The Scoundrel and I - Katharine Ashe Page 0,55

said.

“It has already been opened.” Cosmic retribution, no doubt.

“My brother’s doing, of course,” Charlie said. “I beg your pardon for that.” He was watching her thoughtfully, and for the first time she saw in his eyes that which for years she had denied: affection beyond anything she could return. She had never wanted to see it because she did not wish to then be obliged to reject it, and lose his friendship. Since her grandfather’s death, Charlie had been the only man she trusted other than Mr. Curtis. Now she knew what it was to love, to truly love, and she hurt for him.

“Read it, Gabrielle,” he said.

The hand was neat and firm: the hand of her hero, Lady Justice.

Dear Miss Flood,

Yesterday I received a letter from a gentleman claiming that, although he has no right to write to me on your behalf, he doubted you would do so yourself. He begged me to rectify the wrong that he and your employer did to you in the matter of fifty-three pieces of missing printer’s type. Given the narrative he offered, I agree: you should not be punished for this unfortunate mishap. Moreover, I am indebted to you for years of service to me, and therefore to all of Britain. My message is more effective because of your labors.

I have informed Mr. Brittle that if he does not reinstate you in your position, immediately raise your wages by thirty percent, and subsequently five percent per annum, I will find another publisher.

Your gentleman admirer also told me of your wish to collect within a single volume a selection of my work and letters of that pompous narcissist who continues to write to me despite my disdain of everything for which he stands. I think it a travesty to reprint the utterings of that elitist cretin, but if it will help spread the message of Justice into more parlors throughout Britain, I will encourage Mr. Brittle to make it so.

One more detail of this matter moves me now to speak to you as a friend. As all know, I often publish letters that I receive from members of the aristocracy, especially if they reveal injustices. In his letter to me your admirer exposed his heart as well as a vulnerability that, given his identity, could ruin him if made public, or at the very least open him to great censure. He showed no concern over this, only honesty in his wishes for your wellbeing.

I have destroyed his letter. I will not print it, for I believe that selflessness should be rewarded. Don’t you agree?

In sincere gratitude for your labor,

Lady Justice

Elle lifted to her friends eyes filled with tears.

“Will you return to Brittle and Sons, Gabrielle?” Charlie said.

“Yes.” It was a bittersweet victory. She had her work. She would never have her captain. God, it seemed, was merciful. But Fate was a vindictive tease.

~o0o~

Elle returned to the shop the following morning. Jo Junior, who still sported a bruised nose, glowered at her. But he offered her his own desk at which to work.

She declined. She liked her spot in the corner of the printing room, with its scent of ink and the big solid comfort of the press and its companion tray full of type.

Charlie brought her a cup of tea.

“What a nice surprise,” she said. He had never before brought her anything. That Captain Masinter had brought her a glass of ale—and something extra—within minutes of meeting her tweaked her heart with fresh aching.

“Welcome back, Gabrielle,” Charlie said only, and left her to the pile of paper that had accumulated in her brief absence.

Mr. Brittle Senior stopped by the shop midmorning, spoke to her cheerfully about the usual sorts of things, and never once mentioned what had passed. The missing type was forgotten. Lady Justice had prevailed. Rather, Mr. Brittle’s greed. But such was the nature of business, she supposed.

At lunchtime the clerk and the pressmen went off to the King’s Barrel, and Charlie and Jo Junior departed for a meeting across town. The shop was empty and Elle sat with her pen and a page of the latest edition of Falconer’s Dictionary of the Marine and went through every line with her usual thoroughness, despite the lump in her throat. That she must work now on a nautical dictionary was simply more cosmic retribution. But at least she was learning interesting details about the life he had led for years.

The shop door jingled and Elle slid off her stool and went into