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“No.” Lowery slapped the copy ofThe Londonerdown. “The purpose is to do your job.”

And he was a damned fool.

Verity stormed to her feet. “You bastard,” she hissed, curling her fingers into the edge of his oak desk to keep grounded. “I’ve given everything to my work here. And do you know something, Lowery? I am going to destroy you. I’m going to one day have my own damned paper, and I’m going to write the stories that the world doesn’t know they want or need, and watch gleefully while your business is shuttered for your absolute inability to locate a damned good story if it were to slap you in your smug face.”

Silence met her tirade, punctuated by the rapid breaths Verity sucked in.

He tightened his mouth. “Get out, Miss Lovelace.”

“Get out,” she breathed.

That was what awaited a woman after a lifetime of loyal service.

“To hell with you,” she clipped out. To hell with all men.

Lifting her skirts, Verity spun and marched from the room. Taking immense satisfaction as she slammed the door hard in her wake and all the male employees around the office jumped and fell quiet.

Except Fairpoint.

Arms tucked behind his head, reclined in his seat as he was, his legs stretched out onto the corner of his desk, and a smug, self-satisfied grin on his thin lips.

She curled her hands tight to keep from smacking him in his smug smile.

Except, by the horrified expressions painted on the seven occupants ofThe Londoner’s offices, this was the response that they expected of her.

How was she still standing? How, when with a handful of casually tossed words, he’d thrown her entire future—her sister’s entire future—into peril? Just like Lowery, just like any and every man, they all expected Verity’s outburst because that was how the world saw women. Incapable of controlling their feelings, even as men moved through life, the hotheads they were, easy to anger, and even easier to take up a spot across from another on a dueling field, all in the name of honor.

Verity gave a toss of her head, and with very deliberate steps, she made her way over to Fairpoint. There was a wave of satisfaction as his previously pompous smile fell, and he hastily dropped his legs to the floor.

Good, she’d unsettled him. It was a small consolation on this bloody miserable day.

When she reached his desk, Verity stopped.

Fairpoint eyed her warily.

“You’ve had it in for my post since the moment you came here three years ago. You attempted to displace me when Mr. Lowery’s father served as editor, and you’ve made it your mission since he ceded his responsibilities over to his son.”

“Yes.” He fiddled with an immaculate cravat.

“Why?” she demanded. Why should his life’s goal have been to see her sacked?

He eyed her like she’d begun speaking gibberish. “Because there’s no place for your sort here, Miss Lovelace. This isn’t women’s work,” he said bluntly. “No matter how much you wish it to be.”

Women’s work?Whatwas truly women’s work? Marriage to a man? Mistress to a gentleman? Whore to a sailor? Servant in a fine lord’s house? The options were few, and each no less vile than the other.

Pushing back the black rage creeping over her eyes, she took a step toward him.

Fairpoint hunched over.

The damned hypocrite. He’d mock a woman, and yet, feared one still. But then, perhaps that was what it was ultimately all about: men of every station truly feared women and what they might do to their ordered world. “Go to hell, Fairpoint.”

And before she lost control as they all anticipated, Verity stormed out ofThe Londoner’s office ... and the only employment she’d known almost all her life.

The moment she closed the door behind her, she stood there on the stoop.

All around, East London carried on as East London did: every side of the pavement overflowed with passersby and vendors hawking their wares. Their shouts and enticements deafening, a dissonance that wreaked havoc on her already jumbled mind.

The sting of London’s stink slapped at her face; the fragrant odors of horse urine and dust burnt her nose.