Never Vie for a Viscount

by Regina Scott

  “Agreed,” Worth said, turning for the basket. “However, I don’t plan to leave the house in the near future.”

  Aware of a distinct disappointment that Lydia wasn’t there beside him, he threw himself into the work. The others arrived shortly afterward. While Miss Pankhurst made her final inspection of the envelope and Miss Janssen reinforced the padding on the basket, he and Charlotte worked on the coal feeder. The device continued to fight him, delivering too much coal one time and too little another.

  “There’s nothing for it,” Charlotte said, wiping sweat from her brow. “The only way we can deliver the right amount of coal to the fire is if someone introduces it by hand, alternating with the bellows.”

  “Meaning someone must remain awake at all times,” Worth said. He cleaned the coal residue from his hands with a rag. “Combined with the propellers, we’ll need a two-man crew.”

  “Or a two-woman crew,” Charlotte amended.

  He tossed the rag aside. “Either way, we’ve increased the weight.”

  “You’ll want a higher weight rating eventually anyway,” Charlotte pointed out. “To transport goods, people. And you know if this demonstration goes well, His Highness will insist on a ride.”

  “His ministers will prevent that,” Worth predicted. “We can’t risk England’s ruler in a balloon.”

  Charlotte put her hands on her hips. “Since when have any of his ministers been able to stop Prinny from doing as he likes?”

  Miss Pankhurst sidled closer. “Pardon me, my lord, Miss Worthington. The stitches appear to be satisfactory, except for a small set on the very crown. I could complete the work faster if I could have Miss Villers’s help. When do you expect her back from Gunter’s?”

  Charlotte frowned. “Gunter’s? Why would she be out eating ice cream?”

  Miss Pankhurst tittered, the sound more irritating than usual. “I’m sure I couldn’t say. Perhaps her interest in natural philosophy is waning. She is such a busy little bee.”

  Worth felt as if the woman had landed a punch more surely than Bateman. “I believe she is expected this afternoon,” he said, voice coming out hard.

  “Ah.” Miss Pankhurst pouted. “Pity. Well, if she returns, perhaps she’ll be willing to help.”

  She wandered back to the envelope, humming to herself.

  “Did you know about this?” Worth asked his sister.

  “No,” Charlotte, ever the unflappable, said. “But Lydia hasn’t had time away since her brother’s wedding, and we did promise a half-day off every week in our work agreement.”

  “Then why not ask for time off?” Worth pressed. “Why claim an appointment?”

  “Perhaps she had an appointment,” Charlotte countered, “and stopped by Gunter’s afterward, though how Miss Pankhurst would know is beyond me.”

  “We need her here,” Worth said, legs taking him past the brazier and back again. “This coal feeder was her idea. And you heard Miss Pankhurst. Only Lydia’s stitches will do.”

  “Until Miss Pankhurst rips them out again,” Charlotte said. “And I cannot like your tone, Worth. Lydia is our employee, our colleague. She isn’t your slave.”

  He recoiled, stung. “I’d never consider any person a slave.”

  Charlotte’s grey gaze, so like his own, was implacable. “And yet, you continue to expect us all to be at your beck and call—Lydia, Miss Pankhurst, Miss Janssen, Beast. Me.”

  Worth raked his hand back through his hair. “You hold high a mirror, and I cannot like the image I see. Forgive me, Charlotte. It was never my intention to take advantage of any of you. Perhaps you could draw up a schedule, ensure every member of the team and our staff has time off each week. With pay. I will endeavor to be a more understanding employer.”

  “Generous,” Charlotte said. “I’ll arrange the schedule and bring it to you for approval. Thank you, Worth. I think everyone will work better with a little time to themselves, even you.”

  She was likely right. But, with the insights into his character that Charlotte and Lydia had given him recently, the last thing he wanted was more time alone with his thoughts.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lydia sat on a park bench in Berkeley Square, across from Gunter’s, swinging one foot under her muslin skirts. The white-fronted confectioner’s with its wide glass windows was crowded. The fashionable entered and left every few minutes, and waiters ran ices and candies out to carriages waiting under the trees of the square.

  “You are kindness itself to meet me like this,” John Curtis said for the third time since she had arrived and they had taken a seat in the park at the center of the square. “But if you could just explain a bit more about what Lord Worthington hopes to accomplish, I might be able to offer advice.”

  Before answering, Lydia swallowed another spoonful of the tart pineapple ice Mr. Curtis had purchased for her. “I fear I’ve shared as much as I feel comfortable. Let’s discuss your work. Advances in chemistry, I believe?”

  He glanced around at the other wrought iron benches nearby, which were mostly empty at the moment, then lay a hand on her arm and gazed deep into her eyes. “My dear Miss Villers, Lydia, if I may, I sense we are kindred spirits. There is much I long to say to you, to share with you, if only I could be sure of your heart.”

  Lydia pulled away. Once she had had to put up with unfounded declarations of adoration, usually followed by an offer of a carte blanche. No more.

  “My heart has nothing to do with the matter,” she told him cheerfully, pausing to finish the last of the ice. “You invited me to talk about our mutual interest in natural philosophy. So far, I’m the only one talking.”

  He leaned back. “And you’re remarkably close-lipped.”

  “Am I? I don’t mean to be.” She set aside the little crystal cup with a sigh of regret. “I explained to you that Lord Worthington would prefer to keep some matters to himself. You were going to tell me more about heat conductance.”

  He waved a gloved hand. “A matter far above your understanding, my dear.”

  And that was quite enough of that. “Pity,” Lydia said, rising and forcing him to his feet as well. “Thank you for the treat, Mr. Curtis. I fear I will be too busy in the coming weeks for another.”

  “Busy?” He seized on the word. “Busy how? What is Worth planning?”

  He was so interested. She knew desperation when she saw it.

  “You will have to ask him,” she said, turning to go.

  He grabbed her shoulder. “Wait! You’ve told me nothing.”

  Lydia eyed the fingers digging into her rose-colored pelisse, and he released her.

  “Neither have you,” she pointed out. “Please don’t approach me again, Mr. Curtis. I so dislike giving people the cut direct. Good bye.”

  She walked past him for the street. He did not call out to stop her.

  A few establishments beyond Gunter’s, she let out a sigh. Did it have to be this way? Why did pale blond curls, big green eyes, and a friendly demeanor equate to a lack of intellect and a disinterest in anything of substance? Her brother had certainly worked hard to make sure no one guessed she might have a brain in her head. She’d grown used to wearing gowns cut too daringly for propriety, uttering giggles at a man’s attentions when she wanted to gag. She’d twisted out of unseemly embraces, stomped on an instep or two, and endured too many pecks on the cheek. Mr. Curtis seemed to think that her only role in life. She refused to return to it, even if that meant walking across Mayfair for a couple miles.

  It was nearly two in the afternoon when she reached the Worthington townhouses. Bateman answered her knock.

  “‘Bout time you showed up,” he greeted her.

  “How sweet that I was missed,” Lydia said, moving into the entry hall.

  He shut the door behind her. “Any trouble?”

  Lydia glanced at him. His face seemed tighter than usual, the planes sharply defined by nose and brow. The angry red mark from the brick stood out against his pallor.

  “Why
, Mr. Bateman, were you worried about me?” Lydia asked.

  He snorted. “Of course, I was worried. We still don’t know whether last night was on account of his lordship or you.” He lowered his head to meet her gaze on a level. “You all right?”

  Lydia smiled at him. “You know, I feel quite fine at the moment. Thank you, Bateman.”

  With a nod, he straightened. “I’ll make sure someone walks you home tonight.”

  Worth perhaps? Well, that would be silly, if Bateman was as worried about him. “Thank you,” she said again. “Where is everyone?”

  “Garden,” he said with a tip of his head in that direction. “We’ll start filling the envelope again shortly.”

  The words galvanized her. She hurried back.

  The automaton had been removed, she saw as she entered the garden, but the coal was high in the bin, and Bateman went to man the shovel. Charlotte was watching the fire in the brazier. Miss Pankhurst and Miss Janssen were smoothing out the envelope as it lay across the space, preparing it to be filled. Worth was peering into the basket.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Lydia said to Charlotte. “How can I help?”

  Charlotte smiled at her. “Welcome back. Worth was worried.”

  The idea was even more warming than Bateman’s concern. What need did she have for grasping fellows like Mr. Curtis when she had friends who cared?

  As if to prove it, Worth closed the distance to her side. Perspiration stood out along the edges of his hair, darkening the auburn to walnut and spiking the wave. His look was sorrowful, grey eyes dipping at the corners.

  “You must forgive me, Miss Villers,” he said, voice deeper than usual. “Charlotte tells me I’m driving you too hard.”

  Lydia glanced between them. “Not at all! I love working here.”

  His smile turned up, as if she’d lifted a weight from his shoulders. “I’m delighted to hear that. How was Gunter’s?”

  “Crowded, but that’s no surprise with the warm weather.” When he merely regarded her, brows up, she paused. “How did you know I was at Gunter’s?”

  “That is immaterial,” Charlotte interrupted. “You could have been at Gunter’s or Almack’s or the moon, for that matter. The point is that every member of this team has more than earned time off. I will be setting up a schedule to formalize that later. For now, would you look over Miss Pankhurst’s stitches? She has been fussing with them all morning.”

  Though the sewing task was her least favorite part of their work, Lydia nodded and went to the envelope. She could feel Worth watching her.

  “Ah, the prodigal returns,” Miss Pankhurst said with a giggle at her own wit. Miss Janssen shook her head good-naturedly.

  “Forgive me for leaving you short-handed,” Lydia said, pacing along the scarlet fabric. “But I see I wasn’t needed. You’ve done a fine job.”

  Miss Pankhurst drew herself up. “That is for Miss Worthington or his lordship to say.”

  “Oh, Miss Worthington asked me to look,” Lydia said. She turned to find Miss Pankhurst’s color high and lips pressed together.

  Miss Janssen lay a hand on her colleague’s shoulder. “Miss Worthington must trust you if she saw no reason to inspect the work herself,” she reminded the other woman.

  Miss Pankhurst pulled away from her. “We’ll just see about that.” She moved off toward Charlotte.

  Lydia sighed. “I didn’t mean to offend her.”

  “She can be difficult,” Miss Janssen allowed. “She is what is called a poor relation—a lady with no inheritance of her own, no husband to support her. She was sent from one part of the family to another and wanted by none of them, I hear. I think she likes the freedom to come and go as she pleases.”

  “I can understand that,” Lydia murmured.

  Miss Janssen nudged her with her shoulder, nearly oversetting Lydia. “His lordship didn’t like that you were gone. He missed you.” Her smiled broadened her already broad face.

  Lydia glanced to where he was tightening the ropes that held the basket secure. “I thought I had found someone to advise us on heat conductance. The gentleman in question only wanted to flirt.”

  Miss Janssen nudged her again. “Ha! That must happen a lot.”

  “Not if I can help it,” Lydia assured her. “Excuse me. I should report to Miss Worthington.”

  Miss Janssen nodded and went back to smoothing the fabric, and Lydia hurried around to the other side of the envelope.

  She expected to find Miss Pankhurst with Charlotte. Surely the other woman wouldn’t lose such an opportunity to complain about Lydia. But Charlotte was alone, gaze on the fire building in the coals.

  “Everything ready?” she asked.

  “The envelope appears ready,” Lydia told her. “Have you seen Miss Pankhurst?”

  “I believe she went into the house a few minutes ago,” Charlotte said. “Did she need more supplies or some such?”

  “Not that I know of,” Lydia said. “I think she took umbrage that I was to inspect her work.”

  “She’s certainly inspected yours often enough,” Charlotte countered. “We are none of us above having our work reviewed. That’s the nature of a scientific endeavor.”

  “Perhaps someone should explain that to Worth,” Lydia said.

  Charlotte sighed. “I know it must seem odd to you, Lydia, but Worth has his reasons for keeping things so close. I’ll explain when I’m able. For now, I must ask for your help again.”

  Lydia perked up. “Whatever you need.”

  Charlotte stepped to one side and pointed to the long lever of the automaton sticking up on the other side of the coal bin. “Worth and I were unable to completely automate the filling process. The shuttle fills appropriately, but the timing is off. For now, Beast will fill the brazier. Someone must climb into the basket and work the bellows on my command.”

  Lydia stood taller. “I’ll do it.”

  Charlotte grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that. Put on your work coat so you won’t char your dress, and let’s start.”

  Her skin tingled as she drew on the canvas coat. She would get to try her own invention. Beau would be aghast. How lovely that Worth and Charlotte only encouraged her.

  But entering the basket was easier said than done. The wicker reached above her waist. She couldn’t exactly sling a leg over, especially with her narrow muslin skirts. And Worth had affixed his four propellers to the sides, making it even more difficult to find an easy way into the container. She was considering her options when Worth returned to her.

  “Allow me,” he said. Bending, he slipped one arm under her knees and the other around her back.

  And all at once she was up in his arms, his face inches from her own, his chest against hers. As the coals began to glow, the light was reflected in his eyes. She thought her heart was reflected as well.

  “If you would put her in the basket,” Charlotte suggested, tone amused.

  He blinked, as if he’d needed the reminder of their purpose as much as Lydia had. Gently, carefully, he angled her feet over the rim and allowed her to slide down into the basket around one of the polished cedar propellers.

  Lydia righted herself, trying to catch her breath. He gripped the wicker with both hands as if he intended to vault in after her. But he merely asked. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” Lydia assured him. Too easy to bask in his regard. She had to remember they had work to do. Turning, she took up her place beside the bellows.

  Up close, the brazier’s warmth penetrated her coat. The wooden handles, covered and yoked in leather, stuck out at one side of the bellows. She gripped them and waited for Charlotte’s order.

  “We are ready to begin filling,” Charlotte announced.

  Worth rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. Miss Janssen, Miss Pankhurst, if I could have your help.”

  “Miss Pankhurst is indisposed,” Miss Janssen said, but she stepped forward, rolling up the sleeves on her beefy arms.

  With her help, Worth positioned
the neck of the envelope above the fire, the throat wide like the mouth of a hungry child. The envelope twitched, writhed, took a deep breath of the hot air.

  “Miss Janssen, will you note times?” Worth asked as they stepped back.

  The heavy-set woman went for the journal and pencil.

  “More coal,” Charlotte ordered, and Bateman shoveled up an armload. Gritty coal tumbled down into the fire, black dust drifting upward with the heat. Red began licking around the new fuel.

  “Added approximately a bushel of coal to start the process,” he told the weaver, and Miss Janssen wrote on the thick parchment pages.

  “Bellows,” Charlotte commanded. “Five pumps, if you please. Note that, Miss Janssen.”

  Lydia pressed on the handles, bringing the sides together. Air whooshed out. With each pump, the coals glowed redder, and sparks floated upward to wink out as the air entered the envelope.

  The pattern continued, like a country dance—coal, bellows, wait. Coal, bellows, wait. How long they worked, Lydia wasn’t sure. The afternoon turned to evening. Cook sent out cheese, fruit, and crusty bread with butter at some point. Lydia took little when Charlotte offered it—too much coal dust around her. Miss Janssen gave a loud yawn but quickly smothered it with one hand before making another notation in the journal.

  The envelope widened, hovered off the ground, the bushes. Rose until it became a mushroom over the basket. Lydia had to duck to keep from hitting it with her head. Miss Pankhurst must have returned, for Lydia could barely make out her and Worth moving around the sides, checking ropes, watching the expansion.

  “Bellows!”

  Lydia pumped.

  She pumped until her arms ached and her eyes burned from the coal dust. She pumped until the great scarlet envelope towered overhead. She pumped until the floor of the basket tilted and she lost her balance as the balloon lifted off the ground.

  She blinked, gazing up at the mountain of red above her. They’d done it.

  Worth must have agreed, for she heard his voice. “She’s up. Note the time, Miss Janssen.”

  “Half past seven, my lord.”