A Rogue of One's Own

He poured himself two finger widths of liquor as he strolled back toward his desk, taking the bottle with him. “Why would I not?” he said. “It’s a publishing house with a vast readership, with still considerably under-explored potential. Anyone with an eye on publishing and a passive income stream would be interested.”

The words hit like slaps. They were the same words she had given Mr. Barnes, when she had used economics to conceal her true intent of using the magazines to further the Cause. What was Tristan hiding? He should be living off his father’s allowance like any aristocratic male heir, not pondering passive income streams.

“If it is money you want, pick another business,” she said.

He cocked his head. “But why? Both my purchases preceded yours. One could say I was there first.”

“You cad,” she muttered, trembling.

It seemed to amuse him. “Throw a man a bone, Lucie. I’m back from the war. Perhaps I like the idea of having something to do. And London Print owns the rights to my literary works, so I suppose you could call me emotionally invested in my revenue.”

“Literary works?”

He sent her a pitying look from beneath his long lashes. “Romantic poetry.”

He might as well have talked Mandarin to her.

And then it dawned on her.

She shook her head, bemused. “Are you claiming you are the author of A Pocketful of Poems?”

“I am,” Tristan said. He studied her over the rim of his whiskey glass, an expectant gleam in his eyes. “How do you like it?”

The poetry? The poetry was published by Anonymous. She had suspected a woman to be the author, as was so often the case with Anonymous. Apparently, the truth was more outrageous. Apparently, there was a reality where her business partner was a notorious rake and where Lord Ballentine, most shallow of men, was an acclaimed poet. She had quite possibly fallen through a rabbit hole.

“Do I like it,” she repeated. “The poetry, I presume? Why, I never read any of it.” She gave him a haughty look. “Pretty, empty things don’t hold my attention.”

The gleam in his eyes faded.

He tsked. “You surprise me—I had taken you for a thorough investigator and yet here you are, buying into a company without knowing the identity of fellow share-owners or the content of one of their best-selling products. You have been careless.”

She seethed in silence, because he was not wrong. Her plans required no great knowledge of London Print at all, but she must not tell him that, and thus, she must keep quiet and let him think she was a fool.

“As it is,” he continued, “we both profit from my intervention. My book is still selling six years after publication which is remarkable. However, figures have stagnated. Now, imagine I were revealed as the author.” He looked smug, saying it. “We will need another edition, and we could—”

She held up a staying hand. “I am not doing business with you.”

“Don’t be obtuse,” he said mildly. “You must.”

“I must do no such thing.”

He shrugged. “A pity, then. Your idea about my war diaries was good. They shall be published next.”

Her stomach was a hard ball of dread. If only she had not gone to meet him at Blackwell’s at all. Why had she? “Sell your shares to me,” she whispered.

“Why—I have only just acquired them.”

She drew closer. “If it is money you want, sell them to me.” She would find the money, somehow, no matter how staggering the figures.

Tristan leaned back against the desk and swirled the whiskey in his glass, looking infuriatingly laconic and superior. “I have no interest in a lump sum, princess. I do, however, have a vested interest in London Print maintaining its profits long-term.”

She glared at him, and his smile turned into a smirk. “Come now,” he said. “We both know you would never acquire wholesome women’s magazines without ulterior motives. The pen is mightier than the sword and such. The Home Counties Weekly, in your hands? What is your plan—women’s rights shenanigans instead of sponge cake recipes? No. I want control over the content.”

Cold sweat broke over her brow.

He’d ruin . . . everything.

She swallowed, trying to force a surge of nausea back down.

“There are other ways of making money, if you must,” she said. “Pick another way.”

His expression hardened. “And idly stand by as you lose us readers? I cannot do that, I’m afraid.”

Us.

She wanted to screech and snarl like a fox clamped in a trap. There could be no us. He had just sabotaged their every hope for this enterprise while casually swilling whiskey. Her blood roared in her ears. Anything she’d say now would be petty. She must not give him such satisfaction.

“This is not over,” she said.

“Not in a long time, my sweet,” she heard him say before she firmly closed the door.

* * *

The sky was already dark like smoke behind Oxford’s chimneys and she was still pacing an angry circle on Hattie’s Persian rug, round and round. The train ride from London had failed to calm her. The sight of Oxford’s eternal walls had not soothed her.

“He tricked me,” she fumed, “and I let him. How could I? He’s not even sober half the time!”

Annabelle was watching her with overt concern from the settee. “You could hardly expect such a turn of events, no one could.”

“It is all very curious, almost like a scene from a play,” Hattie supplied from her armchair. “The odds for such a thing to come to pass, of both of you buying stakes in the same enterprise, are so low—it feels fateful.”

Lucie whirled on her. “This is not a play, Hattie. This is a disaster.”

Her friends fell silent, and she knew she had spoken too harshly.

She took a deep breath. It did not help. She was still reeling.

“You know what this means,” she said. “He will be able to veto anything. We cannot put our plan into practice—we cannot publish our report.” She pressed her palms against her temples. “We have raised a fortune and purchased a publishing house—for nothing.”

The silence became heavy and grave.

“Perhaps we find a solution while Parliament is in summer recess,” Annabelle then said. “I shall ask Montgomery to reschedule the session for his amendment proposal when they reconvene in September.”

“Thank you. But if it were easy to find another way, we would have found it by now.”

“And if we just did it anyway?” Hattie said with a small voice. “What if we just went ahead?”

Lucie frowned. “The executive processes require two signatures at every turn now. There is no legal basis for us to proceed. I am vexed beyond words.”

Catriona pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “And if we used the publishing house for some other purpose?”

Lucie blinked. “Which one?”

“It’s still a growing enterprise, which is hardly a useless investment. And whatever we shall do with it, you have as much power as Lord Ballentine. You can both veto each other’s ideas.”

“Oh, grand. Spending our days bargaining and bickering with Ballentine instead of advancing our work? Blast, to even think I should have to endure his smirking countenance every week.”

Annabelle looked intrigued. “I like it. We could use it to further the Cause in other ways. Why not employ as many women at London Print as we can? We could pay them the same wages as the men.”

Hattie nodded. “Wouldn’t that be much nicer than sending surplus women to Australia?”

Lucie paused. The idea was good; even as her stomach churned with emotions, she knew it merited close consideration. There was indeed the rapidly growing problem of middle-class women in need of office employment, chiefly because there were not enough men in Britain to marry and provide for them. War and emigration led too many prospective grooms abroad or to their demise, and the women left behind were deemed too proper to take up manual labor for a living. The government’s current remedy of sending women to Australia with a one-way ticket so they could find husbands there was, as usual, a harebrained scheme. However . . . she shook her head. “A brilliant idea,” she said. “But no.”

“Whyever not?” Catriona looked genuinely confused.

“An office full of women workers?” Another shake. “It would be unwise, with Ballentine so close. He hardly needs the added acclaim of being a romantic poet—he could cause disruption just by flaunting himself around the office. And he will. Sensible women will turn against each other, competing for his attention. The one he lures will suffer a broken heart and do something deranged . . . you have all seen the headlines he causes. And I will have to dismiss her, because I cannot dismiss him.”

Her friends were regarding her with a collective frown, as though she had quite lost her mind.

“Aren’t you doing us an injustice?” Annabelle asked mildly. “I know he’s a scoundrel, but it will take more than a handsome face and some flirtation to turn women into imbeciles.”

“I agree,” muttered Catriona. “Have some faith in our rational faculties.”

Lucie blew out a breath. To an outsider, she would sound quite unhinged. “You have to understand something about Ballentine,” she said. “He used to be a second son, and his hair was orange. There were rumors he wasn’t even Rochester’s. What does such an unfortunate boy do to survive? He becomes charming. And witty. He becomes a veritable Machiavelli of charm. He will eventually sense your desires and weaknesses from a mile away and will use them against you as it suits him. Now imagine that a boy with such a grudge and such skills grows into an extraordinarily handsome man, becomes the heir, and returns home with the Victoria Cross. Can you imagine what this makes him?”