The Marriage Method (The Crinoline Academy #2)

Chapter 1

Penelope Trewlove followed the harried young clerk down the hall of the Fleet Street offices of the London Courant.

Similarly harassed-looking newspapermen bustled in and out of the small offices they passed, shuffling papers and addressing one another in urgent tones.

At the sight of her, some of them faltered, their attention caught between the fluttering black veil that shrouded her face and the limp that marred her gait.

Nell’s gloved fingers tightened reflexively on the raven’s head handle of her ebony cane.

It was her first visit to London, and not a willing one by any means.

She had been putting off the paper’s editor, Mr. Quincey, for weeks, each of her exceedingly formal replies to his letters penned with an effort to discourage his relentless curiosity.

But she could put him off no longer. His last letter had made that abundantly plain.

Either Nell travel to London to answer his questions about Miss Corvus’s Benevolent Academy for the Betterment of Young Ladies, or Mr. Quincey would come to the isolated stone manor house at the edge of the Epping Forest and put his questions to Miss Corvus herself.

As if Miss Corvus would ever risk allowing a journalist inside the charity school’s iron gates! She had, instead, sent Nell to deal with the situation. To come here today, in her role as deputy headmistress, and put an end to Mr. Quincey’s problematic inquiries once and for all.

A painted door at the end of the hall bore the vexing man’s name in stenciled letters.

The clerk opened it without knocking. He ushered Nell into a moderately sized office, distinguished by a wall of overstuffed bookcases, a small, threadbare sofa with a fringed skirt, and a massive desk, covered with chaotic piles of papers and three open bottles of ink.

The great leather chair behind the desk was conspicuously empty.

“Mr. Quincey is engaged at present,” the clerk said. He gestured to one of the two slat-back wooden chairs that were arrayed in front of the desk. “If you would care to wait?”

“Not at all.” Nell gratefully availed herself of a seat, propping her cane beside her.

After two hackney cab rides and a railway journey of nearly twenty miles, her left hip and thigh were aching like the dickens.

She did her level best not to betray the fact.

Her spine remained ramrod straight, her veil still firmly in place as she arranged the full skirts of her black bombazine carriage gown over the imposing frame of her wire crinoline.

Miss Corvus wasn’t a woman given to fashionable indulgences, but she had made an exception for the controversial cage-like undergarment. All of her teachers donned them like armor, as did many of the older orphans. It was no mystery as to why.

The sheer circumference of a crinoline kept its wearer separate and apart, protected from all but the most determined encroachments.

Not only that. She took up space for herself—demanded space—on the pavement, in a crowded conveyance, and in every sphere through which she traveled.

The greater world must step aside and let her pass. They dare not stop her.

The clerk bowed and withdrew, shutting the door after him.

Nell took the opportunity to cast an eye over the room.

Know your surroundings. Know your opponent.

Know yourself. They were the three most important rules she had learned at the Academy.

Rules meant to keep young ladies safe. To ensure they were prepared for anything, never overmatched or left unable to defend themselves.

It was the first rule that occupied her now. Unlike men, women didn’t have the luxury of entering a situation blindly. A female must know the four corners of where she stood—the entrances, the exits, the problematic terrain. She must, at all times, think both defensively and offensively.

Fortunately, Mr. Quincey wasn’t a complete unknown. Nell’s recently married Academy sister, Effie Royce, had a passing acquaintance with him and his premises. Among other things, she had warned Nell to anticipate cats.

There appeared to be none in residence today. The room was seemingly empty. Although…Was that a faint rustle of movement beneath the sofa?

The door jerked open before Nell could investigate the matter. A deep male voice sounded behind her. “Miss Trewlove?”

Nell’s head turned sharply. Never mind that she’d been expecting him, the sight of the tall, raven-haired newspaper editor still served to send a jolt through her. She stared up at him from behind her veil. “Mr. Quincey?”

He was in his shirtsleeves, his cravat askew and his black waistcoat rumpled.

It did nothing to lessen his air of command.

Self-assurance radiated from every inch of him.

“Apologies for the delay. One of my reporters has gone missing and my staff is up in arms.” He entered, closing the door behind him.

“I trust you don’t mind my not leaving it open? I’ve no wish to let the cat out.”

“The cat?” She flicked another glance to the sofa as she moved to rise. “I didn’t see any—”

“Pray don’t get up. We’re not much for formalities here. We’ve precious little time for them.” Rather than bow, he reached to shake her hand. “I am, however, very pleased to meet you.”

Nell’s mouth went dry as his fingers engulfed hers. His hand was easily twice the size of her own, surely better suited to holding a steel broadsword than a steel-nibbed pen. His shoulders were quite broad, too, lending an unmistakable power to the leanness of his long-limbed frame.

Alarm bells jangled in her head, inspired as much by his physical presence as by the peculiar intensity that gleamed at the back of his dark brown eyes.

This was the gentleman who had penned the explosive series of articles that had lately brought down a powerful politician. A dogged and indefatigable reporter, possessed of an unassailable firmness of character, unafraid of retaliation or threats.

For the first time, Nell considered the possibility that she might be out of her depth.

“As to the cat,” Mr. Quincey continued, releasing her hand, “she’s barely civilized. She’ll be hiding here somewhere.” He crossed to his desk, taking a seat behind it in the large leather chair. “Did Higgins offer you tea? I can have some brought in for you.”

“I thank you, no,” Nell said. She made an effort to regain her composure. In truth, she was astonished she’d lost it—even if it was only for the space of a heartbeat.

She wasn’t accustomed to dealing with men, that was the trouble.

She’d spent the majority of her life at the Academy, first as an orphan, then as a teacher.

Nearly the whole of her three-and-twenty years, surrounded by girls and women.

The only gentlemen to ever set foot through the gates were the antiquated members of the parish council, and then but rarely. Miss Corvus saw to that.

Nell couldn’t recall when she’d last been obliged to deal with any gentleman under the age of fifty. Unless one counted the stripling lads from the village who sometimes attempted communication with the orphan girls. And Mr. Quincey was no stripling. He must be thirty, at least.

He regarded her from across his desk’s cluttered surface.

He wasn’t a handsome man. Not in the classical manner.

His face was too angular and severe—his brows too stern, his clean-shaven jaw too hard, and his bold aquiline nose a fraction too large.

But his features hung together in such a striking way that one could easily forget their asymmetry.

“Your journey wasn’t too taxing?” he asked.

“Not terribly,” she said.

“Yet still a lengthy business. I’d have preferred coming to you. It would have saved you the trouble.”

“I have multiple reasons for coming to London,” Nell said. “My trip won’t be wasted.”

She was to visit Effie when she and her new husband returned to town in two days’ time.

Until they did, Nell had other Academy business to attend to.

Important business. It was that which should rightly be occupying her thoughts, not the solemn countenance and unusually broad shoulders of a prying newspaperman she would likely never see again after this morning.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” he said. “I won’t keep you overlong. There are just a few matters about the charity school that I’d hoped you might clarify.” Small talk dispensed with, he picked up his pen, giving every indication that he intended to take notes of their conversation.

Nell would have expected nothing less. “By all means,” she said. “Miss Corvus’s Academy has nothing to hide.”

It was a falsehood, to be sure. And one Nell didn’t blush to utter. The Academy was her vocation, her life, her home. She wouldn’t quail at defending it, even if it meant occasionally speaking something less than the truth to those who threatened its well-being.

Gloved hands folded neatly in her lap, she waited for Mr. Quincey’s questions. But he didn’t give voice to them. Not immediately. He only looked at her with a pensive frown, as though something about her person prevented him from pursuing his logical course.

“Forgive me,” he said at length. “Mrs. Royce failed to mention that you were lately bereaved. Had I known of your loss, I would never have pressed you to—”

“I am not bereaved,” Nell said.

“No?” He swept a glance from her black-veiled hat to her lusterless black mourning dress with its tight-fitting bodice and wide, untrimmed skirts. “You can doubtless understand my confusion.”

Nell would have thought it plain enough. “I traveled alone from the Academy. I preferred to do so unmolested.” She paused, adding, “Widows are generally accorded a degree of respect not offered to unaccompanied young ladies.”

Mr. Quincey didn’t bat an eye at her explanation. She suspected he was a man who wasn’t easily surprised. “In other words, it’s a disguise.”