Shady Lady (2 page)

“Eh?” Mr. Gardiner stared, then gave a chortle of laughter. “I beg your pardon,” he said, regaining his composure. “I suppose anything is possible. No, no, ma’am. A mutual friend is to be married today in Warwick, and Mr. Bowman is to be his groomsman.”

“Warwick?” she said. “That’s at least eight miles away. Then I won’t delay you.” She smiled brilliantly. “Good-bye, Mr. Gardiner, Mr. Bowman. Have a pleasant journey.”

Jo curtsied, the gentlemen bowed. As soon as they had quit the room, she sagged against the desk, then straightened almost at once when Waldo Bowman reappeared.

“What is it now?” she asked, rattled.

He smiled slowly, as though he knew how unsettling his presence was. “I’ll be in Warwick overnight,” he said, “but I should be back in Stratford tomorrow. Perhaps we could make up a party and take in a play or whatever Stratford has to offer?”

She bared her teeth in a patently false smile. “Don’t waste your charm on me, Mr. Bowman. I’m immune to it. Nothing you say or do will get my correspondent’s name out of me.”

He stared at her reflectively for a moment or two. Finally, he said, “A simple no would have sufficed. Is it me you fear or yourself?”

Her voice rose a notch. “I’ve heard of vanity, but you—”

He put a finger to his lips, silencing her. “Don’t rage. Henry is right outside the door. We wouldn’t want to give him the impression that we’re having a lovers’ tiff.”

He moved to the door and paused with his hand on the doorknob. There was no grin now to set her pulse fluttering. “I meant what I said, Mrs. Chesney. Be careful what you print in your newspaper. Don’t go looking for trouble.”

She stayed rooted to the spot, scarcely breathing, till she heard the sound of footsteps and voices receding along the corridor and finally a door closing. She was more than a little confused. One moment he was flirting with her, the next he was threatening her.

He wasn’t anything like she expected. Chloë had mis-represented him or, at the very least, underestimated him. He wasn’t all charm. When he wanted to be, he could be intimidating. Now that she’d met him in person, she was unlikely to forget that he’d served with Wellington in Spain. That’s how he’d come by his lame leg and, she supposed, where he’d acquired a core of steel that no amount of charm could conceal. Such men were used to having their orders obeyed.

But not by her, and he would do well to remember it. Besides, the war had been over for two years.

She looked at her wrist. It really,
really
annoyed her to recall how she’d trembled at his touch, not in fear—she could have excused that—but because he’d made her aware of him as a man. She wasn’t used to men like Waldo Bowman. The gentlemen in her circles treated her with deference, knowing that she was devoted to her husband’s memory.

Don’t go looking for trouble.

She wasn’t afraid for herself as much as for Chloë. If he sued the
Journal
, he would lose. Chloë never claimed to be telling the truth but only reporting the latest gossip. But if he sued and Chloë’s identity was revealed, that could prove awkward for her friend. She could well be ostracized by society.

No. He would put the blame squarely where it belonged—the owner of the paper that published Chloë’s pieces.

He was making a mountain out of a molehill. Chloë wasn’t snide or malicious. If she had a fault it was that she was gushing. She truly admired the people she wrote about. There must be something she was missing, a more compelling reason for Bowman to threaten legal action if his name appeared in the
Journal
again.

She almost jumped when the door opened, but it was only Billy, the apprentice printer, who had brought the post.

“Mostly bills,” he said cheerfully, setting the burlap mailbag down on her desk. “And a letter from your friend Lady Webberley. I recognized her writing.”

A letter from Chloë. That was unusual. Chloë’s personal letters usually went to the house on Church Street, and not to the
Journal
’s offices. Jo thought no more about it. She hadn’t time to read it right now. She’d get to it later.

She put the letter in her pocket and a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “If we get everything out and away before noon, there’ll be an extra sixpence in your pocket.”

Billy beamed. He was thirteen years old and his mother’s sole support. An extra sixpence would go a long way in their frugal household.

“You’re on,” he declared.

They moved quickly—through the door, down the corridor, and into the room used for dispatch. Long tables were laid out with sections of the paper, and everyone who worked for the
Journal
—printers and their apprentices, paper sellers, cleaners, clerks, and editors—was involved in either assembling the paper or tying stacks of newspapers into bundles and carting them outside to waiting wagons.

Jo paused fleetingly to savor the moment. Mac Nevin, shirt sleeves rolled up, gave her a cheery wave. He was in his sixties, ruddy of complexion, with a thinning mane of silver hair. Some people thought that
managing editor
was too grand a title for the editor of a small, provincial paper. Not Jo. She knew how much she owed Mac. Without him, she wouldn’t have known how to begin publishing a newspaper.

At one time, Mac had been sought after by every paper in the land. His fondness for the brandy bottle, however, eventually put paid to that. He’d returned to his home town a shade of his former self. Now he was sober, and the
Journal
, he once confided, had been the saving of him. Jo could have said much the same about herself.

She observed the chaos in dispatch with a smile on her face. Everything she wanted in life was right here. She rolled up her sleeves and set to work.

C
hapter
2

W
hat was that all about?” demanded Henry as the coach moved off.

“He didn’t like what the lady wrote about him,” replied the Honorable Douglas McNab, better known to his friends as “Ruggles.” His accent was English and cultured, but with his red hair and freckles he looked as though he might have been plucked from the Highlands of Scotland, as indeed he had, but that was many years ago, when he was a schoolboy. He went on, “And since we were passing through, he decided to tell her face-to-face. Only, he didn’t know she was a female until he met her.”

“What?” asked Henry, mystified.

Ruggles, who was sitting on the opposite banquette, reached over to give Henry a copy of the
Journal
. “Back page. Lady Tellall.”

Henry glanced at the page, then tossed the paper aside. “Balderdash! Waldo doesn’t give a hoot what people say about him. So what’s the real reason for your interest in Mrs. Chesney, Waldo?”

“Mmm?”

Waldo was only half listening. He was thinking that he didn’t often meet a woman who didn’t give a damn for his good opinion. In fact, she’d judged him and found him wanting.
You’re hardly a matrimonial prize
. He agreed with her, but there were plenty who wouldn’t. He was the heir to a sizable fortune and estate. In the eyes of ambitious mothers with daughters to marry off, those were virtues that covered a multitude of sins.

Something else he found curious. She was beautiful yet took no pains with her appearance. It hardly mattered. The drab smock couldn’t conceal her womanly curves or detract from that glorious flame-red hair and gray-green eyes. As for those daubs of ink on her chin—did she know they were there? Would she care? Of course she wouldn’t! She was a woman with a mission. She had a paper to produce.

He yawned. He preferred something quite different in a woman. His eye was invariably drawn to women who knew how to flaunt their beauty, women with charm to spare who knew how to please a man, women like his latest flirt, Caroline Walters.

They’d enjoyed a short affair that had foundered when he spent a month in Scotland last year with Ruggles. But he hadn’t forgotten Caro, and she hadn’t forgotten him.

Just thinking about Caro improved his humor.

Much to his annoyance, his thoughts kept straying to Jo Chesney. He was curious about her, that’s all it amounted to. He wondered if it was all men she despised or only men like him, men who knew how to enjoy life.
Bad boys
, she called them.

He looked at Henry. “How long has she been a widow, Henry?”

Silence, then Henry hooted with laughter. “You’ll get cold comfort there, my friend. Three years, if you must know, but much good it will do you. Better men than you have tried, yes, and
their
intentions were honorable. John Chesney was the great love of Jo’s life. She’ll be wedded to him till the day she dies.”

Waldo slanted his friend a patient smile. “Rein in your imagination, Henry. I’m not in the habit of trifling with respectable young women.”

He meant what he said. He’d spent what were supposed to be the best years of his life fighting for king and country. He was now in his thirties, and all he wanted was to make up for lost time. Respectable young women were a hazard he tried to avoid.

“Jo?” murmured Ruggles. “Sounds to me, Henry, that you know the widow pretty well.”

Henry grinned. “No, but not for the want of trying. The only thing she truly cares about is perpetuating her husband’s memory by making a success of the
Journal
.”

Ruggles said, “Is she a war widow?”

“No,” answered Henry. “John was carried off by a lung fever. He was a big, robust fellow, but he got caught in a storm one night and came home soaked to the skin. It was quite a shock when he died only two days later. At any rate, Jo is now her own mistress. She can pretty well do as she pleases, and it pleases her to run her husband’s newspaper. In fact, she has turned it around. It wasn’t going anywhere till she took over. She’s a gallant little thing.”

“She’s one of these ‘new women,’ is she?” remarked Ruggles, distinctly amused.

“New women?” Henry looked baffled. “Never heard of them. Who are they?”

“You’ll meet two of them at the wedding,” observed Waldo laconically. “Hugh Templar’s wife, Abbie, and Case’s bride. Abbie runs her own rare-book business, and Jane writes articles for various publications.”

Henry’s jaw went slack. “For money?”

“Oh, yes, for money. I’m told it makes them feel self-sufficient. It seems not every woman is content to spend her time arranging flowers, playing the piano, sewing a fine seam, and so on. They want to be useful.”

Henry shook his head. “Good grief! I don’t know what the world is coming to! But I don’t think that description fits Jo. She’s not running the paper to be useful but to honor her husband’s memory, as I told you.”

Waldo was silent, remembering his encounter with Jo.
New woman
. Very definitely not his type.

“You still haven’t told me,” said Henry, “why you went to see her. And don’t give me that flummery about objecting to what she wrote about you in her paper.”

Waldo spread his hands. “But that’s
exactly
why I went to see her. I’ve had a very unpleasant experience because of what she wrote, and I’ve no desire to repeat it.”

Waldo’s silence prompted Ruggles to take up the story. Eyes twinkling, he said, “To cut a long story short, Waldo’s mother received a letter from a friend congratulating her on Waldo’s approaching nuptials. She’d read about it in the
Journal
, you see—the friend, I mean—or rather, she’d read the speculation about it. And that was enough for her.”

Henry nodded, indicating he understood only too well. “And your mother started hounding you, I suppose, and got your father into the act. Poor Waldo. I truly commiserate.”

Henry had got the story half right. His mother’s dearest wish was to see her son married. His father, on the other hand, had washed his hands of his son and heir a long time ago.

Ruggles said, “It was worse than that. His mother, unbeknownst to Waldo, invited the girl and her family for a house party, when Waldo was to be there.”

Henry was aghast. “That is positively
wicked
! Who was the girl?”

“Lady Elizabeth Beauchamp,” intoned Ruggles.

“Not the one with the traveling harp?”

“The same.” Though Ruggles’s expression was stoic, his shoulders began to shake.

Henry’s face crumpled, then he slapped his knee and burst out laughing. Ruggles soon joined him. When their laughter died away, Henry said, “I’m surprised you didn’t wring Jo’s neck, Waldo.”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“I’m sure, now that you’ve explained things to her, she’ll be more careful in future. She’s a good sort.”

Waldo didn’t contradict his friend, but he was of the opinion that if Mrs. Chesney ever discovered how much trouble she’d caused him, she would use every opportunity that came her way to do it again.

Ruggles said, “I know that smile, Waldo. What are you plotting in that devious mind of yours?”

“Mmm?” Waldo’s smile turned into a grin. “I was planning my strategy, you know, deciding how I can discover the name of the woman who has caused me so much grief.”

“You won’t get her name out of Jo,” declared Henry.

“Are you willing to bet on it?” It was a facetious comment, and not meant to be taken seriously. But that was not how Henry heard it.

“No,” he said, frowning. “Leave Mrs. Chesney alone. She’s not one of your high flyers, Waldo. She’s a simple country girl.”

Waldo made a small sound of derision. “You’re right about her not being a high flyer, but she’s anything but simple. If she’s done all you claim she’s done, she’s a shrewd businesswoman.”

Ruggles said, “I’ll take you up on your bet, Waldo. Ten guineas says you won’t get Lady Tellall’s real name from Mrs. Chesney. And just to make it interesting, let’s put a time limit on it. Let’s say by midnight on Sunday. That’s three days from now.”

“I wasn’t in earnest,” protested Waldo. “It was just a manner of speaking. And I wasn’t thinking of applying to Mrs. Chesney. She wouldn’t give me the time of day. I was thinking I might approach the managing editor, Mr. Nevin, you know, man-to-man.”

Henry smirked. Ruggles yawned. Waldo sighed.

“All right,” he said. “Ten guineas it is. Satisfied?”

“I am,” said Henry, beaming. “Ruggles, you should have wagered a hundred guineas. You can’t lose. Jo won’t tell him anything.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Waldo, but his voice lacked conviction.