Chase Family Collection: Limited Christmas Edition

by Lauren Royal

  Violet’s face was pure white. “Oh my. They’ve responded. I gave them two weeks, and it’s been way over that, so—”

  “You gave them two weeks to what?”

  “To agree to buy your watch before I took my offer elsewhere. Your offer, I mean.” Some color rushed back into her cheeks. “I signed your name.”

  His wife was obviously confused from lack of sleep. “I haven’t patented my watch, darling. I haven’t even shown it to the Royal Society yet—”

  “I patented it. I wrote to Christopher Wren and asked for instructions. I remembered him saying he’d patented a device for writing with two pens at once.”

  “You sold my watch?” It was all beginning to click into place. Shaking his head in disbelief, he scanned farther down the page. His heart stopped. “You sold my watch for twenty thousand pounds? Twenty thousand pounds!”

  His heart had started again, but it was about to hammer right through his ribs.

  “Twenty thousand?” She grabbed the letter from him. “Is that all they’ve offered?” she said, sounding disgusted.

  “All? All! Violet, it’s twice the amount of your inheritance!”

  She looked up from the page. “But I asked for twenty-five. What makes them think they can get away with a contract for twenty?”

  He started laughing. And laughing. “T-t-t-twenty-five,” he forced out. “You asked for twenty-five.”

  “And royalties. Was it not enough?” she asked. “I know your design is revolutionary, but I thought twenty-five thousand pounds was…well, you’re worth more than that, of course. You’re priceless.”

  “You’re priceless,” he said. “Give me back that contract.”

  “You’re not going to sign it, are you? I hope not. They didn’t offer enough. We need to negotiate.”

  “Oh, I’m signing it, Violet.” To make certain she wouldn’t stop him, he rolled the paper and stuck it in his breeches. “I wasn’t planning to do anything with the watch, remember? Thanks to you, I’m about to be a wealthy man.”

  Thanks to his ambitious, practical, intelligent wife—a woman who embodied all the things he’d once thought unimportant in a female—“someday” had just come a lot sooner than he’d ever dreamed.

  His mind raced with plans. “I can sink more money into Lakefield or buy a second estate. Or both.” He grinned. “I can finance the publication of my brilliant wife’s book.”

  She cracked a small smile, a smile that stole his heart. “Do you suppose that can wait a while?” she asked. “I’m hoping to raise some children first, with your help.”

  She made him happy. Damn, he was happy. Happy with his wife, happy with his life.

  “Hmm,” he said, watching her speculatively. “I believe we’ll have to make those children first.”

  And lowering his lips to hers, he poured all his love into a kiss.

  Epilogue

  Seven months later

  VIOLET WAS READING in bed when Ford burst into the chamber. “I’ve just had a message from Jason. Cait is delivering their babe, and the family is gathering at Cainewood to celebrate. If we leave soon enough, you may even witness the birthing.”

  “That would be nice,” she said dreamily, toying absently with the cover of her book.

  “What’s that?” He walked closer. “Aristotle’s Master-piece again? Surely there’s nothing in there you still don’t understand.” His lips curved in a suggestive half-smile. “If so, I’d be willing to give you more lessons.”

  She sat up against the headboard and grinned. “I’m thinking I could give you lessons by now. But I’m suddenly interested in this particular chapter. Listen.” She patted the bed beside her and waited for him to sit. “‘Signs taken from the woman are these. The first day she feels a light quivering or chillness running through the whole body; a tickling in the womb, a little pain in the lower part of the belly—’”

  “What the devil?”

  “Just listen.” She turned the page. “‘Ten or twelve days after, the head is affected with giddiness, the eyes with dimness of sight—’”

  “Violet—”

  “‘—the breasts swell and grow hard, with some pain and prickling in them’”—smiling to herself, she pulled off her spectacles—“‘the belly soon sinketh, and riseth again by degrees, with a hardness about the navel.’” Though her husband’s breathing was sounding a bit ragged, she kept reading. “‘The nipples of the breast grow red, the heart beats inordinately, the natural appetite is dejected, yet she has a longing desire for—’”

  Ford’s hand clenched her arm. “What’s the title of this chapter?”

  She turned back to the previous page. “‘Of the Signs of Conception.’”

  When she looked up, his heart was in his shining blue eyes. “Does this mean…?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I hope you’re pleased.”

  And a heartbeat later, he gathered her into his arms, telling her without words just how very pleased he was.

  Apparently being with child had some effect on her responses. When his mouth met hers, her head was affected with giddiness, and a delicious heat started spiraling through her, making her heart beat inordinately. His hands went to her breasts, and she felt some swelling and prickling…

  Wait, she thought, with what little sense she had left. He always made her feel those things.

  Always.

  They were going to be late to Cainewood.

  Author’s Note

  Dear Reader,

  It goes without saying that Ford didn’t invent frames to hold spectacles on the face—credit for that goes to a London optician named Edward Scarlett, who came up with the idea in 1730. The first spectacles for reading were made in the late 13th century (and the first ones for distance about 300 years later), but before Scarlett’s innovation they were simply held to the face or balanced on the nose—momentarily helpful, but not something one could wear all day long. I like to think that if Ford Chase had really lived, he’d have been brilliant enough to invent eyeglass frames half a century earlier.

  Although the minute hand began appearing on watches around 1675, it’s not clear who managed it first. Obviously someone missed a chance at a profitable patent! Everyone agrees the two-handed watch was developed in England, but some historians claim that Daniel Quare was the first to sell such a timepiece, while some say it was Thomas Tompion or others. But what does seem to be clear is that the minute hand was made possible by Robert Hooke’s 1660 invention of the spiral spring, which brought watches from a totally unpredictable performance to within two or three minutes’ accuracy a day.

  A true genius, Robert Hooke did much more than revolutionize timekeeping; he also made important contributions in chemistry, meteorology, astronomy, and physics. Other scientists of the time are much revered today, including Isaac Newton, Christopher Wren, and Robert Boyle. Yet Hooke has been largely forgotten. Newton and Wren were both knighted, so why not Hooke, arguably a greater scientist? In 2003, Gresham College marked the 300th year of Hooke’s death by a series of lectures designed to resurrect his reputation.

  Gresham College has provided free public lectures in London for over 400 years. Over time, it’s occupied several different locations. The lectures currently take place at Barnard’s Inn Hall, in a building that dates from the late 14th century. To see the upcoming schedule, visit the college’s website at www.gresham.ac.uk.

  The Royal Society really was welcomed back to Gresham College in 1673, “with six quarts of each of canary, of Rhenish wine and of claret, and with fine cakes, macaroons and march-panes,” as the City Archives describe an account of their entertainment. But the actual date of the celebration was Monday, December 1. I took the liberty of tweaking history a bit in moving the event to the warm summertime, so Ford could decorate the piazza. All of the people I mentioned at the ball were members at the time, including John Evelyn, best known for his diary that has given us a window into the Restoration period, and John Locke, whose ideas were a powerful infl
uence on the subsequent history of the Western world. Thomas Jefferson called Locke one of “the three greatest men that have ever lived, without any exception,” and drew heavily on his writings in drafting the Declaration of Independence.

  Along with these men of note, I enjoyed bringing Hooke and the other scientists—and yes, alchemists—to life. Although the mere idea of making gold from base metals is a laughable one today, up until the mid-18th century it was considered a serious science. During the 1600s, most of the luminaries of the day practiced alchemy, King Charles included. Ironically, it was his chartering of the Royal Society that eventually led to alchemy’s decline. In that ordered environment, modern chemistry and the new scientific methods taught men to free themselves from the old traditions and question theories that had prevailed for centuries.

  Although I invented the title Secrets of the Emerald Tablet, Alexander the Great did claim to have discovered the Emerald Tablet in the tomb of the legendary Hermes, and medieval alchemist Raymond Lully was said to have written a treatise about it that subsequently disappeared. No one knows the title, however, and although other writings attributed to Lully survive, that particular one was never found.

  A combination sex manual and advice to midwives, Aristotle’s Master-piece first appeared in the late 1600s and by the turn of the century was a veritable bestseller—likely to be found in any newlywed couple’s home. All of the words Violet and Ford read were actual passages from the book. Reflecting the attitudes of the time, this book presented sex as an act of pleasure without sin or guilt. In later years, of course, society became much more strait-laced about such matters, yet the Master-piece saw countless reprintings up until about 1900.

  As usual, the homes I used in this story were based on real ones that you can visit. Though I moved it to the Thames, Lakefield House was loosely modeled on Snowshill Manor in Gloucestershire. Snowshill was owned by Winchcombe Abbey from the year 821 until the reign of Henry VIII in the 16th century, when, with the dissolution of the monasteries, it passed to the Crown. Thereafter it had many owners and tenants until 1919, when a man named Charles Paget Wade returned from the First World War and found it for sale. The house was derelict, the garden an overgrown jumble of weeds, including—of course!—a sundial. Wade bought Snowshill and restored it, removing the plaster ceilings, moving partitions back to their original places, unblocking fireplaces, and fitting Tudor paneling to many of the rooms to recapture the original atmosphere. He scorned the use of electricity and modern conveniences, so the house appears today much as it would have during Ford’s time. Wade never lived in the house, instead using it to showcase his amazing collection of everyday and curious objects, literally thousands of items including musical instruments, clocks, toys, bicycles, weavers’ and spinners’ tools, and Japanese armor. The home is now owned by the National Trust and open April through October to view the house and collection.

  Trentingham Manor was inspired by another National Trust property, The Vyne in Hampshire (which I also relocated to sit on the banks of the Thames). Built in the early 16th century for Lord Sandys, Henry VIII’s Lord Chamberlain, the house acquired a classical portico in the mid-17th century (the first of its kind in England) and contains a grand Palladian staircase, a wealth of old paneling and fine furniture, and a fascinating Tudor chapel with Renaissance glass. The Vyne and its extensive gardens are also open for visits April through October.

  I'd love to see you in my Readers Group on Facebook, where I share sneak peeks and gather suggestions from my favorite readers.

  I hope you enjoyed Never Doubt a Viscount! Next up is The Scandal of Lord Randal—happy reading!

  Always,

  The Scandal of Lord Randal

  For DeeDee Guiver Perkins,

  Diena Brennan Simmons,

  and Julie Bowring Walker,

  who wore hoop skirts with me at the senior prom.

  Our friendship means the world to me.

  One

  Trentingham Manor, the South of England

  August 1677

  HE’D FORGOTTEN about her.

  Well, maybe he hadn’t quite forgotten about her, but he’d certainly put her out of his mind.

  Well, maybe he hadn’t quite put her out of his mind, but he’d known she was only sixteen. And sixteen was too young, so, being the sort of man he was—an honorable one, or so he liked to think—he’d made a conscious decision not to pursue her.

  For the four long years since their last meeting, whenever thoughts of Lily Ashcroft had sneaked into Lord Randal Nesbitt’s head, he’d reminded himself she was only sixteen.

  But now, Rand realized with a start, she must be twenty.

  Focused as Rand was, the priest’s voice, reciting the baptism service, barely penetrated his thoughts. Nor did the wiggling month-old child in Rand’s arms. Instead of looking at the altar, he gazed at Lily standing beside him in her family’s oak-paneled chapel, her sister’s other twin baby held close.

  Twenty. A lovely dark-haired, blue-eyed twenty. A marriageable twenty.

  In all of Rand’s twenty-eight years, he’d never really considered marriage, so the notion was jarring.

  “Having now,” the priest continued, “in the name of these children, made these promises, wilt thou also on thy part take heed that these children learn the Creed, the Lord’s Prayer, and the Ten Commandments, and all other things which a Christian ought to know and believe to his soul’s health?”

  “I will, by God’s help,” Lily replied softly. Gently, gazing down at the babe in her arms.

  Rand was unsurprised. In four years she had changed, of course. But her gentleness, that innate sweetness, hadn’t changed. Couldn’t have changed. It was what made her Lily.

  Ford Chase, Rand’s friend—and father of the children in question—elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Hmm?” Startled, Rand looked down to the lad he was holding, its bald little head patterned with colors made by sun streaming through the chapel’s stained-glass windows. Ford’s child, he thought, surprised by a rush of tenderness. Rand’s godchild…or at least the tiny babe and his twin sister would be his godchildren once they managed to get through this interminable service.

  “I will,” he answered, echoing Lily’s words and vaguely wondering what he’d just agreed to.

  “By God’s help,” the priest prompted.

  “By God’s help.”

  God help him get through this ritual. Mass, and then a lesson, and now this ceremony at the font—Rand felt like he’d been standing on his feet forever. Delivering a two-hour lecture at Oxford wasn’t nearly this exhausting. He feared his knees were locked permanently.

  He wanted this to be over. He wanted to talk to Lily. Never mind that she’d barely noticed him. He’d arrived at the last minute and had no chance to greet her before this rigmarole all began.

  The priest turned a page in his Book of Common Prayer. “Wilt thou take heed that these children, so soon as sufficiently instructed, be brought to the bishop to be confirmed by him?”

  “I will.” Rand and Lily said the words together this time. Their voices, he thought, sounded good together.

  “Name these children.”

  The child squirmed in Rand’s arms, choosing then to begin wailing. “Marcus Cicero Chase,” Rand bellowed over the cries.

  “Rebecca Ashcroft Chase,” Lily said more softly and with a smile, even though the girl’s cry had joined her twin brother’s, seeming to fill the chapel all the way up to its sculpted Tudor ceiling.

  Whoever would have thought such small infants could make such a huge racket?

  The priest rushed to finish, scooping water into his hand. It trickled through his fingers, running in rivulets down the backs of the two babies’ heads and landing on the colorful glazed tile floor. “I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” He muttered some more words and made crosses on the children’s foreheads. “Amen.”

  Amen. It was over. Well-wishers crowded close.
Still holding his squalling godson, Rand turned to Lily.

  She was gone.

  How could she have disappeared so quickly? Using his height to advantage, he peered over heads. But she’d vanished.

  Nearby, Ford held tiny Rebecca and was chatting with an older man. Lily’s father, if Rand remembered right. Or rather, Ford was shouting at the man, since the Earl of Trentingham was hard of hearing.

  Marveling that his tall, masculine friend looked so comfortable holding an infant, Rand shifted little Marc uneasily. Rebecca had stopped crying, apparently content in Ford’s arms, but in Rand’s arms, her twin brother still howled.

  Glancing around for help, Rand was relieved to see Ford’s wife, Violet, moving close. When she reached for her son, Rand gave her a grateful smile. But then he found himself oddly reluctant to hand Marc over. The babe might be loud, but he smelled sweet and had a pleasant, warm weight.

  When Violet took him, Marc quieted immediately. Resisting the urge to run his fingers over that fuzzy little head, Rand leaned a hand on one of the intricate carved oak stalls. “I assume you chose his name, Marcus Cicero, for the philosopher.”

  Violet bounced the lad in her arms, her brown curls bouncing along with him. She looked more motherly than Rand usually pictured her. Did children change people so much? “It was only fair,” she said. “Ford had the naming of our firstborn.”

  “Nicky? Ah, Nicolas Copernicus,” Rand remembered. “Well, I suppose it’s a better name than Galileo Galilei.”

  “Ford’s other scientific hero?” She laughed, her brown eyes sparkling with humor behind the spectacles Ford had made for her. “Even he wouldn’t saddle a good English child with Galileo for a name.”