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Authors: Maggie Robinson
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Evangeline Ramsey.
He could have her prosecuted for trespassing. For surely she had entered his building and used his ink, his paper and his machinery to produce this latest calumny. Damn the black-haired witch.
Ben conveniently forgot just what his dream black-haired witch had been doing to him not a quarter of an hour ago. His ardor was definitely depressed now—finding one’s mother hovering over one when one was at the non plus ultra was a withering experience.
He splashed some chilly water on his face, not bothering to ring for his valet. There was no point to shaving—he’d go right back to bed once he’d dealt firmly with his mother, but he did manage to get into fresh clothing. A glance in the mirror told him his golden stubble and disordered hair only added to the dangerous look he was trying to cultivate. He was not about to be called on the carpet by his mother—if she didn’t care for the life he was living, she could go back to Scotland and be damned.
This was all Evie’s fault. Even in his sleep she was a distraction. Ben had hoped that one night would get her out of his system for good, but apparently that was too much to hope for.
He didn’t take the stairs in his usual bounding pace, but one could delay the inevitable but for only so long. When he got downstairs, there seemed to be some disturbance outside on the street, but he walked resolutely into the dining room to get this over with.
His mother was not there. Lord, if she was decking herself out for the day, he might be alone until luncheon. Callum was nowhere to be seen either. Ben wondered how the reading lessons were going, and debated if he should take a hand in them himself. He had more than enough time now that he was trying to give up his wicked ways.
He lifted silver lids and started putting food on his plate, not that he was remotely hungry. As he sat, there was very audible banging at the front door below, most unseemly for a neighborhood such as his. And it was devilish early for guests. Perhaps poor Lady Applegate had taken a turn for the worse.
Ben swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee and was just about to cut into a thick slice of steak when the dining room door burst open. Six or seven strangers in varying stages of dishabille and obvious disgruntlement stared at him from the doorway, a red-faced Severson elbowing his way through the throng. After some shoving and curses from all quarters, the butler quelled the motley crowd with his perfected froideur and turned to his employer.
“I am sorry, my lord, but I was unable to prevent these— persons from entering. Callum has the door barred from the rest of them.”
Ben put his knife down, although perhaps that was unwise. He picked it up again. “The rest of them?”
“Aye. Easily a dozen more, sir.”
There was more pounding. And a rather distinctive shriek.
He knew that shriek. He’d heard a version of it a week ago when Evangeline Ramsey had come apart in his arms. But he doubted his ex-lover was fornicating on his front steps. He rose.
“Severson, would you please admit Miss or Mr. Ramsey as the case may be. Now, ladies and gentlemen, what may I do for you before I call the watch?”
“Oi, there’s no need of that, guv. We’ve come to talk some sense into you.” This from a rather large man in workman’s boots and a threadbare cap. The others nodded in agreement.
“Indeed. And in what way am I deficient in sense, my good man?”
“You’ve shut down The London List, my lord,” said a diminutive, spinsterish looking woman. She, at least, was dressed like a lady, unlike the rabble that had accompanied her. She was garbed in plain and neat brown from head to toe, but seemed fully at peace with her comrades-in-arms.
“Yes, I have. And if you wait a minute, Miss or Mr. Ramsey—depending—will be able to provide proof that I am not the monster she—he—painted me out to be.” The group stared at him as if he’d lost his mind, and he was afraid he
He could have her prosecuted for trespassing. For surely she had entered his building and used his ink, his paper and his machinery to produce this latest calumny. Damn the black-haired witch.
Ben conveniently forgot just what his dream black-haired witch had been doing to him not a quarter of an hour ago. His ardor was definitely depressed now—finding one’s mother hovering over one when one was at the non plus ultra was a withering experience.
He splashed some chilly water on his face, not bothering to ring for his valet. There was no point to shaving—he’d go right back to bed once he’d dealt firmly with his mother, but he did manage to get into fresh clothing. A glance in the mirror told him his golden stubble and disordered hair only added to the dangerous look he was trying to cultivate. He was not about to be called on the carpet by his mother—if she didn’t care for the life he was living, she could go back to Scotland and be damned.
This was all Evie’s fault. Even in his sleep she was a distraction. Ben had hoped that one night would get her out of his system for good, but apparently that was too much to hope for.
He didn’t take the stairs in his usual bounding pace, but one could delay the inevitable but for only so long. When he got downstairs, there seemed to be some disturbance outside on the street, but he walked resolutely into the dining room to get this over with.
His mother was not there. Lord, if she was decking herself out for the day, he might be alone until luncheon. Callum was nowhere to be seen either. Ben wondered how the reading lessons were going, and debated if he should take a hand in them himself. He had more than enough time now that he was trying to give up his wicked ways.
He lifted silver lids and started putting food on his plate, not that he was remotely hungry. As he sat, there was very audible banging at the front door below, most unseemly for a neighborhood such as his. And it was devilish early for guests. Perhaps poor Lady Applegate had taken a turn for the worse.
Ben swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee and was just about to cut into a thick slice of steak when the dining room door burst open. Six or seven strangers in varying stages of dishabille and obvious disgruntlement stared at him from the doorway, a red-faced Severson elbowing his way through the throng. After some shoving and curses from all quarters, the butler quelled the motley crowd with his perfected froideur and turned to his employer.
“I am sorry, my lord, but I was unable to prevent these— persons from entering. Callum has the door barred from the rest of them.”
Ben put his knife down, although perhaps that was unwise. He picked it up again. “The rest of them?”
“Aye. Easily a dozen more, sir.”
There was more pounding. And a rather distinctive shriek.
He knew that shriek. He’d heard a version of it a week ago when Evangeline Ramsey had come apart in his arms. But he doubted his ex-lover was fornicating on his front steps. He rose.
“Severson, would you please admit Miss or Mr. Ramsey as the case may be. Now, ladies and gentlemen, what may I do for you before I call the watch?”
“Oi, there’s no need of that, guv. We’ve come to talk some sense into you.” This from a rather large man in workman’s boots and a threadbare cap. The others nodded in agreement.
“Indeed. And in what way am I deficient in sense, my good man?”
“You’ve shut down The London List, my lord,” said a diminutive, spinsterish looking woman. She, at least, was dressed like a lady, unlike the rabble that had accompanied her. She was garbed in plain and neat brown from head to toe, but seemed fully at peace with her comrades-in-arms.
“Yes, I have. And if you wait a minute, Miss or Mr. Ramsey—depending—will be able to provide proof that I am not the monster she—he—painted me out to be.” The group stared at him as if he’d lost his mind, and he was afraid he
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