She still had a mutinous look as she eyed the tin skeptically. “What is it?”
“Lemon cream shortbread. Or ‘cookies,’ as Americans call them,” he replied. “Nanny Teresa’s recipe is world famous.”
“You travel with your nanny’s cookie recipe?”
It was worse than that, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He lifted the cover from the tin, and the first hint of citrus aroma wafted into the office. “Try one. You’ll understand.”
Her fingers were hesitant as she reached inside, but her face lit with astonishment as she took her first bite. The movement of her jaw slowed, her eyes widened, and he knew exactly what she was experiencing—the buttery shortbread that practically melted in her mouth, mixed with the refreshing tang of lemon that captured a thousand days of Mediterranean sunshine. She actually moaned.
“Now do you understand why I travel with my nanny?” The confession slipped out before he could call it back.
She looked at him with curiosity. “Oh . . . you mean you have a nanny for your children, right? For a moment I thought you actually still had a nanny.”
He smiled tightly. “I do, in fact, still have a nanny.”
Keeping Nanny Teresa on the payroll probably looked odd to outsiders, but when he was a child, she had been the most important adult in his world. Like most children of aristocrats, he was brought downstairs to see his parents for no more than one hour per day. It was Nanny Teresa who taught him to tie his shoes and to read. She took him for walks in the countryside and encouraged him to look under rocks to study the strange and wonderful insects hiding beneath them. She was essentially both a mother and a father to him. Only a heartless man would turn out his aging nanny who had no family or any way of supporting herself.
He affected a lighthearted tone and tilted his nose up to precisely the right angle. “I adore Nanny Teresa. I simply refuse to give her up, or her lemon cream shortbread.”
He needn’t have worried about Lucy’s reaction, for she had stopped paying attention to him as she stared at the shortbread in the tin, her lips moving silently as she scanned the contents. A guilty look came across her face.
“I hoped there would be enough for everyone in the office and still take some home to my brother,” she whispered.
He replaced the lid and pressed the tin into her hands. “Let it be our secret. If you accept my apology for the delayed stories, I won’t reveal your gluttony to your coworkers.”
He followed her back to her work station, where it was a little quieter and he could ensure the air was clear between them. He held out her chair, and she sat.
“Truly,” he said, “I apologize for the delayed stories traveling over Reuters’ wires. We pride ourselves on being above reproach. We fully intend to trounce the AP in terms of newspaper subscribers, prestige, and quality—but we fight fair. I wouldn’t work for Reuters if that weren’t true.”
Judging by the expression on her face, she accepted his apology. “Why did you go into this business?” she asked.
“The free newspapers.”
Her eyes gleamed, but she shook her head. “Try again.”
Normally he deflected personal questions with lighthearted quips. He wasn’t exactly proud of the fact that he’d abandoned the management of his estate into the care of his sister. It was an arrangement few people understood, but he sensed a kindred spirit in Lucy Drake.
“I grew up on an isolated estate where the newspaper was my lifeline,” he said simply. “Now I get to work in the business that opened up my world.” The look of shared understanding on her face was captivating. He hunkered beside her chair so they could see eye to eye.
“Listen!” he said urgently as his eyes roamed the office, where dozens of operators were busily transcribing stories. “That cascade of dots and dashes pouring from the telegraph is the sound of history in the making. No symphony composed by human hands will ever sound more thrilling to me. Those rattling clicks are bringing accounts of political upheavals and financial intrigue. Of scientific discovery and athletic accomplishments. They tell of fortunes being made and dreams collapsing. Battles, disasters, triumph, scandal. Those clicks are the chronicle of human history being funneled into this room, where it can be written up and sent out to anyone curious enough to open a newspaper. And we’re a part of that, Lucy.”
He caught himself. Rhapsodizing like this was out of character, and he had no business growing closer to Lucy Drake. He stood and quickly erected a façade of breezy charm.
“And we shall ensure your future stories are submitted promptly with no more tedious detours to the basement, hmm?”
He left without looking back.
Clutching the tin of lemon cookies on her lap, Lucy stared sightlessly out the office window after Colin Beckwith left.
How long had it been since she’d been this drawn to a man? The enthusiasm in his voice as he spoke about working for Reuters was an echo of her own pride in working for the AP. It was a privilege to work in such an industry, and yet few of her coworkers seemed to share her fervor. Perhaps this surge of attraction was only because she was so pathetically lonely. She hadn’t had a beau since Samuel broke their engagement, and the hollow feeling of being alone grew worse with each passing season. Inside she churned with energy, longing, and love that had no outlet. She was ready to share her life with someone, and how odd that Colin Beckwith managed to effortlessly tap into that well of emotion, drawing it out in a delightful flirtation and shared sense of curiosity.
At least Reuters was in good hands, for a man with that level of passion was an asset to any company. She hoped there was enough room in the newspaper industry for both Reuters and the AP. She worked for the upstart agency, and she knew that if only one of them could survive, it would be Reuters.
She shook herself and set the tin of cookies in her drawer, but her gaze couldn’t help but follow Colin as he headed to Mr. Tolland’s office, no doubt to deliver another apology.
The wires were lively, prompting her to open her sounder. She transcribed reports about a fire at the Philadelphia wharves and storms in Bermuda. Then came a story from a local reporter for the gossip pages. The gossip columnists identified their subjects by just their initials in order to avoid the potential for slander lawsuits, and the anonymity tended to make the stories even more salacious. As she transcribed the message onto her notepad, Lucy’s eyes grew wide.
A splendid dinner was given by one of Madison Avenue’s finest residents in honor of a British visitor, Sir C. B. To the assembled guests’ embarrassment, Sir B. was obviously intoxicated, gulping wine and falling down behind the piano. The gracious hostess smoothed over the awkwardness, although her dress, imported from Paris and designed by Mr. Worth, was stained by the drunkard’s spilled drink. Rumor has it Sir B. is on the hunt for a wealthy American wife, but the verdict is still out on his character. Is he England’s finest? Or merely a boozy drunkard come to steal another of our heiresses?
Lucy stared at the words she’d just transcribed. It was obvious who the story was about. Apprehension stiffened her spine. She’d seen worse gossip stories, but never about someone she knew. Someone who kept his nanny on the payroll and got a thrill from transcribing stories fresh off the wire.
A glance through the large windows of Mr. Tolland’s office revealed that Colin was still there. The apology must have been accepted, for both men looked genial and relaxed as Mr. Tolland showed Colin a framed photograph of his two young children. Colin grinned and made a comment that caused Mr. Tolland to roar with laughter.
Colin wouldn’t look so affable if he knew about the story she held clenched in her hands. A reputation for drunkenness could destroy a man’s standing in the business community. A headache began pounding as she stared at the words she’d just written. There were enough identifying details in the story that Sir Beckwith could probably sue for slander if the story wasn’t true.
But it wasn’t her job to worry about being sued. Her job was to insert this piece of paper into a canister,
slip it into the pneumatic tube, and send it to the fifth floor for distribution. Once this story was sent downstairs, it would be made available to over four hundred newspapers across the nation to print or ignore at their discretion.
It looked like Colin was preparing to leave as he loitered in the open doorway of Mr. Tolland’s office, shaking hands and sharing a final clap on the shoulder. She instinctively turned the page over, as though he could see it across the crowded office space. Their gazes briefly met, and he sent her a friendly nod before heading out of the room.
She bit her lip and tapped her foot in a nervous rhythm. This story might not even be true. Should she follow him out into the hall and show it to him? It wasn’t her responsibility to screen stories submitted to the AP, but wouldn’t it be fair play to give him advance warning that this story was on the verge of being printed? Whoever submitted it worked for the AP, and it was impossible to know if a Reuters correspondent would submit a similar story, but it was unlikely. Reuters had a reputation for solid news over gossip, so if this story somehow disappeared, there was a chance it would never see the light of day.
She slid the story beneath a stack of telegraph manuals. It was almost the end of her shift, and she could delay submitting it until tomorrow morning. She might even warn Colin that it was in the wind. It seemed the decent thing to do, but she had the night to make her decision.
Chapter
Seven
Colin arrived at the office before dawn. It was only six in the morning in New York, but it was noon in London, and stories flooded the office early. His predecessor had rarely bothered keeping such a demanding schedule, but professional success was important to Colin. “Good enough” would never do. The respect he gleaned from his title was built on the efforts of a long-dead ancestor few people even remembered. Colin wanted to build his own name. He had sweat, bled, and nearly died in that effort. Reuters had taken pity on him when they appointed him to an office job after he returned home early from Africa. Maybe he was no longer fit to be a war correspondent, but he could ensure that Reuters’ New York branch was as smoothly run as any in the world. Better, in fact.
He reviewed a list of newspapers in Brazil. If he played his cards right, he would win contracts with a handful of those newspapers. The AP had a lock on Mexico, but he intended to secure the South American market for Reuters. A smile tugged at his mouth as he started outlining a strategy, a surge of competitive instinct stirring to life. If he could make Reuters the dominant agency in South America, his standing with the company would soar. At the very least, it would help repair his reputation after what happened in Africa.
He had written a solid five pages of a proposal when the morning delivery of mail arrived. The interruption was frustrating, but a letter from his sister was at the top of the stack, and it was impossible to ignore.
Each line of Mary’s letter caused his heart to sink further. He’d hoped the roof on the east wing of the house would last another year, but she reported that the ceiling in the music room had caved in from water damage. The worst of the disaster was confined to the music room, but blooms of mold were spreading throughout the entire wing.
Well. There was nothing to be done other than cancel the plans for draining the swamp on the Haddonfield grange. A shame, because as soon as it was drained, they might actually get the barley fields back into production and provide a few more jobs to the tenants. Maybe by this time next year, he’d be married and wouldn’t have to choose if his sister was expected to live in a mold-infested slagheap or if his tenants would have work for the next year.
He rubbed the side of his rib cage, wishing the familiar tightness in his chest would ease. Deciding how to spend Whitefriars’ dwindling resources usually awakened this crushing sense of dread. It was bad enough to have his sister and ninety tenants dependent on him for their livelihood, but always in the back of his mind were centuries of dead ancestors looking over his shoulder and second-guessing his every move. Time was running out to save the estate, and the fear of being the last Beckwith to live at Whitefriars haunted him. The prospect of marrying for money was revolting, but it wasn’t as if marriage to Amelia Wooten would be a burden. She was an attractive woman with a sound head on her shoulders. Surely they could learn to rub along well enough together.
A knock sounded on his door, and his secretary entered. “A woman from the AP is here. She claims to have something you would be interested in.”
His heart lifted at the sight of Lucy Drake. Wasn’t that odd? She didn’t even look happy to see him, but the sight of her was enough to lighten his mood.
“Looking for more lemon cream shortbread?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said as she waited for the secretary to close the door behind her. Lucy’s expression was pained as she handed him a single sheet of paper.
He read quickly, the damning words jumping out at him. Boozy drunkard. Falling down behind the piano. His mouth went dry, and his heart pounded so hard it could probably be heard across the room. He kept the muscles on his face frozen in a perfect mask of calm, but the corner of the page crumpled where he squeezed it.
“Is there any truth to it?” Lucy asked.
Anger made it difficult to speak, but he managed to block it from his voice as he handed the paper back to her. “Falling down behind the piano? Yes, that happened, but I wasn’t drunk. I was . . . otherwise incapacitated.”
He didn’t even know the right word for what had happened to him. How could one describe the blinding panic, the inability to breathe, the sense of helplessness that came from nowhere and took hours to fully lift? All he knew was that it was shameful and embarrassing, and he had no intention of returning to England until he could control himself.
This story could destroy everything he’d worked for—not only his professional reputation but any hope for a decent marriage.
Lucy looked exquisitely uncomfortable, nibbling on her lower lip as she peered at him through worried eyes. Such a pretty girl, and how mortifying that she should learn this about him.
“Oh,” she finally said. “I was hoping you would say it wasn’t true.”
“Why?”
“Because then I wouldn’t feel so horrible if this message . . . I don’t know . . . somehow got overlooked for a while.”
He straightened, alert as a bloodhound on a scent. Would she really do that for him? It would be putting her job at risk for a virtual stranger, but his reputation was the only real thing of value he possessed, and that bulletin would take a wrecking ball to it. He didn’t have a lot of money to throw around, but this would be an investment.
“How much?” he asked.
She looked confused. “What?”
“How much?” He enunciated slowly and precisely.
“I don’t want your money,” she said in an appalled voice. “I only wanted to warn you. And look, if you have a problem with drinking, no amount of money can protect you from that. There are things you can do—”
“I am not a drunk,” he ground out.
“But you said you were incapacitated. . . .”
He turned away. Someone like Lucy Drake with her safe office job would have no experience with the kind of demons that haunted him. She had a healthy set of principles. He could tell that from her distaste when he’d tried to bribe her. But he wouldn’t appeal to her sense of pity. A man had to have some pride. Sometimes it was the only thing left.
“If you expect me to bare my soul and expose all my vulnerabilities like your overwrought American poets, I’m afraid you shall be disappointed.”
“Why do you have to be so frosty?” she demanded. “I came here to do you a favor by giving you a few hours’ advance warning. I’ll hold the story until this evening, but then I’m sending it down to the fifth floor for distribution to anyone who wants to publish it. And don’t ever try to bribe me again.”
He glared at her. Goodness, she was impressive. He simultaneously wanted to strangle and applaud her. He wanted nothing so much as t
o rip that piece of paper from her hands and tear it to shreds, but she had done him a kindness in coming here, and he needed to acknowledge it.
“Thank you,” he said stiffly, unable to soften the glacial anger in his face.
He sat frozen at his desk after she left. He had to stop that story. He didn’t know how, but he had to think fast.
Lucy worked straight through the rest of the morning and afternoon without a break. In the days following a court battle with the Saratoga Drakes, activity was always lively on the wire from the law office of her uncle’s attorney. Each time the telegraph line from the Moreno Law Office initiated a message, it caused a tiny electric bulb to light up on the corner of Lucy’s desk. She kept the lightbulb concealed behind a potted geranium, and the instant it came to life, she leaned over to disconnect the bulb, then tapped into the law office wire to eavesdrop on the message.
Only a fraction of the messages related to the Drake case. Most were run-of-the-mill cases on inheritance law, real estate transactions, and other irrelevant chatter. Certain words and phrases immediately put her on alert that they were discussing the Drake lawsuit. Appeal, adjusted value, and most notably, the mosquito. It was the term always used to describe anything relating to the Manhattan Drakes’ case.
Yesterday the law office wire had suggested the mosquitos were getting clever, but the Mr. G tactic had worked well to frustrate them. It had indeed. She and Nick were going to spend the weekend disengaging those valves from Mr. Garzelli’s building, depriving his tenants of the basic decency of running water. Lucy remembered one tenant in particular, an elderly Italian widow whose face was so wizened with age she looked like a shriveled apple. The widow wore a rustic headscarf and looked like she had stepped out of a different century, but she’d watched with curiosity as Lucy helped Nick with the installation. That old woman, whose hands were gnarled by arthritis, was going to return to lugging buckets of water up the stairs thanks to Lucy’s uncle.
A Dangerous Legacy Page 7