The Marriage Method

1

August 1864

Penelope Trewlove followed the harried young clerk down the hall of the Fleet Street offices of the London Courant. Similarly harassed-looking newspapermen bustled in and out of the small offices they passed, shuffling papers and addressing one another in urgent tones. At the sight of her, some of them faltered, their attention caught between the fluttering black veil that shrouded her face and the limp that marred her gait.

Nell's gloved fingers tightened reflexively on the raven's head handle of her ebony cane. It was her first visit to London, and not a willing one by any means. She had been putting off the paper's editor, Mr. Quincey, for weeks, each of her exceedingly formal replies to his letters penned with an effort to discourage his relentless curiosity. But she could put him off no longer. His last letter had made that abundantly plain. Either Nell travel to London to answer his questions about Miss Corvus's Benevolent Academy for the Betterment of Young Ladies, or Mr. Quincey would come to the isolated stone manor house at the edge of the Epping Forest and put his questions to Miss Corvus herself.

As if Miss Corvus would ever risk allowing a journalist inside the charity school's iron gates! She had, instead, sent Nell to deal with the situation. To come here today, in her role as deputy headmistress, and put an end to Mr. Quincey's problematic inquiries once and for all.

A painted door at the end of the hall bore the vexing man's name in stenciled letters. The clerk opened it without knocking. He ushered Nell into a moderately sized office, distinguished by a wall of overstuffed bookcases, a small, threadbare sofa with a fringed skirt, and a massive desk, covered with chaotic piles of papers and three open bottles of ink. The great leather chair behind the desk was conspicuously empty.

"Mr. Quincey is engaged at present," the clerk said. He gestured to one of the two slat-back wooden chairs that were arrayed in front of the desk. "If you would care to wait?"

"Not at all." Nell gratefully availed herself of a seat, propping her cane beside her. After two hackney cab rides and a railway journey of nearly twenty miles, her left hip and thigh were aching like the dickens. She did her level best not to betray the fact. Her spine remained ramrod straight, her veil still firmly in place as she arranged the full skirts of her black bombazine carriage gown over the imposing frame of her wire crinoline.

Miss Corvus wasn't a woman given to fashionable indulgences, but she had made an exception for the controversial cage-like undergarment. All of her teachers donned them like armor, as did many of the older orphans. It was no mystery as to why.

The sheer circumference of a crinoline kept its wearer separate and apart, protected from all but the most determined encroachments. Not only that. She took up space for herself-demanded space-on the pavement, in a crowded conveyance, and in every sphere through which she traveled. The greater world must step aside and let her pass. They dare not stop her.

The clerk bowed and withdrew, shutting the door after him.

Nell took the opportunity to cast an eye over the room. Know your surroundings. Know your opponent. Know yourself. They were the three most important rules she had learned at the Academy. Rules meant to keep young ladies safe. To ensure they were prepared for anything, never overmatched or left unable to defend themselves.

It was the first rule that occupied her now. Unlike men, women didn't have the luxury of entering a situation blindly. A female must know the four corners of where she stood-the entrances, the exits, the problematic terrain. She must, at all times, think both defensively and offensively.

Fortunately, Mr. Quincey wasn't a complete unknown. Nell's recently married Academy sister, Effie Royce, had a passing acquaintance with him and his premises. Among other things, she had warned Nell to anticipate cats.

There appeared to be none in residence today. The room was seemingly empty. Although . . . Was that a faint rustle of movement beneath the sofa?

The door jerked open before Nell could investigate the matter. A deep male voice sounded behind her. "Miss Trewlove?"

Nell's head turned sharply. Never mind that she'd been expecting him, the sight of the tall, raven-haired newspaper editor still served to send a jolt through her. She stared up at him from behind her veil. "Mr. Quincey?"

He was in his shirtsleeves, his cravat askew and his black waistcoat rumpled. It did nothing to lessen his air of command. Self-assurance radiated from every inch of him. "Apologies for the delay. One of my reporters has gone missing and my staff is up in arms." He entered, closing the door behind him. "I trust you don't mind my not leaving it open? I've no wish to let the cat out."

"The cat?" She flicked another glance to the sofa as she moved to rise. "I didn't see any-"

"Pray don't get up. We're not much for formalities here. We've precious little time for them." Rather than bow, he reached to shake her hand. "I am, however, very pleased to meet you."

Nell's mouth went dry as his fingers engulfed hers. His hand was easily twice the size of her own, surely better suited to holding a steel broadsword than a steel-nibbed pen. His shoulders were quite broad, too, lending an unmistakable power to the leanness of his long-limbed frame.

Alarm bells jangled in her head, inspired as much by his physical presence as by the peculiar intensity that gleamed at the back of his dark brown eyes.

This was the gentleman who had penned the explosive series of articles that had lately brought down a powerful politician. A dogged and indefatigable reporter, possessed of an unassailable firmness of character, unafraid of retaliation or threats.

For the first time, Nell considered the possibility that she might be out of her depth.

"As to the cat," Mr. Quincey continued, releasing her hand, "she's barely civilized. She'll be hiding here somewhere." He crossed to his desk, taking a seat behind it in the large leather chair. "Did Higgins offer you tea? I can have some brought in for you."

"I thank you, no," Nell said. She made an effort to regain her composure. In truth, she was astonished she'd lost it-even if it was only for the space of a heartbeat.

She wasn't accustomed to dealing with men, that was the trouble. She'd spent the majority of her life at the Academy, first as an orphan, then as a teacher. Nearly the whole of her three-and-twenty years, surrounded by girls and women. The only gentlemen to ever set foot through the gates were the antiquated members of the parish council, and then but rarely. Miss Corvus saw to that.

Nell couldn't recall when she'd last been obliged to deal with any gentleman under the age of fifty. Unless one counted the stripling lads from the village who sometimes attempted communication with the orphan girls. And Mr. Quincey was no stripling. He must be thirty, at least.

He regarded her from across his desk's cluttered surface. He wasn't a handsome man. Not in the classical manner. His face was too angular and severe-his brows too stern, his clean-shaven jaw too hard, and his bold aquiline nose a fraction too large. But his features hung together in such a striking way that one could easily forget their asymmetry.

"Your journey wasn't too taxing?" he asked.

"Not terribly," she said.

"Yet still a lengthy business. I'd have preferred coming to you. It would have saved you the trouble."

"I have multiple reasons for coming to London," Nell said. "My trip won't be wasted."

She was to visit Effie when she and her new husband returned to town in two days' time. Until they did, Nell had other Academy business to attend to. Important business. It was that which should rightly be occupying her thoughts, not the solemn countenance and unusually broad shoulders of a prying newspaperman she would likely never see again after this morning.

"I'm pleased to hear it," he said. "I won't keep you overlong. There are just a few matters about the charity school that I'd hoped you might clarify." Small talk dispensed with, he picked up his pen, giving every indication that he intended to take notes of their conversation.

Nell would have expected nothing less. "By all means," she said. "Miss Corvus's Academy has nothing to hide."

It was a falsehood, to be sure. And one Nell didn't blush to utter. The Academy was her vocation, her life, her home. She wouldn't quail at defending it, even if it meant occasionally speaking something less than the truth to those who threatened its well-being.

Gloved hands folded neatly in her lap, she waited for Mr. Quincey's questions. But he didn't give voice to them. Not immediately. He only looked at her with a pensive frown, as though something about her person prevented him from pursuing his logical course.

"Forgive me," he said at length. "Mrs. Royce failed to mention that you were lately bereaved. Had I known of your loss, I would never have pressed you to-"

"I am not bereaved," Nell said.

"No?" He swept a glance from her black-veiled hat to her lusterless black mourning dress with its tight-fitting bodice and wide, untrimmed skirts. "You can doubtless understand my confusion."

Nell would have thought it plain enough. "I traveled alone from the Academy. I preferred to do so unmolested." She paused, adding, "Widows are generally accorded a degree of respect not offered to unaccompanied young ladies."

Mr. Quincey didn't bat an eye at her explanation. She suspected he was a man who wasn't easily surprised. "In other words, it's a disguise."

Nell's expression tightened. Leave it to a man to reduce a woman's desire to protect herself to a childish pantomime. "It's a practical necessity," she said.

"I see. And do all teachers at Miss Corvus's Benevolent Academy for the Betterment of Young Ladies employ such arts? Or is it only you who . . ." His words died away as she pushed back her veil.

Ah. Perhaps he was capable of being surprised after all.

Nell met his gaze, a hint of a challenge in her own. She wasn't vain. Neither was she guilty of false modesty. She knew herself, both her weaknesses and her strengths. "Feminine ingenuity isn't limited to the staff room at the Academy," she informed him. "Though, I assure you, it's in no short supply there."

Mr. Quincey collected himself in a blink-so quickly Nell wondered if she'd imagined the look of masculine alertness that had flared in his eyes on first seeing her face. Clearing his throat, he very slowly and very methodically returned his pen to the brass holder on his desk. "Something else Mrs. Royce failed to mention."

"What might that be?"

"How young you are."

Nell stiffened at his tone of disappointment. She wasn't used to anyone implying that she was lacking in wisdom or experience. Quite the reverse. In times of crisis, people generally looked to her for guidance. During Miss Corvus's recent illness, Nell had been all but running the school. "Is my age of importance to your inquiries?"

"Only as it pertains to your tenure," he said. "You can't have been in your position long."

"I have been employed as a teacher for five years, sir."

He sat back in his chair, frowning at her again with an attitude of impatience. One would think she had wasted his precious time. "Mrs. Royce led me to believe you had been present at the Academy's founding, nearly twenty years ago. It's why I consented to meet with you instead of pursuing an interview with Miss Corvus herself. I had anticipated your providing certain information about the institution's origins."

Nell at once grasped the cause of his irritation. He'd wrongly presumed she would be a much older woman. One who had spent the whole of the past eighteen years teaching at the charity school. "Mrs. Royce did not mislead you."

"Not only Mrs. Royce," he replied. "You, as well, Miss Trewlove. Your letters gave me to understand that you had decades of experience at Miss Corvus's Academy."

"I do," she said. "Or nearly that long. I was one of its earliest students."

Understanding registered on his face. He stared at her with renewed attention. "You were an orphan?"

Nell's chin ticked up a notch. "That's correct."

There was no shame in it. Not as far as she was concerned. It was just as she often told her girls. One wasn't accountable for the circumstances of one's birth, only for the choices they made and the actions they took. It was that which defined a person, not pedigree.

"As are all the students at the Academy?" Mr. Quincey asked.

"To a one," she said. "They come to us from all over the county. I flatter myself that we do our best for them."

"Your best being . . . ?"

She lifted one shoulder in an artfully casual shrug. "We feed them, house them, and provide them with an education that will best help them meet their potential."

Mr. Quincey narrowed in on the word with single-minded precision. "Their potential for what, exactly?"

Nell's mouth curved in a slow smile. She comprehended the unspoken crux of his question. He believed the Academy was a home for dangerous revolutionaries. Budding feminists and crusaders for equality, willing to go to any ends to achieve their goals, even if that meant destroying the occasional man who got in their way.

He wasn't wrong.


Miles was not amused.

He might have known Miss Trewlove would turn out to be some manner of goddess. It was, after all, Gabriel Royce's wife who had pointed Miles in her direction. And the newly minted Mrs. Royce was nothing if not trouble personified.

Miles was in no mood for it. Not this morning. Lawrence Cowgill had been gone for three days straight, leaving nothing behind in his desk but a notebook marked with a series of meaningless dates. In his absence, Miles had been forced to assign the paper's famous gossip column to another of his reporters. A poor salve on a potentially fatal wound, but it was either that or go to press without it. The latter hadn't been an option. Like it or not, the majority of the Courant's dwindling circulation was owing to that cursed column.

They couldn't afford to lose any more subscribers. They'd already lost too many as it was. In the aftermath of Miles's series of articles exposing the treachery of a once-revered politician, Viscount Compton, many in society had closed ranks against the paper, no doubt frightened that they'd be targeted next-exposed and ruined by one of the Courant's notoriously ruthless exposés.