Page 13 of Season of the Scoundrel (The Bridewell Sisters #3)

R oss had a telegram sent to his mother the moment he returned to his townhouse, and he suspected it might prompt her to buy a return ticket to London.

He could well imagine what she would have to say about his choice of duchess.

How could she not approve? Ivy was the sister-in-law of a duke, whose family was secure in their wealth and free of scandal.

Though once she learned that Ivy Bridewell was not the sort to strictly adhere to etiquette or stoop to tradition, the real fireworks were bound to start.

His mother always seemed to forget that he’d inherited her stubbornness. Once he made a decision, he rarely wavered from it. Plus, if there was a woman in England who possessed the mettle to stand up to his mother, it was Ivy.

Though the fact would likely horrify his mother, he’d never given a great deal of thought to the sort of lady he’d wish to pledge himself to. The role and duties of a duchess were obvious, and eventually, he assumed, he’d find a woman who’d fit that mold.

Though now, with the prospect in front of him, he realized that he did not want a woman who simply possessed a prescribed set of qualities, the ideal bloodline, and a sizable dowry.

He was not a duke who fully fit the mold himself, having devoted so many years of his life to commercial endeavors and championing policies in Parliament that caused him to fall out of favor with many of his more conservative peers.

As he settled into a chair before the fire in his study, he thought of the moment he’d slipped the heirloom ring on Ivy’s finger.

It had fit perfectly, and it had felt shockingly right to hold her hand, to look into her eyes—as deep and lovely a green as the emerald itself—and slip that ring, a symbol of a promise, onto her finger.

But now, a sliver of guilt gnawed at his conscience too.

They had both agreed to this pretend engagement for their own reasons, yet Ross couldn’t help but feel he’d deceived her in one essential regard: part of him would not mind if their false betrothal became a true one.

Ross had meant every word he’d said to her—he would never force her in any regard. But he couldn’t deny the ember of hope inside him that, come the end of this charade, she would want it to become genuine too.

The next morning, he went to his desk as he usually did, as if he hadn’t made a decision the day before that might alter the entire course of his life.

On most Mondays, he’d spend time going over business matters or respond to correspondence.

Today, he found it hard to focus on anything but what he and Ivy had agreed to.

How would they announce the betrothal at The Sentinel ? To do so quietly seemed best, at least until a formal announcement was printed in the papers. He still had not heard from his mother, and he needed confirmation she’d received the news before a public revelation.

Among his correspondence, he found an invitation from Lord Grainger to attend a soiree at his residence the following night. Ross had apparently given Penrose sufficient hope that he’d invest in their scheme to cause the two of them to keep at him until he did.

Ivy would want to go to that soiree, he suspected.

He tried to push thoughts of her out of his mind and focus.

Hours passed. The cook sent up lunch and he ate alone in the dining room, suddenly feeling the emptiness of the space in a way he hadn’t in all the years he’d lived as a bachelor at Blackbourne House.

By late afternoon, he considered a trip to his club. Another Monday habit, as he was often too busy as the week progressed. But just as he prepared to head out, he heard his butler answer the front door.

“This way, Miss Bridewell,” Vickers said as he led her toward the drawing room.

“No need, Vickers,” Ross called as he descended the townhouse’s stairs.

His staid butler eyed Ivy, then Ross, then bowed and headed off down the hall.

Ivy looked up at him with an eager smile. “I have an idea.”

The part of him that was cautious, raised on duty and propriety, told him that he should feel a bit of apprehension at those words, but the eagerness in her eyes was infectious.

“Then come into my study and tell me.”

He could all but feel excitement vibrating from her.

When they stepped inside his study, she shut the door. It was only then that he noticed she was carrying a rather sizable bulging satchel.

“Have you come to stay?” he asked in a teasing tone.

It shocked him how much he liked the idea.

“No, I’ve come to strategize.” She plunked her satchel down, then approached. “Now, I know you may have misgivings, and I suspect you’ll say this is reckless, but will you at least hear me out?”

Ross leaned on the edge of his desk, arms crossed. “I’ll hear you out.”

She went to her bag and slid out a folio, much like the one she kept her writing in.

“Penrose is to be at a charity gala this evening, hosted by a local gentleman’s club that I can only assume he’s a member of.

” Ivy offered him a clipping from a newspaper that detailed the gala and a few of the expected noble attendees.

Ross lifted his eyes to hers. “Tell me you’re not suggesting we break into the man’s study again.”

“We did not break in. The door was unlocked and we were invited guests.” She rested her hand at her hip. “But no, I don’t want to return to his townhouse. I think we should go to Wapping.”

The apprehension he’d failed to feel a moment ago took full effect at that suggestion. Ross crossed his arms.

Ivy swallowed and went on. “I think we should have a look at Southwell Shipping’s warehouse.”

“So you insist we didn’t break into the man’s study, but now you want to break into his warehouse?”

“This new shipping scheme is likely as corrupt as his other endeavors, and if we could find proof…”

“No,” Ross said firmly. “We’re not going to engage in criminal activity ourselves to catch a corrupt nobleman.”

“Who said anything about criminal activity? There are ways to persuade people. You’re a duke.” She glanced up at the pendulum clock on the wall. “If we leave now, we’ll likely encounter employees who could be encouraged to let us have a look around.”

Ross let out an enormous sigh and scrutinized Ivy, trying to read her mind. Though there was really no need. Determination shone in her eyes. She wouldn’t be persuaded to give up this notion.

“I’ll accompany you, but only because I’m convinced you’d go on your own if I don’t,” he finally said.

“Of course I would,” she said matter-of-factly, “but I’d rather have you with me. That’s why I’m here.”

I’d rather have you with me. Ross knew she was counting on whatever influence he could exert because of his title, but her words lit a warmth in his chest, nonetheless. “Then shall we be off?”

Ivy glanced at her satchel. “I need to prepare first. I had to leave the townhouse in my day dress so as not to arouse suspicion, but it won’t do for visiting the docks. I need to change clothes. Is there a room where I may do so?”

His first thought was to offer her his suite, but he didn’t know if she’d demur.

“My sister’s room is straight up the stairs, first door on the left.”

“Perfect.” She beamed at him, scooped up her satchel, and started out of the room.

“Shall I send a maid up to assist you?” he called.

“No,” she said quickly. “Please don’t. I’ve no wish to scandalize your staff if they believe I’m going to be your duchess.”

“I haven’t informed them yet,” he told her. “As soon as I know the news has reached my mother, I will.”

Ivy nodded. “I’ll only be a few moments.”

Ross paced his study as he waited for Ivy, trying and failing not to think about her undressing in a room upstairs. A quarter hour later, she walked through his open study door and his mouth fell open.

She stood before him in a full set of men’s clothing—trousers, waistcoat, overcoat, necktie, even a bowler hat over her pinned-up hair.

For a moment, she just let him take her in, and when he finally lifted his gaze to her face, he saw a satisfied little smile curving her lips.

“I thought wearing a fashionable day gown would draw attention we don’t need,” she said by way of explanation.

The longer he stared at her, the more her delight at shocking him seemed to dim.

“Do you not think it’s a passable disguise?”

“It’s more than passable.” Underneath her overcoat, her curves were hidden, and if she could manage to keep her head down and speak in a lower register, few would suspect she was a young woman.

Ross couldn’t forget, of course, or stop noticing how her tailored trousers hugged her long legs.

“Shall we be off?” he said, his voice gruffer than he intended.

Ivy couldn’t stop smiling, though she tried not to appear too gleeful.

Convincing Blackbourne—Ross—to accompany her was far easier than she expected, and the stunned expression when she’d strode into his office had been far too satisfying.

But most of all, she felt safer with him beside her, especially since his air of confidence and power would likely persuade any warehouse workers they might encounter far better than her rather poor imitation of a man’s voice.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t ask,” Ross said as they sat side by side in a hansom cab, “but where did you get a full suit of men’s clothing that fits you perfectly?”

“I purchased the overcoat and boots out of a bit of money I was given as a birthday gift a while back, but the rest all belonged to my brother. My sister Daphne altered them to fit me.”

“Why?”

Ivy considered what to confess, yet they were already partners in the mad plan to pretend they were to marry each other. Agreeing to that scheme had required her to put her trust in him. Why hide things about herself now?

“Before I decided to pursue journalism as a profession,” she said, glancing up at him in the tight space of the hansom, “I planned to be a private investigator.”

Ivy felt him shift beside her so that he could look over at her. Then she heard him chuckle.