Page 6 of Season of the Scoundrel (The Bridewell Sisters #3)

Something shifted in his expression at her burst of enthusiasm. “I’ve had no reply from the paper’s owner, but I’m acquainted with him and cannot imagine he would wish for such a man to remain in his employ.” He tipped his head as he assessed her. “And the child?”

“She ran off,” Ivy said. “I’m afraid I failed to ask her name.”

He blinked as if surprised, perhaps at the revelation that the child had been a girl.

“But you gave her your name?” he asked. “Or at least your card.”

“I was a witness to a crime committed against her and wanted her to know she could call on me to attest to that.”

The duke leaned forward and planted his elbows on the blotter, his hands laced in front of him. “Are you always so impulsive, Miss Bridewell?”

Ivy hesitated, but she wasn’t particularly good at being anything other than who she was. “I suppose I am, Your Grace, especially in a situation like yesterday’s. No one else stepped in for the child.”

“It was rather heroic of you, Miss Bridewell.” His full lips didn’t quite curve up, but they twitched as if they might.

Ivy was so astounded by the compliment after his grumbling condemnation yesterday and his narrow-eyed assessment today that she couldn’t form a reply. Heat began to seep into her cheeks.

How dare he? She was never speechless.

The worst part was that she sensed he knew exactly what he’d done. His blue-violet eyes seemed to twinkle in the room’s gaslight.

Being irritated with him had been preferable to being so flustered she couldn’t speak.

“Yesterday you said I was bloody reckless ,” she reminded him, though she didn’t sound indignant. She sounded breathless.

He smiled at that, and the appeal of it stole a bit more of her composure. “Can it not be both? It was reckless, but it was also admirable.”

“I…see.” Ivy licked her lips. She pressed her palms against her folio where it lay in her lap. She willed her body to stop overheating.

“So, it is a coincidence that you, the lady who crashed into me yesterday, is the relation of my friend, the Duke of Edgerton?” he asked, his voice low and steady.

How could he be so steady when she struggled to form a complete sentence? There was a power about him, an arrogance. That quality, she supposed, was typical of dukes.

“It is a coincidence, Your Grace.” There. That was as undeniable fact.

A painfully inconvenient one, but true, nonetheless.

“You have your portfolio.” He nodded toward the leather-bound folder in her lap.

“I do.” Ivy took a deep breath, steeled herself, and handed her writing over to be perused again and potentially judged as harshly as Mr. Smythe had.

Blackbourne slid the folio toward him across his desk, tugged the leather tie free, and looked inside.

As he sifted the pages, Ivy got caught up in studying his face, the waves of his hair. He looked up at her from under his brows, head still bent, as if sensing her scrutiny.

Ivy immediately snapped her gaze toward a framed painting on the wall of a balding man with tufts of white hair and wide-set eyes. He looked out at her with pride in his expression.

“Masterson,” the duke said without looking up. “He founded the newspaper twenty-two years ago.”

“He looks pleased with his achievement.”

“Mmm.”

Ivy couldn’t detect whether the murmured sound was in response to her assessment of Mr. Masterson or the duke’s assessment of her writing.

“The Porphyrion scheme was already mentioned in The Times a month ago,” he said, glancing up at her again.

“Yes, but it was nothing more than a mere recitation of the scheme’s unraveling. As you can see, I spoke to several of the individuals who were disastrously impacted and one clerk?—”

“Who wished to remain anonymous,” Blackbourne cut in.

“He was only willing to be so forthright upon that condition, so I accepted it.”

Blackbourne flipped the pages over and his hand stilled. His expression seemed to tighten.

Ivy craned her neck a bit and noticed he’d begun reviewing her piece about Lord Penrose. He’d no doubt think it reckless, since she had openly named the viscount.

“What is it?” she couldn’t help but ask.

“You truly wish to accuse a nobleman publicly?” he asked, then lifted his head to pin her with his deep blue gaze.

Ivy nodded. “I know it’s audacious, but you must see the work I’ve done. What other conclusion could one draw but that Lord Penrose is at the heart of something nefarious?”

“Mmm.”

The sound, whatever it meant, was maddening.

“Do you not see that, Your Grace?”

“What I would like to see is your research, Miss Bridewell. To publicly accuse a viscount, or anyone, is treacherous.”

“More so than letting a man commit crimes with impunity?”

“What you have here is supposition, Miss Bridewell. Not proof.” He pointed at her handwritten article, and she noticed a signet ring glinting on his pinky finger.

He pointed with his left hand. It was the same hand that had rested, if only briefly, against her middle yesterday.

“If you found proof of a crime, that would be the purview of the Metropolitan Police.”

“Mmmm.” Ivy used his technique and drew out the sound a bit for good measure.

The duke chuckled. “I think I would like to publish your Porphyrion piece, Miss Bridewell. We must consult with Mr. Nolan, one of our editors. He’ll have the final say.”

Blackbourne seemed to have an unerring ability to discombobulate her.

She smiled, and his gaze immediately flicked down to her mouth. That caused a disconcerting rush of heat to flare in her middle—right where he’d touched her.

“You mean it?” she asked him.

“Of course I do.”

A terrible thought dimmed a bit of her excitement. “Are you doing this because Griffin asked you to?”

He settled back in his chair and looked at her as if she’d confused him.

“I am not. Edgerton asked me to tell you a bit about the newspaper business. He requested nothing more.”

Ivy nodded, and she believed him. Griffin knew she was determined to succeed on her own talents.

“I see merit in the piece,” he said, glancing down at her open folio. “You have taken care to show the human toll of the scheme. That’s what was missing from the other coverage. And your writing is quite poignant at times.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Ivy felt as if someone had presented her with a longed-for gift. Though she’d wanted it desperately, she felt overwhelmed too.

“Shall we go and speak to Mr. Nolan together?”

“Yes. Please.” She couldn’t seem to manage more than simple, single-syllable responses.

When he got to his feet, she did too, and when he passed her to approach the door, she tried to ignore his scent, his height, the magnetism he seemed to exude.

Blackbourne was offering her an opportunity she’d dreamed of. He saw her potential. This chance might launch her future as a journalist.

It was crucial that their connection remain professional.

Therefore, she could not be distracted by his handsome face. Or whatever scent she caught on the air when he walked by. Or by the fact that she knew what it felt like when there wasn’t an inch of space between his body and hers.