Chimney Sweep Over a Marquess
The Metropolitan Review’s office hummed with activity as Amelia sorted through her notes from the charity fundraiser. The door burst open, and Elisha, Duchess of Lancaster, swept in with familiar confidence.
“I heard Viscount Norwich was paying you particular attention at Hereford’s charity event,” Elisha announced without preamble, settling into her favorite chair.
“Who told you?” Amelia looked up from her notes.
“Edgar heard it from his secretary. Lord Norwich is apparently quite taken with your articles on reform.”
“He was knowledgeable about industrial reform,” Amelia said, setting aside her pen.
“Hmmm. I wonder if it’s just your writing he’s admiring,” Elisha added with a knowing smile.
“He hasn’t courted anyone since his wife died fifteen years ago.
He’s devoted himself to raising their daughter, but she’ll make her debut next Season.
Perhaps that’s why he’s finally showing interest in someone. ”
Amelia laughed. “If you’re suggesting what I think, you’re being ridiculous. A man like Lord Norwich wouldn’t look twice at an illegitimate daughter of a disgraced viscount.”
“You underestimate your appeal. You’re intelligent, beautiful, passionate—”
“And a cripple,” Amelia cut in. “Not to mention nearly twenty years his junior.”
“Men prefer younger women,” Elisha countered. “And he’s quite handsome for his age. More importantly, he shares your passion for reform. Unless you’re interested in a certain rakish marquess…”
“Lord Hereford?” Amelia scoffed. “That spoiled boy who thinks life is one grand game? I’d sooner marry a chimney sweep.”
While Elisha laughed at the jest, a messenger arrived with a calling card. Amelia read it, her cheeks warming. “Lord Norwich requests to call on me this afternoon for tea to discuss my articles.”
“How providential,” Elisha’s smile widened. “Would you like me to join you? As chaperone, of course.”
“Yes, please,” Amelia replied. “Though purely for professional reasons.”
“Of course,” Elisha stood, smoothing her skirts. “Though you might want to wear that green silk that brings out your eyes. For professional reasons, naturally.”
“Out!” Amelia threw a wadded paper at her friend, smiling despite herself.
Elisha paused at the door, her demeanor suddenly serious. “How was your visit with Dr. Morrison? I waited for you as long as I could, but Edgar needed me at home.”
Amelia’s smile faded. “Enlightening in the worst possible way.”
Elisha closed the door and returned to her seat. “Tell me everything.”
“He called me there to confess something horrendous,” Amelia lowered her voice. “My leg could have been saved. The amputation wasn’t necessary.”
“What?” Elisha’s face paled.
“The factory owners refused to pay for months of treatment. They decided amputation would be more economical.” Amelia withdrew the yellowed letter from her desk. “He gave me this.”
Elisha read the cold, clinical words silently, her face paling.
“This is monstrous,” she whispered. “Does it say who sent it?”
“No signature. Dr. Morrison said the orders came from one of the proprietors, but he never learned which one. The letter went through the foreman first.”
“The handwriting is distinctive,” Elisha observed. “Someone educated, clearly.”
“I need to identify all three owners Morrison mentioned,” Amelia said. “I’ve already confirmed the foreman, Peter Moore, still works at Crown Street. He’s now the site manager.”
“You shouldn’t investigate alone,” Elisha cautioned. “That part of London is dangerous.”
“Perhaps Lord Norwich’s connections could help,” Amelia mused. “If he truly supports reform, he might inadvertently provide access to information I couldn’t otherwise obtain.”
“A strategic alliance with a handsome viscount?” Elisha’s lips quirked.
“A professional consultation,” Amelia corrected firmly.
*
The afternoon light slanted through the Review’s windows as Amelia served tea in her private office. Lord Norwich accepted a cup from Elisha with gratitude.
“Your articles show remarkable insight into the workhouse system,” he said. “One might almost think you had firsthand experience.”
“I do,” Amelia replied. “I spent my childhood in workhouses after my mother died when I was five.”
Surprise flickered across his face. “My sincerest condolences, Miss Thornton. It must have been extremely difficult.”
“It taught me valuable lessons about society’s inequities,” she smiled briefly at Elisha. “The duchess and I met in one such establishment.”
“And how did you progress to newspaper editor?” he asked.
“When I injured my leg at fourteen, my brother found me during recovery. I hadn’t known I had a brother, also an illegitimate child of the viscount.”
“May I ask how the accident occurred?” Norwich held her gaze intently.
“At a textile factory. My leg was caught in one of the machines,” she replied steadily. “I don’t recall much about that day. The duchess was by my side during my recovery.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Norwich had gone very still, his face draining of color.
“My family lost everything when I was young,” he said finally, his voice weaker than before.
“Our estate, our standing. I began as a clerk in textile factories, watching owners live luxuriously while workers suffered.” His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his teacup.
“I vowed to rebuild what was lost. It took years of sacrifice.”
“That explains your interest in reform,” Amelia observed, curious about the change in his demeanor, but also moved by his story.
“Yes,” Norwich nodded, though something flickered behind his eyes.
The door burst open, interrupting them. Hereford stood there, impeccably dressed, his usual languid expression replaced by something sharper.
“Norwich,” he said, ignoring proper greetings. “I saw your carriage. We need to discuss the railway matter.”
“Lord Hereford,” she said as an icy chill settled inside her, “this is a private meeting.”
“My apologies, Miss Thornton, but certain business matters can’t wait,” he said with a stern expression she hadn’t seen before.
“It might be better if I leave,” Norwich rose quickly, nearly knocking over his teacup.
“Are you unwell?” Amelia asked. “You’ve gone quite pale.”
“Just a slight headache. Thank you for the tea, and for sharing your story.”
They watched him hurry out, his composure notably absent. Hereford’s eyes narrowed as he observed the older man’s retreat.
“I don’t suppose either of you would care to explain what prompted Norwich’s color to match that of fresh linens?” Hereford asked.
Before they could respond, Hereford was already gone, following Norwich as if chasing him.
“I believe we’ve just witnessed something significant,” Elisha said thoughtfully.
Amelia stared at her cooling tea, feeling uneasy. “Whatever it may be, I feel troubled.”
*
Hereford caught up with Norwich beside his waiting carriage. “Your sudden interest in the Metropolitan Review,” he began, “I find myself wondering about its timing.”
“How fascinating that you’re monitoring my reading habits,” Norwich replied coolly.
“Reading is one thing. Calling on its proprietor for private tea suggests you’re hoping to influence the paper’s coverage.”
“My interest in Miss Thornton is perfectly legitimate.” Norwich’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “She’s quite remarkable—intelligent, passionate, and surprisingly beautiful despite her… imperfection. Her newspaper provides a useful platform.”
Hereford’s jaw tightened at Norwich’s casual reference to Amelia’s limp. “If you’re considering adding her to your collection of conquests, I advise against it.”
“My collection?” Norwich’s eyebrows rose. “That’s rich coming from you.”
“Miss Thornton is not some opera dancer or bored Society wife. She’s a serious woman of substance.”
“Precisely what makes her so intriguing,” Norwich leaned forward slightly. “Imagine having such a voice of moral authority eating from one’s hand. Or should I say, warming one’s bed?”
Hereford’s hand clenched at his side. “I’m warning you, Norwich. She’s not a woman to be trifled with.”
“I find myself more intrigued by your reaction,” Norwich studied him. “Could it be the lord who tups every lightskirt harbors a tender spot for our Miss Thornton? Or is it merely that you’ve come to appreciate certain of her… attributes?”
“I respect her work,” Hereford hissed. “And I know your methods. You’ll use her, damage her reputation, then discard her once you’ve extracted whatever value she offers.”
“How chivalrous,” Norwich’s tone dripped with amusement. “I wouldn’t have expected you to appoint yourself guardian of a commoner’s virtue.”
“Look elsewhere for dalliance.”
“We shall see,” Norwich’s smile turned calculating. “Miss Thornton has proven quite receptive to my attentions so far. Her newspaper’s influence would be most valuable to my interests, not to mention the more personal benefits.”
“If you harm her in any way—”
“You’ll what?”
Hereford’s smile was dangerous. “Let’s just say I know things about your business practices that would make fascinating reading in the Metropolitan Review.”
Norwich’s eyes turned icy despite his smirk. “You will not, Hereford. I recognize a kindred spirit when I see one. You wouldn’t ruin my reputation when it’s tied to our joint venture because you’re as insatiable as the rest of us.”
Hereford watched the older man embark onto the carriage and pull away, wondering where his protectiveness of a woman who clearly despised him had come from.
When he spotted Norwich’s crest on the carriage parked in front of the Review, he had reacted instinctively.
He had been fueled by rage at the thought of Norwich exploiting Amelia Thornton’s principles and worse.
“Utterly ridiculous,” he muttered, turning away. Feeling protective toward a woman didn’t mean he had tender feelings for her. The idea was absurd. She hated him. She was a commoner. And again, she hated him.