Page 5 of Season of the Scoundrel (The Bridewell Sisters #3)

I vy had sent a letter of thanks and a refusal of Mr. Smythe’s offer the previous afternoon, so she could hardly believe she was back on Fleet Street again.

Yet today she wasn’t thinking of all the journalists busy at work in offices nearby.

A tall, dark-haired stranger who’d wrapped an arm around her middle insisted on consuming her thoughts.

Irritatingly, he’d lingered in her mind the previous evening too.

He’d possessed the most extraordinary eyes—not pale blue, not a bright robin’s egg, but a deep indigo.

When he looked at her, she’d felt noticed in a way a no wallflower was used to.

Of course, she had caused a bit of a scene. But what else was she to do? Watch a man batter a helpless child?

She’d told her sister Lily much of what had occurred, leaving out the bit about momentarily leaning against the warm, hard wall of a strange man’s body. And Lily, bless her, had thought it best not to share the story with Griffin at all.

Griffin—Ivy’s brother-in-law and guardian until she came of age—had not been enthusiastic about the notion of giving her the funds from her dowry to start her own newspaper.

Though he hadn’t refused entirely. He’d agreed to consider the matter again next year, but he’d also suggested a compromise in the meantime.

If she would wait until next year, he would introduce her to someone who could educate her about the ins and outs of running a newspaper.

Apparently, one of his cronies in the House of Lords, the Duke of Blackbourne, had recently acquired a London daily, and Griffin had convinced the man to allow her a brief apprenticeship of sorts.

As she strode down Fleet Street on her way to meet Blackbourne, she looked about for the girl or the handsome stranger from the previous day, but she saw neither.

She’d brought her folio with her again today, though she now felt an odd trepidation at the prospect of another person reviewing her work.

Mr. Smythe’s reaction to her piece about the insurance scam and the strange nexus of crimes she had found centering around a particular noblemen made her wonder if her work was too unpalatable for any editor to publish.

But, of course, the nobleman she was meeting with today was not necessarily considering her for employment.

Blackbourne had only recently come into the newspaper business himself with the acquisition of The London Sentinel , so she suspected he was learning the ins and outs of the enterprise too.

But Griffin assured her that the duke had maintained the daily’s long-term staff, and she was certain they could instruct her in the myriad skills needed to successfully run a newspaper.

She had heard a bit about the Duke of Blackbourne. He was well-known for his business acumen.

And based on the bit of research she’d been able to do the previous night, while sifting through her piles of old newspapers, Blackbourne was wealthy, respected, and known for supporting bills she would have championed in the House of Lords—if women were ever able to sit in that vaunted chamber.

The odd thing about the duke was that he did not seem to partake in society events.

She’d attended myriad balls over the course of the two Seasons she’d been out and could not recall seeing him at any of them.

She’d become quite good at matching the nobles who whirled through the Season’s activities with mentions of them in the gossip rags.

Yet Blackbourne had never featured in their pages either.

He seemed a mystery in his private life and a wild success financially, which intrigued her. By the time she stepped inside the offices of The London Sentinel , her curiosity was thoroughly piqued.

A blonde, middle-aged lady in a crisp white shirt and perfectly pressed black skirt approached almost as soon as Ivy walked through the front doors.

“You must be Miss Bridewell.”

“I am indeed.”

“I am Mrs. Drummond, the duke’s secretary. He’s not arrived yet, but he asked that I see to getting you settled in and provide you with a tour of the paper’s offices.”

“That sounds wonderful. Thank you.”

Mrs. Drummond collected Ivy’s coat and gloves and laid her folio on a table next to the coat tree. Then she led her out into the open-plan ground floor space that housed over a dozen desks.

“This area is where our reporters and editors work.”

A powerful yearning rushed through Ivy at the sight of writers bent over their work.

A few sat at typewriters, and even the clatter of keys was somehow appealing.

There were ladies dotted among the rows of gentlemen, and that gave Ivy hope that somewhere, at one of the newspapers in the city, if not at this one, there might be a place for her too.

“How long have you been employed at The Sentinel , Mrs. Drummond?”

“Only for a few months,” the lady said cheerfully. “Blackbourne hired me soon after he acquired the newspaper.”

That impressed Ivy too. A nobleman willing to give women opportunities for professional employment was to be commended.

Mrs. Drummond gestured toward a stairwell. “If you’ll follow me downstairs, I can give you a look at our typesetting and press rooms.”

The scent hit Ivy first as they descended the stairs—the strong smell of warm metal, like coins left out in the sun, and the distinctive mineral tang of printing ink.

Noise filled the air as dozens of typesetters worked to assemble the pages that would comprise the newspaper’s next edition.

Then they descended to another floor and the sounds grew louder as about thirty men watched over churning rotary presses and managed the enormous paper rolls that fed through the machines.

“It’s wonderful,” Ivy breathed.

Mrs. Drummond looked over at her curiously and smiled. “I think so too. So many people put in a great deal of effort to bring each issue together, and yet they all work so well in tandem.”

“It’s very impressive.”

Mrs. Drummond consulted a brooch pocket watch pinned to her shirtwaist. “Mr. Guilfoyle should be in now, if you’d like to meet him. He’s our managing editor. Shall I take you up?”

“By all means.”

They climbed the stairs again, and Mrs. Drummond turned to her. “Is this your first time meeting the Duke of Blackbourne?”

“Yes.” Ivy nodded. “Is there something I should know?”

Mrs. Drummond chuckled. “Not at all. I find him a fair employer, and, believe me, I’ve had a few who were not. Though he’s not as much for idle chatter as some.”

Ivy quite enjoyed conversation, but reminded herself not to rattle on when she met the duke.

“Will you be working with us?” Mrs. Drummond asked.

“I don’t know, but thank you escorting me this morning. I wish to learn all I can about how a newspaper runs.”

“Of course.” As they reached the ground floor again and started ascending toward the first, Mrs. Drummond slowed. Something had caught her eye. “I see the duke has arrived earlier than expected. He’s speaking to Mr. Nolan, one of our editors. Would you wait here a moment, Miss Bridewell?”

Ivy watched as the duke’s secretary strode across the room to where two men convened. One was short, balding, and bespectacled. The other?—

Ivy blinked and her pulse began to skitter so fiercely she could feel it fluttering at the base of her throat.

It couldn’t be… Why would the man from yesterday be here?

Yet those broad shoulders. That tousled dark brown hair. When he turned, there was no denying it. The one who had caught her, embraced her, kept her from tumbling onto her backside and somehow scared off the cane-wielding brute with a single look was none other than the Duke of Blackbourne.

Mrs. Drummond spoke to him, then gestured toward where Ivy stood.

Ivy could easily mark the moment when he recognized her. His blue eyes flared wide and then immediately narrowed. His dark brows bent. The man looked anything but pleased to see her again.

When he crossed the room toward her, Ivy had the wild urge to bolt.

Then he was in front of her, and it was too late to do anything but make the best of the awkward moment.

“Miss Bridewell, welcome to The Sentinel .”

His voice was as deep and resonant as the first time she’d heard it, and just as full of what sounded a great deal like irritation.

“Will you join me in my office?” he asked.

Ivy flicked a look at Mrs. Drummond, who smiled encouragingly.

“Yes, of course. Thank you.”

He proceeded to an office whose door stood ajar, then held it wide for her to enter.

Ivy collected her folio from the table where Mrs. Drummond had placed it.

As she passed by the duke, she felt an odd frisson of energy slip down her spine.

Yesterday, she’d smelled clean linen and a hint of Earl Grey tea when they’d been standing against each other.

Now she caught a hint of cloves, and she chastised herself for being attuned to the man’s scent at all.

Ivy took a seat in front of his desk, and the duke settled behind it.

“Your Grace?—”

“Miss Bridewell?—”

They spoke at the same time. Ivy almost chuckled at the faux pas, but Blackbourne did not look amused.

“This is an odd coincidence, Miss Bridewell.” One dark brow inched up. “Did you engineer it?”

“Engineer it?” Ivy bristled and sat up a bit straighter. “I don’t understand the question.”

“What I mean?—”

“Do you think I arranged for a beast to thrash a child on the street? That I waited until you were coming along with the sole intention of stumbling into you?”

He said nothing, just watched her intently.

Ivy bit down so hard, her teeth ached, but she nodded.

“Of course, I don’t think you wished to see harm come to a child. Indeed, it seems the sight of Mr. Farley’s brutality inspired you to rush into the fray quite heedless of your own well-being.”

“You know him?”

Blackbourne dipped his chin. “He’s employed by another newspaper, and I sent word to his employer regarding yesterday’s incident.”

“Then he’ll face some sort of consequence?”