Chapter Ten

"Our outing seems to have made quite an impression," Markshall said tightly, casting a newspaper down so it flopped onto the little table in front of her. She didn't need to open it out to read the headlines.

‘Whores to go free while soldiers are detained', was printed along the top of the page. Then just below the text for that section, the next headline read: ‘Unmarried couple hunting immorality and ferns'.

The headline about ferns was bad enough, but the association with the other title was plain. For a second, she had an irrational fear of touching the paper, as though it might taint or bite her. But a lady didn't flinch. Her hands trembled as she brought it close enough to read, and with growing horror, Emily scanned through the second article.

Fern gathering has long been derided as only slightly suitable for well-bred young ladies, as the trips to gather said ferns often has mixed composition - ladies and gentlemen. Worse still, the classes are sometimes mixed too, as ferns are popular amongst both the upper classes, where the trend originated, and also the merchant classes and bourgeoisie.

It is the opinion of this newspaper that the vice inherent in exploring so crude a subject as the procreation of ferns, will inevitably lead to vice in all areas of pteridological endeavor. Indeed, it has been called a craze, ‘pteridomania'. Gentle reader, we offer this story as a warning to all young people, especially young ladies, that might be drawn to this seemingly innocent collecting of ferns as representations of God's beautiful work.

On the good authority and morality of Lady X—.

She let the newspaper drop to the table. What would the fathers of her friends in the Lady Hunters, or any other father, say when they saw this? This slander would destroy the innocent pursuit of thousands of young women. The smell of coffee and cream that she'd been drinking cloyed in her throat. All her work, wrecked.

"Personally, I think warning young ladies that fern hunting can cause old maids to find aristocratic husbands in an effort to put them off the hobby is futile in the extreme," drawled Markshall.

She rounded on him, then had to take three calming breaths to regain her composure. No-one suspected a polite lady. "Pteridology is one of the few, very few, suitable outdoors and scientific pursuits that are considered acceptable for young ladies. I didn't give up fox hunting and grouse shooting to stay inside and do needlework. I needed something else and it became fern hunting. If fern gathering becomes synonymous with scandal, it won't just be me who suffers, it will be young women across the country. I need to find this Lady X— and stop her."

"I think you are overstating the case." Markshall shrugged. "No father prevents his daughter from healthy activities that can lead to matrimony. The waltz was once scandalous, so was the polka, and the Queen danced both in her day. This will blow over."

"I'm holding you responsible if it doesn't." She was going to be sick. All because this man had chased her into a hole.

He huffed, and his lip curled with wry amusement. "But it can only blow over if we stop more articles being printed. I have a suspicion about who Lady X— might be, but I doubt my contacting her would help the situation. There is a disturbing trend for more rather than less of these articles. I thought I might visit the printer and ask them to reconsider their content." He paused, almost as though he were nervous. "Will you join me?"

"Wait while I get my shawl." A visit to a printer was not precisely the sort of behavior a duke's daughter ought to engage in. But somehow, that thought, usually so paramount in Emily's mind, wasn't there. The lure of doing something about this travesty, and going with Oscar by her side, was everything.

Returning downstairs, she was informed by a footman that Lord Markshall was waiting outside. She spotted him in his high-perch phaeton immediately. He turned, and she couldn't repress her smile and he returned it. They were going to sort everything out and for a moment she felt invincible as they grinned at each other like a pair of fools.

Without looking away, he jumped down and held out his hand. "I wasn't sure if you would come, or if you'd change your mind."

"Journalist hunting?" She put her hand in his, the warmth of him seeping through to her fingertips despite their gloves. "I wouldn't miss it for the world." Not when fern hunting was threatened.

"Come on then, up you go." His other hand came around to her back, a reassuring pressure.

His phaeton was still intimidatingly high, but she grasped the sideboard and pulled herself up. For a second, there was a familiarity of Markshall helping her up and she couldn't immediately place it. Then she remembered where this had started. In a hole.

She stepped up and he was immediately beside her, a solid presence on the tall phaeton.

"Care to drive again?" He offered the reins to her. He winked at her as she took the leather straps from him. A quiver went through her remembering what had happened last time she'd taken the reins from him. They'd kissed. Long and passionately.

She nodded to the tiger holding the horse's head and the young groom scampered to the back to jump up. As they pulled into the road she focused. It wouldn't do to think too much about kisses with Markshall.

"Where is the publisher of the newspaper?" she asked. Because it wasn't on a prestigious address like Regent Street, that was for sure.

"Where they all are. Fleet Street."

For a few minutes, Emily lost herself in the feel of driving, watching to left and right for other vehicles, and in the connection to the horses through the reins. The phaeton was fast, so lightweight that the horses seemed to be gliding rather than trotting. She hoped the tiger behind them was holding on tight. The concentration required in the busy road was almost enough to make her ignore the brush of Markshall's coat on hers. The phaeton had scandalously little space and he was sat close, her skirts covering the nearest of his boots and his hand perilously close to her knee.

"What are we going to do?" They had to converse, or she would start to watch him rather than the road.

"We're going to go and talk to the Daily Letters and find out who has been feeding such nonsense to them." He sounded grim.

On the left was Hanover Square. The exalted church where so many famous and infamous matches had been made. The feel of the horses obeying her commands, was unfamiliar and exhilarating. It was as good as the wind in her hair whilst out in the countryside.

"How is your family taking it?" Markshall asked.

"The scandal?" Emily sighed. "Mother is quite calm and pragmatic. In her last letter, Connie sounded like an overly precious young lady." Connie was overwrought and convinced she'd die a spinster. Her father's letter had bemoaned that he didn't know where the impulse for histrionics came from with Connie, given neither Hugo nor Emily shared it.

"Should I be thinking a reaction like Marianne out of Sense and Sensibility or some fainting Dickens character?"

Emily couldn't repress a smile. "More that she thinks she will be Becky from Vanity Fair, with endless trials not of her making."

"We'd better get to Fleet Street quickly then, to ensure we can progress our wicked conspiracy against her." Markshall laughed and it was like summer sun on her face. "We won't go through Soho, though it would be quicker. It's a little unsavory for one such as you. Piccadilly Circus is at the end. Let's go right again down to Trafalgar Square. Then a mile or so down The Strand and we'll be at Fleet Street."

They drove in silence for a little while and Emily's heart settled, no longer galloping away. Then the wide street and massive plinths loomed ahead. Trafalgar Square.

She cast her gaze around. "Did you know, George IV's statue cost almost as much as his mistress' residences?" she said lightly, trying to ease the mood.

"Sounds reasonable." He grinned.

"Not when you know how many mistresses he had." Too many for one man, and all living in opulence.

"What do you know of mistresses?" He sounded surprised she would even know what a mistress was. "And where did you read that?"

"In The Daily Telegraph."

"Dreadful penny press." Markshall lounged back in the seat, stretching his legs out in front of him. "They should never have removed the paper tax in '61. It's encouraged these gossipy, so-called news outlets like the Daily Letters."

"Do you really believe that?" He had strong legs, she noticed, and a purposefully insouciant position. She'd noticed that his most outrageous sentiments were accompanied by a deliberate gesture of faux relaxation.

"Do people really need this sort of scurrilous news? What happened to ignorance is bliss? All these newspapers and the lower classes get ideas above their station."

"You don't believe that." She slanted a glance at him while she drove, then looked forward again. There was something of an actor in his manner. He was too bright, too brash. He wasn't quite the same man as he had been in the mine shaft. She was sure of that, even though she hadn't been able to see him in the dark. It was difficult to understand who the real man was, but she was becoming certain about one thing. Lord Markshall's character of a rake was not him.

"He was a wonderful patron of the arts." Markshall's shrug was more felt through her shoulder than seen.

"Well, I'm sure that makes up for all his womanizing, debts, drinking, and bringing the country into disrepute." She couldn't hide her disdain for men who didn't stick by their vows to women, be they a wife, a fiancé, a sweetheart, or even a mistress.

"No one is a saint, Emily." His voice was hard.

No. Heroes were not all perfect and villains not all bad. But Markshall was always at such pains to reinforce his wickedness, almost like he was reminding them both.

When they pulled into Fleet Street, the metallic sound of industry echoed around. Fleet Street was wide but closed in by buildings five floors high. There was a faint acrid taste in the air. One of the mares tossed her head.

"The sound of the printing presses." Markshall offered without prompting the answer to the question she hadn't asked. "They print the newspapers overnight, but many also run all day. Expensive lumps of metal to be idle."

The noise gave the street an unsettled atmosphere that was enhanced by the men striding around. Emily looked straight ahead, not wanting to be seen staring. There were men only in their shirts and trousers, seemingly having forgotten the decorum of a hat and jacket. The traffic was busy, with several carts standing waiting, the horses stamping their feet impatiently. They drew to a halt in front of the offices that declared they were the Daily Letters. As Markshall's tiger ran to hold the horses, Emily held herself still, despite the urge to run away. Now she was here, she wasn't at all sure this was a good idea. The perfect lady ought not to go to a printer.

Markshall sprang down and held out his hand to her from the pavement. There was no place for being prim. She placed her hand in his, and in the moment she jumped, his hand warm but immovable beneath hers, she had the sensation of flying before her feet were back on the ground.

She took Markshall's proffered arm and they entered the building.

"It's tuppance for a tour of the press." A young voice called out before they'd fully crossed the threshold and looked around. Emily looked down to see a boy of about twelve, quite neatly dressed and moderately fed. An apprentice. The boy swung his arms like he wasn't sure what to do with them.

"We'd like to see the editor." Markshall approached the boy and proffered a coin.

The boy took the coin and looked at them skeptically, then nodded twice. "I'll get ‘im."

They were left waiting in the small dim, wood paneled entrance hall. Only a few moments later, a voice was audible, "…Next time, tell them they can have the tour and that's all." A man in a long ink smeared apron appeared at the door. "Yes," he said abruptly, then seemed to notice their clothes and overall appearance. A look of wariness spread down his face.

"Mr. Jenkins, I presume." Markshall shook the man's hand. "My name is Lord Markshall, and this is Lady Emily."

The man's eyes flared with recognition. "What can I do for you, m'lord?" His tone was too dismissive to be well-mannered.

"We're here to discuss an editorial matter," Markshall said.

"We print what people want to read." The man tilted his chin up defiantly.

"You print scurrilous lies. Libelous ones." Markshall scowled and clapped the man on the arm. "I think you'd find it would be more profitable to not print such things."

"Indeed?" Mr. Jenkins said, his mouth a skeptical line.

Markshall examined his gloved hand. "Dirty business, printing. Do you have a cloth I could wipe this mark off with?"

Reaching into his pocket, Mr. Jenkins drew out a mottled handkerchief.

Markshall took it, wiped his hands and gave it back.

"Will that be all, m'lord?" The man's inflection was utterly neutral, as though he were a moderately disciplined servant, not the editor of a newspaper.

Emily had expected a refractory man who would argue with them, maybe even deny that he'd done anything wrong. She'd thought she would have to intervene with gentle feminine charm to avoid Markshall hitting the man. It wasn't clear who she'd misjudged most—Markshall or Mr. Jenkins.

"If you can assure me this will be the end of the matter." Markshall raised his eyebrows and pinned the man with a sharp look.

Mr. Jenkins glanced down at his handkerchief, then met Markshall's gaze with a bland smile and an almost respectful nod. "Yes, I believe that should be all."

Emily obediently put her hand on Markshall's sleeve when he offered, and they walked sedately from the printers. Her head was fuzzy. After her anticipation, this was almost a disappointment. Markshall handed her up into the phaeton and she settled into the seat, arranging her skirts as though that would arrange her thoughts.

"Well, that was easy." Markshall smiled smugly as he picked up the reins and nodded to his tiger.

"Was it?" Apparently, it wasn't just society women who could convey a thousand words in a tacit message.

"Mmm. And not expensive. Would you like to drive?" Markshall offered the reins.

She shook her head.

"Walk on." The horses followed his direction. Markshall glanced over at her. "I doubt he'd ever seen a five-pound note before."

"You bribed him then." Emily couldn't keep the censure from her tone. It wasn't honorable, but then, Markshall wasn't. She didn't know why she continued to have the illusion that he was.

"What did you think I was going to do?" Markshall sounded amused. "Challenge him to a game of poker where if he lost he had to stop printing nonsense? Maybe I could have used you as my stake?"

"No. Don't be silly."

"I'm a man who regularly wears a red gown with a white ermine fur. I've got silly covered." He shrugged. "Bets smack of desperation. And blackmail always backfires. Bribes get things done."