His weak chin wobbled with the pursing of his lips. “If you must know, we thought you were a… a gentleman, Miss Renard.”
She straightened her shoulders, pulling out more papers from her reticule and unfolding them. “I apologize for the misunderstanding, Mr. Whitcomb, but it should have no effect on my position here. I studied beneath Mr. Grenton, taught for nigh on three years, and have several letters of recommendation. I am more than qualified and would be an asset to your team.” She pushed thepapers across the table—their edges lifting off the polished wood somewhat. Those corners brushed the man’s folded fingers, and he pulled his hands away as if bitten.
This was not going to end well. Panic surged—she was a ninny for risking her livelihood like this, but there was no time to dwell. She was in the midst of battle, and it was imperative that she win. She had no other choice but this job. Had no other future but with this project.
“I am certain you have been educated well enough.” There was a hint of derision there that made Sophie want to throw up her hands. Why must the most intelligent men—the men making astronomy discoveries and furthering the fields of science and math with incredible strides—be so… so…dense?
“Yes, sir,” she cut in. “I have been. I do believe my education would match up with any Cambridge fellow.” Growing up, she’d always bested Andrew in mathematics, and he’d been incredibly brilliant. Not that one man made a proper sampling, but he was a particularly brilliant man, and she’d worked with others besides. Several of her colleagues at the Bristol Seminary for Young Gentlewomen had been men. She’d learned alongside several with Mr. Grenton.
She was smart. And capable.
And the man in front of her clearly did not care.
Mr. Whitcomb’s smile was patronizing. “But the facts are the facts. I have no women on my team, and it would upset the balance entirely.”
Did he think she would prove a distraction? A flirt? She opened her mouth to defend herself, but he hurriedly added.
“I reserve the right to extend—and rescind—employment as needed, and unfortunately, yours is no longer needed. Good day, Miss Renard.”
As if he’d been listening at the door, the clerk who’d escorted her into Mr. Whitcomb’s home entered, holding it wide and lifting his brows expectantly at her.
Sophie blinked back ridiculous tears as her face burned with humiliation and anger. Seeing she would be required to beat her retreat, she gathered her papers. The man hadn’t even looked at them. The letters of recommendation were glowing. If he’d onlyread—
The clerk cleared his throat, but she ignored him; her eyes remained trained on the man who was supposed to be her employer. One more attempt. One did not abandon their dreams so easily.
“Mr. Whitcomb, I traveled to London expecting a promised position. You expected a computer for your team. It is mutually beneficial to us both to maintain the agreed-upon arrangement.”
“What I expected was a gentleman, Miss Renard. There is nothing beneficial to having a liar on my team.”
A stab of guilt told her his words were true. She always signed her papers and correspondence in the same way: S. Renard. But she had known exactly what would be thought when she applied for this position. She had gambled on her extensive training and the man’s tight deadline to help her keep the job upon her arrival.
She should have been late to town. Perhaps if she’d not arrived exactly when he’d requested, she would have had more of a chance.
“You may go now,” Mr. Whitcomb said, settling back in his chair and flicking a dismissive hand in her direction.
She stared with incredulity at him, but after ten long seconds, and another clearing of the secretary’s throat behind her, she regrettably retreated. Lifting her chin high, she strode past the clerk and toward the front of the house. She would not show them how this affected her. She would leave them with a favorable impression of her, as favorable as possible now.
Because she needed this job. And as with most setbacks in her life, she was not willing to allow someone to tell her no. The door had closed, yes. That just meant it was time to search for a window.
Except… as she stood in the bitter January wind and stared down at her rented coach, the full gravity of the situation crashed over her. She was jobless, homeless, and, frankly, hopeless.
Her family resided not half a day south of the city, but that would have to be a last resort. They could not learn of this failure; the very idea made her chest feel heavy and her midsection tight. She hesitated outside the carriage as the driver alighted and came to open the door. Should she secure lodging for the nightand dip further into her already dwindling savings? She was no heiress, and her teaching job, while fulfilling, had not paid particularly well. Could she afford more than a day or two in a rented room before she would need to find a new job?
But she neededthisjob. And if given a little time, could she secure it? A few more meetings with Mr. Whitcomb. Exhibits of her skill. Something would certainly bring him around—if nothing else, then because one could not find capable mathematicians willing to relocate their lives for a year and a half at the drop of a hat. He needed her.
But she needed a place to stay. Did she know anyone in London with whom she could lodge for a week or two? Anyone at all?
The driver cleared his throat, and as the sun broke out from behind the gloomy clouds, it came to her.
Now she only had to hope the family was in residence this early in the Season.
Chapter Two
Andrew Langford paced the back wall of the dining room, a bit of bread mostly forgotten in his left hand as his eyes skimmed the contractual agreement in his right. The terms were fair—better even than he’d hoped. One day, he would purchase his own estate outright, but for now, letting one of such respectable size was enough. Once he had his bank suitably established, he would save for the next step.
An estate. Him. The second son of a gentleman without an excess of means. Pride filled his chest as the culmination of his last six years of near nonstop work was just within reach. The handicaps handed him at birth would mean nothing soon.
He read the letter once more with a growing smile before setting it aside for the evening in favor of his now lukewarm soup. Mrs. Spencer would be sorely disappointed when she came to check on the progress of his dinner and found that he’d brought work to the meal yet again. But being the only one in residence at his family’s townhouse had its perks. Such as working however much he wanted.
