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  “I’ve been doing this for nearly fifteen years,” he replied. “And you?”

  Was he really asking a lady to give a hint of her age? She narrowed her eyes at him, but he was smiling and seemed genuinely interested.

  “As Mr. Henley mentioned, I learned it as a child. My father is a telegrapher. He worked for many years at the railway station in Ancaster. I spent a lot of time with him there.” She paused, embarrassed that she had given out so much information without his even asking for it.

  He didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. He merely nodded. “That would go a long way toward explaining why you are so good.”

  He handed the paper to Mavis, who received it as if it were a special love note just for her. The stars in her eyes were so obvious that Alice was tempted to roll her own in response. It instantly brought her back to herself. She would never get foggy brained over a man. She could respect his talent and admire his drive to get on in the world, but neither of those things should be leaving her breathless.

  The sounder picked up with another message. “Excuse me,” she said, relieved for the excuse to turn away from his smiling gaze.

  She took her place again at the telegraph. This message was coming from London’s Central Telegraph Office. It was delivered in a smooth, competent hand that wasn’t racing. As Alice worked, the two men went into Mr. Henley’s office and shut the door behind them.

  “Isn’t he wonderful?” Mavis said as soon as Alice had finished receiving the message and was at liberty to talk again. “He’s such a nice man. And so handsome, too.” She leaned eagerly toward Alice over her typewriter. “Didn’t I tell you he was handsome?”

  She had. Many times. So had Archie—although in his case it had been in the context of insinuating that Mr. Shaw had risen in the company solely on account of his good looks and his ability to flatter potential clients. But the fact that Mr. Shaw had caught those specific details about the missing letters simply by ear and while talking with someone else at the same time, was extraordinary. A talent for telegraphy didn’t necessarily mean he had business acumen, but it did indicate a sharp mind.

  And there was no doubt that he was easy on the eyes. . . .

  Alice cleared her throat and marshaled her thoughts. “I look forward to working with him,” she said, putting no more emphasis on it than she would if discussing any other work colleague.

  She wasn’t going to say any more. Nevertheless, she couldn’t deny she was glad that Mr. Shaw was so pleasant and competent. Mr. Henley could be terse and bark out orders, and Archie was, well, Archie. Mr. Shaw’s presence could only improve the atmosphere here.

  As for his being handsome, that was more likely to be a distraction than a help. It was best she got used to it as soon as possible so that Alice could keep her mind where it belonged—on her work.

  “That can’t be right.” Mr. Henley looked up from his desk, where he was making notes as Douglas relayed details about his trip that had not yet been typed up for the official report.

  Douglas stopped midsentence. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You said, ‘Two hundred bales of cotton from Ancaster.’”

  Startled, Douglas shook his head. “Did I? I meant to say Alabama, of course. Two hundred bales of cotton from Alabama at four dollars per bale, in addition to the shipment from Georgia, twice the amount at the same price per bale. Shipping fees add twenty-five cents per bale. All total, I put the sum after conversion at sixty-four pounds, three shillings, and nine pence. We should easily make a profit by selling the cotton at the standard rate here in England, or perhaps even a little lower if we want to leverage our advantage over our competitors.” For some reason this information came out unusually rapid. So rapid that he felt a touch breathless as he finished.

  Henley studied him for a moment, his mouth quirking up in an expression Douglas couldn’t decipher. He nodded and began scratching the numbers on the paper, totaling the sums himself to ensure they matched the totals Douglas had given him. Henley always did this. It wasn’t that he distrusted Douglas’s tallies; it was simply that he always double-checked the financial sums for everything in the business.

  As he worked, Douglas thought over his verbal gaffe. Ancaster. That was where Alice McNeil said she was from. Somehow that tidbit had lodged in his mind. In one sense, that wasn’t surprising. Douglas’s memory was excellent. He retained a wide range of information from many sources. However, he was usually better at compartmentalizing it. How had Ancaster slipped into his discussion of business in America? He supposed it wasn’t unusual that she would be on his mind. He had just met her, after all, and he’d been impressed by her ability to focus on the incoming message despite the distractions. He’d also enjoyed that taste of her sense of humor while eavesdropping on her conversation with Clapper. What other interesting things might he learn about her?

  He smiled as he recalled the way she had given Clapper a dose of his own medicine—something that was greatly needed. Miss McNeil’s predecessor was a mediocre telegrapher who tended to make mistakes under pressure. That had been bad for the company, if good for Clapper’s sense of superiority. Clapper would have to work hard to prove himself better than Alice McNeil. From what Douglas had seen today, their competition was already underway.

  It was a prospect Douglas was greatly looking forward to.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  Alice found herself thinking a lot about Douglas Shaw as she rode the omnibus home after work. The whole tenor of the office had changed with his arrival. Alice suspected things were going to get a lot more interesting. In some ways, he was just as Archie and Mavis had described him, and yet they hadn’t presented a full picture. She had found herself taken completely by surprise.

  Perhaps it was simply her reaction to him that had surprised her. She had not expected to be so . . . well, drawn to him. She felt her cheeks go red from embarrassment even though no one in this crowded omnibus could possibly know what she was thinking.

  She chided herself for her shallowness in admiring Mr. Shaw’s appearance. Plenty of handsome men had never turned her head. Why was he different? She must have been drawn to that certain light in his eye, the kind born of confidence, and his equally assured bearing. She could admire anyone who was successful in life. Yes, that must be it.

  Even after deciding this, she still found herself thinking about today’s events long after she’d arrived home, eaten her supper, and fed Miss T, the cat she’d acquired shortly after moving into her small but comfortable abode in Islington on the northeast side of London. It was perhaps more accurate to say the cat had acquired her, for the creature had found its own way, via a tree, a brick wall, and an open window, into the rooms Alice was renting on the upper floor of a widow’s house. The cat was friendly, and Alice was happy for the companionship. Besides, how could she refuse such an appealing creature who had shown so much determination to be there? She had named the cat after Miss Templeton. It seemed fitting, since living on her own in these pleasant lodgings was evidence she was living the life Miss Templeton had taught her to aspire to.

  After dinner, Alice put on her hat and picked up her reticule. Despite having risen early and worked a full day, she still had too much energy to settle down for the evening. She decided to take a walk. On her way out, she took a few scraps of leftover fish to feed the two other cats who had gotten into the habit of lounging near the stoop of the house in hope of such kindness. They had not discovered Miss T’s secret for coming and going from the house, which Alice considered a good thing. One cat coming inside was enough for her. But she was happy to give these others a bit of extra food when she had it.

  After a stroll around the park near her house, Alice turned her steps toward the high street. There was still time to visit her favorite bookshop. Browsing the shelves could be just the thing to distract her thoughts.

  Now that he was back in London, Douglas resumed his usual after-dinner walk with Stuart Carson and “Hal” Halverson, his friends
and fellow boarders at the boardinghouse he called home for now. The walk was a good way to work off their landlady’s meals, which were usually heavy on mutton and potatoes. It also gave him an opportunity to catch his friends up on what had happened during his American trip and about the benefits he was already gleaning from it. One such benefit was the prospect of an invitation to a dinner party where he would finally be introduced to Miss Penelope Rolland. Henley was working on a deal with Miss Rolland’s father, a wealthy banker who had financed many shipping and import ventures. If Douglas was to begin courting Miss Rolland, it could make the deal even sweeter.

  “I envy you,” Carson said. “Not only is Miss Rolland rich, but the gossip in the papers is that she’s a stunner, too.”

  “It’ll be the perfect match,” Hal added. “We’ll miss you after you get married and move into a fancy home. But we’ll anxiously await your invitation to dinner.”

  “Let’s not put the cart before the horse,” Douglas protested. “I haven’t even met her yet.”

  “You can’t be worried!” Hal snorted. “It’s a sure thing. She’s rich and you’re handsome!”

  The two men laughed, and Douglas joined them. However, he meant it that this match was not a sure bet. He was well aware he was a social climber, and he had to take care not to step on any toes along that ladder. The ebullience he’d felt on the trip home from America had begun to settle, and whispers of uncertainty arose in its place. Would he really be able to prove that his successes overseas could translate to the English social scene?

  “Look at Douglas, acting so demure,” Carson said with a smirk. “We know you always leave the ladies wanting more. Like that Miss Wilson who lives across the street from the boardinghouse. The way she bats her eyes at you whenever your paths cross on the street!”

  “Which they seem to do quite often,” Hal observed. He nodded and touched his nose—a habit he had whenever sharing what he considered a deep or clever insight. “I think she figures out how to make those accidental meetings happen on purpose.”

  “You flatter me,” Douglas said. He wouldn’t allow their words to go to his head. Although he hadn’t met Miss Rolland yet, he was pretty sure that winning her over wouldn’t be as easy as turning the head of the vapid Miss Wilson. Even if Miss Rolland were to fall head over heels in love with him, there were plenty of other obstacles to clear.

  The men paused in front of a bookshop they often frequented. “Let’s go in,” Hal suggested. “I want to get the new issue of the Illustrated Police News.”

  Douglas frowned. “With all the enlightening and edifying books in there, you want to spend your money on stories of outrageous crimes?”

  “There’s valuable information in that paper!” Hal insisted. “Last week’s issue had a story about two telegraph operators who got married, and three years later the woman killed her husband. Decided he wasn’t good enough for her anymore, so she stabbed him to death—with a joiner’s chisel!” He poked a finger in Douglas’s chest. “There’s a lesson in that, you know.”

  “Never take up woodworking for a hobby?” Douglas suggested with a smile.

  “No! Never marry a telegraph operator! Working in a man’s profession has hardened ’em. They’ll never make obedient wives.”

  “I’ll be sure to take that under advisement,” Douglas said, nodding with mock seriousness.

  He smiled to himself as they entered the shop. The talk of lady telegraph operators immediately brought to mind Alice McNeil. She was clever and not so hard to look at, although her hairstyle and clothing were rather plain—with the exception of that very feminine purple scarf. It seemed almost out of place on her, as though it hinted at another side of her that was not readily evident. He also knew she had a tart tongue and an ability to hold her own. But he was pretty sure she wasn’t the sort of woman who would stab a man with a joiner’s chisel.

  Hal went to the newspaper rack to buy his penny paper while the other two men began perusing the bookshelves. After a few minutes, Douglas noticed that Hal’s attention had been caught by a book after all. He was standing with the unread newspaper under his arm, reading the book and chuckling.

  Douglas went over to him. “What did you find? A book of humorous stories?”

  “I suppose you could call it that,” Hal answered with a grin. As Carson joined them, Hal lifted the book to reveal the title stamped on its spine: The Spinster’s Guide to Love and Romance.

  Carson drew his head back in surprise. “Why would you want to read that?”

  “There’s a whole chapter in here that supposedly explains to women how men think!” Hal guffawed.

  “I’ve never met a woman who wanted to know what we think,” Carson joked, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “The author of this book thinks they do. Listen here.” Hal pointed to a place in the book and read aloud. “‘Men are like cats; they need only to be petted in the right direction.’”

  “What?” Douglas exclaimed.

  “It gets even better.” Hal turned back a page. “‘There is nothing in the world as harmless and as utterly joyous as man’s conceit. It is purely altruistic and springs from a desire to please others, for he is certain his numerous fine qualities enrich the lives of all he meets. The woman who will not pander to this belief will not get nearly so far as the woman who does.’”

  “She’s got a point, you know,” Carson said, nodding sagely. “Hal, I think you might have found the most interesting book in this shop.”

  Alice hadn’t meant to eavesdrop; that certainly was not her way. But seeing Douglas Shaw and two other men through the window of the bookshop as she’d approached, she couldn’t resist. The streetlamps were not yet lit, but the lights in the bookshop shone brightly. From Alice’s vantage point outside, the men were as clearly illuminated against the gathering dusk as if they’d been on a stage. Douglas’s two companions seemed so different from one another that they made an odd trio. Douglas was the best dressed of the three, although one of the others, who was equally as tall, came a close second. The third man was easily five inches shorter—and wider—than the other two. He appeared to be reading aloud from a book, gesturing with one hand as he did so, and causing the other men to smile.

  Alice had already formed a good opinion of Douglas Shaw, but now she liked him even better. Anyone who frequented bookshops was a decent gentleman in her book.

  In her book. She chuckled.

  The bell over the door jangled as Alice entered, but the men didn’t seem to notice. They were too absorbed in the book.

  Nellie, the daughter-in-law of the bookshop owner, was minding the store tonight. She had married Mr. Meyer’s son last year. Her husband, being more interested in banking than books, did not wish to work in his father’s business. Nellie, on the other hand, had taken to it like a duck to water. She’d begun by helping keep the place clean and organized, but before long she was involved in all aspects of running the shop. Tonight she was poring over what must be the account book, absently returning Alice’s wave before turning her attention back to her work.

  Alice made her way over to a tall bookshelf that stood between her and the men. There was no center board between the two sides, so Alice could catch glimpses of them between the books and hear what they were saying. She was curious what had them so intrigued. She guessed it was a book on history or politics, or perhaps an adventure novel. That was the type of reading matter most often favored by her father and brothers. She picked up a book and was careful to look as though she was intently perusing it, just in case any of them should notice her.

  By now, the taller of Douglas’s two friends was holding the book. “This one is interesting,” he said. “‘Woman has three weapons: flattery, food, and flirtation, and only the last of these ever weakens with time. With the first she appeals to man’s conceit, with the second to his heart, which is suspected to lie at the end of the esophagus, rather than over among the lungs and ribs, and with the third to his natural rivalry of his fellow
s.’”

  Alice took in a breath, stunned. This didn’t sound like a political or history book. Neither would be likely to include an overly flowery version of the old saying that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.

  The shorter man plucked the book from the other man’s hand, saying with a smile, “Let me show you this one.” Flipping to another page, he began to read. “‘When a man seeks a woman’s society, it is because he has need of her, not because he thinks she has need of him. A wise woman who is an expert with the chafing dish may frequently bag desirable game, while the foolish maidens who have neglected this skill are still hunting eagerly for the trail.’”

  “That is exactly how Mamie is drawing you in, isn’t it, Hal?” Douglas said. “She has you by the invisible cord that leads to the chafing dish.”

  “I will admit that Mamie’s chafing dish is a big draw,” Hal said with a grin. “But our friend Carson here ain’t immune, either. As it says here . . .” He cleared his throat. “‘Food, properly served, will attract a proposal at almost any time, especially if it is known that the pleasing viands were of the girl’s own making.’” He eyed his friend. “Isn’t that how Miss Peters got you?”

  “Nonsense,” Carson replied, attempting to sound affronted even though he was laughing along with his friends. “I knew exactly what I was about. I sought her out. She was . . . er, auditioning.”

  Alice could hear the grin in his words. She wanted to snort in disgust. Auditioning, indeed.

  Hal extended the book toward Douglas. “I’d say you’re the one who needs this the most. After all, since you intend to enter the marriage market, you’ll need some pointers about how women think.”

  “Hmm, maybe you’re right.” Douglas took the proffered book and turned to a random page. “‘Married and unmarried women waste a great deal of time feeling sorry for each other. Each supposes her own state is best. At the same time, a paradox presents itself. There may exist hidden in each woman’s soul a quiet touch of envy, a question about what might have been, had she traveled the other’s road.’”