by Ava Morgan
“Dear me, look at the time. The wedding starts in half an hour. We must go this minute.”
“I guarantee it won’t start without you. Calm yourself.” Catherine laughed. Then she smoothed Abigail’s veil over her shoulders. “Our parents would have been so proud of you. You continued in your humanitarian efforts for others, and you’ve found a good man who loves you.”
“They would have been proud of us both. We’ve each found men who love us.”
Catherine curled her fingers over each other in nervous motion. “I was wrong about Jacob in the past. Hammond and I both judged him wrongly. I hope you can forgive us.”
Abigail stilled her sister’s hands. “I already have. The past is in the past. Why don’t we keep moving forward?”
Catherine nodded, then looked at her vanity clock and jumped suddenly. “My goodness, look at the time. We must get to the church.” She grabbed the train of Abigail’s dress and shuffled her sister out the bedroom door.
#
Jacob looked at his pocketwatch again as he stood at the front of the church.
“Try not to fret so, Doctor,” Maria said, seated beside Struthers in the first pew. “Brides are notorious for not being on time. I was late to my own wedding.” She nudged her husband, who stilled her elbow with a gentle pat of affection.
“It’s past the time the ceremony was supposed to start. I hope Abigail didn’t get cold feet.” Jacob looked to the minister in apology. “Give her a few more minutes.”
“I’m in no hurry,” the kindly minister reassured him. “I’m sure the lady will be here any moment. In the meantime, try thinking good thoughts. You’ll keep calm that way.”
“Yes.” Jacob supposed he was rather a bundle of nerves that summer afternoon. He looked out at the intimate gathering of people there to witness him and Abigail join hands in holy matrimony. In addition to Maria and Struthers, Hammond was there with Abigail’s niece and nephew. The children waved to him, and kept waving to him at the expense of their father’s parental control, until Jacob was past the point of containing his laughter.
The COIC Secretary came to the wedding as well. He sat in the second row behind Maria and Struthers. After clearing Abigail’s name from the spy ring investigation, he granted her and Jacob status as COIC contributors. He also fully approved the gauntlet gun and armored waistcoat. The sizeable payment granted was well beyond the original commission price, enough for Jacob to supplement his practice and improve conditions at the laborer’s hospital. The Secretary completed his benevolent actions by apologizing to Abigail in person for wrongly accusing her.
Jacob smiled at that. The gesture certainly warranted the Secretary a wedding invitation.
He came out of his recollections as Catherine entered the church and took a seat beside Hammond. She nodded to Jacob. Abigail was on her way.
Jacob’s bride did arrive a few minutes later, as the minister had predicted, but she was more than lovely. The guests stood as Abigail walked down the aisle, a vision in white. Her hair was rich auburn against her glowing complexion.
She’s so beautiful, Jacob thought, and she wants to marry me.
She came to stand at his side. He went weak as she offered him a shy smile beneath her veil. He gave Struthers his walking stick to hold in order to take her hands. Her skin was warm and soft. This time, it was she who gave his hands the gentle squeeze of reassurance.
What did he do to deserve her? Jacob never imagined his life could take such a good turn after all he’d been through. But the past was in the past, as Abigail would say. Here was the present, and Abigail, his beautiful, intelligent, and irrepressible love, was there to share his future.
A Sneak Peek at The Industrial Spy
Curiosity Chronicles, Book Three
Coming Spring 2014
Northern France, August 1838
Dominique lined up along with the other female flour mill workers as they prepared for Broussard’s inspection. She adjusted her apron before the French industrialist sidled up to the front of the line to begin what had to be the most tawdry employee evaluation in all of French industry.
“Too scrawny.” Monsieur Emile Broussard gave his first verdict to a meager slip of a woman. Dominique watched in anger as one of Broussard’s cronies took the woman by the arm and dragged her away.
The industrialist proceeded to the second female. Towering over the petite mill worker by at least a foot and a half, he looked down his fleshy nose at her. “Too pale.”
Another crony came forward to take her away. Broussard stepped heavily to the third. Possessing a barrel chest and thick limbs, he had to weigh as much as two stout men. He assessed the third woman and sniffed. “Too ugly.”
She immediately burst into tears, not because he wasn’t fond of her looks, but because she was now out of work.
“I do not employ unattractive female workers,” he announced over her growing sobs. The remaining female workers cowed in fear for what his razor assessment would bring each of them.
Dominique only became disgusted. Ever since she began working undercover at the mill for the French government, she’d seen violation after violation of employee rights and machine safety procedures. As if endangering his workers wasn’t enough, now Broussard wanted to transform the mill into a brothel to increase his profits in the sleepy coastal village outside Le Havre.
It was up to Dominique to dismantle his scheme and bring him into custody. But first, Broussard had to decide if she was pretty.
She placed a hand on her hip and waited for the pompous industrial crime lord to strut his way down the line. He rejected two more workers.
Just as he reached her, Monsieur Delacroix, the mill overseer, burst out of his office. “Monsieur Broussard, you must see this.”
Broussard looked away from Dominique. “What is it?”
Yes, Dominique wondered. What could make the normally unaffected overseer look as though he were ready to jump out the window and into the river?
Monsieur Delacroix stopped short before Broussard. “The bolting machine is fit to burst. Our new engineer says he saw cracks forming.”
“I didn’t give you license to hire an engineer. Where is this man?”
Delacroix jabbed his thumb backwards.
Dominique turned and saw a man emerge from the office. With confidence, he strode forward. Dominique heard the women behind her murmur as he passed them, tall and steady in his gait. He stopped beside her.
He matched Broussard in height, but that was where the two men’s physical similarities abruptly ended. The newcomer was built lean and strong. Muscles shown in his forearms where he had rolled up the sleeves of his cambric workshirt.
Dominique’s gaze rose higher to the engineer’s face. A square jaw sat firmly anchored below a sensual mouth, a small nose, gray eyes, and a wide brow. What was most striking was his hair, a thick shock of copper.
He must have been hired only today, Dominique thought. Or she would have noticed him long before, the way he stood out from among the other male workers.
“You say you’re an engineer?” Broussard demanded, sizing up the man that stared him eye to eye.
“Oui, monsieur.”
Dominique listened to his French carefully. He had the words correct, but something was wrong with his regional accent.
The engineer saw her stare and boldly returned her gaze. Strength and resolve were in his eyes, as well as a hint of youthful rebellion. He was a grown man, but couldn’t have been past his mid-twenties.
She felt a heavy hand come down upon her shoulder. “You look like a man who knows his women,” Broussard said to the engineer. “What do you think of her?”
“Not too plain.”
Well, then. Dominique found herself reacting. Why did she suddenly care about a perfect stranger’s opinion of her appearance?
The engineer turned his attention away as swiftly as it had been directed towards her. “Monsieur Broussard, the bolting machine.”
Broussard’
s hand slid off Dominique’s shoulder. “I’ll get to it. Un moment.”
But Dominique heard a shrill whistle from the back of the mill. Seconds later, she saw flames burst from the bolting machine.
The mill workers fled for the door in a collection of shrieks. Broussard exited with surprising speed for his formidable size, flanked by the overseer.
Dominique didn’t know how that fire started, but now was her chance to raid the overseer’s office and get what evidence she could find to incriminate Broussard. She darted forward.
Right into the arms of the engineer.
“You should be running,” she said.
“As should you, in the opposite direction.”
“I must see if other workers remain inside.” She pushed against him, but his grip was strong and sure.
“They’ve all fled, Dominique Fontaine.”
She ceased struggling. “How do you know my name?”
“Every agent has secrets.” He refused to let her go as he pulled her with him to the nearest window. “I’m Colton Smythe. I’m with the COIC. And you, mademoiselle, are wanted by my agency for questioning.”
About the Author
Ava Morgan loves history, retro style, and reading everything she can get her hands on, especially steampunk, fantasy, and old pulp fiction. The Curiosity Chronicles series came from her affinity for the romance of history as well as its quirky anachronisms. When Ava isn’t planted in her writing chair, she can be found sampling mead and turkey legs at a Renaissance Festival alongside her husband or running up a tab at the local coffeehouse.
Contents
Title page
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
A Sneak Peek at The Industrial Spy
About the Author
