, moderately wicked again and glad of it.
“Brandy, port, or Madeira? Or perhaps some good Scottish whiskey?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“Oh, don’t be stubborn, Evie. You’re as cold as a block of ice.” He poured them both a healthy tot of brandy and stood before her with the glass. She refused to meet his eyes, but took the glass from him with stiff gloved fingers.
Impulsively he took it back and set both glasses down. “Let’s get your hands warm.” He stripped the kidskin from her hands and tugged her over to the fire before she had a chance to curse him. Evie’s long fingers seemed frozen, as was the rest of her as she stood like a statue in front of the flames. Ben rubbed her skin, feeling unladylike calluses on each fingertip. Bookkeeping and editing indeed. If he wasn’t mistaken, Evangeline Ramsey was a mechanic. She probably scaled fences to trespass and spy and delivered bundles of newspapers herself to his neighborhood, too.
“Who is Frank Hallett?”
She startled at his question, still making no attempt to escape his attentions. “My pressman. I’d appreciate it if you kept him on. He needs the work.”
“Keep him on?”
“Yes. He knows what he’s about, most of the time.”
Ben dropped her hands. “I’m afraid you don’t understand. I’m shuttering
The London List.
I’ll have no need of a pressman.”
Evie looked up at him now, her lovely mouth falling open. “I beg your pardon?”
“Did you think I bought the bloody business to dabble in destructive gossip? I have no quarrel with society, Evie, and people can go back to using reputable employment agencies for their servants. I don’t imagine they’ve been best pleased that you’ve stolen their fees from them.”
“I haven’t stolen anything! Those agencies take money from both the employers’ and the employees’ pockets, and don’t really care where they place people as long as they get their money. My advertising rate is most affordable. If you don’t wish to write about your idiot friends, I quite understand. But the rest of the paper—”
“Will be done. People can wrap their fish in something else.”
Evie’s cold hands were clenched. Ben sincerely hoped she wouldn’t spring forward and punch him, as she looked very ready to do. “But people depend upon
The List
!”
“They’ll find some other amusement. This is London, after all.”
“You bastard!”
Ben hid his annoyance with a smile. “Yes, yes. We’ve already established your appellation for me, inaccurate as it is. I suppose there’s no point in sitting down and drinking our brandy. I’ll see you home.”
To his surprise, Evie marched to the table, tipped her head back, and downed her glass in one long swallow. Her neckcloth had wilted, and he was able to see the white of her throat. No wonder her shirtpoints were so high—they concealed the Adam’s apple she did not have. Ben’s own mouth dropped open as she picked up his glass and gave it the same treatment.
“I thought you said you didn’t drink,” he needled.
“This occasion calls for it. You have singlehandedly destroyed all that I’ve spent two years of my life building up, and ruined the lives of countless others.”
“Ruined the lives?” Ben asked, incredulous. “Because they can’t read rubbishy poetry and exchange love notes?”
“You may mock, but for some,
The London List
has been their lifeline. You try being buried in the country with no prospects. A harmless flirtation through the personal ads may result in a lifetime of happiness.”
“If you’re referring to the marital state, surely you jest.”
Her lip curled. “What would
you
know of marriage?”
“What would
you,
unless you’ve already killed off some other poor idiot foolish enough to ask you to marry him?”
“I’ve had offers besides yours. I’m particular. I have standards.” Quite at odds with her words, she collapsed in a chair, her legs sprawling. This masquerade of hers had engendered very bad habits.
Ben snorted and poured himself another drink, pointedly leaving her glass empty. He took a punishing sip. “Look, Evie, I’m sure you see yourself as a regular Joan of Arc, come to save England. But somehow we’re all going to manage without
The London List
. I know
I
am. I cannot wait to wake up next Tuesday to a breakfast devoid of speculation and scandal, not to mention the knowing smirk from my butler.”
Ben turned to her, the smirk on his own face dissolving as he watched silver tears slither down Evie’s pale cheeks. “You can’t be crying! You have no reason to cry. Think of the money I settled on your father.” A blasted fortune for a building in an indifferent neighborhood and a business he knew nothing and wanted to know nothing about. His banker had complained, his man of business
would
complain, and here Evie sat in misery as if he’d killed a basket of puppies. Her hands trembled as badly as her father’s as she wiped the tears away, her thick black lashes clumping.

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