The Scoundrel and I: A Novella Read Online Free Page A

metal like he had studied her, but with a guarded frown.
    “Not quite clear on the trouble, miss.”
    “That, sir, is the trouble.” She pointed to a slender blank space inside the chase. “And that.” Her fingertip located another empty spot. “And that. And the fifty other missing pieces of type.”
    “Pieces of
type
?” He pronounced the word as though it were foreign.
    “The metal bits used in printing. This is a printing house. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
    “I did. Just don’t know much about it,” he said with diffidence that did not suit him. Then his lips curved into the dashing grin again. “Teach me, why don’t you?”
    Plucking out a sliver of type, she brandished it. “This is type. Each piece is a letter or symbol or blank space, or a common word.”
    “Common word?”
    “The. And. At. In.”
    “Aha.”
    “Together, arranged properly, they comprise the words and sentences of any printed matter. Each folio of a book, for instance, must be composed and printed individually. Then they are all bound together. It is the same with a newspaper or journal.”
    He nodded, glancing from her fingertips holding the piece to the chase. “Fancy that.”
    She loved everything about printing, the precision of it, the beauty of a carefully composed page, the scent of ink, and the comfort of this room when a work was in progress and pages were draped all about, the ink drying. It had been an eon, however, since she had seen it the way he was clearly seeing it now: as a novelty.
    “What’s this book?” He gestured to the forme.
    “It is not a book page. It is Lady Justice’s next publication.” She did not bother hiding the pride in her voice. Everybody in London knew Brittle & Sons published the pamphleteer. Lady Justice was so popular, and her identity such a carefully guarded secret, Mr. Brittle and his sons had turned away dozens of bribery offers for information about her. The Brittles did not even know her true identity; everything she wrote came to the shop via anonymous couriers. Even the letters that Peregrine sent to Lady Justice traveled such a circuitous route that nobody had succeeded at tracing it.
    “Hm,” the sailor said without any sign of awe.
    “Lady Justice,” she repeated. “Britain’s premier pamphleteer.”
    His face was blank.
    “You have heard of her, haven’t you?” she said.
    “Daresay everybody has.” He folded his arms again across his chest.
    “But . . .” London was mad about Lady Justice, either with adoration or outrage. Elle had never encountered anybody who did not have a strong opinion about her one way or the other. “You have read her pamphlets, haven’t you?”
    “Can’t say that I have,” he said. “This—” He waved his hand over the press. “This is hers?”
    “Yes, although that section”—she pointed—“is Peregrine’s latest letter. She included it within her piece, as she often does when aristocrats write to her.”
    “Peregrine. That fellow she’s always quarreling with?”
    “Yes. Although I would not exactly call it quarreling.”
    “What would you call it?”
    “You
have
read her pamphlets. You are only pretending to be unimpressed so that you can keep the upper hand here, aren’t you?”
    His gaze came to her, clear and direct. “Don’t know about any upper hand, but no, I haven’t read ’em. Heard plenty about ’em, though. Fellow can’t drink a bottle at his club these days without having to listen to some old lord raging about
Madame la
Justice’s radical notions and some young cub defending her till he’s blue in the face.”
    Elle smiled at this evidence of her hero’s notoriety.
    “Many good men admire her.” That her work helped Lady Justice’s voice reach thousands of Britons with every broadsheet Brittle & Sons printed filled her with satisfaction.
    “But you like him,” he said. “Don’t you?”
    “Him?”
    He motioned again to the press, his brows canting up. “The hawk man.”
    “Peregrine?”