“No, Reed’s taking her for a drive in the country today. And then they’re to attend another exhibit. I got the sense they wouldn’t be returning until late.”
“But—”
“I did hear something about Lord Darlington’s eldest, but nothing definitive.”
“His father married a lady’s maid, I hardly think they’ll be scandalized by him dancing three times with some viscount’s foreign cousin…” Caroline had heard several versions of this story, none of which could be proven. “I need something else.”
“Hmm…” The room fell silent but for the clinking of porcelain and sipping of tea, until Melanie spoke up. “Why not write about Lord Dankworth’s behavior?”
They all froze.
Was her sweet, quiet, timid sister really suggesting that Caroline write about her ill-advised encounter in the garden?
“The other society pages leave names out of articles all the time…” Melanie added.
She was not wrong. And although Caroline had come into her position intent on absolute transparency and accuracy, there were some circumstances where discretion was not only accepted but expected. And yet…
She had a duty to share something this important with other ladies, and if she could do that while still protecting her and her family’s reputation...
“I’ll think about it,” she said. And then, gulping down the rest of her tea, she pushed her chair away from the table before the footman could do it for her and stood to leave. “I need to get to work. Don’t wait up for me!”
“Do be careful, Caroline!” her mother said. “If not for Reed, I would not allow this, you know.”
“I know.” Her mother was being a good sport, really. “But you also know how intelligent and level-headed I am.” Caroline gathered up her bag and backed toward the door.
“And stubborn!”
Yes, her mother knew her very well.
Caroline had been at work for several hours, first writing her articles and then, once those were finished, assisting Mr. Wallace with a few of the other reporters’ stories. It was precisely what she’d wanted since she’d stepped through the door.
She didn’t want to admit how disappointed she was that Maxwell hadn’t arrived yet.
“Where do you think the mistakes are coming from, Mr. Wallace?” she asked late in the afternoon. The two of them were seated at one of the tables in the main workroom, doing final read-throughs of the articles written for tomorrow’s paper.
“I’ve done everything I can, but I always catch ‘em too late. If I knew who was scrambling the type, I’d sure as hell do something about it.” His expression darkened, and then he frowned. “Pardon my language, Miss Smith.”
Caroline held the older man’s stare. Of course, he knew who she really was.
“No offense taken, Mr. Wallace,” she said. Scrambling the type…
Before she could dwell on that thought, the door opened, and along with a fresh breeze, her favorite publisher ducked inside.
He was dressed so casually that, if she wasn’t so very aware of this particular man, she might have mistaken him for one of the reporters. He wore a brown cap, a darker brown jacket, and breeches more suited to a tenant farmer.
But his black leather gloves… those belonged to a gentleman.
He almost reminded her of Reed before he’d inherited his title.
But Reed had never looked at her like Maxwell did. Thank God!
Maxwell’s eyes blazed a bright green, and he looked to have been energized by whatever he’d been up to.
“Good afternoon.” He held her gaze one second longer than necessary before turning to his editor. “Wallace. Do you have the list of today’s stories?” He disappeared into his own office, removing his gloves as he did so, with Wallace trailing after him.
Because they were at work.
He was her employer—nothing more.
