A Rogue of One's Own (A League of Extraordinary Women #2)(4)

“Yes, Father,” Miss Barnes said at once; clearly she had hung on every word.

Lucie inclined her head. “Miss Barnes, do you read the Home Counties Weekly and the Discerning Ladies’ Magazine?”

“Of course, my lady, every issue.”

“And are you married?”

Miss Barnes’s apple cheeks flushed a becoming pink. “No, my lady.”

“Very wise.” She turned back to Mr. Barnes. “Since Miss Barnes is a keen reader of both magazines, being a single woman evidently does not preclude an interest in healthy feminine pursuits.”

Now he was clearly at a loss. “But the difference is, my daughter would be interested because she has the prospect of having all these things, and soon.”

Ah.

Whereas she, Lucie, had no such prospects. A home. A happy family life. Her train of thought briefly derailed. Odd, because it shouldn’t—what Barnes said was only true. She was not in possession of the attributes that enticed a man, such as the softly curving figure and gentle eyes of Miss Barnes, which promised all the domestic comforts a husband could wish for. No, she was a political activist and rapidly approaching the age of thirty. She was not just left on the shelf, she was the shelf, and there was not a single gentleman in England interested in her offerings. Admittedly, her offerings were meager. Her reception room hosted a printing press and her life revolved around the Cause and a demanding cat. There was no room for the attention-hungry presence of a male. Besides, her most prominent campaign was waging war against the Married Women’s Property Act—the very reason why she was presently sitting in this chair and dealing with Mr. Barnes, in fact. Unless the act was amended or abolished altogether, she would lose her small trust fund to any future husband upon marriage, along with her name and legal personhood, and she would, quite literally, become a possession. Consequently, the right to vote, too, would move forever out of reach. Terribly enticing. No, what she wanted was a voice in London Print. And it seemed they were refusing to give it to her.

She loathed what she had to say next. But she hadn’t personally cajoled a dozen well-heeled women into investing in this enterprise only to tell them she had failed shortly before the finish line. Was Barnes aware how near deuced impossible it was to find even ten women of means in Britain who could spend their money as they wished?

Her voice emerged coolly: “The Duchess of Montgomery is part of the Investment Consortium, as you may know.”

Mr. Barnes gave a startled little leap in his chair. “Indeed.”

She gave him a grave stare. “I will call on her soon to inform her of our progress. I’m afraid she will be . . . distressed to find that her investment was not deemed good enough.”

And a distressed duchess meant a displeased duke. A powerful, displeased duke, whose reach extended all the way to India.

Mr. Barnes produced a large handkerchief from inside his jacket and dabbed at his forehead. “I shall present your, erm, arguments to the board,” he said. “I’m confident it will adequately clarify all their questions.”

“You do just that.”

“I suggest we meet again at the beginning of next week.”

“I shall see you Tuesday next, then, Mr. Barnes.”



* * *





Oxford’s spires and blue lead roofs were blurring into the fading sky when she exited the train station. The university’s golden sandstone structures were still aglow with the warmth of the sun after it had set. Normally, the sight of the ancient city soothed whatever mood she brought back from London. The founding academic walls and halls had not changed much since the last crusade and were wound through the town center as indelibly as the slew of inane scholarly traditions was shot through Oxford’s social fabric. There was a comforting permanency to it, the very reason why she had set up home here ten years ago. Of course, there were other reasons that had made the town an obvious choice: it was considerably more economical than London, and, while located blissfully far from the prying eyes of society, still close enough to Westminster by train. Sometimes, she was struck by fleeting regrets that the women’s colleges had opened only as recently as last year, when she had been too old and certainly too notorious to enroll, but back in her day, she had at least succeeded in paying acclaimed university tutors for some private lessons to improve her algebra and Latin. But, above all, she had chosen Oxford because it was assuredly untouched by time. A simple walk through town had put things into perspective, akin to the vastness of the ocean: what was a girl’s banishment from home in the face of these walls guarding seven hundred years of the finest human knowledge? Less than a mile east of her house on Norham Gardens, geniuses like Newton and Locke and Bentham had once been at work. On the rare occasions she felt whimsical, she imagined the long-gone brilliant minds surrounding her like grandfatherly ghosts, murmuring encouragement, because they, too, had once dedicated themselves to causes others had deemed nonsensical.

Tonight, the city failed to lift her spirits. A dark emotion was still crawling beneath her skin by the time she had arrived at her doorstep, and her legs were still itching for exhaustion. At this hour, she could hardly pay a social call to her friends, though Catriona was probably still at work on an ancient script in her father’s apartment in St. John’s. . . . She unlocked the front door instead. Lamenting about the spineless Barnes would not ease her restlessness. Now, a good long ride took care of twitchy limbs. But she hadn’t seen her horse in the decade since she had left Wycliffe Hall and for all she knew the stallion was long dead. She wandered through her dimly lit corridor, wondering whether she should stop using her title. She had been a lady in name only for a while.