Clockwork Blue (The Lumière Chronicles)

by Gloria Harchar

  He stopped and hovered mere inches away. The fragrance of his soap mingled with his own unique scent. It was all Nicola could do to stand her ground.

  "Miss Moore." With a gentle finger, he nudged her chin upward. "You will not escape me in this."

  A spark of alarm prickled down her back, leaving her unsure whether she reacted to the warmth of his touch or the charismatic force of his gaze. "No, of course not."

  "I will give you two days."

  "Two days! Why, that's not nearly enough time. I will need at least a fortnight to study the matter."

  "A week. And that will be all." His tone was so implacable; she knew the negotiations were over.

  "Very well, then." Seven days wouldn't allow her much time to prepare for Ramsey's trip to Europe, but she vowed she could manage it.

  "If your father still won't come to terms, then we will announce our betrothal on Friday next."

  She threw him a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, it won't come to that because I will find a deal satisfactory to both you and my father."

  "Unlike you, I'm not worried at all. I know I will get what I want in the end."

  "You certainly don't want the added baggage that comes with the dye. Believe me, I will do everything in my power to persuade my father to cooperate."

  He didn't look optimistic. "Is this a diversion? What are you planning?"

  "Nothing at all, other than to figure out a way to get my father to sell the dye." She gave him her brightest smile. "Rest assured, my lord, you will not have to sacrifice your marital status."

  "It isn't my sacrifice with which you are concerned."

  "Assuredly it is. I'm convinced it isn't good for a man's well-being to be forced to endure a woman of whom he doesn't approve." Although she didn't want to marry him, the thought of any man, even one more appropriate to her station, being forced to endure her presence or disapproving of her caused a sour taste to rise in Nicola's throat.

  Falconwood plucked a piece of starfish from the netting covering her bonnet. "Marriage is of little consequence when I will obtain the Clockwork Blue in return."

  "How dare you treat my life as you would an old pair of Wellington boots." Opening her mouth, she started to argue further. "Why, I—"

  He stepped close, towering over her. "I will expect daily reports on your progress."

  Mercy, she didn't want to see him that often. How then could she escape to London with Ramsey in tow? Reining in her frustration, she knew she would have to be as cunning as a fox if she was to win this battle. "You want daily reports?" she asked.

  "Yes. Come to the town square tomorrow shortly after the noon hour." His tone brooked no refusal.

  "If you insist." She realized she would have to do some fancy footwork to keep the Earl satisfied. "Now, I will drive me and Ramsey home, if you will be so good as to show me where he is."

  "That reminds me. I've decided to take your advice on your cousin."

  "Indeed?"

  "Tomorrow he will be introduced to my stables."

  Nicola frowned. "Whatever for?"

  "As my new stableman. To muck out the stalls."

  He'd outmaneuvered her. Her throat tightened with remorse.

  "And Miss Moore?"

  She stared at his hard features, at the lines that bracketed his mouth. Glancing into his midnight gaze, she shivered as if a blast of wind from the north had struck her.

  "Your cousin will live at Windmere until you or your father comes to terms."

  Late in the night, Malcolm rubbed the ache in his arms. He'd exerted all his muscles to rub oil deep into the dark mahogany of his newest loom. He'd replaced the damaged piece. Now as he readied for bed, he recalled with satisfaction the spirited repartee he'd had with Miss Moore.

  She was an unexpectedly pleasant challenge. Energy surged through him at the thought of matching wits with her. He knew he'd have to keep three steps ahead if he was to ever get what he wanted—but was it the dye or Nicola herself?

  The wayward thought made him frown. Nicola was comely, which was a satisfying surprise, and interesting; but attraction to a woman of her kind wasn't smart. She fascinated him, but that would never do because love was not for him. He would simply rise to the challenge of her resistance and vanquish her, then leave her to her own machinations as his wife. He had nothing to offer except the exalted position of his title—which was more valuable than anything as illusory as love. Love was a fantastical whimsy upon which poets such as Byron expounded.

  Being part of the haute ton was something every woman coveted, and Nicola would be no different.

  Chapter 5

  "I won't do business with the cheating nob," Birch Moore exclaimed before he succumbed to a bout of coughing.

  Nicola jumped up from her chair and rushed around the desk to pound on her father's back. She retrieved the chipped Worcester teapot with a worn golden handle that had been her grandmother's favorite, and splashed the brown liquid into a cup. Then she added a spoonful of honey before handing it to him. "Here, drink." She didn't like the hacking sound and feared his strength waned even more. And his yelling didn't help.

  The unusual burst of anger from him alarmed her, too. These fits of fury were becoming more frequent. As his fit subsided, she lowered herself upon the Georgian-style chair and stared across the desk at her father's seething expression, waiting for him to calm.

  Had the Callers gone? She'd told them to leave, but they hadn't listened to her so far. She still suspected they had something to do with Falconwood's discovery of her and Ramsey in the workhouse. But so far they wouldn't admit to their part in the Earl's schemes. The Earl didn't need their help.

  "Papa? Why are you so upset? I know it's rumored the Earl killed his brother, but you have never allowed hearsay to enter into practical matters."

  After he took another swig of tea, he seemed to calm, even though his jaw muscle twitched. "My judgment has nothing to do with that old gossip. But it does have everything to do with his ex-partner."

  "What ex-partner?"

  "Thomas Hill."

  "You mean the president of the Textile Guild?"

  "One and the same. Falconwood wouldn't have what he has today if it weren't for kindly Thomas. And what were his thanks? A stab in the back."

  The early morning sunlight streaming through the window dimmed as if storm clouds gathered. Nicola knew inclement weather wasn't the cause. Rather, it was the brewing confrontation with her father that caused her to think the room had darkened. Glancing outside, she noted the lush lawn. To the right, the beauty of her mother's rose garden caught her attention. The manner in which the yellow and pink blooms climbed the ancient stone wall separating their property from their neighbors' caused poignant tears of nostalgia to sting her eyes, and she discovered herself fervently wishing her dear mum could be with her at the moment.

  Her father rubbed the long scar on his right hand from his younger days as a stockinger. The gesture indicated the depths of his agitation.

  Nicola watched him with dread. "We won't discuss the Earl if you don't feel up to the topic."

  "I'm all right." He sighed. "I suppose you should know. About twelve years ago, Thomas and the Earl became friends in India. They pooled their monies together and started a textile business." He paused to take another sip of tea. "Thomas, being the generous fellow he always has been, invested all of his life savings—much more than Falconwood. Everything was working out well—their goods were demanding high prices and Thomas was seeing a return on his investment... until large shipments of silk were stolen on the high seas. The losses threatened to ruin the company and to leave Thomas with nothing. Naturally, he investigated and discovered the Earl was behind the thefts."

  "I don't believe it. What proof did Thomas have?" Why she asked, Nicola didn't know. Hadn't she firsthand experience of the Earl's ruthlessness? Her attention wandered to the bookcases filled with volumes, most of them frayed, being secondhand, and to the settee near the fireplace where she loved to read on
snowy days. She yearned for those carefree days again.

  "One of the captains had an attack of honesty and told Thomas. Falcon had bribed the captain to report that corsairs ransacked the ships. Thomas estimated that Falcon stole more than sixty thousand pounds."

  "Oh no."

  Her father's lips thinned. "Thomas tried to prosecute, but all the captains who were involved with the swindle vanished. He could do nothing but terminate the partnership. You know that Thomas is a trusted friend of mine. He was the one who helped me establish a firmer foothold with the dyes by convincing the board members to approve my membership into the guild. I have nothing but admiration and respect for him."

  Could it be true, then? Had the man she'd talked with the night before stolen from his own partner? Some part of her wanted to believe the answer was a resounding no, but upon what would she base such an opinion—the fact that he was darkly handsome and had a way of looking at her that sent shivers down her spine? Warm, lazy shivers, not of apprehension but of anticipation. Don't be a goose cap! She wasn't the sort to be swayed by a handsome face.

  Truthfully, she knew next to none of what laid in Malcolm Addison's heart... except that he wanted her dye and was willing to blackmail her to get it.

  The situation was ten times worse than she had envisioned. The river of troubles swept her under, and a drowning sensation cut off her air for several moments. But she could swim out of the current as long as she remembered her plans. She could soften her father, giving the Earl the illusion of reconciliation that would lull him into contentment until a bargain was made. The Earl would compensate them well, and she was certain the monies from the dye would sustain them for life.

  From experience, she knew her father had a hard time resisting the expression she now pasted on her face. "Papa, the Earl has been grossly misjudged," she said—an assumption she prayed was true.

  "Nicola, have you heard anything I've said?" he asked, astonished.

  "Yes, but I don't believe it."

  "You don't believe a fine man like Thomas Hill? His reputation got him elected as president of the guild."

  "Yes, I know. But I talked to Falcon at the ball last night, and I think he's more complicated than what is on the surface. And I think there is good in him. I feel as if he has been the unfair brunt of ridicule. I would like to give him a chance."

  "Thunderation." Her father ran a shaky hand through his white hair. "Allow me to ponder this awhile."

  Nicola's heart twisted over how fragile he'd become, and she regretted pushing him. But for Ramsey's sake, she couldn't permit her father to consider for more than a day. "I was hoping we could invite him to supper tomorrow night."

  "That soon? No, no, Nicola, give me a few days. I will ponder upon the matter while I'm at the factory."

  Standing, she fought frustration; instead, slapped on a bright smile. "Well, then, that is that."

  "Are you coming up to the dye house today?" He stepped from behind the desk.

  "Later. I'm going for a ride on Brownie. I want to look for those orange insects I discovered the other day," she said, longing to do just that—and she would, just as soon as the meeting with Falconwood was over. She had seen some strange fluorescent bugs that would make a beautiful dye if extracted properly, and she wanted to discover the host plant. "I'll see you this evening."

  "Where is Ramsey? I haven't seen him this morning," he asked uncannily.

  With horror, she recalled the last time Ramsey had gotten in difficulty with the constable, and how Papa had coughed, grabbed his chest and fainted. No, this was her problem to resolve and hers alone. "He's most likely studying with his friends." She wondered how she could lie about his continued absence for seven days.

  "I thought he usually studied with you."

  "He wanted to prepare for his exams with John Wimble." She wished with all her might that was true.

  He sighed. "I worry about that rebellious streak in him. Although you've been taking risks, too. I heard about that little skirmish in town."

  "You know if the protests become too dangerous, we will stop."

  "I trust you to do so, but will Ramsey? I don't want to lose him to the gaol, and that is where he's headed if he continues his defiant ways."

  Or deportation to the far reaches of New South Wales. She took a deep breath. "Speaking of Ramsey...."

  "Yes?" Her father slipped out his pocket watch to glance at it, and she knew the time had come for him to go. He made his way toward the door.

  She followed him, noting the frayed floral carpet that had been her mother's choice when they had moved to Chawleigh cottage eight years ago, which her father was reluctant to replace. "I think you should send Ramsey on tour."

  Halting on the threshold, he widened his eyes. "On tour? That fancy notion is for the gentry."

  She walked past him to the foyer. "Why does it have to be only for them? We have the funds and the connections. A year traveling the continent would be good for Ramsey's education."

  "He has two years left at university. If I sent him on such a journey, I should at least wait until he's finished."

  "True, but I'm worried about him, Papa. And you're right—he is headed for gaol. He is getting too involved in politics. An extended trip would be just what he needs to cool his heels and keep him out of trouble."

  Her father walked with her down the hall, rubbing his chin. "Yes, yes. Perhaps you are correct."

  The front door opened and their topic of discussion appeared. Anxiety caused Nicola's skin to tingle. She stared at Ramsey.

  Her father looked at his nephew, surprised. "What are you doing back so soon?"

  Ramsey frowned. "So soon?"

  Nicola cleared her throat. "Uh, you came back from your studies to get a few items, right, Ramsey? After all, you cannot borrow any of John Wimble's clothing." Wimble was at least a foot shorter than she herself was. She stared at Ramsey meaningfully.

  "Ah, yes. Quite right. Wimble's smock would split down my back, that is for certain."

  The lines in her father's forehead eased. "Stay away from Stanley Kern. His radical talks will lead you down the wrong path, I'm afraid."

  Ramsey jutted out his chin. "Stanley is a brilliant scholar, a poet. He does much to admire."

  It was an old argument between them, and Nicola didn't want her father to get too upset. "Win the debate, all right?" she fabricated, discreetly kicking Ramsey in the shin.

  "What? Oh, uh, yes. So, Uncle, don't expect to see me for the next few days."

  "Can I trust you to stay out of mischief?"

  Ramsey gave his uncle a level look. "The debate is important to me."

  "All right then, Ramsey. Good luck with it." He turned to Nicola. "I will see you this evening." He walked outside, leaving them alone.

  Ramsey grasped her by the arm. "What happened last night?"

  "Nothing."

  "I demand to know what that scoundrel did to you."

  "The Earl? He only followed me home to make sure I arrived safely. He didn't trust the barrelabout to arrive without breaking down," she added as she wryly recalled his words.

  "I can't believe that. The man is vindictive. Believe me, I know firsthand."

  Alarm prickled Nicola's spine. "What? He beat you?"

  "No. I wish he had caned me. It would have been much more bearable than what he's forcing me to do. And he's having his servant follow me as if I'm untrustworthy." Indignation peppered his tone.

  "Well, you are."

  Bristling, Ramsey stiffened his spine with a jerk of his head. "I beg your pardon."

  "Not to me, but you are in the Falcon's eyes."

  He sniffed. "I shouldn't have to suffer his cruelty."

  "What is he doing to you?" Eyeing him closely, she noticed his clothing was as impeccable as ever and his cravat had been tied in the usual intricate design. With an inward grin, she knew her cousin had a melodramatic, youthful bent to his nature—perhaps because he was young, being only sixteen years of age, and so passion
ate in his zest for the underprivileged. Affection pricked the backs of her eyes.

  "It's foul." His nose wrinkled, reminding her that he was five years her junior. "He's forced me to muck the stables. But that's a moot point." He scowled at her. "Answer me, Nicola. What happened after I left you last evening?"

  "Nothing happened."

  "The notion of you with him in the dead of night makes my skin crawl." He frowned. "I'll have to challenge the cad."

  "You'll do no such thing. I'll do the challenging if need arises." She suppressed a smile. "Besides, I'm the one who protects you, brattling."