London, 1848
Claudia inhaled three deep breaths, hoping to calm her addled insides, but her stomach still churned. If this was the right decision, why did she not feel relaxed and assured? Whether her body believed this to be the right decision was of no consequence. No lady of good breeding and any shred of propriety would continue to hold a paying position, especially with a marriage proposal on the horizon.
Which was why she currently sat in a carriage just outside the office of London’s Illustrated Times, resignation letter in hand. Of course, learning that her father despised Derrick Middleton and all his paper stood for had aided her decision to resign. Her father would view her employment with the paper as a betrayal. Emerson Prattley expected his daughter to be loyal at any cost, and she was nothing if not loyal. So with feigned confidence, she opened the carriage door.
Derrick Middleton stared at his office door, muttering to himself. One more interruption today and he might fire everyone. Of course, that would only serve to prove to the Conservatives that he was the bastard they thought him to be. Which was not true, at least concerning his employees. His workers regarded him highly—they enjoyed their positions here, they smiled, they came to work every day.
But today had been a bloody mess. All day, one thing after another. One of his journalists broke his leg, and his assignments had to be handed off to another. His wood carvers sat idle, waiting for the delayed shipment of boxwood to arrive before they began next week’s woodcuts. They could substitute another wood, but boxwood worked best for the illustrations.
And now last month’s books were not reconciling perfectly. The paper still had money—plenty of it—but Derrick wanted his books perfect, down to the last shilling.
He would have to rewrite all the entries and do the calculations himself. Pressure nagged at his temples. He pinched the bridge of his nose to relieve the strain—to no avail.
He poked the quill back into the well, then went to stand at the window. The street below him bustled with activity. People milled about and went in and out of the shops. A well-dressed lady with an enormous hat decorated with at least a dozen flowers exited a carriage, stopped to smooth her skirts, then looked up as if she knew he stood in the window above her. He took a step back.
The pain in his head drummed against his scalp. Perhaps he should tell Mason he was taking the rest of the afternoon off. He could go home and ... and what? Worry about the goings on from home. No, he needed to get back to the books and figure out the problem. Perhaps his day would get better. No sooner had he taken a seat than Mason opened the door.
“Mr. Middleton, there is a lady here to see you.”
The lady from the carriage. “Who is she, and what does she want?”
“She didn’t say. Although she did say it was most important she meet with you.”
“She didn’t say? I believe it is your job as my assistant to ask such questions.”
Mason just stood there.
He wasn’t a very good assistant, but he was literate and came to work every day. Most days he spoke politely to visitors. And Derrick trusted him—that was the main reason he hadn’t fired Mason. Trustworthy employees were hard to come by.
“Very well, send her in.” He continued to stand behind his desk until she breached the doorway in a flurry of pale blue ruffles and bows. It was indeed the lady from the carriage, and her hat was even larger this close up. Perplexing how a woman of her stature could hold it up, as she couldn’t have been much over five feet tall.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Middleton. I apologize for not making an appointment ahead of time, but I didn’t think you would see me if you knew who I was.”
“I see. Why did you think I wouldn’t see you?”
“Because I am a woman.”
He let his eyes roam the short length of her. “Yes, I can see that.”
She stared at him as if that was the complete answer—she was a woman—as if that explained everything.
He shook his head. “Exactly who are you?”
“I’m so daft sometimes.” She came forward, hand extended. “Claudia Prattley. A pleasure to finally meet you.”
He took her hand—a warm, plush hand—and squeezed it gently before he remembered his manners and brought it to his lips. “Prattley. That sounds familiar. Please sit.” He motioned to the leather chairs opposite his desk, then took a seat himself.
She gave him a tentative smile, then busied herself retrieving something from her reticule. With her head slightly bent he got full view of her hat. Was that a dove? He suppressed a smile. The hat was ridiculously large, and so full of flowers, not to mention the artificial bird, that it distracted one from noticing much else about her. Finally, she pulled out an envelope, which she looked at for a moment, then leaned forward to hand to him.
“For me?”
“Yes.” She sat straighter in her chair and tilted her chin ever so slightly, giving him a better view of her eyes. The muted blue of her dress would have matched them perfectly had it been a few shades brighter.
He brought his attention back to the envelope. The wax seal cracked as he pried up the flap of the envelope.
“‘Dear Mr. Middleton—” He looked up and she nodded, her eyes wide, as if eager for news in the letter. “‘I am troubled that I must do this, but the time has come for me to resign.’ Who is this from?”
She said nothing, merely pointed at the letter.
He skimmed the languid writing until he reached the signature. ‘Miss Claudia J. Prattley, C. J. Prattley.’ C. J. Prattley. Why did that sound so bloody familiar?
“I apologize for being so thick today, madam, but I’ve had one problem after another, and while this name sounds very familiar to me, I simply cannot place it.”
“I work for you, Mr. Middleton. I am one of your illustrators.”
She lifted her hand to her chest, and he couldn’t help but notice the ample bosom it rested upon. She was a plump woman with curves in all the right places, and apple-round cheeks with just the hint of an extra chin. A pleasant-looking woman with bright eyes that held the wonder most people lost in childhood.
This creature worked for him? C. J. Prattley. He let the name rattle a bit in his head. And then it hit him—Society Fashion Report.
“Did I know you were a woman?” He said the words out loud although he truly asked himself.
A blush lit her already rosy cheeks. “I don’t believe so.”
“And you led me to believe you were a man by using your initials?”
Her gloved hands worried the material of her skirt. “I’m afraid so.”
“Clever. You did not believe I would hire you if I knew you were a woman.”
“No, sir.” Her brow furrowed. “Yes, sir. Would you?”
“Probably not.” Leaning back in his chair, he thought on it a bit more. “Although that is a shame considering that you are one of my best illustrators. Your fashion pages alone increased my sales in Society by thirty percent.”
“My drawings? I had no idea.” Again, her hand to that bosom. Remnants of her blush lingered on the creamy flesh of her neck, making him wonder exactly how far down the pretty color traveled. No doubt Miss Prattley had no clue how that simple movement was so tantalizing. He made his glance return to her face.
“Indeed. There is much mystery around your illustrations. I do believe it is the latest buzz in Society—they are all aflutter trying to discover the identity of the anonymous artist. They simply cannot believe the precise detail of the depictions, so they are positive it must be someone in their midst.”
She released a low ooh noise that sounded far more primal and sexual than it should have, considering they merely discussed illustrations. “How very exciting. I’ve never been a part of a mystery before.” Her eyes were intoxicating, the blue depths tugging at him. Innocence. The kind of innocence that on other people looked more like ignorance and usually had him dismissing them without thought. But something about Miss Prattley refused to be dismissed.
He leaned forward. “I’ve even been accused myself of being the artist, since I have on occasion attended an assembly or ball this Season with my aunt. I can scarcely remember an evening when someone hasn’t approached and probed me with questions of your identity. Since the mystery seemed to fuel their purchase of the paper, I played along.”
She tapped a finger on his desk. “Now that you mention it, I have heard some ladies discuss this at recent parties, but Poppy and I always leave their company as I’m so afraid I will give something away. I have a tendency to speak without thinking. It’s a bad habit,” she added softly as if revealing the darkest of sins.
“I suppose now that the truth is out, you don’t
need to resign. Your secret is safe with me, Miss Prattley.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your identity. It’s why you wanted to resign, correct?”
“Not exactly. I mean, only my closest friend knows I illustrate for the paper. I hadn’t intended to take the position in the first place. I sent in those initial illustrations never imagining that it would lead to anything. It was wrong of me to take more assignments. I’m afraid my vanity got the better of me. It’s just that when I saw the advertisement for the fashion submissions, I could not help myself.”
“It is understandable. You are quite talented. There is nothing wrong with wanting to share that.”
“Oh, but if my father discovered the truth, why, he would surely disown me. I’m fairly certain of it.”
“That seems severe.”
“He’s very old-fashioned, Mr. Middleton. Traditionally speaking, because of my station I’m not supposed to have a paying position. Except if I were a governess or some such. That might be acceptable.”
“So you are resigning because you recently realized it is improper for you to have a paid position?”
She shook her head, the flowers on her hat bobbing. “No, I have to get married and that is why I must resign.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I cannot be a wife and have a... a job, Mr. Middleton. It would not be appropriate.”
“I see. It appears to me that no part of your position with this paper is appropriate. I find life is vastly more rewarding if you live your life as you like it rather than by what Society deems appropriate.”
Her eyes widened and her mouth formed a tiny O. “You must live a daring life, Mr. Middleton,” she said, her voice breathy. “A very exciting existence. If only I were so fortunate.”
He could certainly show her a more exciting life. And he’d start with peeling off that silly hat so he could see what her hair looked like. Then he’d probably want to kiss that silly little mouth of hers to see if she would make that ooh noise again. The muscles across his abdomen tightened.
This was ridiculous. “So when is it that you are getting married?” he asked to get the conversation back on track.
“I’m not sure.”
“You haven’t set a wedding date?”
“Oh, I’m not betrothed as of yet.”
As refreshing as he found her, she sent his mind spinning with her haphazard logic. “I think I’m confused again.”
“My father insists that I marry soon, and I thought now would be as good a time as any to resign, so that I could focus on securing a husband.”
“I see.” No, he really didn’t see at all. Perhaps Miss Prattley was mad—stark, raving mad. That seemed less likely considering she hadn’t screamed maniacally or set fire to anything. Perhaps this was just a ploy.
“Why exactly did you come all the way down here to resign when up until now our working relationship has been handled strictly through post?” Derrick asked.
“I thought about mailing you the letter, but since I am retracting a promise, I wanted to do so in person. To apologize for inconveniencing you.”
“Miss Prattley, I’m prepared to offer you more money. Your illustrations are important to my paper, and I am used to getting what I want. Name your price.”
“Are you quite serious?” she asked.
“I don’t joke about money.”
She eyed him for a moment. “I’m flattered, sir, but honestly, it isn’t money I seek. I really must marry. I shall finish up my last assignment to give you enough time to find a replacement.” She stood to leave. “Thank you again for your time.”
He caught up with her and placed his hand on her arm. “I do wish you’d reconsider, Miss Prattley.”
Her eyes fell to where his hand lay, making him all too aware of the impropriety of such a gesture. He pulled back.
“As much as I wish I could reconsider, I simply cannot. Please know that it has been a pleasure working for you, an experience I won’t quickly forget.”
With that, she exited his office. His day had gotten worse. The Society Fashion Report had become a most desired portion of his newspaper. What awful luck: just when he’d discovered a way to get his paper into the homes of the aristocracy, his best illustrator resigned. Miss Prattley’s drawings far exceeded those of his other illustrators, delineating every detail of ribbons and pleats. Her eye for the specific was incomparable.
Surely he could find a way to convince her to stay on. If not, he’d have to find a replacement, and getting one inside Society would be difficult, if not impossible. And without that inside eye, that section would never be the same.
Damnation!
* * *
Claudia climbed into the carriage and released the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. Gracious. Poppy had said she’d heard that Mr. Middleton was a dashing man. But good heavens. Dashing—that word seemed lackluster now that she’d met him. His presence was nothing short of mesmerizing.
Honestly. Thank goodness no one could hear her thoughts lest they think her straight from the schoolroom. Mr. Middleton was certainly handsome, sinfully handsome, but she had seen handsome men before.
Then again, his looks went beyond handsome. He wore his dark brown hair too long and had to keep pushing it out of his face. It gave him the look of a privateer. No, he would definitely be a pirate, not a privateer. His smile was easy, yet not one of great humor but more of secretive amusement—as if he alone knew the surprise of the joke.
But it was his eyes, Claudia decided, that made him so dashing. So brown they appeared black, framed with arching eyebrows that reflected his intelligence. Unlike most gentlemen, he had looked at her, really looked at her, eye to eye. Not terribly well-mannered, considering they had just met, but necessary under the circumstances. And it made her feel alive, noticed, important. As if he’d really seen her.
Feelings that no strange man should ever evoke in a lady. Gracious. More than his dashing good looks, everything about Mr. Middleton overwhelmed her. She had expected him to be furious at her deception and to refuse to pay her for her last assignment. But he’d scarcely blinked when he’d come to the realization that he’d hired a woman. Then he’d gone several steps further and praised her work and offered her more money.
It was ludicrous. Unheard of. Women were hired for factory jobs, not professional positions with newspapers. But he’d been quite serious. Name her price—as if her skill was something extraordinary and worthy.
Well, even if that were true, and she doubted it, she couldn’t continue her employment. But oh, was it tempting. In her life she couldn’t remember anything she loved more than illustrating. While she was quite accomplished with watercolors, illustrating was her true passion.
If only she could figure out a way to continue working. She’d managed to keep her secret for six months, but now that her father read the paper, too much was at risk.
Illustrating, making her own money these past six months, embodied her dreams as if she’d been living someone else’s life. But she couldn’t continue living the fantasy, so she’d have to settle for the entire experience being a sweet memory.
She had made the right decision. The only decision. No matter how much she longed to continue drawing and no matter how tempting Mr. Middle- ton and his offer were, she’d stick by her resignation.
“You shouldn’t scowl like that, dear, makes you look dangerous.”
Derrick looked up from his dinner and gave his aunt a weak smile.
“Bad day?”
“Rotten.” He pushed his food around on his plate with his fork. He still hadn’t figured out what to do about Miss Prattley’s resignation.
“Your vocabulary is too much for my feeble mind,” she said dryly.
Leave it to Aunt Chloe to give him a chuckle.
She leveled her gray eyes to his. Her silver hair piled atop her head like a crown gave her the illusion of being a tall woman. But it was her confidence and boldness that made her regal, not her appearance.
He knew better than to come home expecting to keep his troubles to himself. She was simply too nosy. She certainly loved him, but more than that she had a streak of curiosity as wide as the Thames.
“One of my illustrators resigned today.”
“And now you have to find a replacement?”
“It’s not likely. It was the illustrator who’s been doing the Society Fashion Report.”
She frowned. “I know I’m a dreadful aunt for not even glancing at your paper since I’ve been back in town. So forgive this old woman and be a dear and explain yourself—Society Fashion Report?”
“The Society Fashion Report was my answer to persuading more of the nobility to purchase the paper. A weekly segment featuring illustrations of the latest fashions. I figured even if it was women who initially bought the paper, it would get into the hands of their husbands eventually. This particular illustrator is on the inside of Society and draws her peers. It’s quite the rage, as you know how those gossips love to be the center of attention.”
“Brilliant plan, dear boy. And I should like to see these illustrations. But you mustn’t forget that the paper is already a success. You have plenty of readers.”
“Yes, but not enough. At least not enough of the right kind.”
“Your paper doesn’t have to be like your father’s, you know. You’ve exceeded his success with the first fully illustrated paper. And you’ve made it available to the common man. Look around you, look at all you’ve accomplished. Your father would have been proud.”
He didn’t need to look around. This was his dining room. His house. He knew what it looked like. Tasteful yet simple decor. He hadn’t picked any of it himself, because he didn’t really care. He only cared that he had a dining table, not that it was mahogany and sat eight. None of the details mattered. The house, the money—yes, he’d done well for himself, and his father would have been proud. But his father had worked to bring political news to the public; for him it had never been about the money.
“My father loved political news,” he replied.
“Your father loved you.”
She was right, his father had loved him, but Phillip Middleton had lived and breathed for his paper. The paper had come first with him, and then his family. And with one story, that paper had been destroyed, the credibility and honor stripped away. Derrick hadn’t penned another story since.
“It’s not your fault, and he knew that. It’s a shame you can’t see it.”
Derrick took a bite of roasted hen and let the silence settle in around them. He should send for new lighting for this room. It was too damned bright.
“Back to this illustrator,” Aunt Chloe ventured. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure. She won’t be replaced easily.”
“I’m rather intrigued that you hired a woman. You never mentioned that in your letters.”
“I didn’t know I’d hired a woman. Not until she came into the office today.”
“Who is she?”
“Claudia Prattley. She made mention of her father deeming it inappropriate that she have a paid position, so I’m assuming that he’s titled and finds men like me who work for our money nothing more than scuff marks on his boots.”
“Prattley, you say? Oh, he’s titled alright.” Aunt Chloe gave him a smile. A slow smile that resembled a cat after she’d devoured a mouse. She all but licked her lips.
“Do you know her father?”
“Indeed. As do you, my dear. Prattley is the family name of the Viscount Kennington.”
Derrick dropped his fork. This day could not end soon enough. Of all the rotten luck. Had there been a storm, he wouldn’t dare go outside, because lightning would surely strike. He eyed the chandelier, surprised it hadn’t fallen on him.
By God, he would have paid his entire fortune to keep in his employ the daughter of Kennington. The man who had made it his personal agenda to ruin Derrick’s father and the reputation of The Challenger.
The bastard hadn’t succeeded, but his letters to the editor disputed every sentiment raised. People had listened to him, as he’d been the chancellor of finance at the time. Despite his efforts, Kennington hadn’t ruined the paper; Derrick had managed to do that himself.
“I can tell by your reaction that you hadn’t made the connection. Don’t you think old Kennie would love to know his precious daughter worked for you and your dirty little paper?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.
Derrick chuckled. “And if it weren’t for the fact that I want her to continue working for me, I just might tell him. I’m not sure the girl would fare well if he ever found out. I would wager he’s a tyrant in his own home. He certainly raises enough hell in Parliament.”
“Did she indicate why she needed to resign?”
“She has to marry.”
“That shouldn’t stop her. Marriage never stopped me from doing anything.” His aunt pointed her fork at him. “You are going to convince her to continue working, aren’t you?”
“I haven’t figured that out as of yet.” He shrugged. “I did find out where Miss Prattley will be tomorrow evening. I have secured myself an invitation and will do what I can there to persuade her.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I have my sources. Newsmen never reveal their sources.”
“You’re no fun.” She drained her wineglass. “To whom is she betrothed?”
“She’s not. It’s confusing—at least it confused me. I suppose she is getting pressure from her father to marry.”
“If that is indeed the reason she cannot continue working, then you simply need to ensure she doesn’t marry. But first you must convince her to work for you until she is safely wed. Then you prevent the latter from happening.”
“You are wicked, Aunt.”
“I don’t mean indefinitely, dear boy. Just until you can convince her to work for you regardless of her marital status. Or until you find a replacement.”
That might work. Surely he could convince her to postpone resigning until she wed. He had always been successful at persuading people to his way of thought.
“But how do I prevent her from marrying?”
“Simple. You court her yourself.”