Page 8 of Season of the Scoundrel
The odd thing about the duke was that he did not seem to partake in society events. She’d attended myriad balls over the course of the two Seasons she’d been out and could not recall seeing him at any of them. She’d become quite good at matching the nobles who whirled through the Season’s activities with mentions of them in the gossip rags. Yet Blackbourne had never featured in their pages either.
He seemed a mystery in his private life and a wild success financially, which intrigued her. By the time she stepped inside the offices ofThe London Sentinel, her curiosity was thoroughly piqued.
A blonde, middle-aged lady in a crisp white shirt and perfectly pressed black skirt approached almost as soon as Ivy walked through the front doors.
“You must be Miss Bridewell.”
“I am indeed.”
“I am Mrs. Drummond, the duke’s secretary. He’s not arrived yet, but he asked that I see to getting you settled in and provide you with a tour of the paper’s offices.”
“That sounds wonderful. Thank you.”
Mrs. Drummond collected Ivy’s coat and gloves and laid her folio on a table next to the coat tree. Then she led her out into the open-plan ground floor space that housed over a dozen desks.
“This area is where our reporters and editors work.”
A powerful yearning rushed through Ivy at the sight of writers bent over their work. A few sat at typewriters, and even the clatter of keys was somehow appealing. There were ladies dotted among the rows of gentlemen, and that gave Ivy hope that somewhere, at one of the newspapers in the city, if not at this one, there might be a place for her too.
“How long have you been employed atThe Sentinel, Mrs. Drummond?”
“Only for a few months,” the lady said cheerfully. “Blackbourne hired me soon after he acquired the newspaper.”
That impressed Ivy too. A nobleman willing to give women opportunities for professional employment was to be commended.
Mrs. Drummond gestured toward a stairwell. “If you’ll follow me downstairs, I can give you a look at our typesetting and press rooms.”
The scent hit Ivy first as they descended the stairs—the strong smell of warm metal, like coins left out in the sun, and the distinctive mineral tang of printing ink. Noise filled the air as dozens of typesetters worked to assemble the pages that would comprise the newspaper’s next edition. Then they descended to another floor and the sounds grew louder as about thirty men watched over churning rotary presses and managed the enormous paper rolls that fed through the machines.
“It’s wonderful,” Ivy breathed.
Mrs. Drummond looked over at her curiously and smiled. “I think so too. So many people put in a great deal of effort to bring each issue together, and yet they all work so well in tandem.”
“It’s very impressive.”
Mrs. Drummond consulted a brooch pocket watch pinned to her shirtwaist. “Mr. Guilfoyle should be in now, if you’d like to meet him. He’s our managing editor. Shall I take you up?”
“By all means.”
They climbed the stairs again, and Mrs. Drummond turned to her. “Is this your first time meeting the Duke of Blackbourne?”
“Yes.” Ivy nodded. “Is there something I should know?”
Mrs. Drummond chuckled. “Not at all. I find him a fair employer, and, believe me, I’ve had a few who were not. Though he’s not as much for idle chatter as some.”
Ivy quite enjoyed conversation, but reminded herself not to rattle on when she met the duke.
“Will you be working with us?” Mrs. Drummond asked.
“I don’t know, but thank you escorting me this morning. I wish to learn all I can about how a newspaper runs.”
“Of course.” As they reached the ground floor again and started ascending toward the first, Mrs. Drummond slowed. Something had caught her eye. “I see the duke has arrived earlier than expected. He’s speaking to Mr. Nolan, one of our editors. Would you wait here a moment, Miss Bridewell?”
Ivy watched as the duke’s secretary strode across the room to where two men convened. One was short, balding, and bespectacled. The other?—
Ivy blinked and her pulse began to skitter so fiercely she could feel it fluttering at the base of her throat.
It couldn’t be… Why would the man from yesterday be here?
