By the following Tuesday, London had decided that Mira Godwin was wicked.
It was printed in black and white, which made it all but official.
Mrs. Willoughby burst into the breakfast room waving a folded sheet so violently that crumbs flew from the table.
“They have done it,” she announced, flinging the paper down in front of Mira’s plate. “Those vultures. Those ink-stained jackals. I shall have them all horsewhipped.”
Mira, midway through a bite of toast, blinked. “Good morning?”
“Do not ‘good morning’ me,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “Read.”
The paper was *The Harmony Gazette,* one of those scandal sheets that lurked on every street corner, passed from hand to hand, smuggled into drawing rooms in bread baskets and coat pockets.
Mira had been studiously ignoring them since her arrival in town.
She looked down.
The headline, in lurid type, proclaimed:
*THE WIDOW GOES WADING: A YOUNG RELICT SPLASHES IN DEEP WATERS WITH A RUINOUS RAKE*
Beneath, a crude woodcut approximation of her features—overly large eyes, too-small mouth, curls exaggerated—was paired with a caricature of Daniel: crooked nose, wild hair, cards falling from his sleeves.
She set the toast down very carefully.
“She has not even had coffee,” Sally whispered from the sideboard, scandalized.
Mrs. Willoughby stabbed a finger at the column. “They mention *Caine* by name,” she hissed. “They imply you are tumbling about warehouses with Ferris at midnight. They suggest you enticed poor Mr. Pell into ‘unwise arrangements’—oh, for heaven’s sake, his arrangements were already unwise before he could spell your name—and they call Harcourt ‘a long-suffering pillar of mercantile probity.’ I may vomit.”
Mira’s lips quirked despite herself. “At least they use ‘probity’ correctly.”
“This is not the time for grammar,” Mrs. Willoughby snapped. “Are you not furious?”
Mira scanned the article.
Some of it was merely ridiculous:
*The bewitching widow, whose dark eyes and fuller figure have already set male hearts aflutter, has been seen in the lowest of haunts, consorting with men of the most dangerous reputation. What business a lady of breeding can have in such quarters, we leave our readers to deduce…*
Some hit closer:
*Our correspondent has it on good authority that the late Mr. Godwin’s accounts are in shocking disorder, and that his widow seeks, not the quiet dignity of mourning, but a more active…settlement…in company ill-suited to her supposed respectability.*
And some—
*Her chief companion in these excursions is said to be one Daniel F—s, a known gamester and hanger-on of merchant circles, whose connection to Godwin’s former ventures raises interesting questions. That Mrs. G—n chooses to rely on such dubious guidance rather than the sound counsel of her relations may speak to a very modern notion of feminine independence—an independence that leads, as we see, down to the waterfront.*
—were…uncomfortably accurate, if wildly colored.
Daniel, arriving late and breathless as usual, slowed to a halt on the threshold when he saw the paper.
“Ah,” he said. “Someone finally noticed.”
Mrs. Willoughby rounded on him. “This is your fault.”
“I am honored,” he said, dropping into a chair. “I have always aspired to be blamed for things beyond my control.”
Mira slid the Gazette toward him. “Apparently we are tumbling about warehouses,” she said dryly. “And I have become…plump.”
“You were plump before,” he said absently, eyes scanning the lines. “It suited you then; it suits you now.”
Heat flared in her cheeks. “That is not—”
He looked up, startled. “I meant—” He floundered, then gave up, grinning. “You know what I meant.”
“How can you be so calm?” Mrs. Willoughby demanded, snatching the paper back. “They have printed your name. Or enough of it. They have called you a ‘known gamester.’”
“That part is fair,” he said. “I am, indeed, known. And I do play cards.”
“They insinuate matters about your character,” she said.
“I have done that myself many times,” he said. “In better prose.”
Mira couldn’t help laughing.
Mrs. Willoughby glared at both of them. “You are impossible,” she said. “The pair of you. Fine. Take your scandal lightly. Let me be the only one with sense here.”
“What do you propose we do?” Mira asked.
“Retreat,” Mrs. Willoughby said promptly. “Immediately. To the country. To Bath. To anywhere that is not within delivery radius of these odious sheets.”
“And let them think they have driven me off?” Mira asked, something hardening in her chest. “That wagging their tongues, or pens, is enough to send me scuttling?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “It would be vastly healthier.”
“No,” Mira said.
Mrs. Willoughby threw up her hands. “Of course not.”
Daniel folded the Gazette, then unfolded it again, frowning now.
“There is one useful thing,” he said quietly.
“Useful?” Mrs. Willoughby repeated. “You find uses in filth now?”
“Look,” he said, tapping the lower half of the column. “‘Our man on the river reports that Mrs. G—n was seen near a certain warehouse on the south wharf recently, as crates were being shifted under cover of early morning. That this warehouse is associated with H—t is well known.’”
“Harcourt,” Mira translated.
“Yes,” Daniel said. “The Gazette prints nothing without someone feeding them tidbits. They like truth sprinkled with lies. It gives their nonsense flavor.”
“You think Harcourt or his men told them,” she said.
“Or Pell,” Daniel said. “Or someone hoping to hurt Harcourt by highlighting his connection. Either way, it means the warehouse is not merely our secret. Word is…circulating.”
“Will that not make the magistrates more skittish?” Mrs. Willoughby asked. “They dislike publicity. It makes them work.”
“It may also prick their pride,” Daniel said. “No man likes to be told by a scandal sheet that he is asleep at his post.”
Mira chewed her lip. “Do you think the Gazette would print something if they believed it would…help…me?”
Mrs. Willoughby nearly choked on her coffee. “Absolutely not,” she said. “They do nothing that does not help their sales.”
“I mean,” Mira persisted, “if I were to…leak…something that made a better story. Something that made Harcourt look a greater villain than me.”
Daniel eyed her. “Now you are thinking like them. I am both impressed and alarmed.”
“I dislike this plan,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “It involves talking to people who use ink as a weapon and wit as a battering-ram. Leave that to me.”
“You know them?” Mira asked, surprised.
“Of course,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “You cannot live in London and not know at least three scandal-mongers by name. I card with one. He cheats. Poorly.”
“Would he print what we wanted?” Mira asked. “In exchange for…?”
“Money,” Daniel said. “Flirtation. Information. They are easily bribed. But we must be careful what we feed them. Too much truth, and we hand our enemies our weapons. Too much falsehood, and we become as filthy as they are.”
“I do not propose lies,” Mira said. “Only…arranged truths. If the Gazette is going to paint me a villain, I would rather they paint Harcourt in the same strokes.”
“You want him to feel what it is to have one’s name dragged through the streets,” Mrs. Willoughby said, eyes gleaming. “Oh, I *like* that.”
Daniel rubbed his forehead. “We are planning reputational warfare now. I suppose we might as well commit.”
He looked at Mira. “But you must understand: once you step into that arena, there is no washing your hands of it. You will be *seen* as a woman who uses the press. A politician, almost. Men will sneer. Some will applaud. None will forget.”
“I am already being seen as a woman who uses men,” she said. “This is not worse.”
He exhaled. “Fair point.”
Mrs. Willoughby clapped. “Excellent. I shall invite Mr. Jillet to tea. He writes for the Gazette. Or at least *a* Gazette; they multiply like rats. We shall dress respectably, feed him cake, and tell him that Harcourt is far more wicked than me.”
“Than we,” Mira corrected.
“Than we,” Mrs. Willoughby agreed. “Oh, this will be *delicious.*”
“Careful,” Daniel said. “We do not want to spook Harcourt into bolting before Good Friday.”
“We will not name dates,” Mira said. “Only…paint a picture. Harcourt the greedy. Harcourt the coward. Harcourt the man who let boys die to save his own skin.”
“Will that not put Turner in danger?” Sally asked, surprising them all. “If people think he might talk?”
Mira softened. “Turner is already in danger,” she said. “From his own choices. But you are right. We must not sharpen the blade at his throat before we need to.”
“I hate all of this,” Sally muttered. “Why can’t villains be simple, like in plays? Big hats, bad teeth, easy to spot.”
“They often *are* easy to spot,” Daniel said. “We simply don’t want to see them.”
Sally scowled. “I see you.”
“I am not the villain,” Daniel said mildly.
“You play cards and lurk in taverns,” she said. “That’s half of one.”
“Only half,” he said. “The other half is spent rescuing stubborn ladies from their own schemes.”
Mira’s cheeks warmed.
Mrs. Willoughby flicked her napkin at him. “Stop baiting the help,” she said. “Mira needs her more than she needs you.”
“That is undoubtedly true,” Daniel said.
***
Mr. Jillet looked exactly as one would expect a scandal-monger to look: small, sharp, and faintly damp.
His coat was too shiny at the elbows, his cravat stained with ink. His eyes, however, were bright as a magpie’s.
“Mrs. Willoughby,” he said, bowing too low. “Always a pleasure to receive your…summons.”
“Sit, Jillet,” she said, with the air of a queen deigning to acknowledge a footman. “Have tea. And do not drop crumbs on my carpet.”
He perched on the edge of the chair, cup in hand, eyes flicking immediately to Mira.
“And this,” Mrs. Willoughby said, “is Mrs. Mira Godwin. I believe you have…made her acquaintance in print.”
Jillet flushed. “Ah. Mrs. Godwin. Your pardon if our little…reportage…caused you distress. We mean no harm. Merely to amuse.”
“Amusement,” Mira said. “An interesting word for public shaming.”
He had the grace to look chastened—for all of a heartbeat.
“Society is always curious,” he said. “We merely give it fodder. Better it talk of you than of some helpless girl caught with a groom.”
“Am I not a helpless girl?” she asked.
He glanced at her hands. “You do not look helpless. You look…like a woman with plans.”
“Good,” she said. “Then we understand one another.”
He shifted, both wary and intrigued. “Have you…plans…for me, Mrs. Godwin?”
“Yes,” she said. “I want you to write a story.”
He blinked. “You do.”
“About Harcourt & Sons,” she said. “And Turner’s warehouse. And wagons at dawn. And boys who die when crates fall.”
Jillet licked his lips. “That…would be…sensational.”
Mrs. Willoughby tsked. “Do not salivate, Jillet. It is unseemly.”
“But,” he said, “we cannot simply—without evidence—”
“You have no qualms printing innuendo about ladies’ honor,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “Do not grow a conscience now.”
“Scandal about gentlemen’s pockets is more…dangerous,” Jillet said. “They read us too. They have barristers. And fists.”
“Then we must frame it carefully,” Mira said. “Questions. Hints. ‘Certain warehouses on the south wharf have been unusually active…certain firms may wish to examine their clerks’ behavior…certain names are whispered in taverns.’ Enough to make them squirm. Not enough to hang any of us in print.”
“Except Harcourt,” Mrs. Willoughby put in sweetly. “Hang him all you like.”
Jillet sipped, thinking.
“You wish us to…shift…the narrative,” he said. “From ‘wicked widow’ to ‘wicked merchant.’”
“I wish you to tell a more complete story,” Mira said. “If you must feed London’s appetite, feed it truth.”
He laughed, delighted. “Truth does not always sell, Mrs. Godwin.”
“Then dress it prettily,” she said. “You do that already.”
He grinned, then sobered. “Why?”
“Why what?” she asked.
“Why…fight back like this?” he asked. “Most ladies in your position weep to their husbands, or brothers, or spinsters’ charities. They do not call on the press.”
“Most ladies in my position,” she said, “have husbands or brothers to shield them. I do not. I have only my name. If you are going to use it, I prefer to help hold the pen.”
He stared for a beat, then laughed again. “Oh, that is good. Very good. May I quote you?”
“Not yet,” she said. “After Good Friday.”
He tilted his head. “Something is coming.”
“Yes,” she said. “And you may either record it from afar or help arrange the room. Which is more…amusing?”
His eyes gleamed. “Arranging is more fun,” he admitted. “Very well. We will…hint. We will suggest that certain pillars have cracks. We will not name you. We will imply that you have been—perhaps—misunderstood.”
“That will be a novelty,” she said.
He smirked. “Villains are my stock in trade, Mrs. Godwin. It is not often I am offered a chance at a heroine.”
“Do not make me one,” she said quickly.
He looked startled. “No?”
“Heroines in your sheets,” she said, “are either fools or saints. I am neither. I am…stubborn. That is all.”
He studied her a moment.
Then nodded. “Stubborn makes better copy,” he said. “Saints are dull.”
They arranged terms: nothing in print until two days before Good Friday; no naming of the south wharf or Turner; no insinuations about her virtue other than those already in circulation.
When he had gone, Mrs. Willoughby sank back with a sigh.
“That man,” she said, “is like a ferret. Smelly. Useful. Bites.”
“Do you think he will keep his word?” Mira asked.
“Mostly,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “He cannot resist a good line. You gave him several. He will polish them, twist them, hang them on Harcourt like medals. It will be…entertaining.”
“Dangerous,” Mira said.
“Everything is, these days,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “At least this danger we choose.”
***
That evening, Mira and Daniel walked in the square.
It was a habit they had slipped into, almost without noticing: a circuit after dinner, cloaked and gloved, speaking in low voices that blended with the rustle of leaves and the distant clatter of carriages.
Tonight, the air was mild for March. The faint, damp smell of growing things threaded through the chill.
“Jillet will make mischief,” Daniel said when she told him of the afternoon. “Harcourt will read it and choke on his brandy.”
“Good,” she said. “Let him choke.”
“Anger suits you,” Daniel murmured.
“Everything seems to,” she said. “According to the Gazette.”
He winced. “I am sorry about that.”
“You did not print it,” she said.
“No,” he said. “But if you had never met me, they would have had to find some other rake to link you with.”
“I am sure they would have,” she said. “London is not short of rakes.”
“I am trying to be flattered,” he said.
She smiled.
They walked in silence for a few strides.
“You wrote something,” he said suddenly.
She glanced at him. “What?”
“In Ellison’s drawer,” he said. “I saw my name on the back of an envelope. His clerk cannot keep his eyes to himself.”
“You spied,” she said.
“I glanced,” he corrected. “Like any man on his way to other sins.”
Heat crept up her neck. “It is private.”
“Yes,” he said.
A beat.
“And?” she asked.
“And I have been trying very hard not to imagine what it says,” he admitted. “I am failing.”
She exhaled, a puff of white.
“It is a will,” she said.
His jaw tightened. “I guessed.”
“I had to,” she said quietly. “In case. I did not want Gilbert or Sally or you to be left with…nothing settled.”
“And me?” he asked, voice low. “What unpleasant bequest have you saddled me with?”
She hesitated. “Your imagination is likely worse than the truth.”
“Humor me,” he said. “For once, I would like to know the content of a ledger before I sign.”
She almost laughed. “I left you…papers,” she said. “Thomas’s. Any that remain. And…courage.”
He stopped walking.
“Courage,” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said. “Whatever I have not used.”
He turned to face her fully.
“You truly think me that much of a coward,” he said softly.
“What?” she said, startled.
“To need yours,” he said. “Left to me like a shawl you no longer require.”
“No,” she said quickly. “That is not what I—”
He stared down at her, expression unreadable in the soft lamplight.
“For a man who has just confessed love,” he said after a breath, “that hits oddly.”
Her heart stuttered. “I did not mean—”
He stepped closer, so that the shadows of the plane trees fell over them, giving them a small, private pocket in public space.
“Explain,” he said.
It was not a demand. It was…a request.
“I do not think you a coward,” she said, forcing the words to be steady. “I think you braver than most men I have seen. Brave enough to admit fear. To walk back into rooms that hurt you. To stand beside me when everyone tells you to push me away.”
“Then why—”
“I wrote ‘courage’ because…” She groped, cheeks hot. “Because you *already* have more than enough of your own. But if…if somehow…there is any of mine left when I am gone, I want you to have it. Not because you lack. Because you will use it well.”
He exhaled.
The tension in his shoulders eased, his mouth quirking. “Ah,” he said. “So it is not a loan. It is an investment.”
“Yes,” she said, almost relieved to fall into metaphor. “I am diversifying my portfolio.”
He laughed.
“Do not leave me anything,” he said suddenly.
She blinked. “What?”
“In your will,” he said. “Change it. Scratch my name out. Give the papers to Cobb. Or Reggie. Or Lady Bennett. Or the cat. Anyone but me.”
“Why?” she asked, stung. “You do not want them?”
“Of course I want them,” he said. “I want every scribble Thomas ever made that might ease the guilt I carry. But if you die and I receive that envelope, it will feel like…payment. A settlement. ‘Here, Daniel, have my dead husband’s thoughts and my leftover courage and consider your ledger balanced.’ I cannot bear that.”
She swallowed. “You truly think that is what I meant.”
“I know it is not,” he said. “You are kinder than that. But I will *feel* it anyway. I will see my name in your hand and I will hear Thomas laughing and cursing us both and I will think: this is what I am worth. Scraps of paper.”
Her throat tightened. “You are worth more than that.”
“To you?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, without flinching.
He took a breath that seemed to cost him.
“Then do not put me in ink in that way,” he said. “Let whatever I am to you be…unwritten.”
She considered.
Ink fixed things. Solidified them. Made them weigh more.
He was already heavy enough in her mind.
“Very well,” she said quietly. “I will ask Ellison to alter it.”
“Thank you,” he said.
They stood there, in the little shadowed triangle of square and tree and lamplight.
“You know,” he said after a moment, tone lighter, “this is perhaps the strangest love talk I have ever had. ‘Please don’t leave me things if you die.’ It lacks…poetry.”
“It has sincerity,” she said.
“More dangerous,” he said.
They began walking again, slower now.
“Do you regret telling me?” she asked after a while. “About…love.”
He was silent long enough that she nearly took the question back.
“No,” he said finally. “I regret the timing. The circumstance. The way it complicates an already ungodly knot. But not the telling.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because,” he said, “if I am crushed under a crate on Good Friday or stabbed in some alley by a man whose name I barely know, I would prefer to go out having spoken at least one unambiguous truth in my life.”
Her eyes stung.
“That is very dramatic,” she said thickly.
“I am a second son,” he said. “The stage is the only pulpit I’m allowed.”
She laughed, and this time it did not feel like defiance.
“Do you want to know what I feel?” she asked, sudden and reckless.
He stopped again.
For once, his composure cracked; nerves flickered across his face.
“Yes,” he said.
“It is…complicated,” she warned.
“Everything about you is,” he said. “I can bear it.”
She inhaled.
“I…care for you,” she said. “Deeply. Infuriatingly. In ways I do not have words for yet. I like you. I admire you. You make me want to hit you and kiss you in the same breath.”
His breath left him in a puff.
“I miss you when you are not in a room,” she went on, the words coming faster now, as if they had been waiting. “I look for your face when I walk in. I weigh every choice with a tiny, annoying voice in my head that sounds like you asking ‘and what will this cost?’ I do not yet know if that is love. I’m not sure I know what love is beyond what I had with Thomas. But I know…this. You matter. Too much.”
He stared at her.
She had never seen his eyes so open.
Then he laughed, softly, helplessly.
“What?” she demanded, stung. “Have I said something amusing?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Just…relieving. I was not entirely sure the wanting-to-hit-me part was mutually felt.”
She made a strangled sound.
A few paces away, the shadow of a shrub sliced them off from the path.
Without quite meaning to, they stepped into it.
He reached up, hesitated, then very carefully tucked a loose curl behind her ear.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?” she asked, dazed.
“For not promising something you’re not yet ready to give,” he said. “For not saying ‘I love you too’ because you think it is what I want to hear. For giving me honesty instead. It is…rarer.”
Her chest hurt.
“You are very difficult to please,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “And you please me anyway.”
She swallowed.
The urge to close the last inches between them—to feel his mouth, to see if that unlocked anything—is heavy.
Her body leaned almost imperceptibly forward.
His hand halfway lifted, then fell.
“Not yet,” he said, so low she almost did not hear.
“Why?” she whispered, hating herself for the word even as it left her.
“Because,” he said, “if I kiss you now, with Good Friday bearing down on us and Harcourt’s warehouse waiting and Caine counting pieces, I may not stop. And if something happens—if I die, if you do—I want to know that whatever this is had room to grow beyond one impulsive night in a London square. I want it to have…a chance.”
It was, perhaps, the least romantic speech ever made in a lamplit path.
It also sent something fierce and warm through her.
“You think we have a chance,” she said.
“Yes,” he said simply. “If we live.”
“Then we shall,” she said.
“Bossy,” he murmured.
“Correct,” she said.
They resumed walking, a little farther apart this time, as if distance were a talisman against intentions.
The square spun gently around them.
Above, the stars peered through a veil of city haze, indifferent.
Below, in the street, a small boy ran past with a copy of the *Harmony Gazette* under his arm, shouting about scandal.
Mira almost laughed.
Let them write.
She had other scripts to attend.
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