by Nichole Van
He was unsure where Miss Lovejoy’s father fell on the spectrum, but he suspected the latter.
Daniel took in a deep breath. “As you may perhaps know, I work closely with the Crown and Home Office regarding matters of national, shall we say, safety. At the moment, I find myself in need of a mathematician of renowned skill and creative insight. It had come to my attention that Miss Foster Lovejoy of Kilminster, Dorset was such a mathematician—”
“You want Foster to do sums for you?” The younger brother frowned.
“However would the Home Office know about my daughter’s predilection toward mathematics?” Josiah Lovejoy fixed Daniel with hard eyes. “Why should the Crown concern itself with my corner of the world?”
Daniel spread his hands wide. “I am in the business of information, sir. ’Twould be compromising were I to share my methodology.”
Josiah Lovejoy clearly wasn’t buying it. “Does this have something to do with that rotten Society of Mathematics something or other? They came nosing around my Foster a few years ago. I thought I had sent them on their merry way.”
Will darted a horrified look at his sister. She returned a quelling stare.
Ah. So the older brother knew.
True to form, Reverend Lovejoy didn’t miss their silent exchange. His eyes widened in near apoplectic horror.
“What have you done, you foolish girl?” he hissed.
“Father—” Will began, moving to stand between his father and sister.
“No! You will not defend her, boy.” Josiah Lovejoy pushed past his son, towering over his daughter. “What. Have. You. DONE?!”
“Father, don’t do this. Not now.” Will shot an apologetic look back at Daniel before snagging his father’s arm. “I encouraged her, Father. Lord Whitmoor has the right of it. Foster is a mathematical genius, and it is a shame to deny the world a glimpse into her brilliance.”
“The world?! What does the world have to do with any of this?” Reverend Lovejoy glared at his eldest son. “God’s opinion is the only one that concerns me. And this”—he gestured in a circle, taking in Fossi and Daniel—“matters naught by any measure. Foster’s obsession with mathematics is vanity and pride, at best—”
“Her gift comes from God, Father.” Will pushed his case.
“No, her proclivity toward numbers is a dangerous distraction that must be carefully controlled. We have had this conversation more times that I can count, boy. And, now, to know she continued correspondence with that Society which glorifies man’s intellect over God’s—”
“Father, you misunderstand the matter.” Fossi found her voice. “The Society of Mathematicians certainly does not consider itself above God’s intellect—”
“You lied to me, child.” Reverend Lovejoy’s words hung in the room. “Even if you split hairs and never told an out-an-out falsehood, you knew I considered the matter closed. You deliberately deceived me.”
“Father—” she began again. “Things are not quite—”
“Enough!” her father boomed, bushy eyebrows drawn down. “We will discuss this later, when . . . company is not present.”
Daniel’s heart sank. What would this ‘discussion’ entail? Should he be worried for Fossi’s safety?
Mmmm. Granted, he would consider chaining her to a desk, but the thought of anyone else harming her upset him? Such hypocrisy was . . . unhelpful.
Fortunately, Fossi looked distressed but not panic-stricken.
Daniel knew he should leave it alone. Just take his leave and walk out the door, regroup for the next skirmish.
But . . .
Fossi with her sparking wit and rare courage deserved more than this. More than a sheltered half-life where all decisions were taken from her.
“Your daughter is a rare genius, sir. Her mathematical mind knows no equal. She is possessed of a spirit of inventiveness that gives fresh life to her calculations—”
“You are quite through, Mister Whitmoor.” Reverend Lovejoy had turned an alarming shade of red.
Which truly was unfortunate. The color was quite unbecoming and Daniel had a terrible tendency toward flippancy when faced with outrage and huffy conceit.
“Uh, Ashton, actually. Daniel Ashton, at your service.”
He bowed. Polite. Precise.
And possibly with a hint of irony this time around.
“Well, Mister Ashton, you will kindly remove your unwelcome personage from my home . . .”
Daniel gave Fossi another apologetic look as her father waxed on and on about Daniel’s defective character and the excesses of the aristocracy in general.
Fossi managed a small, hopeless smile in return, her dead eyes telling Daniel all he needed to know.
The image of those dead eyes—lifeless pools of muddy brown—chased Daniel out of the Lovejoy’s home and back to the Royal George Inn where Garvis and his carriage awaited.
Daniel would consider the whole affair to have taken a nearly comical turn . . . if his own self-loathing and need for redemption were not so overwhelming. If the hopelessness in Fossi’s eyes hadn’t tugged at that deeply buried part of him.
Damn.
The woman who could conceptualize Fourier’s Nemesis merited, at the very least, a healthy dose of respect.
Would he add to her distress and force her to work for him?
There was no doubt he could. If Fossi refused to help him willingly, there were any number of ways Daniel could ensure her unwilling cooperation.
Empathy and esteem for Miss Foster Lovejoy would only hamper him in doing what had to be done. Ruthlessness, when warranted, had never been a struggle for him.
Daniel rubbed at his forehead as he trudged up the stairs to the suite of rooms he had taken. Garvis was waiting for him, scribbling in one of his endless journals.
Garvis fancied himself something of a writer.
One look at his master’s face was all it took. “It went that poorly, eh?” A grin tugged at the man’s mouth.
“Not a word.” Daniel muttered, trying to fight the throbbing in his head, regretting for about the thousandth time that 1828 was short on ibuprofen.
His tired, hurting brain couldn’t think of an ethical solution to his current problem. Guilt pounded through his chest, the anguishing pain that constantly lurked.
Miss Foster Lovejoy was the only one who could work the complicated formulas he needed. He had no other option. She was his only hope.
The portal had to be fixed. His very sanity depended on it.
Fossi refused to help of her own accord.
Her family certainly would offer no assistance in persuading her.
He was at an utter impasse.
Was kidnapping the only option left, then?
On that depressing thought, Daniel fell into a dreamless sleep.
He woke after dawn to birds chirping far too cheerfully outside his window.
His headache, fortunately, had abated—sleep and rest providing the necessary medicine.
Daniel got up, washed his face using a washbasin and pitcher in the corner and took advantage of the stowed chamber pot.
It was only as he finished tying his cravat that he noticed the white slip of paper slid underneath his bedroom door.
Even from across the room, her bold handwriting was unmistakable.
If you still wish to engage my services, I have decided to accept, provided we can come to a mutually satisfactory agreement. You will find the remains of an old mill a mile up the road toward Bath. I will await you there at noon.
All the breath rushed from Daniel in a swoosh of relief.
Hallelujah.
So unexpected.
They would come to a satisfactory agreement. On that point, he did not worry.
This was a sign. He was on the correct path.
Hope flared bright.
Promise you will keep it for me. Don’t forget.
A solution was within his grasp. At last.
Chapter 8
The old mill
&
nbsp; Near Kilminster, Dorset
August 8, 1828
Fossi was not surprised to find Lord Whitmoor already waiting for her as she topped a small rise and descended toward the abandoned mill.
He struck her as the kind of man who grasped opportunity the way other lowlier mortals breathed air—his by right of merely existing.
From her vantage point, she could see his fine carriage on the road, horses held by a coachman and groom. Another man rested against the coach, a booted foot propped on the door, arms folded across his chest, hat pushed low.
Lord Whitmoor himself paced beside the crumbling stone walls surrounding the old mill, hands clasped behind his back. His head swung her way as she walked toward him.
Her heart thundered. Was she truly going to do this? It had seemed a sane choice in the dead of night but now felt like walking into the lion’s den.
The events of the previous afternoon would not leave her be. She had been up for the better part of the night, assessing, contemplating.
The entire mooring of her life had been swept out to sea in one swooping tidal wave. The only option left her was to decide what to do with the scattered remains.
After Lord Whitmoor took his leave yesterday evening, her father had spent the better part of two hours venting his temper, railing on her deception, Lord Whitmoor’s audacity and the failings of the aristocracy in general. Fossi had borne it all without comment. Opening her mouth would merely prolong her father’s tirade.
Her father had decided, in the end, that she was a wicked creature for having associated with such a man. And, if given enough time, he allowed that he could forgive her trespasses, provided she cease all correspondence with the Society of Mathematicians and Lord Whitmoor and never mention the matter again.
When he was finished, he sent her to bed.
Without any supper.
Thirty-two years old and she had been banished to her room like a recalcitrant child.
Her family clearly saw her as an eccentric burden—tolerated because she was, after all, their own flesh and blood. A trial to bear. But not someone valued. Not someone needed.
The idea . . . burned, ached. It was a fresh wound, gaping and raw.
Her father did love for her—she was honest with herself in this—cared for in as much as Reverend Lovejoy was capable of love. But his paternal affection was a distant thing.
And now that she knew she was a burden to him and her siblings, everything had become tinged with a sense of obligation. The future with her family appeared bleak.
On the opposite hand, Lord Whitmoor needed her.
His purposes might be clandestine and shrouded in mystery, but at least he didn’t hide his motives behind a false smile, righteous platitudes and rote familial duty.
He would not tolerate her if she became a burden.
Any relationship between them would be strictly economical in nature—a business transaction. Lord Whitmoor would certainly never view her with fondness. She was simply a tool. He would use her mathematical talents, and she would receive payment for her endeavors—money that would shore up her beleaguered future prospects.
Lord Whitmoor would cast her off as soon as she ceased to be useful.
But . . . as it turned out, so would her family.
More to the point, Fossi would never have expectations of anything more from him. It was a black-and-white viewpoint of the world that she easily understood.
There was a reason Fossi loved numbers. They didn’t lie. They didn’t say one thing and think another.
They were truthful and straightforward.
Lord Whitmoor was hard and unyielding and the world he inhabited frightened her. But he had defended her abilities to her father, which displayed a streak of loyalty within Lord Whitmoor she had not anticipated.
He would not betray those he saw as his.
“Miss Lovejoy.” Lord Whitmoor tipped his hat and gave her a small bow as she stopped in front of him. “As you can surmise, I received your note.”
“Indeed, my lord.” Fossi bobbed a curtsy. “I had placed the odds of you appearing here at one out of five point four, but there was a margin of error of seven point three six percent, so I was uncertain, as you can imagine.”
To Lord Whitmoor’s credit, he only blinked twice at her statement.
“Well, despite the unfavorable odds, it is certainly a pleasure to see you again. Perhaps under more auspicious circumstances this time?” His head angled in question.
“Yes, my lord.”
Fossi set her small bag upon the ground. She had packed it in the early morning hours—her computation notebooks and other scribbles, three dresses, a change of underthings—and stowed it away in the woods to be retrieved before meeting Lord Whitmoor.
As for that, it had been a simple thing to slip a note under his door at the Royal George on her return from the woods. There was only one room fine enough for a gentleman of Lord Whitmoor’s standing and everyone in Kilminster knew it to be the front bedroom and parlor overlooking the village green.
After leaving a note for Lord Whitmoor, she had returned home and written another tear-stained note for her father which she left on her made bed. The note expressed her love for him and gratitude for his support over the years, ending by stating she did not wish to be a burden upon the family and was seeking to live elsewhere. She did not tell him where she was going. Why hand Reverend Lovejoy ammunition?
She then attended family prayer meeting and helped Betsy finish tying herbs in the cold room. At which point, she had foregone lunch to retrieve her bag and meet Lord Whitmoor here.
“I feel compelled to offer my most humble apologies for the scene my arrival provoked yesterday,” he said. “I did not mean to cause you distress before your family.”
It was a kind observation. Fossi believed him . . . or, at least, he genuinely disliked that he had misstepped.
Lord Whitmoor looked . . . more today. His dark coat and trousers were less fussy and tailored than others she had seen him wear, a nod to the long journey ahead perhaps.
Most significantly, his waistcoat was a startling blood-red satin. It was almost impossible to not see the striking splash of unexpected color as symbolic. A small glimpse, perhaps, into the man behind the persona of Lord Whitmoor.
Or, the cynical part of her muttered, a way to make him seem less aristocratic and more approachable.
Here, you can trust me because I am just a simple man trying to hire help.
Lord Whitmoor weighed every decision with cold calculation.
“My father can be quite . . . forceful in his opinions, unfortunately,” she said. “He obviously sympathizes with both the American and French Revolutions and does not see much use for the . . . upper classes.”
“I see,” Lord Whitmoor said. “Had I known the particulars of your situation, I would never have subjected you to the censure of your family. Please accept my apologies.”
He said this with a smile so lethal it bordered on criminal. His blue eyes crinkled and his teeth sparkled, alarmingly straight and white in his face. Lines magically appeared around his mouth and eyes, shining outward like sun rays.
It caused an odd stuttering in her chest, that smile. Fossi had never been on the receiving end of such potent charm.
Huh.
She had vastly underestimated its effectiveness.
Were he to continue to smile at her like that, she could find herself agreeing to a great many things she oughtn’t.
Yes, indeed.
Lord Whitmoor was a master puppeteer. Effortlessly performing a set of actions intended to gain a specific reaction. He clearly understood that knowing how to persuade someone was the first step to controlling them.
Of course, the inverse was to be avoided at all costs. As a master of knowing, he was even more skilled at being unknown, sealing his true self deep inside that unassailable fortress.
Fossi hazarded that very, very few people were allowed to see the true Daniel Ashton. But, she susp
ected, the real man behind the wall would be a fascinating one.
That was the problem with men who hid in iron-willed fortresses.
Such things challenged, begged to be besieged and conquered. She understood better why Alexander had felt compelled to vanquish Tyre, why men went to war at all.
That same energy she had observed before swirled around him, but this time it wasn’t contained within a room. Logic—and, quite frankly, all three of Newton’s Laws of Motion—would insist that the force of his personality should feel weaker in the open countryside, as nothing confined it.
But trust Lord Whitmoor to defy even the rules of physics themselves.
The vivacity of his person loomed larger, consuming more than his share of space.
All these thoughts pinging around her brain meant it took a moment for his words to sink in.
Had I known the particulars of your situation . . .
Wait. What?
He had violated her privacy and stolen her ideas before they even met. How could he have been ignorant of her circumstances? Of her gender? That did not . . . compute.
He read the confusion on her face.
“Either my presence is upsetting or I have managed to puzzle you?” He flashed another delicious smile, deadly in its calculation.
Her heart pitter-pattered, causing her breath to hitch.
Action. Reaction.
She was merely experiencing Newton’s Third Law of Motion in an up-close and personal way.
Nothing more.
Courage, Fossi.
She straightened her shoulders. She was made of sterner stuff than charming smiles. “I am merely trying to understand yet again, my lord, how you came to know my own personal notes and yet remained ignorant of the other basic facts of my life, such as my family life and . . . gender? Would you care to enlighten me?”
His mouth twisted, as if her question were . . . troublesome.
Oh dear.
Perhaps this wasn’t going to work, after all. Perhaps the kinship and understanding she sensed from him was all a fabrication of her overactive imagination.