Chapter Nine
He was ridiculous. Holding Booklover’s latest missive to his nose was sappy. Far from dukelike. Yet it was comforting, and as he inhaled, he was rewarded with the faintest of scents. It was a flower of some kind—orange blossoms, perhaps—and strangely familiar.
The paperwork he was supposed to be catching up on remained in his satchel as he stared out the carriage window.
He rarely took note of St James’s Park on his way to Westminster.
He tried to imagine how it would look through Booklover’s eyes in the wee hours of the morning.
There would be fewer people. It might be safe to visit at that hour.
Walking through the park during the day was risky.
One couldn’t get fifty feet without being stopped.
What should have been a brisk half-hour walk from his home to Westminster Abbey had become more than two hours the one time he’d braved it, and he hadn’t even gotten halfway.
Jac and Winnie had gossiped with every person they’d met.
Peter’s cheeks had burned from the smile he’d been forced to maintain.
But at dawn, with a warm coat and Booklover for company, it might be delightful.
As the carriage passed Admiralty House, he spied a flower cart on the corner.
He rapped on the ceiling without prior thought, and the carriage came to a stop.
A footman opened the door and Peter stepped into the sun.
He crossed the road to where the florist was calling out to passersby, waving a bright posy.
“Do you deliver?” Peter asked, his heartbeat quickening. He’d never bought flowers for anyone but his sisters, and he wasn’t quite ready to examine his motivations for doing so.
“Yes, milord. I deliver for the right price.”
“I’d like some of those ones.” Peter pointed to something soft and pink.
“And those there.” The roses were yellow and perhaps an odd pairing with the pink, but they were colorful.
“And this.” He brushed a deep red peony.
“Please deliver them to the post office by Piccadilly Circus tomorrow morning, before the sun comes up. Tell them the Duke of Strafford said to forward it on immediately.” Before the florist could object to such an early hour, Peter pulled out a handful of coins, far more than the flowers were worth, and pressed them into the man’s hands.
Booklover would come home from tonight’s nighttime activity to some color.
Then he strode back to the carriage before he could rethink the action.
“So, what is it like?” Mabel asked the moment Eleanor had placed the last sort into the composing stick and handed it to Mabel to be put into the chase, ready to be inked. “You have been frustratingly reticent these past few days.”
Eleanor tried to stifle a yawn. Lady Wharton was over seventy. Eleanor had expected her chaperoning duties to be done by midnight. Instead, the dragon gossiped until dawn.
Now, it was Monday, her one regular shift at The Times.
The paper was printed Monday nights and sold on Tuesdays.
Eleanor was hired to finish any articles the regular compositors had been too slow to set.
If she had been tight-lipped that morning, it was because her brain was sluggish and she’d needed to concentrate more than usual.
Mabel had found four mistakes, and Eleanor hated making mistakes.
You couldn’t be the best when you made errors. “Oh, Eleanor…”
She shook herself. Working day and night over the next few weeks promised to be more difficult than she’d expected, but hard work was what made a person.
“Balls aren’t unlike the assemblies we attend, except the food is better, the clothing is extraordinarily beautiful, and I don’t dance. I fetch Lady Wharton’s shawl, fetch her lemonade, and entertain her when she’s bored.”
“So, a companion is no more than a personal servant?”
Eleanor shrugged and did a cursory check of her case to ensure nothing was out of place.
“When Lady Wharton tires of her friends’ conversation, we take turns about the room, during which she points out the various people that inspire the characters in her novels.
I doubt she’d share that with a servant.
So, I guess that puts me in a strange middle place?
” She flipped the lid and latched the case.
“Well, I’m sorry that it is so dull, Eleanor. I hope her novel proves as successful as Sophie anticipates to make this worth your effort.” Mabel plucked her purse from beneath her stool.
“It is worth it. At least, it will be.” The more Eleanor observed and listened, the more confident she was that the ton would devour Lady Wharton’s novel and demand another.
Sophie would deliver the most popular book of the year, and Eleanor would have the satisfaction of walking past it on bookstore shelves knowing she’d been instrumental in its success.
“But the balls aren’t completely dull. The Duke of Strafford has been at one, at least.”
Lillian’s mouth dropped open. “Eleanor, how are you only telling us this now? Does his face match his character? What does a dastardly ruiner look like? I imagine ghoulish.”
“Yes. And did you give him a piece of your mind?” Mabel asked, linking arms with Lillian as they made their way through the print room.
It was heartening to hear them share her distaste for the man. Yes, he was a villain. “I didn’t actually meet him, or even see him, but karma has come for him already. He is being hunted. Hopefully dodging fate will derail his attempt to destroy an entire industry.”
As they pushed through the double doors, Eleanor heard her name called.
“Miss Wright!” Brendan Wiles, the Times compositor who worked from a desk two down from Eleanor’s, caught up to them, still in the process of buttoning his coat. “Another edition done and dusted, eh?”
Lillian and Mabel exchanged amused glances, and Lillian clapped a hand to her ear. “You know, I think I’ve lost a bauble,” she said. “Mabel, come help me look for it.” She dragged Mabel back the way they’d come.
As the doors closed with a swoosh, Eleanor sighed. Their workstation had been properly tidied and definitely did not have a loose bauble lying around. “Mr. Wiles, what can I do for you?”
“I thought I’d escort you out. Make sure you got into a cab safely.
” He grinned. That smile had likely won over many women.
His teeth were straight and showed no sign of tobacco use.
The curve of his lips was friendly with a hint of mischievousness.
Eleanor could see why he was so popular.
His curly hair fell over his eyes in a devil-may-care manner.
But it did nothing for her. “Thank you for the offer, but I am perfectly capable of hailing my own cab. Have a lovely evening.” She didn’t wait for his response and instead crossed to the vacant reception desk, leaving him gaping after her.
After a moment, he shook his head, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and stalked out.
She might have felt bad about it, if she hadn’t known exactly how the conversation would have gone.
Given the snippets she’d overhead while Brendan and his colleagues bantered, it was clear that he wanted a wife who could take the place of his mother.
There was no point drawing out his disappointment.
She should probably sit. Mabel would want to give Brendan as much time as possible. As she sank into the leather chair, her gaze snagged on a piece of metal resting next to a pad and pen.
“You cannot be serious.” She snatched it, surprised at how little the line of type weighed.
THE TIMES MARCH BOLDLY FORWARD.
It was as gimmicky as the product it was selling.
Still, trepidation twisted through her. Sophie would see through the novelty of the Linotype and prioritize quality over whatever it was the machine offered. She didn’t have that same faith in newspaper owners. Their standards, already low, might disappear under the flimflam of “progress.”
Eleanor clenched the metal. Something so slight could hardly withstand the rigors of printing, surely. Her palm stung. How many other printing houses had the Duke of Strafford visited with his polished flyer and cheap piece of type? How quickly would her employers fall for such tactics?
“Eleanor?” Mabel asked as she and Lillian approached.
Eleanor shoved the slug into her pocket. “I’m fine.”
Lillian’s brows furrowed. “What happened? Did Brendan upset you?”
“He wanted to escort me to the door.”
Mabel huffed. “You couldn’t let him? He’s good-looking and an awful lot of fun. I feel rather jittery whenever he looks at me.”
Eleanor sighed. “Then you can marry him. I am perfectly happy on my own.”
Lillian looked reproachful. “You don’t mean that.”
She very much did mean it. “I haven’t the time for or interest in a beau.
Nor do I have the need for one. I earn more than enough money to suit my wants without a husband, and I don’t need to share my space.
If I wish to read, I read. If I wish to travel to the seaside on a whim, I do so.
I don’t see what benefit a husband brings. ”
Lillian cocked her head. “Companionship?”
Eleanor threaded her arm around her friend’s. “I have the two of you for that.”
“Sex?” Mabel asked, flushing.
“I have found an alternative to that, too.” Eleanor was friends with Dr. Joseph Granville’s secretary. Ygritte had been tasked with ensuring each percussor worked. Coincidentally, the number of defective devices exactly matched the number of women in her book club.
“I have a nice life. My work, my friends, and my library bring me all the joy I need. Why mess with a good thing?”
Dear Captain,
I’m sorry, but you are wrong. The tsarevich’s tattoo was of a Sphinx. He had it inked in Egypt. I know this for a fact, though I cannot reveal my source. I’m frustrated that you don’t believe me. No doubt as frustrated as the tzar was when he saw his son’s tattoo… of a Sphinx.
Dear Booklover,
I know it must pain you to hear it, but for once your facts are wrong.
I, too, have a source that I cannot reveal.
He is more reliable than yours; I am sure of it.
Nicholas’s tattoo is of a dragon. It curves around his right forearm.
He had it inked in Nagasaki just days before he was attacked.
Apparently, it hurt more than a saber to the head.
Is this our first fight?
Dear Captain,
I believe it is. That must mark some kind of milestone.
P.S. I am right, as you will discover in a year.