The Academy always comes first . . . which makes marriage to its most formidable adversary an exceedingly inconvenient arrangement. Well removed from London’s more curious eyes, the Benevolent Academy for the Betterment of Young Ladies strives toward one clandestine goal: to distract, disrupt, and discredit men in power who would seek to harm the advancement of women--by appropriate means, of course. When intrepid newspaper editor Miles Quincey starts to question the school’s intentions, the Academy appoints Penelope “Nell” Trewlove, one of their brightest graduates, to put this nuisance to rest. An easy enough mission, she supposes. Or it would be, if Miles wasn’t so fascinating--too fascinating to resist--and if Nell’s visit to London didn’t perfectly coincide with the murder of one of Miles’s reporters. When the inexorable claws of fate trap Nell and Miles in a compromising situation, they agree to an arrangement that will save their reputations while enabling them to investigate the story that led to a man’s death, as well as the surprising chemistry between them . . .

Autorentext

USA Today bestselling author Mimi Matthews writes both historical nonfiction and award-winning Victorian romances. Her novels have received starred reviews in Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, Booklist, Kirkus Reviews, and Shelf Awareness, and her articles have been featured on the Victorian Web, the Journal of Victorian Culture, and in syndication at BUST magazine. In her other life, Mimi is an attorney. She resides in California with her family, which includes an Andalusian dressage horse, a Sheltie, a miniature poodle, and two Siamese cats.

Leseprobe
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 b…