Almost a Princess (29 page)

“Eh?” Mr. Gardiner stared, then gave a chortle of laughter. “I beg your pardon,” he said, regaining his composure. “I suppose anything is possible. No, no, ma’am. A mutual friend is to be married today in Warwick, and Mr. Bowman is to be his groomsman. There was a piece about it in last week’s
Journal.
”

Jo couldn’t remember the piece offhand, and she didn’t want to prolong the conversation, so she didn’t ask for details. “Warwick?” she said. “That’s at least eight miles away. Then I won’t delay you.” She smiled brilliantly. “Good-bye, Mr. Gardiner, Mr. Bowman. Have a pleasant journey.” Jo curtsied, the gentlemen bowed. As soon as they had quit the room, she sagged against the desk, then straightened almost at once when Waldo Bowman reappeared.

“What is it now?” she asked, rattled.

He smiled slowly, as though he knew how unsettling his presence was. “I’ll be in Warwick ovenight,” he said, “but I should be back in Stratford tomorrow. Perhaps we could make up a party and go to the theater?”

“Why should we do that?”

“If you don’t know, I can’t explain it.”

“No!” she answered emphatically.

“You don’t mince words. I like that in a woman. Not the theater, then. We’ll talk about this again.”

“Oh, no, we won’t—”

He put a finger to his lips, silencing her. “Don’t rage. Henry is right outside the door. We wouldn’t want to give him the impression that we’re having a lovers’ tiff.” He moved to the door and paused with his hand on the doorknob. There was no grin now to set her pulse fluttering. “I meant what I said, Mrs. Chesney. Be careful what you print in your newspaper. Don’t go looking for trouble.”

She stayed rooted to the spot, scarcely breathing, till she heard the sound of footsteps and voices receding along the corridor, and finally a door closing. She was more than a little confused. One moment he was flirting with her, the next he was threatening her.

He wasn’t anything like she expected. Chloë had misrepresented him or, at the very least, underestimated him. He wasn’t all charm. When he wanted to be, he could be intimidating. Now that she’d met him in person, she was unlikely to forget that he’d served with Wellington in Spain. That’s how he’d come by his lame leg and, she supposed, where he’d acquired a core of steel that no amount of charm could conceal. Such men were used to having their orders obeyed. But not by her, and he would do well to remember it. Besides, the war had been over for two years.

She looked at her wrist. It really,
really
annoyed her to recall how she’d trembled at his touch, not in fear—she could have excused that—but because he’d made her aware of him as a man. She wasn’t used to men like Waldo Bowman. The gentlemen in her circle treated her with deference, knowing that she was devoted to her husband’s memory.

Don’t go looking for trouble.

She wasn’t afraid for herself as much as for Chloë. If he sued the
Journal,
he would lose. She published nothing but the truth. If he found out about Chloë, however, and sued her, she could be ostracized by her friends.

No. He would put the blame squarely where it belonged—on the owner of the paper that published Chloë’s pieces.

He was making a mountain out of a molehill. Chloë wasn’t snide or malicious. If she had a fault it was that she was gushing. She truly admired the people she wrote about. There must be something she was missing, a more compelling reason for Bowman to threaten legal action if his name appeared in the
Journal
again.

She almost jumped when the door opened, but it was only Billy, the apprentice printer, who had brought the post.

“Mostly bills,” he said cheerfully, setting the burlap mailbag down on her desk. “And one from your friend Lady Webberley. I recognized her writing.”

A letter from Chloë. That was unusual. Chloë’s personal letters usually went to the house on Church Street, not to the Journal’s offices. Jo thought no more about it. They never got round to reading the post on Friday. They were too busy. She’d get to it later.

She put a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “If we get everything out and away before noon, there’ll be an extra sixpence in your pocket.”

Billy beamed. He was thirteen years old and his mother’s sole support. An extra sixpence would go a long way in their frugal household.

“You’re on,” he declared.

They moved quicky—through the door, down the corridor and into the room they used for Dispatch. Long tables were laid out with sections of the paper, and everyone who worked for the
Journal
—printers and their apprentices, paper sellers, cleaners, clerks and editors—was involved in either assembling the paper or tying stacks of newspapers into bundles and carting them outside to waiting wagons.

Jo paused fleetingly to savor the moment. Mac Nevin, shirtsleeves rolled up, gave her a cheery wave. He was in his sixties, ruddy of complexion with a thinning mane of silver hair. Some people thought that Managing Editor was too grand a title for the editor of a small, provincial paper. Not Jo. She knew how much she owed Mac. Without him, she wouldn’t have known how to begin publishing a newspaper.

At one time Mac had been sought after by every paper in the land. His fondness for the brandy bottle, however, eventually put paid to that. He’d returned to his hometown a shade of his former self. Now he was sober, and the
Journal,
he once confided, had been the saving of him. Jo could have said much the same about herself.

She observed the chaos in Dispatch with a smile on her face. Everything she wanted was right here. She rolled up her sleeves and set to work.