by Lauren Royal
Suddenly she could understand, at least a little, how fallen women succumbed to that temptation.
There was nothing about neck kissing in the Master-piece, she thought dazedly, winding her fingers into his hair. “Ford,” she heard herself whisper, “do you think it feels like this for everyone?”
He stilled, then pulled back enough to meet her eyes, a hazy expression in his own. “No. I think…”
He fell silent. Shaking his head, he reluctantly backed away from her—slowly, as though he didn’t want to—until they were once again sitting side by side, turned toward each other. He plucked a leaf from her shoulder, smiled at it, then suddenly sobered.
“I think I may have fallen in love,” he confessed in a rush.
Her world skidded. It wasn’t quite I love you…but it was close.
She removed her spectacles and wiped them on her gown, stalling for time. Trying to wrap her mind around the meaning of his words.
He was saying all the right things, in just the right way to make her question all her old insecurities. When he looked at her like that, with those incredible blue eyes, she wanted to believe him more than she’d wanted anything, ever. She just didn’t know whether she could.
She slipped her spectacles back on, determined to regain control, to refocus her mind on something less confusing. Something safe and practical. ”Where will you sell it?” she asked quietly.
His eyes changed, darkening with concern, with hurt at her lack of response. “Sell what?”
“Your watch.”
“My watch?” He sighed, then bent his head, his hair flopping forward like a young boy’s.
A desperate streak of longing shot through her.
“I’m not planning to sell my watch,” he said. “I’m not equipped to manufacture watches.”
Stunned, she sat up straighter and saw him tense in response. “Well, then,” she asked, “what do you plan to do with it?”
He straightened, too. “I’ll bring it to the next Royal Society meeting. I’m certain it will be a sensation.”
“And then…”
“That’s it. I have other projects I’m working on—”
“You’re serious, then?” She couldn’t believe it. “You’re not going to patent it? You have no plans for the watch?”
“I invented it. That was my plan.” He made to rise, but she gripped his shoulder and held him in place. “I’m not a businessman,” he said through gritted teeth. “I have no knowledge of that world. The creation was a satisfying end in itself.”
“I don’t understand you,” she said. True, aristocrats tended to think trade beneath them, but only a rich man had the luxury of doing what he pleased without considering his income.
Or a man who planned to rely on his wife’s fortune.
She didn’t want to think that of him. His confession had sounded too sincere, his explanation of his motivations too uncalculated. She’d seen how much he cared for Jewel; she knew he had a good heart. And though his eyes held many indecipherable emotions, she felt instinctively that none were deceit.
Yet she couldn’t help wondering.
He stared at her for a long, silent moment. A bird fluttered from one tree to another. A cow lowed in the fields beyond the woods. She heard her blood pounding in her ears.
“I don’t understand me, either,” he said.
FORTY-THREE
“HAVE YOU AND the viscount had a fight?” Sitting cross-legged on Violet’s bed that night, Lily patted May-dew on her face from a bottle she’d purchased in London. “He didn’t seem very happy when he came back for his watch.”
Violet paced her bedchamber, restlessly touching things at random. “No, we didn’t fight.”
She had no idea how to explain what had happened in the woods, because she hadn’t yet figured it out. The two of them had walked back in silence, as though they had nothing left to say to each other. But Ford hadn’t seemed angry. Before they’d reentered the house, he’d even brushed a kiss across her forehead at the door. And then sighed before he opened it.
She sighed now. “I still cannot believe he isn’t going to do anything with the watch.”
Rose played with her hair, examining herself in the mirror at Violet’s dressing table. “Not everyone is as ambitious as you are, Violet.” Holding her tresses twisted up high, she turned from her reflection. “Do you prefer it up or down?”
“Up,” Lily said at the same time Violet said, “Down.”
“Some help you two are.” Rose stood, fluffing her white night rail. Violet was struck anew by her younger sister’s stunning beauty, but quickly suppressed the stab of envy. “It’s not like you can change him,” Rose told her. “And why would you want to, anyway? You keep insisting you’re not interested in him.”
Violet plopped on her bed so hard the ropes creaked a protest beneath the mattress. “I just find it hard to believe he can invent something so important and not be interested in selling it. Or patenting it, at least. At the Royal Society event, I heard that Christopher Wren patented a device for writing with two pens. If anyone uses his idea, they have to pay for it.”
Lily scooted nearer and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Why is this bothering you so, Violet? It’s not your invention.”
“I just hate to see such brilliance go to waste.”
Blinking, Lily shifted to face her. “Perhaps Lord Lakefield isn’t motivated by money, but it’s not as though he’s lazy. It’s only that he does things for other reasons than you would. He might invent something to make someone happy, or create something he hopes will be a benefit to mankind. His values may be different than yours, but that doesn’t mean they’re wrong.”
Violet wondered when young Lily had become so wise. “I never thought of it that way,” she murmured, more confused than ever.
Her two sisters exchanged a glance. “Did he kiss you again?” Rose asked.
“Maybe.” Violet stood and resumed pacing—then stopped, wondering if it were a habit she’d picked up from Ford. Feeling her sisters’ gazes on her, she turned to face the wall. “Very well, he did.”
“And was it as marvelous as before?” When Violet failed to answer, Lily rose and came up behind her, placing a hand on her arm. “If you love him,” she said softly, “why won’t you consider marriage?”
“He hasn’t asked me.” Violet twisted out of her sister’s grasp. And because Ford had as much as said he loved her, something in her middle twisted as well. “And even if he did ask me, I would wonder if it were only for my inheritance. I’m not the type of girl who inspires love.”
Compassion flooded Lily’s deep blue eyes. “We love you, Violet!”
“You’re my sisters. That’s different.”
“Now I see why you’re so upset,” Rose said. “You wish he would sell watches and make a lot of money. Because if he still kissed you then, you’d know it was for yourself.”
That could be so, Violet realized. Rose was far too shrewd for her comfort.
Lily stepped closer. “Or is it your dream of publishing you don’t want to give up? Are you afraid that if you marry, your money will go to your husband instead of your dream?”
“No. Not that.” Maybe she would have agreed with Lily last month. But although she still wanted to write a philosophy book, she had new dreams now.
Yet she was sure, deep down, that if Ford were suddenly showered with gold—or figured out how to make gold himself—those new dreams still wouldn’t come true. And it irritated her that she’d even begun dreaming. She used to be content with her lot, and that had been much easier.
“My own money has nothing to do with it,” she said. “I just hate to see wasted potential. It disagrees with the practical in me.”
“But Violet,” Lily said quietly, “what is it you really want?”
Good question, Violet thought. She didn’t know anymore. “Maybe we should talk of something else.”
Rose shrugged, then grinned. “We could read more of the Master-piece.
” She snatched the book off Violet’s bedside table. “Where did we leave off?”
“Here, give it to me.” With a sigh, Violet took the book and climbed into bed.
Lily ran around to the other side, and the three of them huddled together beneath the covers. “Just like old times,” Lily said. “Do you remember when we couldn’t read yet, Violet, and you used to read to us at night?”
“Read to us again, big sister,” Rose lisped, stretching her mouth wide in a silly, babyish smile.
Giggling, Violet turned to the next chapter. “‘Chapter Seventeen: A Word of Advice to Both Sexes, Being Several Directions Respecting Copulation.’”
Rose rubbed her hands together. “Sounds like a good one.”
“That’s strange…” Violet flipped a page, fingering the book’s binding. “It appears most of the pages in this chapter are missing.”
“Oh, no!” Rose looked crestfallen.
“I can’t believe I never noticed before.” Violet closed the book and examined the tailband at the bottom of the spine. “Look, you can even see a little gap.”
“Could they have fallen out just recently?” Lily asked. “Maybe the pages are somewhere in your room, or in the summerhouse.”
“No, it looks like they were cut out.” Violet turned back to Chapter Seventeen to show them the skinny strips of paper still attached to the binding.
“Hang it!” Rose leapt out of bed with an angry huff. “Someone ruined the book!”
Lily shook her head. “Who would do such a thing?”
“It must have happened before Mr. Young sold it.” Violet shrugged. “I’m sure he didn’t know the book was damaged.”
“I suppose,” Rose said with a pout. “I bet they were the best pages, so someone decided to take them.”
“Maybe.” Lily looked disappointed, too.
Violet raised her chin. “Get back in bed, Rose. We’ve got plenty more to read.”
“Very well,” Rose grumbled as she climbed back under the covers. “Let’s get on with whatever’s left of Chapter Seventeen.”
FORTY-FOUR
FOR THE DOZENTH time, Ford turned over in his bed. Though his project was finished, for some exasperating reason he still found himself sleepless in the wee hours of the morning. Or perhaps it was because his project was finished.
It was time to leave Lakefield.
Tabitha’s elopement was behind him. Far behind him. So far behind him, he wondered what he’d ever seen in her—on the rare occasions he thought of her at all.
His watch was completed, and although he had another idea to add a chime to wake the watch’s owner at a certain time of the day, he could work on that at Cainewood, or even in London. With the Royal Society settled back in its old home, the meetings would be more regular. He wanted to attend them.
But though he knew he’d ruined things with Violet—though she’d made it perfectly clear in the woods this afternoon that she neither welcomed nor returned his feelings—he still found himself irrationally reluctant to leave. The very thought seemed to cause a painful squeezing sensation in his chest.
So he decided not to think.
Instead he climbed from the bed and wrapped himself in a robe. As long as he couldn’t sleep, he might as well start designing the wake-up bell.
On his way up to the laboratory, he bumped into Harry coming down. “Pardon, my lord.” Holding a candle in one hand, Harry scratched his bald head with the other. “I was just sneaking down for a midnight raid. I wouldn’t be averse to some company.”
“Midnight raid?”
“On the kitchen.” The houseman patted his round belly. “Hilda is always nagging me not to eat, so I don’t much. Not so she can see it.” He grinned. “She baked bread before retiring.”
As usual, Hilda’s offerings this evening had been less than enticing. Feeling his own stomach rumble, Ford followed Harry downstairs and drew a stool up to the big table in the cavernous kitchen.
Harry swiped a fresh loaf off the counter and reached for a knife. “Quiet around here since Lady Jewel left, if I may say so.”
“It is.” Ford watched him slice the coarse brown bread. “She’s a charmer.”
Scooping butter from a crock, Harry slathered it onto a piece. “She is that. And Lady Violet, too.”
“Lady Violet?”
“Don’t pretend there’s nothing between you two.”
Ford accepted the buttered bread. “Criminy, you’re as meddling as your wife.” But unlike Hilda, Harry managed to probe without asking a single question. “What business is that of yours?”
The houseman didn’t so much as bristle. “Just wondering how long you’ll stick around here is all, my lord.”
“As I’ve no excuse to stay, most likely I’ll be heading to London soon.” He bit into the chewy bread. “Or not,” he added around the mouthful.
“Just as I thought,” Harry said, buttering his own hunk of loaf. He took a hearty bite. “Those Ashcrofts have made you feel right welcome.”
“They have,” Ford admitted. In a few short weeks, he’d begun to feel like Violet’s family belonged in his life. Even her parents, which surprised him.
His oldest brother had been fairly simple to manipulate, and he’d always imagined real parents would be a nuisance. But Violet’s were rather amusing.
He swallowed and nodded. “I find myself shouting at Lord Trentingham with the rest of them now. And earlier today, I helped Lady Trentingham make essential oil.”
Harry drew a pitcher of ale and grabbed two goblets off a shelf. “Sounds like a messy business.”
“Not particularly, although she has a disaster of a distillery.” Ford watched while the man poured. “Perhaps I ought to make her a new one,” he mused. After all, Lady Trentingham had been the soul of kindness and had even tolerated Ford’s pursuit of her daughter, never mind that Violet had ultimately rejected him. He owed the woman a world of thanks—and a new, sophisticated distillery would be just the thing.
“Sounds like a good enough excuse to stick around,” Harry observed.
Ford raked back his hair. “It has nothing to do with that. Lady Trentingham deserves it, as a token of my thanks for her hospitality.”
“Of course.” Harry’s brown eyes twinkled as he raised his cup. “Drink up, my lord.”
Ford did, his mind already occupied by how to best arrange the copper tubing.
FORTY-FIVE
OTHER THAN THE odd squeaks and groans emitted by any old house, Trentingham was deathly quiet. By candlelight, Violet sat at her desk in the library, chewing on the end of a quill.
Nodding to herself, she dipped it into the ink and began writing.
Dear Mr. Wren,
It was a pleasure meeting you at the Royal Society function last month, and it is my hope that we renew our acquaintance sometime in the future.
The quill’s scratch sounded loud in the empty room.
In the meantime, I am requesting your assistance with some information. You had mentioned patenting an invention, and I would be grateful to know how to go about doing so. A few lines of instruction would be most appreciated.
Yours truly,
Violet Ashcroft
Simple and straightforward. She read it over twice before folding it, then added a seal and addressed it to the Royal Society for delivery. Surely someone there would see it reached Christopher Wren’s hands.
Now to the more important letter. She had already addressed the backside of the paper to Daniel Quare, Watchmaker, Fleet Street, London. She’d found the information engraved on the backs of two of her father’s gold pocket watches.
Dear Mr. Quare,
I have invented a new watch with an additional hand to mark the progress of the minutes. I am querying your interest in producing and selling the design, a vast improvement on all current watches. I am certain you can envision the profits as patrons must replace their old watches with this newer one, which could very well allow you to dominate the market. I have patented the
design—
She removed her spectacles and rubbed her eyes. That wasn’t quite a lie—she did intend to see it patented.
—so there is no sense in your own craftsmen attempting to duplicate my idea. I am asking—
She hesitated again, then took a deep breath.
—twenty-five thousand pounds for my sketches and the working sample, plus a royalty percentage to be negotiated. You have two weeks in which to answer, after which time I will offer my invention to Mr. Thomas Tompion. I hope to hear from you in the affirmative, with a contract ready to be signed.
Yours truly,
For a third time she stopped and closed her eyes. Then she opened them, redipped her quill, and etched the name.
Ford Chase, Viscount Lakefield
If he had no ambition for trade, she figured she had enough for them both.
FORTY-SIX
“MOVE ASIDE, if you will. Please. This is heavy.”
At the sound of Lord Lakefield’s voice, which she hadn’t heard for far too many days, Chrystabel looked up to see Violet scurry into her perfumery. The viscount and a footman followed close behind, an enormous machine held between them.
At least, she thought it was a machine.
“What is that?” she asked.
With some effort, the men maneuvered it to her worktable and set it down. “My thanks,” Ford said to the footman, who bowed and took his leave. “It’s a distillery, my lady.”
“A distillery?” The machine wasn’t like any distillery Chrystabel had ever seen. Well, besides her own, she hadn’t seen any distilleries other than the one her aunt Idonea had used to teach her how to make perfume. Which had looked very much like the one she owned now. Two wooden bowls, a wooden block, a wooden tray beneath it all.
But this…this was all metal and glass and copper tubing. It positively gleamed.
And she hadn’t a clue how it would work.