B
en found it somewhat difficult to hide his bulk as he lurked near
The London List
’s office. He spent an inordinate amount of time in the tobacco shop opposite—he who did not smoke. Smoking was one vice he did not care for at all. But his friends were fond of their after-dinner port and cheroots, so he deliberated with the deferential shopkeeper over flavor and value, all the while keeping an eye on Evie’s shadowed form beyond the glass across the busy street. He noted she’d taken off her jacket again and had wiped her brow with a large handkerchief several times. Doubling over, she went back to tinkering with the black behemoth of the press and he lost her from his line of vision for too long. When she popped back up, she’d torn up some papers, stomped around her desk, and thrown a pen clear across her floor.
So, she still had a temper. Ben remembered that temper very well. Evie enraged was a force to be reckoned with—by some other man. Lord Benton Gray worked too hard on his amiability to test it with a termagant.
Just as his stomach informed him it must be lunchtime, Ben saw her slip out her door, rigged out now as a respectable gentleman. A beaver hat covered her black curls—really, what a shame her one true glory was so butchered—and she fielded a walking stick as though she were leading a march through the Alps.
Ben made a great show of drawing out his pocket watch. “Oh! I’ve just remembered an appointment. Where do you suppose Mr. Ramsey is heading? Off to gather up dirt on an unsuspecting innocent? ” Ben asked.
“Regular as clockwork, he is. Visits with his old ailing father from noon until two.”
“Wrap these up and send them to this address,” Ben said, digging out his card from its embossed silver case and jotting his address.
“Very good, my lord. Thank you for your custom. I hope you enjoy these and that I’ll—”
“Yes, yes.” Ben dashed out the door and turned the corner. Evie’s backside swayed rhythmically as she walked up the street at a brutal pace. In Ben’s opinion, no amount of tailoring could hide her womanly form. Marveling again that anyone would be stupid enough to take her for a man, he kept a safe distance behind her until she turned on to a short, shabby street. Ben watched as she let herself into a mustard-colored house with a key, closing the door gently behind her.
What to do? Confront Robert Ramsey while his dragon of a daughter was home? Ben thought not. If the tobacconist was reliable, Evie would be safely back at work by the middle of the afternoon. And then the field would be clear for Ben to inform Ramsey of his intentions.
Satisfied with his plan, Ben strolled back to the better neighborhood of his club. Any hope he had of slipping in, sinking into a chair, and having a quiet whiskey and soda with a bit of beef on the side was dashed almost at once. Ben was immediately hailed by his old friend Jack Stanforth, armed with the latest copy of the bloody newspaper.
“There he is! The—what did they call you?” Stanforth squinted down at the enormous headline. “The Jane Street Jackanapes! However did you get your Veronique to ride naked on your shoulders in the middle of December? Great sport, what? Courtesan races! A pity your competition withdrew at the last minute.”
It had seemed a good idea at the time. Jane Street, home to the most sought-after courtesans in London, was not very long, and Veronique was light as a feather. But some of the girls had put their delicate feet down and refused to let their protectors participate. Ben had felt somewhat foolish jogging down the lane alone—if one didn’t count a giggling Veronique—but he had issued the challenge and was required to hold himself to it. His back had not been quite right since.
He was getting old—too old for such silly games. Evie, damn her, was right to mock him.
“That was my farewell fling, Jack. I’m turning over a new leaf. Becoming respectable at long last.” If he said it, he’d have to make it true. But in case he had a lapse, that dratted newspaper would not be around to publicize it.
His friend raised a gingery eyebrow. “Not you, Ben. What will we read about on Tuesdays?”
There was no way he was going to confess to Jack that he was going to buy and then shut down the gossip rag. “Some other poor soul will have to be the object of
The London List
’s derision. I’m done.”
“I don’t believe it. I’ve known you practically all my life, Ben. Never met a fellow who was more fun. The rest of us poor married sods live through you vicariously. You know I couldn’t hoist Mariah on my shoulders—six children tend to ruin a woman’s figure, although I tell her I love her just the same. There’s just a lot more of her to love.”
Mariah Stanforth had been plump when Jack married her. He’d always had a weakness for fleshy women, and in truth was delighted about his wife’s
avoirdupois.
Ben, on the other hand, seemed to be attracted to slender, haughty brunettes with large noses and deep voices.
Damn. A few minutes with Evangeline Ramsey and he felt like a stupid schoolboy. She had been his first love—hell, he had wanted to
marry
her until the night she broke his heart. Now it appeared she wanted to break his standing in polite society. He could not let her get away with it any longer. Once he spoke to her father, they could slink back to Scotland and he would be free to live life as he chose to.
But what, exactly, did he want to do? He was thirty years of age. Rich. Handsome, he supposed, although his wavy blond hair had a mind of its own and refused to be tamed. He might supplant Veronique with a heavier girl—maybe a redhead this time. He might even sell the Jane Street house and move back to Castle Gray and learn how to be a mason and count sheep.
Blast
. He wasn’t going to that drafty outpost on the sea. He’d go mad without Town amusements, and by the time he would learn of new investment opportunities, share prices would have tripled. No way was Baron Benton Gray going to isolate himself from where the action of the Empire was. That was London. He may have been half-Scottish—the worse half—but he was a city boy now through and through. Damn Evangeline Ramsey for making him think. Question his life. He was happy, by God, with his whore and his friends and his whiskey.
Ben waved to a passing waiter and ordered some of that whiskey. He spent the next hour listening to Jack brag of the boring exploits of his too-numerous infants, wondering if his friend didn’t realize gentlemen came to clubs like this to escape such domestic discussions. When the mantel clock struck two, he excused himself, realizing too late he’d forgotten to order a sandwich for his grumbling stomach. He sauntered slowly back to Evie’s home, careful to watch for her long form wending its way on the sidewalks. Screwing up his determination, he rapped upon the mustard-colored house’s mud-brown door, thinking the whole place could use a refreshing coat of paint. Ruining his reputation was perhaps not as lucrative as Evie had said.
After Ben spent an interminable time standing on the crumbling front step, the door was finally opened by a frazzled housemaid who looked in need of a good meal and a wash, not necessarily in that order. Ben slipped his card and few shillings in her hand. “Lord Gray to see Mr. Ramsey.”
She gawped at him with large blue eyes. She was, he supposed, pretty enough, or would be if the soot were off her nose.
“The Jane Street Jackanapes?”
Ben tamped down a wave of irritation. Of course Evie’s servants would have first crack at her paper—everyone in Town seemed to consider it the Tuesday Bible. “The very same.”
She made no move to open the door all the way, standing there with her mouth half-open.
“I say, it’s chilly out. December, you know. I promise not to snatch you up and run down the street with you. May I come in? I have an important business matter to discuss with Mr. Ramsey.”
“He doesn’t receive visitors.” She began to push the door closed. Ben stuck his large, well-shod foot in the gap.
“I’ll give you a pound if you let me in.”
“Two,” the little maid said quickly.
“Extortion of the first order. Why am I not surprised?” Ben mumbled as he reached into his pocket. He followed the maid up the stairs, noting the lack of decoration in the house and the extreme sway of her hips. Everything appeared scrupulously clean though—except for his extortionist.
“Thanks, love. My name’s Patsy in case you want to treat me kindly in the future. I’ll let his nurse know you’re here. But if he’s having a bad turn, you’re out of luck.”
“I don’t suppose I’ll get my money back either.”
“We’ve all got to make hay while the sun shines. Wait here, sir.”
She knocked softly on the door at the end of the corridor and slipped in the room. The air in the hallway was stale and smelled of too much heat. Ben shrugged his greatcoat off in anticipation of being allowed in to see Evie’s father. He rattled the knob of a nearby door and poked his head in. The room was as spare as a monk’s cell, but on the dresser was a wig form with a dark curly updo sitting askew atop it. Evie must be in disguise at home as well as out in the world.
“Lord Gray? I’m Mrs. Spencer, Mr. Ramsey’s day nurse. How may I help you?”
Ben turned to face a plump matron. He turned on his dependable charming smile. “Good afternoon. I am here to see my old friend. I trust his health will permit a short visit? I have something of great import to discuss with him.”
The nurse frowned. “I doubt he’ll understand anything you have to say, Lord Gray. His wits are often befuddled. Today is one of his more lucid days, but I don’t believe Miss Evangeline would approve of you seeing him.”
“Evie? It was she who sent me,” Ben lied. “It’s to do with—I trust you know about Mr. Ramsey’s ownership of
The London List
?”
“If you’re here to harangue the poor man about what was written about you, you must know he has nothing whatever to do with the paper. That’s all Miss Evangeline and Mr. Hallett.”
Another regular reader. Ben didn’t have any idea who Mr. Hallett was—no doubt someone who was in league with Evie to besmirch him further. “Yes, I know. And I wish to relieve them of the burden. She is the sole support of this household, is she not?”
“Aye,” the woman said, her brows knitting. “And don’t judge her. She’s done the best she can under the circumstances. Mr. Ramsey got them in a terrible fix. He gambled, you know. And when he lost his memory, he couldn’t count his cards. Made foolish wagers he didn’t remember. His debts were prohibitive. The only thing he had at the end was that rackety newspaper and a mountain of vowels, and Miss Evangeline is finally settling them and making a go of
The List
.”
“At my expense. Surely you would like to be employed in a household not dependent upon scandalmongering.”
Mrs. Spencer looked him in the eye. “Miss Evangeline prints only the truth.”
“Her version of it,” Ben snapped. “I’m here to buy the paper. Settle an exorbitant sum upon Mr. Ramsey so he and Evie—that is to say, Miss Ramsey—can go about the rest of their lives comfortably. In Scotland. Or anywhere they like, as long as they leave London.”
“You’d do better talking to Miss Evangeline.”
“But she is not the owner of record now, is she? Come, Mrs. Spencer. You’ve done your guard duty and warned me off. Let me see the man for myself. I promise you, I won’t take advantage of him.”
The nurse worried her hands in her apron. “I shouldn’t.”
Ben smiled again at her, turning on his vaunted charm full blast. “But you will. You care about the family, I can see that. And I have the wherewithal to improve everyone’s situation here. You must not stand in the way.”
“You won’t cheat him? He’s had enough of that.”
“On my honor as a gentleman—and I am a gentleman, despite what Miss Ramsey has written—I intend nothing but the best for the Ramseys.”
He waited a tick while the nurse edged over to his point of view, keeping his impatience hidden. It was not often he had to work so hard to get what he wanted. Usually his good humor swayed even the most recalcitrant individuals.
Except for Evie.
But he had been young then, too young according to her. Too unpolished. Well, he had a blinding gleam about himself now.
“Very well. But don’t tire him out. I’ll be right in the hallway on my chair, trying to hear every word.”
“I’ll speak up, then, Mrs. Spencer. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
The nurse led him to the end of the hallway, where a plush but worn chair was indeed stationed right outside the door. A basket of mending sat on a rickety side table.
“Mr. Ramsey,” Mrs. Spencer said brightly, with that false voice adults sometimes use on children, “look who’s come to see you! It’s Lord Gray!”
Ben’s eyes adjusted to the gloom of the room. The dark curtains were drawn against the thin winter light and draft of cold air coming through the window that managed to circumvent them. There was no smell of sickroom, however, and Evie’s father was not abed. He was seated at a small table, shuffling a tattered deck of cards between trembling fingers. He looked up, and Ben could see the intervening years had not been kind to him. His once jet-black hair was white, and the beaky Ramsey nose was more prominent than ever in his gaunt face.