by Lauren Royal
“Who goes there?” he asked when Ford reined in beside him.
“Viscount Lakefield, my lord. Ford Chase.” Ford slid off Galileo, taking Jewel with him. “And this is my niece, Lady Jewel Chase.” The moment he set her on her feet, she raced to a nearby fountain and thrust her hands into the spurting water.
The earl narrowed his green eyes. “Eh?”
“A long time since we’ve met, my lord.” Smiling, Ford held out a hand.
Though the man shook it warmly, he still looked perplexed. “What? What did you say?”
Too late Ford remembered Violet had mentioned her father was hard of hearing. “Ford Chase!” he fairly yelled. “I’m glad to see you!”
Jewel splashed herself in the face as her eyes popped open wide. Then she giggled, and her lips parted in a grin. “Jewel Chase!” she shouted, clearly thinking it was a game.
The earl bowed. “I’m glad of your acquaintance, young lady!” he hollered back.
“Joseph!” Lady Trentingham rounded the corner of the mansion. “How many times must I remind you the rest of us can hear just fine?” Laughing softly, she came close and kissed him on the cheek. “You forgot your hat,” she added, plopping a wide-brimmed specimen on his head.
“My thanks, love.” Apparently grateful for the shade, the earl clipped a blood-red bloom and presented it to his wife with a flourish.
“Just what I needed,” she murmured. But the smile she sent her husband was genuine.
“I’m wearing your perfume,” Jewel piped up.
The countess turned to her. “Well, then, come closer, and let me see if it’s the right scent for such a lovely girl.”
Jewel ran right over, wiping her wet palms on her dress. “Do I smell good?”
Lady Trentingham leaned down and sniffed. “You smell glorious.”
A radiant smile transformed Jewel’s face. “Will Rowan like it, do you think?”
“She’s rather fond of your son,” Ford said.
“So my daughter told me.” Lady Trentingham’s eyes danced as she looked up at him. “She also told me the feeling was less than mutual.”
“I’m afraid she was right,” he lamented. “And I was so hoping the children would get along.”
“I’d wager you were.” She looked contemplative. “Men, you know, they sometimes take a while to come around.” Her husband had resumed puttering about, but her gaze on him was unmistakably affectionate. “My Rowan takes after his father, I’m afraid, but I’m sure, given time, he’ll come to appreciate this delightful young lady.”
Ford watched as Jewel went back to the fountain, sighing when she splashed her dress. Another change of clothing in his future. He could already hear Hilda complaining about the additional laundry and ironing. And him having nothing to do but listen, because he couldn’t get a stitch of work done with a child running loose.
“Lady Trentingham…” Desperation setting in, he favored her with one of his most charming smiles. “Do you suppose your son might give Jewel another chance?”
EIGHT
PERCHING A KNEE on one of the window seats in the gold-and-cream-toned drawing room, Violet peered out the window at the blur she knew was the viscount and her parents.
“What do you think they’re saying?” she asked her sisters.
Rose pressed closer to the panes, fussing with a floral arrangement she’d set in the window niche. “They seem to be discussing that little girl who’s playing in the fountain.”
“Lady Jewel,” Violet said. “The one I told you about who fancies herself in love with Rowan.”
Lily’s fingers idled over the harpsichord keys, producing a soft, slow melody. “How sweet.”
“How absurd,” Rose countered. “She’s too young to be in love. Unlike me.” She patted her deep chestnut curls. “I say, that gentleman out there looks rather fine. Although a bit lanky, don’t you think?”
“He’s too intellectual for you anyhow,” Violet snapped, then wondered why she should suddenly be so short-tempered. ”Does Mum look like she’s pleased to see them?”
Lily didn’t miss a note as she looked up and out the window. “Very.”
Rose leaned her hands on the sill. “Now Lord Lakefield has lifted the girl, and Mum is running a finger down her cheek.” She turned to Violet. “I think she must like her…do you suppose Mum’s already matchmaking for Rowan?”
Rose sounded genuinely worried that their six-year-old brother might beat her to the altar. Which only made Violet want to shake some sense into the foolish girl.
Patience. Rose was a master-level course in patience.
“Well,” Violet said after a deep breath, “she’s not going to get me to take Rowan to Lakefield again. He was miserable.” The blurred figures were getting bigger. “Faith. They’re coming inside. All of them. Even Father.”
The music stopped as Lily stood, looking puzzled. “Why shouldn’t they come inside?”
“I…no reason.” The sudden quiet was unsettling. Violet drew a deep breath and found herself smoothing her russet skirts, which wasn’t like her. She pulled her plait forward to drape over one shoulder and twirled the end fitfully, then dropped her hand as Lady Jewel bounded into the room ahead of the adults.
The girl skidded to a stop on the carpeted floor, backing Violet against the window seat in her enthusiasm. “Lady Violet!” Throwing her arms wide, she hugged her around the knees. “Where’s Rowan?”
“Having his lessons.” Looking down into that little heart-shaped face, Violet couldn’t help but be charmed. “Would you care to meet my sisters? This is Lady Rose and Lady Lily.”
“I’m pleased to make your ac-quain-tance,” Jewel said quite properly. Violet’s sisters exchanged an amused glance as the girl bobbed a curtsy. “This room is very fancy,” she said.
It was, Violet supposed, though having lived here most of her life, she didn’t think about it much. They stood on a lovely gold-and-cream-toned Oriental carpet. The room’s dark oak paneling was studded with gold rosettes, the ceiling’s cornice heavily carved and gilded, the furniture upholstered in gold-and-cream silk damask. From where she stood, the details looked fuzzy, but she’d seen it all up close.
“Why, thank you,” Mum said from the doorway.
Jewel rocked up on her toes. “When will Rowan be finished with his schooling?”
“Later today, I’m afraid. He has another lesson after dinner.”
“Arithmetic,” Rose said. “He hates it.”
“A fifth picnic, you say?” Her father looked to Mum with a frown. “And right after dinner? I know a growing boy needs plenty to eat, Chrysanthemum, but surely—”
“Arithmetic,” Mum repeated loudly, laying a hand on Father’s arm. “We were talking about Rowan’s schooling, and how he hates mathematics.” Barely suppressing a smile, she turned back to their guests. “Poor Rowan. I’ve promised him a sweet after the lesson.”
Jewel tugged on her uncle’s sleeve. “Can Rowan come to our house for a sweet? Oh, puleeeeeze?”
Lord Lakefield grinned down at his niece, a grin Violet suddenly wished were aimed at her instead. It was broad and white and utterly sincere, extending all the way to his brilliant blue eyes. “Excellent idea, baby,” he said.
When Mum smiled, Violet could see it coming.
Oh, no.
Trying to look casual, Violet wandered over to a wall and leaned against the dark paneling, then shot straight when one of the gold rosette studs jabbed her in the behind. “I don’t believe Rowan will be interested,” she blurted out, not nearly as composed as she’d planned.
Mum’s smile only widened. “I’m sure Rowan would love to visit for a sweet,” she said to Lord Lakefield, as though Violet hadn’t spoken. “Will three o’clock suit you? Madame is due here this afternoon for another fitting for Lily and Rose, but Violet will be happy to bring him.”
Jewel jumped up and down.
“What?” Father asked loudly. “What was that about gingham?”
When Vi
olet made a pained noise, no one took heed.
NINE
IN THE THREE hours since Ford and Jewel had arrived back at Lakefield, his niece had suddenly become very thick with Harry, Ford’s elderly houseman. Although Ford knew better than to hope that the old man and girl would become fast friends, he’d jumped at the chance for a brief respite. Now, settled in his attic laboratory, he paused to listen to little giggles floating through the open window.
“Yes,” he heard Harry say, “this is perfect. It’s the exact color of the upholstery.”
Were they redecorating? Ford wondered vaguely.
“Oh, good!” The sound of clapping hands accompanied Jewel’s childish voice. “We must hurry, then, so there will be time for it to start drying. And we need something fun to put at his place, so he won’t be looking.”
“Brilliant, Lady Jewel. I’ve just the thing…”
Their voices faded around a corner of the manor. Ford shook his head. Whatever they were doing to his house, they couldn’t possibly make it look worse. Deciding to ignore them, he refocused on the tiny, intricate gears laid out on his worktable. Finally, he had some peace and quiet.
Watches were so inefficient—the single hand only approximated the hour. Within the last few years, another hand had been added to clocks, one that ticked off the minutes and made time-keeping much more precise. But since watches weren’t pendulum-driven, the mechanism that drove a clock’s minute hand wouldn’t work inside them.
Yet it should be possible to add a minute hand to a watch. A more accurate personal timepiece would be practical, functional—a true benefit to mankind. And after months of trial and error, of scrapped designs and precise calculations and late nights, he was so close to making it work. So close to accomplishing something useful…
“Your guests have arrived, my lord.” Bustling in, Hilda started flicking a dust rag at his various instruments. “Don’t you think you should be downstairs?”
ROWAN CLINGING to her skirts, Violet followed Jewel toward Lord Lakefield’s dining room, wondering how it was that Mum had talked her into dragging the poor boy here again.
And her maid Margaret hadn’t even come along this time! Mum had given the woman half a day off. Margaret was being courted, and Mum—who had introduced her to the “nice footman” from a neighboring estate—thought this a perfect chance for the maid to spend some time with her beau.
How very like Mum to risk her own daughter’s reputation for the sake of someone else’s romance. Question Convention, indeed. Sometimes, Violet thought, the Ashcrofts took their motto a bit too seriously.
Most of Lakefield had seen better days, but the dining room struck Violet as particularly dreary. The paneling was so dark it appeared nearly black, and although the built-in cupboards boasted glass in the doors, very few dishes were displayed inside. The room’s color scheme was an uninspiring mélange of browns. Everything was clean, though—the viscount had a decent housekeeper in Hilda.
“Here, Rowan,” Jewel said brightly as they entered. “Sit here.” She pulled out one of the faded tan chairs. “Right here. I put a toy here for you.”
“At the table?” Violet asked.
“Uncle Ford lets me play at the table. As long as I leave him to his thoughts.”
Violet would lay odds Jewel’s parents didn’t feel the same way. But she smiled as she watched her brother race to the chair and claim the toy, a cup and ball.
“Rowan…” she prompted.
“My thanks,” he murmured absently, making the ball fly up and catching it in the cup with a satisfying—to him, anyway—bang. He grinned and did it again. Well, his mood was improved, at least. Perhaps this visit wouldn’t go as badly as the first one.
“Oooh, you’re very good at that,” Jewel all but purred, sidling up to Rowan.
He smiled, making Violet think perhaps she could learn a thing or two from Jewel about flirting.
Jewel touched him on the arm. When he looked up at her, she fluttered her lashes. “Rowan, will you show me how to do that? I’m just a butterfingers. I miss the cup every time.”
Faith. Rose could learn a thing or two from her about flirting.
But then Jewel reached for the toy, and Rowan jerked away, his frown back in place. “Mine.”
“Rowan,” Violet scolded, silently cursing her mother for sending her here again. “Behave yourself.”
Jewel looked crestfallen. Knowing what it was like to feel awkward with boys, Violet felt for the girl. The sash on her powder blue dress was tied very crookedly in back—the viscount’s work, no doubt. Perhaps some female companionship would ease the sting of male rejection.
“Here, let me fix your bow,” Violet offered brightly, stepping up to retie it.
“Good afternoon,” came a low voice from beside her.
She turned, blinking when she saw Lord Lakefield. Silver braid gleamed on his deep gray velvet suit, rather fancy for an afternoon at home. But she had to admit he looked splendid.
Feeling underdressed in her plain russet gown, she resisted the urge to rearrange her skirts. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
“Please, just call me Ford,” he said with a smile.
That was so improper, she wasn’t sure what to say in return. Should she ask him to call her Violet? Would doing so invite too much familiarity? The oldest of four, she knew how to deal with children, but men remained a mystery. Especially eligible, handsome men the likes of whom usually failed to notice her existence.
She played with the end of her thick plait. Honestly, why was a tall, charming viscount with hypnotic blue eyes and hair that curled just right even talking to a girl like Violet, let alone asking her to call him Ford?
Had the world gone mad?
His smile wilted at the edges. Could he read her terror on her face? “Violet?”
Faith, he was calling her Violet already. Perhaps she should just try his name in her head. Ford. It seemed to fit. But when she opened her mouth, it felt entirely too scandalous to say aloud. She seemed to have lost her tongue.
This was ridiculous.
Evidently her silence had stretched long enough. “I’m just going to call you Violet,” he said blithely. “We’re neighbors, after all. Rowan, my man, what have you there?”
“A cup and ball.” Bang, bang. “Lady Jewel gave it to me.”
“Did she? I wonder where she got that old thing?”
Violet tore her gaze from the viscount—Ford—and glanced at the toy. “It does look rather used,” she said, finally finding her voice. “Ancient, actually.”
“Harry gave it to me,” Jewel said.
Ford nodded. “My equally ancient houseman.”
His housekeeper walked in and set a pitcher of ale on the table. “Is that what my husband was doing with you? I was wondering what you two were up to this morning. That toy once belonged to our son—did Harry tell you that?”
Jewel nodded, then her voice took on that flirtatious quality. “Isn’t Rowan good at it?”
“Very,” Ford said, sharing a smile with Violet that caught her by surprise. Clearly he was on to his niece’s ploys. He waved Violet toward a chair. “Won’t you sit down?”
“I’ll be back,” Hilda said, “after I get my tart out of the oven.”
Seating himself beside Violet, Ford reached for the ale and her cup. At Trentingham Manor, servants did the serving. For a nobleman, he didn’t seem to have very many. “How was your afternoon?” he asked.
“Fine,” she said, watching him pour. He had nice hands, long fingers and square nails. She wracked her brain for a topic of conversation. “I’m reading a book by Francis Bacon.”
He filled the children’s cups, adding water to both. “Philosophy?” he asked, his tone cool but courteous.
“Yes.” He remembered!
“And what does Francis Bacon have to say?”
She sipped while she thought of a reply, wondering why she cared so much what he thought of her. “He believes in liberty of speech.”
“That’s admirable.” He drained his cup.
“He thinks knowledge and human power are synonymous.”
He smiled vaguely as he refilled it.
“Do you agree?” she asked, feeling more awkward by the moment.
“Oh, yes. Yes, I do.”
She sighed with relief when Hilda waddled in with four plates and started setting one in front of each of them. A welcome distraction. Steam from the plain apple tart wafted to Violet’s nose, smelling sugary and delicious. She lifted her spoon.
“I don’t like apples,” Rowan said. “Do you have cherry tart?”
“Do you have manners?” Hilda retorted with a glare. Muttering to herself, she left the room.
Violet wanted to slip beneath the table. “Francis Bacon says,” she rushed out, “that if a man will begin with certainties, he will end in doubts, but if he will be content to begin with doubts, he will end in certainties.”
Ford finally looked interested. “That sounds very much like the new science. One puts forth an assumption and then endeavors to prove it.”
“So then,” she said, warming to the subject, “perhaps philosophy and science are compatible.”
“Perhaps they are.”
He looked surprised or dubious; she wasn’t sure which. She wished she could see him clearer.
“You know,” he said, “some philosophers belong to the Royal Society.”
Bang, bang.
“Rowan,” she said quietly. “We’re trying to talk.”
For once in her life, she was enjoying a conversation with a man.
Bang.
“Rowan!” Her voice was sharper than she’d intended, and her brother looked up midtoss, the toy flying out of his hand. It hit the wall with a thwack, and she grimaced.
“Sorry,” Rowan muttered.
“What was that?” Hilda asked, hurrying in to investigate the noise.
