Lord Gray's List by Maggie Robinson Page A

round to her lodgings yourself to deliver this. If she’s amenable, bring her back here at once. Make sure she’s suitably dressed to meet a viscount. In the meantime, I’ll go through the rest of the correspondence.”
    “A viscount. Why am I not surprised?” Ben mumbled. “I’m the publisher, Evie, and a stranger. Should you not be the one to deliver the tidings that Miss Sturgess is about to come up in the world?”
    “Look at the mess on my desk, Ben. Our desk. The sooner I can work through all this, the better. You don’t want to be here with me until midnight, do you? And more mail will come in later. And tomorrow and the next day—you’ll have plenty of time to learn the ropes.”
    Ben put his hat on his golden head. “I feel like I’m swinging from one already.”
     
    Miss Sturgess was just as Evie said—very pretty, with shining light brown curls and darker eyes. And also as unhinged as Evie, since she read the letter, nodded, disappeared for an unconscionable amount of time while Ben paced the foyer of her boardinghouse, and emerged down the stairs dressed in the first stare of fashion. For a girl who earned her living educating sticky-fingered urchins, the dress was a surprise.
    Miss Sturgess must have caught his look of admiration, for she said, “Lady Basingstoke gave me a few old dresses out of guilt, as if bribery would make me hold my tongue. Her husband is a beast. Shall we go?” He helped with a serviceable cloak that did not match the elegant finery underneath.
    Ben extended an arm. The girl did not come up to the middle of his chest. He thought her a plucky little thing—he knew Basingstoke, though not well. The man was overfond of drinking and dining, and looked it, rather like a bloated Vauxhall Gardens balloon. It seemed he had sexual excesses as well if he was interfering with his staff. No doubt Lady Basingstoke would be widowed in short order, perhaps at her own instigation.
    “Are you acquainted with the gentleman I am to marry?” Miss Sturgess asked, a stray curl blowing out from underneath her bonnet across her faintly freckled nose.
    “You really are considering it?”
    The girl nodded calmly, as if proposals fell in her lap on a daily basis.
    “I know absolutely nothing about your potential groom—or much of anything, I’m afraid,” Ben replied, helping her into his carriage. “I’m rather new at this publishing business. Ev—Mr. Ramsey is somewhat unorthodox, I’m finding.”
    “He is a very helpful man,” Miss Sturgess said, settling herself against the squabs. “Although placing me with the Basingstokes was a bit of a misfire. I’m sure this new scheme will be better.”
    Ben hardly knew what to say to that, so he sat back, letting the hot bricks do their best against the frigid December air. Yes, becoming a viscountess was likely better than becoming a governess or unwilling mistress, and he could see this little bird making someone a happy husband.
    He was soon robbed of his silent meditation. “Forgive me for being blunt, but you are the infamous Jane Street Jackanapes, are you not? I thought you were closing the press down.”
    “The road to damnation is paved with good intentions,” Ben said wryly. “My plans have altered.”
    “I’m so glad! When I read the last edition Tuesday, I feared all was lost. A young woman without a respectable background and references has very little opportunity, you know. I have no family to fall back on—I have no idea who my parents are, actually—and limited skills. I cannot, for example, trim a hat—my feathers droop instantly. My needlework is atrocious—” She leaned forward, her cheeks pinking. “I shouldn’t tell you, but I’ve altered this dress with pins and they are presently sticking quite uncomfortably in places I’m loath to discuss. But I had a good education at the foundling home. The matrons let me stay on to teach the little ones until their benefactor died and they had to close. Such a shame,