Love Between the Lines (4 page)

She looked at Brinker.
“Do you also find it interesting, Mr. Brinker?”

Brinker put down his mug. He hadn
’t touched his stew. “Indeed, miss,” he said.

Gideon thought it was time to lay a few more cards out for her to see.
“Miss Tildon,” he said, “though I’m not a source of competition, I am interested in this sort of story.”

She waited. The woman knew when to remain silent. He waited too, and wondered which of them would win the battle of silence.

He did.

“
All right. Spill the beans. I’ll bet you’re a reporter too, aren’t you?” she burst out. “I’d decided you were too well dressed to be a reporter, but I guess I don’t know enough about your type over in England. A gentleman writer.”

“
Something like that, yes. But I promise our interests don’t conflict.” He stopped speaking because of the perverse desire to make her beg for information.

She squinted at him thoughtfully.
“Back at the docks, I wondered if maybe you were writing a book. A guide to American something or other with illustrations. Prison systems? No, something less coarse. A traveler’s guide?”

“
Interesting, but wrong again. Care to make another guess?”

“
If it’s a book, maybe you can tell me why you’ve finally decided to pipe up.” She brightened. “You want my help writing it? I do that sort of work and I can even give you references. Although the men I have written for might not like it if I sic you on them, I could probably get them to agree to say I do good work. I’ve done some work for Cowell and Dupree.”

He recognized the names.
“Are you telling me those men hire you to write their columns?”

She nodded.
“On occasion. They tell me what they want to say, and I decide how to say it. It’s not so bad. Decent pay and my work shows up in a decent paper.”

“
Without your name, however.”

“
It pays the bills,” she said. “I’ve even written a couple of books like that. Sometimes a man working on a deadline has trouble with time and needs help getting the words down.”

“
You don’t, I’ll wager.”

She shook her head.
“Not yet, but I know it might hit me eventually. I don’t want to throw any stones in case I end up living in a glass house.”

He did. She was far more pleasant about her fellow writers than they were about her.
“I would indeed like to hire you to write, but I will not take credit for your work.”

She raised her eyebrows.
“Go on.”

“
Have you heard of Gideon Langham?”

Certainly,
” she said slowly. “The British publisher. Langham House.” She turned to Brinker. “Gracious, are you actually Langham?”

Brinker
’s mouth twitched. Good Lord, the man smiled. “No, miss. I work for him, however.”

Gideon cleared his throat.
“I’m Langham.”

“
You?”

Her astonishment was annoying.
“Yes. Why not?” he snapped.

“
No reason, I suppose.” She fell silent a moment, staring at him. “You lied about your identity, Mr. Kendall.”

“
You hid yours too.”

“
Huh. I used a pseudonym. That’s a perfectly acceptable practice.” She made a show of looking him up and down. “You’re just not how I pictured Langham the publisher. Although come to think of it, I guess I heard Langham is a young man. I had something in mind more…prosperous, I guess.”

“
More refined,” he growled. “I am aware I’m nothing like the usual publisher.”

Oyster, who
’d been concentrating on eating, gave a stifled grunt at this. He wondered if he was laughing or agreeing.

“
I’d expected the usual British publisher to look affluent and fat,” Miss Drury said cheerfully. “With a monocle and impressive gray mustaches.”

She leaned back in her chair and looked him up and down.
“Well, heavens, who’d have guessed my savior from this morning was the famous publisher.” She was not the least bit deferential. He’d rather hoped some of her respectful smiles would be aimed at him rather than Brinker once the truth came out. “That story I’m writing. You’d want your local source to know about what I’ve been doing.” She drummed her fingers on the table for a second then in the gruff voice of a woman not used to asking for favors asked, “Will you at least let me know if your man finds out the truth?”

He couldn
’t believe she wasn’t taking the juicy bait he’d dangled for her. Fine, he’d spell it out. “I rather thought you could write the story for me. But I want more than just a single story. I want you to travel to England.”

“
Me?
England?
”

“
Yes. Great Britain. There’s no need to sound as if I’d drag you to an outer circle of hell.”

“
But the story is here. My editor, Mr. Tooley, wouldn’t open his purse for a trip to Hoboken, much less London.”

“
You would have the funds if I paid your way.”

“
What are you talking about?”

She was right, of course. He was being far too obscure, but he had enjoyed her confusion.
“I want you to work for me. For my paper,” he corrected himself. He wouldn’t be coping with this woman every day. That was the job for the editor, heaven help him. “I’m trying to hire you.”

“
Hire me? A job? Not just to write an article or two?”

He could see the disbelief in her eyes.
“Why not? That’s one of the reasons I’ve been touring New York, on the lookout for talent.”

Her wariness gave way to sudden eagerness.
“Say, listen, it would make more sense to have me to work here. I could be your New York correspondent. Oh, that would be wonderful.” Her eyes widened. “I could still do the longer pieces but also work for you. And I’d collaborate with your editor in England. Messages go so quickly these days. You’d have New York news items for your paper in less than a week after they happen.”

Gideon suddenly didn
’t want to leave her here. He wasn’t sure what he wanted instead. All right, of course he did, but his strange attraction to her could be simply dismissed—it wasn’t feasible or intelligent. “As delighted as I’d be to send you money, that wasn’t what I had in mind. I think we need your energy and type of do-or-die spirit in England, Miss Tildon. You’re not afraid of barging in on matters and you don’t have a shred of diffidence. I need more of that over there, not here.”

But she frowned.
“You don’t seem to understand. The only reason I can manage to do what I do is I have connections like Captain Kelly.”

“
Who barely tolerates you.”

Her smile was wry.
“That’s true enough. But he is still a source and he trusts me… Well, he trusts me more than he does most reporters. I’m not talking about friends. I mean work connections.”

“
What about friends? Will you be leaving many of them behind?” He talked about her employment as if it was already arranged, a trick of persuasion he’d learned long ago.

Her smile vanished.
“No, not really. My family…” She shook her head. “I would miss them.”

He couldn
’t help himself and asked, “Would they miss you?”

“
That’s none of your business,” she said without heat.

Brinker had turned into a taxidermied bird again, poor man. He didn
’t approve of this sort of personal conversation. Gideon, on the other hand, wanted to find out as much about Trudy Tildon as he could.

“
What are your concerns?” he asked, hoping he infused the words with sympathy.

She drew in a long breath.
“The gist of the matter is that even if I like travel—which I do, I think—my strength lies here in the city where I know the streets and the people and—”

“
To a degree, I suppose that’s true,” he interrupted. Better that form of rudeness than reaching across the table and giving her shoulder a good shake. “But I believe your greatest skills are that you are able to get people to tell their story. You can do that on any corner of the globe.”

She snorted
. “Piling on the compliments now? You are persuasive. I expect your strength lies in sales.”

“
Low blow,” he said. “Don’t reject my offer out of hand, Miss Drury or Miss Tildon. I expect you to at least consider it. I would pay you five pounds a week.”

Her blue eyes widened.
“That’s about twenty dollars, isn’t it? Such a lot. Golly. I do have to think about this.”

Oyster had finished his sauerbraten a while ago. He polished off his second glass of beer and put it down hard enough to make the table shake.
“Don’t do it. No, Miss Lizzy, don’t.” There was anguish in the big man’s face.

Gideon was apparently an idiot because he found himself saying,
“Naturally you’d want to bring along your assistant.”

She gasped
. “You’re serious? You’d pay for both of us? His salary too?”

Hell, why not. Gideon had always known you had to pay for good quality and Trudy Tildon definitely produced fine work using this lout as her helper. He didn
’t want to consider any other possible reasons he’d pay an outrageous sum for a young female reporter who had a dimple in her left cheek when she smiled. “When will you be ready to sail?” he asked. “We’re leaving in ten days.”

“
I’ll be ready,” Oyster said.

Miss Drury was frowning.
“No. I must think about this. I’m in the middle of a
story
.”

What was the woman
’s problem? He was offering adventure, a fine salary. He opened his mouth to demand to know what in God’s name she had to think about and decided he should go for a walk before he started browbeating her. Tossing his napkin onto the table he stood and bowed. “Thank you for considering the matter. Brinker, you take care of the bill and I’ll meet you all outside. Pardon me. I need air.”

Lizzy watched
Gideon Langham push out of the room. She’d guessed he was a wealthy want-to-be author with some research instincts. After all, he’d managed to get information about her.

She would never have gue
ssed he was Langham of Langham House. There had to be at least ten different newspapers, journals, and imprints in his little kingdom. She tried to recall stories about him, but he wasn’t part of her world, so she didn’t know the details, just disjointed phrases like
self-made man
and
Fleet Street
.

Her impression had been of an easygoing and flirtatious man, though from the start she could see he wasn
’t used to having his demands refused.

She picked up her fork.
“Mr. Brinker, you did say you worked for Lord Langham?”

“
Indeed, miss.” He gave a meaningful frown.

She immediately grew excited. Something was up. “What
’s wrong?” she asked in a low voice.

“The proper
form of address for him is ‘Sir Gideon,’ miss.”

“
Oh, that.” She ate a mouthful of food, remembering to swallow before saying, “I suppose you are not a journalist. Are you a secretary?” It was hard to imagine a man with such quiet dignity taking orders or having a speck of ink on his nose.

His back went straighter.
“I am a gentleman’s gentleman.”

“
That’s a servant?” She wanted to laugh. A servant of all things. “You’re a valet?”

“
Yes, the position often encompasses the duties of valet, but in the case of Mr.—er, Sir Gideon, the position is more varied.”

She
gave up on eating and leaned forward. “Is he a good employer?”

“
Naturally.” He arranged his unused silverware in a precise position. “I have been with him for four years and have no complaints.”

She shook her head.
“A valet. Good heavens. I would never have guessed. I’d supposed you were some kind of nobility.”

Brinker
’s mouth twitched slightly. “You’re very kind to say so, miss.”

“
He passed himself off as Kendall. Did he invent the name?”

“
It’s Sir Gideon’s middle name—his mother’s maiden name—and he often uses it, or he did before he came into the title.”

She wondered why
Sir Gideon bothered to disguise his identity and then vaguely recalled reading something about the publisher who’d risen from the ranks of reporters. Langham? No possibility he’d managed to start a publishing house on a reporter’s salary. He must have had some good luck in a card game.

“
Tell me, is Langham an honest man?”

He looked taken aback.
“I should never say otherwise.”

“
I expect that means no, he’s not always honest. Does he keep his promises?”

Brinker cleared his throat
. “Indeed. And Sir Gideon is a very generous and kind employer.”

“
There’s more to it, though. I beg of you to please tell me the rest, Mr. Brinker. If I’m going to jump on a boat and leave everything I know behind, I should know as much as possible. I never reveal my sources, but I do need to know.”

David
Oliver, as she already privately thought of him, had eyes of an ascetic, but for a moment, his gaze warmed. “Sir Gideon is occasionally rash.”

She laughed.
“Obviously. He’s offering me a job.” Asking him to give more examples of rash behavior was too direct for a discreet servant. “How would you suppose he’d describe himself? Conventional? Unconventional?”

His brows knit for a moment, the smallest of frowns, before he answered
. “As you can guess, he is less conventional than many gentlemen.”

“
I’m not surprised, but why would you think I would guess that?”

“
Consider where we met this morning, miss.” He shifted in his chair and eyed the still-full mug that held his tea.

“
Oh.” She smiled. “But other gentlemen have been known to act as tourists in dangerous parts of the world. What else does he do that’s unconventional?”

“
We are currently sharing a meal, miss. This is simply not done.” He spoke gravely as if rebuking a small, slightly dim child.

Oyster didn
’t seem to be listening, lost in his own world—but Lizzy knew better.

She picked up her coffee and finished it off.
“If I go to England I will need to learn so much. Would you be willing to help me learn what’s proper and what’s not? I mean I do know how to get on with the household staff here and I know better than to gossip with my mother’s parlormaid. But…I think I could use more education in such matters.”

He gravely inclined his head.
“I should be very glad to help you where I see you could use some tuition in matters in which I can aid you. However I must tell you that I very much doubt you will travel in circles that follow the strictest protocol.”

“
Does Sir Gideon fall into that category?”

He hesitated.
“Sir Gideon is an ambitious man in some ways.”

She prodded carefully
. “Most men are,” she said. “I expect his ambitions are unconventional as well.”

H
is brows rose slightly. Disapproval, perhaps. “He sees the advantages of trying to become part of the higher echelons of society.”

“
How would he do that?”

He seemed pained by
the question. She begged his pardon as she tried to think of simple ways to climb a social ladder. “Naturally he’s interested in marrying well,” she hazarded. “Is he engaged yet?”

“
He has been courting Lady Edith Foster, daughter of Lord Lutton.”

He looked so
satisfied, she spoke without hesitation. “And that would certainly be a good marriage.”

“
Indeed. An advantageous match would allow true entrée to the best society.”

She frowned.
The one publisher she knew existed outside of the social ladder—on purpose. He attended the largest parties but never the intimate events of the elite.

Davi
d Oliver was so careful, she would have to think of a delicate way to prod. “And this is important, of course.” She attempted to put the hint of a question in her voice. He must have heard her hesitation.

“
Sir Gideon will be able to extend his influence beyond the pages of his papers.”

“
He is a Sir. Doesn’t that mean he’s automatically going to be influential?” She tried to think of the word. “Isn’t he a peer or something?”

He shook his
elegant head. “My employer is a baronet, miss. If he wishes to become a member of parliament, he must run for office. He doesn’t take a seat in the House of Lords.”

“
I don’t know a thing about the whole system.” She gave up trying to pry interesting personal gossip about Langham from Mr. Brinker. He wasn’t going to provide any more information than she could glean from the most genteel society column.

She heaved a worried sigh
, perhaps a little more loudly than she might have if she’d been alone. “It’s hard to imagine starting from scratch, and that’s what I’ll be doing if I go to England. I can tell you the name of every city councilman and who’s paying him under which tables. What would you advise me to do, Mr. Brinker?”

Brinker carefully folded his napkin and laid it on the table. She could tell by his silence and the way he didn
’t meet her eyes that his advice would be along the lines of “return home to your father and mother and lead a decent life.”

“
I’m sure I don’t know, miss,” he said.

Oyster had tilted his
chair up on two legs as always; with his bulk, he was dangerously close to breaking it or tumbling over backward. He let it fall forward with a thump. “Let’s go, Miss Lizzy. I always wanted to see other countries. I want to go across the ocean.”

She star
ed at him, amazed. In the four years he’d worked for her part-time, he’d rarely expressed an opinion or pushed for any answers. She nodded to show she took his request seriously. “I don’t know, but I promise to give it careful thought.” Hadn’t she always wanted to travel to Europe? Yet she must be cautious. Her father frequently warned her that there was no trusting any fantastic opportunities that thrust themselves onto her path from nowhere.

It occurred to her that if she moved across the ocean
, she wouldn’t have to worry about running across people such as her father. She wouldn’t end up working on awkward stories affecting their social circle, such as the one she’d written about the corrupt banker, Mr. Harrington.

That had been the worst—she
’d helped destroy one of her father’s friends. Her articles aired an old family friend’s dirty laundry in public. That might have been the last straw for her father. Never mind that the old friend was in fact guilty of embezzlement.

She stood
, and Mr. Brinker rose at once. He was even more fastidiously polite than her father. He left some money on the table and with a slight bow of the head indicated that he waited for her to go ahead of him.

She turned to Oyster.
“I think I’ll go home to write. Nothing dangerous.”

He sniffed and lumbered
to his feet. They left the restaurant.

If Oyster
was convinced she wasn’t in danger, and if she had no errands for him, he’d go off to lead his own mysterious life. But he must have decided Sir Gideon and Mr. Brinker were threats to Lizzy because he didn’t say good-bye and keep walking.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and loitered near t
he wall where Sir Gideon stood, face turned up to the warm sun. Sir Gideon didn’t loiter. He was obviously too important, too well dressed and tense to be a good skulker.

“
Ready to go?” he asked without opening his eyes. He must have acute senses to hear them above the noise and clatter of the busy street.

“
I need to work,” she told him.

He looked at her now.
“On such a lovely day? Surely you can take time to show us your city instead.”

“
Surely
I can’t. I must work. I know you appreciate deadlines.” She winced at her own brusque words, yet he didn’t seem offended. She tried again. “That is, I should say thank you for the offer of work and for lunch. I will most definitely think about your offer. Oyster, would you summon a cab for us?”

“
You need to think about the job? Why?” Sir Gideon spread his hands, palms up at his sides in mock confusion. “It appears to me the editors in this city aren’t going to give you the resources or scope to do the sort of stories you should do. They think of you as a—oh, what did that idiot in the police station call you?” He obviously knew the hateful word and was just dragging it out. His forehead wrinkled in pretend concentration. At last he snapped his fingers. “That’s right. Nothing more than a stunt. Nothing real or to do with honest reporting. Certainly not a journalist. And I’ll wager that your Tulip agrees.”

“
Which Tulip?” She had trouble keeping from smiling. He was good.

“
Tulip or Loopy. Your editor.”

“
Mr. Tooley. He’s good, and he doesn’t think I’m—”

“
I expect he doesn’t put your stories on the first page.”

“
They’ve been there.”

“
With the largest headline?”

She didn
’t bother to answer, because of course he already knew.

“
You put the effort into a story and something as good as your series about the orphans for me, and I’ll make certain every single piece is placed on the front page of my best paper. My flagship publication.”

He
’d actually read her stories. She’d assumed he only kept track of circulation and which stories sold well.

“
And you’d pay for my time? You’ll let me take the time for research?” Her heart raced.

“
I’ll pay for your background work. Not just the stories. You’d be more than a stringer. You’d be salaried.”

No
, she couldn’t just leap without thinking first. She only allowed herself that kind of recklessness when she was on the hunt for a story. “Mr. Kendall. Or, rather, Lord Langham.”

“
No, just Sir Gideon.” He broke into a real smile. “Mind you, we’re a very superior sort of Sir. I’m Langham, the twelfth baronet. We call baronets Bart for short.”

This
self-deprecation was more dangerous to her equilibrium than the bullying publisher he’d been in the restaurant.

“
Sir Gideon
. You can certainly give me twenty-four hours to decide if I want to throw myself into a whole new life.”