The Marriage Lesson (10 page)

“I’m looking for Mr. Cadwallender?” Marianne called again, hoping to be heard above the clamor that was obviously part and parcel of the printing business.

A huge machine she assumed was a printing press dominated the main room. What space was left was crowded with any number of items she couldn’t possibly identify and a few she could make a guess at. Stacks of paper, both blank and printed, leaned against the walls. Print blocks were heaped in piles or laid in racks. The air was thick with the scents of ink and oil and who knew what else. It was exceedingly hot and she fanned herself with the papers she held in one hand.

A layer of grime covered much of everything, although, on closer inspection, Marianne discovered it wasn’t only dirt. Fine sprays of ink coated every surface. She ran a gloved finger along the edge of a wooden desk and studied it. She wrinkled her nose. It was definitely ink with more than a touch of dust.

“Mr. Cadwallender,” she called again. Surely, given all this noise, he was here somewhere. She stepped closer to the press. “Is anyone here?”

A short, older gentleman popped his head out from behind the massive machine. Great furry brows drew together and he glared. “What do you want, missy?”

Her heart sank. Mr. Cadwallender was nothing like she thought he’d be from his letter. He didn’t seem the type who would be at all inclined to like her work—or her, for that matter.

“Come on, then. Spit it out, girl. State your business.”

She stepped toward him and favored him with her brightest smile. “Good day, Mr. Cadwallender. I’m delighted to finally meet—”

“Hold on, there.” He craned his head and bellowed, “Ephraim!” He nodded at her then disappeared behind the machinery.

Apparently that wasn’t Mr. Cadwallender. She breathed a sigh of relief. Surely he couldn’t be any worse than the grizzled elf she’d just talked to. She did wish he’d appear though. She’d asked the carriage to wait and she needed to return to Effington House as quickly as possible. The duchess’s ball was tonight and she counted on the frenzied state of the household to mask her disappearance. Still, she preferred not to run unnecessary risks. The last thing she needed was her absence noted.

She sighed and studied the machine. It towered over her, a complicated array of huge rollers and an astounding variety of gears, pulleys and levers.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” a deep voice sounded beside her.

She turned to find herself eye level with a man’s chest. Her gaze traveled upward to a determined profile and eyes that gazed at the contrivance in front of him with something akin to love.

“She?” Marianne said curiously.

“She’s as cantankerous as a woman, I give you that,” the elf muttered, stepping around them.

“Don’t mind him.” He turned back to study the press. “So what do you think of her?”

“Me?” She looked at the contraption. “It’s—”

“She.”

“She’s quite . . . ” she groped for the right word, “impressive.”

“That she is. She’s steam-powered, you know. The newest thing and my own design.” He ran a hand along the metal frame. No, he caressed the frame with the affection of a lover. “She can print a thousand pages an hour.”

“Really?” Surprise sounded in her voice. “I had no idea. That is impressive.”

He nodded with satisfaction and turned toward her. “Now, then, how may I help you?”

“Help me?” For a moment she’d forgotten why she’d come. She stared at a muscled chest barely concealed by a thin, well-worn shirt scandalously open at the throat. She’d never seen a man this revealingly attired before. Most improper but interesting nonetheless.

“Miss?”

Her gaze jerked to his and heat washed up her face.

He smiled down at her. “Not that I’m at all averse to visits by attractive ladies, but do you have business with me? I’m Ephraim Cadwallender and for all intents and purposes this is my place.”

“At your service.” He bowed slightly. “And you?”

“Miss Smythe. I wrote to you?”

“Of course.” His gaze flicked over her and at once she realized he knew it was not her real name. “Of the not-so-adventurous
Adventures of a Country Miss
?”

She bristled and handed him her writing. “It’s rather more adventurous now, I should think.”

“We shall see.” He started toward the back of the shop. “Come into my office while I look at this.”

The office was a small room dominated by a large desk butted against one wall, and not much else in the way of furnishings save a couple of wooden chairs and a tall precarious bookshelf. It was as cluttered as the main room and just as stifling.

He sat down at the desk and gestured to the other chair. It, too, was buried under mounds of papers. Apparently if she wanted to sit, she’d have to clear it off herself: Cadwallender was already perusing her work. She sighed and delicately picked up the stacks of papers—billings, they looked like—and plopped them on the floor in one of the few bare spots she could find. Then she dusted herself off, perched on the edge of the chair and waited.

Cadwallender skimmed the pages she’d given him, his dark hair, a bit longer than was fashionable, falling over his forehead. He let out a long low whistle. “Is this all true?”

“Does it matter?” she said without thinking. “Not that it isn’t true, but, as I discussed in my letter, I wish to remain anonymous, and—”

She hesitated for a moment. “Yes, of course it’s me. These are my adventures. My experiences.”
More or less.

He raised a brow. “I don’t particularly care one way or the other as long as the stories are good. And I like what you have here. It’s exactly the type of thing my readers want. I don’t suppose there’s the possibility of a murder in your adventures?”

She started. “I scarcely think so.”

“Pity.” He shrugged. “Readers like a good murder as much as they like a good scandal. Probably more.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” she said primly.

He leaned back in his chair and considered her thoughtfully. “I should tell you, Miss Smythe, that while I have a handful of people who write for me on occasion and a number of others who provide me with information, I do most of the writing for the
Messenger
myself. I also set the type, run the press and sell advertising.”

“Do go on.” She held her breath. Was this his way of letting her down? Rejecting her?

“I’m telling you this so that you understand, while I will compensate for your work, I cannot pay you well.”

“I didn’t expect—”

“However, the
Messenger
continues to grow in circulation every week and if this does as well as I think it will”—he tapped a finger on her story—“you will profit.”

They chatted for a few minutes more about payment—not a great deal, as he had warned, but it was something, at any rate. And something she earned herself. There was a lovely warm feeling about knowing she had taken her first real step toward independence.

“If that’s all, then”—he got to his feet—“I shall get this in tomorrow’s issue.”

“So soon?” She stood and stared up at him.

“Absolutely. I want the readers of London to start following the adventures of a country miss—the true adventures of a country miss—without delay.”

“Excellent.” She extended her hand and he took it. “Now, I have a carriage waiting and I—”

“Wesley,” he said abruptly.

“Wesley?”

“Yes. Lord Wesley. He’s rather a fine figure of a man. Is he your Lord W?”

“No, he most certainly is not.” She tried to pull her hand back, but he held it fast.

“Wymore, then?” He nodded. “He’s known to be melancholy.”

“No.”

“Windham?”

“No!” She laughed. “And I daresay I would not tell you if it was. It quite defeats the entire purpose of anonymity.”

“I suppose. Although, as your publisher . . . ” A teasing light shone in his eye.

“Mr. Cadwallender.” Marianne firmly pulled her hand from his. “I must be on my way.”

“I can find my way, thank you.” She stepped to the door and pulled it open, then turned back to him. “I was wondering . . . ”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever explored a jungle in Africa, Mr. Cadwallender?”

“No.” He grinned. “But then, the opportunity has never presented itself.”

“Pity.” She flashed him a smile. “Good day, Mr. Cadwallender.”

“Blast, blast, blast!” Thomas glared at himself in the cheval mirror in his chambers. “Banks!”

The valet appeared behind him. “Yes, my lord.”

“Would you do something with this bloody thing.” Thomas thrust the now-limp cravat at the servant.

“Of course, my lord.” Banks dropped the offending neckpiece onto a nearby chair. A freshly starched cravat was draped over his arm.

Thomas turned to face him. Why he continued to frustrate himself over something as silly as tying a cravat was beyond him. His valet had even had tiny gold Roxborough crests embroidered in the middle of the bottom edge of the neckcloths to help Thomas position them correctly. It made absolutely no difference.

Banks managed the chore with a minimum of effort and a barely concealed smile. It was a constant source of amusement to the valet that His Lordship could not tie a cravat in the intricate folds dictated for formal wear.

“What do you think, Banks?” Thomas surveyed himself in the mirror with a critical eye. “Will I do?”

“The ladies will swoon and the gentlemen will choke with envy, my lord,” Banks said matter-of-factly.

“Thank you, Banks.” Thomas grinned. The valet had impeccable taste and he was right. The man smiling back in the mirror was the epitome of fashion and wore an air of supreme confidence. Handsome. Dashing. A man of the world.

“It’s time, my lord.”

Thomas grimaced. He’d never arrived at a ball on time in his life, but Lady Dragon insisted propriety dictated he and the girls, as host and guests of honor, be on hand from the first to greet the arrivals. He might as well get it over with.

He cast one more glance in the mirror, adjusted his cuffs and started for the door. “It’s going to be an interesting evening, Banks.”

“Isn’t it always, my lord?”

Tonight, however, was different. He headed toward the ballroom. Tonight marked the Shelton sisters’ official entry into society. And their entry into the marriage market—whether they liked it or not. He chuckled to himself. They’d be wed before they knew it.

The thought pulled him up short. What was the matter with him? When had he discarded the philosophy that any man, so long as he breathed regularly and walked upright, for
appropriate
? If this was what the fathers of girls went through, Thomas vowed never to sire anything but sons.

He reached the first floor and glanced around. Footmen in full livery were already stationed beside the front entry below him in the grand foyer as well as at the foot of the stairs. Two more flanked the doors leading into the ballroom. The floors sparkled, the marble gleamed, the chandeliers glittered. Effington House was as perfectly turned out as he was.

“Good evening, my lord.” Lady Dragon descended the stairs to the first-floor gallery.

“My lady.” Thomas caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “You are looking exceptionally lovely tonight.”

“Don’t bam me, boy,” she said sharply, but she was obviously pleased by the compliment.

“I never lie to beautiful women,” he lied, although in truth the older woman did look surprisingly handsome.

She’d discarded the overly proper and rather drab clothes she habitually wore for a fashionably styled gown in a deep claret color. A matching turban of silk and feathers was wrapped around her head. With a start he realized she was probably no older than his mother, and no one had ever accused the Duchess of Roxborough of being dowdy or plain. Perhaps the title of Lady Dragon should be retired.

“And you should take care, my lord, or I will be forced to smile, and I have done so once this year already.” The twinkle in her eye belied her words. “We would not want the earth to shake on such a festive night.”

She withdrew her hand and her gaze shifted to a point behind him. Something that might indeed have been a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Good evening, my dears.”

Thomas turned and tried not to gape.

If he’d thought Jocelyn and Becky were lovely before, they were radiant now.

Jocelyn was an angel from the heavens. An inviting confection in a filmy white gown dusted with gold that floated around her. White and gold ribbons threaded through her honey-colored hair.

Becky, beside her, was an earthbound temptress in a pale green concoction that deepened the emerald of her eyes and complemented the mahogany hue of her hair. And molded a figure he’d never realized was so enticing.

“Ladies.” He bowed. “I am overwhelmed.”

The sisters exchanged satisfied smiles.

“Good evening, Aunt Louella,” Jocelyn said and extended her hand. “Lord Helmsley.”

“My lady. You are ravishing this evening.” He bent over her hand and at once noticed the low cut of her bodice. The extremely low cut of her bodice. Fashionable or not, how could her aunt have allowed such a thing?