“No.”
He rubbed the back of his neck and then with a sigh, held out his hand. “I take it you’ve stories to show me.”
So he didn’t wish to discuss the problem any further—Caroline supposed she could understand that. But then she looked down at the sheets of paper she’d brought with her, the lines upon lines of her own elegant handwriting.
Unusually self-conscious, Caroline hesitated. “Mr. Wallace hasn’t read through them yet.” But Mr. Black had his hand out, so she handed them over anyway. She’d read enough newspaper articles that she knew what was required. Even so, she’d hoped another pair of eyes would check for mistakes before Mr. Black saw them, especially after her own comments on the errors in his paper.
He slid the spectacles on again, and as he read, he made a few marks but slowly nodded.
While he focused his attention on her stories, Caroline found herself studying the man himself. Things she normally wouldn’t study on a gentleman.
Such as his mouth, which was pink and full. As he read, his tongue peeked out to lick his bottom lip, which he then bit down on with a row of straight white teeth—except for an incisor which sat a little sideways. Then there was his jaw…
Caroline’s fingertips itched to see if the short black hairs making up the shadow of Mr. Black’s beard were as stiff as they felt, if the skin beneath them was much different than hers.
It certainly looked different—tighter and weather-worn.
She then noticed how long his lashes were, thicker than a man’s ought to be, but part of his compelling good looks.
Caroline squeezed her knees together.
His nose, which looked like it might have been broken a time or two, only increased the growing attraction she had for him.
As did his wrinkled linen shirt and the ink on his fingers.
He glanced up, catching her.
Feeling heat ebb up her neck, Caroline flicked her gaze to the coat rack behind him, trying to think about anything other than the man seated before her.
Ignore him. Ignore him. It wasn’t as though he could read her mind.
A fob-watch dangled from his jacket, providing her with another topic to dwell on: her plans for the day.
Later that afternoon, she’d promised Goldie she’d attend the fundraiser for the foundling hospital. Fortunately, she wasn’t required to attend any festivities that evening.
As per Caroline and Goldie’s plan, Reed had agreed to make an exorbitant donation. It was a worthy cause—a massive old, abandoned warehouse that had been cleaned and the spaces turned into dormitories and classrooms. Tuesday’s Choice, a new foundling hospital on Wapping Street, provided a safe home and education for over a hundred children at any given time. Some of the orphans were as young as four or five, abandoned to their own devices, who’d formerly had no choice but to turn to thieving for the gang bosses. Some were nearly grown men who simply needed guidance in order to lead meaningful lives.
Today’s particular fundraiser consisted of an art exhibit, set up in the large dining hall at Tuesday’s Choice, organized by Lady Tempest and the Duchess of Cockfield. Half of the pieces for sale had been donated by popular artists, the other half by wealthy families. The queen herself had promised a donation that would match the proceeds of the sale.
Never comfortable with too much silence, Caroline squirmed. Mr. Black had been silent for several minutes now.
“You spend an awful lot of time here,” she said, embarrassed to have been caught watching him so closely.
“I’m afraid it hasn’t made much difference.” His answer brought her mind back to the business at hand. “These aren’t bad, though.” He hummed and flipped to the next page. “Not bad at all.”
“I did my best to match the style of the previous articles.” At his grimace, she added, “But not the inaccuracies... obviously...” She trailed off, her little attempt at a jest falling flat.
He didn’t like discussing the problem, but it wouldn’t do any good to ignore it.
He was only hurting himself, and for reasons she wouldn’t explore, Caroline didn’t want to watch him continue doing that.
“Of all your employees, who do you trust the least?” she asked. She’d yet to meet his reporters, or anyone other than Mr. Wallace and Mr. Jones.
“That’s the trouble. The pressmen have worked for the Gazette for decades and the compositors came highly recommended. I’ve no reason to distrust any of them.”
Caroline nodded. “In that case, the only person you can really trust—is me.”
Maxwell laughed. “You think so, do you?”
