by Erica Ridley
She wasn’t lonely. She was industrious.
It was not at all the same thing.
“I’m just busy,” she said. “That’s all.” She made a big show of resuming her work on an emerald tiara for one of her customers. “If I had time for people, I’d be with my relatives. But I cannot leave my shop until all the work is complete. People rely on me. I rely on me.”
“Just to make certain I understand,” Mr. MacLean said politely. “You miss your family. Their noise makes you happy. You can’t leave your shop. Your relatives are in the castle.”
She glanced up from the tiara to glare at him.
He gave her a brilliant smile. “Why not invite them here?”
“My goodness, that thought has never occurred to me,” she said in a tone dripping with so much sarcasm it could wipe the shine off his boots.
Yes, their chaos rejuvenated her... in carefully regulated circumstances.
If she allowed any of them in, her brother would insist on taking control. He had his own, bigger shop in London. He’d be judging her the entire time. She wasn’t ready for that yet.
The family noise and chaos revitalized her when it was somewhere else. When it was around her, but not about her. When the topic was Christmastide.
“What if,” said Mr. MacLean, “the trick is not to run yourself ragged but rather to take a small respite now and then?”
“I took a respite,” she reminded him. “I ate three biscuits.”
“A large respite,” he amended. “Gargantuan, by your standards. A period of rest that involves stepping outside of your shop, for an hour or two. It might invigorate you more than you think.”
She shook her head. “I don’t deserve a rest yet. There will be time for that once the adornments are hung and my name is in the Gazette. Until then, I have work to do and a shop to make presentable—”
“Make... presentable?” He gazed about the interior, then fixed wide eyes back on her. “What’s left to do? Alphabetize the three dust motes that followed me in?”
She crossed her arms. “There is nothing wrong with keeping things generally neat.”
“If this is ‘generally neat,’ I’d hate to see what your idea of ‘obsessively ordered’ might be.” He grinned at her. “I’d better not invite you to see the utter destruction in my guest chamber.”
“Who says I’d want to be anywhere near your—Wait, aren’t you staying at the Duke of Nottingvale’s cottage?”
“Previously known as a ducal cottage, aye. Now known as Utter Destruction.”
She laughed despite herself. “He would never allow that to happen.”
“He’s not here,” Mr. MacLean said cheerfully. “I’ve given all his servants permission to run amok.”
“Let me guess,” she said. “That’s why you’re here buying biscuits for me. None of Nottingvale’s staff would leave their posts for a minute.”
“Not even for a second,” he agreed sorrowfully. “Not even to play marbles.”
“Might I ask how an ‘itinerant ne’er-do-well’ managed one of the most sought-after invitations of the season?”
“That is an appallingly impertinent question,” Mr. MacLean informed her, “which means it’s my favorite kind. You can ask me anything, at any time. I’m an open book.” He affected a grand pose. “His Grace and I are collaborating on a textiles venture. Or we will be, once he and my business partner arrive, and we’re able to impress and astonish him with the merits of our proposal.”
“His Grace will be investing in textiles?” Angelica said in disbelief.
“Finished ones,” Mr. MacLean clarified. “Stylish apparel for the not-particularly-discerning man who wants to look like the pinnacle of taste and fashion. Calvin wanted to call it Dandy-in-a-Box, but I talked him into Fit For a Duke. We’re selling the feeling of being indistinguishable from one’s betters without fussing with valets and tailors. One needn’t know fashion plates to look like one. All at affordable prices, as easy as picking a favorite picture from a catalogue.”
“That’s... clever,” she admitted. “If you launch Fit For a Duchess, I would probably order a gown or two.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Your entire wardrobe is full of exact copies of one item.”
“Why would... How did you...”
“It’s my job to be observant,” he explained. “I travel about, looking for the most profitable opportunities, and then I exploit them. For example, I—What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said tightly. “‘Travel,’ ‘exploit’, ‘most profitable.’ I suppose you’re involved in slavery.”
“I am not,” he said, aghast. “Trafficking slaves is technically illegal on British soil and ought to be fully illegal throughout the Empire and everywhere. Hell is not good enough for men who believe themselves gods over others. The only business ventures that interest me are those that provide opportunities, not conscienceless schemes to take opportunities away. I want to lift people up, not keep them down.”
Angelica stared back at him without speaking. Even with the slave trade becoming illegal on English soil seven years ago, it had not stopped many aristocrats and wealthy land owners from maintaining ownership of existing slaves. In fact, many increased efforts overseas, where there were not so many laws to impede turning a tidy profit.
Some men who did not dabble in slavery did not refrain by choice. They lacked the funds to purchase a ship of terrified human beings, or the connections to build a plantation.
Mr. MacLean claimed to be morally opposed to the horrid practice on all counts. In his case, Angelica found she believed him.
He had treated her from the very first as though neither her gender nor her color had any bearing on what sort of person or how talented a jeweler she might be.
She was relieved Mr. MacLean championed abolition. He was a stranger, a tourist; yet a growing part of her hoped he would keep coming around.
She concentrated on setting emeralds so he could not see her face. “Is this your first business venture?”
“My hundredth,” he replied.
Skeptical, she lifted her eye from her loupe.
“Not all ventures are successful. My first several were dreadful failures, yet some of the most important things I’ve ever attempted, because I learned from them. For years now, every partnership has been profitable. At different levels, of course. One cannot expect the same percentages from a mullioned window factory as a lemon-ice cart. The principle is the important thing.”
“You invested in a lemon-ice cart?”
“No,” he said. “I invest in talent. Calvin is the most brilliant clothier I have ever known, and it will be my privilege to help him bring his designs to those who would not otherwise have access. On my travels, I have met talented sculptors, philosophers, inventors, professors, architects. If the only thing standing between them and success was a few pounds here or there and a wee bit of advertising, well, that’s where I come in. What good is a logical mind or piles of coin unless one puts them to good use?”
“You don’t just invest in people,” she said slowly. “You invest in ordinary people.”
He nodded. “Why invest in the firstborn son of a wealthy nobleman? He’s already got every advantage life has to offer, and probably no good ideas to show for it. Whereas there are a thousand brilliant notions a day—perhaps millions, who knows?—that are thought and forgot because the people who had them could not act on them.”
“That’s... very sweet.”
“It’s not sweet,” he said quickly. “It’s self-serving and lucrative. Every person I help to succeed, helps me to fatten my bank account. I’m not funding charities, Miss Parker. I’m providing capital in exchange for healthy interest rates. I make money using other people’s genius.”
“It’s still sweet,” she said airily, since for some reason the thought rankled him. “It’s as if you have the Christmas spirit year-round.”
“I do not,” he said in a huff.
“I have self-advancing financial acumen year-round.”
“Mm-hm,” she said. “A selfish egotist who creates opportunities for the less fortunate. Have you seen my porcelain palette?”
“Listen to me,” he said as he passed her the palette. “My dealings have nothing to do with Christmas and everything to do with simple mathematics.”
“Is anything ever simple?” she asked.
“Some things are.” He fixed her with his sapphire eyes. “Let’s make an arrangement.”
“I don’t want your money,” she said quickly. She did think his investment stratagems sweet, but Angelica would make her way on her own.
“So you mentioned.” His tone was bemused, as though he was not quite certain what to make of her. “We’ve also established that you are overworked, and that I am an adventurer in want of an adventure. I know little about this village—”
“I do not have time to play tour guide to tourists. There’s a guided walk about the castle grounds on Saturday afternoons.”
“—and I’m uninterested in doing what everyone else does.” His low burr warmed her skin. “The thought of living like a local until my business partners arrive amuses me, but I’ve no idea where to begin. Here’s the agreement. You help me assimilate and I’ll be your footman.”
“You’ll be my what?”
“Your servant; your errand boy. I’ll fetch your food, provide aural accompaniment—”
“Are you certain you’re skilled at making advantageous business arrangements?”
“I adore doing new things and meeting new people. What is boring and commonplace to you will be new and interesting to me. I’ve also never been a footman before, and I find the idea quite tickles me. I’m inordinately fond of improbable travel stories, and this arrangement has all the makings of a classic.”
“You’re speaking as if we’ve already agreed. What makes you think I’d want your ‘aural accompaniment?’”
“You told me yourself: loud chaos relaxes and revitalizes you. As it happens, ‘loud’ and ‘chaos’ are my top two talents.”
“I said my family’s loud chaos would be welcome. You are not family.”
“You said your relatives aren’t allowed to cross the threshold. I am, and I haven’t shut up yet. Clearly, it’s helping. You finished your tiara.”
“I’m—” She stared down at her work board.
It was finished. She’d moved on to the matching earrings without registering. His voice and his stories were every bit as relaxing as the comforting noise of her family, but without the accompanying anxiety.
“All right,” she said slowly. “We can try it. Just until the duke arrives or I finish my work, whichever comes first.”
He grinned at her. “Agreed. What time should I bring dinner, and do you prefer red or white wine?”
“Just to make sure we understand each other,” she said firmly. “This is a ridiculous business arrangement, not a romance. I won’t entertain sins of the flesh until I’m married—”
“At which point it won’t be sins of the flesh,” he said helpfully. “It’ll just be pleasurable.”
“—and I’m uninterested in attracting a suitor,” she finished.
“I’ve no intention of suiting,” he said solemnly, “so we are very well matched indeed. I simply wish to explore my present surroundings as though I’ll never see them again, because that is, in fact, the plan.”
His easy agreement with her conditions should not cause a sharp little twist in her belly, but there it was.
“I’m to send you on any and every mission I can think of, no matter how menial?”
“I’ve no pride whatsoever,” he assured her. “I’m just looking for a good tale to tell one day.”
“In that case, Mr. Footman, go and find the castle solicitor, and ask to work with the road-cleaning volunteers and the pavement-sweeping volunteers. If you’ve any time left, there’s a bucket, a scrubbing brush, and vinegar and soap under the counter, which can be used to brighten the front windows of my shop, so that passers-by can see the items on display. And if you need even more adventure, there’s always wood to be chopped.”
Rather than balk at such a preposterous list of demands, he nodded as if committing each word to memory.
“Solicitor, snow duty, then bring you some wood. Your wish is my command.” He beamed at her. “Shall I also don a powdered wig?”
“Do not put on a powdered wig.”
“I’ll find a marvelous one,” he assured her. “You’ll love it.”
“I will not—”
But he was already through the door and gone, hurrying off to do her bidding.
Chapter 5
At ten o’clock the next morning, Jonathan made his way uphill despite the wind chapping his cheeks and the snow clinging to his lashes.
Winter had been pummeling him since dawn, but the road was clear from horse farm to castle, the pavements were swept, and a fresh bale of firewood had been piled on the stack behind Miss Parker’s shop.
He had wanted to impress her, but wasn’t certain how. She was not swayed by his offers to purchase anything—or everything—in the shop. She would rather sell her hair combs one by one to women who wanted them than to have Jonathan purchase the lot just because he could.
No one had ever declined his money before.
He’d expected nominating himself as her temporary footman to be a lark. He hadn’t expected feeling so… useful. It was typically not Jonathan, but rather Jonathan’s bank account that made people happy. It was a thousand times more satisfying to be the reason himself.
If yesterday was any indication, Miss Parker would have forgotten to break her fast this morning, and would be too stubborn to pause for sustenance.
Jonathan would pause for her. Now that he’d completed his early morning footman duties, he had all the time in the world. Who better to spend it with than someone who wouldn’t take time for herself?
He stomped the snow from his boots beneath Marlowe Castle’s protective stone archway and swept in through the great open doors.
Warmth enveloped him. Heat and noise, and the smell of cake and hot chocolate from the buffet just inside the entryway. He tried to determine which sensory pleasure was most welcome and decided Miss Parker was right: noise was the best. Crackling fires were a godsend, and pies were lovely at any hour, but the noise of people meant one needn’t enjoy them alone.
That was the best part about spending one’s life flitting from place to place: all the new people to meet. The second-best part was that if things didn’t work out, it didn’t matter. He was leaving anyway. There were endless chances to try again.
He helped himself to a biscuit at the refreshment table, taking care to introduce himself to all the other guests milling about Marlowe Castle’s large reception room.
When Jonathan was a child, the thought of introducing himself to a stranger had nauseated him. Rarely could he mumble out MacLean without his skin flaming fiery red and his stomach doing somersaults. But he had tired of feeling like he didn’t belong. Especially when he knew he wouldn’t be staying. Jonathan didn’t enjoy feeling awkward in strange places, so one day he’d decided to pretend not to anymore. He would become like a slate of roofing tile: anything he didn’t wish to hold onto slid right off of him. Now the trick was second nature.
Once he made the acquaintance of two dozen guests, a half-dozen villagers, and a veritable army of castle staff, he followed directions across the great hall and up the winding marble stairs to the castle’s ample circulating library. Its contents were free to the public, and Jonathan had been promised the well-stocked shelves contained topics for everyone.
He hoped that included something for Miss Parker.
Although Jonathan never stayed anywhere long enough for the purchase of a subscription to a local lending library to make financial sense, his first act in many places was to join as many libraries as possible anyway. The communal reading rooms were an excellent place to meet new people an
d get information that might not be found in the pages of a guidebook.
To his surprise, the castle’s library was not only vast, but unguarded. Rather than a separate reading room, comfortable sofas and chairs were scattered throughout, and the books were right there for anyone to pick up and leaf through.
It was so lovely, he wished he could pay tenfold for the experience, and was bitterly disappointed such a delight was being forced upon him for free. There wasn’t even a counter upon which one might surreptitiously leave behind a small stack of sovereigns.
There was, however, a black cat eyeing him with suspicion.
“Why, good day, sir,” he said to the cat.
It arched its spine, black fur spiking as sharp claws extended from its front paws.
A young woman stepped out from what might have once been a reading room, and was now an extension of the library.
“Your Grace,” she said.
Jonathan bowed. “A plain mister, I’m afraid. Jonathan MacLean, at your service.”
“Not you.” She pointed to the cat. “That’s Duke. He’s not a sir.”
“I see.” Jonathan did not see. He made a fine leg for the cat anyway. “Pardon my insolence, Your Grace.”
The cat hissed its displeasure, then retracted his claws and sauntered away.
Jonathan hoped it wasn’t an omen for his upcoming meeting with Nottingvale.
The young woman was still staring at Jonathan’s cravat with about the same amount of suspicion as her cat.
“Er,” he said brightly. “Is there a custodian or librarian?”
“No,” she answered, and tilted her head. “But we’ve the latest Minerva Press Gothic novel on the third shelf in the second cubbyhole to your right.”
“Oh, no,” he said with a little laugh. “It’s not for me. I—” He blinked. “Did you say, the latest Minerva Press novel?”
He had been obsessed with the genre ever since he’d stumbled across The Mysterious Hand, in which the hapless protagonists faced a handsome yet diabolical villain who was at once an inventor, an athlete, and a poet—and definitely not to be trusted when confined together in a hot air balloon.