“You will need to be more specific about how I am expected to accomplish such public disgrace,” Lord Devin stated. Then the most absurd thought occurred to him. “Hold! You want me to seduce her? A forty-some-year-old bookselling widow, who is probably as dry and papery as her wares?”
Mr. Withersby guffawed for a full minute, losing his breath and turning purple.
“The look on your face, man! As if you were a maiden about to be sacrificed to a barbarian horde. No, Lord Devin, nothing of the sort.” He continued to chuckle as his coloring returned to normal. “Make her acquaintance. As you see in the dossier, my client believes she may be printing and distributing incendiary materials. Combined with the proposed legislation, her alleged work begins to pose a significant threat to my client’s industry. Investigate and neutralize. If possible, get the woman not only to desist but to renounce prior work. If sedition charges could be brought, so much the better.”
“Hundreds of crackpots spout outrageous ideas regularly in Kennington Common. What difference can this one woman’s voice possibly make?”
“Yes, well, apparently, putting things on paper makes a difference. And these inflammatory materials have been making enough of an impression to spur demonstration and to raise alarms. That’s all I can say at the moment. So?”
The question hung in the air, as if Lord Devin had a choice in the matter. Of course, he would do it. Just as he’d done the other odd jobs Withersby had thrown at him. He would do anything to protect his brother’s reputation, to protect his family from disgrace and scandal, and Withersby well knew it. One of these days, though, Withersby would go too far in these assignments. Lord Devin just needed more time to plan a way to circumvent Withersby, a way to make his threats impotent.
“My patience is near its end, Withersby. I shall do this, but I am tiring of these games.”
“Do this well, and perhaps it will be the last.”
“Perhaps? That is not good enough.”
“It will have to be. I’ll be sure to keep you abreast of your brother’s . . . jaunts. I’m sure Andrew would appreciate your conscientious concern for his . . . well-being. If photographs are available, I’ll pass them along as well.”
Lord Devin clenched his jaw and gave a curt nod. He resented the hell out of Withersby dangling his brother at him. He resented his brother’s supposed jaunts and indiscretion almost as much. After all, if it weren’t for his brother’s recklessness . . . But that kind of thinking wasn’t productive. He would sever this commitment to Withersby one way or another.
“We’re done here, milord. I’m sure you know the way out.” Withersby slumped into his leather chair and reached for a stack of files without looking at him again.
The dismissal rankled at him, but he had nothing more to say and didn’t want to perpetuate the meeting. He left the door open behind him.
And so, now here he was. Introductions had been made. He recalled her open conversation with him. Her composure impressed him. No shy, tittering ingénue. No haughty, challenging debutante. No fawning. She’d been irked by his impertinent questions, certainly, but she showed no doubt or self-consciousness. No pretense. No excuses. Is it a function of her job or a result of her maturity, he wondered, that she speaks to each and all as an equal, mindful of their interests?
He was surprised too by the physical appearance of this Mrs. Honoria Duchamp. The file described an average woman, brown hair, brown eyes, medium height and build, past middle age, unremarkable in every way. He wasn’t prone to the effluvium of the day’s popular romance novels, but there were marked differences between the basic one-sheet and the flesh. The woman before him had porcelain skin, mahogany tresses with hints of chestnut pulled back into a tight chignon, and intelligent, piercing eyes, eyes that dimmed when she spoke of her father. She’d felt light in his arms, movable as a chess piece. And her form, what he could see and feel of it, was slim and taut, except for her . . . ah, those breasts. He could still feel the warmth and weight of them against his skin. She had the body of a full-fledged woman, not one of a girl on the threshold of womanhood. No sign of shriveling or age, just a bit of dust from that pesky upper shelf. Just updating the file with accurate observations, he told himself.
He picked up the abolitionist tract that had been delivered with his mother’s book. Perhaps it would hold some clues.
Reading didn’t distract his mind from its cataloging of Mrs. Duchamp’s finer attributes. Instead, the dry scent of the parchment reminded him vividly of the shop.
Chapter Two
Evans Principle 2: Every interaction is an opportunity. Choose your responses productively.
Slowly, Honoria climbed to the third floor, her thoughts only for her bed and her clothing weighing her down more than usual because of her tiredness. In her mind, alongside the catalog of titles she’d ordered, tomes she’d repaired, and print jobs she’d completed, she cataloged the little pops and aches up and down her body that she hadn’t known in her youth. Tonight, her vertebrae and hips cracked with each step and ached from her stooped posture at the printing and binding machine. She caught herself as she tripped on the top stair. It was past midnight, and she wondered if she’d be able to scrub the ink stains off her hands. At least this week’s print run was complete. She would need to arrange some interviews as fodder for next week’s; the factory girl she’d intended to profile fell into a press and now no one would talk with her there.
Reliable Minnie, her only servant, really her only family along with Minnie’s brother, Erich, warmed a plate for her supper. To her exhausted mind, the beef was indistinguishable from the potatoes, except by texture.
“Minnie, do I have anything special on my schedule for this week?”
Honoria needed to plan her time carefully. She’d drafted a new tract but needed time to edit it before setting and printing. Wednesday tended to be the quietest day in the shop so she should have some time available.
“Miss Honoria, this week is a bit busier than usual. The hospital today, as usual, then the orphanage on Tuesday, new inventory arrives Thursday, and the Needlework for the Needy this Thursday evening as well. I think there are a few visits due as well, to Mrs. Danson and the new Mrs. Leventon. And here are some calling cards you really need to return.”
The array of calling cards made her itch. Her largest group of customers was made up of upwardly mobile mothers, landed gentry, and newly rich wives of merchants seeking the key to marrying a peer of the realm. She certainly wasn’t an expert, but many such women were reluctant to show their eagerness by frequenting the shop. Instead, their requests for a visit were thinly veiled sales calls. Lots of talk about who was seen with whom and who would be at what party and which fine young woman would be best suited to which upstanding gentleman. Then which books had been recently recommended as the book to have on propriety and decorum and marriage. It rankled her. She had serious things to worry about here. At least the shop would be, as usual, a stabilizing influence amidst the social flurries. It also supplied reliable topics of conversation.
“Oh, and this note arrived for you a few hours ago.”
The fine vellum caught her attention. Still, the words within surprised her.
Dear Mrs. Malcolm Duchamp,
The pleasure of your company is requested at dinner this Thursday evening. My son informs me that you are knowledgeable about publishing, and I have several friends eager to meet you. I do hope you are able to attend.
Cordially yours,
Lady Rose Devin
“Why didn’t you give this to me earlier, Minnie?” God’s frogs! She looked at her assistant carefully. Minnie was always a diligent worker, but she seemed distracted lately. Even now, her clothes were a bit disheveled and her hair appeared hastily tucked into her cap, long strands poking out haphazardly.
“You were busy, Miss Honoria,” the girl responded matter-of-factly. Minnie and her brother were the only ones who still addressed her as they had in childhood, and she appreciated their rare fa
miliarity.
Her mind raced as she reread the invitation. It had only been a few hours since she’d made Lord Devin’s acquaintance. Why would she be invited to something like this? What sense would it make to invite her? And how could she possibly accept? The prospect of wooing new clientele offered some little appeal, but the parallel prospect of trying to charm total strangers brought on a wave of nausea. It was exhausting. Of course, she couldn’t attend. The Needlework for the Needy Association had its regular meeting that evening, and she was expected. Easy enough. Sustenance secured and loose matters organized, she sent Minnie home and dropped onto her bed still fully clothed. A pair of jade green eyes floated in her mind as she drifted into sleep.
Chapter Three
Evans Principle 3: Never allow customers behind the curtain. They don’t need to know how the sausage is made.
Lord Devin strode into Evans Books impatient and irritated. Blackmail from an amoral solicitor aside, he wasn’t accustomed to his wishes being thwarted. Invitations to his mother’s salons were an honor not to be refused. He’d orchestrated the invitation expertly, hinting at the cache of having a bookseller amid the writers and leaving the shop’s business card on the entry table. He was subtle, damn it, but apparently subtlety didn’t work on Mrs. Honoria Duchamp. So here he was to try the direct approach.
“Mrs. Duchamp, what a pleasure to see you again.”
She looked at him for a moment as if trying to remember him, but she waited a few seconds too long for him to be convinced. He was a lord, after all, and, without bragging, he could say with confidence that people tended to remember him.
“Lord Devin, how kind of you to stop by. Did your mother like her birthday gift?” Oh, she remembered him just fine. He knew well enough the signs of a woman who wasn’t indifferent toward him. The glint in her eyes, the way her body canted away from him ever so slightly, the way her voice became overly bright. She wasn’t indifferent at all, but she was attempting to hide it.
“Yes, she was quite taken with it. She has grand ideas of dressing as Scheherazade for her next masquerade ball. Actually, she is threatening to dress as Aladdin.”
She smiled patronizingly and responded, “Well, I’m sure those aren’t her only options from such a wide array of characters. What can I help you with today, my lord?”
“Ah, you are all business. What a relief. My mission is twofold. First, I have here some books in dire need of repair.”
“Let me have a look.” As she reached for them, her hands slid across his gloved ones. That same electric current he felt when she fell into his arms ran through him. She must have felt something as well because she jumped as if bitten. Then she focused her attention almost too fastidiously on the books in front of her.
“These aren’t so bad. A little glue and stitching and they’ll be fine. Would you like me to make an estimate of how much the repair would cost?”
“No need. Whatever it is, I am sure it will be reasonable for your services. The cost does not signify.”
She looked at him curiously but didn’t comment, and then she wrote out a note and tucked it into the top book.
“I’ll be right back. I’m just going to put these in the repair queue. Feel free to have a look around and then we may discuss whatever your second mission is.”
As he watched her walk away, his fingers itched to touch her, to grab her firmly about the waist, and pull her against him. It was damn disconcerting. After a moment’s consideration, he decided to follow her into the back room to continue their conversation, particularly since he couldn’t tell how she would respond to his second request. It was also an excellent opportunity to fulfill his investigative duties.
He walked through a short, dark hallway and found himself in an office taken up by a massive partners’ desk made of oak, the kind of desk that seated two people facing each other. Books and vellum pamphlets haphazardly covered one side completely, leaving only one side usable as a writing surface. The room had two doors, as well as stairs leading up to the second floor. He took a guess and proceeded through one door farther to the back of the building. In this second room, he found a printing press. Still, no Mrs. Duchamp. As he turned to go back to the office, the door smashed into him, striking his forehead first, knocking him back a few steps.
“Oh, my goodness! Lord Devin, is that you?” She rushed up to him and touched his forehead, where a welt was no doubt growing. “I’m so sorry!” Her brow furrowed. “Wait, what are you doing back here?”
He scrambled for an answer, distracted first by her gentle touch, sparking a heat all out of proportion to the actual physical contact. Then he was distracted again by her hand’s abrupt and much regretted removal.
“I had more questions about the repairs. You did say I should feel free to look around.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but you may not be familiar with the etiquette of commerce. The back room of any establishment is rarely meant for public access.” He sensed tension beneath her sardonic chastisement. “These questions couldn’t wait until I returned?”
“Quite right.” Yet he could not seem to think quickly enough.
She waited.
“Well. They seem to have slipped my mind. Perhaps they were knocked out of my head by the door.” It was perhaps unfair of him to play upon her guilt, but he needed to shift her attention.
Immediately contrite, she brought her hands together as she came toward him again. “Oh, again, I’m so sorry about that. I am usually the only one here, and I tend to move quickly in the back office. I never expected . . . are you all right? We should go back to the front room where you can sit down.”
“I am completely fine, I assure you. I shall survive.” Everything in her demeanor clearly declared she wanted him out of this part of the shop. Seeing an intriguing opportunity, he pressed his advantage. “Perhaps this little mishap will incline you to grant me a small favor.”
“That depends on the favor.” She took a small but obvious step away from him.
“Well, in trying to find you, I found the printing press. I am curious about the mechanics of this printing machine. I have never seen one in action. Might I prevail upon you to give me a demonstration?”
As she looked over at the press, her forehead creased and her mouth twisted. He could see anxiety written all over her face, suggesting his suspicion about her printing activities was correct. Yet he felt an unnerving impulse to reach out and stroke her cheek to relax her tensed features.
“I suppose that would be fine. It will take me a few moments to reset the machine, though.” She hurried to the side with the letter blocks and removed a tray of text. “It’s not very modern. It’s just a flatbed hand press, and it can take quite a while to complete a basic copy order.”
“Oh, you need not change the printing on my account,” he said as he came up behind her. “I do not intend to read the results; I would simply like to see how the process works.”
“This is a special order so I need to protect the author’s privacy and intellectual property.” Her hands moved quickly. “In recent years, probably due to the increasingly broad dissemination of print material, the law has become very strict about copyright.” She tucked the set type into a low drawer behind her, locked it, and pocketed the key.
“That applies more to competition between British and overseas publishers than to individual vanity printing, does it not?”
She tucked her knuckles under her chin, looking thoughtful, but it seemed that in the second before her hand moved, her brows raised in surprise.
“Such legislation goes through Parliament, of course,” he said imperiously by way of explanation.
She nodded and said, “That is the economic foundation of the laws, but my clients are also quite sensitive about their work. They come to me because they know I will protect the integrity of their property.” Still looking at him strangely, she brought out a tray of print blocks and slid it into the machine, presumably some standard template. It took a bit of
effort for her to start turning the crank. He offered to assist, but she kindly declined. Once the dial was in motion, she spun it more steadily as the machine churned out a few printed sheets. She took the first sheet and clipped it to a rope along the back wall.
“As you can see, printing is not really all that impressive, at least not on this small a scale,” she said, raising her hands at her sides briefly.
“On the contrary, when you consider that copying used to be done entirely by hand and take years, this is a wonder of the modern world. And you are a modern prophet.” While she scoffed at his assertion, he walked over to examine the newly printed sheet, which put him in very close proximity to her. It was the first page of a handbill for a ladies’ reading group. He was suddenly taken with the idea of reading this page very, very carefully, particularly as he stood so close to her he could feel the heat of her body. He turned to her, so close he could smell the odd combination of lavender and a bit of dust in her hair. Different from before. What dictated the scent of her?
“Tell me, Mrs. Duchamp, if you do not find this process all that noteworthy, what do you find impressive?”
“What—I—” She seemed a little dazed, but she didn’t move away from him. “I don’t know. What do you mean?”
He leaned in closer, spurred by impulse, and pressed on. “What impresses you? Anything. A book, a person, an idea . . . What do you see as impressive in this world?”
“What a heavy question. So very serious.” Her eyes cleared; her whole being snapped back into place. “I’m sure there are many things that impress me. A good Beaujolais, I mean really good. Carolers in harmony. Factory children playing Kick-the-Can on a rare holiday. Someone defending a helpless stranger simply out of human decency. Honesty, valor, fairness . . . all these things and more have the power to strike me dumb with awe.”
Amara Royce Page 3