She went through the Intelligencer’s ramshackle offices and knocked on Liam’s door. If Bathsheba knew anything about Liam, it was that he never said no to a profitable proposal. He’d become their partner in the final frantic days of printing Fifty Ways to Sin.

He was the owner and publisher of the Intelligencer, a strong-minded, ambitious Scot with a taste for risk. She was here on business, after all, and Liam MacGregor had long recognized her head for business. She reminded herself of all this as she approached the London Intelligencer, a gossip newspaper. She was someone, even if none of them knew it. Whenever she caught the faintly pitying glances people sent her way ( The poor dear, so plain and quiet, no wonder she’s a spinster…) or the openly surprised glances when she said something sensible ( Oh, good heavens Miss Crawford, we didn’t notice you…), a fierce satisfaction burned like a small sun in her breast. Her Tales of Lady X, about the romantic follies of a daring adventuress, sold very well. She might still be a plain little mouse of a woman, but she was a successful one.

It also drove her to seize opportunities when they arose: taking a chance on printing a scandalous story called Fifty Ways to Sin on the old printing press sitting idle in their scullery, which succeeded beyond all their dreams, and then daring to write her own wicked novels, even if anonymously. When they came within a hair’s breadth of losing everything. When her brother Daniel came home from war missing part of his arm, unable to work. That had seen her through hardship and adversity when her parents died of consumption and their family printing business failed. She also learned to pursue what she wanted, because nothing was freely given to young women of unremarkable looks whom everyone believed quiet and withdrawn. With no expectation of getting by on her looks or charm, Bathsheba had learned to use the talents she did have: an unmatched memory, a sharp, practical intelligence, and the ability to listen more than she spoke. There was nothing distinguishing about her, really.īut her mind worked quite well, thank you very much. She could not sing, had never learned to play an instrument, and didn’t speak a word of French.

She was no beauty, with a round face and plain features, her hair an ordinary shade of brown. Despite her looks, Bathsheba Crawford had never been shy.

About a rogue caroline linden