Landon Havisham clutched the sheaf of papers to his chest and stared at the smoking ruins.

Outside what had once been the print shop and was now a pile of charred rubble, hung a sign that swayed in the breeze. The words BYRNE AND SONS were barely legible on the shop's sign.

He glanced down at the handwritten pamphlets in his hands and wondered where he would be able to get his printing done now. Though he knew that the pamphlets could be printed in any number of shops on Fleet Street, he wasn't much in the mood to go find another printer who might very well betray his secrets.

And God knew Landon had far too many secrets.

"Can I help you with something, sir?" a feminine voice asked, startling him.

He tucked the packet of papers into the pocket inside his coat and turned around to face the questioner. Reddish hair tucked into a braid, a smear of soot on one cheek, and bright green eyes set in a curious face stared back at him. She wore a homespun dress that was coated in ashes, and he assumed she must work in the print shop or at the very least been dangerously close to it.

"I... I'm seeking John Byrne, the proprietor of this establishment." He cleared his throat against the smoke. "Do you know where I can find him?"

"I'm his daughter. Unfortunately, my father was badly injured in the fire, though the doctor expects him to make a full recovery." She extended a hand, which surprised him. Most women of his acquaintance tended to dip into curtsies. Though, perhaps she didn't know who he was, exactly, which was probably for the best. "I'm Rose. Rose Byrne."

Out of the politeness drilled into him by his mother and governess, Landon kissed the back of her hand, though this was hardly a ballroom or a sitting room. What wasn't usual about the action was the faint shudder that shot through him at the touch of her lips to her bare skin. Perhaps it was because she wore no gloves. "I am Landon Havisham."

Rose blushed. "Will you permit me to regain the use of my hand?"

He realized he was still holding it and let go with another clearing of his throat. "Apologies. I'm sorry to hear about your father... and the print shop. I was hoping to print some things at your father's shop, but it seems that won't be possible now."

Rose's shoulders slumped. "No, I'm afraid my father and I won't even have a place to live, now, let alone a business."

His mind raced. "Do you have the use of your press? I would be more than happy to provide some sort of room for your business to operate."

"Yes, the press was the only thing my father and Ben–that is, the local butcher–were able to save." She cast a glance over her shoulder. "Oh, there they are now!"

Rose dashed over to a haggard-looking man whom Landon assumed was her father, and the local butcher, a tall, strapping young man in a blood-stained apron.

"Father, Ben, this is Landon Havisham. He said he wanted to pay us to print something," he heard her say. Then she glanced back over at him. "Should we discuss this somewhere other than the middle of the street?"

"That would be preferable." He followed the three of them into the butcher's shop, a shabbily furnished affair that he had to duck to enter into, but one that Ben entered with practiced ease. "Mr. Byrne, I have an offer to make you."

Mr. Byrne, who had been clutching the butcher's arm and walking unsteadily, now glanced toward Landon with unfocused eyes. "Oh? Make your offer, good sir."

He frowned. Did something smell faintly of claret? "As you may recall, I had previously asked you to print some papers for me on your press. Your daughter has informed me that your press was salvaged from the shop, and while I'm most sorry to hear about the destruction of your press, I would like to suggest that you set up your shop in a new location, in a property which I own. I would be more than happy to allow you to set up your work there and finish the work I have contracted you to do, at no cost."

"Mr. Havisham," Mr. Byrne said, rubbing his nape. His gaze was oddly bleary, as though he'd just come out of a deep sleep, but perhaps it was due to the pain of the wounds he had sustained. "That would be most generous of you."

"Are you accepting?" he rocked back and forth on his heels, a habit his father had always scolded him for, saying that it was undignified for a gentleman of his status to do so. "If not, I can certainly find another print shop–"

"No, no, absolutely. Byrne and Sons would be more than delighted to accept your offer," interrupted Rose, stepping in front of her father. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe my father needs to rest. I'm certain you understand that it has been an extremely distressing day for the both of us, what with the fire and all."

Yet Rose Byrne had hardly seemed like a damsel in distress to his eyes when he'd stumbled upon her. Upset, yes, but steely, determined, tenacious. Resilient.

"Very well," he said. The papers in his coat crinkled. "I shall be back in the morning to discuss the arrangements of our agreement with you. Will you and your father be staying here then, Miss Byrne?"

She cast an uncertain look at the butcher, who exchanged a frown with her. "No, I shall write a different address for you to call upon us. We shall stay with my cousin."

Rose picked up a nearby quill and a sheet of paper, writing an address on it that was in Holborn. Slightly better than their current location, and certainly a far cry from Snow Hill but still vastly different from the grand Mayfair residences he was accustomed to. As he took the paper, he realized there was writing on the back. "Miss Byrne, I do believe you've given me a sheet with writing already on it. If I'm not mistaken, this is a manuscript by an..."

"R. Byrne," she said hastily, snatching it back. "That'll be my, ah, brother's work. Richard Byrne. He wrote a manuscript recently and is seeking a patron for his writings."

"Oh? Was he fortunate enough not to be present in the shop at the time of the fire?" he probed. Then, Landon immediately regretted the question, considering that the unfortunate Mr. Byrne might have died in the shop fire.

Rose nodded frantically. "He is, ah, currently in the North, pursuing a trade."

"I see." It was unlikely to make much profit from one's writings, so that made sense. "Well, thank you for telling me, Miss Byrne. Perhaps I should like to read his manuscript to see if I, or anyone else in the ton, would like to become his patron. Will you allow me to read it tomorrow?"

Miss Byrne's green eyes widened a smidgen. "Of course! Now, if you'll excuse me, my father and I must get going to stay at my cousin's residence–"

"Perhaps I could offer the two of you the use of my carriage," he said.

She shook her head. "We could not possibly accept such hospitality after all that you have proffered to us."

"But please, I insist," he said. "My carriage is hitched only down the street. Will you not let me consider this a kind offer for a business partner, who is greatly assisting me in my endeavours?"

Finally, Miss Byrne and her father relented, the latter with somewhat less resistance, and they were in his carriage, with a promise to come back and take the press the next day.

"What is the nature of the materials that you wish to be printed?" Miss Byrne asked him as they faced one another, her father dozing off on her right.

He thought he caught a faint whiff of spirits wafting from her father, but decided it best not to mention it. Landon was too preoccupied by worrying about what to tell her. "It is of a rather... personal matter."

"Oh? Then, I shall have to assume they are love letters," she teased.

His shoulders relaxed slightly. "Something of that sort."

After all, politics and love were tricky business, and could often be similar indeed...