“What was Standish’s sister doing at the Gazette’s offices this morning? You aren’t courting her, are you?”
Max shouldn’t have been surprised. Malum stayed one step ahead of pretty much every person he had any dealings with. It was impressive, but disconcerting when it was Max’s business under that kind of scrutiny.
“Good Lord, no,” Maxwell answered instinctively. Although, the thought didn’t repulse him the way he’d expect. “I hired her to write the articles for my society section.”
“Are you referring to those four little paragraphs you’ve set aside to announce who’s hosting the latest ball?” Winterhope smirked.
These men didn’t need to hear that a debutante had been documenting his every mistake over the past year. He’d been humiliated enough by the error with the damn dates.
“It was my mother’s idea.” Only a slight fabrication.
This was met with more than one snicker.
“Couldn’t you find someone who didn’t fall down the stairs at her own come-out?” Winterhope grimaced.
“Such as?”
“Pittsguard has a sister,” Beckworth suggested, waggling his brows. Maxwell responded with a scowl. He’d never met any of Pitt’s family, but if the marquess was anything to go by, he’d rather not.
Westcott leaned forward, looking thoughtful. “It might keep the chit out of trouble,” he suggested. “Remember, it was Lady Caroline who encouraged Standish to double-cross you and marry Lady Marigold rather than her elder sister.”
“Lucky for you,” Winterhope nodded toward Westcott. Because the baron had eventually gone on to marry the elder sister himself.
“That was her, wasn’t it?” Maxwell could barely remember. Likely, because he’d been changing out printing presses at the time—not an insignificant undertaking. But it sounded about right. Standish might think his sisters were sitting at home crocheting, but the eldest of them, anyhow, wasn’t the sort to embrace the superficial life of an average debutante.
Not when she had Maxwell Black to torment.
He had not appreciated being on the receiving end of that particular deception. Even if it was one of many other articles he’d printed that made him look like a fool.
“I’ve hired her on a trial basis,” he clarified. “If she doesn’t work out, I’ll let her go.”
Malum turned back to Max. “Standish isn’t aware of this… arrangement.” It was not a question.
“That’s between the two of them.” But the second he spoke the words, Maxwell realized that as Maxwell Black, publisher of the Gazette, this might be true. But as the Earl of Helton, a supposedly honorable gentleman, the statement lacked honor. “Blast and damn,” he muttered.
“She may not even show. I’ve never heard of a society deb entering employment unless she is forced to.” Winterhope smoothed some lint off his trousers as he spoke.
“Wait a few days before speaking with Standish. If she doesn’t work out, the problem will resolve itself.” This from Westcott.
Maxwell didn’t want to go to meet with the earl—because although Lady Caroline’s brother had, in fact, been backed into a corner, he had also double-crossed Max.
All because the Gazette’s newest employee had suggested it.
Perfect.
Given time, however, the issue could take care of itself, and yet… Lady Caroline had not seemed like the fickle sort. No. She may not have taken the ton by storm, but she’d had a gleam in her eyes when she’d looked around his newspaper offices.
Maxwell didn’t trust it.
NATURE OF THE BUSINESS
“Feel free to take any of these.” Mr. Wallace directed Caroline to a handful of small tables across from his own much larger desk, all upstairs from Mr. Black’s office.
Caroline nodded, opening her satchel in which she kept notes of the story ideas she and Goldie had discussed along with the list of mistakes she’d discovered in that day’s paper. But as she claimed one of the tables, nerves she’d ignored up until that moment slammed into her.
What did she know about running a newspaper? Nothing! That was what. Sure, she’d helped put together the country press, but that had been only once a month, and the paper had only been a single page, front and back. Mr. Thistle had used a small printer and never distributed more than thirty copies.
Caroline’s involvement had been limited to providing bits of information here and there for Mr. Thistle to either print or not print.
