Chase Family Collection: Limited Christmas Edition

by Lauren Royal

  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 tell me you haven’t any interest.”

  Ford accepted the buttered bread. “Bloody hell, you’re as meddling as your wife.” But unlike Hilda, the man managed to probe without asking a single question. “What business is that of yours?”

  The man didn’t so much as bristle. “Just wondering how long you’ll stick around here is all, my lord.”

  “As I’ve no excuse not to leave, most likely I’ll be heading to London soon.” He bit into the chewy bread. “Or not,” he added around the mouthful.

  “Just,” Harry said, buttering his own hunk of loaf, “as I thought.” 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 could make her a new one,” he mused. After all, Lady Trentingham had been the soul of kindness and had even allowed his attentions to Violet, regardless that he was unworthy. He owed her 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-Four

  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 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-Five

  “MOVE ASIDE, if you will. Please. This is heavy.”

  At the sound of Ford Chase’s voice, which she hadn’t heard for far too many days, Chrystabel looked up to see Violet scurry into her perfumery. Ford 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.

  “You’re sure that’s a distillery?” she couldn’t help asking.

  He stroked the thing, very much like Lily petted her beloved stray animals. “I’m certain. I assure you there’s nothing radical about the design.”

  “He has a much bigger one in his laboratory,” Violet said.

  Ford nodded. “And at Cainewood, yet another that dwarfs that one. But they all work on the same principles.” He smiled at Chrystabel. “I hope you’ll enjoy using it.”

  “Enjoy using it?” Her head swam with confusion, an unusual state of mind for Chrystabel. “Do you mean…can you mean to give it to me?”

  He blinked. “Of course. I made it for you. Why else would I bring it here?”

  “Why…” She felt speechless, another atypical condition. “That’s so generous, I…I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “No thanks are necessary. I saw a need, I filled it. One does that for friends.”

  Unsure which she appreciated more, his declaration or his gift, she came forward to take both his hands. “Then I’m fortunate to be counted among your friends,” she said warmly, her gaze drifting to Violet.

  Chrystabel hoped to be more than Ford’s friend; she hoped to be his mother-in-law. But she was clever enough to keep her mouth shut lest she thwart her plans. One wrong word from her lips, and her skittish daughter would go running the other direction.

  Her best bet was to keep throwing the two of them together until Mother Nature did her work. Chemistry—she’d wager that was how Ford thought of it. And she knew it was only a matter of time before those natural urges got the better of these two, the same way they had with herself and her dear Joseph.

  Very few mothers would plot to compromise their own daughters, but Chrystabel feared it was her only hope. Violet was too particular and too stubborn for her own good.

  She squeezed the viscount’s hands before dropping t
hem. “I do thank you, whether you feel that’s required or not.”

  Her daughter circled the large table, ostensibly examining the distillery. “Will you show us how to use it?”

  “Of course,” he said, following Violet. A mating dance, Chrystabel thought with an inward smile.

  “This container down here is for oil.” He lifted a lid. “Not your essential oils, but fuel, if you will. I’ve filled it for now, but you’ll need to add more as you use the still.”

  “That makes sense,” Chrystabel said, watching her daughter move away again.

  He shifted closer to replace the lid, which had a hole in the middle. “Make sure the wick is thick and long at the top,” he instructed, inserting one he pulled from his pocket. “You’ll want the flame high enough to boil the water. At home, this part of my still is brick—a proper oven. But for your purposes, this should do fine.”

  For the next step of the dance, Violet crossed back to Chrystabel’s side of the table. “It looks very complicated.”

  A large glass bulb sat in a frame, and a second glass bulb was attached by a tube. Smaller, it was designed to rest on the tabletop.

  “Put your petals in here,” Ford said, coming halfway around again to indicate the larger bulb. “Then fill it with water. There’s room here beneath the cover for the steam to collect, you see, but not too much room. Soon it will be forced down the tube, and on the long way down, away from the heat, the essential oil will condense and collect in this second receptacle.” He showed them how to remove it. “Does that make sense?”

  Still amazed that he’d gifted her with this, Chrystabel nodded. “It does!”

  “It will take a bit longer than your original method, but you won’t be losing any steam. Your oil will be purer and stronger.”

  “It will,” Violet said with a smile. “It’s quite obvious, and quite brilliant.”

  Overjoyed, Chrystabel rounded the table to impulsively wrap Lord Lakefield in a hug. “You’re a genius!” she exclaimed. “And so generous.”

  And so perfect for her Violet.

  His face was flushed when he pulled back. “It’s nothing, really.”

  “It’s everything,” Violet disagreed from across the table, leaning forward on both hands. “Few men would take a woman’s hobby seriously, let alone devise ways to improve it. Most would be like John Evelyn with his ‘kitchen scientist’ wife Mary.”

  Chrystabel hadn’t the slightest idea who John Evelyn was, but Violet’s eyes were filled with admiration. Her daughter was falling for Ford, she was sure of it. However, things weren’t progressing as quickly as she’d like. The man had a disconcerting habit of disappearing for days at a time while he invented one thing or another.

  “Violet’s birthday is tomorrow,” she told him. “We’re having a family celebration. I’d be pleased if you would join us.”

  “Mum—”

  “I’m delighted to accept,” he interrupted smoothly. “But I was planning to ask if Violet might take supper in my company tonight.”

  A little gasp came across the table. “Alone?” Violet asked.

  “Well, Harry will be there, and—”

  Violet opened her mouth.

  “I’m sure she’d be pleased,” Chrystabel rushed to say before her daughter could decline the invitation. She just managed to suppress a grin.

  “Shall I come for her at six, then?”

  “Wait.” Violet raised both hands, palms forward, looking altogether defensive. “Have I no say in this?”

  “Of course you do, dear.” Chrystabel fixed her with a steady gaze. “I just couldn’t imagine you refusing such a request after Lord Lakefield went out of his way to make this new distillery.”

  Ford walked around the table, stopping nose to nose with her daughter. Or they would have been nose to nose, if he wasn’t so much taller. The dance had ended. As Chrystabel watched him capture Violet’s gaze with his own, her heart sang to see her daughter’s eyes soften.

  Surrender.

  “Would you rather not come?” he asked quietly.

  “I…”

  “Please say you will.”

  Silence for a heartbeat. “All right.”

  A less than enthusiastic response, but Ford looked as happy to receive it as Chrystabel was to hear it. This was exactly the sort of opportunity she’d been hoping would come along.

  “I’m looking forward to it.” He bowed to both ladies. “Until six, then.”

  Forty-Six

  NO SOONER had Ford cleared the door than Violet’s sisters rushed in to see what he’d brought.

  “He made this?” Rose dumped an armful of flowers on the table. “He really and truly made this without you even asking?”

  Mum laughed. “How could I ask? I had no idea such a thing even existed.”

  “That was nice.” Lily ran a finger down the gleaming copper tube. “Very nice.” She turned to Violet. “You should marry him.”

  Violet’s mouth gaped. Though she’d discussed the subject with her sisters, she had trusted them to be more discreet. Especially in front of Mum. They had their pact to maintain a united front against any matchmaking.

  “Has he asked you to marry him?” her mother asked with widened eyes.

  “No,” she said shortly. That, at least, was true.

  Lily bit her lip, looking to Violet in apology. “I was just teasing her, Mum. But it was very nice of him to make this. I cannot wait to see you use it.”

  “And she should marry him,” Rose put in.

  “Oh, do hush up,” Violet said, dropping onto a chair. She raised her spectacles and rubbed her eyes, then pushed them back into place to focus on her mother. “Why did you invite him to my birthday celebration? It was supposed to be a private party. Family.” The day would be disconcerting enough without celebrating it in public. “You’re not trying to match me up with him, are you?”

  “Of course not.” Mum waved a dismissive hand. “He’d just brought me a gift. I felt it necessary to reciprocate in what little way I could.”

  That made sense. Maybe. “Then what is your explanation for encouraging me to join him for supper? Alone, Mum? Harry and Hilda don’t count.”

  “You’re twenty-one years old now, a woman grown. I’m sure I can trust you.”

  Violet wasn’t sure she could trust herself.

  “Besides, it was very much like I said, dear. He’d just done me an enormous favor, and I didn’t feel it would be right to refuse him a boon. It’s naught but a couple of hours in his company—surely you cannot find that too onerous.”

  “But you really should marry him,” Rose said again.

  Violet turned on her. “Why? So you can start your own husband hunt?”

  “No.” Rose actually looked hurt, which made Violet feel terrible for lashing out. “You just seem perfect together. Mum, don’t you agree?”

  Chrystabel’s fingers played over the flowers scattered on the table, picking out the white jasmines. “I promised you girls I would allow you to find your own husbands.”

  “That doesn’t mean we don’t want your opinion,” Lily said.

  “Yes, Mum,” Rose agreed. “What’s your opinion?”

  Violet didn’t want to hear anyone else’s opinion. If she thought she could get away with it, she’d slink from the room.

  Mum lifted the lid off the new still and began plucking jasmine petals, tossing them in as she talked. “I think he is brilliant.”

  Rose began collecting carnations, doubtless planning another floral arrangement. “Which makes him perfect for our Violet, doesn’t it?”

  “I didn’t say that, Rose.”

  “But you thought it.”

  Violet gritted her teeth. “Rose, would you hush up?”

  “Girls. Stop bickering. It’s up to Violet to choose her own husband. I said from the first I thought Lord Lakefield was too much of an intellectual, and I haven’t changed my opinion.”

  “But he’s so nice,” Lily said.

  Violet’s fing
ers clenched on the chair’s arms. “You think so? Then would you marry him?”

  “I’m not looking for a man like him,” Lily protested. “I’m looking for a man who shares my love for animals.”

  “You’re too young to be looking at all,” Mum said.

  Rose rubbed a pink bloom across her lips. “I like looking.”

  “We all know that by now,” Violet said, rolling her eyes.

  “Viscount Lakefield is very nice to look at.”

  “You think so?” Violet repeated. “Then why don’t you marry him?”

  Rose tossed her gleaming chestnut ringlets. “I’m looking for a man who appreciates my femininity. Your Ford looks right through me.”

  “Not too difficult, since you’re so shallow.”

  “Violet!” Her eyes wide, Mum stopped plucking.

  “I’m sorry,” Violet muttered. She hadn’t meant to be mean; she was just tired of being pressured. “It’s only that Rose is so intelligent, yet she tries so hard to hide it.”

  Rose turned to pull a vase from the shelf. “I’ve told you, men aren’t interested in intelligence.”

  “Lord Lakefield is,” Lily said.

  “And that,” Rose declared, plopping the carnations into the vase, “is why he’s so perfect for Violet.”

  A sigh escaped Violet in a rush. How long will you abuse my patience? she paraphrased Cicero in her head, but the familiar quotation did nothing to help her regain her own.

  This discussion was going nowhere at all, and if she heard one more time that she should marry Ford—from her mother, her sisters, anybody—she feared she would scream.

  She rose and headed for the door. “I need to go get ready.”

  Lily came to block her way, her blue eyes concerned. “Don’t you want to see the distillery work?”