“Miss Troyes?”
His only answers were the distant sound of a carriage and the cries of merriment from the revelers downstairs. If she were here, if she were hiding, then he could look for her or wait for her to reveal herself. She must have considered the possibility that he would be here tonight. Weatherby laughed under his breath, suddenly convinced that this was a test. Or he was drunk.
Whichever it was, rather than searching for her, Weatherby crossed the room to the chaise lounge and sat down. He rested his hands upon his knees and proceeded to wait.
CHAPTER TEN
The Painting Lady
She was a fool, and more than a fool. But there he was, sitting, and waiting for her. Helena watched the Duke of Blackledge from the shadows behind one of the bed curtains. Mama Agnes would be furious if she knew the risk that Helena was taking.
And yet… he had come himself and not raised an alarm. He was sweet and naive and, at the end of the day, he had something that she very much needed. If she had any hope of getting into the vault at the Worthen estate, she needed the extra reach of the mechanical arm. They had tried other means and nothing else would do.
Helena clenched her jaw and stepped out of the shadows. “We mustn’t make a habit of meeting like this, Lord Blackledge.”
At her voice, he jumped to his feet and he— he smiled. The expression cleared quickly to be replaced by a studied calm. “I was hoping that you would come.”
“Truly?” She walked to the foot of the bed and leaned against the pillar that served as bedpost. “You were hoping that I would rob your friend?”
“Ah…no.” He raised a hand and rubbed the back of his neck. “Foolishly, I thought you might come play cards.”
“I considered it.”
“But?”
Truly the concern was more that Mr. Corke had found her familiar at the ball. If he been given more time in her company it seemed too likely that he would have eventually recalled seeing her perform at Astley’s Circus. Instead of saying that, she affected a girlish giggle and rolled her eyes. “I had nothing to wear.”
Lord Blackledge gave a little snort. “Well… I am glad that I thought to look for you here.”
“I am as well.” Her voice came out softer than she had intended. She lifted her chin and focused on the matter at hand. “I should like to commission you for a project.”
His mouth dropped open. “I— That is to say… This is unexpected. Or no… no, it is not, is it? That is why you were interested in my mechanical arm, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does, I am afraid.” He knit his brow and bent his head to study the floor.
She rubbed her hands together, feeling the calluses catch on each other. Helena gestured to the chaise lounge. “Will you sit?”
“If you will join me.” Even in the dim light, she could see his cheeks darken with a blush as if this were a daring proposition.
Helena crossed the room and sat on the lounge next to him. Now that she was here, at this point, the information between them sat like a box that she needed to push through. She rested her hands on the knees of her buckskin trousers and took a breath. She swallowed and took another. “Lord Blackledge—”
“My name is Weatherby.”
She tilted her head, wishing she could see him a little more clearly.
He cleared his throat. “I have been intimate enough with you that my title seems rather foolish. And… And I suspect that you are about to tell me something that is difficult for you.”
Helena’s eyes stung at his unexpected kindness. She bent her head, swallowing the grief. She had to convince him to help her. “If I told you that I needed it to prove my birthright?”
“I should still need particulars.” He reached out his hand and stopped just short of touching her. “Miss Troyes—”
“Helena.” Her name sprang from her mouth without any volition from her.
He tilted his head. “Helena. Helena…Troyes? May I take it that your parents are classical scholars?”
“No. It is a stage name. I mean…” She rubbed her forehead. Though she could almost see Mama Agnes standing in the shadows, with her hands on her hips, but Helena plowed ahead. She had already given up too much as he could find her more easily with her stage name than with her real one anyway. “My name is Helena Worthen, daughter of James, Baron Worthen.”
“Lord Worthen? Who built the Painting Lady?”
It had been so long since her father had been anything other than an invalid that it took her a moment to realize that he was speaking of one of her father’s automatons. The recognition broke from her in a laugh. “I’m sorry. It’s been… I should have known that you would recognize his name.”
Weatherby sat back against the lounge. “And… I suppose that might explain why you know about clockwork.”
Might. She sighed and picked at one of the rough spots on her hands. “If I could easily prove to you who I was, then I would not need your assistance.”
“Fair point.”
“So. What would you charge to rent or sell your mechanical arm?”
“May I assume that you would pay me with stolen funds?”
Helena’s cheeks burned. The answer was yes. Of course it was yes. “You have not seemed to object to my activities thus far.”
“Oh… but I have.” Weatherby opened his palms and turned them up. “For reasons that I cannot explain to myself, I have not reported you. But I have stopped you. Thrice now.”
This was not the direction she wanted his thoughts to turn. She had to make him understand why she had made the choices she had. “When I was eight, we were on holiday in Wales. There was a fire at the coaching inn where we had stopped for the night. My mother died. My father— he was badly burnt. News was sent back to England that we had all died. My uncle inherited and then passed away a short time after and the title passed to his son. My aunt… I have— I have been trying for the last ten years to prove that my father is still alive.”
“May I take it that his appearance is sufficiently altered that it is easy for her to deny him?”
Helena nodded.
“But were there no servants—”
“Everyone had gone ahead to prepare the house. We had only our coachman, and my mother’s maid. Neither of them survived. It is a miracle that my father did.”
“And you? How did you…?”
“My father— I remember him waking me and it was smoky. There were flames in the hall. He told me to go to a stone gatehouse that we had passed, and that he would find Mama and meet me there. Then he threw me out the window. So I ran and waited there while the inn burned.” She took a breath, feeling anew the burning scratch of the smoke. “And I waited. Because Papa had said he would come. I had gotten lost wandering off earlier in the trip, and so I was determined to prove myself by waiting exactly where he said.”
“Good lord.” A moment later, Weatherby held out a pocket handkerchief.
Helena took it and swiped at her face, surprised to find it damp. “The proof that that we are who we say we are is in my aunt’s vault.”
“And you need my mechanical arm to get in.”
“Are you always so clever?”
“Only in certain very limited areas. Speaking of clever, my compliments on the handling of my buttons. I mean— the removal. That is…” He cleared his throat. “Shall I demonstrate the other areas in which I am appallingly stupid?”
Helena laughed and leaned against him. He was rather adorable when flustered. “You only want a little tutoring.”
“Is that an off— Ah. Allow me to not make that joke.” He wiped his hands on his trousers and looked out the window, revealing his strong silhouette. “Why didn’t you try again? I mean at my laboratory, to take the arm?”
“You are rather notorious for being always at home, and always in the laboratory.”
“But… If you thought I would be here tonight, it wo
uld be empty.”
“I also thought it would be locked.”
“That would have been intelligent.” Weatherby turned back to her and shrugged. “But, since your visit, it has been open every night.”
The street lights behind him lit the red of his hair, leaving little visible of his face. Helena swallowed, suddenly aware that those same lights left her exposed. “Why?”
“I was… I was hoping you would come back to talk about escapements and… and watch— watchcocks.”
“Oh really?” She smiled slowly at him and let one hand rest on his thigh. “Well… Shall we discuss how an escapement sustains the pulse of the regulating…organ.”
“It is… It drives a regular to-and-fro motion.” He raised a hand and set it so lightly on her thigh that only the warmth told her that he was touching her.
Helena took his hand in her free one and lifted it to her mouth. “And coupled with a pendulum…” She brushed her lips over the back of his fingers. “That can drive many an action.”
Weatherby made an inarticulate sound and his thigh trembled under her other hand. Smiling, she drew her tongue around the pad of his thumb and tasted acrid mineral oil mixed with brandy. His hand flexed, brushing her cheek. Helena lifted her head and leaned toward him.
She whispered in his ear, “How is your regulator?”
He turned toward her and Helena kissed him. The notes of brandy repeated here, giving his mouth a sweet warmth. She brought her hand up his thigh and found the gap at the edge of his fall front breeches. Weatherby responded, matching her movements as easily if they were rehearsing a new routine. One of his hands tangled in her hair. The other gripped her waist with a strength beyond most noblemen.
Without losing contact, Helena drew one leg up onto the chaise lounge so she could straddle him. She put both hands on his strong chest and pushed so he leaned against the back of the lounge. His hands drew shivering lines up her side but avoided her more intimate areas.
Helena caught his right hand and brought it to her bosom. She pulled back just far enough to watch his face and she pressed his hand against the swell of flesh above her stays. His eyes widened, darting from her face to the surface his hand rested upon. With brows drawn together, Weatherby traced the arc of her bosom. The callouses on his fingertips sent a shivering warmth into Helena’s centre.
She ducked her head to kiss the tender skin at the base of his jaw. His hand tightened upon her bosom and she caught her breath. Rising onto her knees, she reached for the buttons of his breeches.
“Wait— wait.” Weatherby drew his hands back.
“I won’t steal your buttons this time.” She nipped his jaw.
“No, it’s not—” He sat up a little. “It’s… I’m intoxicated.”
“That was rather my goal.”
He caught her by the shoulders and pushed her back. “I mean, my judgment is not sound and I do not want to take advantage of you.”
Helena stared at him, tilting her head to one side. “Weatherby… I am sitting on you and undoing your breeches.”
“Y-yes.”
“So, I think I am more in danger of taking advantage of you.”
“You may have a point. It is only…” He ran his hands over her shoulders. “I have not been with a woman.”
His hesitancy had made that abundantly clear, but saying such would only embarrass him further. While it was charming to watch him blush, Helena had no wish to make him feel inadequate. She leaned forward, resting her hands on his thighs, and kissed him on the cheek. “So we have established that you are not taking advantage of me…” Helena brushed her lips with his. “Do you mind if I take advantage of you?”
“Yes.” His breath was warm against her cheeks. “I mean, no. I mean… I should very much like—”
Footsteps sounded in the hall outside and they both stiffened. As the steps stopped on the other side of the door, Helena glanced over her shoulder and saw a shadow under it. “Damn.”
She pushed herself off Weatherby into a backward tumble, which gave her momentum to roll out of sight under the bed. The door opened behind her. Helena tucked her legs in and held her breath.
“Weatherby? What the devil are you doing in my room?”
A rustle of cloth and her duke cleared his throat. “I had rather more of your brandy than I should have.”
“By Jove. You’re drunk.” Laughter from what must be Mr. Corke. “Come, use one of the guest rooms and stay the night.”
“Thank you. But if you will call a carriage for me, I should go home.” Footsteps retreated toward the door and it sounded as though both men were leaving. As the door shut, Weatherby said, “I believe I left a window open in my laboratory.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mechanical Arm
Weatherby paced in his laboratory from the workbench, to the library table, to a chair and then back to the table. He had troubled Bartlett for an evening tray of cheeses and fruit. A decanter of port gleamed in the light next to a pair of glasses. He titled his head back to look at the skylight, which he had opened all the way. How long would it take her to reach his home?
She might not come. But she had come to George's. Surely that meant something.
It meant that she needed his mechanical arm. He turned from the skylight and walked back to the workbench. His father had always told him that there were but two circumstances in which a nobleman would have intercourse before marriage and neither of them were good. In one instance, it was a matter of forcing one's will upon someone who could not refuse. Dishonorable, though by no means uncommon.
In the other instance, it was because the young woman wanted something, be that money or power. Or a mechanical arm.
But given her story, he could not begrudge her need for it. If her story were true. If she were not merely playing upon his affections. There was a simple way to find out, at least some portion of truth.
A soft knock sounded on the glass overhead.
Weatherby spun and his heart seemed to go on spinning. Helena crouched at the opening to the skylight in her black shirt, with her golden hair pulled back in a knot.
She smiled down at him. "Mind if I drop in?"
"Please-- Please, be my guest."
She put her hands on the edge of the sill and leaned forward. Like the most marvelous machine, she flipped in the air and landed neatly upon the table, taking up the excess momentum with her bent knees, and then transferred it into another jump, again spinning in the air as she dropped to stand upon the ground. The elegance of the movement tightened his throat.
"Thank you for the invitation."
He started toward the table. "Would you care for some port?"
"My dear Lord Blackledge... Are you trying to take advantage of me?" She leaned against the table and her smile turned coy.
"More accurately, I am trying to take advantage of myself." He picked up the decanter and it slipped in his sweating palms. Weatherby tightened his grip and poured two glasses. "The brandy is wearing off."
"Ah." She accepted the glass, her fingers just brushing his. "Thank you. Though I am not certain if I should be flattered that you wish to be taken advantage of, or dismayed that it takes being deep in your cups."
Weatherby looked into the dark liquid. "May I meet your father?"
At the edge of his vision, Helena put her glass down on the table. "I beg your pardon?"
"I studied his work with automatons." He twirled the glass for something to do with his hands. In truth, he wanted to know if the man existed. "I should like to meet him."
She sighed. “Are you not concerned that I will simply produce a badly burned man and say that he is Lord Worthen.”
“If he cannot discuss horology, then he is not.” Weatherby took a sip of the port. “Sorry.”
“Well… thank you for at least being honest.” Helena picked up her glass and saluted him with it. “And intelligent.”
“You are not troubled that I want to be certain?”
“Considerin
g that I have attempted to rob you and several of your friends? No. I would be a fool to be insulted.” She gave a shrug. “Besides, I have become rather used to being thought a liar.”
Weatherby winced. “I did not mean—”
She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “My bitterness is not at you.”
Her touch and the simplicity of the statement — the fact that she did not argue with him, nor try to sway him to believe her, altered Weatherby’s sentiment. The brandy had worn off. And he believed her. He set the glass down on the table and turned to face her fully. “Tell me what you need the arm to do.”
She did not fling herself at him, or press a kiss upon him, but the smile she gave him was payment enough. Though he would not have minded a kiss, the glimmer of tears in her eyes nearly broke his heart. “Thank you.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “The key to my aunt’s vault is in the butler’s care. He keeps all the keys on his person, except when he sleeps. Then they are in a cabinet on his mantle.”
“You sound very certain.”
“I took a job as a kitchen maid, trying to get to them. I was dismissed when they caught me in the hall trying to pick the lock. Or rather, they thought I was sneaking into the kitchen for food.” Helena rubbed her forehead and grimaced. “I can almost fit through the flue in his fireplace. If I had your mechanical arm, it would extend my reach and I could take the key.”
The arm extended, yes, but it was designed to pick things off the floor. Frowning, Weatherby walked to his drawing table. “Show me where the cabinet is in relation to the fireplace?”
She followed him to the table and took the pencil he offered. Her nails were blunt and clean, but her fingertips were rough with calluses. Weatherby stood at her side and kept his hands behind his back. As she drew, she bent her head and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She wore Grecian sandals with black ribbons tied up her calves and stood on one foot, the other resting upon its toes just behind her. How was it possible that she could make breeches look elegant?
Weatherby’s throat was hot and dry, but port would not be a good choice if he needed to work. “Should I ring for some tea?”
The Escapement of Blackledge: a novella Page 5
