Three
It was the first of the month. The day that Lyman normally paid his landlady, Ellen’s family, and all his other creditors, in that order. But today he rose early, shaved, and dressed himself before the sun was up, and tiptoed down the stairs. He took care to hop over the second step, which creaked. Mrs. Hirsch had the watchfulness of a barn cat, but she couldn’t ask after the rent money if he was gone before she woke.
His account balance had been dwindling for months, every new expense bringing him closer to ruin. Again. Poverty was never far behind him. If Lyman forgot it for a moment, it would pop up in the fraying end of his coat sleeve or a hole in his shoe. He would taste it in his supper of bread and beans at the local public house, while the other diners ate meat. It had made itself a home in his debts, gobbling up his meager repayments so quickly they seemed little more than air.
But today, things were different. Once Lyman gingerly shut the back door behind him and stepped out into the safety of the gray morning, he walked with a lighter step. He had tucked a large parcel wrapped in brown paper under one arm, thick and heavy with the promise of financial security. His revisions were done, and he would turn his manuscript in to his publisher today, just as soon as the clock struck a decent hour. That meant fresh money.
Once the deposit had cleared, he could pay Mrs. Hirsch, and Michael, and all the rest, and then he would breathe easy. At least until the funds got low and the whole wretched cycle started over.
He would try to work quickly on the Bath guide.
Lyman desperately needed a strong cup of tea, but everything on this street was closed for another few hours. He decided to walk to his publisher’s office in the hopes of finding a hotel tearoom along the way. It would help kill the time until the start of business, in any case. It was well over an hour on foot from his little boardinghouse in Pimlico to the booksellers of Paternoster Row.
The fastest route was to take Rochester, but that path led straight into the Devil’s Acre, where half a dozen thieves would be all too happy to relieve him of what few valuables he had left, even at this hour of the morning. Lyman headed north, instead, to pass Buckingham Palace and take Piccadilly. It would add time to his stroll, but it was far safer.
After about twenty minutes, the change in the quality of the neighborhood became evident. Signs in windows proclaiming “Comfortable lodgings!” became less frequent, then vanished altogether. They were replaced by the brass plaques of doctors’ and dentists’ offices for a short time, until those, too, gave way to whitewashed row houses of the finest caliber.
Lyman had lived here once. It felt like eons ago. If he kept walking north into the heart of Mayfair, he might pass his old town house. Instead, he pulled up his coat lapels to shield his face from the wind and hurried on. No good came of dwelling on the past. That life was lost to him and he had no one to blame but himself.
He had just passed the Green Park when he saw it. He’d still been looking for a tearoom, and instead had fallen upon another sort of amusement. Similar, yet entirely different.
MRS. BISHOP’S CHOCOLATE EMPORIUM, the sign proclaimed. And underneath, just in case Lyman had forgotten, LADIES ONLY.
So, this was Miss Danby’s gaming hell. He hadn’t quite been able to scrub their brief encounter from his mind. In spite of himself, he wondered what such an establishment would look like. Its owner must be quite fearless. Lyman crossed the street to get a better view.
He was almost disappointed by how normal it seemed. It was a small, unassuming storefront bordered tightly by its neighbors. The plaster was freshly painted in sky blue, with a little flower box on either side of the door. As fashionable as anything you would expect to see on Piccadilly, but nothing exceptional. Certainly no chasm threatened to pull the place down to hell before his eyes. The windows were shuttered, leaving Lyman to guess what it might look like inside.
You don’t want to see the inside , he reminded himself. There was curiosity, and then there was self-destruction. Everything about Miss Danby promised the latter.
Lyman hurried his steps on toward Paternoster, but his destination was still far off, and now his thoughts were fixed on the gaming hell and its beautiful proprietress.
How pleasant it might have been to reciprocate her flirtation—for she had flirted with him, he was sure, at least at first. He might’ve taken the opportunity to laugh with her for a moment, to do something charitable like agree to put her business in his book and bask in the light of her attention a little longer, forgetting his problems. His current mode of living hadn’t allowed him to keep up his friendships with the wealthier set he’d once frequented. It would have been nice to talk to someone new.
But for Ellen.
She always weighed heavy on his conscience.
They hadn’t spoken in nine years and he’d long since pawned his ring, but his wife still lived. What little opportunity he had for feminine companionship was strictly limited to people in similar situations. Widows and ladies who’d separated from their husbands and wished to engage in a discreet affaire. He would never be free of the bonds of his marriage, which meant he had to steer clear of eligible young ladies like Miss Danby, whose prospects might be harmed by an association with him.
He wouldn’t think of her any longer. She was like any other attractive woman who might cross his path—occasionally tempting, yet always out of reach. It did no good to imagine what might have been. She was meant for a better life than his.
No worse than what you deserve. The voice in his head sounded suspiciously like his father’s.
But when Lyman finally arrived at his publisher’s office and rapped on the door, he found Miss Danby sitting inside the receiving room as if summoned by his thoughts, calmly sipping the cup of tea he’d not yet managed to procure. A slim young lady was at her side; her companion, perhaps.
Lyman was so surprised, he couldn’t even greet her. What is she doing here?
“Oh! Good morning, Lord Ashton.” She set her tea down upon a little side table covered in card-stock advertisements for various texts. “Allow me to present my sister, Miss Annabelle Danby.”
He recovered enough to blurt out a hasty, “Good morning, Miss Danby. Miss Annabelle.” There wasn’t much of a resemblance between them, except for the honey-brown hair. Where Miss Danby had a round face and generous curves, Annabelle was narrow and angular, almost sharp. But she had a watchfulness in her eyes that somehow called to mind her older sister’s quick wit.
“Er, your hat.” Miss Danby motioned toward his head. He’d forgotten to remove it. She always seemed to set him stumbling one step behind.
As he fumbled to hang it on the coat rack, the secretary returned, pausing only a moment to take in Lyman’s presence before he announced, “Mr. Armstrong will see you now.”
Lyman strode forward automatically, but Miss Danby cleared her throat and rose to her feet.
“Excuse me, my lord, but I have an appointment.”
An appointment. With his editor. What was happening?
This was about her club; it had to be. The timing was too suspicious to be anything else, and hadn’t she warned him that she would be his enemy? It appeared the threat was more than a fit of pique. Perhaps she’d come here to complain about him, or to go over his head and persuade Armstrong directly.
Either way, Lyman wouldn’t have it.
“I’ll accompany you then,” he said swiftly. “I have something for him, in any case.”
We’ll see how far she gets when I’m there to set things straight.
Miss Danby had the decency to look flustered at this. “That’s really not necessary—”
But Lyman walked ahead, leaving her to either follow or cede her appointment. She chose to follow, her sister scurrying behind her. At least she’d brought a chaperone this time.
When they reached John Armstrong’s office, the man looked up in surprise, “Lord Ashton! I didn’t expect to see you here this morning.” He motioned them all in, pulling out a chair for Miss Danby, then for her sister. Lyman had to stand. “Does this mean you’ve all reached an understanding then?”
“No,” Lyman replied. What lies had she spun to secure this meeting? “I’m not sure what Miss Danby has told you, but I won’t include her ladies’ club in my book.”
Armstrong puckered his graying brows in confusion. “What club?”
“My lord, if I may.” Miss Danby turned in her chair to face him. “We have moved on to other projects, and you’re quite behind the times. Would you allow me a chance to explain?”
She said it politely, a sweet-as-a-lemon-drop smile on her face, but Lyman bristled at the condescension. Armstrong, on the other hand, appeared utterly smitten. He was grinning like a schoolboy half his age.
What Miss Danby said next did nothing to improve Lyman’s mood.
“I perfectly understand why you refused to include ladies’ entertainments in your book. You’re right; it’s not the proper place for them. That’s why I’ve proposed to Mr. Armstrong that I write my own guide to London, intended for the fairer sex.”
“A lady’s guide to London?” What’s the point of such a thing? “But you can’t attend hotels and public houses unescorted, and all the things you might wish to do with a husband are already in the gentleman’s guide. What’s left to write about?”
What were they even doing here? This woman was wasting everyone’s time. But instead of showing her the door, Armstrong was fawning over her. His secretary even returned to offer the ladies pastries, though Lyman never received baked goods when he visited.
“Do you think we women do nothing at all while you lot are out drinking at your clubs all day?” Miss Danby shot him a scathing look. “It would include all the best shops, for everything from hats to furniture, bakeries, charities, theaters—”
“Theaters are already in my book.”
“I don’t believe you own the concept of theaters, my lord.”
“To be sure,” Armstrong cut in, “it would be a smaller volume. Less to cover. But it’s an interesting idea, to capture all the readers left out by the first book. A companion piece, so to speak.”
“Exactly.” Miss Danby gave Armstrong a winning smile, which seemed to overset the man entirely.
“My guide is a complete document,” Lyman protested. “It doesn’t need a companion piece.”
Had he misjudged things? The ground felt suddenly unsteady beneath his feet. He wasn’t sure if all of his readers were men. If their wives did the shopping, they might well decide they preferred a ladies’ guide and leave his volume lying on the shelves. He couldn’t afford a drop in sales.
I should’ve put her damned club in the book when I still had the chance. It would’ve caused less headache.
Mr. Armstrong addressed Lyman as though he hadn’t spoken. “I was hoping you could help her write it. We wouldn’t want her name attached to it publicly, to protect Miss Danby’s reputation.”
It was all Lyman could do not to let his shock show plainly. “You want me to write a lady’s guide for her? She’s only doing this because I wouldn’t put her business in my book.”
“Please don’t speak about me as though I’m not sitting right here,” Miss Danby cut in. Had he thought her flirtatious at the café? Seeing her expression now, it was clear those days were long behind them. “Mr. Armstrong, I don’t need anyone to write the guide for me. I’m well acquainted with all the attractions of London, and I assure you that my parents have provided me with a thorough education. I’m quite capable of writing it myself.”
“Have you ever written a book before?” Lyman asked, suspecting he knew the answer. For Armstrong’s benefit he added, “If everyone who aspired to be a lady novelist actually published something, we would all be drowning in paper. It’s much easier to plan than to accomplish.”
“I shall prove you wrong,” she said coolly.
“We seem to be getting off on the wrong foot,” Armstrong intervened. “Lord Ashton, even if there’s no need for you to collaborate on the text, Miss Danby might benefit from your advice and guidance, as a sort of mentor, to produce a document of quality.”
Impossible. He wasn’t going to keep company with the owner of a gaming den. He’d fought to sever ties with anyone involved in that world. He wouldn’t be pulled back in.
Armstrong continued. “I could pay you a stipend for your contribution, of course.”
“Pay?” Lyman turned to him with a hawk’s focus. That changed things.
“Shall we say twenty pounds upon submission of an acceptable finished draft?”
Miss Danby cleared her throat delicately. “Could we please clarify whether this is to be deducted from money that would otherwise be mine?”
“Well, yes, Miss Danby,” Armstrong replied with an affectionate chuckle. “If we buy your book, a portion of the price we agree upon will go toward Lord Ashton. Unless you’d prefer to publish on commission?”
Miss Danby’s lovely brown eyes widened as she looked from Armstrong to Lyman. She was obviously lost.
“She doesn’t,” Lyman said firmly. Publishing on commission was a risky venture that put the majority of both profits and losses in the hands of the author. For an unknown writer like Miss Danby, it was far safer to sell her copyright for a lump sum and let the publisher take on the risk.
“Wait.” Miss Danby looked at him in suspicion. “I didn’t agree to that. What’s the difference?”
She didn’t even appreciate the fact that he’d just saved her from a crushing error.
“If you publish on commission, you’ll have to repay any losses if the book sells poorly,” Lyman explained patiently. “You don’t want that.”
Why am I helping this woman? She obviously didn’t know the first thing about publishing. She had no business coming here.
But twenty pounds was twenty pounds. Even if Lyman wasn’t persuaded this idea had real merit, there was no need for him to spend more time with Miss Danby than was strictly necessary. She’d said that she could write it herself, so let her try. He would take some tea in her sitting room a few times to tell her what she was doing wrong, and she could sort it out as she liked. It would only cost him a few hours of his time. Well worth the rewards Armstrong had promised.
“As far as I’m concerned, you have a deal,” he said to his editor.
“I’m not sure I like the idea of sharing the monies from my own work,” Miss Danby protested.
“You’ve come here selling me an idea, Miss Danby,” Armstrong explained. “It has potential, but you’re unknown to our readers. If the viscount attaches his name to the project, it will go a long way to helping me justify the investment to my superiors. His books are very successful. I’m sure his assistance will prove worthy of a share of the price.”
Lyman finally found the good humor to favor Miss Danby with a smile.
“Well…if this is the only way.” She pulled a card from her reticule, handing it over to Lyman with a trace of reluctance. “You may call on me on Monday to work out the details.”
She spoke as though his assent was assured.
“I have a standing engagement on Mondays and Wednesdays,” he said, with a certain satisfaction.
Those were the days he tutored several young gentlemen in composition and decorum to supplement his income, though he wouldn’t reveal the depths of his poverty by sharing this information with Miss Danby.
“And I’m needed in the House of Lords at the end of the week.” He couldn’t find the time to attend every sitting, but he made a point to go when the business was something important.
“Tuesday then.” She pushed the card in his direction once more, and he finally took it. One glance at the address told him everything he needed to know about her family’s place in the world. She was waiting for him to return the gesture, her hand still outstretched. There was no avoiding it. Lyman fumbled in his breast pocket and produced his own card. Miss Danby frowned as she read it. “But this only has your publisher’s address.”
“Yes, I prefer my mail to be sent here. It saves any overeager readers from turning up at my door. In any case, there’s no need for you to call on me. I’ll come to you.”
Mercifully, Miss Danby didn’t question the explanation. She merely tucked his card away and took a bite of her pastry, which seemed to signal that the discussion was complete. Her sister hadn’t said a word the whole time. What sort of family had Miss Danby come from, to turn out so bold? It didn’t seem to be a shared trait.
Well, he would soon have the opportunity to see them up close.
“I almost forgot,” Lyman said. “I’ve finished my revisions.” He pulled the parcel from the crook of his arm and presented it to Mr. Armstrong, who took it with a smile.
“Ah, wonderful. I wasn’t expecting these until next week.”
“I made it a priority.”
“Very well, very well. Please see Bradshaw on your way out, and we’ll make an appointment to go over this with me next month. You can let me know then how things are progressing with Miss Danby’s book.”
“Might I attend, if the meeting is to concern me?” Miss Danby batted her eyes very fetchingly at Armstrong. “I’m sure I could learn a great deal by observing your work.”
She knows exactly how to get what she wants, that one. Lyman really was being made to pay for his initial refusal. If it weren’t so intrusive, he might almost have admired Miss Danby’s cunning.
“Of course,” Armstrong agreed, without missing a beat. “We’ll draw up a contract for you and Lord Ashton to sign then. Please bring your father with you. I trust you’ll want him to look over the terms.”
There was finally a reaction from Miss Annabelle, who hid a smirk behind her gloved hand. Her elder sister shot her a furious look before she replied to Armstrong. “I’ll…bring my brother.”
Why not the father? They couldn’t be orphans, or her sister wouldn’t have smiled that way. Perhaps their parents didn’t approve of Miss Danby’s more risqué endeavors. Interesting. Lyman made a mental note to use that to his advantage, should the need arise.
He might not have chosen this situation, but he could still come out on top, one way or another.
Lyman took his leave of Armstrong and the Danby sisters, plucked a pastry from the tray, and went to go see about his advance.
Whatever else might have gone wrong today, he’d made a bit of money, with the promise of more to follow if Miss Danby could be made to produce her manuscript in good time. That was all he could afford to care about now.
***
“Peter, I need your help with something.” Della began this conversation with no preamble, finding her brother alone in his study at three in the afternoon with a glass of brandy or two behind him already.
Like Della, Peter had brown eyes, light brown hair, and a figure that tended toward plumpness. He was two years her junior, but he had the irritating habit of behaving as though he were somehow her intellectual superior on account of his sex. This wouldn’t have been so bad if Peter had distinguished himself in any way, but as he had thus far done nothing at all with his life, Della detested the conceit.
“What’s this?” He looked up from a puzzle box he’d been toying with and blinked at her entrance. Della didn’t often intrude upon his time.
“I need a male relative to approve a legal matter for me in a few weeks. It won’t require much on your part. Just wear something smart and say ‘I thoroughly agree’ once or twice, and then we can go home. Only let’s not bother Papa with it; it’s hardly worthy of mention.”
“This isn’t to do with your club, is it?” Peter narrowed his eyes. He had never been impressed by Della’s business, though he spent enough of his own time lounging around Brooks’s to have paid for an additional wing by now.
“No,” she said curtly. “It’s another matter entirely.”
“If you want my help, you’re going to have to tell me what.”
Drat. Della should have known there would be no avoiding it. She straightened her shoulders and tried to adopt a nonchalant tone, as if this were a perfectly ordinary project. “I’ve reached a tentative agreement with a publisher to produce a lady’s guide to the sights of—”
She made it no further before Peter’s groan drowned out her words. “It’s bad enough you run a gambling club. Now you want to write a book, as well? Why can’t you be a normal sister, and spend your time at charities? It’s embarrassing, Della.”
“It’s to be published anonymously,” she protested. “So it won’t cause you any more embarrassment than you currently suffer.”
“Which is considerable .” Peter shot her a dirty look and helped himself to another brandy. “And anyway, do you really think you’ll be able to write a book?” He cast her such a doubtful look that she was tempted to smack him.
“Why wouldn’t I be able to? I’m perfectly literate.”
“Yes, but you must admit, you aren’t the most organized person. And you have a tendency not to finish your projects. Remember when you decided to learn Italian? That lasted all of three weeks.”
“I learned some very useful phrases,” she retorted. “For example, mio fratello è uno stupido.”
The nerve of him. True, her papers were perpetually out of order and she could never find two shoes that matched without help from her maid, but that had nothing to do with whether she could write up a few comments on attractions she knew like the back of her hand! Once she really put her mind to something, she could accomplish it. After all, she was the only one in the family who’d built up a profitable business from nothing. That should have earned her some respect.
“Or the time you insisted you were going to be a harpist and begged Father to buy you a harp,” Peter continued. Once he was on a subject that made him feel superior, he could keep talking all day. “Whatever happened to that? Gathering dust in the attic, isn’t it?”
“I’m a passionate person; I won’t apologize for sampling what life has to offer,” Della snapped. “Anyway, let’s not dwell on the past. I’ve stuck with Bishop’s for three years now. That should count for something.”
“Don’t be silly. Everyone knows your friend did all the work.”
Murder. I shall murder this sad excuse for a Danby, just as soon as I’ve gotten what I need from him.
“Mrs. Williams didn’t do all the work.” Della had to force the words through her clenched jaw. “In fact, I’m practically running the place alone since her confinement.” That might have been an exaggeration, but Jane would forgive the fib if she knew Della’s character was under attack.
But it didn’t persuade Peter, who merely snorted. “I fear for its solvency then.”
Oh, to be an only child!
Weren’t siblings supposed to be kind and helpful? She had yet to meet any that fit the bill.
“Will you agree to meet the publisher with me or won’t you? If I have to trouble Papa, I’ll be sure to mention you refused to do it.”
It wasn’t that Della couldn’t ask her father if it came to that. It was only that he spent most of his time sampling cigars with his friends or out on hunting trips. She was likely to seek him out on the appointed date of her meeting only to find he’d departed for the countryside and forgotten all about her. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“Fine, fine,” Peter relented. “For my usual fee.”
A bottle of good champagne, which she got from Bishop’s at wholesale price (or for free, as far as Peter was concerned).
“Agreed.”
“Annabelle and I would never get away with half the things you do,” he muttered darkly.
This was only true if one considered the things Della did were frequently odd endeavors, and neither of her siblings endeavored much of anything. But if one counted every scandalous mishap, regardless of its nature, there was certainly a family resemblance.
Never mind. Peter had agreed to what she wanted. She wouldn’t prolong her own suffering by dragging this conversation out.
“Just so it doesn’t surprise you, there will be a gentleman author present as well, the Viscount Ashton—”
“The one who wrote the guidebook?” Peter interrupted. “I consult it regularly! How did you meet him?”
“If you would let me finish a sentence, I was getting to that.” Della narrowed her eyes. “He’s mentoring me for the book. It’s going to be a companion guide for ladies.”
“Why on earth didn’t you tell me from the start? I’d love to meet him! I have so many suggestions for the section on public houses.”
Of course. When she had a project, it was embarrassing and absurd, but when Viscount Ashton did the same, he was an authority to be respected—nay, swooned over.
“I think it’s too late to make suggestions now. Please don’t embarrass me by insisting.”
“It would serve you right to be embarrassed for once.” But Peter couldn’t maintain his arch tone for more than a minute before it gave way to awe once more. “What’s Lord Ashton like? I expect he’s quite fashionable. Did he say what haunts are favored this season?”
“I didn’t ask.” Della glanced at the clock, eager to be on her way. “As to what he’s like, the best description I can find is ‘appallingly condescending.’ The two of you should get along famously.”