Authors: Maggie Robinson

Lord Gray's List (19 page)

BOOK: Lord Gray's List

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Evangeline hid her smile. What would established cocksman Lord Benton Gray have to say if he knew someone thought he was a molly? Not that there was anything wrong with that.

Just the possibility of hanging.

“I have a bit of juicy gossip for you myself. I’m not a man, Lady Imaculata. Lord Gray has done nothing he can be blackmailed over, nor have I. We are two consenting adults. If we kissed, it was because we could.” And very much wanted to. In fact, Evangeline could think of little else but kissing Ben right now, even if a gun was currently directed at her left shoulder. Which was why she had to retire from her business, no matter how much it pained her or her clientele.

Lady Imaculata’s confusion was comical. “Not a man? But you’re wearing trousers!”

“And you were dressed as a street vendor. Just because the cat has kittens in the oven, it doesn’t make them biscuits. Look.” She unwound her neckcloth and moved into the light from the window. “No Adam’s apple. No beard.” Though there was one vexing black hair on her chin she plucked ruthlessly each month. “It’s suited me to be in disguise for the newspaper business. A gentleman has much greater freedom. A woman can only get about so far in society without someone drawing a line over which she cannot step.”

“By Jove!” The girl’s face lit up. “I could wear trousers, too! It would
slay
Papa. It goes against that Bible verse—he’s always quoting Bible verses at me—what is it? ‘The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman’s garment: for all that do so are an abomination unto the Lord thy God.’ ”

Despite the impressive biblical recitation, Imaculata Egremont would never pass as a boy. She was deliciously curvy, and had masses of beautiful red hair that would have to be cut, and so Evangeline told her.

“I suppose you’re right. Damn and blast. It seemed like a fiendishly simple solution to drive Papa mad, too.” She began to pace, and Evangeline was happy to see that the gun was now pointed at a china lamp.

“Why do you want to drive him mad? Be patient a little while longer. Surely you’re almost old enough to get your inheritance.”

“I’d get it if I marry, but who will have me? It’s two more years before I turn twenty-one. By then I’ll be too old to enjoy myself.”

Evangeline flared in irritation. “What rot. I’m two and thirty and still ‘enjoy myself,’ as you put it, and I expect to for decades to come.” Although a life without Ben would be less than enjoyable. “Age is just a number. It’s your attitude that determines your level of enjoyment.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand you’re a spoiled heiress who has gone out of your way to be provoking since you emerged from the schoolroom. Two years of courting scandal! The world is bored with you by now.”

Lady Imaculata stopped and spun, aiming the gun back at Evangeline’s red waistcoat. “You needn’t be so rude.”

“Rude! You’re holding a gun on me in my own house, my girl. Pardon me if my manners leave something to be desired. You’re lucky your father hasn’t clapped you into an asylum.”

Lady Imaculata’s big green eyes began to fill with tears. “Do you think so? I almost wish he would. Then he couldn’t make me—” Her lips closed.

Evangeline felt a sudden dread, and it had nothing to do with the mother-of-pearl-handled pistol pointed at her. “Make you what?”

“He does things to me,” Lady Imaculata said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Evangeline forgot about the gun and walked across the floor. “What things?”

“Unspeakable things. Oh, if I were to marry, my husband will still find me to be a virgin. Technically. But Papa will never let me marry. He turned down the six proposals I had the first Season I came out. I would have gladly married any of them, even Lord Hastings who was about a hundred and smelled of camphor. I knew then I had to do something to break away. But it didn’t matter what scheme I came upon—my father locked me up and beat me and kept turning away my suitors. Now, of course, I don’t have any. Hoisted on my own petard.” Imaculata laughed bitterly, and Evangeline was struck by how often what one thought one knew proved to be entirely incorrect. Lord Egremont had a sterling reputation, and was pitied by the ton for the tarnished behavior of his only child. If what Imaculata said was true, their pity was misplaced.

“Surely you have a relative you can turn to.”

“I don’t. No one would believe me now anyway. My father is a
saint
. And I—well, I’ve sinned too often to be taken seriously. You probably don’t even think I’m telling the truth.”

“I—I think I do. How long has your father—” Evangeline found words failed her. She’d seen a lot of unsavory things as a reporter, but this was pure evil.

“Since my mother died. I was fifteen. At first, he just held me because he said he was lonely. Then he went further. If I didn’t cooperate, he beat me. Told me it was my lustful nature that drove him to it. I really don’t think I can stand two more years of it, Mr. Ramsey. Miss Ramsey. What
is
your name?”

“Evangeline.” Her mind was whirling with possibilities. How to get Imaculata Egremont away from her father for the next two years? Her reputation was ruined—no young lordling was apt to saddle himself with her as a wife despite her lush curves and winsome freckles. Evangeline felt a twinge of guilt.
The London List
articles had played their part in that. In her well-publicized attempts to liberate herself from her father’s domination, Imaculata had only narrowed her opportunities for freedom.

Not that marriage was at all freeing. The girl would be exchanging one heavy hand for another. But a husband’s touch would not be
unnatural
. Evangeline shuddered.

“Is your inheritance large?”

“It’s respectable. More than enough to get me settled somewhere out of the way. Eventually when I’m old like you I might have to find a job. Or become a courtesan.” Imaculata brightened a bit at that prospect.

“Nonsense! Let me think.” Evangeline paced, oblivious to the wavering pistol trained on her back. “Would you object to employment now? I know of a country gentleman who needs a housekeeper/nurse. He can’t pay much but lives quietly outside some vowel-free village in Wales. That’s
miles
from London. Your father would never think to look for you there. Can you cook?”

“Of course not!”

“You must be able to boil an egg at least. Feed him roasted chestnuts. The man”—Evie rifled through the Truly Desperate pile—“a Major Ripton-Jones, seems rather needy. He’s an invalid and probably exists on porridge and well water. You could take care of him for two years and then return to Town for your inheritance.”

“Unless the old man dies. My food would probably poison him.”

“I’ll buy you a cookery book. And if you should need another position, I’ll find you one.”

Lady Imaculata sat down in a chair and slipped the gun back into her muff. “It wasn’t loaded, you know.”

“That was very sensible of you. I wonder that you have not turned it on your father.”

“I’ve thought about it, but I’m not a total fool despite what you’ve written about me.” She swallowed. “I’m not sure this idea of yours is a good one. Me, a housekeeper to an old bachelor gentleman? Have you got anything,
anything
else?”

Evangeline had an excellent memory, and there was nothing that suited Lady Imaculata’s predicament so much as Major Ripton-Jones’s. It would provide her with a roof over her head far from the abuse of her father, and give the girl something to focus on besides nonsensical pleasure and pointless rebellion. “As you’ve said, nothing you’ve done so far, no matter how outrageous, has moved your father to release your funds. I doubt anything could. There is something quite wrong with him.”

“Indeed. Thank you for taking my side, Evangeline.” Lady Imaculata reached into her muff again and blew her nose into an embroidered handkerchief.

“Now, we’ll have to disguise you and give you a new name.”

“My middle name is Anne. I’ve always liked it.”

“Excellent. Anne Mont. Close enough to your real name for you to recognize it. Of course, you’ll be
Mrs
. Mont.”

The newly named Mrs. Mont trumpeted into the handkerchief once more. “What’s happened to my husband?”

“Killed at Waterloo. You must have been a child bride.”

“Fourteen?” The girl giggled. “How shocking, even for me.”

“I’ll write your references myself. Lady Pennington won’t mind if I sign her name to one. But I think you should dye your hair at least until you get to where you’re going—it’s much too flashy and you might be recognized. No doubt your father will set Mr. Mulgrew back on your trail. Come upstairs to my room. I can cook up something, I think, or you can borrow one of my wigs. We’ll send you off to Wales tomorrow.”

Lady Imaculata’s eyes shone. “Now
this
is a true adventure! How can I ever thank you, Evangeline?”

“Just don’t kill off poor Major Ripton-Jones. It will wreck havoc with my success stories.”

C
HAPTER
21

December 22, 1820

E
vangeline resolved not to speak of Imaculata’s situation to Ben. There was no telling what he might do when he discovered why the girl had vandalized the newspaper office and held Evangeline at gunpoint. For all she knew he could have her arrested, or worse, challenge Egremont to a duel for despoiling his only child. Ben had a surprisingly honorable streak now that he’d stopped being so selfish. So when she returned to work a little late on Friday morning due to sending the girl off to Wales, she sat quietly on her side of the desk trying very hard not to stare at Ben through her lashes.

“You look much better,” Ben said. He hadn’t noticed the nut-brown dye beneath her fingernails adding to the usual black ink stains on her hands. When Evangeline left
The List,
she might even become a hairdresser. Of course ladies of the ton seemed to prefer Frenchmen in that role, so it would mean continuing her masculine masquerade and rivaling Ben’s former mistress in fracturing French.

“I feel better.” And she did. It was always thrilling to solve a problem for one of her readers. A pity she had such difficulty with her own life.

She realized suddenly that the office was missing two large young bodies and there was no thumping overhead. “Where are the boys?”

“I’ve sent the Corrigans home for Christmas at my expense.”

“But you just hired them the day before yesterday!”

“They’ve a widowed mother, you know, and they worry about her.” Ben frowned. “I hope they get there on time—winter travel is so undependable. I’ve sent them north with my man of business—he was going to Scotland anyway for me and can deposit them on their doorstep. We won’t need them if we’re shuttering the paper for two weeks.”

“That’s generous of you.” And annoying as well. Evangeline acknowledged to herself she’d been vastly relieved at the extra help, and now it had vanished.

“When they return, we’ll talk about getting the paper out twice a week. They seemed most eager to earn their bread.”

“I suppose we can manage alone again if we must.” She pictured Ben’s damp shirt clinging to the contours of his back, his arse snug in his buff trousers as he mastered the machine. Sometimes an active imagination was not a good thing.

“We’ve only got next week’s issue to put out, and the type is all set for everything you left behind.”

Evangeline had followed her predecessor’s tradition of closing the paper until after Twelfth Night, although last year she’d weathered her share of complaints about denying good gossip to the ton for such a length of time. Lots of naughtiness ensued with the Lords of Misrule, but London would have to remain ignorant of it this year.

“The boys are good workers. We had a very productive day yesterday,” Ben continued, closing up a ledger.

“As did I.”

“Slept well, did you?”

“Like a baby,” Evangeline lied. Imaculata had shared her bed and kicked like a mule all night long. They had decided they would not risk her returning home to get any keepsakes for her journey lest her father find a way to prevent her from leaving. There might already be investigators all over London this morning searching for her.

“It’s Christmas Eve Sunday. I wonder if you’ve given any thought to the front-page article. We should have something uplifting in honor of the season.”

“I do have something in mind.” Another lie. She’d been far too busy yesterday arranging Imaculata’s disappearance to do anything but organize her letters. “I’m going to write it right now. Would you mind setting these ads? They seemed most important to me.”

“Certainly.”

With Ben far across the room, Evangeline felt his inevitable physical influence over her reduce a fraction. She tried very hard not to look at him as he slid the sorts into their frames, but each clack of a lead tile against another reminded her he was there.

What on earth was she to write about? The only scoop she had was so sensational and so un-uplifting that she didn’t dare to print it. Lord Egremont was no one to antagonize. He had influence in the highest reaches of government, and could shut down
The London List
on some pretext or other if he suspected Evangeline knew what he’d done to his daughter.

She grinned. The perfect subject was right in front of her. He kept touting his attributes, and perhaps he was telling the truth. There was nothing more heartwarming and romantic than reading about a reformed rake.

Those faithful readers will recognize Lord G, who has oft appeared in this very spot of prominence. Though he now may be the owner of record of the paper you are holding in your hands, he has no editorial say or sway over this reporter except to request that
The London List
refrain from the revelation of negative or salacious personal details of its newsworthy subjects. One may hear regretful sighs throughout London and perhaps across the land, but upon this decision Lord G cannot be moved. So you, loyal readers, may look for news of an uplifting nature on this page in the future. Tips from the readership are welcome as usual, as it is sometimes difficult for this humble reporter to find the sparkling diamonds within the rough stones.

It is with some pleasure I can verify that Lord G himself appears to have turned over a shiny emerald-green leaf himself. No longer is he to be found ensconced in the demimondaine every evening, orchestrating amusements sure to shock the most sober-minded reader and his long-suffering widowed mama. He is, in fact, concerned with other widowed mamas, providing transportation so that two hardworking sons may join their mother for Christmas. Lord G suffers from hitherto unknown charitable impulses, offering heartfelt marital advice and providing a lavish wedding reception to total strangers, generously ensuring that an elderly gentleman is comfortable in his retirement, even handing money to chestnut sellers with no expectations of chestnuts. These not-insignificant acts of kindness indicate to this reporter that there may be hope of a reformation to his character. Who knows what wonders the new year will bring?

The London List
wishes you a Happy Christmas and much joy, peace, health, and prosperity in the Year of Our Lord, One Thousand Eight-hundred Twenty-one.

The story wasn’t very long, but that left more room for ads and a frame of holly and ivy. She’d set the front page herself once she got rid of Ben. She’d worry about him noticing the article later.

He couldn’t object—he’d promised her he wouldn’t interfere in the paper if she stopped exposing his peccadilloes and the foibles of society’s other wastrels. Ben never said anything about never appearing in print again, and one should never say never anyhow—it was an invitation to certain ruin. Evangeline capped the inkpot and leaned back in her chair.

Yes indeed, her day had been well-spent and it was not yet noon.

She got up and strode across the office to the bank of mailboxes, tucking replies and end-of-year rental fee notices into them. There were a good number of people who preferred to receive their letters here instead of their homes. Evangeline was certain she was supporting several illicit affairs, but the box rates were exorbitant and just another way for her to fund her own charity cases. Some good should come from those doing bad, or so she told herself whenever her conscience troubled her.

Which was not often. Who was she to sit as judge and jury?

Except she had. With Ben. But look how that had turned out—he was serious about something that wasn’t his own pleasure for the first time in years. She had done him a favor by persecuting him weekly, had she not? Here he was, newly responsible, sweating over honest labor.

She jumped as the object of her thoughts placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m done, my lady. What other tasks do you have for me?”

His warm breath buffeted the back of her head. Evangeline could fairly feel her hair curling in response. Oh, she was hopeless. Hopeless. What was she to do about the dreadfully inconvenient longing deep in the pit of her stomach?

“Get your hand off me!” She didn’t sound nearly as off-putting as she wanted.

“I thought we were better friends than that. But whatever my lady desires.” Ben stepped back, and she could feel the loss between them.

She spun on one booted heel. “We are not friends!”

“Are we not? I thought we were dealing together rather well.”

“By ‘rather well,’ I suppose you mean that we are lovers once more. Well, we are not. That must stop and so I told you.”

“Yes. You tell me over and over again. And yet—” He lifted an annoying brow.

“Stop being so damn smug! We have scratched that itch for once and all.” Evangeline turned to stuff a crumpled bill into a letter box.

“Have we? I confess I don’t feel properly soothed. You do something to me, Evie.”

“I’d like to do something to you—you—you man!”

“What, no adjective? Did you use up all the good words in your story? What did you write about, by the way?”

He was safely at his side of the desk now, a sunny smile on his wretchedly handsome face. She clenched a fist, balling up the last of the bills.

“You told me I’d have full authorial authority when you took over the paper.”

“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel very confident at the moment. What have you done, Evie?”

“Nothing that need concern you,” she said airily. She was glad she’d locked up the article in her desk drawer. “Since we seem to have accomplished everything we set out to do today already, I suggest you take the rest of the afternoon off. You’ll need to conserve your strength to crank out the paper tomorrow.”

“I’ve plenty of strength. I’d like to show you how much.”

She could see he was not about to give up. Well, why would he? He was at the pinnacle of his manly prowess. It was almost a shame, really, for her to waste this opportunity with him, no matter how irritating she found him otherwise. She was not likely to get a better offer at her advanced age.

But she might live decades yet. Decades with . . . nothing to look forward to.

No companionship. No physical touch save a cat twisting about her ankles or a dog’s head in her lap. She couldn’t be bothered to try to break in another lover—Ben had ruined her.

What had he suggested? An affair until Christmas. That was just a few days away.

Could she do it and remain unscathed? Could she disrobe totally to weather his scrutiny? They had always been in too much of a rush when they were young, and afraid of discovery. And lately—she could not feel shame for the overwhelming need and heedless haste to join with him. She may as well have tried to swim against the strongest tide.

More important, if she gave in and floated in dangerously deep waters with him, could she steer herself back on Boxing Day to the odd friendship that was between them now? She guessed he liked their verbal sparring as well as she did.

He was right—she was as itchy for him as if she’d stepped into a patch of poison ivy.

“All right.”

Both eyebrows raised. “All right what?”

“The other day you proposed to conduct a
liaison
with me until Christmas. I accept.”

To his credit, he didn’t gasp like a dying carp, nor did he look particularly triumphant at her sudden change of heart. His hazel eyes widened slightly, but remained steady on her. She could almost feel the heat of his focus, could almost hear the gears whirring in his beautiful blond head as he debated what he should say next. She solved that problem for him.

“You are perfectly correct in assuming our attraction is a mutual if very inconvenient thing. I believe a few days of intercourse may blunt whatever need there is, and we will go back to being employer-employee. I think I should tell you, though, that I’ll stay on only for a short time thereafter. I expect you to sell the paper, or find a replacement for me as soon as possible.”

“You’re irreplaceable,” Ben murmured.

“No one is irreplaceable, not even I,” Evangeline said briskly. Best to look upon this as a quasi-business arrangement, not a romantic interlude. Romance had very little to do with the way she was feeling. She was, quite simply, in lust. Burning up with it. Had been ever since the night in Ben’s little library. There was no point in trying to delude herself further. She was a grown woman, nearly
old,
and while her years should have taught her something, her wisdom was out the window where Baron Benton Gray was concerned. She would lose herself if she tried to stay on.

A few days. No more. New Year’s Day at the very latest. And then—

Then her new life would begin as her father’s ebbed.

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