This couldn’t be it. Not with everything that was riding on today, this decision. In one moment, he saw everything that would happen if he failed. Children without food, families split apart as husbands left their wives to look for work elsewhere. The village he’d grown up in turning into a ghost town of vacant homes.
“You don’t understand. It worked fine yesterday.”
Grunt shook his head. “We need something that works fine yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Perhaps in a few years when you’ve had time to refine it.” He gave a firm, this-conversation-is-over nod and followed Harcombe.
The idiots snickered as they too made their way back to the waiting carriages. Lord Bradenstock paused. “Stay. Don’t worry about seeing us to the house. I’ll send the carriage back.”
Benedict turned to Oliver, who kicked the bloody wheel with his barrow-sized foot.
“Find out what happened. They’re here for two more days.”
Chapter 27
Benedict stood in the doorway that separated his room from Amelia’s, watching her touch perfume to her wrists and behind her ear. He wanted to press his nose to the spot and inhale. The candlelight reflected off Amelia’s dresser mirror, bathing her in a warm glow.
She caught his gaze in the reflection. “You look nice,” she said, indicating his new evening kit. She tugged on her gloves, pulling them up over her elbow. “How did the tour go? Did they fall in love with Tessie?”
For a split second, he considered not telling her—casting a pall over her much-awaited evening felt cruel. But she needed to know now because Nathaniel likely wouldn’t keep his mouth shut.
No doubt gossip was already traveling.
He dropped onto the bed, head in his hands. “It went about as badly as it could.”
She turned, her full attention moving from the tiny silk buttons to him.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” He exhaled, a long whoosh of air and disappointment. “That was the damned problem. The bloody engine didn’t move.”
She leaned forward, a furrow of disbelief forming between her brows. “No.” And then a heartbeat later, “Why?”
He shook his head, still in disbelief. “The chains coupling the cars together had been shortened, and there was a penny wedged in front of the wheel.”
And there was no way that had been an accident.
He couldn’t believe it was one of his own men, but the only alternative was that someone else had snuck down in the middle of the night to sabotage them. And they would have needed some understanding of how trains work to disable Tessie so effectively.
True to self, Amelia went straight into solution mode, the whys of the problem not mattering.
“Is it fixed? You could take the Americans back down there tomorrow.”
“If I can convince them.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t think I did a very good job at selling it. Nothing went to plan. My pitch was a mess. I forgot half of it, the other half was delivered in disjointed bursts.”
She joined him on the bed and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, giving him a gentle kiss.
“We have tonight. Between the two of us, we’ll get them down there in the morning. I can be quite persuasive, you know.”
“Oh, I know. It’s one of your many talents.”
The smile she gave bordered on wicked. She was scheming and manipulative and damned good at both. Funny how those were traits he’d come to admire in her.
“You haven’t asked how my day was with Grunt’s daughters,” she said, patting him briskly on the leg and returning to her dresser, where she picked up a necklace. “Help me with this.”
He opened the clasp, lifting the chain over her head. “To be honest, I’d forgotten all about his daughters.”
In the reflection, he caught the eye roll she didn’t mean for him to see. “I do realize the idea of entertaining is a foreign concept to you, but it is expected to at least remember one has guests.”
“Noted. What did the misses Grunt have to say? Were they shockingly American and appalling you with stories of cowboys and Indians? Or were they sufficiently demure and talking of weather and embroidery?”
Amelia shrugged. “Neither. I rather think they’re as business-focused as their father.”
“Really? They were talking about the new railways? What did they say?” Grunt and Harcombe had been transparent about their plans, but any additional information might be useful.
“The business of marriage, not transport. It seems the misses Grunt are doing their own prospecting this weekend.”
Benedict couldn’t help smiling. “Poor Wildeforde.”
“Poor Wildeforde indeed.”
By the time all the guests had arrived downstairs and they’d proceeded to the dining room, Amelia was once again questioning her decision to bring London’s elite and Benedict’s potential business partners into the same space.
It had seemed so simple at the time—the Americans would gain important connections and, in their gratitude, would sign whatever contract Benedict wished.
London society would see how polished her husband and her household were and would acknowledge their mistake in thinking her no longer part of the beau monde.
And Benedict would see that her ability to entertain was a real asset to his business.
She hadn’t anticipated just how crass the Americans would be. Or how shamelessly they would throw themselves at every titled gentleman in the room. Or how the other females would consider Amelia responsible for introducing two pretty, wealthy heiresses to “their” men.
By the time the second course arrived, the atmosphere was that of circling sharks. Blood would be spilt.
And it seemed Lady Luella—Amelia’s protégée and finest achievement—would be the first to sink her teeth in.
“Lord Wildeforde, it is such a surprise to see you here after…everything.” She gave a pointed look toward Amelia, who clenched her teeth together in an effort not to interject. “I do hope you’re not too heartbroken.”
The table went silent.
The events surrounding Benedict and Amelia’s marriage had gone unspoken for the better part of two days. No longer, apparently. It took every ounce of her self-restraint not to rake her nails down Luella’s face.
She held her breath. Stick to the script.
Edward, to his credit, didn’t skip a beat. “Through the grace of good brandy, my heart is on the mend. How can one stay angry in the face of true love?” He raised his glass in Amelia’s direction with a smile that fooled almost everyone else.
“To true love.” There was an undercurrent of speculation in the words as both tables raised their glasses in Amelia’s direction.
She smiled tightly and pretended that yes, the story was just as it was told.
Desperate for a friendly face, she tried to catch Fiona’s eye. Her friend’s gaze was directed at her lap, her toast a half-hearted tip of her glass. She looked meek and miserable—the complete antithesis of the fiery and independent trailblazer Amelia snuck away with for tea every other afternoon.
Something was amiss, and Amelia would get to the bottom of it.
If she could get away from her guests. Dash it. Tuesday. When they were all gone, she would find out exactly what was wrong.
Lady Luella laughed—obnoxious and annoying. She was talking to Edward, leaning over further than necessary to give him a direct view down her neckline.
How pathetic.
The cackle had grabbed Fiona’s attention. She flicked her gaze from her lap to Edward, and then Amelia and back to her lap. Her ears flushed red and jaw tensed. It might have been a trick of the light, but her eyes shone with unshed tears.
After dinner. Forget her guests. She’d make time for Fiona tonight.
Their newest footman cleared a soup dish from the head of the table, the plate quivering. A spoon dropped, the clatter of silver on china attracting the whole room’s attention.
More than one person sniggered. Th
e footman’s ears turned bright red, but rather than simply pick up the spoon and move on, he attempted an odd synchronized bow/spoon-clearing maneuver and nearly clipped Lady Karstark in the ear with the dish.
Every inch of Amelia’s body wanted to turn in on itself. This would never happen in a proper London household.
“You stupid fool,” Lady Karstark hissed.
The footman swallowed, his face draining of color. “Apologies, m’lady.”
He looked to Amelia for direction, panic in his eyes.
She jerked her head toward the door. With every intrusive rattle of china on silver, her reascent back into the ton’s ranks became that much harder.
Peter stepped in to clear the remainder of the table—his face stone, his lips pressed firmly together, his eyes flinty.
He was precise, perfect in his movements, the picture of an experienced footman, but the fury rolling off him gave away his lack of experience.
It was tempting to find a subtle way to dismiss him for the evening, but that would leave her with just butterfingers to serve the next course, and who knew what the consequences of that would be. Soup in Lady Wildeforde’s lap?
She turned back to her guests. “Excuse the interruption. What were we discussing?”
“I was about to comment on the difficulty of finding good staff in the country,” Lady Karstark said. “Your footman preempted my comment with a perfect demonstration.”
“There is some training required,” Amelia said, trying to remain neutral.
“You can give them all the training in the world, it doesn’t help. Why, our maids barely last a month before they leave.”
Lord Karstark smirked. At the other end of the table, Benedict made a half-strangled sound, which Amelia promptly ignored. “I do hope you have better luck with your next lot of maids.”
She turned to Lady Luella, trying to put the current conversation in the past before it derailed the entire evening. “Is there any London gossip I can wrangle out of you?”
Wrong move. Wrong guest to ask that question of. She’d never have made that mistake three months ago.
“You’ve more gossip than I do. Tell me, how did you and Mr. Asterly meet? I can’t say that I’ve ever seen him in a London drawing room, and you so rarely venture out of the city, Amelia. Surely you didn’t meet your current husband when you were visiting your former fiancé. That would be rather…scandalous.”
Once again, the room quieted. Guests on the next table over found excuses to lean in her direction.
Amelia looked at Benedict, her heart pumping faster. They had absolutely planned to say they’d met in Abingdale during her last visit. How had she not thought that through?
Benedict stepped in. “We met a year ago. In a London bookstore. We’ve been exchanging letters ever since.”
Lady Luella raised an eyebrow. “In a bookstore? I wasn’t aware that Lady Amelia read. It’s not really the done thing in our circles.”
It was like being caught admiring a groom while he brushed down a horse. The only way through was to brazen it out.
“It might not have been the done thing two years ago, but a good novel is quite in vogue since Teresa Cummingsworth first published. Really, Lulu. You must keep up. I can lend you one before you leave.”
Lady Luella ground her teeth but didn’t issue a contradiction. Amelia had always known everything first. Heavens, she’d created half the recent fashions. And it was clear by the look in her protégé’s eyes that she wasn’t sure if Amelia was bluffing—and wasn’t about to risk it.
Lord Karstark he-hemmed. “Novel reading is a frivolous pastime for frivolous females who ought to be focusing on more useful pursuits.”
A good ten feet of table, china, and vases stood between Amelia and Lord Karstark. Lucky for him.
She took a sip of wine and gave him a saccharine smile. “And what, pray tell, would those be?”
“Learning how to properly manage a household is one. Something you should remember next time you choose to open a book rather than properly instruct your servants.”
Every head in the room had been swiveling as each parry was thrust. Now all eyes were on her.
Serene. Unruffled. Unruffle-able.
“I—”
“Lady Amelia isn’t frivolous,” Peter called from the side of the room where he was waiting with a bottle of wine.
If her guests had been shocked at the conversation prior, it was nothing compared to the shock of hearing a footman contribute to the conversation.
“Thank you, Peter,” Amelia said. “That’s enough.”
But the boy was not to be silenced. “She works hard, she does. Hard as anyone. Why, she polished the ballroom floor herself.”
Her heart stopped. Her breath would not come. If ever the floor would just open up and swallow her, please God let it be now.
Snorts of laughter and giggling came at her from all directions—each sound a hot iron to the skin.
She twisted a napkin in her lap and smiled widely even though she could feel the cracks appearing all over her. “You’re dismissed, Peter.”
“But—”
“Out, before I reconsider your employment entirely.”
Peter stiffened.
For a moment, she thought he was going to argue, to say something else that would make her a mockery in front of her guests. But he knocked his heels together and stalked down the length of the room toward the servants’ entrance.
“You need a better class of footman,” Luella said.
“Servants are not hired for their wits.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Not just because the hard slam of the door suggested Peter heard her or because Fiona was looking at her with such disappointment.
No, she regretted them because it was the cruel kind of thing she’d have said months ago, before she knew better. Was better.
Shame ate up every inch of her. Blinking back the tears before they could be seen, she looked to Benedict for support.
He looked back, his face set in an expression of absolute disgust.
Chapter 28
Servants are not hired for their wits.
Benedict had been a fool to think that the life he’d built had a foundation of anything but sand. For all that his wife had appeared happy and content, it had taken two short days back with her friends for all of that to shatter.
This Amelia wasn’t the one he’d spent his days and nights with. This was the elitist aristocrat who’d been mortified at the prospect of a life with a working man. Iron walls began to shutter around his heart.
Benedict drained the glass of claret in one desperate swallow and motioned for it to be refilled. Anything to make the night easier.
Grunt, who should have been holding Benedict’s undivided attention, was prattling on about the velocipede.
“…It’s a darn sight more attractive than Karl Drais’s version. Not a fan of the name ‘hobby horse’ but the wheels are bigger and it’s significantly more efficient.”
Amelia had turned to Wildeforde and was nodding, with that practiced smile that looked charming but hid any sign of what she was truly thinking. He hated that smile. He preferred her laughing or angry or bored—really any expression that showed the wife he’d fallen in love with.
“…don’t you think?”
Benedict turned back to Grunt. “Absolutely.” He had no idea what he’d just agreed to but given his desperation to get the Americans back to the firm the next day, he’d agree to almost anything.
He twisted the conversation back to where he needed it, giving Grunt the full force of his attention. “There are similarities between Johnson’s hobby horse and our next incarnation of the steam train. Small refinements made that deliver significant boosts in efficiency.”
Grunt pushed his food around with his fork, refusing to make eye contact. “Yes, yes. I’m sure.” There was an uncomfortable edge to his voice, and for the umpteenth time that night, he changed the subject.
“Tell me more about Lord Wildeforde. He seems like a sensible chap. A bit reserved, but all these English types are.”
Benedict’s inability to pin Grunt down into a serious conversation about the locomotive just put more coal in the furnace. The pressure was building, and every second that slipped away took the contract, the firm, and his people’s security with it.
“Wildeforde’s sensible enough, I suppose.”
“What’s his situation? Moved on from your wife yet?” Grunt asked, the same calculating look in his eye that Benedict had seen during their early business relationship.
“I wouldn’t know. We haven’t discussed it.” Benedict finished his glass and motioned for it to be refilled again. Grunt couldn’t dance around talk of the firm all night.
“I’d be interested to know what he’s looking for in a wife. See how compatible he might be with my girls.”
“Amelia. He’s looking for someone like Amelia.”
Because she was the perfect duchess. She’d spent her whole life training to be Wildeforde’s bride. He’d been a fool to think a few months could change that.
“Hmmm.” Grunt ran his fingers through his beard, more invested in Wildeforde’s marital status than what he’d been brought out here to do.
“We sorted out the issue, today. Tessie is running as well as she ever has. It was a misunderstanding—some miscommunication in the team.”
Grunt sighed. He shifted in his seat to face Benedict directly. “Lad, I appreciate your tenacity. It’ll do you credit along your journey. Business is a tough game and needs a certain level of bullheadedness. But a real businessman also knows when to back away. Try me again in a few years.”
Grunt turned in the opposite direction and started a conversation with one of Amelia’s bloody friends.
Benedict’s hand tightened around his glass. Pushing any further at dinner was just going to cause a spectacle—one that wouldn’t help his case with the Americans at all.
How to Survive a Scandal Page 23