by Evie Dunmore
The girl’s eyes snapped open. They stared at each other, her flat on her back, him looming.
She was on her feet like a shot. “You! You are trespassing.”
She had looked petite, but they stood nearly eye to eye.
He felt his face freeze in a dim-witted grin. “No, I—”
Stormy gray eyes narrowed at him. “I know who you are. You are Lady Rochester’s son.”
He remembered to bow his head. Quite nicely, too. “Tristan Ballentine. Your servant.”
“You were spying on me!”
“No. Yes. Well, a little,” he admitted, for he had.
It was the worst moment to remember that the flap of his trousers was still half undone. Reflexively, he reached for the buttons, and the girl’s gaze followed.
She gasped.
Next he knew, her hand flew up and pain exploded in his left cheek. He staggered back, disoriented and clutching his face. He half-expected his hand to come away smeared with red.
He looked from his palm at her face. “Now that was uncalled for.”
A flicker of uncertainty, perhaps contrition, briefly cooled the blaze in her eyes. Then she raised her hand with renewed determination. “You have seen nothing yet,” she snarled. “Leave me alone, you . . . little ginger.”
His cheeks burned, and not from the slap. He knew he had barely grown an inch since his birthday, and yes, he worried the famous Ballentine height was eluding him. The runt, Marcus called him. His hand curled into a fist. If she were a boy, he’d deck her. But a gentleman never raised his hand to a girl, even if she made him want to howl. Marcus, now Marcus would have known how to handle this vicious pixie with aplomb. Tristan could only beat a hasty retreat, the slap still pulsing like fire on his cheekbone. The Lyrical Ballads lay forgotten in damp grass.
Chapter 2
London, 1880
Had she been born a man, none of this would be happening. She would not be left waiting in a musty antechamber, counting the labored tick-tocks of an old pendulum clock. The secretary wouldn’t shoot suspicious glances at her from behind his primly organized little desk. She would not be here at all today—Mr. Barnes, editor and current owner of half of London Print, would have signed the contract last week. Instead, he was encountering challenges in closing the deal. Naturally. There were things a woman could do just because she was a woman, such as fainting dead away over some minor chagrin, and there were things a woman could not do because she was a woman. Apparently, a woman did not simply buy a fifty percent share of a publishing enterprise.
She let her head slump back against the dark wall paneling, belatedly remembering that she was wearing a hat when it crunched in protest.
She was so close. They had shaken hands on it; Barnes was eager to sell quickly and to relocate to India. As usual in her line of work, this was simply a matter of waiting. Unfortunately, patience was not a virtue she possessed.
Behind her drooping eyelids, her mind took an idle turn around London Print. From the outside, the publisher’s headquarters had an appealing, modern look: a gray, sleek granite façade four stories high, located on one of London’s increasingly expensive streets. Befitting for an enterprise whose two best-selling periodicals regularly reached over eighty thousand upper- and middle-class women every month. The office floors, however, were as dull as the publisher’s editorial choices: desks too small, rooms too dim, and the obligatory side entrance for the only woman working here—Mr. Barnes’s typewriting daughter—was a cobwebbed servants’ staircase. If she were serious about keeping the place, the side entrance would be the first thing she’d dispose of.
The tinny sound of a bell made her eyes slit open.
The secretary had come to his feet. “Lady Lucinda, if you please.”
Mr. Barnes approached in his usual hasty manner when she entered his office. He hung her hat and tweed jacket on an overburdened hat rack, then offered her tea as she took her seat at his desk, an offer she declined because she had a train back to Oxford to catch.
More covert glances, from the direction of Miss Barnes’s typist desk in the left corner. Unnecessary, really, considering the young woman had seen her in the flesh before. She gave her a nod, and Miss Barnes quickly lowered her eyes to her typewriter. Hell’s bells—she was a leader of the suffrage movement, not a criminal on the loose. Though granted, for many people, this amounted to one and the same.
Mr. Barnes eyed her warily, too. “It’s the board,” he said. “The board is currently trying to understand why you would be interested in taking over magazines such as the Home Counties Weekly and the Discerning Ladies’ Magazine.”
“Not taking over; co-owning,” Lucie corrected, “and my reasons are the same as they always were: the magazines have an impressively wide reach, a broad readership, and still clear growth potential. Furthermore, your acquisition of the Pocketful of Poems line showed that London Print is able to branch out successfully into the book market. Everyone with an eye on publishing is interested, Mr. Barnes.”
Most importantly, there were only two other shareholders, each one owning twenty-five percent of London Print respectively, both silent partners, one of them residing abroad. She’d have as good as nothing standing in the way of her editorial decision making.
“All this is quite true,” Mr. Barnes said, “but the board was not aware until our last meeting that you were behind the Investment Consortium.”
“I’m afraid I can’t see how this affects our deal.”
Mr. Barnes tugged at his necktie. His bald pate had the telltale shine of nervous perspiration. Invariably, she had this effect on people—making them nervous. It’s because you are very purposeful, Hattie had explained to her; perhaps you should smile more to frighten them less.
Experimentally, she bared her teeth at Mr. Barnes.
He only looked more alarmed.
He made a production of taking off and folding up his glasses before finally meeting her eyes. “My lady. Allow me to be frank.”
“Please,” she said, relieved.
“You are rather active in politics,” Mr. Barnes ventured.
“I’m a leader of the British suffragist movement.”
“Indeed. And as such, surely you are aware you, erm, are a bit of a controversial figure. I believe a recent article in the Times called you exactly that.”
“I believe the article used the words ‘nefarious nag’ and ‘troublesome termagant.’”
“Quite right,” Mr. Barnes said awkwardly. “Naturally, the board is wondering why someone with the aim to overturn the present social order would have an interest in owning such wholesome magazines, never mind a line of romantic poetry.”
“Why, it almost sounds as though the board fears I have ulterior motives, Mr. Barnes,” she said mildly. “That I am not, in fact, keen on a good business opportunity, but shall start a revolution among respectable women through the Home Counties Weekly.”
“Ha ha.” Mr. Barnes laughed; clearly it was precisely what he feared. “Well, no,” he then said, “you would lose readers by the droves.”
“Quite right. Let us leave the revolutionary efforts to The Female Citizen, shall we not.”
Mr. Barnes winced at the mention of the radical women’s rights pamphlet. He recovered swiftly enough. “With all due respect, publishing requires a certain passion for the subject matter, an intimate knowledge of the readership. Both the Discerning Ladies’ Magazine and Home Counties Weekly focus on issues relevant to the gently-bred woman.”
“Which should pose no problem,” Lucie said, “considering I am a gently-bred woman myself.” Unlike you, Mr. Barnes.
The man looked genuinely confused. “But these magazines endeavor to promote healthy feminine pursuits . . . fashion . . . homemaking . . . a warm, happy family life.” He turned toward the corner where his daughter had ceased typing a while ago. “Do they not, Beatrix?�
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“Yes, Father,” Miss Barnes said at once; clearly she had hung on every word.
Lucie inclined her head. “Miss Barnes, do you read the Home Counties Weekly and the Discerning Ladies’ Magazine?”
“Of course, my lady, every issue.”
“And are you married?”
Miss Barnes’s apple cheeks flushed a becoming pink. “No, my lady.”
“Very wise.” She turned back to Mr. Barnes. “Since Miss Barnes is a keen reader of both magazines, being a single woman evidently does not preclude an interest in healthy feminine pursuits.”
Now he was clearly at a loss. “But the difference is, my daughter would be interested because she has the prospect of having all these things, and soon.”
Ah.
Whereas she, Lucie, had no such prospects. A home. A happy family life. Her train of thought briefly derailed. Odd, because it shouldn’t—what Barnes said was only true. She was not in possession of the attributes that enticed a man, such as the softly curving figure and gentle eyes of Miss Barnes, which promised all the domestic comforts a husband could wish for. No, she was a political activist and rapidly approaching the age of thirty. She was not just left on the shelf, she was the shelf, and there was not a single gentleman in England interested in her offerings. Admittedly, her offerings were meager. Her reception room hosted a printing press and her life revolved around the Cause and a demanding cat. There was no room for the attention-hungry presence of a male. Besides, her most prominent campaign was waging war against the Married Women’s Property Act—the very reason why she was presently sitting in this chair and dealing with Mr. Barnes, in fact. Unless the act was amended or abolished altogether, she would lose her small trust fund to any future husband upon marriage, along with her name and legal personhood, and she would, quite literally, become a possession. Consequently, the right to vote, too, would move forever out of reach. Terribly enticing. No, what she wanted was a voice in London Print. And it seemed they were refusing to give it to her.
She loathed what she had to say next. But she hadn’t personally cajoled a dozen well-heeled women into investing in this enterprise only to tell them she had failed shortly before the finish line. Was Barnes aware how near deuced impossible it was to find even ten women of means in Britain who could spend their money as they wished?
Her voice emerged coolly: “The Duchess of Montgomery is part of the Investment Consortium, as you may know.”
Mr. Barnes gave a startled little leap in his chair. “Indeed.”
She gave him a grave stare. “I will call on her soon to inform her of our progress. I’m afraid she will be . . . distressed to find that her investment was not deemed good enough.”
And a distressed duchess meant a displeased duke. A powerful, displeased duke, whose reach extended all the way to India.
Mr. Barnes produced a large handkerchief from inside his jacket and dabbed at his forehead. “I shall present your, erm, arguments to the board,” he said. “I’m confident it will adequately clarify all their questions.”
“You do just that.”
“I suggest we meet again at the beginning of next week.”
“I shall see you Tuesday next, then, Mr. Barnes.”
* * *
Oxford’s spires and blue lead roofs were blurring into the fading sky when she exited the train station. The university’s golden sandstone structures were still aglow with the warmth of the sun after it had set. Normally, the sight of the ancient city soothed whatever mood she brought back from London. The founding academic walls and halls had not changed much since the last crusade and were wound through the town center as indelibly as the slew of inane scholarly traditions was shot through Oxford’s social fabric. There was a comforting permanency to it, the very reason why she had set up home here ten years ago. Of course, there were other reasons that had made the town an obvious choice: it was considerably more economical than London, and, while located blissfully far from the prying eyes of society, still close enough to Westminster by train. Sometimes, she was struck by fleeting regrets that the women’s colleges had opened only as recently as last year, when she had been too old and certainly too notorious to enroll, but back in her day, she had at least succeeded in paying acclaimed university tutors for some private lessons to improve her algebra and Latin. But, above all, she had chosen Oxford because it was assuredly untouched by time. A simple walk through town had put things into perspective, akin to the vastness of the ocean: what was a girl’s banishment from home in the face of these walls guarding seven hundred years of the finest human knowledge? Less than a mile east of her house on Norham Gardens, geniuses like Newton and Locke and Bentham had once been at work. On the rare occasions she felt whimsical, she imagined the long-gone brilliant minds surrounding her like grandfatherly ghosts, murmuring encouragement, because they, too, had once dedicated themselves to causes others had deemed nonsensical.
Tonight, the city failed to lift her spirits. A dark emotion was still crawling beneath her skin by the time she had arrived at her doorstep, and her legs were still itching for exhaustion. At this hour, she could hardly pay a social call to her friends, though Catriona was probably still at work on an ancient script in her father’s apartment in St. John’s. . . . She unlocked the front door instead. Lamenting about the spineless Barnes would not ease her restlessness. Now, a good long ride took care of twitchy limbs. But she hadn’t seen her horse in the decade since she had left Wycliffe Hall and for all she knew the stallion was long dead. She wandered through her dimly lit corridor, wondering whether she should stop using her title. She had been a lady in name only for a while.
She nodded at Aunt Honoria there in her portrait on the wall when she crossed the reception room, then paused in the doorway to the drawing room. Her lips curved in a wry smile. No, this was not the residence of a noblewoman. The battered table at the center of the room was surrounded by mismatched chairs and covered in strategic maps, empty teacups, and a half-prepared suffragist newsletter. The sewing machine against the wall on the left was mainly employed for making banners and sashes. There was a dead plant the size of a man in the right-hand corner. Not a single invitation by a respectable family graced the mantelpiece above the fireplace; instead, the wall around it was plastered in yellowing newspaper clippings and the banner she had embroidered with her favorite quote by Mary Wollstonecraft: I do not wish women to have power over men, but over themselves.
Worst of all, this room had, on occasion, harbored prostitutes from the Oxford brothel, who had heard of her through word-of-mouth and sought assistance, and sometimes it received mortified, unmarried women with questions about contraceptive methods. She kept a box with contraceptives hidden in the innocent-looking cherrywood cabinet. Not even her friends knew about this box or those visits, for while saving fallen women was currently very fashionable under Gladstone’s government, she was not saving anyone; she assisted her visitors in the ways they saw fit, which was nothing short of scandalous. Yes, most ladies worth their salt would beat a hasty retreat from her home.
Small paws drummed on the floorboards as a streak of black shot toward her. Boudicca scrabbled up the outside of her skirt and settled heavily on her left shoulder.
“Good evening, puss.” The sleek fur was comfortingly soft and warm against Lucie’s cheek.
Boudicca bumped her nose against her forehead.
“Did you have a fine day?” Lucie cooed.
Another bump. She reached up and ran her hand over the cat from ears to rump. Satisfied, Boudicca plunged back to the floor and strutted to her corner by the fireplace, her tail with the distinct white tip straight up like an exclamation mark.
Lucie slid her satchel off her shoulder with a groan. She still had work to do, and she had to eat, for her stomach was distracting her with angry growls after a day without lunch or tea.
Mrs. Heath, long accustomed to her poor eating habi
ts, had left a pot with cold stew on the kitchen stove. Today’s newspaper sat waiting on the table next to a clean bowl.
She read while she ate, tutting at the politics headlines. In the matrimonial advertisement section, a farmer with two hundred pounds a year was looking for a woman in her forties who would care for his pigs and five children, in this order. She tutted at this especially. By the time she returned to her desk in the drawing room, fed and informed, night had fallen beyond the closed curtains of the bay windows.
Tonight, her highest stack of unfinished correspondence loomed in the women’s education corner of her desk. She had just put pen to paper when the sound of laughter reached her. She glanced up with a frown. The high-pitched giggle belonged to Mabel, Lady Henley, a widow, fellow suffragist, and tenant of the adjacent half of her rented terrace house. This arrangement suited them well, as it gave a nod to the rule that no unmarried younger woman should live on her own. But it sounded quite as though Lady Henley was in front of her window, and knowing her there was only one reason why she would be tittering like a maiden. Sure enough, there followed the low, seductive hum of a male baritone.
Her pen scratched onward. More laughter. Her neighbor’s shenanigans should not concern her. If brazen enough, a widow could discreetly take liberties no unwed woman would dare, and from what she had had to overhear through the shared walls of their house, Lady Henley dared it once in a while. Risky. Foolish, even. It could reflect badly on Lucie, too. But then, most men installed mistresses in plush apartments and took their pleasure whenever the mood struck, and everyone blithely pretended the practice did not exist. . . .
An excited feminine squeak rang through the closed curtains.
Lucie put down her pen. Widow or not, no woman was beyond scandal. And while Lady Henley was not enrolled at the university, she mingled with female Oxford students through the suffrage chapter, and thus, anything besmirching her reputation would also besmirch the women at Oxford, when they must comport themselves beyond reproach.