as there are always so many more orphans than money.”
This artless speech touched Ben’s heart and made his head spin a little. He’d never given much thought to foundling homes, other than to make sure none of his mistresses was required to place a by-blow in one. He thought the fine-boned Miss Sturgess the likely result of a society gentleman and some unlucky lady, and wondered if this might be a fly in the ointment of Evie’s plans to elevate the girl to the peerage. But Evie exuded confidence and had been at this mad business much longer than he had.
Miss Sturgess chattered happily all the way to the office as Ben rapidly reevaluated his understanding of exactly what services The London List provided. And then it hit him.
Evangeline Ramsey was a romantic . A modern-day Don Quixote tilting at the windmills of British life, organizing everyone into the little cubbies he’d seen on the wall, turning Miss Sturgess into Cinderella with the stroke of a pen. For all Evie’s viciousness with him, she was a Fairy Godmother—or, in their minds, Fairy God father— to the rest of the world.
But who was going to make her wishes come true?
C HAPTER 10
December 16, 1820
S omehow word had spread that the paper was back in business, and the volume of correspondence seemed to quadruple. Ben’s eyes had crossed trying to make sense of the misspelled letters, and his hand was numb from turning three-page pleas into ads of under twenty-five words. Evie had actually praised him on three occasions for his brevity and wit, and he’d been as pleased as a pup with a good ear-scratching.
He didn’t know how Evie had done all this by herself and still had time to infiltrate the ton to sweep up its dirt and write about it. He was exhausted after one full day of it. But they were both to get a reprieve from the endless tedium this morning. Viscount Jeremiah Maxwell was marrying his bride by special license that Ben himself had gone to considerable trouble to acquire and pay for in a private ceremony at St. George’s. Ben and Evie were the only guests, with Ben serving as the best man to the apparently friendless Maxwell, and Evie standing up for Lizzie Sturgess. Ben had been present when Evie not only introduced his future wife to the viscount but revealed that she was in fact a woman. Maxwell had fainted to the floor, which Ben did not think was a particularly good omen for the success of his marriage.
“We still need a feature article for the front page,” Evie said as she climbed into his carriage. Beneath her cape she was in the dress with the red ribbons again, and looked pretty enough to be a bride herself. Her hair was covered by a smart velvet bonnet trimmed with a bunch of cherries and lace, and her cheeks were flushed with the cold.
“You’re not going to write about me.”
“Of course not! I told you I would not, and I keep my word. I suppose I could do an article on Lord Maxwell and Lizzie’s wedding. It’s like a fairy tale come true, isn’t it?”
“I suppose. Poor Maxwell. The fellow’s absolutely rigid with fear around the fairer sex, isn’t he? Can’t get out three words in a row. I bet he’s still a virgin.”
Evie swatted his arm. “Well, so I should hope is Lizzie, so they’ll teach each other. And she talks enough for both of them. She’s very patient and cheerful—I think it’s a perfect match!”
Ben was not so sure, but at least the man would get his great-aunt’s money upon his marriage, and in his experience money went a long way to easing one’s problems. He’d been fortunate in his investments himself, rich enough to buy the newspaper with the intention of tossing it away. The best-laid plans . . .
If he was honest with himself, he’d enjoyed the last few days even if he wasn’t sleeping much. Evie’s work ethic was alarming, and he had no wish for her to think him a slacker. He’d been almost too busy to pay much attention to the curve of her arse in her trousers, or
This artless speech touched Ben’s heart and made his head spin a little. He’d never given much thought to foundling homes, other than to make sure none of his mistresses was required to place a by-blow in one. He thought the fine-boned Miss Sturgess the likely result of a society gentleman and some unlucky lady, and wondered if this might be a fly in the ointment of Evie’s plans to elevate the girl to the peerage. But Evie exuded confidence and had been at this mad business much longer than he had.
Miss Sturgess chattered happily all the way to the office as Ben rapidly reevaluated his understanding of exactly what services The London List provided. And then it hit him.
Evangeline Ramsey was a romantic . A modern-day Don Quixote tilting at the windmills of British life, organizing everyone into the little cubbies he’d seen on the wall, turning Miss Sturgess into Cinderella with the stroke of a pen. For all Evie’s viciousness with him, she was a Fairy Godmother—or, in their minds, Fairy God father— to the rest of the world.
But who was going to make her wishes come true?
C HAPTER 10
December 16, 1820
S omehow word had spread that the paper was back in business, and the volume of correspondence seemed to quadruple. Ben’s eyes had crossed trying to make sense of the misspelled letters, and his hand was numb from turning three-page pleas into ads of under twenty-five words. Evie had actually praised him on three occasions for his brevity and wit, and he’d been as pleased as a pup with a good ear-scratching.
He didn’t know how Evie had done all this by herself and still had time to infiltrate the ton to sweep up its dirt and write about it. He was exhausted after one full day of it. But they were both to get a reprieve from the endless tedium this morning. Viscount Jeremiah Maxwell was marrying his bride by special license that Ben himself had gone to considerable trouble to acquire and pay for in a private ceremony at St. George’s. Ben and Evie were the only guests, with Ben serving as the best man to the apparently friendless Maxwell, and Evie standing up for Lizzie Sturgess. Ben had been present when Evie not only introduced his future wife to the viscount but revealed that she was in fact a woman. Maxwell had fainted to the floor, which Ben did not think was a particularly good omen for the success of his marriage.
“We still need a feature article for the front page,” Evie said as she climbed into his carriage. Beneath her cape she was in the dress with the red ribbons again, and looked pretty enough to be a bride herself. Her hair was covered by a smart velvet bonnet trimmed with a bunch of cherries and lace, and her cheeks were flushed with the cold.
“You’re not going to write about me.”
“Of course not! I told you I would not, and I keep my word. I suppose I could do an article on Lord Maxwell and Lizzie’s wedding. It’s like a fairy tale come true, isn’t it?”
“I suppose. Poor Maxwell. The fellow’s absolutely rigid with fear around the fairer sex, isn’t he? Can’t get out three words in a row. I bet he’s still a virgin.”
Evie swatted his arm. “Well, so I should hope is Lizzie, so they’ll teach each other. And she talks enough for both of them. She’s very patient and cheerful—I think it’s a perfect match!”
Ben was not so sure, but at least the man would get his great-aunt’s money upon his marriage, and in his experience money went a long way to easing one’s problems. He’d been fortunate in his investments himself, rich enough to buy the newspaper with the intention of tossing it away. The best-laid plans . . .
If he was honest with himself, he’d enjoyed the last few days even if he wasn’t sleeping much. Evie’s work ethic was alarming, and he had no wish for her to think him a slacker. He’d been almost too busy to pay much attention to the curve of her arse in her trousers, or
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