Page 7 of The Finest Print

6

Mr. Fletcher,

Thank you for calling at my esteemed establishment; it’s always a pleasure to put a face to finances. I’ll give you this much—you’re a fair sight more enterprising than your uncle ever was. However, after reviewing your proposed strategy, I regret to inform you I will not be altering the terms of the debt. I’m not in the business of doing men favors unless it’s the kind they can pay for.

I will expect your first payment next week, or the deed to the property at any time you wish to relinquish it prior to the fifteenth of June.

In Friendship,

Charles Howe

That night, Ethan couldn’t sleep. He wasn’t used to lying awake—at the end of a hard workday, he typically stripped down and tumbled straight to the mattress, where a deep slumber already waited for him.

But tonight, he found nothing in his bed but agitation.

Sometime after midnight, he gave up, rising and wandering to the small parlor in his new residence above the printshop. He started a fire in the grate and wondered what the hell was wrong with him.

Perhaps he simply didn’t feel like himself here. Not in 62 Fleet, which didn’t feel like it belonged to him. Not in London, where he didn’t feel like he belonged.

This particular melancholy was unusual. Ethan wasn’t sentimental about the places he lived. In recent years, home had been a rented apartment where he slept and shaved. As a boy, home was a boardinghouse, full of strangers and strain. When Ethan’s father was at sea, times had been hard; when his father was in port, times had been harder.

So no, home wasn’t a nostalgic sort of place.

But when he was young, there had been a small stretch of summers when his mother sent him to his father’s sister in New Bedford. He used to sleep on the rickety porch and slurp oysters, bold and briny. On their evening strolls, his aunt pointed out the widow’s walks, spinning fantastical tales of women who watched for whaling ships to return from the misty Atlantic. He used to eye the rooftop lookouts and doubt anyone could miss a sailor.

He poured a measure of whisky, idly wondering if he would ever see a widow’s walk again. There was nobody in America scanning the horizon for him, but if he failed here, he would have to return anyway. It wasn’t lost on him that his aspirations were wholly dependent on a ticking clock, a stash of damaged paper, and the deranged journal of a woman he’d met twice in a garden.

But what a journal .

He stared at the lambent flames and rubbed his thumb along the start of a speculative smile. Enough woolgathering; Belle Sinclair was a far more productive contemplation. Hell, it was remarkable, wasn’t it? Meeting her again, stumbling upon the fact she was in sore need of the one and only thing he could provide.

He wasn’t the only one chasing a dream, and the notion somehow bolstered him.

For the first time in his life, he had a partner.

He tipped back his whisky, his chest burning from the liquor and another burn besides—the faint flush clinging to her cheeks, the threads of gold in her light brown hair, the warmth in her hazel eyes.

And beneath all the luster hid the most dazzling prize of all?—

A thoroughly grisly little brain.

Hadn’t he thought it, the first time he saw her? Green and gold . She was lucky. She was gilded.

She was his only good news.

Belle Sinclair was going to save his sorry neck.

He could feel it.

“I need an adjective, something atmospheric,” Ethan called from the workroom, where he was setting type. “Five letters. Four with an M or W. That’ll do for an even column.”

He was a quarter-inch short, which wasn’t the worst of his current problems but annoying all the same. Cast metal spacers would justify the column, but using too many prevented a snug line.

What he really needed was an additional word .

He glanced over his shoulder to the office, where Belle Sinclair had spent the day revising pages for what Ethan was bound and determined would be a Saturday print run. Unfortunately, she seemed equally bound and determined to be a lovely little headache.

He couldn’t see how he’d lost control of this endeavor so quickly. In his mind, the manuscript needed only a few alterations to be adequately parsed up as a serial. In her mind, every tweak was a grievous and cataclysmic shift. The woman treated her pages with the care and ferocity of a mother bear.

“Which page?” Her voice drifted to him from the office.

Ethan eyed the diagram of the eight-page arrangement, absently running his hand along his cheek. He’d finally shaved that morning, and his face felt both familiar and wrong. Like the printshop felt with a lady slinking about.

“Page five…damn, no—sorry, it’s five for me. It’s…ah…” He scanned the fair copy he’d tacked above the composing case. “It’s your page seven.”

“Never mind, I can’t keep track. Context will suffice…”

“The magistrate’s study.” Ethan squinted. “His…life? Wife? I can’t read your writing—it’s all cramped in the corner. I’d say, judging by the preceding sentence, either of them is in danger.”

“Risky?” She appeared in the threshold, the lithe slip of her fine blue skirts dragging across the dusty floor. “Dicey? Dodgy?”

His fingers skated over the sorts, sliding each letter backward into the composing stick. “Dodgy works.”

“Read it back.”

“Belle—” He kept dropping proper forms of address in favor of expediency. He appreciated her tidy name; it made things that much simpler.

“Read it back.” She folded her arms and regarded him sharply. “If dodgy wasn’t there before, there may be a reason.”

He skimmed the typeset lines, instinctively reordering the backward sentences into the mirror-image they would print.

“ The shock of moonlight illuminated a new danger. Clementina eased into the study, slipping under dodgy cobwebs and over creaking floors .”

“ That’s what you wanted an adjective for? Cobwebs?” She was, predictably, again at his elbow. “Cobwebs cannot be dodgy.”

He looked at her indignant, upturned face and experienced the mixture of exasperation and pleasure he’d been grappling with all day. A loose curl of golden-brown hair had escaped the neat coil at her nape, and there was ink smeared on the bridge of her nose. There was something elementally satisfying about the way her loveliness was breached by hard work, work she was doing for him . But so too was there aggravation in her proximity, because he didn’t have time to be mapping ink stains on her skin. Nor did he have time for yet another argument about adjectives.

“Why in hell not? I certainly try to dodge them.”

“Yes, you are doing the dodging. But you’ve modified the cobwebs to be of questionable character, which they aren’t. Now the whole sentence reads wrong—it’s supposed to be eerie, nearly spectral?—”

“Fine.” He set down the composing stick and flattened his palms on the worktable. “I’ll rephrase. I need a four- or five- word adjective to describe morally upstanding cobwebs that won’t detract from the spectral nature of the magistrate’s moonlit study.”

She glanced down the length of his arms. His sleeves were rolled, and the soft brush of her stare was as sharply tactile as the splintered wood beneath his hands. He inhaled. The air around her was infused with the light scent of mint. It clung to her hair, her skin. Ethan had spent decades in print works, and the most obvious smell had always been ink vats, white grease, sweat.

Mint was far better.

And also far worse.

“What about…” She closed her eyes in concentration. “ Clementina slipped into the darkened study, lifting her hand against a shroud of cobwebs as the floorboards creaked in warning ? — ”

“No.” He shook his head grimly. “Absolutely not. You’ve just changed every word. I’m not having it. We are not revisiting the horror that was the composition of page three.”

“Page three was much better after we revised.”

“ You revised. You revised not once, not twice, but three times, all while pacing about back here, not listening to any of my suggestions.”

“But it turned out better.” She lifted her chin. “You said so.”

“Doesn’t sound like something I’d say.”

“You did say it, sir.” Sam Porter popped out of the storeroom, where he was supposed to be completing a long overdue inventory, not eating an apple and eavesdropping, which was the course he’d evidently taken. “You said ‘Damn if this doesn’t work. Look sharp, Miss Sinclair?—’”

“Thank you, Sam,” Ethan said pointedly. “Very good, very timely insertion. Unlike when I needed help greasing the presses.”

“I thought my father was on it.” Sam grinned. “I didn’t know he was still out.”

“I, for one, appreciate it, Sam.” Belle turned to Ethan with an arch smile. “See? Better .”

She wasn’t wrong—page three was better after her exhaustive rearrangement. Her mind had a remarkable way of working sideways, and she seemed to write as fast as she thought. But locking the thought in a type frame was another matter entirely. Over the last four hours, he’d gleaned two certainties: Belle Sinclair could pen one hell of a murder, and she was excruciatingly particular.

Over her shoulder, past the accursed curve of her neck, a clock hung crookedly on the wall. It was five minutes behind Ethan’s pocket watch, but even this pathetic timepiece served a purpose. He hadn’t a minute to spare. Not for this. Not for anything.

“Fine. It was better.” Ethan raised an eyebrow. “That being said, I’m establishing a new rule—you are not permitted to be precious about your pages. No more revising at the stick. Once I’ve set the type, we’re working in inches alone. Which is to say, I will make it explicitly clear if I need more from you, or if I have enough to fill the frame.”

She blinked. “But what if I think of something?—”

“No.” He inclined his head. “Part of our arrangement is the implicit understanding that you allow me to do my job.”

“Your job is to print it,” she said matter-of-factly. “My job is to produce it. A partnership, you see, requires two people doing two jobs. If you’re going to start inserting dodgy cobwebs everywhere, we have a problem, Mr. Fletcher.”

“Of course we have a problem.” Ethan leaned against the worktable and gestured around the shop. “This entire operation is a problem. It’s a problem that I’ve been here five days and have yet to turn a profit. It’s a problem that I’ve officially put my name on the deed to this sinking ship. It’s a problem that you won’t just give me your damn manuscript without fussing over every single blasted paragraph. So certainly, why not add my misuse of adjectives to the list?”

“Well.” She had the decency to look guilty for about ten seconds. “When you put it that way, I can see my problems are not the same as yours, but please don’t think I have no problems at all.”

She, too, leaned over the table, her golden gaze somber.

“You know why I’m fussing, Mr. Fletcher. Your so-called sinking ship is all I have on offer. But I wrote a novel, not a serial, and it needs to be reworked.” She shrugged. “It’s a process. I need to think . I need to?—”

“The only thing you need to do is stop hovering and start writing.” Ethan straightened and came round the worktable. “At this very moment, Tobias Porter is circulating news that on Saturday, we’re publishing a brand-new serialized mystery.”

She emitted a soft cry of surprise as he gently grasped her shoulders and spun her away from his composing case.

“A partnership is two jobs, is that right? Then allow me to tell you mine, Miss Sinclair. We’ll start with a lesson on serial publishing.” He marched her through the workroom to the desk in the office, his legs brushing the hem of her skirts. “To distribute Saturday morning, we need to finish assembling five hundred copies by tomorrow night.”

He found a dried steel pen and eyed her as he flicked his tongue to the nib.

“To assemble five hundred copies by tomorrow night, I need to lock the frame by the end of today.”

He lifted her right hand and slotted the pen in her palm.

“To set the type today, I needed pages from you yesterday ,” he breathed. His fingers curled over hers, guiding her to grip the pen. “Which is to say, I very much need you to produce them.”

“Ah.” She was staring at their joined hands, color high on her cheeks. “That’s rather presumptuous of you, Mr. Fletcher.”

“My apologies.” He squeezed lightly. “Are you left-handed?”

“No.” She pulled the pen from his grasp. “My hand is not the problem. It’s just…what you described is not how I work. I’ve tried to keep pace with you all day, but Clementina Bloom is on her fifth draft. I can’t tell an entire story without?—”

“You’re not telling an entire story.” He dropped to his knees beside the desk in an attempt to locate the source of its incessant wobbliness. It had to be driving her mad, writing on such an uneven surface. “You’re telling eight pages of a story. Or at least, that’s what you’re supposed to be doing. In reality, you’ve spent most of the day tripling my work.” He shoved an old newspaper beneath the back left leg, which was a scant inch shorter than its counterparts.

“It’s hard to write, knowing you’re back there making it all…official,” she admitted. “It makes me feel a bit off-kilter.”

Ethan grasped the desk, testing it with a firm shake. It lurched only marginally. There .

“No need to feel off-kilter. I’ve fixed the desk.” He stood and pulled out the chair for her. “You should have no trouble staying put and giving me three more pages of fair copy.”

She finally sank to her seat, a maneuver he wished to encourage. He needed to finish typesetting so Tobias could ink upon his return, but there was no point until he was certain she wouldn’t pop up behind him like England’s most managing jack-in-the box.

“You’ve plenty of material to work with, from what I’ve seen,” he said bracingly. “Just choose something. Choose chapter nine. That ought to be sordid enough.”

“No…chapter nine requires that we’ve met the Contessa’s husband, and I’ve yet to introduce him. I’ll find something in my notes.” She raised her hand, halting his protest. “I’ll find it quickly .”

He watched her page through her journal, unable to stop the question that had been tugging at him all day. “How do you do it?”

“Hmm?”

“Where do you find these crimes?” He appraised her. “Surely, you aren’t inventing all of it?”

“Some I invent.” She paused, making a note. “But I also rely heavily on trials at the Old Bailey.”

“The Old Bailey?”

“The Central Criminal Court.” She half smiled. “My father is a judge.”

A judge . Damn if that didn’t explain a few things.

“I wondered how you were so intimately familiar with the inner workings of the court.” He shook his head. “I have to say, I’m relieved it’s not due to your own arrest.”

“Not yet, at least.” She resumed examining her notes. “Oh, look—there was a poisoning in Brixton last week. The maid claimed she thought it was sugar.” She glanced up at him. “Although you told me I should rely less on arsenic.”

He shrugged, walking backward to the workroom. “At this point, add all the arsenic you’d like. Write a damn advertisement for it. Believe me, I don’t care what’s on those pages, as long as it’s scripted in your hand.” He eyed her significantly. “Until you start, I can’t finish.”

“Don’t you dare use dodgy for the cobwebs,” she called after him. “Use… viscid .” There was a pause, and he could practically hear her self-congratulatory smile. “Viscid is a good word.”

Ethan chuckled, conceding her point as he turned back to his composing stick. Viscid indeed worked for page four, so that left only the front copy. Which reminded him…

“I need a name,” he shouted. “For the title page.”

“ Secrets of the Old Bailey ,” Belle and Sam answered in unison.

Ethan sighed. Belle and Sam had debated half the morning about what to call the penny blood—Belle was unwilling to give up the title of her manuscript, so they landed on Secrets instead.

“No, for you . How do you want to be credited? Miss Sinclair? Belinda Sinclair? Three-Question-Marks Surname?”

He’d expected a laugh, but there was no response, the shop quiet but for the sound of Sam whistling in the storeroom.

“Belle? Did you hear me?” He sifted through the sorts. “I need a name, sweetheart.”

“Ah…”

Her voice sounded odd, and he immediately regretted his teasing endearment. It was a rude habit, drawn from the uncivilized pressroom of the Sentinel , where a rotating cast of female secretaries assisted with clerical work. He couldn’t keep track of all the new faces, but they’d all answered to his cheek in kind, so it seemed harmless enough.

But Belle Sinclair wasn’t his secretary. And she certainly wasn’t his sweetheart.

Against his better judgment, he strode back to the office to apologize. She was sitting at the desk where he’d left her, but her concentration had faded to a look of deep discomfiture.

Damn .

“Ah. Listen?—”

“You would publish under my name?”

Ethan stopped short in the threshold. “Am I…not supposed to?”

“It’s just…” She faltered. “Actually, I’m not sure what it is.”

He managed to bite back impatience, though the effort was significant. “Do you think you might know what it is soon?”

She had a lovely way of frowning, her brow creasing in deep introspection, as if every one of life’s befuddlements deserved careful attention.

“I always imagined I’d publish with my name, but I’ve never actually had the opportunity before. And…you know, my family. My reputation.” A small spasm ticked in her jaw. “There’s much to consider.”

“Does your family not know you’re a writer?”

“They know I write, yes.” She bit her lip, plainly caught in some internal battle. “I haven’t told them about our new endeavor, but they know about the manuscript.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Ethan regarded her shrewdly. “Yesterday, you were champing at the bit to start work on this serial. Today, it’s been one thing after another stopping you.”

“I’m not certain.” She shook her head. “You see, I’ve gone from one extreme to the other. Using my name when I was theoretically writing a novel is one matter. Intentionally publishing a penny blood is another. Putting my name on it…well, it feels a bit permanent .”

“And you don’t know if you want to be permanently attached to a penny blood.” Ethan read between the lines. Her wince confirmed his suspicion.

“I do wish to be taken seriously,” she said in that soft way of hers. “I don’t yet know if this is serious.”

He supposed he could be offended, but he wasn’t. His goal was to print a newspaper, not a story paper. Tobias Porter had asked him if he were a proud man, and he wasn’t, not precisely. He’d do what it took to clear the debt, but then he wanted to forge a new path.

Tobias’s warning rang in his ears— there’s no prestige in penny fiction. Belle coddled this manuscript like it was a damn child. Her hesitation to slap her name across the stained paper of an untested publisher was, perhaps, only natural.

“We can use an alias,” Ethan offered. “Would that suffice? Or…” He glanced at the clock. Tobias was likely out for another hour. He couldn’t ink right now. “Why don’t you think it over? Once it’s done, it’s done, so it better be done right. Take a walk, clear your head. Just let me know what you want by day’s end.”

“Now there’s time for a walk, is there? Time for thinking?” she asked mildly. “I thought I was meant to sit and produce fair copy of three more pages.”

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Ethan propped one arm in the doorway.

“Not even five minutes ago,” she confirmed.

“How beastly of me. You shouldn’t listen to me. I only know half as much as I pretend to.”

“In that case, I suppose I can listen to you half the time.” A small smile played at the corner of her lips. “But not about arsenic.”

His grin stretched, beckoning hers, and— damn , there it was again, that spark, that small absorbing heat, as though their mirrored smiles were kindling. The whisky burn once again stirred inside him, and he knew by the answering flare in her hazel eyes, she saw it happen.

He cleared his throat, absently running a hand along his newly smooth jaw.

“You shaved, I see.” Her gaze followed his fingers.

“Yes.”

She observed him for a long moment, and he couldn’t help but wonder what she saw. Likely nothing more than a man with everything askew—his tie, his business. He suddenly resented all of it. He wanted her to behold not things as they were, but things as they could be.

He could fix his damn tie. He could fix his damn business.

He could make something fit for her name.

She lowered her eyes and found a fresh page in her journal. “I’m partial to it, you know.”

“The poison? Or the beard?”

“Ah.” She pressed her thumb to the nib of her pen. “What fun is it if I tell you?”

She was teasing him, and he wanted to like it—he wanted her to be the girl on the bench, the girl he’d met twice, a random and distant flirtation. But in that moment, with the sun slanting through the grimy windows and casting her in a shadow so bright he could see nothing but shine, Ethan’s thoughts turned hazardous.

This wasn’t a one-day arrangement. She was working with him. She would be here all the time. Here, in his printshop, at his desk, bossing him about, smelling faintly of mint as she dropped her pretty little accent into his ear.

Belle Sinclair was going to save him, all right.

If she didn’t kill him first.