Chapter 3
Nell sat back in the leather-upholstered seat of Miles’s carriage as his matched pair of jet-black horses sprang into motion. She wasn’t an idiot. She knew what he meant when he referenced his responsibilities.
Were she not already consumed with worry at the inevitable repercussions of this morning’s cat-induced debacle, she might have had some capacity left to be shocked by his sentiments.
Leave it to her to have been compromised by who had to be the last truly honorable gentleman in greater London. Surely, no other man would feel obliged to own up to his so-called responsibilities in such a way. Not if the lady he’d compromised was no lady at all.
Nell had no illusions on that score. She was an orphan girl, with no money or connections.
A humble teacher at an obscure charity school, and a lame one at that.
Most gentlemen would have fobbed her off with a wooden apology, and—if they were generous—an offer of some meager financial compensation.
They certainly wouldn’t have been contemplating anything more.
But Miles Quincey wasn’t most gentlemen. He was the childhood best friend of Effie’s new husband, Mr. Royce. Perhaps that’s why he was behaving with such unusual consideration?
He sat across from her in the carriage, his tall black hat resting on his knee.
He was, in every outward respect, no different from the man who had shaken her hand in greeting less than an hour ago, rumpled and impatient, as though he had a million obligations pulling on him at once and not enough time in the world to see them straight.
Yet, he wasn’t the same at all.
She’d since felt the strength of his arms. The long length of his leanly muscled body pressed to hers. And she’d submitted, quite willingly, as he’d lifted her skirts, giving him full view of not only her ankles (which would have been scandalous enough) but her calves and—heaven help her—her knees.
Facing him now, any other young lady would be forgiven for swooning. But Nell had neither the time nor the temperament for lapsing into a fit of the vapors.
She pushed back her veil. Her hat was still partially askew on her head, her hair coming loose from its pins. “Have you any way of locating Reverend Pettiman?” she asked. “One of your newspaper sources or something of the like?”
Miles looked at her steadily. There was an expression in his eyes that was difficult to read. “I can try.”
“I would be grateful,” she said. “If you can but find him and explain things, we may yet avert the worst of this disaster.”
“You prefer I speak with him?”
“It must be you. He’d never listen to my excuses. And if he did, he wouldn’t believe them. As a man you’ll be given the benefit of the doubt.”
“A cynical viewpoint.”
“An accurate one. It doesn’t behoove me to fool myself. Pettiman must be made to see reason. Otherwise…”
The possible consequences pressed in on her from every side.
A truly liberated female would laugh in the face of them.
But Nell knew better. Though the Academy’s mission was firmly progressive, it must still present a public appearance of conformity.
It was that outward veneer that was susceptible to crack if Pettiman’s accusations about Nell were made public.
No charity school could ever hope to remain reputable if its deputy headmistress had her character impugned by such a prominent local figure of morality.
Miles seemed to grasp her unspoken concerns. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
She reached up to remove her hatpin. “That doesn’t signify. It’s not the wrongdoing society concerns itself with, but the impression of wrongdoing. And you and I have provided ample evidence of that.”
He ran a hand through his disheveled black hair. There was a slight wave in his locks that was not unbecoming. “It was a perfectly justifiable interaction, however it looked. Far more comical than immoral, if you think of it.”
Nell lifted her hat from her head. “Yes, I’m sure Reverend Pettiman will be heartily amused. Perhaps we should introduce him to your cat?”
Miles’s brows lowered. “Shadow is as innocent in this as you are.”
Nell flashed him a speaking glance as she smoothed her hair back into its chignon. He was defending his cat. And from her of all people. She hated that she found it endearing. “I know that,” she replied. “I’m not blaming her.”
Miles didn’t seem to fault the little beast either. Never mind that she’d bitten him. And severely enough to draw blood if the damp streaks of crimson that stained the front of his waistcoat were to judge. “No one is to blame,” he said. “Unless—”
She paused in the act of resettling her hat back on her head. “Unless what?”
“Nothing.” He glanced away from her to the carriage window. Outside, the city rolled by at a steady clip as the horses weaved through the crowded streets.
“Oh no,” Nell said. “Please don’t refrain. If you have a criticism to bestow upon me—”
He turned back to her. “Not on you. On that wire cage contraption of yours. It’s the true culprit in this.”
Heat threatened to flood Nell’s cheeks once again. This time she failed to suppress it.
It was bad enough that he’d lifted her skirts. That he’d seen her stocking-clad limbs, with the darning on her right knee. Now he was criticizing her undergarments? The unmitigated nerve!
“Don’t you dare speak another word,” she said in the same perilous tones she sometimes employed with the more insolent of her students.
Miles was undeterred. “No one requires skirts of such astounding circumference. They’re impractical, as well as being dangerous.”
Nell’s eyes narrowed. The man clearly had a death wish. “Let me guess, in addition to being a brilliant editor, a fearless reporter, and a champion of truth and justice and cats, you’re also a member of the anti-crinoline league?”
He snorted. “Don’t be absurd. I’ve rarely given the things a second thought.”
She stabbed her hatpin back into place, securing her hat in its correct position. “Until this moment, it seems.”
“Yes, well…the device is hard to ignore on direct acquaintance.”
Her blood simmered with mingled embarrassment and indignation. “You have no acquaintance with my undergarments, sir, direct or otherwise. I’ll thank you to keep your opinions about them to yourself.”
A shadow of a smile edged his lips. It vanished as swiftly as it appeared. “I beg your pardon. I have been unforgivably rude.”
“Yes. You have.” She paused, adding dourly, “A gentleman wouldn’t have looked at it at all.”
“If that’s so,” Miles said, “a gentleman would have been precisely zero use in removing that cat.”
Nell privately conceded the point. She only hoped that Reverend Pettiman would prove to be as rational-minded about the matter when Miles found him.
If Miles found him.
Whether he did or he didn’t, Nell’s own course was plain. She had no choice but to return to the Academy on the next train.
Miss Corvus would require fair warning, and Nell would be remiss if she didn’t give it to her as expeditiously as possible.
It would have to be in person. There wasn’t time to stitch one of the coded sewing samplers Nell and her Academy sisters used for confidential communications.
And Nell could scarcely commit this morning’s events to a telegram that any nosy clerk at the telegraph office might read.
She turned to stare out the carriage window, her stomach twisting into an inextricable knot. Good lord, but this was a mess.
No, not a mess, she amended bitterly. A failure. And on her first mission, too. For that’s what this was, and no mistake.
She hadn’t come all this way simply to answer Miles Quincey’s questions.
Important as it was to the Academy that she put his inquiries to rest, there was another matter that was more important still.
It had arisen in the days directly preceding Nell’s imminent departure for London.
A pressing enough issue that Miss Corvus had summoned Nell to her private chambers and given her the assignment herself.
“I wouldn’t normally send you on such an errand,” Miss Corvus had said. “But as you’ll already be in town, you’ll be well placed to investigate the matter.”
Nell had shaken her head. Much as she’d have liked to take charge of the situation, she knew she wasn’t best suited for it.
She wasn’t Effie. She hadn’t spent years abroad, mastering the art of gliding, sharklike, through the treacherous waters of fashionable society.
From childhood, Nell’s feet had been planted firmly on the shore.
“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” she’d said.
As ever, Miss Corvus had anticipated her.
“There’s a seamstress in Whitechapel with whom I once had an acquaintance.
She can’t read. It makes writing to her an impossibility.
You must visit her in person. Speak with her.
Persuade her to introduce you to the madams at the brothels thereabouts.
She does a steady trade for them, and will know where to direct you. ”
“But I have no experience outside of the school,” Nell had objected. “I can deal with Mr. Quincey well enough. That calls for strategy and diplomacy. But for something of this nature, surely you would do better to send Miss Sparrow.”
Along with Effie and Nell, ginger-haired Gemma Sparrow was one of the earliest of the Academy’s graduates. Now a teacher at the charity school, she instructed the girls in self-defense with her trademark brand of ruthless gusto.
“Miss Sparrow is a blunt instrument,” Miss Corvus had replied. “It’s your soft touch that’s required here. You have a gift for inspiring women and girls to trust you. It’s time you put it to use.”