E
vangeline took her frustration out on the foolscap, tearing it in spots and blunting two pen nibs. She skewered Lord Dustin with as many double entendres as she could recall without resorting to a dictionary. Ben appeared placid across the way, stacking the letters in piles as she’d taught him, oblivious to the fact that she wanted to jump over the desk and pummel him for delivering the worst proposal in all Christendom.
And the rest of the world besides. Whatever religion one practiced, there could be no more inept, unromantic intentions to marry uttered than what had just fallen from Lord Benton Gray’s well-formed lips.
When he had proposed ten years ago, there had been kisses from those lips, a bouquet of snowdrops and smuggled French champagne. He’d fed her oysters from their silvery shells by candlelight. He’d produced a spectacular emerald, which had been extremely difficult to turn down. Evangeline was not avaricious, but that ring had been sublime. For a moment she’d almost put it on her finger, but then she remembered why marriage to Ben would be a bad idea. He might have money for all those luxuries at the moment, but if he continued to gamble so recklessly, he would lose everything. She couldn’t bear to find herself in the same position as a wife as she had as a daughter. All the years of scraping by and making do, alternating with brief periods of semi-security. She was worn down by the uncertainty of it all.
And he had been too young for her—for anyone, really. Ben was like a big shaggy yellow puppy, all big paws and wagging tail, so good-natured it was unnatural. So she had hurled all his optimistic romantic drivel back at him, sparing them both later disappointment.
A smidgeon of romantic drivel would have been nice this morning, but apparently she’d cured Ben of that. His offer was extraordinary, though—she had no doubt she could fill up every inch of space at Ramsey Hall, including the broom closet. A tremendous weight would be removed from her, for her conscience prickled constantly. She was turning into one of those women who could not find happiness if anything at all was awry.
Evangeline knew what she’d said earlier was true—she was no miracle worker. But by damn, she tried, and tried hard. If she were a man, she’d run for the House of Commons and take her case to government, but she was thwarted by her sex—just another inequity that needed correction. Women had no votes, no legal claim to their own children, for heaven’s sake. Look at Lord Dustin, the cur. Beating his child and then fornicating with the governess as his heir huddled hungry and alone. Something had to be done.
She looked up at Ben, his golden curls lit by the necessary lamplight in the gloom of the winter morning.
“Will you take your seat in the House of Lords if we marry?”
Ben folded a letter into the “no” pile. “Do you want me to? I confess it has already occurred to me to do so. Without your prompting. It was one of my New Year’s resolutions, although I thought to get the newspaper business under my belt first.”
Evangeline was struck by his calm tone. It was clear he’d already given it some thought. He
was
serious about turning over a new leaf. Although if he gave up everything, there would be enough leaves for an entire tree, if not a forest.
A man like Benton Gray would be bored to bits by the usual minutiae of government, but perhaps she could make him shake it up.
“Would you vote as I asked, since the country has not seen fit to allow me my own voice?”
Ben’s genial expression remained in place, but his words were measured. “I am my own man, Evie, and would vote as I see fit after examining all sides of the issues. However, you could attempt to persuade me to your point of view. You have any number of attributes in your arsenal that might change a man’s mind.”
Flattery yet self-assuredness. Her respect for him rose a notch. Maybe he wasn’t such a careless hedonist after all.
“Is that one of your requirements? For me to become political? I must tell you, I cannot see myself as Prime Minister for at least another twenty years.”
Evangeline suppressed a grin. Ben was as far from being like the swarthy, repressive Lord Liverpool as was possible. She supposed the man had presided over such draconian laws in the war’s aftermath thinking he was holding British society together, and perhaps he had.
“I don’t know what my requirements are as yet,” Evangeline answered. “I told you I am not ready to give the matter of your proposal my full attention.”
“I shall wait on tenterhooks.” He got back to reading the correspondence, and Evangeline had to admit that his outward composure miffed her. She herself was still seething with contrary emotions, not the least of which was an urgent desire to kiss the wretched man. The pen slipped from her fingers, leaving a spatter of ink across the torn paper.
“I need to go for a walk.”
“Now? I thought you wanted to finish your article.”
“I won’t be gone long.” Evangeline stumbled up and began getting into her outerwear.
Ben rose, too. “Do you want me to walk with you?”
“No! That is to say, I’ve remembered something I must do. Lock up when you leave.”
Ben looked down at his piles. “I’ll be at these for some time yet.”
“I don’t know when I’ll be back. If worse turns to worst, we can deliver the paper a day late.”
“Good heavens! That’s not a bit like you, Evie. Riots might result if there’s a delay. I don’t want to risk that.”
“Then
you
write about that evil bastard Dustin. You’ll make more sense than I do at present.”
Ben made no move to stop her as she moved toward the door. Part of her yearned to be encapsulated in his arms, but she was not about to confuse herself any further by throwing herself at him.
Bloody, bloody hell. Why had he chosen this morning to propose, and propose in such a ham-handed, horrible way? She hated him intensely.
In her haste to leave, she forgot her hat. A blast of cold air ruffled her hair and snaked beneath her upturned collar. It wasn’t Tuesday, but she turned in the direction of Lady Pennington’s townhouse, praying she would find her friend home on a Sunday morning and not in church. Or worse, still in the country in the bosom of her happy farming family.
She wiped a stray tear from her cheek with a gloved finger before it froze to her skin. It was unconscionable to be crying when she had the offer she’d never allowed herself to dream of. For how could she marry Ben when they were always at such odds? It was one thing to throw caution to the wind and have sexual congress with him. But to turn him from lover to husband? To speak to him over the breakfast table without wanting to tear his head off? Evangeline knew she was outspoken and difficult. A man like Ben would tire of her, no matter his profession of faithfulness. He must have been tempted back on Jane Street when he was luring Lord Dustin to his doom. His former mistress Veronique was the most delightful little thing, really. How long would it take him to go back to her or find someone just like her?
By the time she reached Lady Pennington’s, she was awash with misery. One glance in the mirror in the foyer told her she now resembled a vampire with her tear-reddened eyes. Even Lady Pennington’s butler Garwood was prompted to offer a handkerchief after he helped her with his greatcoat.
“Something’s in my eye,” Evangeline said gruffly as she mopped her face. “A cinder or something. Frightful wind out there.” Gentlemen did not walk around London crying.
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Is there anything I can provide that may assist you?”
“Thank you, Garwood, but no.” No butler would have what she needed at the moment.
“I’ll just announce you to Lady Pennington then. I believe she is awake but still abed.”
Evangeline felt a bit stricken for intruding at such an early hour—she often forgot that normal people did not rise at the crack of dawn to put out a newspaper. She and Ben had been in the office forever, or so it seemed.
Garwood returned quickly and escorted her upstairs. Amy Pennington was with her cinnamon toast and tea amid a mound of lacy pillows and a patchwork counterpane. She wore a soft pink bed jacket and a frilly cap that covered her silver-blond hair, and was quite the most adorable thing Evangeline had seen in days.
Lady Pennington took one look at Evangeline and said, “Whiskey, Garwood. Bring up a bottle.” She thrust her tray at him.
“Certainly, ma’am,” Garwood said smoothly as if it were routine to drink before ten o’clock in the morning with a young gentleman in one’s boudoir. He disappeared through the door and Evangeline swayed, suddenly feeling exhausted.
Lady Pennington patted the bed. “Sit before you fall down. What is wrong?”
“Everything!” Evangeline burst into tears, still clutching Garwood’s handkerchief.
“Has that dreadful man left you then? More fool he for not recognizing what a jewel you are! I’ve half a mind to go to him and give him a piece of my mind, the bounder.”
Evangeline’s sob turned to a hiccupping laugh. “No need. He’s asked me to marry him, Amy.”
Lady Pennington broke out into a radiant smile. For an older woman, she still had most of her teeth and used them to her advantage. “But that’s excellent news! Why are you so upset? You did say yes, didn’t you?”
Evangeline blew her nose. “I couldn’t.”
“But why not? He won’t keep asking you, you know. If you wait another ten years, you’ll waste what’s left of your youth.”
“He presented it all as a business proposition. If I agree to marry him, he’ll found a kind of home hospital for my father and others like him—children, too—it seems like the most unlikely place, but we could hire lots of staff to solve their unemployment problems and provide a safe haven for those in need.”
“How extraordinary. And how kind of him. I know how much you take these burdens to heart. Think how different your life would be if you could get your people settled comfortably.”
“There isn’t a house big enough in the world, Amy.”
“But such a place would be a start, wouldn’t it? He must be very rich.”
“I suppose.” Evangeline knew he’d had the blunt for every frivolous amusement under the sun—she’d watched him spend it from the shadows.
“And he must love you very much,” Lady Pennington said, thoughtful.
“If he does, he never said one word. Not one,” Evangeline said bitterly. “He thinks he’s of an age to finally settle down, and I’m handy. His
mother
wants grandchildren, and he says I might manage it.”
“Ah.” Lady Pennington was prevented from saying more by the arrival of Garwood, who did not blink to find young Mr. Ramsey on his mistress’s bed. He deftly poured two tots of whiskey into crystal tumblers and left them, closing the door behind him.
“Oh, bother. Does he think I’m here for an assignation?” Evangeline asked, almost laughing at the absurdity.
“Garwood is very old-fashioned. I believe it is a trial for him to serve a gamekeeper’s daughter and farmer’s wife, but he had great loyalty to my late husband. He chose to come with me when James’s cousin inherited Pennington House and I bought this one. Sometimes I think I should go back to Kent permanently so he can find a more suitable employer.”
“Oh, I hope you don’t move back to the farm. I’d miss you dreadfully. You’re my only friend.”
Lady Pennington raised her glass. “To friendship. Although, my dear, you need to have friends your own age.”
“That’s rather difficult at present. I’m neither fish nor fowl.”
“I have never asked, but how did you decide on this subterfuge? I do admire your figure in trousers, though—I could never pull it off, even when I was the girl James loved. Nature gave me panniers, I’m afraid.”
Evangeline took a sip of whiskey, feeling warmer already. “When my father won the newspaper, we came back to London. It was clear to me even then that his wits were failing. I told him I’d hire someone to take over, but after several disastrous interviews, I decided to do it myself. I’ve never been a beauty, or especially graceful, and after the sneers I received from those I tried to hire—they treated me like a brainless featherhead, Amy. As if a woman couldn’t know how things should be done. It seemed the simplest solution—to become a man—far fewer impediments to moving about society. No chaperone necessary. No ridiculous rules of propriety. As a girl I’d sometimes larked about in boys’ clothing, but now I had reason to be serious. It’s the rare woman who is permitted to be successful in business, and I wasn’t interested in being unsuccessful—we needed every penny of revenue. It’s been an adventure, most of the time. Frank Hallett knew because I told him, but no one has recognized my ruse, save you and Ben.”
“More fools they. But I imagine if you didn’t have a woman’s tender heart,
The London List
would not be the force for good it is now. You should be proud. What does Lord Gray plan to do about the paper if you marry him?”
“He didn’t say. He hasn’t spoken much of selling it lately. I think he’s enjoying himself.”
“No doubt because he can gaze at you across the desk. But would he want his wife involved in trade?”