Never Vie for a Viscount

by Regina Scott

  Now he experimented, evaluated evidence, and calculated the chances of success. Until Lydia’s declaration, he would have put her chance of joining his team at less than twenty percent. How had she known the one thing that might sway him? Was he that obvious? Was this a trick? Was he looking at the situation all wrong?

  He glanced to his sister, once more unsettled and unsure of his answer.

  As always, Charlotte knew his mind better than he did. She rose, serene in her grey gown.

  “Well said, Miss Villers,” she declared. “I believe you will get on famously with the rest of the team. When can you start?”

  Chapter Two

  Lydia started the next morning, precisely at eight. After negotiating a monthly stipend and a half-day off each week, Meredith had made her comfortable in her townhouse, just down the square from the Worthington home. Like so many of the others in the neighborhood, it was tall and elegant, but Lydia had been surprised to find most of the rooms empty.

  “I’m still accustoming myself to the space,” Meredith had said as if she noticed Lydia’s look when they passed a bedchamber lacking bed or wardrobe. “And I allowed the family of the previous owner to take whatever pleased them in remembrance. They had a great number of remembrances. But never fear. I have one functioning guest room.”

  It was a warm, comforting room, with pale pink walls and a canopied bed hung with chintz curtains patterned with tulips of the same shade. Though simpler than the bedchambers in many of the homes Lydia had visited, it was far superior to some of the spaces Beau had been able to afford since their parents had died.

  Now Lydia drew in a breath before climbing the stairs and rapping at the green door of the Worthington home. The same manservant answered, scowl on his face as if he sincerely doubted she had any ability to contribute to the inspirational work being conducted on the premises. She did not tell him she had the same doubts.

  In truth, her encounter with Worth had shaken her more than she cared to admit. Since he had rejected her last year, she’d done her best to avoid him. It hadn’t been difficult. He didn’t frequent the many balls, routs, and soirees that made up the Season in London. He attended services at St. Mary’s on Paddington Green while Beau preferred St. George’s Hanover Square. So long as she did not convince anyone to take her to the Royal Institution lectures, she had every expectation they would not meet.

  She’d thought herself prepared to brave him for the sake of her future. But one look from those grey eyes reminded her how they could gleam with appreciation. The curve of those lips brought back whispered endearments. And she could not forget how protected and cherished those large hands could make her feel when holding hers.

  Until they had fallen away.

  Enough! She had not taken this position to moon over her lost love. She was going to pursue natural philosophy, earn respect, make a difference.

  “Good morning,” she said to the manservant. “Beast, isn’t it?”

  Pink stained his cheeks. “Bateman will do. Miss Worthington is expecting you. This way.” He turned and walked deeper into the house.

  If Beast truly was his first name, small wonder he was sensitive about it. She could not imagine parents being so cruel. Odd that Charlotte had used the name, but she was mistress of the house.

  Lydia found her new employer in a room that had likely once been a gentleman’s study. Now the tall bookcases held tomes from chest-level to ceiling, but the lower shelves were crowded with all manner of instruments. She identified a compass, sextant, and astrolabe, but her fingers itched to pick up the others and learn their purpose. She forced herself to look instead to the large table in the center of the room, which was spread with diagrams, notes, open leather-bound journals of various sizes, quills, and an ink stand.

  “She’s here,” Bateman announced.

  Charlotte smiled at him, and the pink in his cheeks deepened. “Thank you, Beast.”

  He inclined his head and left.

  Charlotte rose from her place at the table and came forward, hands extended. “Miss Villers, I’m so glad to see you.”

  Had she doubted too? Lydia pasted on a smile. “I’m glad to be here. Where shall I start?”

  Charlotte took her hands and drew her over to a window seat, where sunlight streaked her russet hair with fire. “First, a few stipulations.”

  Lydia sat beside her and arranged her skirts. Since she’d been working with Gussie, she’d managed to acquire a few less frilly concoctions more suited to serious pursuits. This one had yellow-and-cream-striped skirts of an airy cotton with a high-necked cream bodice and an ecru lace ruff. “Oh?” she prompted Charlotte.

  “First,” her new employer said, holding up one finger, “each member of the team has a special focus of work. We do not interact much. This is by design.”

  Another oddity. She was used to working side by side with the mercurial Gussie, their ideas building one on another. Working alone sounded a bit daunting. Immediately she scolded herself. She’d wanted to grow, hadn’t she? Working alone was no different than moving from a groom-led pony to her own horse, and she’d managed that by age six.

  “Very well,” she said.

  “Second,” Charlotte continued, holding up another finger, “I will generally be the one directing your work. You will have little to no interaction with Worth.”

  “Oh, good.” The words were out before she could think better of them.

  Charlotte dropped her hand. “So you do harbor a grudge against my brother.”

  “No, no,” Lydia hurried to assure her. “I wish him only the best. He’s simply made it clear that he would prefer not to associate with me.”

  “Perhaps,” Charlotte said, leaving the word hanging in the air, as tangible as the lamp on the table. “But I’m glad you’ll have no trouble following our procedures.”

  “None at all,” Lydia promised.

  “Good. There is one more. Only Worth knows what we’re attempting to accomplish.”

  Lydia cocked her head, sure she must have misunderstood. “You mean he determines the direction of each person’s experiments?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte allowed, “but more than that, he’s the only one who knows to what our experiments contribute.”

  Lydia blinked, straightening. “None of you knows the end goal of all this?”

  “Only me,” Charlotte said with a carefree smile. “We must learn to be content with that.”

  How? Was she merely to trust he had some higher aim in mind? Once, perhaps, but her viscount had proven fickle. She wanted to be taken seriously, not fritter away her time in another pointless activity.

  “Surely if we knew the overall hypothesis, we could direct our efforts more efficiently,” she told Charlotte. “We could pursue one approach and eschew another.”

  “That is why Worth is aware of all the work,” Charlotte explained patiently. “We present him with a plan of study, and he approves or revises as necessary to achieve his goals.”

  It certainly wasn’t her place to argue, but it seemed a strange path to success. Still, she’d only worked with Gussie, who was an Original. For all Lydia knew, most natural philosophers worked as Worth did.

  “Very well,” she said. “Anything else?”

  “That should be sufficient for now.” Charlotte rose, and Lydia stood as well. “Come with me. I’ll introduce you to the others.”

  A door in the far wall led to a short corridor that slopped down just the slightest.

  “Worth purchased the adjacent townhouse to use for his work,” Charlotte explained as their skirts brushed the tilted floor. “We didn’t realize until we’d broken through the walls that the floors were slightly offset. That required a little accommodation.” She paused and tapped at the first paneled door on the plain white wall. A muffled voice bid them enter. Charlotte opened the door.

  The ornate carving on the white-and-grey marbled fireplace said this had been had likely been the withdrawing room. The space had been stripped down to hardwo
od floors and the same white-plastered walls as the corridor. Scattered around were stacks of reeds, bundles of straw, and spools of twine, with stripped saplings, fresh cut by the scent in the air, leaning against the far wall. In the center on a tall stool sat a sturdy-looking woman with dull blond hair braided around her wide-cheeked face. Her navy poplin skirts were speckled with chaff.

  “Miss Janssen,” Charlotte said, “allow me to present the newest member of our team, Miss Villers.”

  Miss Janssen glanced up only briefly, thick fingers busy weaving reeds together. “Miss Villers. Welcome.”

  “Miss Janssen.” Lydia ventured closer. “How quickly you work. What are you making?”

  “I know nothing,” she said, voice hinting of German. She stopped and met Lydia’s gaze with a frown. “Did no one explain the rules?”

  Charlotte put her hands on Lydia’s shoulders and steered her toward the door. “She’s learning. Forgive the intrusion.”

  Glancing back, Lydia saw the lady was already back at work.

  “I beg your pardon,” she told Charlotte as Worth’s sister closed the door behind them. “I didn’t realize the restriction was so stringent. What research plan is she following?”

  “At the moment, she is determining the optimal way to weave a basket that will support a minimum of three hundred pounds yet remain highly flexible against sudden impacts. Worth provided the tolerances.” She started down the corridor once more.

  Basket weaving? How did that advance knowledge? Lydia shook herself. Truly, was she no better than Worth? He’d all but sneered at her and Gussie’s work, and they had done something splendid with the stillroom. Perhaps Miss Janssen’s strong basket had some great use as well.

  The next door had been removed from its hinges, showing narrow stairs leading down. This must have been the servants’ stair to the kitchen. Muttered words floated up, followed by a crash.

  Charlotte paused. “Worth?”

  “Not metal,” he called up. “The weight is wrong, and we could easily slice the ropes. I believe cedar our next best material. Make a note of that, Charlotte.”

  “Noted,” Charlotte called.

  “What is he pursuing?” Lydia asked, angling her head to try to see to the bottom of the stairs.

  “I have no idea,” Charlotte said. “Apparently, it has something to do with cedar. This way.”

  Lydia could only follow.

  Charlotte stopped at the final door along the corridor and knocked.

  “Come in.” This voice was high and piping.

  Charlotte opened the door.

  This had likely been the dining room, for the far wall held a sideboard that would have been graced with silver and plate. Instead, the mint-colored shelves carried bolts of fabric—canvas and cotton and silk—along with skeins of thread, plump little cushions studded with pins and needles, and several types of shears. The oval table in the center was draped in scarlet silk, which spilled off one end into the lap of a diminutive woman with brown hair tightly curled around her narrow face.

  “Miss Pankhurst,” Charlotte said, “this is Miss Villers, who will be joining us.”

  Miss Pankhurst glanced up, tiny mouth pursed in a smile. “We’ve met. You will not remember me, but we attended a few balls together the year your brother introduced you to Society.”

  “But I do remember you,” Lydia said, beaming. “I saw you most recently at the Duke of Wey’s wedding.”

  She looked pleased. “Miss Worthington was so kind as to request an invitation for me to accompany her. Such an interesting event. Imagine, a footman attempting to steal from the guests.”

  Lydia knew the story. Mr. Mayes, a friend of her brother’s, had put it about to hide the truth. What the others thought was a footman had been a French spy, come to capture Lydia’s friend, Yvette de Maupassant, and return her to France for trial. Now, there was a lady of courage. After spying on Napoleon’s court for years, Yvette wouldn’t have been put off at meeting the man she’d once hoped to wed. Then again, Yvette was engaged now to the Earl of Carrolton, and the earl’s sister was set to marry Beau, so Lydia supposed that meant they were related in some strange way.

  “Yes, quite the scandal,” Charlotte said before turning to Lydia. “This morning, I’d like you to take your direction from Miss Pankhurst. After she explains her expectations, you will be working in the room at the end of the corridor. We meet for tea at two in the afternoon in my study and end our day at half past five. Any questions?”

  Dozens, but she merely smiled. “I’ll be fine.”

  With a nod, Charlotte glided out the door.

  Miss Pankhurst sighed. “How nice to be so self-assured. The burden she carries would melt many women under the strain.”

  Lydia went to join her at the table. “What burden could Charlotte Worthington carry? She has all this.”

  “Why the burden we all carry,” Miss Pankhurst said. “You, me, Miss Janssen, Miss Worthington. Some bear it better than most.”

  When Lydia frowned at her, she gave her a patronizing smile. “Spinsterhood, dear. Now, have a seat, and let me show you how you too can be of use.”

  ~~~

  Propulsion. A simple calculation of motive force, wind speed, angle, and circumference coupled with human capability. The latter was the most variable, but since he would be the first human to try the device, he had some assurance he could estimate that portion correctly. But copper had thwarted him, and iron was too heavy. So were most woods. The cedar couldn’t arrive fast enough. He was losing focus.

  And he couldn’t forget that Lydia Villers was working just upstairs.

  He tossed aside the last hammered copper blade, the clang echoing about the old kitchen, which he’d appropriated for his laboratory. It had access to water and fire and had been somewhat hardened against both. The heavy plank table in the center held room for the various materials he was attempting to apply as well as his tools and journals. And the rear door gave easy access to the yard if he needed fresh air or to dispose of something noxious.

  Now the space felt too full, but it wasn’t the bits of copper flung about. His memories of Lydia crowded him.

  He’d been attracted to her from the moment they’d met. Her brother, Beau, had made something of a nuisance of himself the last few years. The gentlemen of the ton joked that if he hadn’t thrown his sister at you, you must have no title or no wealth or no expectation of either. Blessed with both, it had only been a matter of time before Worth came to Villers’s notice.

  But unlike his peers, who had run from the idea of marrying the sister of such a grasping fellow, Worth had found himself captivated. Lydia threw herself with enthusiasm into whatever she attempted, from dancing at a ball to listening to his explanations of what he was pursuing. He could rant, change his mind, change the topic as his thoughts veered, and Lydia would smile and nod with rapt attention. Used to those who, at best, tolerated his foibles, her ready acceptance had been amazing, tremendous.

  Until he’d learned it had all been a lie.

  He shoved back from the table. The light in those big green eyes, the joy in that winsome smile, had once convinced him she cared. He was proof against her wiles now. Charlotte had requested her help with the heat experiments, but he refused to trust Lydia with anything that critical. If he showed her the discipline required in their work, he’d reasoned, she would turn tail and leave him alone again.

  It had seemed a logical plan. If she was sincere, which he doubted, she would persevere. If not, he saw no reason to keep her on staff. Everyone was working too hard.

  Perhaps he should check on her. From time to time he visited each of his team members, discussed their progress. He would make the rounds, see how Lydia fared. It was all completely aboveboard.

  So why did he feel as if he were indulging himself?

  The work side of the house was Spartan by design—unpolished hardwood floors, no paintings on the walls. In part, this was for safety—less fabric to collect spills or vapors, less fu
el for a fire. In part it proved one less distraction. He was too easily distracted some days. Every new theory, every advance, opened his mind to others. Yet here he was, going to meet the biggest distraction of his life.

  His footsteps sounded unreasonably loud as he followed the corridor. His heart seemed to be beating in time. He clasped his hands behind his back as he approached the door to the room in which Lydia was to be working. It had been the butler’s pantry, a tiny space more like a cell than a room. Functional, at best. Far less than she was used to. The door was open. Swallowing, he dared a glance inside.

  She was the picture of domesticity. Scarlet fabric flowed across her lap to pool on the floor on either side of the spindle-backed chair. Head bowed so the glow from the lamp on the table beside her glinted on pale curls, she took careful, even stitches. Something inside him unfurled, warmed, as if he’d come to the hearth after a long time in the snow.

  She inserted her needle in the pin cushion on the table, smoothed her hands over the fabric, picked it up, and…

  RIP!

  He took a step back, and she must have noticed the movement, for she glanced up with her usual sweet smile.

  “Experiment number twelve,” she announced.

  He ventured into the room, feeling as if the walls leaned too near on either side. Now that he looked closer, he could see any number of holes in the fabric, thread hanging.

  “Unsuccessful?” he asked.

  “I suspect it depends on your measure of success,” she said, voice cheerful. “Miss Pankhurst advised me to attempt a stronger bond between two panels. I have attempted several lengths of stitches and now width, as in rows set side by side. So far, none has prevented the fabric from tearing on a good tug.”

  “Perhaps you should test the strength of your thread,” he suggested.

  She held up the spool. “I was only given one strength. Perhaps you could remedy that.”