“I know.”
“And the gossip is all true. Irene, I never bring you anything that isn’t absolutely on the up-and-up.”
“I know that, too. This decision has nothing to do with you or the quality of your work. I just . . .” She paused, working to find a way to explain that wouldn’t give her away. “I just don’t want the paper to gossip about the ton anymore.”
“The ton, my foot.” Josie wagged a finger at her. “What you really mean is that you don’t want to print any gossip about the Duke of Torquil and his family.”
So much for not giving herself away. “It’s isn’t just Torquil’s family I’m thinking of.”
“Tell it to the marines! You’ve been mooning over that man ever since you moved back from the West End.”
“I have not been mooning over him,” she denied, but that was such a blatant lie, she gave up and veered away from the topic of Henry. “This isn’t just because of Torquil, Josie,” she said instead, trying to sound as indifferent as possible. “I have to think of Clara. Ellesmere’s come up to snuff, I’m happy to say. He seems willing to pay a bit of attention to her, bring her out, that sort of thing, so she’ll only continue working for me until I can hire a new secretary, then she’ll become quite the social butterfly.”
“What about you?”
“Me?” She shook her head with a laugh. “Ellesmere won’t be launching me into society, not when he learns I won’t give up the paper. But it’s different for Clara. He’ll be able to do great things for her, and the duke’s family is willing to help. I can’t jeopardize her chances by printing gossip about Ellesmere, and Torquil, and their set. I can’t. Delilah has to go.”
“I see.” Josie chewed on her lower lip, considering for a moment before she spoke again. “So where does that leave me?”
“We’ll be keeping everything else pretty much the same, so you can write the same sorts of stories Elsa and Hazel do.”
Josie took a deep breath and met her gaze steadily. “Or I could take Delilah to a competitor. The Social Gazette or Talk of the Town would love to have her.”
“I’m sure they would. And if that’s your choice, then I would completely understand. And as I said, I would give you an excellent letter of character. Not,” she added with a smile, “that the notorious Delilah Dawlish needs a good character to find work.”
Josie smiled back at her. “No, it’s probably better if she has a bad character, in fact. But . . .” She paused, her grin fading. “But I believe I shall want the letter just the same.”
“So you intend to go?”
“I have to, Irene. I can’t let Delilah go. She’s my creation, my invention. She’s something of me—oh, how can I explain?”
“You don’t have to explain. I understand just what you mean, Josie. I truly do.”
The other woman nodded. “Delilah’s latest thrilling installment of life among the nobs is sitting on Clara’s desk awaiting your edits. Are you going to print it tomorrow, or can I take it with me?”
“I won’t be printing it, and you’re free to take it with you. But you don’t have to leave straightaway, Josie. You’re welcome to stay on the customary fortnight, with wages, of course.”
“Thanks, but I don’t like long good-byes. And with that dramatic line,” she added, rising to her feet, “I make my exit. Send the letter to my flat, will you?”
“Of course.” Irene stood up and held out her hand. “Good-bye, Josie. I wish you nothing but good luck and literary success. Just try not to write anything catty about Clara.”
“I won’t.” She grinned. “I’m never catty about people I like.”
With that, Josie gave her an impudent salute and departed, closing the door behind her, but Irene had barely resumed her seat before another knock sounded on her door and Clara came in.
“Here’s everyone’s work this week, all typed and ready to edit,” Clara said, dropping sheaf after sheaf of clipped pages in front of her. “Elsa’s column, Doings in Devon, and her piece, England’s Most Haunted Places. Fran’s News from the North, and her article on a day in the life of a lady’s maid. Which was a brilliant idea, Irene, I must say.”
Any other time, Irene might have been gratified to hear it. “Thanks,” she mumbled, trying not to sigh.
“And here’s Josie’s News of St. James Square,” Clara went on, dropping another sheaf of papers on Irene’s desk. “And her Delilah Dawlish column—”
“We won’t be needing that,” Irene cut in. “Josie’s leaving, so you can give it back to her on your way out.”
“Leaving?” Clara paused, but only for a moment. “Never mind. You’ll have to tell me about that later. I’m too busy to stop and hear about it now.” Retaining Josie’s infamous column in one hand as she dropped the last remaining article on Irene’s desk. “And lastly, that’s Hazel’s interview with Lord Pomeroy about the workings of Parliament. She asked him if they’ll be taking up the issue of women’s suffrage in the next session, but the old curmudgeon told her they weren’t inclined to it at this time. Sorry, Irene.”
“No surprise there,” she mumbled, gathering all the articles Clara had just dropped on her desk, unable to summon a speck of interest in any of them, and she wondered how long her life was going to seem dry as dust and dull as paint. And how long her heart was going to feel as if it was rattling around inside her in razor-sharp pieces.
“That’s the lot,” Clara said with a sigh of relief. “I know we’re terribly busy today, but would you mind if I take a few minutes and have tea with Papa?”
