by Nichole Van
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.
He was, after all, a man who dealt in secrets with the highest people in the land. Heavens, he probably had personal conversations with the King himself.
Lord Whitmoor’s face morphed into etched lines of remorse. The expression had a studied air. As if he had dipped into a trunk of costumes and pulled out his Regretful Gentleman guise.
“Unfortunately, Miss Lovejoy, I cannot share how I came to know of your mathematical equations.” He sighed. It was a very convincing sigh but in an actor-ish sort of way. “Surprising as it may seem, my choices are not always my own. Please know that my inability to offer an explanation in no way reflects contempt for your intellectual abilities nor a lack of trust. The confidence is simply not mine to share.”
Oh, bravo!
Such a clever little piece of rhetoric that speech was. She resisted the urge to clap.
“Given how wide your eyes just went, Miss Lovejoy, perhaps you do not agree?” He seemed bemused, the wretch.
A pause.
“I was merely admiring your speech, my lord. It was so perfectly . . . practiced. Do you use a mirror when you rehearse?”
“Pardon?” Now his were the wide eyes.
“Your explanation was truly a masterpiece. Remorseful and heartfelt with the sigh. The subtle letting down of your guard and sharing a confidence with me. All of which was meant to convey trust, the suggestion that you value my cooperation and opinion but are hopelessly constrained by prior obligations.”
Lord Whitmoor darted his eyes left and right. Opened his mouth. Frowned.
“I meant no offense,” Fossi hastened to add. “I just couldn’t help but admire the calculation that went into it all. It was a remarkable performance.”
She extended a hand, as if to touch him in reassurance the way she would one of Prudence’s boys.
There, there. I know you are telling me a falsehood, but I forgive you.
But then Fossi remembered who he was and who she was and how touching Lord Whitmoor in any way would be an unfortunate idea.
Action. Reaction. And so forth.
He glanced back at his waiting carriage and kicked a booted foot against the stone wall. “I am truly sorry that I cannot tell you, Miss Lovejoy. I can assure you that no one trespassed upon your father’s property to obtain your computations.” His sincerity seemed genuine this time. “I am being as honest with you as I can.”
How could she read him so easily? She had wondered if London had been a fluke. A mere fanciful perception clouded by a long journey, too little sleep and toxic London smoke.
But it seemed not to be the case.
He snorted and continued, “Though I must say, I fear I am losing my touch if I am so easily seen through.”
“It was a very elegant bit of oration.” Fossi reassured him. “I was definitely charmed.”
He chuckled, low and throaty, a mixture of astonishment and surprise.
“And do you like me more this time?” He met her gaze, a wry grin tugging at his mouth.
“Decidedly. ’Tis much more pleasant than arguing.”
That reply got her a genuine laugh. Head back, teeth flashing, honest merriment dancing through his eyes.
Fossi forgot how to breathe.
This was a glimpse of the real man behind the granite wall. The true Daniel Ashton, Lord Whitmoor.
Heavens. He was beautiful.
Beautiful not in the way of a sunset or a flower garden. It wasn’t harmony of person or features.
No, he was beautiful like the fury of a storm battered sea. Like lightning snaking across a black sky or winter winds scouring the moor.
Beauty that came from awe . . . from observing something powerful and rare and . . . liberated.
It was an unfortunate observation.
Fossi didn’t know much about the relationship between a hirer and hireling, but she was quite sure that finding one’s employer beautiful was generally frowned upon.
At the very least, it made one’s employment more fraught, if her own current emotional state were to be used as evidence.
To consider employment at all was already bad enough, but to make it fraught employment . . .
His smile faded, though a sort of fond mirth remained in his eyes.
“Come now,” he said, “let us negotiate in earnest. You stated in your note that you were willing to assist me, provided we could come to a satisfactory understanding. What odds do you place on us doing so?”
Fossi couldn’t help her reciprocal smile. “I would say the odds are against it, my lord. Though I did struggle when assigning a numerical weight to your desperation, so my figures include a decided margin of error.”
He laughed again, delighted, genuine. “From my vantage point, I will put our odds at nearly one hundred percent.”
“Truly?” Fossi was impressed.
“Indeed. My desperation is acute. Pray tell me, Miss Lovejoy, what does your notion of ‘satisfactory understanding’ encompass?”
Fossi squared her shoulders, pushing back all thoughts of unhandsome men who still managed to be beautiful.
This was the critical moment. Would he agree to her conditions? Could she still call herself a lady after making such demands?
And given the sad state of her life, did she much care?
“I have pondered the matter at length, my lord . . .” She swallowed. “I do not know, after my sojourn in your employ, if I will find welcome again in my father’s house.”
He . . . sagged at her words.
It wasn’t as if his shoulders slumped precisely. There was no outward movement. But she sensed that her words caused something to tumble inside him.
“Miss Lovejoy—”
“Please”—she held out a staying hand—“allow me to finish. Because of the future uncertainty my employ will engender, I fear my demands will be . . . high. Perhaps excessive.”
She paused.
He rolled a hand. Go on.
Deep breath.
“I require ten thousand pounds, as well as a chaperone, my lord.”
She stood still, allowing the words to hang between them.
It was a staggering sum. An heiress’ dowry.
She knew it to be an absurd sum which was why she had only packed a small bag of possessions.
The odds were not in her favor. She was quite sure Lord Whitmoor would smile politely and send her back to her father.
But . . . if she was going to be cast off and enter the employ of a master secret-keeper, she wanted to ensure she had a roof over her head and food to eat for the rest of her life. Before throwing off any chance of a future with her family, she needed a guarantee of having a future elsewhere.
The fact that Lord Whitmoor merely regarded her for a long moment, head tilted, did nothing to allay the butterflies currently fighting to escape from her stomach.
Daniel raised his eyebrows.
Ten thousand pounds.
He had respected her before now, but that esteem ratcheted up a notch. That would be nearly a million pounds in the twenty-first century.
She had gumption.
Go big or go home? Wasn’t that the American phrase?
He approved that she did not value herself cheaply.
The sum she named was high but not exorbitant. Not for a man of his wealth. He would barely notice its loss.
But for her . . . it would mean the difference between a life of penury and one of modest comfort.
And thank heavens they had arrived at this point. Negotiation and willing cooperation were so much better than his other options.
He would have paid anything she requested.
Redemption and a future were worth everything he owned.
But, he sensed, even had she known that fact, she wouldn’t have requested more. Miss Fossi Lovejoy was innately honest and fair. She might omit truths but she would not tell an outright l
ie. She had honor.
And he’d be damned if that didn’t make him like her all the more.
Her pulse fluttered in the smooth column of her neck. He admired again the classical perfection of her face. Had he thought her to be a Renaissance Madonna? No, she was more akin to Athena, goddess of wisdom. A Greek statue of serene alabaster.
Pity he found her attractive and interesting. Such things were an unwelcome distraction at this point.
Dark eyes met his with courage from underneath, quite frankly, a hideous bonnet. Shapeless and sun-bleached, the poor thing looked desperate to be put out of its misery.
Had she ever owned anything new? Experienced the fun of having dresses made specifically for her?
He might have to insist she accept some new clothing as part of her employment.
No. He was going to require it.
He nodded, slowly. “You drive a hard bargain, Miss Lovejoy. I will agree to your demands on two conditions.”
He paused for effect.
Given how her spine straightened and her eyes sparked, it was not an ineffectual pause.
He ticked the items off on his fingers. “One, I require you to have a new wardrobe—”
“My lord—” she began on a shocked gasp.
“No, that point is non-negotiable.”
“I cannot accept clothing from you, my lord.” Her tone so agonized. “It would be . . .”
She stopped right there, voice strained and awkward.
He understood the direction of her thoughts.
Men who purchased clothing for women were either relatives or not-relatives purchasing decidedly more than just clothing for the woman in question.
“Though I understand your misgivings, Miss Lovejoy, I cannot have someone in my employ dressed as . . .” He stopped, unsure how to continue without being unforgivably rude.
“A poor parson’s daughter? An aging spinster?” Fossi offered. “The things that I am?”
How did she turn the tables on him so quickly?
“At the risk of giving offense, I must say you do yourself a disservice. You are much more than those things, Miss Lovejoy.”
“Perhaps, but—”
“No. I am quite firm on this matter. I will include a stipend with your payment, allowing you and your chaperone to arrange for new clothing. Would that be satisfactory? Those in my employ must look the respectable part.”
A long pause, during which they stared at each other.
An impasse.
Until finally . . . she straightened her spine and bobbed her assent.
Damn but he admired her.
She deserved so much more out of life. Which probably explained why he said what he did next.
“Item two,” he said, before she could interrupt again, “I will pay you ten thousand pounds now, as a show of good faith and a nod to the personal sacrifices you are making on my behalf, as well as providing you with the requested chaperone. If you stay through the completion of the project, there will be an additional ten thousand pounds for your efforts.”
She hissed in a breath, shock clearly jolting her body.
She swallowed. “You are offering me twenty thousand pounds and a chaperone, in addition to a new wardrobe?”
“Yes.”
A beat.
And then a delighted smile spread across her face. “I vastly underestimated your desperation, my lord. It is acute. Had I known, I would have placed our odds at one hundred percent, as well.” Her dark eyes danced. “What precisely am I to be engaged in doing? Highway robbery?”
That surprised another soft laugh from him.
“The lamentable truth, as with most everything I do, is that I am unable to tell you the why behind what I will ask you to do.” Honest sincerity laced his tone. “But know the equations you complete will be for a noble cause that will possibly save lives.”
A drawn out moment.
“I suppose I must simply accept that?” she said at last.
“Yes. Unfortunately, I cannot offer further explanation at this time.”
“I see.”
Another pause.
“So . . .” he began.
“I accept your terms, Lord Whitmoor.” She nodded. “I assume you will have a legal document drawn up as a contract?”
“Indeed I will, Miss Lovejoy.” He smiled, extending her a gloved hand. She shook it. “Welcome to my crew.”
Chapter 9
The road to Bath
A few hours later
August 8, 1828
The carriage swayed gently to and fro, the entire apparatus moving as if settled atop down pillows.
Of course, Lord Whitmoor’s carriage would never dare do anything so gauche as rock or jolt.
Fossi sat in the forward facing seat, gloved hands clasped in her lap, trying to quell her nerves. Lord Whitmoor sat to her right and his man, Mr. Garvis Samuelson, slept on the seat opposite, if his rasping snores were any indication.
Countryside scrolled past her window, sheep and stone fences and another small village every three or so miles.
Fossi could scarcely believe how dramatically a mere twenty-four hours had altered her life . . . how far her day had come.
She was to be paid for doing something she loved.
Twenty thousand pounds.
She let that number rattle around her brain for a minute, kick up some dust, knock down a few long-held assumptions.
She had spent the past hour dissecting the sum, dividing it, multiplying it, square-rooting it.
How many prime numbers were contained in twenty thousand pounds? How many derivatives?
How many dreams and desires?
One thought kept popping back in:
She would now have sufficient funds to start a girl’s school.
Yesterday afternoon, accomplishing even the simplest item on her list had seemed a distant possibility. But now she might be able to achieve one of the points she had deemed impossible.
Gracious, if the full twenty thousand pounds materialized, she might even have to add to her list.
What a thought.
She had always longed to create a safe haven for girls, children like she had been. Intelligent. Inquisitive. But denied any extensive education due to their gender.
Fossi had been fortunate. Her mother had insisted Fossi sit in on her father’s tutoring lessons, broadening her education. Will had then added what he could. Now Fossi would have the chance to pass along that opportunity to other girls. Her mind spun with hopes for her suddenly bright future.
Beside her, Lord Whitmoor stretched his long legs out, careful to avoid Mr. Samuelson’s across the carriage.
Fossi tried not to think of her father’s reaction to her traveling with not one, but two, men who were not relatives. But, again, she was not a young miss and, aside from her own family, no one else would think anything remiss in their travel.
Lord Whitmoor consulted his pocket watch.
“We should reach Bath in time for supper.” He tucked the watch back into his waistcoat pocket. “Once there, I suggest we dine while the horses are changed. We can then continue on until sunset and stop for the evening at a coaching inn I prefer outside Bristol. Can I call upon your reserves of fortitude, Miss Lovejoy, to extend the journey that far?”
Heavens. Did the man not remember he was paying her twenty thousand pounds?
“Of course, my lord,” she said. “This carriage displays at minimum a sixty percent reduction in erratic, jostling motion, resulting in more energy being conserved as forward momentum and giving the horses a twenty percent boost in overall power . . .”
An awkward pause. The kind with which she was all too familiar.
Mind your tongue, Fossi, before Lord Whitmoor finds your company too odd.
He shrugged. “I had hoped the carriage design would result in a seventy-five percent reduction in non-conforming kinetic energy. But even at sixty percent, it still provides comfortable travel.” He flashed a wan smile.
Sur
prise jolted her.
No one ever understood her ramblings.
But of course Lord Whitmoor would be educated in the basics of mathematics and energy. He had sought her out, after all.
How unfortunate to find a keen mathematical intellect behind all that attractive exterior.
“Comfortable carriage or no, I appreciate your patience with the journey, Miss Lovejoy.” He leaned forward slightly as he said this, gazing out her window.
The smell of bay rum wrapped around her, laced with under-notes of peppermint. It was a particularly masculine scent and, as such, had the unfortunate side-effect of making Fossi hyper-aware of how very male he was. Broad-shouldered and deep-chested and coiled energy.
A man in the absolute prime of life.
“I hope to reach Kinningsley by tomorrow evening,” he continued.
“Kinningsley?”
“Yes, forgive me for not explaining sooner.” He sat back, taking the lovely smell with him. “I have dragged you off into the wild unknown. Kinningsley is the seat of my good friends, Lord and Lady Linwood.”
Oh, dear. More aristocrats.
But how odd to hear the phrase good friends drop from his lips. Were they truly good friends? The sort of good friends he invited inside his granite fortress?
“You will be able to complete your calculations in peace there,” he continued, “and Lady Linwood will provide companionship and any chaperoning you feel necessary.”
“And the nature of these calculations, my lord?” She was desperately curious to know what mathematics commanded such a high price.
“I would prefer to wait until we arrive at Kinningsley before diving into that. For now, I think, we shall simply pass the journey. Are you having second thoughts yet?”
“No, my lord.”
Not that second thoughts—or even third or fourth thoughts—would do her any good. She didn’t have a farthing to her name, as every last penny had been spent on her prior trip to London. Returning home at this juncture wasn’t an option unless she wished to walk.
Clearly, she had not carefully thought through this entire chain of events. The odds had been against her ending up in his employ. Granted, twenty thousand pounds had a tendency to cloud even the clearest of thinkers.