Her Quicksilver Lover: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 6 (8 page)

“I shall leave you with my father, sir,” she said, “as I imagine you have business to discuss.”

“I would not hear of your leaving, ma’am,” was his reply, “as long as you do not have a pressing appointment to get to. Your father has already told me of your signal help in his business.”

Her father grunted. “She’s a good girl, sir. Our present difficulties make it impossible for me to employ a suitable runner, but Joanna performs the art to perfection.”

A runner took messages from one place to another. Admittedly she had done that, but Joanna did far more to help her father. She bristled up, but remained silent on that point. “I do my best, sir.”

“And she is a most excellent hostess.” Her father beamed. “Although we do not at present own an oven and must go to the bakery for our bread and pies, she manages very well with an open fire and a spit.”

As long as he didn’t expect her to do that tonight. “There is hardly time for me to roast food for our guest,” she said, wondering where her father was taking this. He would hardly offer to feed his patron, at least not in a grand manner. Their dining table upstairs was folded away, they used it so infrequently. More often they would dine at one of the nearby chop houses, or even off plates on their laps, if they were too tired to eat properly. Some days they ate just enough to keep body and soul together.

And yet her father had given up a comfortable existence for her mother, and ultimately, for Joanna herself, and he never complained, never uttered a word of regret.

“Indeed, Joanna. We have already eaten at Mrs. Croft’s shop, and I know you would have had sufficient at the Pantheon.” He turned to Mr. Gough with a bright smile. “You see, sir, we are busy about your business.”

“I would discuss the matter with you both, once we go upstairs.”

So they were going upstairs, then? She would have to talk to him when she would far rather sleep. Exhaustion dragged at her and her bed, narrow and shabby though it was, called to her.

“Sir, we work hard to make the journal as true as we may. Both of us do our part. Of course your patronage has helped us immeasurably.”

Her father patted the printing press with affection. His first concern was the maintenance of it, but since it was their only asset, she could not blame him for lavishing his time on it. The plate was up, and the great screw that swung down in the air, nearly touching the ceiling, the two counterweights securely latched. The swing mechanism meant they did not have to literally press every item that came out, and the pressure was more even than any human hand could bestow on it.

Mr. Gough spared the press a glance. “Indeed, I do believe that, which is why I have come to you.”

Putting her thoughts of an early night and indulging in her dreams aside, Joanna put on her best smile. “Would you like to come upstairs to the parlour, sir? I can bring your tea up there.”

“Pray do not make the effort on my account,” he said. “Only if you desire some. I brought a good bottle of brandy for your father, and I was looking forward to taking a glass.”

Brandy. Joanna hated brandy. But she kept her smile in place and led the way up the narrow staircase to the floor above.

At least the fire was lit, which she had not expected. Her father must have come up earlier and set it ready, because the mismatched chairs were ranged neatly around it and the rug spread out. She tutted when she saw he had forgotten to set the guard in front. A spark could easily take hold, and then they would lose more than the rug.

“Please sit, sir. If you would excuse me, I’ll return directly.”

Mr. Gough nodded, and watched her move away before taking a seat on the sofa. Luckily, he took the side that did not have a loose arm. The glue had given way, and Joanna kept promising herself she would have it repaired. Chairmen passed the shop every day, but she had not been here recently when they were about. The walk to and from the club made for even longer days than when she’d worked at the coffeehouse.

She hurried upstairs to her tiny bedroom behind the one her father occupied. After tossing the dirty water from that morning out of the window, she poured a new basinful from the pitcher of cold water by the rickety washstand. Taking the bar of green soap, she washed herself vigorously, ignoring the shivers that ran over her skin and the burn from the cheap soap.

After patting her face dry, she gazed into the tarnished mirror above the stand and sighed. She was not an attractive sight. Even worse when she removed the cap and saw her hair. Part of her bun tumbled loose, curling over her shoulder. She put the cap aside. She’d have to wear it again in the morning, instead of rinsing it out as she had planned. Her visitor would take all that time up. She had another cap, a more becoming one. After combing out her hair—not without a few winces as she encountered tangles—she bundled it up once more and secured it firmly, popping the smaller, finer cap with the lace edging on instead. She had slaved over that lace, creating it with her mother’s tatting shuttle. Since lace was so expensive she might as well wish for the moon as a piece of Méchlin.

After stripping off the caraco jacket and skirt, she found her one gown, and donned it hastily, fastening the hooks at the front with dispatch, if not deftly. She replaced her plain white apron with a smaller, more decorative one. That was the best she could do. Her green wool gown was not fashionable, and was even somewhat crumpled after storing it folded carefully in her clothes press, but it would have to serve. No lace, but a puff of linen adorned the ends of her sleeves, and a fancy petticoat was not available. At least the gown was longer than her daywear and came down almost to the floor. Then Mr. Gough might not notice she was still wearing her practical outdoor shoes. The club provided her with a pair of softer shoes for working above stairs, but she did not own them and she had to leave them behind every night.

What did that man want? He was evidently prosperous. A man might, however, want to cast calumny on an enemy by seeding the papers and journals. Had they sunk so low that her father would consider doing that? Something would turn up—it was bound to.

The tidbits of gossip at the club were hardly pouring in, although she had hopes for the morning. As she was leaving, the porters had brought several leather-bound trunks in, monogrammed on the lid. The new guest in the club was obviously prosperous and could bring his or her own scandal. New blood
always
invoked gossip. At this time of year society was beginning to trickle back to town, even though Lent was not yet over and the season not started, but tailors and mantua-makers would be humming with business.

Inertia seized her. If she went down, everything would change, she knew it. Equally, she did not want anything to change. At the moment, she was happy, coasting on a current of unexpected pleasure.

With a sigh, she turned away from the mirror and left her room. The door closed behind her, and it felt like something ending.

Downstairs, the men were waiting. She would have no supper tonight, that was clear. A glass of wine was poured, and sat on the table next to the empty space on the sofa. The men had opted for brandy, and the plain glasses gleamed with the warm, amber liquid. Mr. Gough occupied the other side.

Pasting on her society smile, she sat when her father indicated her place. “Mr. Gough intends to make the paper the talk of the town.”

After the first shock of her father’s bald announcement, she tried to put her reactions in order. Several questions she could not ask in their current form, such as, “Who is this man?” Instead, she asked, “And are we to go on as we are?”

Her father shrugged. “He wishes to invest in a press, and he chose ours. Our chance meeting in the coffeehouse was most felicitous.” He glanced at Mr. Gough, who turned to meet her gaze.

Mr. Gough draped his arm over the back of the sofa, too close for Joanna’s liking. “Indeed. I have wondered for some time where to start. I have an inheritance I do not need, and I would much rather do some good with it. Sponsoring a newspaper that promises to tell the truth strikes me as an excellent way of accomplishing it.”

He was so smooth and easy that Joanna did not trust him for a minute. “There is something else, is there not? Another reason for your interest?”

A smile quirked his firm lips. “Indeed there is.” He took a sip of his brandy before he spoke again, effectively leaving her waiting. Joanna was good at waiting, especially for one so impatient. She’d had to be, and a skill learned was often more effective than one gifted at birth.

She suppressed the desire to drum her fingers on the chair arm and fixed a polite, interested smile to her face. Inside, her stomach roiled. She hated change that came from nowhere, change that was imposed on her instead of being her choice. When she came home and her father had already packed her bags and told her they were moving on, when he took one of her stories and altered it, or when he told her to change her job.

But strangely, not when a man with a face too handsome for this earth kissed her and rocked her world.

“You are a clever woman, Miss Spencer. I tip my hat to you.” Except he was not wearing one. “Yes, there is another point to my sponsorship of this enterprise. Your work at the Pantheon Club?”

Gough had an air of easy assurance, and she itched to delve below it, to discover the true man.

“I prefer people not to know, or word would travel and I’d never get another position anywhere. I move around a lot, so people do not guess that I gather information, and so far we’ve been lucky. Getting the job at the Pantheon Club was fortunate. May I ask why you are so interested in it?”

He studied her while he finished his brandy, taking his time. Nothing broke the heavy silence except the crackle of the fire, built up for once, the rumble of the ever present carriages and the tromp of passing feet outside. She would not break the silence.

Gough put his empty glass down, the subdued click loud in the quiet room. Politeness dictated that silences should be filled, so perhaps fortunately, Joanna never considered herself bound by it.

The expression on Gough’s face changed subtly. The easy smile left, replaced by a hard-edged alertness. “Very well. This is the truth. I am a wealthy man with connections to the highest in society, but I do not move in society very much. Until recently I served in the army. I do have a rank that I can use in civilian life, but I choose not to, because I am still, in a way, working for the authorities. The British authorities, I hasten to add.” A shade of the smile returned.

He leaned forward slightly and Joanna forced herself to remain still instead of shrinking back. His presence disturbed her. He flicked his gaze over her face and body, assessing rather than speculative, as if he knew everything about her.

Joanna shivered. Picking up the wine, she took a hearty gulp. “Your interests coincided?”

“You could say that,” Mr. Gough murmured. Smiling, he moved closer, as if to confide a secret in a room full of people. “We have good reason to suspect that the Pantheon Club is more than it seems. The unusual activity there means we have been watching, but the people we have placed there were ejected. We have never been able to find anyone there that we can trust.” He leaned back again and met her gaze, his eyes steady under her watchful regard. “When we found you, and realised who your father was, we wanted to ask for your help.”

“How did you find me?” She was always so careful.

“Someone visiting the club recognised you. He’d seen you before, at a coffeehouse. While it’s not unusual for London maids to move around, he did wonder why your appearance was so different, and he set up enquiries.”

“Oh.” So disguising herself had actually brought curiosity on her rather than otherwise. That was a salutary thought. “Why buy the paper? You could have just come and asked us about the club. We are hardly going to deny the government.”

“A small indulgence of my own. My investment in your journal is done with my money, not the government’s, and I am sincere in my wish that you continue to prosper and make the
Argus
a strong journal that people can rely on.”

“He paid handsomely for the privilege,” her father put in softly. “He does not wish for the capital assets—asset,” he corrected himself with a short laugh.

Gough’s money had paid for the rent on the house they were in, the ink, paper, and the boys to take the journal around London. They had seen an increase in circulation because of those improvements, and expected to see more in the future. They had this man to thank for that. Joanna’s instincts revolted at the thought. He made her uncomfortable. She would rather not be beholden to him for anything at all.

“I merely wish to provide some reward for good service.” Mr. Gough flashed a smile at him, then turned his attention back to Joanna, and his face grew solemn. “We suspect the club is a centre of sedition and spies. It could even provide a spy network. Right in the heart of London.”

Joanna’s mind flashed back to the sight of Amidei staring out the window at St. James’s Palace, and making an enigmatic remark about strange neighbours. Was it true? He was Italian, living in France for some time, he’d told her. Was he really a French spy, or an Italian one?

Her heart said no, rejected it in the most violent terms, but her heart was a naive and inexperienced organ in this respect. She would not believe the worst of him before she knew more. “Why would you think that, sir?”

Gough smiled and nodded. “I would assume you would ask that and I’m glad you did. The owner is a foreigner, and many of his servants come from abroad. He receives many visitors from abroad too. Not that I am suspicious of all foreigners.” His easy smile did not look real to Joanna. “It is the reports issuing from the house, and the suspicious activities of the inmates that drew our suspicions.”

“You want me to spy?” The notion repulsed her, now that she knew the true reason for it. If she found anything, Amidei, Lightfoot, and many others could hang.

As a true and loyal subject of the king, she should be rejoicing at this opportunity to do her country a signal service, but her instincts rebelled against it. Spies were not thanked for their work, and most were unpleasant people. How could that not be true, when it involved lying to the people who regarded her as a friend?