Outrageously Yours

by Allison Chase

“Unless it has anything to do with my business for Victoria, it can wait.”

  “It cannot—”

  “Aidan, this house is full of scientists. What harm can possibly befall me here?”

  “Ah.” This burst from the man’s lips as something of a bark. “Let us take a moment to examine this fact. You, an unmarried, unchaperoned woman, are here alone in a house full of men. In fact, you apparently have been the houseguest of one man in particular for more than two weeks now, and have kept company with him night and day. The very moment I get my hands on him, I am going to—”

  “He has no idea who or what I am,” Ivy countered in an urgent whisper. “He believes me to be a university student named Ned Ivers, as does everyone else here. I swear to you, Aidan. You have no cause for argument with Lord Harrow.”

  So she isn’t going to tell him the truth. Simon briefly pondered the significance of that and wondered whom she sought to protect, him or herself. He decided it was time to discover who this Aidan person was and what claim he had on Ivy. Backing up several steps, Simon then walked forward without attempting to muffle his tread. As he crossed the threshold, the murmured debate that had continued to rage stalled to an awkward silence.

  “Ah, Ned, there you are,” he said breezily. “Your friend Lowbry indicated you’d gone this way.” He shifted his gaze to take in the man.

  He stood about Simon’s height and was of similar age and build, and, as Lowbry had intimated, possessed a direct gaze forceful enough to make a lesser man cower. This, coupled with the costly cut of his attire, suggested that he, like Simon, hailed from privilege. His speech patterns hinted at a university education, though Simon’s guess would be Oxford rather than Cambridge.

  The man’s harshness with Ivy had Simon seething at him through narrowed eyes, but he nonetheless maintained a cordial tone. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. You can’t be a member of the consortium, or I’d know you. Are you a representative of the Royal Society, then?”

  Even before Aidan denied it, Simon knew he held no such position. He’d said it only to persuade the other man that he hadn’t overheard his conversation with Ivy.

  “I am the Earl of Barensforth,” he said with an imperious curl of his lip that made Simon rather detest him, “and I have come to collect my—”

  “Brother-in-law,” Ivy burst out. “Lord Barensforth is married to my sister Laurel.”

  Simon expected the earl to correct the claim that Ivy was his brother-in-law. When he didn’t, amusement at the situation made Simon smile. “I see. How good of you to come. Are you a dabbler in the sciences, sir?”

  “No, I am not, sir.” Ivy shot the earl an imploring look, which he summarily ignored as he regarded Simon down the length of his patrician nose. “My brother-in-law here has given the family a scare by disappearing from the university without so much as a by-your-leave. It’s taken me days to track him down, and I’ve every notion to grab the bounder by the ear and haul him home.”

  “A misunderstanding.” Ivy waved her hands in the air. “I explained everything in a letter, which must have gone awry. But as you can plainly see, I am safe and sound, and enjoying the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  The earl flashed her a furious look, and Simon suppressed an urge to laugh. Argue though they might, it seemed the three of them had all silently agreed on one point: to continue the pretense of Ivy being a man.

  Simon strolled farther into the room, running his hand along the beveled edge of a sideboard before turning and leaning against the mahogany piece. “I’ll have you know that young Ned here has proved invaluable to me.”

  He shifted his gaze from a clearly livid Lord Barensforth to a thoroughly unsettled Ivy. “Ned, Dean Rivers has requested that you and Mr. Lowbry assist him presently in the ballroom. Why don’t you go along while Lord Barensforth and I smooth out this little wrinkle with your family?”

  Color flooded her face. She opened her mouth as if to protest, apparently thought better of it, and compressed her lips. Still, an entreaty flashed from her eyes, one filled with equal parts warning and apprehension. Simon smiled in return and gestured for her to be gone.

  Warming to the game they seemed intent on playing, he clapped Lord Barensforth’s shoulder. “Come, sir. I happen to know where Sir Alistair keeps his finest brandy.”

  That evening, Ivy found herself once more confronted by the disapproving glower of her brother-in-law and the possibility that at any moment he would seize her and carry her bodily from Windgate Priory.

  And yet . . . as far as she knew, both he and Simon were continuing to uphold her masculine charade, and quite possibly for the same basic reason. Simon knew that Aidan knew that Ivy wasn’t a man, but Aidan didn’t know that Simon knew, and therein lay Ivy’s trump card. Aidan didn’t dare drop even the slightest hint for fear of destroying her reputation. For the time being, she had him over a barrel.

  The two men had spent the better part of an hour closeted away in one of Sir Alistair’s private salons, drinking brandy and discussing Ivy’s supposed future. Afterward, Simon had winked at her and whispered, “I believed I’ve convinced him that I’m enough of an absentminded idiot not to have recognized the truth in front of my face.”

  “He’s letting me stay?”

  Simon had shrugged. “He remained somewhat evasive, but if he drags you home, it won’t be because he fears for your virtue at my hands.”

  “Then we had best not discuss our sleeping arrangements,” she’d whispered back. Upon arriving at Windgate Priory, she had learned that assistants were allotted cots in their masters’ dressing rooms. The discovery had raised a flutter of anticipation, until Simon had established a pattern of staying up long into the night, retiring only after she had drifted off to sleep.

  In truth, Aidan had little to fear in allowing her to complete her mission.

  The next time she saw her brother-in-law, she could not keep from pressing him. “You and Lord Harrow spoke at length,” she said. “Are you satisfied?”

  “Satisfied?” he shot back. “In what inconceivable way can you imagine that I should be satisfied?”

  “Lord Harrow has no inkling of my gender.”

  “Good grief.” He reached up and grabbed a shank of his hair as if to yank it from his head. “Lord Harrow aside, there are other, even more pertinent reasons you should be safe at home, not running wild doing God knows what.”

  “I am not running wild—”

  “Ivy, listen to me.” For the second time that day he seized her elbow. This time he propelled her down the first-floor corridor outside her bedroom to the relative seclusion of a recessed window. “Laurel and I made some disquieting discoveries while in Bath.”

  In the months Ivy had known him, Aidan Phillips had become like a brother to her and her sisters, unfailing in his kindness, never wavering in his good-natured generosity. Never before had she seen him look so grave. And that led her to venture a guess. “Those discoveries are what took you and Laurel to France.”

  “Yes. While we were in Bath, we attempted to locate the home where you and your sisters grew up.”

  “Peyton Manor. In the Cotswolds.”

  A subtle change in his expression sent a chill across her shoulders. “Ivy, it doesn’t exist.”

  “Of course it does. I have memories ...”

  “Of a manor, yes, but not in the Cotswolds. We have come to believe not even in England.”

  “Then . . . in France?”

  “Perhaps.” He angled a quick glance along the corridor. “Are you familiar with the button Laurel wears from a chain around her neck?”

  She nodded. “The one with the crown and fleur-de-lis crest.”

  He placed his hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze that did little to quell her rising misgivings. “This will shock you, but while we were in Bath, Laurel was attacked by a Frenchman.”

  She gasped, then reacted in anger. “Why on earth weren’t we told?”

  “Because Laurel and I didn’t wi
sh to alarm you, not until we had more information. But I now believe that decision was a mistake. We all should be alarmed, or at the very least wary.” He fell silent as, down the corridor, a door opened. Elias Howe, the inventor of the automatic stitcher, stepped out and locked his bedchamber door behind him. He noticed them, nodded a greeting, and headed for the main staircase.

  Aidan released a breath and continued. “Although the origins are vague, this crest seems to be associated with an illegitimate line of the Valois family dating back to the sixteenth century. This line settled in the northeast of France.”

  Ivy remained silent as the implications sank in. “Are you suggesting that we are descendants of this line?”

  “We don’t yet know. There’s more. In questioning the local residents, we heard tales of a bloody feud that ended in a fire that destroyed an estate and a family.”

  “Good Lord.” She stared unseeing at the darkening sky beyond the window, aware only of the cold air that penetrated the panes. With a shiver, she asked, “Who was this family?”

  “I’m afraid we couldn’t accurately identify them. It happened in those awful days at the close of the wars, when France was in turmoil. Those who are living in the surrounding villages were not those who lived there then. We think the original inhabitants were either forced off their land or killed.”

  “To prevent the truth from getting out,” she said to the frigid glass.

  “We believe so, yes.”

  She turned to him. “This man who attacked Laurel. Can you tell me anything about him? Was he that de Vere person whom Holly mentioned in her letter?”

  “No. Henri de Vere was a double agent who worked for the British during the wars and who now lives here, in England. We believe he is involved, but we don’t yet know for good or ill.” Aidan’s wide shoulders bunched as he leaned closer to her. “Laurel never got a good look at her assailant, but the villain spoke to her, or rather shouted at her, in French. He seemed to recognize her, or at least to confuse her with someone who apparently resembles her. He called her Simone de Valentin. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “Simone ...” An unsettling familiarity tugged at Ivy’s thoughts. She felt as though a memory sat poised on a precipice, waiting to shatter into a thousand pieces. But nothing came, only a nagging sensation she couldn’t shake. “My mother’s name was Cecily. My father was Roderick. I know of no one named Simone.” She shivered again.

  “Don’t worry.” Aidan put an arm across her tweed-clad shoulders. “I’ve got a trusted and quite discreet friend at the Foreign Office continuing to make inquiries. We will get to the bottom of this. But do you see now why you should be home?”

  She surprised herself with how quickly the answer came. “No. All our lives, Uncle Edward kept us tucked away at Thorn Grove, but the moment Laurel ventured out on her own, this happened.”

  “Yes, my point exactly. And since I know all about the stone you are trying to recover for the queen—yes, Holly and Willow explained—you may leave the task to me.”

  She raised her chin to him. “You are missing my point. Seclusion never made us any safer. It didn’t make the problem disappear. My sisters and I cannot live the rest of our lives in hiding. I will not. Laurel had a mission to accomplish for the queen. Now it is my turn. The information you have just shared with me will ensure that I proceed with the utmost caution.” She held up her hand when his chest swelled and his mouth opened to retort. “But I will proceed, Aidan. I am of age, and I am bound by the queen’s authority.”

  He scowled at her for a long moment. Then his mouth quirked. “Damn, but you are Laurel’s sister, aren’t you?”

  Chapter 21

  The next evening, Ivy hurried to the chambers she and Simon shared to retrieve a spool of wire needed for a demonstration to take place shortly. Benjamin Rivers was to present the project for which Simon had agreed to lend him his generator.

  The spool in hand, she left the room and locked the door. When a shadow fell across her path, she expected it to be Aidan and braced for another round of warnings and admonitions. Instead, beefy fingers seized her shoulder and sent shoots of pain down her arm.

  Before she could shout for help, the hand spun her about. A familiar grin and pockmarked features sent relief rollicking through her. Ivy shoved at the young man, who immediately released his grip. “Preston!” she exclaimed. “It’s about time you showed up. I’d feared you’d changed your mind about coming.”

  The diplomat’s son seemed to possess no finesse of his own, but his garrulous, oafish mannerisms nonetheless endeared him to his friends, and to Ivy. Regarding her, he let out a guffaw. “I wouldn’t miss this consortium for the world, Ivers. No, I stayed behind to ...” His grin faded. “Hell, to see to Spencer’s unfinished tasks for Mr. Quincy.”

  “Oh. Yes, I see.” Ivy clapped his shoulder with considerably less force than he had used with her. “Good of you to do that.” She brightened, remembering the pact she and Jasper had made to try to enjoy the consortium in Spencer’s memory. “But now you’re here, just in time to witness something truly extraordinary. Come. Lord Harrow is waiting for me in the ballroom.”

  Preston hesitated in following her down the hall. He appeared genuinely distressed. “You won’t tell him how I just greeted you, will you?”

  At the memory of Simon’s reaction to Preston’s playful assault in St. John’s Second Court, she smiled broadly. “I think that is something Lord Harrow never needs to know.”

  “Are you ready to make history, my friends?” Alistair Granville stood in front of the closed ballroom doors. Although he spoke to the two men standing closest to him, his voice carried through the crowd of scientists, assistants, and Royal Society representatives crowding the entrance hall.

  Simon regarded Ben, who fidgeted nervously at his side. “My generator may cause a stir, but it’s this man’s invention that will one day revolutionize life in our cities.”

  Ben darted a glance at the expectant faces surrounding them. “Nothing like setting unreasonably high expectations.”

  The demonstrations had begun earlier that afternoon, with a Scotsman named Kirkpatrick Macmillan delighting the assembly by whizzing past on a velocipede he had constructed in his blacksmith’s shop. No longer propelled by pushing one’s feet along the ground, this velocipede improved on the old design by means of cranks and drive rods attached to foot pedals.

  “Ingenious,” Simon had agreed with the general consensus. “Now if only someone would invent smoother roads on which to ride the thing.”

  “Ah, the man who achieves that,” Alistair had declared heartily, “will certainly win himself a Copley Medal.”

  Following Macmillan’s velocipede, they had been treated to other inventions that made use of human rather than electrical power, but which put the principles of mechanical physics to innovative use.

  Tonight, Simon would unveil his generator for the first time, and Ben would be the first to demonstrate its potential. Alistair threw the ballroom doors wide and led the way inside, followed by Simon and Ben, and then Jasper Lowbry and Ivy. Her brother-in-law shadowed her, and even without turning around, Simon could sense the man’s hostility burning at his back. In many ways Aidan Phillips reminded Simon of himself, and of his reaction upon discovering the furtive affection between Colin and Gwendolyn.

  For the time being, however, the earl had agreed to let Ivy stay, but with the condition that he remain as well to keep an eye on her. If Simon had needed a reason to keep his distance from Ivy, he had certainly found one in the formidable and disapproving Earl of Barensforth. Something in the man’s very bearing convinced Simon he could swiftly resort to tactics of a violent sort, should he decide the situation warranted it.

  The remainder of the consortium, including the two representatives of the Royal Society who had arrived that morning, shuffled en masse into the ballroom. Colin and Errol stood together at the front of the crowd. Alistair played host by moving through the assembly and ensuring th
at everyone would have a proper view. A buzz of conversation filled the air, the murmurs rising in volume as Simon, Ivy, and Jasper released the cords and rolled back the black canvas that had concealed the generator from view.

  At Ben’s request, the room’s illumination had been kept to a minimum, only a few of the sconces along the walls having been lit but not the overhead chandeliers. Dollops of candlelight reflected on the apparatus. Words of admiration and surprise rippled through the assemblage.

  Yet more than once, Simon detected the word insane whispered along with the praise. Ignoring both positive and negative comments, he continued with the preparations. The vat had been filled and the coal furnace lit, the copper chimney angled out an open window to prevent the exhaust from filling the room. Simon stoked the flames higher. With minutes, the water began to boil.

  “Mr. Ivers,” he said succinctly.

  She took up the cork-lined gloves stashed near the generator’s conducting coils, passed a pair to Simon, and one each to Ben and Lowbry. The last pair she donned herself. Then she went to stand where the ductwork met the generator’s coils and placed a hand lightly on the lever.

  “Mr. Rivers,” Simon announced to Ben, and to the spectators as well, “my generator is yours, sir.”

  While Simon stood beside the furnace waiting to release the steam, Ben and Lowbry unpacked their equipment. A table was dragged in front of the generator, and upon it young Lowbry set up several globelike structures each about the size of a man’s head. The glass spheres sat on copper bases, each one wired to the next in a closed circuit.

  Prior to tonight, Ivy had not been privy to the project. Now she followed Ben’s and Lowbry’s every move, her eyes widening at the sight of the connected globes. Without leaving her position, she leaned forward and craned her neck, no doubt attempting to make out the gossamer web of carbonized silk threads that filled the interiors of the vacuum-sealed vessels.

  At Ben’s signal, Simon grasped the release valve for the steam and jerked the wheel into motion. Beneath his hands he felt the burst of steam enter the duct. He lessened the pressure, then continued turning the wheel slowly, with meticulous attention to the velocity of the vapor traveling through the duct. There must be no flying sparks or wafting energy in tonight’s demonstration, nothing like the power needed in his electroportation process, but rather a controlled flow of the electrical currents. His and Ivy’s calculations had made that possible.