Well removed from London’s more curious eyes, the Benevolent Academy for the Betterment of Young Ladies strives toward one clandestine goal: to distract, disrupt, and discredit men in power who would seek to harm the advancement of women—by appropriate means, of course.
When intrepid newspaper editor Miles Quincey starts to question the school’s intentions, the Academy appoints Penelope “Nell” Trewlove, one of their brightest graduates, to put this nuisance to rest. An easy enough mission, she supposes. Or it would be, if Miles wasn’t so fascinating—too fascinating to resist—and if Nell’s visit to London didn’t perfectly coincide with the murder of one of Miles’s reporters.
When the inexorable claws of fate trap Nell and Miles in a compromising situation, they agree to an arrangement that will save their reputations while enabling them to investigate the story that led to a man’s death, as well as the surprising chemistry between them . .
Gloved hands folded
neatly in her lap, she waited for Mr. Quincey’s questions. But he didn’t give
voice to them. Not immediately. He only looked at her with a pensive frown, as
though something about her person prevented him from pursuing his logical
course.
“Forgive
me,” he said at length. “Mrs. Royce failed to mention that you were lately
bereaved. Had I known of your loss, I would never have pressed you to—”
“I
am not bereaved,” Nell said.
“No?”
He swept a glance from her black-veiled hat to her lusterless black mourning
dress with its tight-fitting bodice and wide, untrimmed skirts. “You can
doubtless understand my confusion.”
Nell
would have thought it plain enough. “I travelled alone from the Academy. I
preferred to do so unmolested.” She paused, adding, “Widows are generally
accorded a degree of respect not offered to unaccompanied young ladies.”
Mr.
Quincey didn’t bat an eye at her explanation. She suspected he was a man who
wasn’t easily surprised. “In other words, it’s a disguise.”
Nell’s
expression tightened. Leave it to a man to reduce a woman’s desire to protect
herself to a childish pantomime. “It’s a practical necessity,” she said.
“I
see. And do all teachers at Miss Corvus’s Academy for the Betterment of Young
Ladies employ such arts? Or is it only you who…” His words died away as she
pushed back her veil.
Ah.
Perhaps he was capable of being surprised after all.
Nell
met his gaze, a hint of a challenge in her own. She wasn’t vain. Neither was
she guilty of false modesty. She knew herself, both her weaknesses and
her strengths. “Feminine ingenuity isn’t limited to the staff room at the
Academy,” she informed him. “Though, I assure you, it’s in no short supply
there.”
Mr.
Quincey collected himself in a blink—so quickly Nell wondered if she’d imagined
the look of masculine alertness that had flared in his eyes on first seeing her
face. Clearing his throat, he very slowly and very methodically returned his
pen to the brass holder on his desk. “Something else Mrs. Royce failed to
mention.”
“What
might that be?”
“How
young you are.”
Nell
stiffened at his tone of disappointment. She wasn’t used to anyone implying
that she was lacking in wisdom or experience. Quite the reverse. In times of
crisis, people generally looked to her for guidance. During Miss Corvus’s
recent illness, Nell had all but been running the school. “Is my age of
importance to your inquiries?”
“Only
as it pertains to your tenure,” he said. “You can’t have been in your position
long.”
“I
have been employed as a teacher for five years, sir.”
He
sat back in his chair, frowning at her again with an attitude of impatience.
One would think she had wasted his precious time. “Mrs. Royce led me to believe
you had been present at the Academy’s founding, nearly twenty years ago. It’s
why I consented to meet with you instead of pursuing an interview with Miss
Corvus herself. I had anticipated your providing certain information about the
institution’s origins.”
Nell
at once grasped the cause of his irritation. He’d wrongly presumed she would be
a much older woman. One who had spent the whole of the past eighteen years
teaching at the charity school. “Mrs. Royce did not mislead you.”.
“Not
only Mrs. Royce,” he replied. “You, as well, Miss Trewlove. Your letters gave
me to understand that you had decades of experience at Miss Corvus’s Academy.”
“I
do,” she said. “Or nearly that long. I was one of its earliest students.”
Understanding
registered on his face. He stared at her with renewed attention. “You were an
orphan?”
Nell’s
chin ticked up a notch. “That’s correct.”
There
was no shame in it. Not as far as she was concerned. It was just as she often
told her girls. One wasn’t accountable for the circumstances of one’s birth,
only for the choices they made and the actions they took. It was that which
defined a person, not pedigree.
“As
are all the students at the Academy?” Mr. Quincey asked.
“To
a one,” she said. “They come to us from all over the county. I flatter myself
that we do our best for them.”
“Your
best being…?”
She
lifted one shoulder in an artfully casual shrug. “We feed them, house them, and
provide them with an education that will best help them meet their potential.”
Mr.
Quincey narrowed in on the word with single-minded precision. “Their potential
for what, exactly?
Nell’s
mouth curved in a slow smile. She comprehended the unspoken crux of his
question. He believed the Academy was a home for dangerous revolutionaries.
Budding feminists and crusaders for equality, willing to go to any ends to
achieve their goals, even if that meant destroying the occasional man who got
in their way.
He
wasn’t wrong.
Excerpted from The
Marriage Method by Mimi Matthews. Copyright © 2025 by Mimi Matthews.
Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this
excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the
publisher. https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/727469/the-marriage-method-by-mimi-matthews/
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