Page 15 of Schemes & Scandals

“It is fine,” Gray murmurs, and his tone is conciliatory, but he adds a firm, “I really must be going. I will send you a message this evening with our decision.”

ChapterSeven

We’re in the coach. Gray hasn’t said a word since he caught up with me, and now he’s staring silently out the window as we pull away.

I clear my throat. “I’m going to take the case. You are free to stay out of it, as I’m not really a hapless twenty-year-old in need of guidance.”

“No,” he says, looking back at me sharply. “I said if you did this, I would, too, and?—”

“And I’m sick of circling, so let’s skip this shit, okay?”

The profanity startles him out of an answer.

I continue, “Working with Lady Inglis makes you uncomfortable, and it’s not necessary. That’s my point, Duncan. You don’t need to do this. I can handle it on my own.”

His tone chills. “If you do not wish my assistance, say so.”

I slam back in my seat with a profanity that has him blinking.

“I give up,” I say. “You’re upset about this whole thing, and you’re taking it out on me. I’m doing backflips to accommodate you, and you’re determined to see insult in anything I say.” I meet his gaze. “You’re right, Duncan. I don’t want your assistance. Because you’re being an ass, and I did nothing to deserve it.”

“I—”

“You insisted on accepting Lady Inglis’s offer to introduce me to Mr. Dickens, knowing it could put you in her debt. I’m accepting that debt as the person who benefited from it. But I still wouldn’t feel obligated to take the case. I’m choosing to do so because no woman deserves what this person is doing to her. She’s an unattached woman engaging in consensual affairs and having some fun writing risqué letters to her partners. This person is threatening to brand her with a scarlet letter, and that’s wrong.”

When he says nothing, I add, “Scarlet letter means?—”

“Yes, I have read the book. I understand the reference. You are correct, of course. Lady Inglis’s affairs are no one’s business but her own, as are any letters she might write.”

He leans back in his seat. “You are also correct that I am uncomfortable with the situation and taking it out on you, which I am wont to do.”

“Yep.”

He gives me a sidelong glance.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. “Am I supposed to say that youdon’tdo that? Or that you hardlyeverdo it?”

He doesn’t answer, but I know that Iamsupposed to say that. He is a Victorian male, head of the household in which I reside, and if he deigns to admit to a failing, I should fall over myself to reassure him it’s fine. Okay, maybe “fall over myself” is an exaggeration, but even someone as progressive as Gray has certain expectations. Or certain hopes, at least, because there is not a woman in his household who’d tell him he’s fine when he’s screwing up. Except maybe Mrs. Wallace.

Gray sighs, and it is such a deeply chagrined sigh that I have to fight against falling for it. I should be annoyed that he expects reassurances—or at least praise—when he admits to a failing, but he’s a man of his time, and I find it oddly charming. Of course, it’s charming because I know he genuinely tries to do better.

Growing up, I hated it when people told me I was lucky to have loving parents who supported me and my choices. How was it “lucky” to have parents who did what decent parents should do? Yet I do consider myself lucky to have landed in Gray’s household, where even before he knew I wasn’t Catriona, he’d been happy to take me on as his assistant. What mattered was that I was capable, regardless of my sex. That’s how it should be, of course, but how a thing should be is not the same as how it is.

I’d had a much greater chance of landing in a house where I’d be stuck cleaning chamber pots and fending off my boss’s wandering hands, because that’s what happened to girls like Catriona.

Iamlucky that Gray is as forward-thinking as he is. Iamfortunate that he accepts criticism from me. But I can still roll my eyes when he expects a cookie for admitting to a failing. These things are not incompatible.

“May I join your investigation, Miss Mitchell?” he says.

I straighten. “Oooh, I like the sounds of that. Polite and contrite. Say it again.”

He only sighs.

“Fine,” I say. “You may join it on the understanding that if you get pissy again, I can kick you out.”

“Even if I get ‘pissy’ over something you do?”

“Impossible. I am perfection personified.”

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