He glanced up and smiled. “How did you get out of my grandmother’s clutches?”
She wet her lips. “The dowager knows that I help you. I’m not sure who told her.”
The expression on his face remained the same.
“You don’t look surprised.” She stepped up to the desk.
“I already knew.”
“Oh?”
“This morning she sent a note to my bedchamber, summoning me to her suite of rooms. The only thing I’m surprised about is that it took her this long to find out. She has spies.” He grinned.
By spies, he probably meant servants who feared the dowager’s wrath. Feared they’d find themselves out the door with no references if the questions she put to them weren’t answered truthfully.
“She was worried I was botching things up and you were my partner in the destruction of the family’s coffers,” he continued, his gaze on the blueprints as he tied a navy ribbon around them so they wouldn’t unravel. “I told her she had nothing to fear. That you are extraordinary, since you possess the ability to calculate sums better than anyone could even imagine.”
That he thought her extraordinary, even if he meant only her mind, sent a warm feeling through her body. Plus, he had given her a tremendous amount of credit. She had figured if anyone caught on to the fact that she assisted him, he would say she did nothing more than take dictation—that he would take all the credit for maintaining the ledgers. The fact that he didn’t, shouldn’t have surprised her.
He picked up his top hat and set it on his head.
“Are you going out?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m going to Victory Pens to see how many of the changes I’ve asked to be made to the layout have been brought to fruition.” He strode toward the door, then pivoted back. “Would you care to accompany me?”
Startled by the invitation, she blinked. “Yes. I would like that very much.”
“Then we should be on our way. The construction foreman is expecting me.”
“I shall get my shawl and be back in a moment.” Once out of his sight, she flew up the steps as if assisted by wings. Sparks of excitement flashed within her. She wanted to see the pen factory. Wanted to see what Anthony had been so diligently working on.
In her bedchamber, she grabbed her shawl and wrapped it about her shoulders as she rushed down the stairs to the entry hall. The little sparks in her stomach intensified at the sight of Anthony at the doorway, waiting for her. She attempted to ignore the sensation, along with the warm smile he offered her.
Outside, Anthony held out his gloved hand to assist her into the waiting carriage. He folded his tall frame into the seat across from her and stretched out his long legs, causing his feet to bump into hers.
“Sorry,” he said. “Do you mind?” He motioned to the spot next to her.
She shook her head. “Of course not.”
Anthony stood just as the coachman called to the horses to move on. The vehicle jerked forward. Caught off balance, he braced his hands on both sides of her shoulders to stop himself from tumbling onto her.
Their faces were close. Close enough she could smell the scent of mint on his breath.
His regard was intense. It seemed to examine every feature of her face.
For a moment, she wished her skin was absent the freckles that dotted the bridge of her nose and cheeks.
His gaze lowered to her mouth.
Her heartbeat spiked.
“Forgive me, Olivia.”
The low, raspy tone of his voice sent a shiver down her spine. She swallowed her foolish desire to shift forward so their mouths touched, so she could experience his warm and demanding mouth on hers again.
Anthony held her gaze for several seconds, then mumbling something under his breath, he straightened and sat next to her. He stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. She studied the shine of his black shoes to distract herself from the heat emanating from his body and the way his shoulder touched hers every time they hit a rut in the road.
“Is something amiss?”
She wet her dry lips and turned to him. Once again, their faces were close. She quickly peered out the window. “No, nothing.”
The grand town houses in Mayfair faded as they moved closer to the East End of London where the air was thicker from the smoke from the nearby factories. Several drays loaded with wooden crates of goods rumbled by them.
The carriage slowed as it turned onto a street and pulled up to a two-story brick building with arched windows on the ground floor and smaller windows on the second story. The factory was symmetrical with a center green door and two massive barnlike doors on the far ends. The one on the left was open and a delivery of lumber was being carried inside by men in their shirtsleeves.
Looking like an anxious young lad at Christmas, Anthony grabbed the blueprints, opened the carriage door, and leapt to the pavement. He turned and offered her his hand. On the way here, he’d taken his gloves off and tossed them onto the seat across from them, while she had rushed from the house and not put hers on.
His fingers curled about hers.
The warmth from his touch traveled from his skin to hers.
Why did her body and mind obsess over this man? Perhaps it was nothing more than the fact that he had looked at her like no other man ever had. Angered over her feeble contemplations, she removed her hand from his. He didn’t appear to notice the hastiness of her actions, while she felt bereft.
He opened the door and they stepped into a center hall with offices on both sides. A cacophony of noises filled the air. The tap, tap, tap of hammers striking nails, the whizzing of handsaws working their way through pieces of lumber, and the chatter of workmen bustling about. The building had the strong scent of freshly cut wood, paint, and sweat. In front of them was another door. Anthony opened it and they stepped into a massive space with worktables on one side and machinery on another.
She examined Anthony’s face as he glanced around. “Are you pleased?”
As if suddenly recalling she stood next to him, he glanced at her. His eyes were bright. He smiled. “Very much so.”
She had a feeling he had spent a great deal of his life acting frivolous and now had something he could say he had accomplished. The happiness she saw on his face gave her immeasurable pleasure. She knew what it was like to test yourself. To step out of how you were perceived by others and challenge yourself to do something that no one would think you capable of doing.
Impulsively, she reached for his hand and squeezed his fingers. As if her actions did not shock him in the least, he squeezed her hand back.
A man in a dark sack suit strode toward them, and she hastily released Anthony’s fingers.
“Mr. Gibbons,” Anthony said, reaching out to shake the other man’s hand.
“My lord.” The fellow enthusiastically pumped Anthony’s hand.
Anthony turned to her. “Miss Michaels, this is Mr. Gibbons, the construction foreman. Miss Michaels, is my assistant.”
For a brief second the man’s expression showed his surprise. She was sure hers most likely did as well. She had not thought she would be introduced by such an esteemed title.
“Mr. Gibbons,” she said, holding out her hand to shake his.
He briefly hesitated then grasped her fingers in a loose grip.
He turned back to Anthony, then motioned with a sweep of his hand. “What do you think, my lord?”
Like Anthony, the man’s expression radiated a sense of accomplishment.
The boyish pleasure from Anthony’s face evaporated, and he suddenly looked all business. He moved to one of the long worktables, unraveled the blueprints, and used four boxes of nails to pin the corners of the curled paper down.
Olivia listened to Anthony asking about which changes had been implemented. As he and the foreman chatted, she kept her gaze on Anthony’s face. She wished his grandmother was here, listening to him talk about workflow and the changes he had applied.
After a half
hour, Anthony rolled up the blueprints and they walked through the building.
At one manufacturing station, Anthony stopped and ran a hand over his shaven jaw.
She could see his mind working.
He turned to Mr. Gibbons. “Upon seeing this, I realize the aisle is too narrow. We have enough room to shift this station two feet to the left.”
The man listened intently, then nodded. “Yes, that would make more sense.”
“I’ll adjust the blueprints,” Anthony said.
They strode to the loading dock. Anthony examined a newly built ramp, then lifted a crate and set it on the structure. Without a great deal of effort, he maneuvered the box downward. “Yes, this will work much better. The downward slope is not too great that the boxes of pens will topple over. It will make conveying the crates much easier on the men’s backs.”
Mr. Gibbons’s eyes widened slightly as if startled by Anthony’s concern for those men tasked with loading the boxes. The sudden smile on the man’s face revealed Anthony had been elevated in the man’s regard.
* * *
An hour later, as they drove back to Mayfair, Olivia could see the sense of satisfaction on Anthony’s face. He was proud of what he’d accomplished.
As if realizing she watched him, he turned to her.
“You’re feeling rather proud of yourself, aren’t you?” she asked, smiling at him.
He grinned. “I am. I’m pleased with the changes I’ve implemented.”
“You should be.”
As if her words added to his pride, his grin broadened. He nudged her foot with his. “I think we owe it to ourselves to celebrate again. We are both doing a rather splendid job.”
His use of the word we made her heart feel light.
“Why don’t we go out again?” he asked.
Excitement sparked within her. She envisioned them on the dance floor moving in time to the beat of another fast-paced polka. Her euphoria faded as she remembered that tonight was Lord Belington’s ball, and she would be attending. Not through the front door. Not dressed in a costly gown. Not drinking champagne with the other guests. But she’d be there just the same. There was only Belington and Helen’s father’s name on her list, and hopefully, after tonight, just that single blackguard’s name would remain.
She bit her lower lip. “I cannot go tonight.”
“No?” His jubilant expression faltered. “Finley’s is still closed down, so we won’t be going there if that is what concerns you. We’ll go someplace else.”
“No, that’s not it at all. I liked Finley’s.”
“You did, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Very much so.”
“So, tell me why you cannot enjoy a night out?”
She searched her mind for an excuse. Nothing came to her. Lying to him had come much easier when she’d first met him; now it made her chest ache. But there was no avoiding it. She peered down at her lap, not wishing to lie to him while looking directly at his face. “I fear I feel a megrim coming on.”
With his index finger under her chin, he tipped her face up, so their gazes met. “Then when we arrive back, you must go and rest. Do not worry about the ledgers tonight. They can wait until tomorrow.”
His concern made the lie she’d told him even more painful. He was too trusting, and Vicar Finch was right. She was wicked and would most likely end up in hell.
Chapter Sixteen
In her bedchamber, Olivia paced from one end of the opulent room to the other. A couple of hours ago, Anthony had gone out to celebrate how well his redesign of Victory Pens was turning out. Every minute, up until the moment she’d heard him close the front door, she’d battled against her desire to go with him. When she’d heard him exiting his room, down the corridor, she’d almost run after him to say she’d had a change of heart. That her fictitious megrim was gone.
But she’d forced herself to not move an inch of her body until after she was positive he had left, then she’d cried. Not a heart-wrenching cry that makes one’s shoulders shake and turns one’s eyes puffy, but a slow cry like a drip-drip from a leaky pipe.
Olivia wasn’t completely sure why she’d cried.
Hogwash. She knew exactly why. Dancing with Anthony had been one of the most wonderful experiences of her life. She’d enjoyed the way he’d twirled her around the room, the heat from his body drifting over her, and the way he held her gaze. During those splendid moments, no chasm of class separated them. It was as if she’d stepped into another world, and it was freeing. It was like the freedom she experienced as she jumped from one rooftop to the next. Yet, if she continued to think of him in such a fanciful way—as if they were equals in society—she’d not tumble to her death, as she could from a rooftop, but instead might end up with a broken heart.
One could not step out of the role life had given them for too long. Reality would settle back on them with even more weight if they believed they could escape their lot in life. And she needed to remember that when she finished what she’d come to London to do, she would abandon this city. Lately, she’d pondered the idea of taking a ship to America and leaving England and the life and sins she’d committed behind.
She didn’t want the memory of Anthony to follow her and make her nights restless. She needed to forget him. Though even now, she wondered who he twirled around the dance floor. Who he smiled at, and if the woman was experiencing the same, almost tangible current Olivia had felt in his arms.
She stopped pacing and sat on the edge of the bed. An explosive gust of breath left her mouth as she flopped backward onto the soft mattress and stared at the ceiling above. The room was completely quiet except the tick, tick, tick of the mantel clock. Across the hall the Dowager Marchioness of Huntington had retired, leaving only the soft padded footsteps of the household staff who would soon take to their beds.
But even then, it would be too early to leave for Lord Belington’s residence. She needed to wait until the party was in full swing. When those in attendance would be enjoying supper, closer to midnight.
She rolled onto her belly and slipped the book she’d borrowed from the office off the bedside table. She would read until it was time to get dressed. Hopefully, that would distract her.
* * *
Somewhere between stepping out of the family’s Park Lane residence and climbing into his carriage, Anthony had changed his mind about going to a music hall and ended up at his club at St. James’s.
Trying to keep his expression unreadable, he studied his cards, separating them slightly so he could count the two black clovers and two hearts on the pair he held in his hand to make sure he’d not read the numbers incorrectly. He had learned to compensate for his issues with adding by counting the symbols on the cards in a consecutive order and knew that court cards were worth ten points. Adding single digits had always come easier to him since there were no numbers next to them to invert.
He picked up a crown from the stack in front of him and pitched it onto the pile of coins in the center of the table.
His opponent, Sir Harry, narrowed his eyes to slits and studied him. “I think you’re bluffing, Trent.”
Anthony remained quiet. He was, but if he denied it the man would know it was true. Best to keep mum. There was a science to playing cards. One did not need to be only proficient at the game. One needed to be proficient at reading the other players at the table. That was where Anthony excelled. Sir Harry loved to gamble, but he possessed a terrible habit of rubbing the spot behind his ear when he was contemplating folding. He’d done it twice during this hand, so even though Sir Harry’s cards were most likely better than Anthony’s, the man feared he would lose. Tossing an extra crown on the table would ratchet up Harry’s doubt and would most likely cause him to fold.
Anthony flipped a crown into the air. It made a clinking noise when it landed in the center of the pile already on the table.
As suspected, Sir Harry grumbled and tossed his cards on the table.
Anthony forced his expression
to remain bland as he placed his cards facedown into the discarded ones before sweeping up his winnings.
Harry eyed Anthony’s cards as if he desperately wished to know if he’d been duped but turning them over was against the rules. Releasing a gusty breath, the man shoved his chair back and stood. “Damnation, not my night. And I despise this bloody game. What the Americans see in playing poker I don’t understand.”
Next to Anthony, one of his closest chums Lord Talbot grinned. “I hear the queen has learned the rules.”
“Perhaps I could beat her at a hand,” Harry grumbled.
“I doubt she’d allow a rascal like you into the palace,” Talbot said.
“Ha! She wouldn’t allow you or Trent in either.” The normally jovial smile on Harry’s face returned. “I’m off, gents. I need to find a pretty bird to uplift my bruised ego.”
Talbot’s gaze followed Harry. When the man was out of earshot, Talbot turned to Anthony. “I bet he had you beat.”
“Most likely.” Anthony winked.
“Well, you scared everyone away. All of them lighter in the pockets. Now, what are we to do?”
Just then Lord Bramble, Maria’s new lover, stepped into the room. The young buck turned a rather putrid shade of green upon seeing Anthony, then pivoted so fast he bumped into a waiter carrying a silver tray with two glasses of port.
The tray in the man’s hands wobbled before crashing to the ground. The glasses shattered and port splattered all over.
Everyone in the room turned to gawk at Bramble, who was fleeing the room as if the devil himself followed him with a three-pronged pitchfork.
“What’s gotten into Bramble? The young lad looked ready to piss himself.” A line creased the skin between Talbot’s brows.
“He’s Maria’s new lover.”
Talbot wrinkled his nose. “You’re joking?”
“No.”
His friend’s frown deepened. “The way he looked . . . Did you threaten the lad? I thought you were relieved to be without her.”
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