Chapter 3

Harriet Michaels rushed around the street corner before stopping to catch her breath. Her heart raced faster than a curricle bound for Gretna Greene. It was him. The same man who’d bumped into her last week on her way to work.

Her pace had been brisk that morning, her thoughts on the bright and happy future she hoped to ensure for her younger sister, Lucy. She’d turned onto Holborn and—oomph. The handsomest man she’d ever laid eyes on ploughed straight into her.

The very man who’d just entered her place of employment, knocking her sideways once more and turning her world upside down.

With one hand braced against the brick siding, she closed her eyes briefly and focused on getting her nerves to stop hopping about in her stomach.

What was he doing here?

Not looking for her. That much was clear. The lack of recognition she’d seen on his face suggested that colliding with others was such a common occurrence for him, he paid no attention to whom he collided with. She huffed a breath. Just as well since having others take note of her wasn’t in her best interest.

With her black locks cropped in a masculine style and the clothes she elected to wear, she’d managed to hide her sex, and in so doing had acquired a job that not only earned her a decent wage but that she also enjoyed. A rarity, for people in her position. But she’d worked hard, proven herself, and was well enough educated to outperform anyone else looking for similar work.

And with a twelve-year-old sister to care for, it was imperative she kept her head down, avoided attracting attention, and prevented her employer from figuring out she was a woman. He’d most likely sack her on the spot if he knew. Not only because she’d deceived him, but because the business she dealt in had been reserved for men.

Pushing away from the wall, she recommenced walking. The errand she had to run, collecting the recently ordered title block for a novel they’d start printing tomorrow, would hopefully distract her from those sky-blue eyes. A task she’d found unreasonably difficult to accomplish since her first encounter with whomever the gentleman happened to be.

She’d no idea and she did not care.

Not exactly true.

But she should not care, so she wouldn’t. Instead she would focus on her task, the wages she’d be receiving next week when the month drew to a close, and making sure her sister, Lucy, was properly fed and their rented room paid for on time.

That was what mattered. Not some incredibly tall and strikingly handsome man who somehow managed to make her forget time and place every time their paths crossed. Probably because he’d physically jolted her on both occasions. It was hard to keep one’s thoughts in order when one was being jostled about.

It certainly had nothing to do with the subtle smile he’d given her with his full lips or the warmth in his eyes when his gaze had met hers. She’d barely noticed his blonde hair curling from under the brim of his hat or the fact that his shoulders were almost as wide as the door.

Nor had it occurred to her that his clothes weren’t as flashy as they’d been the first time she’d seen him several days ago. She definitely did not wonder if he might have been on his way home from some fancy event on that particular morning.

No. She’d barely given the man any thought, she decided as she reached her destination. There was certainly little point in doing so since he would likely be gone from her place of employment by the time she returned. Which did make her wonder about his reason for visiting Hudson Co. in the first place.

No matter.

It wasn’t any business of hers.

Satisfied that she’d concluded her musings where Mr. Anonymous was concerned, she returned to Hudson Co. an hour later, entering through the back door since this took her straight to the printing room.

“I’ve got the title block,” she informed her colleagues, James, Matthew, and Oliver. James and Matthew took turns inking the type and providing the strength required to work the lever on the letterpress. Meanwhile, Oliver read the manuscript so she could set the type quicker. “Let’s finish The Collapse of the Roman Empire now so we can get ahead of schedule and start on Scottish Wildflowers tomorrow.

“That’ll involve working late.” James leaned against a heavy wood table and crossed his legs at the ankles while sending her a steady look from behind a pair of serious eyes.

“Possibly, but wouldn’t you rather do that and try to earn a bonus than risk having your wages cut when Mr. Hudson decides we’re not efficient enough?”

“I could do with the extra blunt myself,” Matthew said. With his hands shoved into his grey trouser pockets, he punctuated the statement by spitting into a bin that stood on the floor.

“Same here,” said Oliver.

Turning to James, Harriet raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

He hesitated a moment, then muttered a curse. “Fine.”

“Let’s get started right away then.” Harriet set the parcel she’d collected on a shelf, then removed her jacket and hung it on a wall hook. Rolling up her sleeves, she crossed to the wide wall unit filled with drawers where she spent the most time. A shelf was set in the middle so she could collect the compositing sticks she needed and set them there while assembling the sorts—letters and punctuation marks.

Oliver perched himself on a nearby stool and picked up the manuscript. He read the next sentence and Harriet collected the sorts she required without having to check the labels on the drawers. She filled a series of compositing sticks, placed them in type galleys and transferred these to forms that would be used to create the page layouts. They were then set aside for James to collect so Matthew could ink them.

Her speed had improved tremendously during the time she’d worked here. When James had timed her last, she’d achieved an astonishing one thousand five hundred sorts per hour, which was one hundred more than what was considered the highest standard within the industry.

“We’re ready for the next form,” Matthew shouted, and Harriet swiftly added the punctuation mark she needed, placed the last compositing stick in the type galley, arranged the galleys in a form, and gave it to James when he appeared at her shoulder.

“Read faster,” Harriet told Oliver. They’d managed to get their momentum going. The papers were flying onto the press, the sorts she prepared getting inked and printed with admirable speed.

She swiped her brow and grabbed a new compositing stick. The heat in the room increased, causing sweat to gather at the nape of her neck and across her back. The smell of chemicals rolled up her nose, and she paused for a second to open another window up under the ceiling so more air could enter.

Behind her, James lowered the platen on the press, causing the familiar groan of machinery to fill the room. Harriet slid another completed form to the edge of her table and went to work on the next compositing stick while Oliver kept on reading.

“One more page and we’re done,” Oliver told everyone a couple of hours later.

Although she couldn’t relax yet, Harriet breathed a welcome sigh of relief. They were almost finished. “Time?”

“Nearing seven,” Matthew shouted.

Good. They’d be done a bit sooner than she’d expected. She prepared the last forms and handed them over, then sagged against the cabinet and allowed herself to savor their accomplishment. “Great job everyone.”

“You were right to press us,” James said as he cleaned up later. “It’s nice having this over and done with so we can begin the new project tomorrow.”

“Mr. Hudson will be pleased,” Matthew said.

“Let’s hope so,” Harriet said.

“Anyone up for a celebratory drink at the tavern around the corner?” Oliver asked, putting on his hat.

“I really ought to get home to my wife,” James said. “Some other time perhaps.”

“How about you two?” Oliver asked once James had left.

“I’ll join you,” Matthew said.

“And you, Harry?” Oliver sent her a hopeful look.

She shook her head. “Sorry. I’ve got to get home.”

“Why the rush?” Matthew asked. “You don’t have a wife waiting for you with a rolling pin the way James does. Unlucky bastard. I never understood why he married that woman.”

Harriet grabbed her cap and shoved it down over her head. “I’ve got a sister though. You know that.”

“Right. Of course.” Matthew’s expression brightened. “You should bring her along. Introduce her to us.”

“Not on your life,” Harriet told him. “She’s only twelve years old and even if she weren’t, I’d not let a roguish scoundrel like you within fifty yards of her, Matthew.”

Matthew grinned. “You can’t blame a man for trying.”

“Trying what?” Oliver asked. “You’ve made your position as a permanent bachelor clear.”

“I could be persuaded to change that stance, I suspect. If I met the right woman.” He slapped Harry on the back. “Too bad they’re not like us men in the way they think and behave. We’re logical creatures, right? Women though…” He shook his head and gave a low whistle. “Nothing but flights of fancy and high expectations.”

Harriet wasted no time in voicing her agreement. “Quite so, which is why I believe it’s best to avoid the parson’s mousetrap.”

“While getting whatever one needs from a Coventry nun,” Oliver said with a grin.

Harriet had no idea what that might be, but managed to work it out when Matthew said, “You’d do well to avoid them like the plague unless you’re looking to get a lot more for your money than pleasure. Better visit a clean establishment instead, like Amourette’s. You’ll find it on Parker’s Lane. The women there get regular checkups to make sure they don’t pose a danger to their clients.”

It took a bit of effort for Harriet not to stare at Matthew in shock and to remember that he thought she was one of the lads with whom he could speak of this sort of thing freely. Still, the very idea of paying someone for that sort of thing made her skin itch. To say nothing of the poor women who had no choice but to lower themselves to such an unseemly profession.

Thank goodness she’d thought to disguise herself and that the disguise had proven effective. Otherwise, she too ran the risk of being taken advantage of since lower-class women could easily fall prey to cruel men. Especially if they were pretty. Not that she was either of those things. Her family was gentry, but life had been both unfair and hard after the death of her father.

She shook herself free from that thought and, realizing Matthew and Oliver watched her, quickly nodded. “I quite agree. The last thing anyone wants is the pox.”

“Hear, hear,” Matthew said while Oliver directed a curious look at Harriet that made her feel more than a little uneasy. She hoped he’d not seen through her disguise.

But then he nodded and suggested he and Matthew head off.

“I’ll lock up,” she informed the pair. There was one more thing she wanted to do before leaving, and that was check the manuscript they would start on in the morning. If she could also prepare the sorts for the first two forms, she’d be especially pleased. It shouldn’t take long.

Oliver and Matthew wished her good night and headed off. The door slammed behind them and Harriet grabbed the bundle of papers that constituted Scottish Wildflowers. She set it on the work table and cut the twine it was tied with, using a knife. Besides the title block she’d collected, several compositing sticks would have to be prepared for the author name, publishing house, and publication date. After that, came the introduction – a one page tightly penned piece.

Harriet collected a new compositing stick and began placing the sorts. It took a bit longer without Oliver’s help since she had to stop and read all the time, but getting it done would lead to an easier start in the morning.

She expelled a satisfied breath once she’d finished and glanced at the clock that sat on a nearby shelf. It was almost half past eight. Time for her to get back to Lucy and make sure she ate something decent. She picked up two of the forms she’d prepared and carried them to the inking table where James was most likely to see them if he arrived before she did tomorrow.

But as she passed the door that led to the front of the building where Mr. Hudson and his editors worked, it flew open, straight into Harriet. The impact knocked several sorts loose and sent them flying.

“For bloody crying out loud,” she exclaimed, then blinked a few times when she saw who had entered the room. She stared at him. Surely this had to be some sort of joke. “What are you doing here?”

The stranger who kept walking into her gave her a blank look. “Mr. Hudson employed me.”

She groaned in frustration. Brilliant. Her attempt at forgetting all about him and his inadvertent ability to sweep her off her feet at every opportunity had been made impossible by the very fact that they were now colleagues.

To make matters worse, heat was creeping into her cheeks.

Hoping to hide it, she knelt to gather the pieces of sort that were scattered across the floor. It was all very odd. Although he was modestly dressed today, he’d looked like an upper-class gentleman when she’d last seen him. Not like someone in need of employment.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said as he dropped to a crouch and proceeded to help clean the mess.

“Might I suggest you look where you’re going in future?” She kept her attention firmly on the floor, refusing to look at him even though his voice alone made her shiver with pleasure.

Good grief. Shiver with pleasure? From no more than a voice? Whoever had heard of such nonsense before?

“My apologies once again.”

“This is the third time you’ve bumped into me within the course of one week.” She snatched up a sort and returned it to the correct compositing stick. “If I didn’t know any better I’d think it deliberate.”

He chuckled in a manner that only annoyed her further because of how utterly charming she found it. Gah! It was imperative she get away soon. Before she glanced at him without thinking and lost all common sense.

“Your face did strike me as familiar when I arrived this afternoon, though I can’t for the life of me figure out why.”

She collected a few more pieces which she proceeded to jam back into place. “You knocked into me last week while walking along Holborn.”

“That was you?” He sounded amused. “While I do recall the incident, I would never have recognized you. In fact, I’m surprised you recognized me.”

“And why is that?” she asked, reaching for a sort that had landed next to his foot.

He went for it at the same time, his fingers connecting with hers instead of the small piece of type. Jerking back, he cleared his throat while she sucked in a breath and tried to remain as still as she could. She couldn’t afford to reveal the shocking effect his touch had evoked.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean to do that.”

“It’s fine,” she lied. The lingering sparks still pricked at her skin. This was possibly the furthest from ‘fine’ she’d ever been. This man was wreaking havoc not only upon her mind but on her body as well. It was intolerable.

She grabbed the last two sorts and stood.

“Anyway,” said Mr. Clumsy, “in answer to your previous question, I merely think it curious for a man to pay excessive attention to what another man looks like. They’re just random passersby on the street.”

Harriet winced. How stupid she’d been to reveal she’d taken notice of his appearance – that she recognized him after no more than a one split second glimpse. He’d turned away that day and continued on his way while she’d been left rather flummoxed, staring after him while attempting to calm her leaping pulse.

“Your boots,” she blurted, sounding like a cretin.

Her ears burned. She wanted to smack herself. Instead she swallowed past the sudden dryness in her throat and forced herself to look directly at him. It wasn’t easy since it was much like staring straight at the sun. Nevertheless, she did it, even though she could feel herself flushing, the heat not confined to her face but spreading rapidly down her neck and across her shoulders.

Still, she was fairly certain she managed to give him the most acerbic expression possible when all he did was blink in return.

“They were the finest I’ve ever seen,” she explained.

He frowned. “I don’t see how that helped your recognition of me since I’m wearing shoes today.”

“Right.” Pull yourself together, you nitwit. She raised her chin just enough to convey the sort of confidence she required in this instance. “They simply compelled me to take notice. Of you, that is. And besides, I’m quite good with faces. Once I’ve seen one, it tends to stick.”

“Hmm…” He angled his head. “You ought to work for Bow Street.”

She ought to get her head examined. Deciding a smile would be her safest response that was what she resorted to.

The man blinked again then shook his head and extended his hand. “Mr. Evans. I’m the new assistant editor.”

“Harry Michaels. Compositor.” She took the hand he offered while steeling herself against the effect she feared the contact would have. A wise decision, she decided one second later when his long fingers closed around hers. It felt as though she’d been struck by lightning.

How she kept her footing and managed not to gasp was beyond her. What she did notice was that his eyes widened a fraction as though he’d felt it too. Which was something she imagined he must find rather distressing.

If so, he gave no indication of it. He merely smiled, tightened his grip, and gave her hand a solid shake before releasing it altogether.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He glanced past her shoulder. “Mr. Hudson sent me to find a title block for Scottish Wildflowers. He said to look for it here.”

“Mr. Hudson hasn’t departed yet?” Harriet was surprised. Her employer usually left a bit earlier in the day.

“He and I started chatting after work.” Mr. Evans shrugged as though that explained everything.

“Right.” Harriet turned and went to collect the title block. “This is what he asked for.”

“Great. Thank you. And once again, I’m sorry about bumping into you. Won’t happen again.”

It was odd, how disappointed that made her feel. She gave a quick nod and said nothing further, watching instead as he left the room, shutting the door as he did so.

Only then, once he was gone, did reality fully sink in.

He, the man who made her heart leap with nary a glance, worked here now. She would see him every day. On a regular basis.

She stared at the door through which he’d departed and wondered how she’d survive the danger he posed not only to her livelihood but to her life. If anyone ever became suspicious of her inclination for him, her only way to avoid a hanging would be to reveal her true self. And risk losing the job she prized so dearly.