by Regina Scott
“I’m certain my brother had a reason to allow all this,” Charlotte said, glancing at Worth as if she expected better too. “Theories must be tested.”
“There are dozens of theories,” Lydia said, picking up the dry, torn panels. “Some can be ruled out immediately.” She turned to the manservant. Bateman was regarding her with brows knit, a typical stance for him, but there was a light in his brown eyes, as if he hadn’t seen her clearly before.
“Thank you, Bateman,” she said. “I’m sorry we wasted your time.”
“So am I,” he said, but his look was directed at Worth.
“I believe that’s sufficient for today,” Charlotte put in. “Miss Pankhurst, we will continue along a similar line tomorrow. Miss Villers has given us a clue. Water may be infeasible, but perhaps another coating may prove more efficacious. Please give that some thought.”
Miss Pankhurst nodded agreeably.
Lydia knew she should take solace in the fact that she might have helped after all. Amazing how little comfort it provided at the moment.
“What shall I do with all this?” Bateman demanded.
Charlotte eyed her brother as if she would very much like to see the contents of the tub dumped on his head. “Have Nella hang the fabric to dry and put the tub where we can find it easily tomorrow if needed.”
With a nod, he hoisted the tub and carried it from the room, water sloshing only the slightest.
“Good afternoon, Miss Worthington, my lord,” Miss Pankhurst said, offering a curtsey. “Until tomorrow.”
As they murmured their goodbyes, Lydia went to set the pincushion on the shelves. Irritating, impossible man. How was she to learn anything when he set her at meaningless tasks? Was he trying to force her to leave?
She gasped, whirling. “You are! You want me gone.”
Charlotte frowned. “I’m sure I never said any such thing.”
Worth had his hands behind his back, as if intent on hiding something. “If the work displeases you, Miss Villers, we will not hold you to your agreement of employment.”
Charlotte stared at him. Lydia raised her chin and looked him in the eye. The grey seemed darker, as if his thoughts were as dismal.
“I came here to learn more about natural philosophy,” she told him. “Nothing you have done, nothing you can do, will change that, my lord.”
She thought he might look disappointed, perhaps chagrined that she had caught him at his game. Instead, he stepped forward and offered her his arm.
“In that case,” he said, “may I see you home, Miss Villers?”
She wanted to refuse. He had disappointed her too many times. But he obviously had a hypothesis about her. She should let him test it, offer him evidence that she was more capable than he knew. If he spent time with her, learned more about her, perhaps he would come to understand why she was here and be more inclined to let her help.
She put her arm on his. “Very well, my lord.”
He escorted her to where she’d left her things in her tiny room, then led her back through the house and out the front door.
“I apologize,” he said as they walked along the pavement at the edge of Clarendon Square.
“For humoring me or for failing to accept the results of my experiment?” Lydia asked, voice pleasant from long practice.
“For upsetting you,” he said. “I dislike seeing you unhappy.”
Lydia stopped, forcing him to stop as well. “How extraordinary. Do you dislike seeing Miss Pankhurst unhappy?”
He cocked his head as if considering the matter. “I would like to think so.”
“Then you would allow her to commandeer your time with useless experiments.”
“No.”
He had always seemed so open, so obvious in his thoughts, until he had sent that horrid note dismissing her. Could she believe him now? How could she continue to work in that house if she didn’t?
“Then why,” she asked, “did you do that for me?”
Again, his answer was swift. “Every natural philosopher has a right to test a theory. My approval, the application to my research, appeared immaterial in that moment. I wanted to know how you would go about testing it, your response to the testing.”
“So, you did have a hypothesis about me,” Lydia said, “and you were testing it too. What was your hypothesis, my lord?”
He colored. Truly, it was an amazing sight. The red climbed in his cheeks until it clashed with his auburn hair. “I’m not entirely sure. Perhaps I was merely curious.”
Curious, or wondering whether she’d behave logically? Of course, on hearing what he’d done, she’d all but stomped her feet and called him names, so there was that.
“Apology accepted,” she said, starting forward at a brisk pace.
He hurried to fall into step beside her. “Thank you.”
“However,” Lydia said, skirts sweeping the pavement, “I believe reparations are in order.”
“I see.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Flowers perhaps?”
Lydia clucked her tongue. “Nothing so common, sir. You wounded me deeply.”
“Should I apologize again?”
He sounded so perplexed, hands going behind his back once more. Was that what he did when he was uncertain? She could not doubt that she had disquieted him.
But she did not intend to encourage him.
“No,” she said. “But you could give me a greater part in the work.”
She glanced at him to find his head down, his gaze on the stone at their feet. “Alas, it would be unfair to Miss Janssen and Miss Pankhurst to take their work from them.”
Lydia stopped at the bottom of the stairs leading up to Meredith’s door. “Surely there must be something. Perhaps if you told me what we are working toward, I might be able to propose a role.”
His face closed, and he took a step back from her. “I’m afraid that must remain quiet for now. Good afternoon, Miss Villers.”
He turned and strode back the way they had come, for all the world as if she were chasing him.
~~~
Meredith poured Julian Mayes his second cup of tea for the afternoon. His hand reached out to steady the pot, fingers brushing hers, and a tingle went up her arm. His smile as he leaned back assured her he knew it and had been similarly affected.
She still could not credit that her childhood sweetheart was interested in taking up where they had left off. So much had happened since he had first proposed marriage—her mother’s death, her cousin’s interference to prevent Julian from hearing Meredith needed his help, her forced employment as a companion to a cruel mistress, her surprising inheritance from that lady and then being accused of her murder. She was a different person from the girl he’d once loved.
But then, he was no longer the same young man, fresh from Eton and eager to make his mark on the world. Julian had been instrumental in protecting her former client and friend Yvette de Maupassant from a French spy intent on harming her, but only after Meredith had protested that her friend was being used as bait. He had defied his superiors to honor Meredith’s wishes.
Still, how he had gained such easy access to highly placed individuals in government and the peerage remained a bit of a mystery. He had been raised in the quiet of the Surrey countryside near her family, after all. She could only conclude that friendships made at Eton and in London where he served as a solicitor now had gained him this entre. Then again, it never hurt a gentleman to be handsome and charming, and he was easily both. Even Fortune agreed, winding her way around his boots for the third time in as many minutes.
He also appeared to be in no hurry to further his courtship with Meredith. He had been coming around for tea nearly every day. While his attentions were laudable, they were only slightly warmer than companionable, and she was aware of a decided disappointment. Where were the impassioned words, the sweet longing looks? Where the desire to take her out, introduce her to his friends? Was he merely doing what he thought she might enjoy, or was he unsure of her?
“No,” she said. “But I do receive the occasional caller.”
He glanced at the door as if waiting for Napoleon to come striding in, saber flashing. Instead, Lydia traipsed into the room. She stopped short on seeing Julian.
“Oh, I beg your pardon. Work finished early today.”
“Mr. Mayes,” Meredith said, “you remember Miss Villers.”
He rose and bowed. “Miss Villers. A pleasure to see you again.”
Lydia smiled and ventured into the room. “And you, sir. Have you spoken with my brother recently?”
As she took a seat, Julian resumed his. Fortune padded over to have Lydia caress her back.
“Alas, no,” he admitted, retrieving his teacup. “He appears consumed with wedding preparations.”
Lydia’s brother was to marry the Earl of Carrolton’s sister soon. Until then, he had been helping Julian on some matters.
Lydia giggled, a happy, carefree sound. “Yes, Lady Lilith is determined that he do his part. I had no idea a groom was expected to advise on flowers and food and seating arrangements.”
“Not all grooms are so interested,” Meredith agreed with a look to Julian.
“I’m surprised she didn’t enlist your services as well,” Julian said. “What’s this I hear about working?”
His tone was bland, conversational. Why did Meredith hear condemnation? She knew what most of the ton thought. A true lady did not sully her hands with work, an easy sentiment when one had never known privation.
“I’m helping Miss Worthington and her brother with their scientific pursuits,” Lydia explained, smile bright, as if she had no concerns for censure.
“Interesting,” Julian said. “And what are you pursuing?”
“I have no idea.” She rose. “Forgive me. I should change before dinner. Good afternoon, Mr. Mayes.”
He rose, but she had already turned her back and left the room, Fortune scampering at her heels. He sank onto his seat and sent Meredith an amused glance. “No idea what she’s working on, eh?”
“Not from lack of trying, I’m certain,” Meredith assured him. “Lord Worthington may not wish to be forthcoming.”
He sipped his tea before responding. “I haven’t spoken to Worth since the Duke of Wey’s wedding. I wonder why he decided to keep things so close.”
“It seems a male trait,” Meredith said, watching him.
He arched red-gold brows. “If I have been less than forthcoming about my work, it is only because of client privilege. I would expect you to do the same with your clients.”
She could not argue with him there. She also could not feel comfortable demanding to know his intentions.
Yet.
~~~
“You’re late,” Bateman said when Worth joined him after walking Lydia home. He hadn’t realized she was staying so close. He was certain the townhouse she’d entered had been inherited from Lady Winhaven only recently. Surely not by Lydia’s family. And he’d give a twenty percent chance that her brother could afford the rent. Who was sheltering her, then?
“You’re well paid to wait,” Worth told his man as he pulled off his coat. He hung it on the hook beside the door and began to unbutton his waistcoat.
Bateman threw him his mufflers. “Not well enough.”
Worth shook his head as he wound the protective padding around his fists. It was an old joke. Both knew why the former boxer remained in Worth’s employ. After his last grueling bout, Bateman had been lost all stomach for the matches, retreating to his home, unwilling to venture out again. Gentleman Jackson, London’s premiere boxer, had introduced Bateman to Worth. Like Worth, Bateman needed a challenge, albeit a physical one. Protecting Worth and Charlotte from an unknown enemy had given him the will to go on.
Bateman seemed to think he owed Worth a debt. Seeing how well he took care of them, Worth rather thought the debt went the other way.
Stripped to their shirts and trousers, hands wrapped, they took up their positions in the middle of the space now. One of the benefits of having purchased the neighboring townhouse was that Worth could use the rooms any way he liked. This had once been a schoolroom on the upper story, but he’d removed the shelving and replaced it with brass hooks and cupboards to hold the equipment needed for his physical regimen. His mind kept its rapid pace, he’d found, when his body moved on occasion as well.
Bateman set about circling, and Worth followed, fists raised and mind wary. That was the brilliance of boxing. Everything happened fast. No time to calculate, to second-guess himself. Action-reaction. Invigorating.
The boxer feinted. Worth blocked him.
“You made a mistake,” Bateman said.
“You didn’t land a punch,” Worth replied.
Bateman swung.
Worth ducked away and struck his opponent’s chest with a quick jab before dancing out of reach.
Bateman rolled his shoulder and began circling again. “Not in the fight. With her.”
Worth watched for an opening in the big man’s guard. “I apologized for my behavior this afternoon.”
“It’s not just this afternoon I’m worried about.” Bateman lunged, and Worth stepped aside and let the man’s momentum carry him, catching Bateman on the shoulder as he passed.
“Admit it,” his man said, turning to face him once more. “You don’t trust her.”
“I don’t trust most people.” Worth swung. Bateman blocked him and slammed a fist into his ribs. Pain ricocheted up him.
“Why?” Bateman asked, stepping back as if to let Worth recover.
Worth rubbed at his sore ribs. “It’s nothing that need concern you.”
Bateman barked a laugh. “You hired me as bodyguard. Anything that threatens you concerns me.”
Worth raised both fists and resumed the stance. Bateman fell in across from him with a lazy grin Worth tried not to find annoying.
“Miss Villers is less dangerous than your fists,” he told his man.
Bateman swung, and Worth blocked, the strength of the blow reverberating up his arm.
“Most things are,” Bateman allowed, dropping back. “Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t protect yourself against them.”
“I’m sufficiently protected,” Worth assured him. “She will not get under my guard.”
“No?” Bateman lunged, fists pounding. Right block, left, left again. Worth retreated, but his friend kept coming.
“Enough!”
Bateman stopped, breathing hard.
Worth lowered his guard.
Bateman’s fist shot out and connected with Worth’s jaw. Down he went.
He lay on the floor a moment, staring up at the coffered ceiling. The painted cherubs on their fluffy white clouds eyed him back as if singularly unconcerned about his throbbing jaw.
Bateman began unwrapping his fists. “What have I told you?”
“Never let your guard down,” Worth said, jaw protesting each syllable.
“Not with me and not with her,” Bateman said. “I may have joined your household after she left you, but I saw the damage that was done. You think as fast as a flash of lightning, except when it comes to people. Then you dither like a senile old man. I can’t protect you from that.”
“No one can,” Worth told the cherubs. One seemed to look commiserating, or maybe Bateman’s blow had addled his wits as well as nearly broken his jaw.
Bateman offered him his hand, and Worth took it to rise.
“What did she do that was so awful?” the former boxer asked, releasing him.
Worth focused on unwrapping his fists. “Have you ever been in love, Bateman?”
His man paused, then turned away to hang the muffler on a hook. “Once. I wasn’t good enough for her family.”
The pain from their sparring felt like nothing. “I’m sorry.”
Bateman shrugged, but he didn’t meet Worth’s gaze.
“I
thought I was in love,” Worth told him. “With a blithe spirit and a sweet smile that made me feel capable of anything. It was at a time when I had begun to question my abilities, my choices. I thought she was the answer, the proof that I had more insight than I expected. She was the proof all right. She proved that for all my intellect I know nothing about people, just as you surmised. The woman I thought I loved was a phantom contrived to lure me in. She cared only for the money and position I could offer.”
Bateman smoothed the muffler on the hook, large hands now surprisingly gentle. “Isn’t that why most of you lords marry? The lady might have money or land, the gentleman power or title.”
“Some marry for those reasons,” Worth allowed. “I never intended to be one of them. I have money and position enough to satisfy me. I don’t need to barter my well-being for more.”
“Yet you allowed her to barter her time for pay,” Bateman pointed out. “You have her at your side again, on important work. How can you trust she has your best interests at heart? For all you know, she’s the one who’s been sending those notes.”
Worth paused. He’d hired a bodyguard because a series of notes had been arriving in the last year, each one threatening dire consequences if he didn’t abandon his work. He suspected he knew the originator. For all his frustrations, he was at odds with only one person. Just in case he was wrong, he had let go most of his staff, closeted himself, encouraged Charlotte to hire only women she trusted. His approach seemed to be working. The notes had become less frequent, the last coming several months ago. Could he have been wrong again? Could Lydia be the culprit? He found it hard to imagine her so spiteful.
He tossed the mufflers on the hook. “I don’t think Miss Villers sent those notes, but we would be wise to keep an eye on her, Bateman. I will not allow her to distract me from what’s important again.”
Chapter Five
“Friction is the enemy.”
Worth’s voice echoed down the corridor, and Miss Pankhurst tsked where she and Lydia sat sewing. They had been sitting and sewing for the last two days since the test of the fabric. Lydia would arrive promptly at eight. Bateman would escort her to Charlotte, who would accompany her to Miss Pankhurst’s room, as if afraid to allow her to so much as glimpse what was happening anywhere else in the house. Miss Pankhurst would assign Lydia some task that involved stitches that Miss Pankhurst would proclaim unsuitable before ripping them out and making Lydia do them over again. It was tedious, pointless work. It seemed Worth was still testing his hypothesis about her.