Laura Lee Guhrke
With Seduction in Mind
For Aaron
Because of the typewriter.
Now, where’s my Steampunk?
Contents
Chapter 1
Daisy Merrick was unemployed. Such a circumstance wasn’t unusual—Daisy had…
Chapter 2
“Why George Lindsay?” Lucy glanced up from the newspaper in…
Chapter 3
Daisy supposed most people would find Sebastian Grant a bit…
Chapter 4
Daisy felt her meeting with Lord Marlowe had gone well.
Chapter 5
To say that Sebastian Grant looked displeased was something of…
Chapter 6
Every time Sebastian thought of Daisy Merrick’s pleased little smile,…
Chapter 7
Dressed for bed, Daisy was sprawled across the rug in…
Chapter 8
“You must be in need of tea.” Lady Mathilda reached…
Chapter 9
Sebastian had never been a man who believed all that…
Chapter 10
“Sir?”
Chapter 11
He hated to write. Daisy found that difficult to comprehend.
Chapter 12
The moment he touched his mouth to hers, Sebastian knew…
Chapter 13
Daisy could not sleep. Her outrageous proposition reverberated through her…
Chapter 14
Sebastian walked down the path at a rapid clip, his…
Chapter 15
He wrote about her. He called her Amelie, and gave…
Chapter 16
The following morning, she found out he was gone. Unexpected…
Chapter 17
She’d had no idea. If anyone had ever told her…
Chapter 18
Mathilda wasted no time. Sebastian was dressing for dinner when…
Chapter 19
Daisy’s words began echoing in Sebastian’s ears the moment she…
About the Author
Other Books by Laura Lee Guhrke
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
All the world’s a stage, and all the men
and women merely players:
they have their exits and their entrances;
and one man in his time plays many parts.
William Shakespeare
London, May 1896
Daisy Merrick was unemployed. Such a circumstance wasn’t unusual—Daisy had been in that particular pickle many times before. Some people, including her sister, were inclined to see her ever-changing job situation as her own fault, but to Daisy’s mind that opinion was most unfair. Today was a perfect example.
Bristling with indignation, she marched out of the offices of Pettigrew and Finch, where she had just been informed by the matron in charge of typists that her services would no longer be required. And no, Matron had added upon her inquiry, they could not see clear to providing her with a letter of character. Given her shameless conduct, no favorable reference would be possible.
“My shameless conduct?” she muttered, pausing on the sidewalk to search for a passing omnibus amid the traffic that clogged Threadneedle Street. “Mr. Pettigrew is the one who should be ashamed!”
When that gentleman had cornered her in the supply closet, taken up her hand, and confessed to a deep and ardent passion for her, she had refused to succumb to his advances, as any respectable woman would have done. Yet, when informed by Matron Witherspoon a short time later that her employment had been terminated, Daisy’s indignant explanation had not saved her job. Mr. Pettigrew, Matron had reminded her with a superior little smile, was a founding partner of an important banking firm, and Daisy Merrick was a typist of no consequence whatsoever.
An omnibus turned the corner, and Daisy waved her arms in the air to hail the horse-drawn vehicle. When it stopped, she climbed aboard and handed over the three-pence fare that would take her home. As the omnibus jerked into motion, she secured an empty seat and considered how best to explain to Lucy that she’d lost yet another job.
Though she knew the blame could not be laid at her door, she also knew her elder sister might not see things quite that way. Lucy would list all the reprimands Daisy had received from Matron for her impertinence during the three months of her employment with Pettigrew and Finch. No doubt, Lucy would remind Daisy of how Mr. Pettigrew had witnessed Matron’s latest scolding a week earlier, of how he had patted her hand once the older woman had gone, of how he had called her honesty “refreshing” and assured her she had no reason to worry, of how he’d said he would “take care of her.”
Lucy might even be tiresome enough to bring up the warnings she had issued regarding Mr. Pettigrew’s assurances, and her own blithe disregard of these warnings.
Daisy bit her lip. In hindsight, she knew she should have followed Lucy’s suggestion and informed Mr. Pettigrew that she couldn’t impose upon him to intervene with Matron on her behalf. Had she done that, this mess might have been avoided. But having a sister who was always right could be so aggravating, and Daisy often felt an irresistible compulsion to fly in the face of Lucy’s well-meant advice. This had been one of those times.
The employment mishaps that plagued Daisy’s life never happened to her sister, of course. Lucy, Daisy thought with a hint of envy, was tact personified. If the stout, elderly, sweaty-faced Mr. Pettigrew had seized her by the hand, declared the violence of his affections, and promised her a tidy little income and a house in a “discreet” neighborhood, Lucy wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow. She would have informed him in a dignified manner that she was not that sort of woman and that surely he would not wish to dishonor either of them by making unsavory assumptions about his female employee’s virtue. Such a prim, maidenly speech—along with a gentle reminder to think of his wife and children—would have had Mr. Pettigrew, one of London’s most important businessmen, hanging his head like a naughty schoolboy. He would have withdrawn from the supply closet thoroughly ashamed of himself, and the entire episode would have blown over.
Daisy, however, was not made of such stuff. She’d stared at Mr. Pettigrew’s perspiring face in openmouthed stupefaction for only two seconds before blurting out in characteristic fashion the first thought that entered her head: “But you’re so old!”
Her impulsive reaction had sealed her fate. Instead of withdrawing from the supply closet feeling ashamed of himself, Mr. Pettigrew had departed in a huff of injured masculine dignity, and Daisy had lost her fourth post in less than a year.
It was her outspokenness that always seemed to land her in the suds. While working for a fashionable dressmaker, she’d discovered most women did not want to hear the truth about their clothing choices. When asked for her opinion, a showroom woman did not tell the wealthy but stout client who adored silver satin that silver satin made her look fatter.
Daisy hadn’t had any better success as a governess. A baron’s daughters, Lady Barrow had informed her, did not play games like rounders. They did not fill their coloring books with images of orange grass, green sky, and girls with purple hair. They didn’t need to do sums and learn long division. No, a baron’s daughters sewed perfect samplers, painted perfect replicas of the Italian Masters, and made useless—but perfect—falderal for their friends. When Daisy said that was just plain silly, she’d been shipped home from Kent in disgrace.
As a typist for the legal firm of Ledbetter and Ghent, she’d learned the hard way that Mr. Ledbetter did not appreciate having the errors in his legal briefs pointed out to him by a mere typist.
And now, there was Mr. Pettigrew—powerful, influential banker and
lecherous cad. Another lesson learned, she thought with a sigh. A woman who earned her living needed tactful ways to contend with dishonorable propositions from the sterner sex.
Ah, well. Daisy tried to adopt a philosophical attitude. She gave a shrug and tucked a loose strand of her fiery red hair behind her ear. Everything would turn out all right, she told herself as she leaned back in her seat and stared through the window at the brick-fronted publishing houses that lined Fleet Street. It wasn’t as if she would be tossed into the street. Lucy was the proprietress of an employment agency, and after an inevitable round of “I-told-you-so’s,” her sister would insist upon finding her yet another post.
Daisy didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but she couldn’t greet the prospect of Lucy’s help with much enthusiasm. Her sister had the tendency to think only of the practical aspects of a position, never considering whether the tasks were interesting. Daisy thought of Lady Barrow, Mr. Ledbetter, and Mr. Pettigrew and thought perhaps this time she should find her own job. She might have better luck that way.
How delightful, she thought, if she could announce to her sister that yes, she’d lost her place at Pettigrew and Finch, but she’d found another post straightaway. Lucy wouldn’t be able to give her that exasperated look and heavy, disappointed sigh if her next employment situation was a fait accompli.
The omnibus passed Saxton and Company, a book publisher, reminding Daisy of the half dozen manuscripts crammed into the drawers of her desk at home. She smiled to herself. What she ought to do was stop dabbling and become a real writer. After all, her friend, Emma, had done that very thing with much success.
Lucy wouldn’t like it. Despite Emma’s example, Lucy had always discouraged Daisy’s literary ambitions. It was a most uncertain sort of job, she’d often pointed out, filled with rejection and criticism. And the pay, if there was any at all, was sporadic and often dismally low. That wasn’t a consideration for Emma, who had married her publisher, a wealthy viscount, but it was of vital importance to Daisy and her sister. Girl-bachelors, alone in the world, they had to earn their living.
The omnibus halted at Bouverie Street to take on a new passenger, and as Daisy stared at the street name painted on the corner building, she felt a jolt of recognition. Bouverie Street was where Emma’s husband, Viscount Marlowe, had his publishing offices. How extraordinary that someone should have hailed this omnibus one block from Marlowe Publishing at the very moment she’d been thinking about becoming a writer.
This, she realized, could not be mere coincidence. This was Fate.
The omnibus began moving again, and Daisy jumped to her feet. She leaned over the passenger beside her to give the bell wire a hard yank, causing the other passengers to groan at the further delay. The vehicle lurched as the driver applied the braking mechanism, and Daisy grabbed for the brass handlebar overhead with one gloved hand to stay on her feet, flattening her other palm atop her straw boater hat to keep it in place. Once the vehicle had come to a full stop, she moved toward the front, ignoring the hostile glances of her fellow passengers.
She disembarked and paused on the sidewalk, looking up Bouverie Street to the brick building on the next corner. The chance of ever becoming a published writer was somewhere between slim and nonexistent, but Daisy waved aside any consideration of the odds and began walking toward Marlowe Publishing. Becoming a writer was, she felt certain, her destiny.
Daisy was not only rash-tongued and impulsive. She was also an incurable optimist.
Opening nights were always hell.
Sebastian Grant, the Earl of Avermore, paced across the oak floorboards backstage at the Old Vic, too agitated to sit down. It had been so long since he’d had a play on, he’d forgotten what opening night was like.
“It’s bound to fail, of course,” he muttered as he paced. “My last play was a disaster, and this one is worse. God, why didn’t I burn the stupid thing when I had the chance?”
Most people would have been shocked to hear England’s most famous novelist and playwright disparaging his work in this manner, but his friend, Phillip Hawthorne, Marquess of Kayne, listened to Sebastian’s condemnation of his latest play with the forbearance of one who had heard it all before. “You don’t believe a single word you’re saying.”
“Oh, yes, I do. The play is shit.” Sebastian reached one end of the stage and turned to start back in the opposite direction. “Utter shit.”
“You always say that.”
“I know, but this time, it’s true.”
Phillip did not seem impressed. He leaned one shoulder against a supporting pillar and folded his arms, watching his friend pace back and forth. “Some things never change.”
“You’d best go home before the thing starts,” he advised darkly, ignoring Phillip’s murmured comment. “Spare yourself the torture of watching it.”
“Is there nothing worthy in it?”
“Oh, it opens well enough,” he conceded with reluctance. “But in the second act, the whole story falls apart.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“The dark moment is so anticlimactic it might as well not be there at all.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And as for the plot—” Sebastian broke off and raked a hand through his dark hair with a sound of derision. “The entire plot rests on a silly misunderstanding.”
“You’re in good company, then. Dozens of Shakespeare’s plays are based on misunderstandings.”
“Which is why Shakespeare is overrated.”
Phillip’s shout of laughter caused him to give his friend a puzzled glance as he passed by. “What’s so amusing?”
“Only you would have the arrogance to deem Shakespeare overrated.”
Sebastian failed to see the humor. “I need a drink.”
He walked to a table offstage, where a variety of refreshments had been laid out for the actors. He chose a bottle and held it up with an inquiring glance, but Phillip shook his head, and Sebastian poured gin into only one tumbler.
“There is no reason for Wesley not to tell Cecilia the truth,” he went on, resuming discussion of his new play as he set down the bottle and picked up his glass. “Except that if he did, there would be no reason for the letter in the handbag, everything would be resolved before the end of Act Two, and the play would be over.”
“The audience won’t notice.”
“Of course they won’t.” Sebastian downed the gin in one draught. “They’ll be asleep.”
Phillip chuckled at that. “I doubt it.”
“I don’t. I’ve seen the rehearsals. I give it a week before it closes.”
His friend’s silence caused him to glance over his shoulder. “No protest of that for friendship’s sake?”
“Sebastian, the play is probably fine.”
“No, it’s not. It’s not good enough.” He paused, for he could hear his father’s voice echoing back to him from childhood, a voice that had uttered those same words about nearly everything he’d done as a boy. “Never, ever good enough,” he muttered, pressing the cool glass to his forehead.
“That’s not true,” Phillip’s voice overrode the past. “You are a fine writer, and you damn well know it. That is,” he amended at once, “when you’re not torturing yourself over how awful you are.”
Sebastian took a deep breath and turned around. “What if the critics slaughter me?”
“You’ll do what you always do. You’ll tell them to sod off and you’ll write something else.”
Sebastian could not be so sanguine. “What if they’re right? Remember my last novel? When that was published four years ago, everyone hated it. Even you admitted it wasn’t any good.”
“That is not what I said. You demanded my opinion, and in my answering letter, I said it was not one of my personal favorites, and that was all I said.”
“You’re so polite, Phillip.” Sebastian took a swallow of gin and grimaced. “It was garbage. I haven’t written a thing in half a dozen years that’s been worth a damn. The critics know it. You
know it. I know it. I shall be slaughtered tomorrow.”
There was a long silence, and then Phillip spoke. “Sebastian, I’ve known you since we were boys. I watched you on the fields at Eton twenty-five years ago, cursing yourself every time you missed a goal, yet swaggering around like God’s gift to football every time you made one. I watched you agonize over every single word of the novel you wrote when we were at Oxford, yet when it was published, you accepted the praise heaped on you with a complacence that made me want to throttle you for your conceit.”
“Do you have a point?”
“I have never ceased to be amazed by this dichotomy of your character. You possess an unsurpassed arrogance about your work, and yet at the same time, you battle these agonizing uncertainties. How can two such opposing traits exist in one man? Are all writers like this, or only you?”
These days, he felt none of the arrogance his friend spoke of, but he felt all of the uncertainty. “It’s been eight years since I last saw you. Living abroad changed me. I can’t—” Sebastian broke off, unable to voice the truth, though it echoed through his mind as an inalterable fact. He couldn’t write anymore, but he couldn’t say that out loud. “I’m not the same man you knew,” he said instead.
“You are exactly the same. Pacing back and forth like a cat on hot bricks, disparaging your latest work in the worst way and telling anyone who’ll listen that it’s rubbish. You’ve already made your usual dire predictions that everyone will hate it and it will fail miserably. I’m waiting for the part where you announce your career is over and the cycle will be complete.” Phillip shook his head. “No, no, Sebastian, you may think you’ve changed, but you haven’t. Not one bit.”
Phillip was dead wrong, of course. He had changed, and in ways his friend couldn’t possibly understand. Still, there was no point in telling Phillip what havoc the past eight years had wrought. There was no point in informing his friend that there wasn’t ever going to be another book or another play. He was finished.
Weariness came over him suddenly, smothering his bout of nervous energy. He lowered his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and he couldn’t help a wave of longing for the cocaine. Three years since he’d last taken the stuff, but God, he still craved it. With cocaine to silence his crippling creative doubts, writing had been so easy. He hadn’t cared if the work was good or not, because for the first time in his life, it was good enough. Cocaine had made him feel as if he could do anything, ward off any adversity, triumph over any obstacle. The cocaine had made him feel invincible.
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