The Unsuitable Secretary (A Ladies Unlaced Novel)

by Maggie Robinson

  If only she were that exotic.

  Sir Thomas could easily have passed for a sheikh or spy. His dark eyes and hair and lush mustache were intriguing, and she didn’t even like mustaches.

  What would it feel like to be kissed by a man with a mustache?

  What would it feel like to be kissed by a man, period? Harriet had never been kissed in all her twenty-eight years, and a sadder story than that she couldn’t imagine. No one would ever make her the heroine of any novel.

  She may have sighed. A puff of cold air signaled her despair.

  Sir Thomas blinked those dark eyes down at her. He was much taller than she, which made for a refreshing change. She towered over most men. “Are you quite all right, Miss Benson? I know it’s chilly in here.”

  He also knew she had been ill. Not all the gory details, of course, but he was very solicitous. Harriet had not been able to resume her regular schedule as the Evensong Agency’s office manager since her operation, and they needed someone there who was more than part-time and not apt to get light-headed at the least little thing. She’d been completely honest with Sir Thomas when Mrs. Evensong had called her for the interview, and he’d only stared off beyond her ear as she’d confessed her limitations.

  He’d made a few odd noises in his throat, so she presumed he understood and had no objection. Then he’d signed her employment contract without even reading it, and nearly ran out of the building. He was a busy man, after all. Lots of irons in the fire. Harriet noted for future reference to go over all papers before the man signed anything so he wouldn’t be taken advantage of again. She was horrified at how much her salary was.

  So far, this job required only four half-days of the work week, and working conditions were more than pleasant. The situation was really quite perfect for her and she didn’t want to muff it.

  “I’m fine, Sir Thomas.”

  He withdrew the hand at her elbow. “So, what do you think?” He looked at her expectantly.

  Harriet always had trouble lying. It was one of her virtues, yet very inconvenient at this moment.

  “I’m sure my opinion does not matter,” she hedged. “It’s not my place to say.”

  “Nonsense. If you’re to spend time here coordinating schedules and buying supplies and whatnot, yours is the most important opinion.”

  The idea was to turn the space into subsidized living quarters and studios for artists, musicians, writers, and possibly actors, if they could behave themselves. There would be a gallery, a lecture hall, and performance spaces open to the public as well. Though an on-site porter would be on hand, Harriet would be the one juggling various creative personalities and necessities in her very own office.

  “I—I don’t think the location is ideal.”

  “Of course it isn’t,” Sir Thomas said cheerfully. “That’s why the building is so cheap.”

  She cleared her throat of a rather fat frog. “It also doesn’t appear to be structurally sound.”

  “Nothing that a little money and elbow grease won’t fix.”

  Harriet stared up at the leaden December sky, which was visible since a substantial portion of the roof was missing. One could not argue it was very cold indeed, with or without a roof. A pigeon fluttered in and settled itself in the cluster of those that were already roosting overhead. “I think you may be underestimating the cost and the effort.”

  Sir Thomas folded his arms across his broad chest. “So. You don’t like it.”

  “I doubt ladies would come to visit no matter how much you renovated. Their husbands and fathers would never let them,” Harriet said baldly. Her own father would have an absolute fit if he found her working in this neighborhood. As it was, he wanted her home. He’d never approved of her going to commercial college and finding a job. If she hadn’t had a small legacy from her maternal grandmother, Harriet could never have afforded the fees. Her father certainly had not offered to pay the tuition, and in the ten years she’d been employed, he’d never once stopped ragging on her.

  It wasn’t proper for a woman to work outside the home, he’d lectured. Even though his income as a bank clerk at Stratton and Son was inadequate to support the family, he gave the impression that the weekly salary she turned over to him was tainted. But it helped ensure that her two much-younger half-brothers could attend school instead of winding up in some dismal mill, as this building had once been.

  Sir Thomas nodded. “You’re absolutely right. And without the support of society ladies, we’ll never get their husbands to open up their checkbooks. So, what do you propose?”

  “You need a building in a more fashionable district. Somewhere one can walk at night after an event and remain unaccosted.”

  “Don’t you think I haven’t looked for precisely that? It’s hopeless.”

  Now he sighed, a white cloud floating through the frigid air.

  “Nothing is ever hopeless,” Harriet said, although she doubted her words herself. The drive here in Sir Thomas’s Pegasus, thrilling though it had been, had revealed London’s bleak winter despair. When she’d finally opened her eyes, legless veterans of both Boer Wars and ragged children had been begging on nearly every street corner.

  Why didn’t Sir Thomas use his fortune to help those unfortunates? Starving artists and musicians were somewhat lower on the needy scale, in her opinion. The poor didn’t have the luxury of being temperamental, as she well knew, and Harriet felt some trepidation at the thought of working with Sir Thomas’s so-called geniuses. There were to be only a half dozen at first, but still. Six people could seem like sixty when their demands became impossible.

  Three visual artists, a poet, a pianist, and a cellist had been selected for Sir Thomas’s patronage and experiment, all male, which Harriet thought was distinctly unfair. But Sir Thomas was trying to avoid any whispers of impropriety in the communal living situation, and no doubt he was right.

  “The building is too big anyhow,” Sir Thomas said, deciding to put his disappointment behind him. He was a good-humored gentleman on the whole. His rackety friends, who dropped in without invitation most mornings, even called him “Tubby,” although he was not portly at all, and he took no offence. Harriet wondered where the inappropriate nickname came from.

  “What I need is a storefront, with lodging above it. The artists and the art gallery are the most important aspects. The stage can wait. Best to start off modestly, I suppose. I’ll have to tell the other fellows to be patient about the performance spaces.”

  “What if . . .” No, she was probably overstepping her bounds.

  “What if what? Don’t be shy, Miss Benson. I’m not paying you to be shy.”

  And he was paying her quite a lot for just four half-days a week—although his project account books and personal correspondence had been in such a tangle Madame Defarge herself could not have unraveled them.

  “You could use the gallery to hold exclusive recitals and lectures. Kill two birds with one stone, as if were. Sell subscriptions. Have a musicale or poetry reading with a backdrop of art. Serve champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Please all the senses. The reputation of the cooperative would grow, and eventually you might build a permanent, larger space to suit.”

  Sir Thomas stared at her if she were speaking gibberish. Then a grin broke out on his handsome face. “By Jove! Mrs. Evensong was right about you!” He picked her up in the middle of the rubble and twirled her around.

  Harriet hung on to her hat and her notebook, her cheeks growing warm despite the cold. Before she had the chance to ask him to put her down, he thought of that himself. Her boots hit the warped floorboards and she wobbled, then landed ignominiously on her derriere.

  The flock of pigeons roosting overhead on a rafter squawked and flew out the hole in the roof, but not before one left a memento behind on her new brown coat. One of its compatriots was similarly inspired to anoint Sir Thomas as well.

  Harriet was mortified for so many reasons, but from the expression on his face, she was sure Sir Thomas was equall
y upset. He reached down and pulled her up with alacrity.

  Harriet couldn’t help but think how strong he was both to lift her off the ground and now get her up with such ease. To her despair, no corset she’d ever bought had been able to contain her curves completely. Her waist was mostly a figment of her imagination.

  “I say! So sorry! Do forgive my clumsiness! Never meant to have you wind up on your ar—oh, God, someone just shoot me now,” he muttered. He pulled out a starched handkerchief and tried to dab the glob of bird feces from her breast.

  “Sir Thomas!” she said, shocked, yet somewhat intrigued. If she hadn’t been kissed, she certainly had not been touched there.

  Though perhaps it was time.

  His hand drew back as if scalded. “Quite right. Trying to be a gentleman but failing rather spectacularly.” He gave her the handkerchief.

  Harriet took care of the problem, then raised her eyes to the shoulder of her employer. Sir Thomas’s coat was in need of some assistance as well. Dare she touch him? The mess was in an awkward spot. He’d have to be a bit of a contortionist to reach it without removing his topcoat.

  She heard the warnings of her dead mother in her head. She heard the warnings of her dead stepmother in her head. Harriet ignored them both.

  “Hold still.” With brisk efficiency, she wiped him clean. “There. Almost as good as new.”

  “Miss Benson, I do apologize. Permit me to buy you a new coat.” Sir Thomas looked awfully penitent, his brown eyes liquid and sincere.

  The coat had been her Christmas present to herself, since her father and brothers couldn’t be bothered to give her anything. She’d saved for two years to buy it with its velvet frogs and piping, but she shook her head at his offer. Somehow she’d get the stain out. “Oh, I couldn’t permit that. It wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Consider it hazardous duty pay. I was thoughtless to drag you to this pigeon-infested building.”

  “You didn’t drag me. Your chauffeur drove us here. Perhaps we should leave—he must be getting nervous.” Though Josephson was a sturdy fellow, this neighborhood was apt to give even a pugilist pause.

  “Yes, of course.” But he was still rooted on the uneven floor. He cleared his throat. “I know I’m impulsive. Not organized. That’s what you’re here for. If you’ll stay.” He waved his arm. “Sorry about all this, honestly. Didn’t mean to put you in jeopardy.”

  She felt the beginnings of a smile. In her opinion, her teeth were her best facial feature, so she relented and revealed them. “You’re not responsible for the birds, Sir Thomas.”

  “What came before. Shouldn’t have—well, you know.”

  Harriet’s friend Eliza Raeburn had described Sir Thomas Featherstone as being thick as thieves with artists’ models and actresses. If he were as tongue-tied with those other females, she didn’t see how he ever accomplished anything.

  Of course, there was his money to sweeten the seduction.

  “Really, I’ve forgotten all about it,” Harriet lied. She’d never been spun in giddy joy before, and Sir Thomas had been giddy and joyful. But now he was sober and a bit awkward. Maybe he was just shy with her. With his reputation, he’d probably never dealt with a respectable woman besides his mother.

  Harriet was nothing if not respectable, no matter what her father thought. She was a little boring, really. She’d never done the sort of undercover work that the Evensong Agency was famous for, and now never would. It was her lot in life to straighten out cluttered desks and minds without much fanfare.

  Except she had been twirled around an empty mill. And that had been fun.

  She looked at her wrist, where a cheap watch told her that her morning was done. She still felt perfectly well, though. Working with Sir Thomas served as a kind of tonic. One couldn’t feel too blue around him. He was very enthusiastic about this project, and Harriet resolved not to tamp it down too severely.

  He noticed her look at her watch. “Time’s up, eh? You’re like Cinderella fleeing from the ball.”

  Harriet knew she was blushing. She wore worn half-boots, not glass slippers, and was much too large to be a Cinderella. Truly, she was more like the pumpkin coach. “We agreed to the terms, Sir Thomas.”

  “That we did, and I never go back on my word. I’ll have Josephson take you home.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” There was no need for anyone to see the grim exterior of the flat she shared with her two brothers and her father.

  “I insist. You don’t want to try to get on an omnibus here and ride along with the riffraff. I’ll even keep you company.”

  Harriet was more or less riffraff herself. “No! That is to say, you’re very kind, Sir Thomas, but I wouldn’t like you to go out of your way. You’re an important man with many things to do.”

  Sir Thomas lifted a dark brow. “Am I? I rather thought I was just going home for lunch. And possibly a nap. I came in late last night.”

  Harriet could only imagine. Sir Thomas was fond of music and had probably been in some smoky cabaret with a group of giggling chorus girls.

  “I don’t want to keep you, then. We’ll compromise—Josephson can take me an Underground station on the way to Featherstone House.”

  “Stubborn, aren’t you? All right.”

  His hand slipped under her elbow again and he steered her over the detritus and pigeon droppings out to the car. Harriet realized she still clutched his handkerchief and tucked it in her pocket. She’d launder it and return it the next time she came in to her office to work.

  Right now her “office” was a corner of Sir Thomas’s opulent library. On her desk, along with the yet-to-be translated papers, were the dossiers of the six lucky recipients of free housing and studio space. Of course, they weren’t lucky yet—suitable accommodations had to be found.

  Harriet thought of the vacant property just a few doors down from the Evensong Agency. She’d walked by it every day, and it just might possibly suit Sir Thomas’s enterprise. But she kept mum, not wanting to build his hopes up. It had been empty for ages, so perhaps there was some problem.

  But at least it didn’t have a missing roof.

  Harriet would ask Mrs. Evensong to look into it for her. Mount Street was a highly desirable location, its buildings refaced with distinctive red brickwork within the past twenty years, a mix of commercial and residential elegance. There certainly was no trace of the parish workhouse that once was home to hundreds of paupers. Sir Thomas could afford it, no matter how high the price. He was incredibly, almost disgustingly, rich.

  She wondered why he hadn’t married already. He could have his pick of anyone, and must be tired of evading the overtures of society’s darlings. Well, it wasn’t her business. A man such as he had the freedom to marry when and where he pleased. The next Lady Featherstone might be a scandalous actress, or even a Floradora Girl.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Miss Benson? You have the oddest look on your face.”

  Harriet plastered on a smile. “As I said, I’m fine. Perhaps I’m hungry, too.”

  “Would you—is it an imposition to invite you to share my lunch? I’m sure Cook has prepared plenty.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t. My father expects me home.”

  Sir Thomas’s sleek eyebrows knitted. “I thought he worked in a bank.”

  “He does, but since my illness, he comes home on his lunch break to check up on me.” Harriet thought her father was being far too overprotective, but she had to admit it was nice sharing a quick meal with him without the boys’ constant chatter. He even fussed over her, preparing her special tea and putting in too much sugar.

  Just the way she liked it.

  “Another time then.” Sir Thomas looked a little disappointed. He couldn’t be lonely, could he? He might be a bachelor rattling around in an enormous Mayfair mansion, but there was a fleet of servants to respond to his every need, and he had friends galore. Bushels of invitations kept rolling in daily. The postman probably had a backache from delivering them all.r />
  “Thank you for thinking of me. You’re too kind,” Harriet said, settling into the capacious seat of the automobile. How her brothers would swarm around it like ants on jam if given the opportunity.

  But her father would disapprove, and Harriet was grateful she’d arrive home on foot without facing his wrath. He already thought Sir Thomas was the devil incarnate, which was preposterous, really. Her father would never be satisfied until Harriet was at home with an apron tied around her nonexistent waist and a broom in her hand.

  Not that she currently shirked her womanly duties. The flat was as immaculate as it could be considering two young boys and a man lived in it. None of the males of the household were at all tidy, and Harriet trailed after them with a dust rag and air of hopeless optimism, collecting their belongings and chiding them gently. No one paid a bit of attention to her. She struggled to use her afternoons to clean and cook while they were out of the house, before the inevitable languor set in. Sometimes she was too tired to eat the evening meal she prepared for her father and brothers, but she wasn’t getting any slimmer, unfortunately.

  Harriet wondered if she’d ever be well again. It was bad enough having a depressing, ugly, livid scar on her body, not that anyone would ever see it. But her mind was fogged, too, and that was very worrisome. Very worrisome indeed.

  Chapter 3

  The fire crackled in his study, and Thomas stared into it as if it would tell him the future. He didn’t know where everything had all gone wrong. Once he was expelled from school, he supposed. He and his friends had drifted apart while he was educated privately. When they caught up, he discovered he was very far behind them in all the ways that were so important to young gentlemen.

  There hadn’t been much opportunity to importune university town tavern wenches while he was stuck studying under the gimlet eye of his father and a series of dreadful, dried-up tutors in Featherstone House.

  One thing had led to another, which basically led to nowhere, so he’d fibbed about his sexual experience at first. Made up stories about saucy parlor maids and wicked widows. He’d always had a good imagination. Once he’d inherited his father’s baronetcy and fortune six years ago and launched himself as a patron of the arts, actresses and dancers and models were only too happy to accept his largesse without removing so much as a stocking. He’d whiled away many pleasant private hours discussing the problems of the middle and lower classes with its most beautiful representatives, and Thomas had developed a reputation rather quickly for being sweet and generous and uncomplicated.