Chapter Three
But Eleanor would not be able to tell anyone a thing about the echidna, at least not more than what was written on the plaque outside its enclosure, because the creatures refused to show themselves. So, too, did the wombats and the duck-billed platypuses—platypi?
The only animals that could be seen in the Australian enclosure at the London Zoological Society were a koala curled up in the fork of a branch and a Tasmanian tiger that paced back and forth in its cage, its eyes firmly fixed on her.
She reminded herself that if the bars were strong enough to keep lions at bay, they could easily withstand an attack by the dog-sized thylacine, whose build was scrawny and whose stripes made it look more so.
Still, she was agitated. No matter how fast she had walked or how often she shook out her hands or circled her shoulders, it still felt like bugs were crawling over her.
The zoo was her happy place. It was supposed to reknit her fraying edges, but that damned Linotype had stirred up dread she’d never experienced.
It was existential in nature, as though the entire world was about to shift and shake, and she wasn’t sure where her place would be in the aftermath.
The only certainty was that the Duke of Strafford was responsible for her current disquiet.
What right did he have barging into her home and trying to change things?
He should keep to his own affairs—whatever it was that aristocrats did with their time.
It was the height of arrogance to meddle in someone else’s business, and for profit all the more.
Trust a man to come in, balls-forward, and suggest that he knew better than those who’d been in the industry for decades.
Well, he would get his comeuppance. No one had asked for his contraption, and no one needed or wanted it.
Forcefully releasing a breath as though she could expel the dread with it, Eleanor turned her attention back to the platypus enclosure, searching the small man-made river for any hint of movement beneath the surface.
The sign—neat letters in an unnecessarily plain font stenciled onto polished wood—stated that they were primarily nocturnal animals.
The wombats were as well, apparently, which could explain why there were so few people in this particular enclosure, since, in principle, visitors came to stare at the animals, not mounds of dirt, rocks, and mud.
She heard footsteps behind her. “That’s disappointing.” The man’s voice was warm, like mulled wine on a winter evening. She turned toward it, hands moving on their own to neaten her skirts.
He was exquisite. His deep brown hair, touched with gray, framed perfect eyes—rich ochre flecked with gold and rimmed with chocolate.
His skin was lightly tanned, and his dark lashes directed her gaze to his, the way good architecture or a perfectly designed cover might.
His lips were soft and symmetrical, with delicate curves that reached up at the corners as he smiled at her.
Good God. His jaw could have been hewn from marble. It was as though the Lord had gotten bored with all his other creations and had chosen this man to be his masterpiece. Other men were mere studies compared to him.
Goose bumps prickled across her arms as he arched a brow. She cleared her throat and took a step back, removing herself from his magnet-like pull.
“What’s disappointing?” A half-second later she realized that he must be talking about the absent animals. “They’re nocturnal,” she said, quickly covering her error.
The man took a step closer to the window, his nose almost pressed against it. “A nighttime viewing at the zoo might be more effective.”
“They’ve done them.” Now that his attention had shifted to the animals, her brain could function. “But nighttime viewings don’t exactly provide insight into the animals. They are more focused on fireworks and music and racing ostriches.”
The man whipped his head around to look at her. “You can race ostriches?”
Eleanor nodded, lips pursed. “They harness small wagons to them and you can race them for a ha’penny.
” She had declined the opportunity when it was presented to her.
She wanted to study the animals, not toy with them.
There was nothing on this earth that she didn’t feel the urge to learn about, but respecting a subject was necessary to truly understand it.
“That feels…” He cocked his head, as though searching for the right word.
“Exploitative?”
“Exactly.” He paused. “Although I suppose it’s no different from the elephant rides.”
A familiar jolt of enthusiasm quickened her brain. “Did you know that there are almost twenty thousand elephants in the transport system in Thailand?”
The stranger blinked. “I did not know that. I suppose it would come with significant logistical issues.” There was something in his tone of voice that suggested they were both imagining the likely worst issue with an elephant-based transport system.
London could barely keep up with horse excrement on the roads. Elephant dung was significantly larger.
But ladies didn’t discuss such things, so she parried with another tidbit.
“Elephants have a penchant for alcohol and have been known to tear entire camps apart to get their trunks around a case of sato. Could you imagine an elephant deep in his cups let loose in St. James’s Square?
The toffs would run screaming in all directions. ”
He furrowed his brows. “Most people would go screaming in all directions.”
“True. At least the elephants here seem to be teetotalers. I’ve yet to see one stumbling around trumpeting a mournful tale of how he’s been done wrong.” She was rambling. Why on earth was she rambling?
The stranger tilted his head. “Or these elephants are biding their time until Prince George visits, completely sauced and demanding a ride. They’ll nick the flask from his left pocket and then throw him in the fountain.
” His smirk reached his eyes, which flashed with merriment. “I would give good money to see that.”
She grinned in return. “No doubt the newspapers would have a photograph plastered across the front page a day later.”
“Stop the presses!” he called out. “The prince is in the fountain.”
Eleanor laughed. Setting the text that accompanied such an article would be the highlight of her career. Hell, she might even do it for free.
The man’s grin broadened further as he heard her guffaw. “I’m Peter,” he said, tipping his hat.
“Eleanor Wright.” Her cheeks flushed, which they never did.
Then again, never had a man as attractive as this one tried so hard to make her laugh.
Was he flirting? She was familiar with the act, but unlike the clumsy double entendres she was used to fielding, his words, his rueful smirk, his slight lean toward her, made her tongue-tied and lightheaded rather than tired.
She liked his flirting, but at the same time, she truly didn’t.
A decade of self-sufficiency and success had left her in control of most situations, but she sensed that there was no controlling this man.
He was too handsome, his aura too self-assured, his words too quick-witted, and his eyes too sharp with intelligence.
He was the kind of man she read about in her smutty novels but never encountered in real life.
Now that she had, she felt the need to scamper in the opposite direction to escape the awareness of him that zinged across her skin.
“It was lovely to meet you, Peter. I hope you have more luck with the platypuses than I did,” she said, backing away.
“Platypuses or platypi?” he asked, as though not willing to let the conversation end.
She paused, her discomfort giving way to her curiosity. “I don’t actually know the etymology of the word, but I will consult the dictionary when I get home.” She continued her retreat to the bench and her typecase.
He sighed. “I suppose I should return to my duties. I was persuaded to skip out for the afternoon, but I should return before those who need me come searching.”
“What do you do?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
He hesitated, a crease forming between his brows. “Most of the time, I work for the House of Lords. Today, I am supposed to be chaperoning my youngest sister and her friends, but there is only so much squealing one can handle in an afternoon.”
She took in the cut of his coat, the silk of his necktie, the quality of his kidskin gloves.
He was too well dressed to be a footman or a clerk and that aura of his was imbued with so much confidence that he had to hold power of some sort.
Perhaps he was an advisor or even a personal secretary to someone important.
Her interest was piqued. She’d never been in the House of Lords before.
“That must be fascinating. What do you do, exactly?”
He rubbed the back of his neck with a rueful blush. “Herd cats, most of the time. Now and then, I get to feel like I’ve done something significant. What of you?”
She slipped her satchel over her shoulder and lifted her typecase from the bench, her arm used to the weight of it as it dropped.
Peter’s eyes bulged. “That is the most terrifying purse I’ve ever seen a woman carry.”
He wasn’t wrong. The typecase was huge and life would be easier if she was willing to leave it at Cumberland Press when she’d be returning the following day, but her fonts were her tools, her method of earning a living, and her keys to freedom.
So she lugged them home every evening and back to work every morning, doing her best to switch from one hand to the other so that she didn’t develop lopsided arms.
“It’s a typecase,” she said.
“A typecase?”
“It’s full of letters for printing. I put them together to form paragraphs, they get inked, and then the pages are printed.”
Peter drew away. The playful energy he’d exuded cooled, and his eyes narrowed. Was it because she’d revealed her occupation? Had he thought her a lady of leisure who spent all her days entertaining herself? Was he somehow disappointed to learn she was working-class?
“You’re a compositor?” he asked.
She blinked, surprised he knew the term. “I am. A good one.” She tried to keep defensiveness from her tone, but it still snuck in there.
His hand reached for the case. “May I?” he asked. “I’ve never seen one before.”
Her instinct was to hide it behind her, but that was stupid and she would not be ashamed of her work.
She put the case back on the bench, flipped open the latches, and lifted the lid to reveal the hundreds of individual characters—sorts—more lowercase than uppercase, more As than Ys, and more of the quads that created spaces between words than anything else.
He picked up a piece, gently, as though careful not to get ink on his gloves. Not that he would have. Mabel was meticulous in scrubbing Eleanor’s type after printing. Leftover residue could cause imperfections in the next print, and Eleanor hated imperfections.
“How long does it take you to set a page?”
“Book or newspaper?”
“Newspaper.”
“A full page is a day’s work.”
He cocked his head. “Interesting. I’d heard it took longer.”
“It usually does, but I’ve been setting type since I was eight years old.” And she would set it until she was eighty.
“So, you’re a master?” He grinned and she sensed no sarcasm.
“I suppose so. Yes.” It wasn’t arrogance to state the truth.
He paused, as though trying to settle a debate in his mind before his lips firmed as he made a decision. “Would you like to go for coffee? From memory, Blackwell’s Rooms is just down the road.”
If Mabel and Lillian were here, they’d prod her forward.
For months, they’d been nudging her toward courtship, insisting there was more to life than work, books, and Eleanor’s cat.
Here was a man who was exceptionally good-looking and well-off enough to wear quality leather boots and a small diamond neck pin that was too understated to be paste.
And after hearing her say that she was better than her colleagues, he still wanted to take her out for coffee.
He was everything Mabel fantasized about.
Despite the temptation, she couldn’t do it.
She felt weirdly unlike herself in his presence.
Having coffee with him might well set off a chain of dominoes, and who knew where those fallen bricks and plans would take her.
Best to stick to the future she could control.
Besides, she had the Captain, who was by all means a thoroughly safe flirtation given they didn’t even know each other’s true names.
No. Best not to have anything to do with this man.
“Thank you, but my calendar is full. Enjoy what remains of the afternoon.” She snapped the latches shut and swung the typecase off the bench, the weight of it her ballast, keeping her steady.
She could feel the heat of his stare as he watched her go. It scorched the bare skin at her neck, as though his gaze had set her ruffled lace collar on fire. She quickened her pace. Thank God I never have to see him again.
Dearest Booklover,
I have another confession for you, since you have already drawn out my penchant for science fiction and the names that I call my brother in my head.
Last night I snuck into the kitchen and tore a leg off the chicken we are supposed to have for dinner tonight.
While I was at it, I helped myself to a lemon pudding that was out on the bench.
No, forgive me. If this is to be a true confession, I stole the pudding from the pantry. It was rather exhilarating, if I’m to be honest. I haven’t felt that naughty since I was twelve and I shimmied down the tree outside my bedroom. I blame you and your terrible influence.
My only saving grace is that no one will suspect me because they have no notion of my dastardly nature. Besides, I hadn’t had a moment to myself and was starving. I paid for it, so it wasn’t truly theft, was it? At least, that’s what I imagined you whispering to me before I committed the crime.
Dear Captain,
Forgive my unsteady hand. I am in a cab, on my way to meet a most curious dinner partner, but I just remembered to tell you of a rumor.
It appears the keeper at Highgate Cemetery is hosting ghost tours.
Completely unauthorized, obviously, and I’ve no idea how to buy a ticket.
But I’m fascinated. I plan to visit during the day as soon as I am able. Perhaps there will be a clue there.
Thank you for the copy of The Coming Race. I have not yet read it and I’m glad that my first time will be accompanied by your annotations. It will be almost like sitting across a table from you, reading it together. I like the thought.
Yours,
Booklover
P.S. It was not theft, and I am not a terrible influence. I rather think the opposite.