“Well, I’ve done what you asked.” Hetty shook her head in obvious bafflement as she joined Rex at the edge of the dance floor. “Though your reason for asking me to introduce Clara to Lionel Strange escapes me. Look what happened.” She waved a hand toward the ballroom floor. “He immediately asked her to dance.”
“Did he?”
“An event which doesn’t seem to surprise you,” Hetty murmured, staring at him. “You wanted him to dance with her? But why?” she asked when he nodded. “Why would you want that?”
“I know what I’m doing,” he assured, but Fate seemed inclined to test his declaration, for at that moment, Clara smiled at Lionel, and Rex experienced an almost primal urge to snarl, an echo of what he’d felt earlier as he’d watched London’s young Turks gathering round her asking for dances. Not wanting to be a glutton for punishment, he’d escaped to the card room after securing his own dance with her, but in this case, he was obliged to watch her dancing with another man, and though he could not deny his own jealousy, he tried not to explore it too deeply, for there was nothing he could do about it. Still, he couldn’t help being glad Lionel’s heart was already taken.
“Do you, Rex?” Hetty asked, bringing his attention back to her. “Do you know what you’re doing? Lionel Strange is one of London’s most eligible bachelors. Not much money, of course, but being an MP, he has an income. And he is rising in the Labor Party, I understand. He could be Home Secretary one day. He’s very good-looking, too. And, like Miss Deverill’s father, he comes from the middle class. Many would consider Lionel and Miss Deverill rather well-suited, in fact.”
Rex didn’t reply.
“Oh, I don’t understand you at all!” she cried. “I thought you liked this girl.”
“I do like her.” Deep inside, his dragons rumbled, reminding him how much. “But she and I are just—”
“Just friends,” she finished for him. “Yes, so you’ve said. But since you talk with her at every party, you accept invitations to events you know she will attend, and you dance with her at balls, you are giving everyone in society the impression you’re quite keen.” She looked at the dance floor, then back at him. “And yet, I have observed that she does not seem all that taken with you.”
He thought of that afternoon on the settee, of Clara’s passionate response to his kiss. Guilt rose in him, and was at once snuffed out as desire took over. He stirred, looking away.
“Ooh-la-la,” Hetty murmured, watching him. “Perhaps the shoe’s on the other foot, at last.”
He set his jaw, working to muster his dignity, but dignity was a difficult thing to find when memories of Clara’s kiss were making his body burn. “That,” he said, “is absurd.”
“Is it? Perhaps Lionel is out on the dance floor with her to plead your suit?”
Despite what he was feeling, that suggestion was almost enough to make him laugh. “Didn’t you hear what happened at Auntie’s ball? Lionel coldcocked me.”
“Oh, you two have been friends for donkeys’ years. Whatever your quarrel was about, it’s obvious you’ve made up by now. Because I can think of no other reason why you would willingly push Miss Deverill, a woman you clearly have a passion for, into the arms of a man so perfectly suited to her.”
He did not reply, and after a moment, Hetty gave a vexed sigh.
“Oh, very well, since it’s clear you’re in no mind to part with further details, I shall take myself off and go in to supper.”
Hetty walked away, and Rex returned his attention to the ballroom floor, shoving memories of that afternoon on the settee with Clara out of his mind even as he searched for her among the dancers. When he found her, he observed that Lionel was listening quite closely to what she was saying, a very good sign, indeed. And when the dance was over and he escorted her off the floor, he nodded to Rex as he passed by.
That, Rex knew, was an even more encouraging sign, but it was only as Lionel escorted Clara in to supper and she gave Rex a nod over her shoulder that he allowed himself to believe Lionel was willing to forgive and the plan had succeeded.
Not that he shared Clara’s romantic view of what success entailed, but that, he decided, was another battle for another day.
Chapter 14
With Lord and Lady Montcrieffe’s charity ball, Clara’s season took an even more frantic turn. The next day, invitations began to pour in, and within two weeks, she found that every moment, from breakfast to the wee small hours, was being conscripted for some activity. Luncheons, picnics, charity meetings, Afternoon-At-Homes, and water parties filled her days, while dinner parties, theater, opera, suppers at the Savoy, cotillions, and balls filled her evenings. The pace became so rigorous, that had she only had herself to consider, she might have begun refusing invitations to give herself a rest.
But the duke’s family benefited greatly from her elevation in status, for almost all the invitations included them as well, and she didn’t have the heart to turn away any opportunity to help them.
As for Rex, she continued to treat him with the same offhand disinterest she had before, and he continued to play the role of interested suitor in pursuit. For Clara, however, the charade seemed harder to maintain after the ball than it had before. The image of him, one shoulder against a marble column and his face so grave, often came into her mind, and whenever it did, a tiny throb of sweet pain always hit her square in the chest.
Sometimes, she would catch him looking at her as he had that night—across someone’s drawing room, or down the table at a dinner party—and his voice—low, vibrant with intensity—would echo in her ears.
I want it, Clara.
Sometimes, he would invade her dreams at night, his mouth on hers and his arms around her and his body hard beneath her, and she’d wake up with her lips tingling and her body aching as if she had a fever. She ought to have found it easier as time went on to put that forbidden afternoon out of her mind, but as the days passed, the memory only seemed to grow stronger, ever harder to suppress.
As for their efforts to reunite Dina and Lionel, Rex reported that he and his friend had forged a truce, but beyond that, he knew nothing of how the other man’s romance with Dina was progressing, or if it was progressing at all. He continued to send the Lady Truelove column to her through the post, and she never found cause to a single word he wrote. His advice to London’s lovelorn was always spot-on, and morally acceptable, though whether the latter fact was due to her influence, Clara could not have said.
She tried to carve out at least an hour or two each day to spend at the paper, but she couldn’t always manage it. One morning about a fortnight after the Montcrieffe ball, a glance through her calendar at breakfast revealed that a full four days had gone by since her last visit to Belford Row. Worse, it was Friday, which meant she had not yet read Rex’s column, nor had she reviewed that week’s layout of the paper. Constructed by Mr. Beale the previous day, the layout was probably sitting on her desk, still waiting for her approval. Either that, she thought wryly, or Mr. Beale had used her absence as an excuse to increase his own authority and had taken it upon himself to approve the layout. He may even have opened and read this week’s Lady Truelove column, perhaps even editing it himself. With that thought, Clara knew a visit to Belford Row was in order.
Truth be told, she was rather relieved to take a bit of time away from luncheons and parties and have a bit of peace and quiet in her little office. Cancelling all her appointments for the afternoon, she took a taxi to Belford Row.
But the moment she arrived at the newspaper office, she realized peace and quiet were the last things she was to have. She’d barely opened the door a fraction when Mr. Beale’s enraged voice poured to her through the doorway.
“This is the most idiotic piece of writing I’ve read in my life, Miss Trent. You call this journalism? It’s shallow, facile rubbish.”
“Shallow and facile?” a female voice countered. “That’s a bit redundant, isn’t it, sir?”
That pert reply earned stifled gi
ggles from the other women on the staff as Clara pushed the door fully open, she found Mr. Beale standing over the petite Elsa Trent, his usual sour expression replaced by one of unmistakable outrage.
“Mr. Beale, what is going on here?” Clara demanded as she stepped inside the office.
The other women glanced at her, but by Mr. Beale, she was ignored. He didn’t even glance in her direction.
“I’ll have none of your cheek, miss,” he said to Elsa, waving a sheaf of papers in the girl’s face. “To read this was difficult, to edit it is impossible. Throw it out and start again.”
“But, sir, I’m not sure what’s wrong with it. If you could just tell me—”
“Start again,” he interrupted her, “and if I hear one more word of argument, you’ll be looking for other employment.” And with that, he tossed the pages in Elsa’s face.
Fury erupted inside Clara, and before she knew it, the door had slammed behind her, and she was across the room, coming between Elsa and Mr. Beale as the pages of the other woman’s composition fluttered to the floor around them.
“That will be enough!” she said. “Mr. Beale, cease this unthinkable abuse of Miss Trent at once.”
“Abuse?” He left off berating Elsa and turned to scowl at Clara. “The abuse is upon me, Miss Deverill, that I am expected to edit fluffy stories about nothing by silly women who can’t write, and that I should suffer cheek from them when I order changes to be made. But the most galling part,” he added, as she opened her mouth to reply, “is that I should be reporting to a chit of a girl who’s half my age, and hasn’t a fraction of my experience. And,” he went on giving her a disdainful glance up and down, “to be upbraided by someone unworthy of my respect when I am attempting to exert my rightful authority is unbearable. It’s—”
“You’re right,” Clara interrupted, and she knew all the icy fury she felt was in her voice, because her two clipped words cut through his tirade at once. “It is unbearable, so much so, in fact, that I can’t think of any reason I should tolerate it from you a single moment longer.”
Her choice of pronouns was not lost on the editor. His jaw slackened and his eyes bulged, and Clara might have found his shock rather comical, if anger wasn’t freezing in her veins like ice water.
“For two months, Mr. Beale, I have overlooked your bellicose manner, your arrogance, and your lack of consideration for the others who work here,” she said, relishing every word as she spoke. “For too long, I have striven to see your point of view, and I have worked to ignore your denigrating remarks. But in berating a member of my staff—yes, my staff,” she went on as he attempted to object, “in this vicious manner, you have gone utterly beyond the pale.” She took a deep breath, exhilaration making her almost dizzy. “Mr. Beale, you are fired.”
“You don’t have the authority to terminate my employment.”
“No?” She laughed, savoring this moment far more than she probably ought, given the problems it would cause. But she knew she’d never have any regrets, no matter what happened next. “Who’s to stop me?” She looked him up and down with scorn. “You?”
“As we have discussed many times, I do not work for you, Miss Deverill. I was hired on the understanding that I would be working for your brother—”
“But my brother is not here,” she cut in, spreading her arms wide in an encompassing gesture. “I am. And as the only Deverill on the premises with the authority to act, I am terminating your employment immediately. This decision,” she added as he attempted to speak, “is not open for discussion.”
“I refuse to stand for this. I shall go to your father.”
“Oh, do.” Clara laughed again, a little wildly this time, for her exhilaration was deepening into absolute glee, and she wondered why she had ever tried to pacify this man or work with him, or even tolerate him. She waved a hand toward the stairs behind her. “Please, do. He’s upstairs in the drawing room. I’m sure he’ll give you sympathy over how unfair I’m being and commiserate with you about how difficult and disobliging women can be. He’ll probably even offer you a drink. But what he won’t do is countermand my decision. He hasn’t the legal authority to do so, nor—let us be frank—does he have the will.”
“He owns this building—”
“But he does not control, nor even own, the newspaper, and he certainly does not control or own me. Now, remove yourself from these premises at once. The personal items in your desk, as well as all wages owed you until this moment, will be forwarded to your residence by the end of the day. Don’t expect a letter of character, for there won’t be one. And don’t,” she added as he stepped closer to her, his fists clenched, “make me call a constable.”
He stood there a moment, staring at her, his jaw working furiously. Clara stared back, unblinking, and after a moment, he turned away with an oath and stalked toward the door. He paused only long enough to pull his mackintosh from the coat tree before walking out and slamming the door behind him.
The sound reverberated through the silent room like a gunshot, but no one moved. The three women in the office stared at Clara in wide-eyed shock, but none of them, it seemed, knew quite what to say.
Clara drew a deep breath, feeling a bit shaky now that the deed was done. She glanced around. “Has he been as abusive as this every time I’ve been away from the premises?”
The women exchanged glances, but none said a word, and Clara had her answer. “I see. Ladies, you have my deepest apologies, for I have unforgivably neglected my duty to you and to the newspaper. None of you should ever have to put up with such appalling behavior from anyone, man or woman. If it ever happens again, you must report it to me immediately. You will never be in trouble for doing so, I promise you. As for my part, I will do my level best not to neglect you again. Now, Evie?”
She turned to the secretary. “Ring up Merrick’s Employment Agency, and inform Miss Merrick we require a newspaper editor. Someone experienced in the position, and—preferably—pleasant to work with. Make it clear the person must not be only knowledgeable and experienced, but also be comfortable operating under a woman’s authority and, when needed, supervising a female staff. As owner of her own agency, I’m sure Miss Merrick, of all people, will appreciate our reason for such requirements.”
The other three women laughed, and the tension broke.
“Hazel,” she went on, turning to the blonde young woman beside Miss Huish, “since you’ve donned your coat, I take it you were on your way to lunch? Are the advertisements ready for typesetting?”
“Yes, Miss Deverill.”
“Then, I hope when you return, you’ll be willing to compose an advertisement stating our need for a new editor?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll even work through lunch.”
Clara smiled. “I appreciate the sacrifice, but I think we can spare you for half an hour. After you’ve composed the advertisement, bring it to me for review. Once I have approved it, Evie will arrange to have it inserted in the appropriate newspapers.”
“Will they accept it, do you think?” Evie asked. “Being competitors?”
“Some may not, but some will—particularly the larger papers up north. Try the Manchester Daily Mail and the Leeds Gazette, for a start. And all of Lord Marlowe’s papers. Even his London papers will likely accept an ad of that sort. Marlowe’s never had to be afraid of losing staff to his competition. And,” she added, returning her attention to Hazel, “we shall put a quarter page announcement in this week’s edition of the Gazette, inviting qualified candidates to apply, so I’d like you to design that as well.”
“What about the layout?” Hazel asked. “Mr. Beale’s already done it. There’s nowhere to add another advertisement, not one of that size.”
“I will reconstruct the layout. You design the advertisement, Hazel, and I’ll make it fit. A full quarter-page.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll just get a sandwich and apple from the costermonger and come straight back.” Hazel departed, and Clara turned to the woman whose late
st article had been the catalyst of this showdown, but she had no chance to give Elsa any instructions.
“I am so sorry, Miss Deverill,” the other woman burst out. “I didn’t mean to give Mr. Beale any cheek. Truly, I didn’t. And now, we’ve no editor. I know I’ve put us all in the devil of a mess—”
“Please, Elsa, do not apologize. What happened was not your fault in any way. The man is impossible, and I thought you remarkably restrained, given the circumstances. I put up with him for far too long, I know, but I can assure you, I don’t consider his departure any great loss. However, if you believe any of the comments in his tirade to be valid—and try to be as honest with yourself as you can about that—then I want you to incorporate them into your piece. Put anything else that awful man may have said to you out of your mind, all right? Once you’ve finished reviewing your work,” she added as the other woman nodded, “type a final draft and put it on my desk for editing.”
“Does that mean you’ll be our editor until you hire a replacement?”
“I shall have to be.”
Elsa smiled, clearly relieved by that news, but Clara could not really share the feeling, for the position of editor was arduous and difficult, even for someone experienced at the job, and Clara wasn’t at all confident she could do it properly. And as she’d told Rex, good editors were a rare commodity, so it would probably take some time to find the right person, which meant her first season in society might well be over.
On the other hand, when she thought of Mr. Beale’s shocked face, she knew that forfeiting the rest of her season was a small price to pay. And, more importantly, she also knew that no matter how many mistakes she made in her new role, she would never again make the worst one of all. She would never trust anyone else’s judgement, including her beloved sister’s, more than she trusted her own.
Rex had never been the sort for self-torture, but after the Montcrieffe ball, it soon became clear he’d somehow become addicted to it, at least as far as Clara was concerned.
The Trouble with True Love (Dear Lady Truelove #2) Page 22