by Nichole Van
Collins cleared his voice. “The, uh . . . person in question . . . has been waiting for you, my lord.”
“Excellent! The man was wise to wait. Good work, Collins.” Lord Whitmoor clapped his butler on the shoulder.
Something that felt distinctly like hysterical laughter bubbled in the back of Fossi’s throat. Or perhaps it was a rising sob. Oddly enough, it was difficult to tell the difference—
“I assume you put Mr. Lovejoy in the library?” Lord Whitmoor nodded in approval, not waiting for a response. “I’ve been to Newgate, as I am sure my odor informed you. Let me change my attire and then show Mr. Lovejoy up to my study immediately.”
Fossi was unsure if she should feel elated at being granted an audience or appalled at Lord Whitmoor’s instant assumptions.
“Yes, my lord.” Collins spared another glance for Fossi.
The butler opened his mouth to say something additional, but Lord Whitmoor was already moving toward the stairs, his back turned to them all.
“Oh and give this . . . whoever she is—” Lord Whitmoor flicked a hand toward Fossi behind him. “—a tuppence and send her on her way. I do not believe we have any staffing needs at the moment.”
Lord Whitmoor bounded up the stairs, Fossi’s card still gripped in his hand.
Collins raised his eyebrows in her direction.
“Well—” The butler rocked back on his heels. “—your day just became decidedly more interesting, now didn’t it?”
Chapter 4
Daniel climbed the two flights of stairs to his bed chamber, calling for his valet.
His pulse pounded and hope swelled, a balloon in his chest.
At long last!
He had finally found the man he had been searching for!
He studied the calling card again as he tugged at his neckcloth with one hand. The bold, hand-written script leapt off the paper.
Foster Lovejoy
Member
Society of Mathematicians
An odd name to be sure, but who was he to judge?
He flipped the card over and examined the line of numbers and symbols scrawled across its surface.
Hallelujah!
The author of that blasted theorem had taken the bait.
Relief swamped him.
Daniel had a path now. He could move forward. Finding Mr. Lovejoy was the first step toward redemption. The guilt lurking at the periphery of his thoughts abated, deciding for now not to pounce.
Better yet, without the weight of his duties to the Home Office, he could devote all his energy to correcting his terrible mistake. His hands shook with anticipation as he carefully set the card on his private writing desk.
His valet arrived with a nod and proceeded to help Daniel shrug out of his coat, the sour smells of prison flooding through the room. Newgate was a cesspool and the scent lingered for days. Pity Daniel didn’t have time for a bath, but surely Mr. Lovejoy would be understanding.
Daniel enjoyed most aspects of living in the nineteenth century as opposed to the twenty-first, the century of his birth. He had, after all, deliberately chosen to live in this time period. It suited him, even when it took months to do something that a smart phone with an internet connection could accomplish in mere moments.
But every now and again, a life-altering crisis arose that nothing in nineteenth century could solve. Antibiotics to cure an illness. A car or airplane to quickly move between two points. Or, in this particular case, a computer to crunch mathematical data.
Daniel didn’t have a computer, obviously. More to the point, he also couldn’t access a computer which was the irony of the situation.
If he could access a computer, he wouldn’t actually have need of one.
Lacking a computer, he had resorted to tracking down the next best thing—a mathematical genius.
The post in Scriptis Mathematicis had been a last-ditch effort to flush out a particular mathematical mind he knew to be living at this time. Given his intended path, Daniel was relatively confident he hadn’t altered history by publishing what he had.
Besides, desperate times and all that . . .
Daniel pulled on clean trousers and shrugged into a freshly laundered shirt. Then, he donned a pin-striped waistcoat, buttoning it up.
In the twenty-first century, the theorem was called Fourier’s Nemesis—a stark innovation on a Fourier Series, a branch of calculus that studied waves and frequency. Jean-Baptiste Fourier, the mind behind his namesake theory, had published his groundbreaking work on heat and wave theory only a few years ago in 1822.
From Daniel’s coursework in engineering at the University of Gloucestershire (Class of 2015), he remembered studying Fourier, as well as Fourier’s Nemesis. The originator of Fourier’s Nemesis had long been heralded as an anonymous mathematical genius of astounding talent.
Scouring current 1828 scientific periodicals had yielded nothing. Whoever the mathematician was, he kept a low profile. So Daniel had resorted to publishing his own notice.
Daniel lifted his chin, allowing his valet to tie a well-starched neckcloth.
To his credit, Daniel was smart enough to not publish the entirety of Fourier’s Nemesis. He had merely printed salient parts of it—the critical bits, so to speak. A taunt, of sorts. Hopefully enough to goad its author out of hiding.
And, thank heavens, he had finally uncovered the man.
Nearly two years ago, an earthquake had rocked the western portion of Great Britain. A smaller earthquake by the world’s standards, to be sure. Probably no more than a six on the Richter Scale. But it had altered something—the portal’s position? a critical axis? an unknown object?—something which had caused the time portal in the cellar of Duir Cottage to stop functioning.
As the Keeper of the time portal, Jasmine, Lady Linwood had been profoundly affected by the portal’s breakdown, initially collapsing utterly, floating in and out of delirium for days. Jasmine had recovered from the worst of the attack after two weeks. Not fully, but enough to function as long as she had extra rest. However, she was not whole, not as she had been.
The broken portal also prevented Daniel from communicating or visiting friends and relatives in other time periods, particularly his sister, Kit, living two hundred years in the future.
The time portal needed to be repaired.
But how? The portal was a physical manifestation of a metaphysical world, a space so complex it defied logic.
His valet held up a tailcoat. Daniel slid his arms into the sleeves and pulled the jacket into place.
Jasmine’s explanation of the portal was a mix of mysticism and practicality, much like the lady herself.
Past and Future formed an eternal Present. Time was not a river, but a vast ocean where the lives of every person who had lived, or would ever live, existed simultaneously as concentric circles rippling its surface . . . as if each life were a stone dropped into the water by some mystical unseen hand. According to Jasmine, these rings usually oscillated in synchronized harmony. Up and down, every life breathing together as one.
The earthquake had disrupted this harmonious oscillation, turning the cosmic ocean into a discordant sea of choppy waves. Instead of humming with harmonic power, the portal buzzed with dissonance, harsh and unsettling.
Worst of all, the earthquake and subsequent breakdown of the portal came at a critical moment for Daniel. He had made a catastrophic error—a mistake that had to be rectified. But he had to restore the portal before he could move on to righting the wrong he had done.
Daniel was trapped. Unable to move forward or back, quite literally.
He needed a solution. As the portal was essentially a wormhole in Time, mathematics should provide that. He just needed a genius mind attuned to wave theory.
Hence the advertisement in Scriptis Mathematicis.
Daniel surveyed his reflection, tugging on his waistcoat as his valet brushed stray lint from the superfine coat. A hint of Newgate still lingered, but it would have to do.
N
odding his thanks, Daniel retrieved Mr. Lovejoy’s card and took to the stairs, retreating down a flight to his study, giddy with anticipation.
He looked at the back of the calling card again as he entered the room.
No, it truly was there—Fourier’s Nemesis staring back at him in its full glory, clearly and precisely written in bold handwriting.
Footsteps along the hallway announced Collins’ arrival before the rap on his door.
“Come.”
The door opened. Daniel set the card on his desktop and turned to greet Mr. Lovejoy, a congenial smile on his lips.
Collins blocked the doorway only momentarily.
“Miss Foster Lovejoy to see you, my lord.”
Collins moved aside.
The drab woman who had been in his foyer earlier passed into the room.
Collins bowed with what might have been a restrained smirk on his lips and shut the door behind himself.
Only then did his butler’s words register.
Miss Foster Lovejoy.
Shock blasted through Daniel’s excitement with stunning force, his welcoming words instantly swallowed up in shock, freezing his expression.
This was Foster Lovejoy? The greatest mathematical mind alive? A poor, unremarkable woman who loitered in noblemen’s vestibules?
The woman before him was . . . shabby. A gray mouse of a person, gripping a gray reticule and equally gray bonnet that had obviously seen better days.
Daniel blinked, trying to remember the last time anything had caught him so off-guard. A pirate’s ship off the coast of Le Havre? Lady Sharpton’s garrulous attempts at flirtation during her husband’s funeral?
Miss Lovejoy had utterly whitmoored him.
The irony.
Surprise could be the only explanation for his first words.
“You are Foster Lovejoy?”
The woman’s spine stiffened.
“I am, my lord.” Her voice was soft and cultured, gentle and more refined than he would have expected.
She clutched the bonnet ribbons in her hands more tightly, nearly strangling the shapeless thing. Which, to Daniel’s purview, could only be counted as a service to humanity.
“But . . . but you are a woman.” An accusation.
“Yes, my lord.” Tone so very dry. “I have been female for quite some time now.”
Of all the possible ways Daniel had considered this scenario playing out—if and when he managed to locate the author of Fourier’s Nemesis—he had never once considered that the person he sought would be a woman.
Shame barreled in behind his shock and surprise.
Of anyone alive in 1828, Daniel Ashton should understand the capabilities of women. Were she here, his sister would have his hide for the sexist slip.
For not the first time, he wondered if he hadn’t gone too native in his living of nineteenth century life.
Years of working in espionage had Daniel instantly cataloging Foster Lovejoy—brown eyes and equally brown hair pulled into a tight bun, average height and figure. That said, her oval face itself was regular of feature and not wholly unattractive, calling to mind a Renaissance Madonna. Though without the provenance of angelic hosts and gilded framework, the impact was lost. Her simple gray pelisse did not help the impression, the garment being a solid eight years out of fashion and had obviously been turned and skillfully patched many times over.
In short, she was the sort of woman society was least kind to—poor, unmarried and well-educated. A person he would pass on the street a thousand times without remembering her existence, assuming her to be a lady’s companion or housekeeper. Or if he found her in his entryway, for example, would suppose she was looking for work as such.
She would make a perfect spy, truth be told.
Was she truly the author of Fourier’s Nemesis, in the end?
There was a fire in her, he supposed. She faced him with her chin raised, determination evident in the way she clutched her bonnet and reticule, in the rigidity of her shoulders. The action highlighted the elegant curve of her jaw, the patrician cut of her nose.
Hmmm. Perhaps more Joan of Arc than a Madonna.
“You may have five hundred and thirty one cartouches on the wallpaper in your entrance hall and fourteen footmen of precisely all the same height—which truly is a disturbing requirement of employment, if I may editorialize—but I will not be cowed,” she said into the silence. “I am here to protect that which is rightfully mine.”
A long pause ensued during which Daniel struggled to piece together her sentence.
“And what would you protect?” he asked.
“My theorems. My ideas. You have stolen them, Lord Whitmoor. I wish to know how and why you did so and then taunted me with them. And, more to the point, I wish you to cease.”
Foster Lovejoy, it appeared, had come prepared for battle.
Fossi stared down the haughty nobleman before her, shoring up her courage.
Su coraggio! She mentally pleaded in Italian. You can do this, Foster Lovejoy.
Lord Whitmoor was every bit as intimidating in his study as he had been in his entryway.
Fortunately, a change of clothing had at least tamed the stench of prison and curtailed the flies.
He was dressed in clothing that spoke of extravagant wealth without being overtly ostentatious—brushed blue superfine coat a shade deeper than his blue eyes, brown trousers and waistcoat with gold buttons, immaculate white cravat. He was taller than average, though not to excess.
Fossi had the instant impression that Lord Whitmoor did nothing to excess. He appeared lean and . . . hard.
Unyielding.
He wore power like others wore fragrance—a subconscious essence which permeated every space he inhabited.
It wasn’t arrogance, his power. Arrogance implied a sense of insecurity. The arrogant felt compelled to prove themselves.
Fossi was quite sure Lord Whitmoor had nothing to prove.
She supposed most women would misunderstand this power and call it handsomeness instead. But there they would be wrong.
Lord Whitmoor’s face was composed of too many sharp edges—brow ridge, cheekbones, jawline—to be considered classically symmetrical. His attraction lay in the force of his personality rather than harmonious external beauty.
Case in point—his blue eyes peered into her with chilling force.
Fossi swallowed, regretting yet again the reckless pride that had brought her to this juncture. What had made her think that bravado and righteous ire would be sufficient to win the day against the might of Lord Whitmoor?
Lord Whitmoor reached behind him and plucked her calling card from his desktop.
“Your ideas, Miss Lovejoy . . .” He paused, stared at her equation, shook his head and then fixed her with that steely gaze again, brandishing the card at her. “You claim to be the author of this theorem?”
“Yes, my lord.” Reflexively, she tightened her grip on her reticule and bonnet, calming their quaking. His eyes darted to her gloved fingers.
Lord Whitmoor would miss nothing.
“I am not sure I believe your claims, Miss Lovejoy.” He tapped her calling card against his leg. “Are you certain the theorem is yours and not lifted from another’s work? I need a mathematician, not an impostor.”
Fossi felt her cheeks flush with righteous indignation.
He stared her down for another moment. It was a truly effective gaze. Fortunately, she had spent the whole of her life receiving such looks from her father. Which was ironic, as her father detested aristocrats as a general rule and would be appalled to be compared to one.
“You may believe what you will, my lord.” She notched her chin higher and sternly told her quivering knees to be still. “But belief alone will not stop Truth from being true. I am the author of this theorem.”
“Indeed.” Lord Whitmoor pursed his mouth, as if perplexed.
But something told her the move was calculated. He let her see that emotion.
Lord Whit
moor, she was quite sure, considered the world to be a giant chessboard and, like a pawn chain or queen’s gambit, emotion was one of many strategies he employed when moving pieces.
The insight itself surprised her. Given his successes, Lord Whitmoor should not have been an easy man to understand. So how could she so quickly read him?
She chose to counter his disdain with a reasoned approach.
“Obviously, I anticipated the need to prove my claim, my lord. You are hardly the first man to see my gender as a negation of my abilities as a mathematician.” Was it her imagination or did Lord Whitmoor flinch slightly at those words? “I therefore took the time to bring along a sample of my notes regarding Monsieur Fourier’s Series and the research that resulted in my counter to his arguments.”
Fossi opened her reticule and pulled out the small packet of papers she had prepared. When going into battle, she believed in anticipating every possible enemy action.
She took two steps toward him and extended the documents, hating that her hand still trembled slightly.
Lord Whitmoor paused a moment and then took the papers, studying them.
Silence hung as he read—the sounds of London traffic a muted hum beyond the light-filled window.
While his head was bowed over her notes, Fossi stole a glance around the room. The space appeared . . . lived in. Books with well-creased bindings lined the wall to her right. A table rested before the bookcases, a telescope, mechanical brass fittings and scribbled papers strewn across its surface. Lord Whitmoor’s desk stood straight ahead, imposing and cluttered. A cozy sitting area took up the left half of the space, leather chairs angled toward the gilded fireplace.
After a moment of flipping through papers, Lord Whitmoor handed them back to her, that steel gaze pinning her.
“Your notes are acceptable proof.” He paused. Correcting his course after finding it blocked, no doubt. He gestured toward her card. “You belong to the Society of Mathematics? I was unaware they accepted female members.”
Ah.
Of course.
“They do not, my lord.”
“And yet you accuse me of chicanery?”