With Lord and Lady Montcrieffe’s charity ball, Clara’s season took an even more frantic turn. The next day, invitations began to pour in, and within two weeks, she found that every moment, from breakfast to the wee small hours, was being conscripted for some activity. Luncheons, picnics, charity meetings, Afternoon-At-Homes, and water parties filled her days, while dinner parties, theater, opera, suppers at the Savoy, cotillions, and balls filled her evenings. The pace became so rigorous, that had she only had herself to consider, she might have begun refusing invitations to give herself a rest.

But the duke’s family benefited greatly from her elevation in status, for almost all the invitations included them as well, and she didn’t have the heart to turn away any opportunity to help them.

As for Rex, she continued to treat him with the same offhand disinterest she had before, and he continued to play the role of interested suitor in pursuit. For Clara, however, the charade seemed harder to maintain after the ball than it had before. The image of him, one shoulder against a marble column and his face so grave, often came into her mind, and whenever it did, a tiny throb of sweet pain always hit her square in the chest.

Sometimes, she would catch him looking at her as he had that night—across someone’s drawing room, or down the table at a dinner party—and his voice—low, vibrant with intensity—would echo in her ears.

I want it, Clara.

Sometimes, he would invade her dreams at night, his mouth on hers and his arms around her and his body hard beneath her, and she’d wake up with her lips tingling and her body aching as if she had a fever. She ought to have found it easier as time went on to put that forbidden afternoon out of her mind, but as the days passed, the memory only seemed to grow stronger, ever harder to suppress.

As for their efforts to reunite Dina and Lionel, Rex reported that he and his friend had forged a truce, but beyond that, he knew nothing of how the other man’s romance with Dina was progressing, or if it was progressing at all. He continued to send the Lady Truelove column to her through the post, and she never found cause to a single word he wrote. His advice to London’s lovelorn was always spot-on, and morally acceptable, though whether the latter fact was due to her influence, Clara could not have said.

She tried to carve out at least an hour or two each day to spend at the paper, but she couldn’t always manage it. One morning about a fortnight after the Montcrieffe ball, a glance through her calendar at breakfast revealed that a full four days had gone by since her last visit to Belford Row. Worse, it was Friday, which meant she had not yet read Rex’s column, nor had she reviewed that week’s layout of the paper. Constructed by Mr. Beale the previous day, the layout was probably sitting on her desk, still waiting for her approval. Either that, she thought wryly, or Mr. Beale had used her absence as an excuse to increase his own authority and had taken it upon himself to approve the layout. He may even have opened and read this week’s Lady Truelove column, perhaps even editing it himself. With that thought, Clara knew a visit to Belford Row was in order.

Truth be told, she was rather relieved to take a bit of time away from luncheons and parties and have a bit of peace and quiet in her little office. Cancelling all her appointments for the afternoon, she took a taxi to Belford Row.

But the moment she arrived at the newspaper office, she realized peace and quiet were the last things she was to have. She’d barely opened the door a fraction when Mr. Beale’s enraged voice poured to her through the doorway.

“This is the most idiotic piece of writing I’ve read in my life, Miss Trent. You call this journalism? It’s shallow, facile rubbish.”

“Shallow and facile?” a female voice countered. “That’s a bit redundant, isn’t it, sir?”

That pert reply earned stifled giggles from the other women on the staff as Clara pushed the door fully open, she found Mr. Beale standing over the petite Elsa Trent, his usual sour expression replaced by one of unmistakable outrage.

“Mr. Beale, what is going on here?” Clara demanded as she stepped inside the office.

The other women glanced at her, but by Mr. Beale, she was ignored. He didn’t even glance in her direction.

“I’ll have none of your cheek, miss,” he said to Elsa, waving a sheaf of papers in the girl’s face. “To read this was difficult, to edit it is impossible. Throw it out and start again.”

“But, sir, I’m not sure what’s wrong with it. If you could just tell me—”

“Start again,” he interrupted her, “and if I hear one more word of argument, you’ll be looking for other employment.” And with that, he tossed the pages in Elsa’s face.

Fury erupted inside Clara, and before she knew it, the door had slammed behind her, and she was across the room, coming between Elsa and Mr. Beale as the pages of the other woman’s composition fluttered to the floor around them.

“That will be enough!” she said. “Mr. Beale, cease this unthinkable abuse of Miss Trent at once.”

“Abuse?” He left off berating Elsa and turned to scowl at Clara. “The abuse is upon me, Miss Deverill, that I am expected to edit fluffy stories about nothing by silly women who can’t write, and that I should suffer cheek from them when I order changes to be made. But the most galling part,” he added, as she opened her mouth to reply, “is that I should be reporting to a chit of a girl who’s half my age, and hasn’t a fraction of my experience. And,” he went on giving her a disdainful glance up and down, “to be upbraided by someone unworthy of my respect when I am attempting to exert my rightful authority is unbearable. It’s—”

“You’re right,” Clara interrupted, and she knew all the icy fury she felt was in her voice, because her two clipped words cut through his tirade at once. “It is unbearable, so much so, in fact, that I can’t think of any reason I should tolerate it from you a single moment longer.”

Her choice of pronouns was not lost on the editor. His jaw slackened and his eyes bulged, and Clara might have found his shock rather comical, if anger wasn’t freezing in her veins like ice water.

“For two months, Mr. Beale, I have overlooked your bellicose manner, your arrogance, and your lack of consideration for the others who work here,” she said, relishing every word as she spoke. “For too long, I have striven to see your point of view, and I have worked to ignore your denigrating remarks. But in berating a member of my staff—yes, my staff,” she went on as he attempted to object, “in this vicious manner, you have gone utterly beyond the pale.” She took a deep breath, exhilaration making her almost dizzy. “Mr. Beale, you are fired.”

“You don’t have the authority to terminate my employment.”

“No?” She laughed, savoring this moment far more than she probably ought, given the problems it would cause. But she knew she’d never have any regrets, no matter what happened next. “Who’s to stop me?” She looked him up and down with scorn. “You?”

“As we have discussed many times, I do not work for you, Miss Deverill. I was hired on the understanding that I would be working for your brother—”

“But my brother is not here,” she cut in, spreading her arms wide in an encompassing gesture. “I am. And as the only Deverill on the premises with the authority to act, I am terminating your employment immediately. This decision,” she added as he attempted to speak, “is not open for discussion.”

“I refuse to stand for this. I shall go to your father.”

“Oh, do.” Clara laughed again, a little wildly this time, for her exhilaration was deepening into absolute glee, and she wondered why she had ever tried to pacify this man or work with him, or even tolerate him. She waved a hand toward the stairs behind her. “Please, do. He’s upstairs in the drawing room. I’m sure he’ll give you sympathy over how unfair I’m being and commiserate with you about how difficult and disobliging women can be. He’ll probably even offer you a drink. But what he won’t do is countermand my decision. He hasn’t the legal authority to do so, nor—let us be frank—does he have the will.”

“He owns this building—”

“But he does not control, nor even own, the newspaper, and he certainly does not control or own me. Now, remove yourself from these premises at once. The personal items in your desk, as well as all wages owed you until this moment, will be forwarded to your residence by the end of the day. Don’t expect a letter of character, for there won’t be one. And don’t,” she added as he stepped closer to her, his fists clenched, “make me call a constable.”

He stood there a moment, staring at her, his jaw working furiously. Clara stared back, unblinking, and after a moment, he turned away with an oath and stalked toward the door. He paused only long enough to pull his mackintosh from the coat tree before walking out and slamming the door behind him.

The sound reverberated through the silent room like a gunshot, but no one moved. The three women in the office stared at Clara in wide-eyed shock, but none of them, it seemed, knew quite what to say.

Clara drew a deep breath, feeling a bit shaky now that the deed was done. She glanced around. “Has he been as abusive as this every time I’ve been away from the premises?”

The women exchanged glances, but none said a word, and Clara had her answer. “I see. Ladies, you have my deepest apologies, for I have unforgivably neglected my duty to you and to the newspaper. None of you should ever have to put up with such appalling behavior from anyone, man or woman. If it ever happens again, you must report it to me immediately. You will never be in trouble for doing so, I promise you. As for my part, I will do my level best not to neglect you again. Now, Evie?”

She turned to the secretary. “Ring up Merrick’s Employment Agency, and inform Miss Merrick we require a newspaper editor. Someone experienced in the position, and—preferably—pleasant to work with. Make it clear the person must not be only knowledgeable and experienced, but also be comfortable operating under a woman’s authority and, when needed, supervising a female staff. As owner of her own agency, I’m sure Miss Merrick, of all people, will appreciate our reason for such requirements.”

The other three women laughed, and the tension broke.

“Hazel,” she went on, turning to the blonde young woman beside Miss Huish, “since you’ve donned your coat, I take it you were on your way to lunch? Are the advertisements ready for typesetting?”

“Yes, Miss Deverill.”

“Then, I hope when you return, you’ll be willing to compose an advertisement stating our need for a new editor?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll even work through lunch.”

Clara smiled. “I appreciate the sacrifice, but I think we can spare you for half an hour. After you’ve composed the advertisement, bring it to me for review. Once I have approved it, Evie will arrange to have it inserted in the appropriate newspapers.”

“Will they accept it, do you think?” Evie asked. “Being competitors?”

“Some may not, but some will—particularly the larger papers up north. Try the Manchester Daily Mail and the Leeds Gazette, for a start. And all of Lord Marlowe’s papers. Even his London papers will likely accept an ad of that sort. Marlowe’s never had to be afraid of losing staff to his competition. And,” she added, returning her attention to Hazel, “we shall put a quarter page announcement in this week’s edition of the Gazette, inviting qualified candidates to apply, so I’d like you to design that as well.”

“What about the layout?” Hazel asked. “Mr. Beale’s already done it. There’s nowhere to add another advertisement, not one of that size.”

“I will reconstruct the layout. You design the advertisement, Hazel, and I’ll make it fit. A full quarter-page.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll just get a sandwich and apple from the costermonger and come straight back.” Hazel departed, and Clara turned to the woman whose latest article had been the catalyst of this showdown, but she had no chance to give Elsa any instructions.

“I am so sorry, Miss Deverill,” the other woman burst out. “I didn’t mean to give Mr. Beale any cheek. Truly, I didn’t. And now, we’ve no editor. I know I’ve put us all in the devil of a mess—”

“Please, Elsa, do not apologize. What happened was not your fault in any way. The man is impossible, and I thought you remarkably restrained, given the circumstances. I put up with him for far too long, I know, but I can assure you, I don’t consider his departure any great loss. However, if you believe any of the comments in his tirade to be valid—and try to be as honest with yourself as you can about that—then I want you to incorporate them into your piece. Put anything else that awful man may have said to you out of your mind, all right? Once you’ve finished reviewing your work,” she added as the other woman nodded, “type a final draft and put it on my desk for editing.”

“Does that mean you’ll be our editor until you hire a replacement?”

“I shall have to be.”

Elsa smiled, clearly relieved by that news, but Clara could not really share the feeling, for the position of editor was arduous and difficult, even for someone experienced at the job, and Clara wasn’t at all confident she could do it properly. And as she’d told Rex, good editors were a rare commodity, so it would probably take some time to find the right person, which meant her first season in society might well be over.

On the other hand, when she thought of Mr. Beale’s shocked face, she knew that forfeiting the rest of her season was a small price to pay. And, more importantly, she also knew that no matter how many mistakes she made in her new role, she would never again make the worst one of all. She would never trust anyone else’s judgement, including her beloved sister’s, more than she trusted her own.

Rex had never been the sort for self-torture, but after the Montcrieffe ball, it soon became clear he’d somehow become addicted to it, at least as far as Clara was concerned.

In the two weeks since the ball, he’d spent most of his time searching for her amid the crowds at whatever event they both happened to be attending. Whenever he had happened to catch sight of her, she always seemed to be talking to some other man. At dinner parties, silly rules of precedent always prevented him from sitting beside her at the table, and though she’d saved him a dance at every ball, it hadn’t always been a waltz, worse luck. As a result, he’d spent most of his time since the Montcrieffe ball tamping down either lust or jealousy, perfectly aware he had no right to either, and by the time two weeks had passed, he was in a state of such acute frustration, he felt ready to chuck the entire business and go find some form of employment that was more relaxing to his mind and easier on his body—prizefighter, perhaps, or lion tamer.

But after a fortnight of this frustration, he found himself relieved of it, and his mood took a decided turn for the worse. She vanished from society altogether, and after a full week passed with no sign of her at any party or ball, he decided to find out what was going on. Catching Lady David at the opera during intermission, he asked after Clara and was assured that though she was quite well, she had been obligated by unforeseen circumstances to return home for an indefinite period. A press for more details yielded no additional information, and Rex, not knowing whether to be worried or exasperated, decided it was time to find Clara and hear from her what these unforeseen circumstances were. On the off-chance he might be responsible in some way for her absence, he acquired a bottle of champagne from the refreshments steward, then he left Covent Garden and took a taxi to Belford Row.

When he arrived at Clara’s home, the windows of the newspaper showed the front office to be dark and empty, but there was light spilling from Clara’s office into the corridor at the back, and he concluded she must be working late. He tried the door, and finding it unlocked, he went inside, but when he called her name, there was no answer. Despite that, he went inside, thinking it best to extinguish her lamp before presenting himself at her front door, for an unattended lamp was a fire hazard. As he crossed the outer office, he made a note to give Clara a sound lecture about leaving lamps lit and doors unlocked, but when he entered her office, he found her still there, and at the sight of her slumped over her desk, sound asleep, her cheek pillowed on the back of her hand, the fingers of her other hand still clenched around a pencil, any lectures about anything died on his lips.

He removed his top hat and took a step closer, then stopped, realizing he probably ought not to wake her, and yet, he could hardly think leaving her to sleep this way, hunched over her desk, was a better idea. Before he could decide, however, some instinct woke her. She jerked upright, an abrupt move that rolled her chair back a few inches and sent a lock of her hair tumbling down over her face.

“Rex?” She brushed the loose lock of her hair back from her forehead, blinking sleepily at him. “What are you doing here?”

“A courtship, even a sham one, takes two people, I’m afraid.”

She sighed and pulled her chair close to her desk again. “Sorry, but I’ve been terribly busy with the paper.”

“Ah.” He glanced at his surroundings, noting the untidiness of her office, a characteristic he did not remember from his previous visits here. Stacks of newspapers, files, and other documents seemed to be everywhere—on chairs, on filing cabinets, on the floor, and on her desk. Also on her desk were sheets of drawing paper, charcoal pencils, and various other stationery supplies. “Yes, so I see.”

He looked at her again, noticing that her hair wasn’t fashioned in its usual austere crown. Instead, the locks were piled in a careless, haphazard sort of chignon at the back of her head that was soft and pretty and looked ready to tumble down at the slightest provocation.

That was dangerous thinking, but even as he gave himself the reminder, he said, “You’ve changed your hair.”

She flushed. “I don’t have a maid here, and I’ve been too occupied to bother much with it,” she mumbled, lifting her hands to the messy chignon as if to tidy it.

“Leave it,” he ordered. “It’s deuced attractive that way.”

The moment the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to kick himself in the head.

“It is?” She touched the chignon self-consciously, giving him a dubious look. “But it’s so untidy.”

He had no intention of explaining why that might have a certain appeal, and fortunately, she spoke again, preventing him from having to invent some absurd explanation.

“You brought champagne?”

“I did.” Pushing aside the images of her with her hair tumbling down around bare white shoulders, he came in and set the bottle in front of her. “You’ve been missing from every social gathering this week. Lady David assured me you weren’t ill, but she was so evasive on the subject that I thought your absence might be my fault. So, I decided to find out what was going on. I hope I haven’t blotted my copybook in some way?”

“Oh, no, it’s nothing to do with you. As for Carlotta, she hates having to explain to anyone that I have an occupation, especially one as middle-class as running a newspaper. That’s probably why she refused to enlighten you. It embarrasses her that I’m engaging in a profession, however temporary it might be.”

“I see. But what is all this?” he asked, gesturing to the disarray all around her with his hat. “What’s happened?”

“I fired Mr. Beale.”

“You did?” He grinned, setting his top hat aside as he sank into the swivel chair opposite her. “What delightful news.”

She made a face at him as she shoved her pencil behind her ear. “Yes, well, I’ve been paying for that delight ever since. First, the typesetter quit. Being the only remaining male employee in a company of women made him uncomfortable, he said. So, Hazel and I had to typeset last week’s issue ourselves. Then, the printing press gave out—after, I’m thankful to say, we’d printed all the copies. I had to scramble like mad to find a qualified firm to contract the typesetting and printing for this week’s issue, and I’d barely done that before Hazel’s aunt came down with ‘flu and she had to go home to Surrey. I meant to let you know what was happening, but, honestly, Rex, I just . . . forgot.”

She gave a little laugh, shaking her head and sending the looser lock of hair tumbling down again. “Terribly rude of me, wasn’t it?”

“Not at all. Perfectly understandable.” He leaned forward, frowning as he noted the tired lines and shadows of her face. “You look quite done in, my lamb.”

“I am a bit tired,” she admitted and attempted to shove the loose tendril of her hair back again, but when it immediately fell back over her brow, she left it there, as if too weary to bother trying to tuck it into place.

He did it for her, reaching out to curl it behind her ear Fighting the temptation to linger and touch the soft skin of her cheek, he let his hand fall. “More than a bit,” he said gently, leaning back in his chair.

“It’s not only work here that’s worn me out. The season had become this mad dash from party to party.”

“It tends to get that way.”

“It’s been rather nice to have a change, even if the pace of my days hasn’t slowed.” She gave a laugh. “The odd thing is that I’m actually enjoying myself here. That’s something I never thought would happen.”

“Still, I daresay you’re due for a rest. Perhaps you should go upstairs and go to bed.”

“I can’t.” She gestured to the pages spread across her desk and the credenza behind her. “I have to finish this first.”

“And what is so important that it can’t wait until morning?”

“With Hazel gone, I’m not only the publisher and the editor, but also the advertising artist. I have a meeting with Ebenezer Shaw first thing in the morning in which I’m supposed to show him ideas for advertisements to launch his company’s newest product. Hazel left me with some conceptual ideas, but she did not have time to do any sketches before she left, so I must do them. I’ve been trying, but . . .” Clara’s shoulders slumped as she stared down at her efforts. “Sketching is something for which I have little talent, I’m afraid.”

He glanced at her pathetic attempts and was forced to agree.

“They’re awful, I know,” she said as if reading his mind. “But I can’t cancel the meeting. He’s such a curmudgeon, he’s likely to withdraw the entire campaign if I’m not prepared, and if he does that, we could lose over a thousand pounds in advertising revenue. More, if he’s in a sour mood.”

“Never fear.” Rex stood up and began unbuttoning his black evening jacket. “You shall not lose a single penny.”

“What are you doing?” she asked as he slid his jacket off his shoulders, slung it over the back of his chair, and began unfastening his cuff links.

“What do you think I’m doing?” He dropped the heavy silver cuff links into her pen tray and began rolling up his shirt sleeves. “I’m going to help you.”