Domesticity for Ladies
He’d instantly felt a sliver of dread run down his spine—he knew that gazette. His wife insisted he bring it home every Wednesday, when it was published. Mr. Kettle didn’t like to spend five shillings on a gazette and argued there were better uses for their money. Mrs. Kettle said that she toiled every day for him with the housekeeping and laundry and meal preparation, and the least he could do was bring home a gazette that instructed her how to be a better wife. But Mr. Kettle knew that his wife was not concerned with being better. She wanted to read the gossip contained in those pages.
Mrs. Honeycutt had explained she was interested in writing a story for her gazette, one that would highlight the royal peace summit. She said it would be useful for her to have a look at the Weslorian ship manifests so she might “consult” some of the foreign visitors. Mr. Kettle had explained, and rather plainly, he believed, that he was not at liberty to provide those manifests to her, and really, was her gazette the sort of journal that should discuss such things as peace agreements?
Mrs. Honeycutt had not liked his answer. He knew this because she said it was nothing but sheer ignorance that led a man to believe ladies were not interested in peace between two rival nations. Mr. Kettle had refuted the idea he was ignorant and asked if there was not a gentleman in her life who might explain these things to her?
That was when the man who accompanied her had stepped in and suggested that perhaps Mrs. Honeycutt give Mr. Kettle a day or two to think about it. But Mr. Kettle didn’t need to think about it. When she called a day or so after that, and again a day or so afterthat,the answer was still no.
Mr. Kettle had done a little investigating himself after her first visit and had learned that she was the widow of Sir Percival Honeycutt, who had published a superior gazette of politics and economic news. She was also the daughter of Lord Justice Tricklebank, a respected judge on the Queen’s Bench. And she was, most notably, the sister of Eliza Tricklebank, who had somehow wooed a foreign prince to marry her and now, in the most unlikely of scenarios, would one day be aqueen.
He fancied that Mrs. Honeycutt thought that her sister’s notoriety gave her some entry into a world she knew nothing about and had wisely suggested she leave the topic of peace and relations between nations to learned men like her father. Once again, the gentleman who accompanied her had to intervene.
Today, her minder stepped just over the threshold and leaned against the doorframe, his arms folded. Mr. Kettle found the gentleman curious. He wasn’t quite certain what his relationship was to Mrs. Honeycutt. He could be her carriage man. Or her blacksmith. Or perhaps her stable master or gardener. He didn’t dress like a gentleman of quality, but he didn’t dress like a regular bloke, either. And yet, it hardly mattered what he wore—he was so startlingly handsome that he caused quite a lot of chaos in the offices, what with clerks and visitors bumping into each other as they tried to get a look at him.
“Oh! I see you’re at your lunch,” Mrs. Honeycutt said brightly today, and leaned forward across his desk to have a look. She winced, then smiled sympathetically.
“Yes. I am,” Mr. Kettle said gruffly. “So if you wouldn’t mind.”
“But is that all, Mr. Kettle? That hardly seems enough to keep a strong man such as yourself until tea.”
Mrs. Honeycutt was a very handsome woman—he would give her that. She was softly rounded at the edges, just like Mrs. Kettle had been when they’d first married. “It is quite enough,” he said pertly. Mr. Kettle had a sneaking suspicion that Mrs. Honeycutt was a fellow bread lover. Not that he could tell by the clothes she wore—they all seemed to fit her very well, indeed, and gave the appearance of a fine figure. Today she was wearing a gown of a deep sapphire color that made her ocean-blue eyes seem to leap from her face.
In the distance, someone dropped something that sounded like a wooden box. Mrs. Honeycutt’s minder turned his head and looked out the door. No doubt the clerks were banging around like bowling pins out there, hoping to see that male beauty up close.
“I won’t keep you from your, umm, carrots,” she said, her gaze flicking to his meager lunch and back up again. “I have come, as I am sure you realize, to inquire after the manifest of the two Weslorian ships that arrived ten days ago.”
Lord.Of course he knew why she’d come. Did she think he would believe she’d found a new interest to bring her here again? “I do indeed realize, madam, and my answer is the same—no.”
“Why not?”
He drew a long and tortured breath and tried not to look at her succulent lips. “As I have explained, those manifests are rather confidential and are not to be shared with regular people and certainly not women.”
“Oh, yes, you did provide that absurd reasoning,” she said, nodding. “But while it is true I am a woman, I’m not a regular person. So I will ask again—may I see the manifests of the Weslorian ships that came to port earlier this week?”
“I beg your pardon, madam, but you are indeedregular.” He hoped he didn’t sound too officious.
“But I’m not, Mr. Kettle,” she said gaily. “Because I am the sister of the Duchess of Tannymeade. Do you see? I should think that I, ofallpeople, should be allowed to see your papers.”
He didn’t follow her logic, but he knew from his experiences with Mrs. Kettle that it was best not to point out when a woman was being nonsensical if one could help it. “Then please understand I am following established rules.”
“Mmm,” she said, and her lovely eyes narrowed a smidge.
Mr. Kettle didn’t like it when a woman hummed anmmmat him. It never seemed to turn out well for him, and there Mrs. Honeycutt went, confounding him by daintily taking a seat across from him and smiling prettily. “As it happens, I am on my way to see the duchess now. She is residing in St. James Palace for the time being. It is entirely possible that while in her company, I might meet any number of Weslorians. It would be useful to know who they are. Surely you can see that.”
“But—but can’t you simply ask which ones they are when you meet them?” he asked, confused.
She sighed. “Let’s think of it another way.”
“Let’s not.”
“I won’t know who isnotin attendance if I haven’t seen the manifest.” She smiled again.
Mr. Kettle was hungry and growing cross about his meager portions. Plus, he didn’t know what she was talking about. He sat up straighter, to his middling height, and said, “The answer, madam, is the same today as it has been on every previous occasion, and will be again tomorrow and the day after that—no.Frankly, it is no small wonder to me that your venerable father hasn’t reined you in to proper behavior. Why he allows that silly gazette and for you to wade into matters that no lady should concern herself with is beyond me.”
Her minder jerked his head toward Mr. Kettle, his expression one of alarm, as if he’d just seen the executioner and he was coming for Mr. Kettle.
Mrs. Honeycutt, on the other hand, smiled so silkily that he felt a little tingle in his groin. “Mr. Kettle, youflatterme! However did you find the time to peruse my gazette?”
