Chapter 24

The letter had arrived the very next day. Thick, creamy paper, lots of it, folded together with page after page of neat, even writing. Prudence's writing, curling in perfectly straight lines across the front and back of each page.

The London Lady's Almanac, she'd called it, and Ben had read it through three times, looking for the clues she'd hidden there. They seemed obvious to him, but perhaps only because he already knew the details. A piece on Lady Noble's upcoming ball, a note therein about how that lady planned to decorate her ballroom, how she'd commandeered a parlor downstairs simply to store more flowers so they could be refreshed throughout the night.

Ha. He'd bet his shop that was not the parlor's true purpose. Especially not when she'd included the bit about Lady Norton exclaiming "Utter perfection!" when she heard of the plans.

Not that he'd own the shop much longer.

He descended the stairs into the lower level of the warehouse, calling out, "Atkins." Ben waved the letter over his head. "I've got new work for you."

He found Atkins at the cylinder press where he always sat, waiting for his next print.

"Yeah?" he asked, looking up from a pamphlet inked by his own hands.

"I've got a new one for you. It'll be a semi-regular publication for us. You shouldn't have any trouble with the handwriting."

Atkins took it and looked it over, humming. "Not a bit. Clear as day. When?" He raised a brow.

"As soon as can be."

"How many copies?"

"The most you can produce."

Atkin's remaining brow joined the first high on his forehead, and he whistled. "The lovely Gabby Greta can give you five thousand."

Ben scratched his jaw. "Hm. Probably don't need that many, but let's have it. Why not? I'll shower her in the damn things." He turned. Had places to be. But he whipped right back around, walked backward toward the door, and called out, "Gabby Greta, Atkins?"

The man patted the cylinder press. "I knew a lady by that name who could produce more words than this here machine in less time using just her mouth."

Ben chuckled. "When they're done, send one to Lady Prudence at the Duke of Clearford's residence. Let her know her lady friends can pick them up here in the storefront." He waved and left. The walk to Mayfair offered plenty of time to rethink his plans, but by the time he reached Clearford's doorstep, they'd not changed.

He didn't knock, didn't wait for Jacobs, didn't have the patience to deal with the man at the moment. The door to the duke's study gave way with ease, and Ben didn't wait here, either, for an invitation.

A curse sailed through the air at the same time a knife did, both at the same time Ben flew into the room.

"Damn you, Bailey." Clearford pressed a hand to his chest. "You startled me. That blade could have ended up in your chest instead of the door."

A knife between his ribs would hurt less than the guilt currently ripping through him. Ben turned Clearford around and marched him behind his desk, sat him in that great big chair. Then Ben strode to the other side and steepled his hands on top of the desk.

"Let's talk business," he said as Clearford scowled.

"Not marriage?"

"Both. Hopefully. Depends on what Prudence has to say."

"I thought we were done being business partners."

"Yes. But I need your help one more time. Not for me."

Clearford twisted his mouth to one side. "What then?"

Ben settled into the chair across from him and folded his hands over the curved edges of its arms. "I want to give Prudence the shop."