by Regina Scott
He frowned in Charlotte’s direction, and Lydia shifted just enough to block his view of her friend.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said. “Did she mention the reason for her discomfort?”
Lydia was fairly sure she was looking at the reason, but she still didn’t understand why the man held such power over the usually unflappable Charlotte.
Lydia waved her hand before her face. “Well, it is rather crowded.”
He angled his head as if trying to see around her, and his hair slipped, revealing more of his balding pate. “Perhaps I should sit with her while she waits.”
“She has her assistants at her side,” Lydia assured him. “Sometimes a lady merely wants the company of another lady. As a gentleman, I’m sure you understand.”
He could not argue and still maintain the façade of a gentleman. He offered her a bow, and she returned to Charlotte’s side.
“What did he say to you?” Charlotte hissed, face now devoid of all color.
“Nothing of import,” Lydia told her. “He wanted a dance, but I explained that we were leaving. He seems harmless enough.”
“Yes,” Charlotte murmured, fan moving more from habit than need now, Lydia thought. “So he seems.”
~~~
Worth didn’t like Charlotte’s look, first red, now white, and so very stilted in her movements, as if something pained her. His sister was rarely sick, rarely indisposed. She moved through life with a placid grace that admitted no interruptions.
It had been that way since their parents had died—first their father from pneumonia, and then their mother a year later. The physician had been perplexed as to what had caused her death, but Worth had always suspected a broken heart. Just because no one had documented the malady yet didn’t mean it couldn’t exist.
Still, Charlotte had been his rock, his stalwart companion, through it all, despite the fact that she was younger. The thought of losing her too was untenable.
“Could it have been something you ate?” he pressed as they headed for home. In deference to his sister, he had insisted that she sit beside him on the forward-facing bench. Lydia had squeezed in between Miss Pankhurst and Miss Janssen opposite them. In truth, that was probably for the best. Dancing with her had brought back too many memories. He had to remind himself their purpose for associating now had nothing to do with courting.
“No, Worth,” Charlotte answered him. “Stop fussing. I’ll be fine now that we’re out of that crush.” She drew in a breath and sat taller, adjusting her cloak around her as if determined to regain her usual composure. “Now, what about tomorrow? Does everyone have an assignment?”
“I will work with the cabinet maker to secure a floor to the basket,” Miss Janssen supplied. “Light, but strong.”
“I am making rapid progress in stitching the silk, now that certain impediments have been removed,” Miss Pankhurst said with a glance at Lydia.
Impediments like Miss Pankhurst’s unwillingness to try anything new? As far as Worth could see, that had been more of an impediment than Lydia. Her efforts had only been a boon to their work.
“Shall I help you with your heat experiments?” Lydia asked Charlotte, look and voice eager.
“Absolutely,” Charlotte said, turning to him. “Worth, Lydia had an inspired idea. Instead of augmenting the coal, why not use a bellows?”
He nodded, the idea taking shape in his mind. “Like a smith. Excellent thought.”
“Perhaps you could work with Lydia tomorrow morning on the approach,” his sister ventured.
“Oh, how disappointing,” Miss Pankhurst put in. “I could make so much more progress with another pair of hands.”
Hands she had just complained of, if he had understood her correctly. He thought Charlotte would complain as well, demand that she needed Lydia more, but his sister merely smiled.
“I’d be happy to sew with you, Miss Pankhurst. Worth and Lydia can work in the garden until I’m needed. A day or two helping you catch up would be well worth the effort.”
“How…kind,” Miss Pankhurst said. “But I wouldn’t want to put you out. Miss Villers has some talent for the work. All that embroidering for a trousseau, I expect.” She giggled.
Lydia didn’t so much as twitch at the mention of her lost opportunities. “Very likely. But I defer to Charlotte’s excellent plan. How may I help you explore this new approach, my lord?”
A dozen answers leaped forward like horses freed to run. They’d have to review his propulsion work to see how the devices he had in mind might be affected by the addition of another. He and Lydia could visit a smithy, her presence a light in the dark space. Their fingers might touch as she handed him the bellows. The warmth of the fire would glow in her cheeks.
He was mad. Utterly mad.
“Let’s start by hearing more about your idea, Miss Villers,” he said.
Her smile brightened the coach.
It brightened his laboratory the next day as well. Both Miss Pankhurst and Charlotte had appointments that morning, but Lydia arrived right on time. He had planned to work in the rear yard. Unfortunately, a steady rain had begun falling, and he needed to calculate the dimensions and other requirements of the apparatus in any regard. Leaving the door open to the stairs so the others could hear them, thus protecting Lydia’s reputation, he set about summing up their progress.
“Hot air rises, this we know,” he said as he paced past the center table, where Lydia sat on a bench, muslin skirts brushing the plank floor. “The problem is keeping it hot without destroying the container, basket, or envelope.”
Lydia nodded, pale curls bouncing. “Charlotte said as much. That’s why she’s trying to determine how to transport fire.”
“Exactly. I originally thought to come at the matter from another direction. Might there be another type of air that rises without heat?”
She rubbed at a stain on the table with one finger, as if she longed to touch the instruments just beyond. “Another type of air? Like the noxious air in coal mines?”
“Or what Volta discovered over the marshes in Italy, yes.”
She wrinkled her nose as if she could smell the fetid odor from here. “But those appear to sink, if I understand correctly.”
“They stay close to their origin. Something else might rise. I considered hydrogen, which the French have been using with some success, but ruled it out because of its known flammability.”
“Oxygen?” she suggested.
Worth shook his head. “Too difficult to produce in pure form, particularly for industrial purposes.”
She pouted. “How unfortunate. But you see what I mean about precedence, Worth. You’re building on what others have learned.”
He was. He knew that. It wasn’t the building but the taking that incensed him. How was he to make a mark on the world if no one knew his contribution? Was he to be the least famous Viscount Worthington?
“In this case, precedence has failed,” he told her. “Davy may discover another gas any moment, but we must demonstrate at the end of the month. Heated air will have to do. An equally important question is how to steer the balloon.”
She shivered, and he realized the moment came from anticipation, not cold. “If I understand correctly, balloons move at the mercy of the winds.”
“At the moment, they do,” he acknowledged. “A balloonist’s sole recourse is to rise or fall into favorable wind, and we have no way to veer right or left. Yet Blanchard crossed the Channel from France, in direct opposition to the prevailing winds.”
“How?” she demanded.
He picked up his propeller model from the table and gave the cedar paddles a spin. “Through propulsion.”
She watched the angled paddles turn. “You would affix something like this to the basket?”
“To all four sides,” he said. “With cranks so they would be turned by hand.”
Lydia frowned. “Foot pedals too, I would imagine. Otherwise the balloonist’s arms would weaken over the time you have envisioned.”
Foot pedals. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
“Foot pedals would be so much more practical if we add the bellows,” he mused aloud.
She dimpled.
Simply having her there, listening to his theories and supplying facts that proved or disproved them spurred him to consider alternatives he’d ignored before. Together, they determined how big the bellows would need to be to effectively increase the heat of the fire and debated ways to outfit the balloon with the additional device. When his sister rang the bell for tea, he almost resented the break.
Lydia didn’t show such concern. She paced him down the corridor, already talking about their next steps. He’d always admired her energy. How invigorating to pair it with his work. Both his loves, in one package.
He reined in his thoughts. He did not love Lydia Villers. He could not allow it. Today natural philosophy enthralled her. Last year, it had been flirting. Who knew what it might be tomorrow? His mind leaped as agilely, but within a central sphere. He still could not trust Lydia’s motivations.
His sister had returned earlier and was going through the mail as he and Lydia joined the others in Charlotte’s study. The tea cart rattled through the door as Bateman trundled it into the room. When Charlotte glanced up at him with a smile, he folded his arms over his chest.
“Don’t look at me,” he said. “I’m not pouring.”
Miss Pankhurst tsked. “Certainly not. That is a lady’s function. Would you like me to pour, Miss Worthington?”
Charlotte waved a letter. “Yes, please do.”
Miss Pankhurst lifted the teapot in the violet pattern his mother had favored and proceeded to hand out the cups as she filled them. Miss Janssen joined her on the sofa, while Lydia plunked herself down on a chair near Charlotte’s table. She took up the Times, scanning quickly through the newspaper as if searching for something. Was she seeking key Society news the paper occasionally covered? Or looking for items of a scientific nature? His mind was so busy he had to force himself to take a seat by the window.
“Miss Worthington and I had a very productive morning,” Miss Pankhurst announced as she offered Miss Janssen the plate with little slices of lemon cake, his favorite. “But I believe we could do with your help, Miss Villers, if Lord Worthington can get on without you.”
“I’ll do whatever is needed,” Lydia said, but her voice lacked its usual enthusiasm, and she looked down at her tea as if resigned to her lot.
If he were half as intelligent as Charlotte liked to claim, he’d let Lydia go work with Miss Pankhurst. One more opportunity to advance the envelope task. One less distraction for him. He could visit the smithy alone, request a prototype to their specifications. He could work with Charlotte to test it.
But the idea had originated with Lydia. As with the thread and water experiment, she had every right to see it through.
“I begin to believe I cannot get by without Miss Villers at my side,” Worth said.
Lydia’s head came up. She beamed at him, and the world was a better place.
Miss Janssen’s hand trembled as she set the plate back on the tea cart without passing it to the others.
“Oh, no,” Charlotte said.
Lydia blinked, and Worth glanced his sister’s way. She held a thick vellum note. The window seat seemed to be sinking as all color drained from his sister’s face once more.
“Charlotte?” he asked. “What is it?”
“Someone has died?” Miss Janssen asked, fingers anchored on her cup.
Charlotte managed a breath, the bodice of her grey gown rising and falling with the effort. “It’s one of those notes, Worth. I thought we were beyond them.”
She held out the paper with a trembling hand. All eyes were on him as Worth rose to take it.
“I know what you’re doing,” Worth read aloud. “You will never succeed. Stop now, before someone dies.”
Chapter Ten
Miss Janssen gasped and clutched her generous chest. Miss Pankhurst begged for an explanation. Charlotte was as white as she’d been last night at the ball.
“Well, that’s silly,” Lydia said.
Worth blinked as he raised his head from the note.
“Silly?” Miss Pankhurst cried. “Someone is threatening our lives!”
Lydia wrinkled her nose, rising to go study the note in Worth’s hands. Good paper—as thick as a formal invitation. Someone with money or employed by a wealthy household, perhaps? She didn’t recognize the dainty hand, so at least it wasn’t one of her brother’s poor attempts at managing her life. Someone with some education, however. Those vowels were precisely inscribed, and everything was spelled properly.
“Not much of a threat,” Lydia said, straightening. “It’s all rather vague, if you ask me.”
“Someone trying to frighten us,” Worth agreed, folding the note in half.
“And succeeding,” Charlotte said. “You must show Bateman, Worth.”
“I will,” he promised, sliding the note into his coat pocket. “Rest assured, ladies, that you are all safe in this house. We have important work to do, and this cowardly missive won’t stop us.”
Miss Janssen nodded. “Glad I am for Mr. Bateman.”
“Indeed,” Miss Pankhurst put in. “Though perhaps Miss Villers shouldn’t be the only one to be escorted home in the evenings.”
Worth cast Lydia a glance so quick she could not be sure of his thoughts. “Charlotte, make the arrangements.”
Charlotte nodded. “Of course. I’m sorry I mentioned the matter to you all. It just caught me by surprise.”
Worth as well, Lydia thought, though he seemed to have recovered.
“Anything else of import in the mail?” he asked as if Charlotte and he had been discussing nothing more interesting than what ball to attend.
Charlotte roused herself. “Yes, actually. We received an invitation to Lady Lilith’s wedding to Lydia’s brother, a week from today.”
A week’s time? Why had her brother been so evasive last night? Trust Beau not to remember the date of his own wedding.
“How lovely,” Lydia declared.
No one else looked amused. She understood. That threatening note had upset them all. Besides, her brother had annoyed any number of people over the years. Not everyone would be forgiving as he set out to redeem himself.
“Yes, lovely,” Charlotte said. “We’ll all go, of course.” She shot Worth a look as if daring him to disagree.
Worth nodded thoughtfully. “If you have no other news to impart, Charlotte, I propose that Miss Villers and I visit the smithy this afternoon about the bellows.”
Miss Janssen’s face puckered. “You would leave us alone?”
Did she truly think danger stalked the corridors? Lydia could not put any faith in such a flimsy threat.
“Hardly alone,” Charlotte said. “Beast will be here to protect us. I’d like to see the fellow who could take him on and win.”
“So would I,” Miss Janssen said dreamily.
“Still, a change in plan may be warranted,” Charlotte continued. “The heat and basket tasks are moving along nicely. Miss Pankhurst is gaining ground. I propose the four of us who sew competently combine on her task and complete the sewing of the silk.”
Worth frowned. Did he want to spend more time together? She did.
Dangerous thought. Perhaps Charlotte was right.
“I’m happy to help,” Lydia said.
“Very well,” Worth said. “Good afternoon, ladies. I’ll report what I learn from the smith.” He strode from the room. Lydia refused to allow her enthusiasm to go with him.
A short while later, the three women gathered around Miss Pankhurst as she demonstrated the stitches that had survived the most tests.
“With no need for wetting,” she reminded them all.
“Well, I didn’t know we were creating a balloon then,” Lydia pointed out.
Miss Janssen’s eyes widened. “A balloon?”
Charlotte set down her portion o
f the fabric. “Yes, a balloon. A very particular balloon, capable of long-distance flight. Miss Villers, I must caution you again about sharing such information.”
Lydia’s face heated. “I’m sorry. I thought the others must have been told by now.”
“I knew,” Miss Pankhurst said, calmly taking a stitch. “I surmised the matter some time ago but deemed it unwise to speak out. Lord Worthington has taken pains to keep the matter quiet.”
“Yes,” Charlotte said. “He has. Our goal is a demonstration to His Royal Highness at the end of this month. We have much to do to be ready. Sew, ladies.”
They sewed. That afternoon and most of the next day, until Lydia’s fingers threatened to cramp from clasping the needle and her neck ached where she’d bent her head over the scarlet fabric. How did seamstresses manage it day after day? She would never demand a new gown quickly again.
Worth poked his head in from time to time to inquire on their progress and report his. Always his gaze strayed to Lydia. Did he wish for her company? Did he find his mind worked better in tandem? She felt as if any intelligent thoughts she’d had were marching down the thread and away from her brain with each stitch, like ants on their way to a picnic.
Bateman was equally as attentive, escorting anyone who left the house after dark and dividing his time between Worth and Charlotte during the day. Miss Janssen seemed to have accepted Worth’s word that the threatening note had been a sham intended to rattle them, though Miss Pankhurst still insisted on an escort even though she left in broad daylight. Worth had consented to walk her home or send her in the carriage. Bateman had not been amused.
Miss Janssen walked out with Lydia the second evening. She’d donned a wide-fronted bonnet that formed a cone around her broad cheeks. She turned with Lydia to the left even though Lydia was certain her boardinghouse lay in the opposite direction.
“I wanted to talk to you, Miss Villers,” she said, clumping along beside her. “I have done you a great disservice.”
Lydia glanced at her. The lady’s head was down, her gloved fingers plucking at the fabric of her sensible wool dress where it draped below her spencer.
