A Rogue of One's Own

His cheeks burned, and not from the slap. He knew he had barely grown an inch since his birthday, and yes, he worried the famous Ballentine height was eluding him. The runt, Marcus called him. His hand curled into a fist. If she were a boy, he’d deck her. But a gentleman never raised his hand to a girl, even if she made him want to howl. Marcus, now Marcus would have known how to handle this vicious pixie with aplomb. Tristan could only beat a hasty retreat, the slap still pulsing like fire on his cheekbone. The Lyrical Ballads lay forgotten in damp grass.

Chapter 2

London, 1880

Had she been born a man, none of this would be happening. She would not be left waiting in a musty antechamber, counting the labored tick-tocks of an old pendulum clock. The secretary wouldn’t shoot suspicious glances at her from behind his primly organized little desk. She would not be here at all today—Mr. Barnes, editor and current owner of half of London Print, would have signed the contract last week. Instead, he was encountering challenges in closing the deal. Naturally. There were things a woman could do just because she was a woman, such as fainting dead away over some minor chagrin, and there were things a woman could not do because she was a woman. Apparently, a woman did not simply buy a fifty percent share of a publishing enterprise.

She let her head slump back against the dark wall paneling, belatedly remembering that she was wearing a hat when it crunched in protest.

She was so close. They had shaken hands on it; Barnes was eager to sell quickly and to relocate to India. As usual in her line of work, this was simply a matter of waiting. Unfortunately, patience was not a virtue she possessed.

Behind her drooping eyelids, her mind took an idle turn around London Print. From the outside, the publisher’s headquarters had an appealing, modern look: a gray, sleek granite façade four stories high, located on one of London’s increasingly expensive streets. Befitting for an enterprise whose two best-selling periodicals regularly reached over eighty thousand upper- and middle-class women every month. The office floors, however, were as dull as the publisher’s editorial choices: desks too small, rooms too dim, and the obligatory side entrance for the only woman working here—Mr. Barnes’s typewriting daughter—was a cobwebbed servants’ staircase. If she were serious about keeping the place, the side entrance would be the first thing she’d dispose of.

The tinny sound of a bell made her eyes slit open.

The secretary had come to his feet. “Lady Lucinda, if you please.”

Mr. Barnes approached in his usual hasty manner when she entered his office. He hung her hat and tweed jacket on an overburdened hat rack, then offered her tea as she took her seat at his desk, an offer she declined because she had a train back to Oxford to catch.

More covert glances, from the direction of Miss Barnes’s typist desk in the left corner. Unnecessary, really, considering the young woman had seen her in the flesh before. She gave her a nod, and Miss Barnes quickly lowered her eyes to her typewriter. Hell’s bells—she was a leader of the suffrage movement, not a criminal on the loose. Though granted, for many people, this amounted to one and the same.

Mr. Barnes eyed her warily, too. “It’s the board,” he said. “The board is currently trying to understand why you would be interested in taking over magazines such as the Home Counties Weekly and the Discerning Ladies’ Magazine.”

“Not taking over; co-owning,” Lucie corrected, “and my reasons are the same as they always were: the magazines have an impressively wide reach, a broad readership, and still clear growth potential. Furthermore, your acquisition of the Pocketful of Poems line showed that London Print is able to branch out successfully into the book market. Everyone with an eye on publishing is interested, Mr. Barnes.”

Most importantly, there were only two other shareholders, each one owning twenty-five percent of London Print respectively, both silent partners, one of them residing abroad. She’d have as good as nothing standing in the way of her editorial decision making.

“All this is quite true,” Mr. Barnes said, “but the board was not aware until our last meeting that you were behind the Investment Consortium.”

“I’m afraid I can’t see how this affects our deal.”

Mr. Barnes tugged at his necktie. His bald pate had the telltale shine of nervous perspiration. Invariably, she had this effect on people—making them nervous. It’s because you are very purposeful, Hattie had explained to her; perhaps you should smile more to frighten them less.

Experimentally, she bared her teeth at Mr. Barnes.

He only looked more alarmed.

He made a production of taking off and folding up his glasses before finally meeting her eyes. “My lady. Allow me to be frank.”

“Please,” she said, relieved.

“You are rather active in politics,” Mr. Barnes ventured.

“I’m a leader of the British suffragist movement.”

“Indeed. And as such, surely you are aware you, erm, are a bit of a controversial figure. I believe a recent article in the Times called you exactly that.”

“I believe the article used the words ‘nefarious nag’ and ‘troublesome termagant.’”

“Quite right,” Mr. Barnes said awkwardly. “Naturally, the board is wondering why someone with the aim to overturn the present social order would have an interest in owning such wholesome magazines, never mind a line of romantic poetry.”

“Why, it almost sounds as though the board fears I have ulterior motives, Mr. Barnes,” she said mildly. “That I am not, in fact, keen on a good business opportunity, but shall start a revolution among respectable women through the Home Counties Weekly.”

“Ha ha.” Mr. Barnes laughed; clearly it was precisely what he feared. “Well, no,” he then said, “you would lose readers by the droves.”

“Quite right. Let us leave the revolutionary efforts to The Female Citizen, shall we not.”

Mr. Barnes winced at the mention of the radical women’s rights pamphlet. He recovered swiftly enough. “With all due respect, publishing requires a certain passion for the subject matter, an intimate knowledge of the readership. Both the Discerning Ladies’ Magazine and Home Counties Weekly focus on issues relevant to the gently-bred woman.”

“Which should pose no problem,” Lucie said, “considering I am a gently-bred woman myself.” Unlike you, Mr. Barnes.

The man looked genuinely confused. “But these magazines endeavor to promote healthy feminine pursuits . . . fashion . . . homemaking . . . a warm, happy family life.” He turned toward the corner where his daughter had ceased typing a while ago. “Do they not, Beatrix?”

“Yes, Father,” Miss Barnes said at once; clearly she had hung on every word.

Lucie inclined her head. “Miss Barnes, do you read the Home Counties Weekly and the Discerning Ladies’ Magazine?”

“Of course, my lady, every issue.”

“And are you married?”

Miss Barnes’s apple cheeks flushed a becoming pink. “No, my lady.”

“Very wise.” She turned back to Mr. Barnes. “Since Miss Barnes is a keen reader of both magazines, being a single woman evidently does not preclude an interest in healthy feminine pursuits.”

Now he was clearly at a loss. “But the difference is, my daughter would be interested because she has the prospect of having all these things, and soon.”

Ah.

Whereas she, Lucie, had no such prospects. A home. A happy family life. Her train of thought briefly derailed. Odd, because it shouldn’t—what Barnes said was only true. She was not in possession of the attributes that enticed a man, such as the softly curving figure and gentle eyes of Miss Barnes, which promised all the domestic comforts a husband could wish for. No, she was a political activist and rapidly approaching the age of thirty. She was not just left on the shelf, she was the shelf, and there was not a single gentleman in England interested in her offerings. Admittedly, her offerings were meager. Her reception room hosted a printing press and her life revolved around the Cause and a demanding cat. There was no room for the attention-hungry presence of a male. Besides, her most prominent campaign was waging war against the Married Women’s Property Act—the very reason why she was presently sitting in this chair and dealing with Mr. Barnes, in fact. Unless the act was amended or abolished altogether, she would lose her small trust fund to any future husband upon marriage, along with her name and legal personhood, and she would, quite literally, become a possession. Consequently, the right to vote, too, would move forever out of reach. Terribly enticing. No, what she wanted was a voice in London Print. And it seemed they were refusing to give it to her.

She loathed what she had to say next. But she hadn’t personally cajoled a dozen well-heeled women into investing in this enterprise only to tell them she had failed shortly before the finish line. Was Barnes aware how near deuced impossible it was to find even ten women of means in Britain who could spend their money as they wished?

Her voice emerged coolly: “The Duchess of Montgomery is part of the Investment Consortium, as you may know.”

Mr. Barnes gave a startled little leap in his chair. “Indeed.”

She gave him a grave stare. “I will call on her soon to inform her of our progress. I’m afraid she will be . . . distressed to find that her investment was not deemed good enough.”