by Erica Ridley
Or perhaps something was very wrong, and she needed his help.
Cole sprinted down the alley and drew up short when it terminated between two storefronts. To the right, a milliner. To the left, a hostel.
He ducked into the milliner’s shop. While he could not fathom what urge might spur a young lady to purchase a new bonnet at half eight in the morning, it was the only explanation.
Miss Middleton was nowhere inside.
He spun back out to the alley and narrowed his eyes at the tavern next door. Although he had never frequented this particular establishment, it was known to sell ale by the cup or the gallon, and had an inexpensive menu to accompany one’s libation.
But what on earth could any of that have to do with Miss Middleton?
Perhaps he’d been mistaken. The woman he’d seen hadn’t been her at all, but rather some matron or housekeeper or headmistress whose own kitchen was inoperable for some reason, forcing her to visit an establishment such as this in order to break her fast.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside, anyway. Just in case.
As with the milliner’s, Miss Middleton was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the dining salon was empty of customers and employees alike. Perhaps Cole had hallucinated the entire charade.
But then he heard an unmistakable female voice emanating from a rear room. The murmur was immediately followed by a man’s baritone.
Cole was across the dining salon and barging into the private chamber before his brain even had a chance to think.
The male voice appeared to belong to the tavern’s owner. The female voice, none other than Miss Middleton. As for what they were doing…
Their heads were bent over a hogshead of beer. The manager’s thick arms were folded over his barrel chest. In one of Miss Middleton’s slender hands was a mug of ale.
Both sets of eyes widened in surprise at Cole’s interruption.
“What are you doing here?” Miss Middleton stammered.
“What the devil are you about?” he demanded in reply.
“Mrs. Peabody is tuning our scales,” said the owner. “Did you come to join her for breakfast?”
Cole gaped at them both. “Mrs. Peabody?”
“I’m afraid I cannot dine today, Mr. Smith,” Miss Middleton said smoothly. “But you’re absolutely right. This batch of ale has a far more balanced flavor than the last.”
Cole’s tongue was thick with confusion. “Balanced… flavor?”
“Well, now, that’s thanks to you, Mrs. Peabody,” the owner replied, his pale cheeks flushing in pleasure. “You were right about the proportion of hops to barley, and which source currently has the best crop.”
Each word seemed to tip the world further off-kilter.
“You improved his ale recipe?”
“And the ingredients,” the owner said with pride. “We now brew with the finest barley available to London.”
Cole blinked. “Not the Nicholson farm?”
Mr. Smith beamed back at him. “The very one.”
Cole spun toward Miss Middleton in befuddlement. “But how would you know—”
She looped her arm through his and pivoted toward the door. “That’ll do, I believe. Mr. Smith, Thank you for your hospitality.”
“Come back anytime,” he called after them.
The moment they were out of the tavern and into the relative sunlight of the alley, Cole turned Miss Middleton to face him. “Mrs. Peabody, is it?”
“It’s actually Diana,” she murmured. “To my friends.”
“I am not your friend,” he told her firmly. “I am your self-appointed chaperone until further notice because whoever is supposed to be your duenna is not up to the task.”
She lifted her chin. “I do not require your help. In fact, your presence is a hindrance.”
“A hindrance to what?”
She sighed. “Our system of weights and measures is broken. Hundreds of dishonest vendors cheat their clients every day, stealing from unwitting customers without recompense because absolutely nothing is done to—”
“Nothing is done?” Cole’s neck began to heat. “I personally pushed for reform that enacted better laws just two years ago. It’s not as though London has a list of known villains that we’re willfully ignoring—”
“It is exactly as though London has a list, because I wrote it myself!” Miss Middleton snapped. “I write a new report every month, including indexes for and updates to the miscreants mentioned in past missives. I am in a singular position of authority on the matter, and Act or no Act, you haven’t done enough!”
“How are you an authority?” he asked. “Who is the real Mrs. Peabody?”
“Mrs. Peabody is the harried under-secretary of a litigious barrister,” Miss Middleton bit out, “and she doesn’t exist. The problems do, however, and so do the solutions.”
He sighed. “Meters again?”
“I’d settle for logic. What are we meant to do with three different pipes of wine, two hogsheads, wine gallons that match the weight of a corn gallon filled with wheat… And let’s not even touch the twenty-seven styles of bushel. Your lot needs to come up with a system that works, and then enforce it.”
“You’re right,” he said. “That’s my lot. Not the business of a proper young lady with a reputation to keep.”
“I’ve an unblemished reputation,” she assured him. “Miscreants shake in their boots and the rest toast my arrival. I know every vendor in London. Where to buy, where not to buy, who to trust, and who would swindle his own mother. They love me or they fear me.”
“That is not a good reputation,” he informed her. “That is the sort of thing that will prevent you from finding—”
She slammed her fists to her hips. “If you say ‘a husband,’ I shall be forced to violence, so help me God.”
He couldn’t believe she was fighting him on this. A good marriage wasn’t just the best way for a young lady to ensure her future. It was often the only way. And he was trying to help!
He stepped closer. “A good match—"
“Bah. When will it occur to you that not all women have no ambitions beyond serving a husband? Before you say ‘what else would you do?’ please recall that one out of every four women never marries. Are some spinsters overset with sadness at such a gothic fate? Surely. Do other independent women awaken every morning thanking the heavens for another day’s freedom?”
“You are not an independent woman,” he reminded her. “You are the ward of—”
“I’m five-and-twenty,” she said firmly. “Thad is a kind and generous cousin, but he no longer holds legal guardianship. If I had enough wealth, I could rent my own apartment and—”
“If,” he repeated. “In the absence of independent means, Thaddeus Middleton is your practical guardian, regardless of legal obligation. A woman in your position can either find a man to marry, or pursue genteel employment as a governess or companion. What she cannot do is—”
“—become an agent of change when she encounters inequity or criminal activity?” she interrupted, eyes flashing. “Have a positive impact on the world around her, at a level outside the home? Be seen and heard and matter?”
“Do you think mothers don’t matter?” he countered. “That wives don’t matter?”
“Having enough bread to eat matters, yet you haven’t rushed off to become a baker or a grain harvester.” She lifted her chin. “You’re most useful in the House of Lords, and I’m most useful as a covert agent out on the streets avenging misapplied mathematics.”
“As a covert… that is not a thing that exists!” he spluttered.
“I’m the first one,” she said with a shrug. “When I see unfairness, I do my best to fix it. Sometimes the problem lies with undereducated buyers and sometimes an unethical shopkeeper is at fault. One cannot know until firsthand inquiries are made. But if I find a discrepancy… I settle the score.”
“It’s not the same.” He crossed his arms. “Parliament governs with honesty and trans
parency. Members of the public can view important proceedings from the galleries—”
“Male members of the public,” she murmured.
“On the authority of no one at all, you wrap yourself in lies and disguises—”
“It’s the only way I can accomplish anything at all.” She took a deep breath. “You are privileged to be able to be yourself, to force people to notice you, to be allowed to take part. The public may judge your opinions, but you will never be expelled or condemned for possessing one.”
He stared at the impossible woman in consternation.
Many of her points were true. Although she went about her business in ways completely antithetical to his own mores and values, he could not deny that she wanted the same things he did. Fairness. Justice. Equality. A better life for all.
It was easy for him to champion such causes however he pleased, yet all but impossible for her.
“I don’t mind disguising myself for investigative missions,” she said softly, “although I wish I did not have to don an equally false evening costume in order to be deemed acceptable by society.”
He stepped forward.
“I don’t expect to change your mind,” she said quickly. “My actions will never be seen as those of a ‘proper’ young lady, nor will my name ever be spoken in Parliament. But I don’t need that. What good is a pristine reputation, if I’m the only person it helps?”
“What good is throwing your reputation away if it stops you from helping anyone, including yourself?” he countered. “What do you think will happen if your ruse is discovered?”
“No more soirées,” she said with mock relief, “but between now and then—”
“Discovered by a shopkeeper,” Cole pressed. “Your name in scandal columns will be the least of your problems. You’re not an actress on a stage. These are real people. Each time, you endanger yourself physically, legally, and—”
“Legally?” She gaped at him. “Dishonest vendors are the ones who—”
“You are not a magistrate,” he reminded her, “or an armed Runner, or a member of the House.”
“You’re trying to—”
“I’m trying to protect you,” he burst out. “Can’t you see that? I admire where your heart is. I admire that you put the good of the people above yourself. I love that you eschew complaisance in favor of investigation and facts and progress. But I cannot let you—”
“You cannot ‘let’ me do anything,” she spat, “because you do not own me, and you never will. You don’t even see the hypocrisy. Men have the freedom to dress in regimentals to risk their lives at war, yet I cannot don a plain bonnet or weigh a bushel of corn?”
“Diana—”
“What would you have me do?” She threw out her hands, her eyes and tone bleak. “Spend the next four decades painting insipid watercolors and fretting over the art of perfect ringlets?”
“I—”
“No,” she said dully. “Don’t answer. If that’s your vision for me, I don’t want to know.”
She spun away from him and waved a hand toward an oncoming hack.
In one step, he was at her side. “My coach is across the street. Let me take you home.”
“You can’t,” she said, blue eyes accusing. “The Duke of Colehaven alone with frumpy Miss Middleton? What would people think?”
With that, she disappeared into the hack and closed the door.
Chapter 11
Diana had never felt less like being at a soirée.
Her spine was pressed against the farthest wall from the dancing, but her mind had never left the Duke of Colehaven. A dozen hours had passed since their confrontation, but her fingers still shook at the memory.
She had been fortunate to have been caught by Colehaven and not someone else. For all their impassioned disagreements, he was perhaps the one soul in all of England who would keep her secret without taking action against her.
Diana’s spine straightened. Perhaps Thaddeus was the answer. She hated that her unwed state was holding her cousin back from seeking love of his own. But what if they could both have what they wanted?
When Diana had been orphaned, Thad had not hesitated to take her in as her guardian. He also guarded the dowry that Diana’s father had set aside for her future husband. When she had first been presented to Society, Thad had denied her request for the money to be transferred to her instead. His duty was to see her married. No further argument allowed.
But that was then. She’d been a debutante, not a spinster. What if Thad could finally be talked into turning over the dowry money?
By ton standards, the nominal sum was pitiably humble. But Diana did not plan to live a lavish life. If she could rent a simple room somewhere out of society’s sight, her unconventional behavior would not bring scandal to Thad’s name or reputation.
In fact, she could perhaps even become the exact thing she’d been pretending to be: the right hand of a barrister or magistrate who sought to improve England’s laws and ability to enforce them.
She grinned in delight. Then there wouldn’t be anything to unmask. She’d just be a woman, doing her job. Improving her world. Openly. Giddy excitement filled her at the image.
“The Duke of Colehaven,” boomed the butler from the top of the stairs.
Diana’s smile froze in place, but the rest of her body flushed with heat at the sight. Her damnable attraction to Colehaven was not just a matter of wide shoulders in a coat of black superfine, boyish dark locks curling over his forehead, or that magnetic, arrogant stride.
It was the rest of him that hooked her. The I personally push for reform and the I’m trying to protect you. The tavern he cofounded to create a space for men to be equal. And yes, the searing memory of unforgettable kisses with their bodies locked together.
If she could draw, her journals would be decorated with illustrated likenesses alongside the faithful transcriptions of their most important conversations.
Excluding the moments where physical desire overtook good sense, of course. Some moments were not meant to be written about, but rather to be relived time and again in the privacy of her mind.
She pushed away from the wall and headed toward the refreshment table. A glass of ratafia would give her something to do with her hands other than wish for another chance to sink them into his hair. Their mouths might be at war, but the rest of their bodies were too compatible for comfort.
“I wondered if you’d come.”
The low, familiar rumble sent a delicious shiver across Diana’s skin. She did not need to turn around to know who had just stepped into the queue behind her.
“What made you think I’d be at this soirée?” she murmured. “There must be a dozen similar parties unfolding at this very moment.”
“I feared I was doomed to find out,” came the dry response. “This is my seventh stop tonight.”
At this, Diana could not help but glance over her shoulder.
His chiseled face was less than an arm’s length away. Closer than she’d hoped, but not nearly as close as she desired. The smolder in his hazel eyes indicated he felt much the same.
“You were looking for me?” she stammered inanely. Of course he was looking for her. Why else would he pretend a love of ratafia?
“I didn’t like how we left things.” His dark gaze was locked on hers.
She swallowed. “What else can there be to say?”
“I thought you should know that I do recognize the need for standardized units. Twenty-seven types of bushel are at least two dozen more varieties than necessary, and you don’t want me to start on the situation with gallons.”
She stared at him. “You had your coachman ferry you to seven different balls in order to argue with me about standardizing gallons?”
His cheeks colored. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not the sort of subject—”
“It’s perfect,” she admitted before he could fully apologize.
Some women might wish for a knight on a white steed to climb their bal
cony and steal them away into the sunset. Diana had just longed to be taken seriously. To be seen. To be heard.
“You were the one who pushed through the Weights and Measures Act of 1815?” she asked quietly.
“One of many,” he said. “I was not the leader of that committee, but I was the one who brought their attention to information I had compiled, including several unsigned letters from dissatisfied members of the public.”
A tiny thread of pride wiggled its way into her heart. He had seen her words, heard her voice, listened to her arguments way back then. They’d been partners for years. They just hadn’t realized it yet.
“Member of the public,” she corrected with a hesitant smile. “At least for a few dozen of those letters.”
“No.” He stared at her in disbelief.
The back of her neck flushed, and she nodded. “Yes.”
He burst out laughing. “If the Lords only knew…”
Diana’s chest thumped with excitement. Colehaven was teasing her, but that was the actual plan. Miss Diana Middleton might be powerless and unimportant, but Colehaven commanded influence. He did not need to hide behind anonymous letters. He could bring her ideas to Parliament as if they were his own.
A duke supporting a common person’s ideas in the House of Lords would be the highest praise any non-nobleman could aspire to, regardless of gender. A public sign of complete faith.
He’d championed her cause once before. The trick would be coaxing him into a permanent partnership of sorts.
“Ratafia?” asked a footman. It was Diana’s turn.
She nodded. “Yes, please.”
He ladled the spiced, sweet wine and handed her the glass.
“Thank you,” she murmured, but the footman’s attention was already centered on the next guest in the queue.
Diana took her cue and faded toward the wallpaper. Here, just like in the House of Lords, it was Colehaven who was important and she who was not.
All she cared about were the good works they could put into place for their fellow citizens. If they could be friends—if they could be a team—they needn’t limit themselves to weights and measures.