Bringing Down the Duke - Evie Dunmore Page 0,113

the Ladies’ Gallery in the House of Lords in a few days’ time.

“Oho, what have we here,” Hattie exclaimed, and tugged on a magazine that was half hidden under a cluster of empty teacups. “The Female Citizen? How scandalous.”

“What is so scandalous about it?” Annabelle asked without looking up. She was folding the newsletters Catriona had cut to size and sliding them into envelopes. Hattie was supposed to put the address on the envelopes, but she sank into her chair with her nose buried in the magazine. The Female Citizen was printed in bold, scarlet letters across the title page.

“It’s a radical pamphlet,” Catriona supplied. “It writes about unsavory topics.”

“Such as?”

“Cases of domestic dispute,” Hattie murmured, absorbed, “and the plight of unfortunate women.”

“Prostitutes,” Lucie said dryly, and Hattie shot her a scandalized look.

“Either way, it’s barely legal,” Catriona said. “Don’t be caught reading one in public.”

“Who’s the editor?” Annabelle asked, beginning to copy the addresses from their members list on the envelopes herself.

“No one knows,” Catriona said. “The copies just show up in letter boxes or public places. If we knew who it was, we could put a stop to it.”

“Why would you want to stop them?”

Catriona swept up the paper clippings and disposed of them in the bin under the desk. “Because they alienate people to the cause.”

“The Woman’s Suffrage Journal is too soft in tone to inspire much change, and The Female Citizen is considered too radical to appeal to the masses,” Lucie said. “I can reveal that I have been working toward launching a new magazine soon that is going to be right between the two.” She looked at Annabelle. “I’ll need assistance, in case you are interested.”

Annabelle lowered her pen. “To help you launch a journal?”

Lucie nodded. “I won’t be able to pay a shilling, certainly not at first, but I could supply free lodgings.” She eyed the cot in the corner by the dead plant. “The lodgings are of course a bit rustic.”

“They are just fine,” Annabelle said quickly. For the time being, the cot was all that stood between her and life at Gilbert’s, a life as a wife, or the great unknown.

Her stomach churned with unease. The day after tomorrow, Christopher Jenkins expected an answer to his proposal. Two days. She could hardly insult him by asking for more time, and the truth was, she didn’t have more time. With her stipend suspended and her pupils lost, her sources of income had dried up, and she couldn’t eat Lucie’s food and sleep in her sitting room forever.

A streak of black fur shot across the floorboards and up the outside of Lucie’s skirt.

“Heavens, Boudicca,” Lucie chided as the cat settled on her shoulder and wound her sleek tail around her mistress’s neck like a small fur stole. “You are awfully agitated lately, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps having a visitor in her sitting room is upsetting to her,” Annabelle murmured.

“Nonsense,” Lucie said, and turned her face into Boudicca’s soft fur. “She knows you are one of us, don’t you, puss-puss.”

A memory flashed, of a beautiful young viscount in a magenta waistcoat. She had never asked Lucie how Lord Ballentine knew she had a cat. And thinking of that waltz inevitably made her think of Sebastian, and how he had walked toward her across the dance floor in a way that said he was out for Ballentine’s blood . . .

“Annabelle, before I forget, there was mail in your pigeonhole,” Hattie said, and opened her reticule. “I took the liberty of picking it up for you.”

The hope that Miss Wordsworth had written to inform her of her reinstatement was quickly dashed. Annabelle frowned at the spidery penmanship. “It’s from my cousin Gilbert.”

Of course. She was late with her payments. Was he sending her reminders already? The temptation to toss the letter into the fire unopened loomed large.

She sliced the envelope open with the scissors.

Annabelle,

Yesterday morning, the most disconcerting news reached us about you. A letter from an anonymous well-wisher arrived at the cottage. The paper and envelope were thick and costly, and the handwriting most elegant, but the message was outrageous—I was kindly advised to “save you from yourself,” as they put it, as it seems you have fallen in with the wrong crowd. There is talk about political activism, police involvement, and even prison! Furthermore, the writer is concerned that you are mingling with unmarried gentlemen . . .

“Oh, dear Lord,” Annabelle said, and rose to her feet.

“What is it?” Hattie asked.

“He knows.” How could he

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