A Lady's Formula for Love

by Elizabeth Everett

  “Ladies should be taking care of men’s needs instead of taking men’s wages,” shouted one man, flushed with an angry joy. He’d found a captive audience for his complaints, shaking a meaty fist in the face of a slender young woman trying to sidle past him and make her way into the shop.

  A shop’s assistant, no doubt, hired for pennies per week, working dawn to dusk for a pittance of what a male assistant might make. Although the girl’s poke bonnet hid her face, the set of her shoulders and bowed head signaled distress.

  Letty clenched her fingers. Despite the dank mist freezing her toes, angry heat rose in her chest. “How dare those oafs frighten that poor girl. Why, I am going to—”

  Sam paid no attention to her threats, pulling Letty by the sleeve away from the crowd. Unlike the shopgirl’s threadbare cloak, Letty’s deep blue mantle was made of the finest wool, the discreet trim done in costly velvet.

  “You are going to do nothing but make your way to your ladies’ club,” he growled. “Da says I’m to get you there without incident, and that’s what I intend to do.” Scratching his head, Sam read a large banner near them. “What is this nonsense supposed to accomplish? Take care of men, indeed.”

  His golden hair appeared dirty brown in the low light, but nothing could hide the sudden glint of humor in his piercing blue eyes. “Good luck getting you or those secret scientists you keep company with to have anything to do with men. Unless it’s to blow them up.”

  Letty admonished her brother while keeping an eye on the clerk. “We haven’t blown anyone up. Well, one time, but it was an accident. Besides, the purpose of the club is to study all aspects of science, not just the ones that make noise.”

  Letty was accustomed to defending Athena’s Retreat. Ostensibly a social club for ladies to gather for lectures on the natural sciences, behind closed doors it served as a haven for women to conduct experiments, do research, and simply take the time away from the pressures of their duties to reflect on theories and ideas. The Fenley family’s wealth allowed Letty the freedom to study her passion—mathematics—but that didn’t mean her family understood why she and the other club members were driven to sacrifice their time and, in some cases, their opportunity to marry well or climb higher in society.

  “Can’t imagine what those scoundrels think shouting at ladies will accomplish,” Sam continued, still clutching her sleeve. “If I shouted at you or our sisters, what do you think would happen?”

  “We’d tell you to shut up, and put toads in your bed,” Letty said distractedly.

  “You’d tell me to shut up, and put toads in my bed.” Sam agreed with good-natured humor. He craned his neck to see over the thickening crowd.

  “If I had a banner and waved it in your faces, would you listen to me?” he asked wistfully. “Big sign saying, Stop reading in front of the customers or Stop trying on the bonnets you’re supposed to sell or Stop putting face cream in the icebox.”

  “Not likely,” Letty told him. “If you want us to work for free at the emporium, you need to give us incentives.”

  Fenley’s Fantastic Fripperies, the largest emporium in London, parted the city’s ladies from their coin by offering a dazzling array of articles ranging from the utilitarian to the useless.

  “It’s a family business,” he said. “Familial duty is your incentive. Not to mention free face cream, which does not belong in the icebox despite your incomprehensible blather about solids and temperature and matter of facts.”

  “Not matter of facts.” Letty corrected him. “States of matter. You see, when the temperature increases, certain substances . . .”

  “Twice now I’ve put it on my toast.” Sam pulled a face and shuddered. “Tastes like a scolding from Aunt Bess. Ugh.”

  Letty laughed, but when Sam checked his pocket watch, all traces of a smile vanished from his face. “I cannot be away from the emporium any longer. Let’s slip away from this mess and . . .”

  “Bring back the better days of Britain!”

  Letty shrugged loose from Sam’s grip, the rest of his words muffled by the roaring of blood in her veins.

  “Guardians of Stupidity is what you are.” Letty raised her voice, glaring at the men around her. “Fools and bullies who think they know better than women. Back to the kitchen? As though running a household doesn’t require as many skills as running a business.”

  Slipping through the crowd, Letty approached the building as a thin wail rose from the doorway. A beady-eyed man with a pinched mouth and spidery fingers had grabbed the shopgirl by the wrist, halting her escape.

  “Don’t bother trying to go back to work. We’re shutting this place down until they stop employing women in their factories and hire the men back,” the man said.

  A tinkling of broken glass punctuated his threat as someone launched their sign at the ground-floor window of the shop. The atmosphere turned in an instant from hectoring to predatory. With a foreshadowing of violence, the group of individuals jelled into a single organism—a dragon ready to pounce on whatever threatened. This monster’s hoard consisted of power, rather than gold.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Letty said through gritted teeth, clenching the straps of her heavy reticule in one hand.

  “Letty!” Sam called after her. “Letty Fenley, you come back here this instant. I know you don’t listen to me, but for goodness’ sake, will you listen to me?”

  Fear set her stomach to churning, but Letty allowed nothing to show on her face. Instead, she stuck her chin out and pulled her shoulders back. Never again would she suffer a man intimidating her into submission, and she’d be damned if she watched this happen to any other woman. As Flavia Smythe-Harrows always said, sexual dimorphism does not excuse bad behavior.

  Pity Letty didn’t have that printed on a banner.

  Without the benefit of a rival sign of intimidating size, she used what was available in the moment. Swinging her reticule around twice to achieve maximal momentum, Letty brought it down hard on the wrist of Beady Eyes.

  “You let go of that girl right now, you weasel-faced, onion-breathed . . .” Letty’s stream of insults drowned in the crowd’s protest at the sight of their fellow man being assaulted by what someone deemed a “half-a-pint-sized shrew.”

  “Half a pint indeed,” Letty shouted back. “I’m less than an inch shorter than the median height for a woman of my weight based on— Oy, stop waving that sign in my face.”

  Before Letty could take another swing at Beady Eyes, the sound of horses whinnying and shouts from somewhere at the edge of the crowd broke the tension; a decrescendo from taunting voices to garbled protests heralded the arrival of Authority. Jumping up for a better look, Letty spied two well-dressed men on horseback.

  “On your way,” a clipped aristocratic voice shouted to the crowd. “Disperse at once.”

  The crowd buckled, its mood shifting from dangerous to frustrated. Letty protected the girl as best she could from the sudden shoving around them. Most of her attention, however, fixed on the familiarity of those crisp, clean syllables echoing in the air.

  She would know that voice anywhere. Their rescue rode toward them in the form of Lord William Hughes, the Viscount Greycliff. A traitorous wave of relief that he would put an end to the danger was quickly followed by a cold dose of shame.

  Six years ago, she’d believed him the epitome of nobility and elegance, until that voice delivered a verdict upon her head. The words he had said and the pain they had caused were etched into her memory forever.

  “I don’t care if you’re Prince Albert himself. Move your arse, man!” A deeper bass, the voice of Greycliff’s companion, now carried over the crowd. “Put down the signs, or I’ll put them down for you.”

  “Are they here to rescue us?” the girl asked.

  Visions of Greycliff riding up on a snow-white steed flashed before Letty’s eyes. A handful of years before, such an image wo
uld have set her heart to racing and put roses on her cheeks. She would have caught her ruffled skirts in one hand, ready to be swept away by a hero, lit from behind by a shaft of golden sunlight.

  Not anymore. The dirty grey-brown reality of working-class London remained solid and smelly before her eyes. These days, romantic scenes remained between the pages of a well-thumbed book.

  “Never wait for someone else to rescue you,” Letty advised. “Especially a man. They’ll ride away on those fine horses afterward, and where will you be? Still here, cleaning the mess, having to work for an owner who couldn’t even be bothered to come out here after you. Rescue yourself, my dear.”

  “Shall we run for it?”

  “We could, but I’ve a better idea.” Letty turned to Beady Eyes and held up her reticule. The man flinched, but she had other plans.

  “Want to get rid of two troublesome women?” she asked him. Pouring out a palm full of coins, Letty made an offer. “Here’s your chance.”

  * * *

  “LATE NIGHT OF drinking far too much, bracing ride on a cold spring morning through miles of mud and rain, and now we’ve the chance to knock heads together. Life is grand, isn’t it, Grey?”

  Greycliff shrugged, unmoved by the same zeal for chaos that led his friend, the Earl Grantham, to whoop with glee and launch himself off his horse and into the angry crowd like a cormorant diving into the waves.

  Grey was not accustomed to being moved by any emotion, let alone one approaching the strength and intensity of zeal. He allowed himself only the slightest twinge of annoyance at this interruption in his journey to visit his former stepmother.

  Placing a calming hand against his horse’s neck, Grey repeated his threat to the crowd. “Break this up now, or I will have the Riot Act read.”

  Most of the demonstrators heeded his warning, though not without a show of reluctance. Still shouting their slogans, the men turned their attention away from the shop front and broke into smaller groups. Hoping for a brawl, Grantham chivvied them along.

  As he scanned the thinning crowd, Grey caught sight of a man using his sign to force a clear path through the crowd for two feminine figures behind him. The women were too far away for him to pick out their individual features, but a tingling of recognition pricked the back of his hands.

  It couldn’t be . . . but of course it could. Here in the center of chaos, why wouldn’t he find a woman who excelled in stirring up trouble?

  Before his mild irritation could grow into something approaching fear for her safety, Grey took a deep breath through his nose and blew the worry away. Setting his shoulders back, he took another breath and reached for equilibrium.

  A handsome, square-jawed young man dressed in an elegant greatcoat stood at the center of the crowd. A head shorter than Grantham and slighter of build, the man nonetheless exuded an aura of determination.

  “Letitia Fenley, where are you?” the man shouted with ill-concealed irritation.

  His suspicions confirmed, the tingling ran up Grey’s arms and down his spine. Rationally, he knew she would be safe. This must be Miss Fenley’s brother. If the resemblance hadn’t proved it, the man’s annoyance would—a common reaction after a few minutes in Miss Fenley’s presence.

  The most logical course of action would be to continue his journey. Why should he care that a woman of questionable character had found herself in yet another predicament? Her brother would protect her. The man was right now . . . walking in the opposite direction than his sister had gone.

  Mindful of the men still milling about, Grey urged his horse forward toward a narrow alley running alongside the candle maker’s shop, where an abandoned sign leaned against the smutty bricks. Peering through the dimness, he spied her standing in consultation with another young woman. Their escort seemed to have disappeared. Although they’d escaped the worst of the crowd, they weren’t clear of danger yet. Yards away, a few die-hard protestors in front of the building held Grantham off, waving their handmade banners and wooden signs.

  Make babies, not wages, read one. Protect the sanctity of the home, read another.

  Reflecting on the petite woman in the alleyway before him, Grey tried to think of any instance when she would do as he wanted simply because he was a man and told her to.

  None.

  No instance whatsoever.

  In fact, Letty Fenley would do the opposite of anything he asked.

  On a stoop next door to the candle makers, waiting for the crowd to quiet before he could go back to work, a bemused little street sweeper watched the proceedings. Grey tossed the boy a coin to mind his horse and made his way down the alley toward Letty Fenley.

  It must have been the effects of the long ride to London that made his heart beat a tiny bit faster. Not the sight of this miniature termagant.

  “ . . . let these idiots tell you otherwise. Women are as smart as men, if not more so,” Letty was explaining to her companion.

  She’d the same high cheekbones as her brother only more pronounced, appearing almost gaunt in the low light. Beneath a sharp nose, her pale pink lips pursed in annoyance. The uncanny blue of her eyes, clear as the summer sky, shone with a passion visible even in the shadows.

  “Not smart to hide in a dead end.” Grey raised his voice, tipping his hat when the women started in surprise at the sight of him. The girl executed a passable curtsy, but all Letty Fenley offered by way of greeting was a brusque nod and a scowl.

  “Smart enough to get us away from that crowd of beef-headed fools,” Letty retorted.

  Grey held her gaze as all that had passed before them thickened the air and put a flush to her cheeks. Mutual admiration had been cut short when Letty did the unforgivable, threatening those who Grey held dear. Thereafter followed six years of a frosty truce that broke down after more than five minutes in each other’s presence.

  Shrinking from the silent confrontation in front of her, the shopgirl glanced between them, then at a door in the side of the building. “Pardon my saying, my lady . . .”

  Letty broke her stare and gave the shopgirl her attention. “I’m the furthest from a noblewoman you’ll find. Plain Miss will do.”

  “Indeed. Don’t want you lumped in with the oppressive aristocracy,” Grey remarked with an exaggerated drawl.

  Her eyes changed from turquoise to cobalt when challenged. Fascinating.

  “Exactly, my lord. We have no need for your interference. You can go berate the masses out there without further concern.” The smoky curl of her Clerkenwell dialect softened the vowels, smudging the edges of her words.

  It sounded almost seductive.

  “Ummm, I’m going to . . . er.” The girl stepped away.

  “Perhaps they would grant me a more mannered welcome,” he shot back. “Generally, when one is the object of someone’s concern, they . . .”

  She interrupted his admonishment with her usual defiance. One time, he’d seen her tell a lord where to shove his quizzing glass when he used it to mock another woman. Grey had liked her back then.

  Before she’d revealed her flaws.

  “Lecture me on good manners, will you?” she asked. Turning away from the young woman, Letty faced him full-on, hands clenched and resting on her hips.

  “I suppose you cannot help but school your social inferiors. This time, however, you are wasting your breath. Too bad.” She walked toward him, stomping through the shadows as though kicking the dark away. “Oxygen is what you need, high up there in the social strata.”

  “I’m not high up, Miss Fenley,” he said, then paused to gauge the effect of his next words. “I only appear so to a person of your miniature stature.”

  His brilliant riposte went over her head.

  Literally.

  “Well, at least my head is proportional to my body, unlike some noblemen, whose ego renders their head nearly as large as their . . .”


  “Where did she go?” Grey asked.

  “Where did who go? Oh.” Letty paused in her tirade and glanced behind her. The alley stood empty.

  A rapping came from a window above them. There, the girl, joined by two others, waved and smiled her thanks.

  Letty and Grey turned and waved back, smiling, then faced one another and dropped both hands and smiles.

  “Well, now that is settled, I must be on my way,” Letty said airily. “I’d like to say it was pleasure to see you again, my lord, but lying is bad manners.”

  Brushing his arm, she sidled past him in the narrow alley. Sometime during her flight from the crowd, Letty’s bonnet had come off. Walking past him, she bent her head to examine the tangle of ribbons, exposing the fragile line of her neck above the collar of her mantle, a vulnerable column of smooth flesh and delicate bone.

  Odd how someone so fierce could at the same time seem . . . breakable.

  “Just going to march back out there into the madness?” he asked as she passed by him.

  “I am going to join my brother,” she answered, not bothering to lift her head. Grey peered at the heavens and complimented himself on his saintly patience.

  “Miss Fenley, if you will allow me to see you to safety?”

  She waved him off. “Don’t bother. I have this under—”

  A knot of men spilled past the corner of the building, a few of them stumbling into the alleyway. Grey, reacting without hesitation, pulled Letty away from their flailing arms and into a recess between the side of the building and its facade, blocking her from the man’s sight as one fellow’s punch went wild and hit Grey between his shoulders.

  Grey didn’t flinch. He kept his back to the tumult, leaning one arm against the wall, setting himself between her and danger.

  “I suppose now you’ll tell me how right you were,” Letty complained. A few wisps of wheat-blond hair at her temples had escaped a tidy roll of braids.