by Lauren Royal
“It was an important problem,” Mr. Newton protested good-naturedly. Violet couldn’t help noticing that, compared to the others, he looked rather slovenly. His suit was finely made, but so wrinkled she wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’d slept in it.
Mr. Wren rubbed his chin. “Tell her about that time you rode home from Grantham.”
“That could happen to anyone.”
“I think not.” Mr. Wren turned to Violet. “He dismounted to lead his horse up a steep hill, and at the top, when he went to remount, he found an empty bridle in his hand. His horse had slipped it and wandered away unnoticed.”
Even Violet had to laugh at that.
And so an hour passed while it seemed she met most every Englishman connected with modern-day science. Between examining her spectacles and regaling her with stories, they talked casually of their various projects—while Violet could do naught else but listen in wonderment.
The king’s most favored architect, Mr. Wren had recently written a paper explaining how to apply engineering principles in order to strengthen buildings. He’d also patented a device for writing with two pens at once, and invented a language for the deaf and dumb, using hands and fingers to “talk.”
Besides Mr. Hooke’s improvements on the microscope that had allowed him to research and write Micrographia, he’d developed astronomical instruments that revealed new stars in Orion’s belt. Ford whispered that he’d show them to her one night. Mr. Hooke had also formulated a new law of physics, asserting that the extension of a spring is proportional to the force applied to it. A lively discussion broke out over his proposal to introduce the freezing point of water as zero on the thermometer.
Since Mr. Hooke often assisted Robert Boyle, the two talked about their experiments with the new air pump Hooke had built. Using it to create a vacuum, Mr. Boyle had proven that the pressure of a gas is inversely proportionate to its volume.
“That is now called Boyle’s Law,” Ford told her.
Violet drank it all in, silently thrilled to be in such company. Although some of these great men were aristocrats, many were not. Here, dukes learned alongside commoners. The Royal Society was open to men of every rank and religion, so long as the proposed member held an interest in promoting discovery and science.
As each new arrival exclaimed over the genius of Violet’s new spectacles, Ford basked in celebrity. And she didn’t feel uncomfortable wearing them at all. Being the center of attention wasn’t nearly as bad as she’d feared.
But as more eminent scientists gathered to praise Ford, she began to wonder if showing off his brilliant invention had been his real motivation for bringing her here. Disappointment took her by surprise, making the canary wine seem to sour in the pit of her belly.
True, he had never breathed a word about courting her. And she should have known better than to take his invitation as anything more than a friendly kindness.
But she suddenly realized that, somewhere deep inside, she’d begun to hope.
More fool her.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course Ford didn’t mean to court her. That wasn’t how the world worked—not for girls like Violet. She’d reasoned that out for herself at a young age, and seen nothing but corroborating evidence ever since. His kisses didn’t mean anything; she was simply the most convenient girl to hand.
It was slim pickings out in the country, after all.
Had displaying the spectacles been his true motivation for inviting her, or had it been something else? Sadly, if there was a meaning behind his kisses, it could only be one thing: that he wanted her inheritance.
She couldn’t decide which option was worse.
Her insides knotted with humiliation and anger—at both Ford and herself. She couldn’t seem to swallow past the lump in her throat, nor breathe through the ache in her chest. It didn’t matter that she should have known the truth all along. No amount of telling herself so lessened the hurt.
“Is Locke here yet?” Ford asked the ever-growing assembly.
“Inside,” Mr. Boyle said, waving to a chamber off the quadrangle. “Holding court.”
“Excuse us, gentlemen.” Taking Violet’s hand, he drew her away.
Her other hand came up to rub her churning stomach. ”I was enjoying that conversation,” she protested, pleased that the words betrayed no emotion.
“And they were enjoying you.” He smiled down at her, appearing as warm and sincere as ever. “We’ll talk to them again later.”
Her head spun with confusion.
The chamber Mr. Boyle had indicated turned out to be the refreshment room. Along one wall, long tables were laden with bottles of canary, Rhenish wine, and claret. Guests filled their plates from platters piled with fine cakes, macaroons, and marchpanes. Splendidly dressed gentlemen and ladies chatted while they ate, seated at small round tables. At one of these, a tall, slim figure stood with one foot perched on a chair, talking to a group that had clustered around him.
“John Locke,” Ford said, nodding in the fellow’s direction.
There was little in his appearance to suggest greatness. Although his speech was animated, his eyes looked melancholy, set in a long face with a large nose and full lips. Like Ford, he wore no wig, but his hair was straight and pale. His hands moved when he talked, his long fingers waving from the ruffled cuffs at his wrists.
As they drew close, Violet could hear his words. “Government,” he said, “has no other end but the preservation of property.”
A squat, balding man crossed his arms. “How can you speak such blasphemy? I’ve never heard such a thing.”
“New opinions are always suspected, and usually opposed, without any other reason but because they are not already common.”
“He’s quite busy now,” Ford whispered. “An introduction must probably wait for later.”
“Oh, but may I stay and just listen?” And spend a while apart from you, so I can think. She waved an arm toward the tables bulging with refreshments. “Go have something to eat. You look starved. I’ll be right here.”
THIRTY-FOUR
FORD FROWNED as he moved toward the refreshment tables. Was it his imagination, or had Violet seemed rather eager to be rid of him?
He was hungry, though. He picked up a plate.
“Why so gloomy, Lakefield?” Newton asked, filling a plate of his own at the heaping buffet. Gresham College was certainly welcoming the Royal Society back in style. “Are you not enjoying the festivities?”
Ford straightened his face. “I’m enjoying them immensely.”
“Mmhm.” Newton cast him an appraising glance as he added a strawberry to his selections. “Lady Violet sure is lovely, isn’t she?”
“No. I mean, yes, of course she’s lovely.” Violet did look especially lovely tonight, what with her hair dressed in elegant curls, her ears and throat glittering with diamonds, and her new ballgown hugging her figure in all the right places.
But even more stunning was the infectious smile that had hardly left her face all evening. The excitement in her eyes that had seemed to light up the whole courtyard. He’d never thought to meet a girl excited by science, or anything much academic. Tabitha certainly hadn’t been.
Reluctant to follow that train of thought, Ford changed the subject. “I have some news I believe you shall find immensely enjoyable,” he said, choosing radishes and slices of musk melon.
Newton bit into a macaroon. “What’s that?”
“Well…” Ford was dying to share his good fortune with someone who would truly understand. He leaned close and whispered, “I’ve found Secrets of the Emerald Tablet.”
“You found Secrets of the Emerald Tablet?” Newton fairly bellowed.
“Hush! It’s yet to be translated. I’m not ready to announce—”
But it was too late. Heads had turned, and a speculative murmur ran through the room.
Hooke rushed over. “Is it true? Secrets of the Emerald Tablet exists? You have it in your possession?”
�
��Not at the moment,” Ford hedged. But at the sight of Wren and Boyle approaching, he gave up. They’d find out soon enough, anyway. “I’ve given it to an expert to translate. But yes, I found it, and I own it.”
More men pressed close to hear the incredible news. “How much did it cost you?” someone asked.
“A shilling.” As a stunned silence filled the room, he felt a grin stretch his face. “The bookseller thought it was worthless,” he added.
“I’ll buy it for fifty pounds,” a man offered.
Hooke raised a hand. “A hundred.”
Normally the most polite man Ford knew, Wren elbowed his good friend out of the way. “I’ll pay you five hundred.”
“I’ll double what anyone else offers.”
Silence reigned again as they all turned to look at Newton. His wrinkled suit notwithstanding, the fellow could well afford to honor the bid. He was wifeless, childless, and his father had died three months before his birth, leaving a tidy estate to his only son. Newton had inherited land from a subsequent stepfather as well.
He sounded sincere, and no one moved to say he wasn’t; he was known to sometimes take offense when none was intended.
“It’s not for sale,” Ford said at last. “Not at any price.”
“Well.” Newton held his cup of Rhenish aloft in a toast. “I trust you’ll let me know if ever you change your mind.”
Conversation broke out in a deafening babble as people exclaimed over the find and maneuvered toward Ford to pump his hand and offer congratulations. The room turned hot and close as more guests made their way inside to join the crowd. Spirits were passed hand to hand from the tables to the back of the chamber, and soon everyone was clinking goblets to celebrate the discovery of the decade.
An hour flew by before Ford managed to work his way through the throng and into the corner where he’d left Violet. Along with the rest of Locke’s audience, she was gone. The area had been overtaken by people marveling over Secrets of the Emerald Tablet.
Light-headed with success—and a bit more wine than he customarily drank—Ford hurried outdoors to the improvised ballroom. But the colonnaded courtyard was sparsely populated, and only a few couples graced the dance floor. It seemed every member of the Royal Society was in the refreshment room.
Though another chamber blazed with light, a peek into it nearly had him backing away. It was crammed with chattering ladies—all those deserted, he supposed, by the men in the other room. He pushed his way in, not really expecting to find Violet. She didn’t strike him as the social, gossipy type.
He was correct.
Stopping three times to acknowledge congratulations, he crossed the quadrangle and walked through a building, finding the door to a small, deserted piazza.
The little courtyard looked dark and peaceful, especially after the excitement elsewhere in the college. He stepped outdoors, breathing deep of the fresh night air. Then, suddenly struck by an idea—perhaps not as brilliant as the spectacles, but clever nonetheless—he headed back inside to talk to one of the serving maids.
THIRTY-FIVE
HALF AN HOUR later, Violet entered the quadrangle and nearly bumped into Ford. His hands went to her shoulders to steady her, which was entirely unnecessary—these days, with her spectacles, her balance was much improved.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she quipped.
He didn’t smile. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“We had to escape that room.”
“We?” he asked pointedly, his gaze flitting over her gown again.
She folded her arms over her chest. “Mr. Locke and I. Whatever was happening in there drew everyone’s attention, and suddenly I found myself alone with him.”
His eyes filled with an odd mixture of relief and concern. “But I hadn’t made an introduction.”
“None was needed.” Locke had introduced himself without even making mention of her spectacles, simply accepting her as she was. “It seems he recognized a kindred soul. We wandered off and talked and talked…” She frowned suddenly. “Where were you all that time?”
“Word got out about me finding Secrets—”
A bewigged gentleman approached them with an outstretched hand. “Heard of your astounding luck, Lakefield. Congratulations. If ever you want to sell it—”
“I don’t.” Ford pumped his hand. “But I thank you.”
“Just let me know.”
When the man was out of earshot, Ford sighed. “It seems everyone has to congratulate me—or make an offer to buy it. And Newton has offered to double anyone’s bid. Can you imagine?”
What she couldn’t imagine was him passing that up when he so obviously needed money. She measured his clear blue eyes. “You were serious, then, when you claimed you wouldn’t sell at any price.”
“I meant it. Considering the book went missing for so many years, it seems magical that it should end up in my hands. No matter that I don’t believe in such things, it feels like fate.”
She did understand how he felt. If ever she should find an ancient philosophy book, handwritten by one of the masters, she’d be reluctant to sell it as well. And she supposed it would feel like fate, too.
“Maybe it was fate,” she said softly. “Do you believe that sometimes things are meant to be ours?”
He only smiled, a mysterious smile that for some reason made her uneasy.
She reached up to adjust her spectacles. “Well, I’m happy your announcement provided a distraction,” she said by way of changing the subject. “I expect without that I’d never have spoken privately with Mr. Locke, and oh, we had the most fascinating conversation.”
“Tell me about it.” When another well-wisher approached, Ford impatiently took Violet’s arm. “I know a place where I can listen without interruption.”
He led her across the quadrangle, where the dance floor seemed to be filling now that men and women were filtering out of the buildings and meeting up with one another. She noticed Wren with an apple-cheeked, brown-haired lady. Hooke, ungainly and awkward, danced with a beautiful, redheaded woman quite a bit taller than himself.
Ford took Violet through a building and pushed open a door.
And they stepped into a veritable wonderland.
Candles sparkled everywhere—perched on the sills of the windows surrounding them, sitting on the benches around the perimeter, scattered on the patterned brick paving. Their flickering flames warded off the night, bathing the small piazza in a warm glow. In the center sat two chairs and one of the small round tables from the refreshment room, offering a selection of sweets and savories. A pair of goblets rested side by side, an open wine bottle nearby.
Gasping, she turned to Ford. “How did you know all this was here?”
“It wasn’t.” The door shut behind them with a soft thud. “I arranged it.”
Though there were buildings all around, their windows were completely black. They were alone. She and her brilliant, bewildering neighbor were alone in a candlelit piazza in London. A piazza he’d had prepared especially for her.
Stunned, she shifted her gaze to meet his. “This isn’t like you.”
He gestured at her gown. “This isn’t like you, either.”
Heat rose into her cheeks as he gently removed her spectacles. She felt an arm curve around her waist, drawing her close. “Perhaps,” he continued, “we bring out the best in each other.” And she saw a hundred tiny lights flickering in his eyes as he bent his head.
This wasn’t a stolen kiss, impulsive and rushed while their charges’ heads were turned. This was deliberate and unhurried. His lips touched hers, then brushed over her cheek and across her forehead and down to her chin. He took her face in his hands and ran a thumb over her lower lip before finally covering it with his own.
Her heart trembled, then began pounding in her chest. She felt indescribably…wanted. Unbelievably special. The feeling was warm and comforting, yet somehow shocking and exhilarating, all at the same time. She was dizzy with emo
tion, and with his exotic patchouli scent, and with the taste of wine on his lips, and with the heat of his body. She could have happily stayed like that forever, drowning in pure sensation with his mouth locked on hers.
When he pulled away, she just stood there, swaying for a moment, before opening her eyes. All around them, the flames glittered, gilding his features in a golden light.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
As he slid the spectacles back on her face, the beginnings of a smile curved his lips. “You’re entirely welcome,” he said.
He sounded sincere. Was she wrong, then, about his intentions? He’d claimed to have invited her expressly to introduce her to someone who could help make her dream come true. Then he’d gone to great trouble to whisk her off to this romantic hideaway when they could be with his friends instead, showing off her spectacles and celebrating his miraculous book discovery.
And now here he was, looking at her—and kissing her—like he wanted her. Her, not just her money. Was he simply a good actor?
Could anyone be that good an actor?
She shouldn’t allow herself to forget his words in the excitement of a kiss. To forget his beliefs about wives and inheritances. To forget that he was no different from all the other men where it counted.
But for this one magical night, a night of dreams come true, she would let herself live a fantasy. For just this night…
She fluffed her heavy skirts, gazing at him while she willed herself to believe she was a beautiful maiden, and he, a gentleman in love with her.
For just this one night.
“I’m famished,” he said, and she laughed, breaking the tension. He led her to one of the chairs, then poured two goblets of wine. While she sipped, he moved the other chair close to hers and sat, taking a strawberry for himself.
“What did he talk about?” Ford asked, licking strawberry juice off his lips.
“Who?”
“King Charles.”
