by Evie Dunmore
The largest of the bells on the wall behind them rang; whoever was currently staffing the desk in the antechamber was asking for permission to enter.
“Excuse me.” She gave her own bellpull a tug, and a moment later, Lady Athena, niece of the Countess of Salisbury, stuck her strawberry-blond head into the room. “Apologies for disturbing you, but the overseer of the workmen is asking where to place the crates with the new stationery.”
Lucie gestured at Hattie. “Lady Athena, allow me to introduce Miss Greenfield. Hattie, Lady Athena is currently standing in as staff for, well, every vacant position, and she shall be in charge of curating the content for the Discerning Ladies’ Magazine.” She glanced back at the young woman at the door. “Please tell the man to place the crates in the storage room, as we discussed this morning.”
“I did,” Lady Athena said tightly. “He insisted I confirm it with the gentleman in charge.”
“Naturally. Do you feel comfortable telling him that you are tasked with giving the instructions and if he wishes to get paid, he refrain from disturbing the gentleman in charge?”
“Exceedingly comfortable,” Athena said, determination hardening her intelligent face as she closed the door.
Hattie gave her a questioning look. “She seems very competent.”
“So far, she is.”
“Is she a suffragist?”
“At heart, I think she is; officially, not yet.”
“You shall recruit her eventually,” Hattie said with confidence. “Whatever happened to the old receptionist?”
“He handed in his notice on the day Mr. Barnes left.”
“Oh.”
Lucie shrugged. “It left an additional vacancy for a woman in need of employment. I scheduled a first round of interviews to staff the positions for tomorrow.”
“Now, that’s exciting.” Hattie’s eyes were sparkling, because as someone who would never have to apply for a position unless she insisted she wanted one, she found breadwinning, applications, and interviews exotic and intriguing to witness.
“The advert was in all major newspapers yesterday,” Lucie said. “We are also looking for a new typist, as well as an additional copy editor.”
Hattie’s brows rose. “I understand it’s not entirely uncommon for a woman to train as a typist these days, but I haven’t heard of any female copy editors.”
“There are—there must be. Emily Faithfull ran Victoria Press in the sixties, and her office was staffed entirely by women. I made some inquiries last week, and I understand the press is in a man’s hands now, but I am planning to pay him a visit, to take a closer look at the press and to speak to any remaining female employees.”
“That sounds clever,” Hattie confirmed.
“Still,” Lucie said, “what I really need is a woman capable of running the entire operation.”
“Which operation?”
“This.” Her sweeping gesture included the desk, the half-emptied, sagging shelves, and the chandelier with its dusty crystal drops. “I cannot run a publishing house in addition to the suffrage movement. I was in a position to bring enough women investors together to purchase it, and I must help ensure the right future direction, but running the day-to-day business—how?”
“No, of course you cannot,” Hattie said. “Do you have anyone in mind?”
If only. She rubbed her temples. The pulsing headache was a frequent companion lately. It would vanish if she took a few days in the country and rested her eyes, but she would not have time to do so for a while.
“I reckon Lady Athena shall rise to the occasion, but the transition period is a challenge,” she said, wondering not for the first time about the all-around haphazard planning. “And now there’s also the added difficulty of her needing to handle Lord Ballentine.”
Hattie made to say something, which she swallowed back down, her white throat moving, and she settled for a polite “Hmm.”
“Hmm?”
Hattie closed the magazine, then opened it again. “Perhaps it will be less challenging than you think,” she said, “finding a woman who will be able to handle Lord Ballentine. Just make sure she’s older and acting very stalwartly, like a headmistress, perhaps.”
“But I am older and acting stalwartly.”
“Of course,” Hattie said quickly. “But wouldn’t you agree that there is a rather, erm, special antagonism between the two of you?”
Lucie’s brows came down. “No. I feel our antagonism is perfectly normal.”
Though she couldn’t deny that it had taken a turn for the worse. After mildly intoxicated discussions on garden benches and a dreamy waltz, the return to reality had been jarring. It was still unclear who was responsible for the pamphlet incident, but she had not apologized for suspecting Tristan, for he hadn’t denied it, and now he was more villainous than before. Since their return, he had scheduled several meetings pertaining to his books with staff and suppliers and she had not received an invitation. Every time they were both in the office, she saw him strutting around and sticking his nose into the different departments, asking questions, requesting ledgers, and yesterday, he had drawn up a plan outlining changes he deemed necessary for the distribution process of the book division—again without consulting her. But while he was certainly trying to provoke her, it was more worrying that he appeared to take a genuine interest in the workings and improvement of the enterprise. And unlike her, he had a lot of time on his hands to be in the office from morning till night and to delve into the details. Worse, though their truce appeared to be over, her erotic dreams of him were not. Ludicrous scenarios slipped into her sleep at will at night, and no matter how heated the chase, he always dissolved with his lips still an inch away from touching hers. It left her with a perpetual irritability throughout the day.
The bell on the wall jingled again, the sound shrill and grating against her thinly stretched nerves, and before her hand could reach her bellpull, the door swung open and Tristan’s broad shoulders filled the frame.
Her stomach dipped, as if she were falling. Speak of the devil.
He looked angelic. Burgundy waistcoat; immaculately fitted jacket; a healthy glow about his face and hair.
“Lady Lucinda. Miss Greenfield.”
“Lord Ballentine,” Hattie said breathily.
The nonchalance with which he now strolled into her office, his gaze wandering around the half-renovated room with a guileless expression on his face, had her nape prickling with foreboding.
She leveled a stare at him. “How may I help you?”
There was a black binder in his left hand. She did not like the look of it.
He halted before her desk.
When their eyes locked, her heart leapt against her ribs. Something shimmered in the air between them, and for a fleeting moment she could feel the warm pressure of his hand on her waist when he had pulled her into the dance. She shifted in her seat, the surface of her skin sensitive against the cotton of her undergarments.
As though he had guessed this effect on her, he dropped the binder on her desk and leaned against it with easy familiarity. “I just wanted to inform you about the new production schedule,” he said.
She stilled. She hadn’t discussed a new schedule with production, or anyone else.
“As you know,” he continued, “our capacities are overburdened thanks to about a thousand preorders of my war diaries and the second edition of the poetry—”
“You discussed a new schedule, with production? Without me?”
He looked mildly irritated at the interruption. “I have.”
“You must not rearrange the schedule without consulting me.”
“Don’t worry,” he said in a benevolent tone. “I organized everything with the company’s best interest in mind.”
Her nails bit into her palms. “If the magazines are affected—even if not—I ne
ed to take part in these discussions.”
“But we already know that the books must take priority. Potential profits based on preorders after a mere week are higher in absolute terms than profits in the previous three months put together. Take a look.” He opened the binder and tapped his attractive finger at one of the figure columns.
Her gaze bore into his as she rose from her chair. “I wish to be present during meetings that affect us both.”
“I am sure you do, dear, but it’s hardly necessary.” He had leaned in, too, was close enough for her to smell him, and smiled. “The men will listen to me over you anyway.”
She wanted to smack the smirk off his soft mouth. She wanted to do all sorts of things to his mouth. How feebleminded, to want a man she disliked.
Her face was hot, her voice cold. “Your games do not change the fact that my party owns half of this company.”
“Ah. That.” He dismissed it with a shrug. “Fact is also that men reflexively turn deaf to the shrieking voice of an agitated female. Even more so when a rational, male voice is available instead.”
She nearly did shriek then.
“Tell me who loaned you the money for your shares, for I should quite like to have him poisoned,” she said instead.
He gave a surprised laugh. “I’d like to see you try,” he said, “but even you would struggle to take down Blackstone. I reckon he gargles with strychnine as part of his morning routine.”
The name told her nothing, but Hattie gasped in surprise, reminding her that she was still in the room. Her friend was regarding Tristan with wide eyes. “How?” she asked.
He tilted his head at her. “How what, Miss Greenfield?”
Embarrassed heat reddened Hattie’s cheeks, but she pressed on: “I presume you are speaking of Mr. Blackstone, the investor?”
“The very same.”
“Well, he is incredibly elusive, so I’m wondering how you possibly secured a deal with him,” Hattie said. “My father speaks of little else at dinner lately; he is awfully keen to win Blackstone for an investment project in Saragossa, but I understand he never responds to invitations.”
“And naturally, your father would be delighted that you are sharing classified information with us, yes?”
“It isn’t classified, not at all,” Hattie said hastily, but her blush was deepening. “Still, it would probably be best you did not mention it to anyone? Except, perhaps, to Mr. Blackstone,” she added, her brown eyes beseeching.
Tristan shook his head. “No, dear. I am not going to broker deals between the mighty Julien Greenfield and his business archrival.”
“No, no, of course not . . . but perhaps you could tell me which club he visits? Which places of leisure?”
There was a pause.
“Right,” he said. “Well, he does frequent places of leisure.”
The faint undertone in leisure made Hattie fall into a confused silence, and in Lucie’s mind, it conjured up images of Tristan wearing his slippery red silk gown as he stood surrounded by bodies in various states of undress, the prince of debauchery in his realm.
She cleared her throat. “We have work to do here,” she said, and his attention shifted back to her. “I shall see you later on the matter of the production schedule.”
To her surprise, he simply nodded and picked up the binder. “Of course. I look forward to it.”
He sauntered from the room, looking complacent even from behind.
She slowly blew out a breath. Her thoughts were whirling. She needed to speak to production. She needed to get rid of Tristan. She needed to help Lady Harberton with her campaign for women on bicycles. She required her days to be forty hours long.
“I gather he has not made Mr. Blackstone’s acquaintance in a reputable establishment,” Hattie said, still staring at the door where Tristan had vanished.
“You can be certain of that,” Lucie said dryly. “May I ask the purpose of this vigorous little interrogation?”
“It was hardly an interrogation,” Hattie murmured.
“You wouldn’t let him leave the room.”
Hattie’s shoulders sagged. “All right,” she said. “As you know, I contribute little to the Greenfield family fortune, with my overriding interest in the arts and my poor numeracy skills.” She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “Zachary is the heir, my sisters make reasonable investments, and Benjamin is the apple of Mama’s eye. I’m none of these things. I might as well not be present at all during dinner. If I could have helped secure a meeting between my father and the notorious Mr. Blackstone . . .”
“What is so notorious about him?”
“Well. For one, he is very wealthy, and very cunning.” Hattie’s voice had lowered back to a murmur. “Don’t mistake me, he is recognized as an investor and man of business, and the merchant class does want his money. Lord Ballentine was right to call him a Greenfield rival because his investments are good. But very few people have actually met him in person. No one knows where he comes from. And he has driven several peers into financial ruin for seemingly no good reason at all. And he ignores my father’s requests for a meeting—only a greatly impudent man could afford to do so.” She shuddered. “Some people refer to him as Beelzebub.”
Beelzebub?
“Grand,” Lucie said coolly. “Whether he is officially a man of business or not, it appears that de facto, he is more of an underworld lord, and presently, he owns part of our publishing house.”
Hattie sucked in a breath. “Oh dear. If you put it that way—”
“I must get rid of him.”
Hattie’s tawny brows flew up. “Of whom?”
The tinny sound of the bell interrupted—again. She made a mental note to uninstall it.
The tension in her shoulders eased when it was Lady Athena, not Tristan, who made a return. The lady looked a little flushed. “Apologies for disturbing you again,” she said. “Several large boxes of Ballentine cards have just arrived and we haven’t discussed where to put those.”
Lucie blinked. “Boxes full of them?”
Lady Athena gave an apologetic shrug. “Apparently, a trader in Shoreditch has taken up the proper production. It appears Lord Ballentine ordered them here.”
Lucie’s eyes narrowed. “I see. Why don’t you have them deposited right in front of Lord Ballentine’s office door.”
Athena hesitated. “Right in front?”
“Yes.”
“Of his door?”
“Yes. Stack them high, if you please.”
“As you wish,” Athena said slowly, a frown on her freckled forehead as she vanished.
Hattie was smirking at her from the corner of her eye, looking like a red-haired imp. “Perfectly normal antagonism, is it?”
“You just witnessed him—he’s a nuisance.”
Hattie’s smile faded. “To be frank, if he sees eye to eye with men like Mr. Blackstone, I worry he goes beyond being a mere nuisance.”
Lucie wouldn’t admit to it out loud, but she had reached the same conclusion, and it worried her, too.
* * *
After her arrival in Oxford in the evening, she stopped and hovered in front of the Randolph on her way home, because there was light behind the curtains of Annabelle’s rooms on the first floor. She must have returned from Claremont after the house party to resume her classes. Presumably, she was alone. Montgomery never spent any time at the hotel; she understood the duke was in London when Annabelle was here.
She navigated the stairs and hallways of the hotel as quickly as the heavy satchel on her hip allowed, keen to avoid any unexpected encounters with her mother or Cecily, who had indeed set up home here for the summer.
Annabelle looked pleased to see her despite the spontaneous nature of the call. She ushered Lucie into the drawing room, and into the most comfortable armchair next to the fireplace, and fusse
d when she heard her stomach growl—would she be interested in some of the hotel kitchen food, chicken breast in lemon sauce with a side of roasted potatoes?
“A brandy sounds even more interesting,” Lucie said, uncertain whether the spirit would ease or compound her headache.
“I have sherry,” Annabelle offered. She started toward the elegantly curved liquor cabinet below an equally elegant landscape painting. She hummed softly while selecting a bottle and pouring a glass, looking serene in the muted light filtering through the rose-colored curtains. Lucie’s fingers absently drummed on the chair’s armrest while something inside her grated against the room’s rosy, tidy surfaces and plush upholsteries and the lingering fragrances of jasmine perfume and linen starch. Easy contentment floated up from every corner, underlined by the sedate ticks of the clock, and she vaguely felt like an intruder.
Annabelle handed her the sherry glass. “How was your day in London?”
Frustrating.
“It’s a flurry of activities,” she said instead. “There’s the refurbishment, and I have scheduled interviews for tomorrow. The production manager is on the brink of an apoplexy—we have well over a thousand preorders for new Ballentine books, and the reprints for the old ones.” She raised the glass to her nose and sniffed. “I think we shall have to purchase some printing capacity elsewhere, if we wish to deliver on time.”
Annabelle settled in the armchair opposite. “I would have thought that a high number of orders was a reason to rejoice?”
The sherry ran down her throat stinging and sweet. “It is.” It also gave Tristan more power. She had seen the figure columns today; depending on production costs, he was well on his way to making their enterprise substantial profits.
She lowered her lashes as another tide of pain hit the back of her eyes.
“Are you quite well?” she heard Annabelle say.
She nodded. “I am, however, worried that we won’t find another way to publish our report,” she said. “It would have been of great use to us to publish it before Montgomery puts the amendment before the House of Lords.”
“Indeed.”
