by Alexa Aston
Then the news of Papa’s death hit her all over again and she shuddered.
Mr. St. Clair glanced down at her. “We’re almost to the house, my lady. We’ll get you before a fire and some brandy in your belly. You’ll be fine.”
She closed her eyes again, not wanting to look at him. When she’d first seen him, she’d become tongue-tied and had trouble getting her words out. He was by far the best-looking man she’d ever seen although that wasn’t saying much. She rarely saw anyone besides Papa and their few servants. Still, Mr. St. Clair was someone a woman wouldn’t forget. He was a few inches over six feet, with a headful of thick hair black as midnight, matching his brows. His emerald eyes seemed to look into her very soul as they spoke, causing the blood to rush to her ears and her heart to pound so rapidly, Mia thought it might burst. His fitted coat barely seemed to contain his broad shoulders, while his muscular legs were easy to see, thanks to the molded buckskins that fit him like a second skin. At least she’d become more coherent once she began speaking about her machine. Hopefully, he did not think her some raving lunatic.
They entered the house and he began shouting for help. Both the maid and Cook came running, both their jaws dropping at seeing her carried by him.
“Where is Lady Mia’s bedchamber?” St. Clair demanded. “I’d take her to the drawing room but there wasn’t a stick of furniture free to place her upon.”
“No,” she protested. “I’m really fine, Mr. St. Clair. Please. Put me down.”
He eyed her with doubt but set her on her feet, his hands cupping her elbows to support her. His touch brought a wave of heat that zipped along her limbs. She pulled away.
“Thank you. I’m sorry I fainted on you,” she apologized. “It’s unlike me.” She turned to the two women, tightly keeping control over her emotions. “Papa has met with an accident. He is no longer with us. George is bringing him back now. Have them take Papa to his bedchamber. Heat water so that I can bathe his body and prepare it for burial. Tell George and the groom to dig his grave next to Mama. I’ll be up shortly.”
The servants scurried off and Mia turned to their visitor. “Mr. St. Clair, I must—”
“You must sit down, Lady Mia,” he insisted. “Where can you do so?”
She thought a moment. “The study.”
He took her hand and slipped it through the crook of his arm. “I’ll take you there.”
“It’s this way.”
When they arrived at the study, he guided her to the large chair behind the desk, which was stacked high with random papers and all kinds of notebooks in which she kept her design ideas and lists of experiments and results. He took the chair in front of the desk but pulled it around so that he sat next to her.
“Shall I send for the doctor?”
Mia looked at him blankly. “Whatever for? Papa is already dead. I don’t need to pay him for that information.”
“For you,” he said gently.
“I’m in perfect health,” she insisted. “As far as what happened before, I think the shock of learning of Papa’s death merely surprised me. I was only unconscious for a few seconds.”
“Still, this is a trying time. The doctor could give you something to help you sleep.”
“There is no money for a doctor, Mr. St. Clair,” she said. “I’ve been in the midst of closing the house. My aunt and uncle recently returned from abroad and they are coming in a few days to collect Papa and me. Well, me. I’ve been trying to fulfill all of Papa’s obligations and find positions for the few servants we have before they arrive.”
His intense gaze caused her to pause. No one had ever looked at her so, as if they saw her.
And saw through her.
“If you are still interested in buying the rights to my steam engine, how do we go about that?”
“I gathered it was your engine.”
“Everything created and produced for the last three years has been mine,” she admitted.
“I will still do as I said. Have my solicitor draw up papers to that effect, giving my family sole ownership of the design and prototype and applying for the patent. You’ll be amply compensated. You will need to hire a solicitor to read over the agreement and see if you wish for any changes to be made to the language.”
Mia wondered how much that might cost.
“Because your situation has changed, Lady Mia, you will be able to sign the papers yourself. An unmarried woman of legal age may enter into an agreement and receive the amount in full guaranteed by the contract. We spoke briefly about the possibility of you and your father coming aboard to supervise production and make adjustments. I would still be interested in having your expertise and would be willing to pay for it.”
“Is there . . . I mean . . . would there be a way to receive an advance amount on this contract?” she asked.
“To pay your solicitor?” he asked, sympathy in his eyes.
“I have enough funds to do that,” she said stiffly, still wondering if she did. “However, my aunt would never agree for all of my inventions to be brought to her London home. I would like access to funds so that I might be able to rent a space to store my items. Hopefully, it would have room for me to also work on them and record the results of the experiments I conduct.”
He smiled. Her heart flipped over in her chest.
“That would be easy to arrange. In fact, my family has ample space in a warehouse we own. Instead of leasing it to you, our agreement could include providing you both work and storage space. A laboratory, of sorts.”
She looked at him leerily. “You’re saying you would pay for my device. Pay for me to tinker with it as it goes through production. Then also provide space for me to conduct my trials on inventions not even related to the prototype you’re purchasing.”
“Yes. Exactly. If everything goes well with your steam engine, I’m sure the St. Clairs would be interested in other creations of yours.”
Though sadness made her heart heavy, his words gave her hope that she would be able to continue her work. She could do so on a daily basis and still appease her aunt and attend whatever social functions were required at night. At least for a little while. Hopefully, Aunt Fanny would see how hopeless it would be to try and make a match for Mia after a full Season. By then, she could have her own money from the agreement with this man. Move into a few rooms to call her own. Live her life the way she wanted, not under duress, forced to become someone she wasn’t.
“That would be an offer I am happy to accept, Mr. St. Clair.” She frowned.
“I can easily arrange transport of everything here and have it brought to London immediately,” he offered, seeming to read her mind.
“Could you? I would appreciate it more than I can say.”
“I will speak to Mr. Davidson, our solicitor, the moment I reach London,” he promised. He paused. “I hate to leave you at such a difficult time, however. When are your aunt and uncle arriving?”
“At the first of the year. That’s in a handful of days.”
“Will you send word to them regarding your father’s death or wait for his funeral services and burial to take place when they arrive?” he inquired.
“Oh, we’ll bury Papa today,” she said, seeing surprise flicker across his handsome face. “Papa was not a religious man. He wouldn’t want some clergyman standing over his coffin, muttering nonsense about an afterlife. I’ll see him in the ground today, as he would have wished, and then begin boxing up everything for delivery to London.”
“You can take your time with that, Lady Mia,” he assured her. “We’re in no rush—”
“You may not be—but I most certainly am. The moment Cousin Horatio, Papa’s heir, is notified, he will descend upon Morris Park. He is a greedy, manipulative, unsavory man who bullied me when we were children. He won’t allow a single item to leave the property, even if he’ll only turn around and throw it out as rubbish. If I’m to keep my life’s work, I need it gone from the property as soon as possible.”
“I
see.” St. Clair thought a moment. “May I send a few people down tomorrow from London? They could do the packing for you and load your equipment and prototypes into wagons for transport to our warehouse. Everything could be gone from Morris Park by this time tomorrow, on its way to the city.”
Relief swept through her. “You are an answer to a prayer, Mr. St. Clair. I most certainly would appreciate your help in that regard. That way I can go ahead and notify Cousin Horatio of Papa’s death.”
“Where does your cousin reside?”
“My understanding is that he’s in London. He was recently wed and we were told that his wife’s dowry included a London townhouse.”
“If you’d like to pen a note to him, I can take it with me and deliver it for you.”
She smiled at him gratefully, knowing she wouldn’t have to pay to have the message sent.
“I assume you’ll return to London with your aunt and uncle. Have your uncle recommend a solicitor to you. In fact, if you care to pen a letter to them, I can see it delivered to them, as well. In case you wanted to wait for the burial.”
“No, Papa didn’t get along well with Aunt Fanny. She is Mama’s sister and she’s all out of sorts with the way he raised me.” Mia sighed. “She thinks she’s going to remake me into someone who can be presented into society. I fear I am too unorthodox and far too old to have a Season but she is determined to launch me into the ton.”
Something flared in his eyes. If she hadn’t been watching him closely, she would have missed it.
“Write your notes,” he said briskly. “I’ll see if I can help Lord Morrison’s valet.”
With that, St. Clair rose and left the study.
Though still unsettled, Mia withdrew paper from the desk drawer and opened a jar of ink. She briefly explained to the Trenthams that her father had passed away suddenly, not going into any detail. Aunt Fanny wouldn’t care and probably be glad she and Uncle Trentham wouldn’t have to pay for physicians and servants to care for Papa. As for Cousin Horatio, he hadn’t been to visit her and Papa in years and years. All he awaited was news that he’d finally gained the title he’d always wanted. He would be surprised, though, to see how Morris Park had fallen into disrepair and that it had no funds in which to restore it to is former glory. Hopefully, the new viscountess’ ample dowry would be able to pay for improvements and make the place more livable.
Mia sealed both letters and left the study, heading upstairs to her father’s bedchamber. She met Mr. St. Clair in the corridor.
Handing him her letters, she said, “I placed the addresses below each name so you know where they reside. When your solicitor is ready, he can call on me at Lord and Lady Trentham’s townhouse.”
“Trentham? Isn’t he associated with the diplomatic corps?”
“Yes. Uncle Trentham and Aunt Fanny recently returned from his last post abroad. She tells me he will be working in the London office for now. They have been gone for a decade and are ready to be home. At least, for now.”
He slipped the letters inside his coat pocket. “I will see these delivered today. Look for my wagons tomorrow.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Mr. St. Clair,” Mia said with sincerity. “You are an answer to a very difficult problem.”
He chuckled. “Some people might view me as a problem, my lady. In this case, I am happy to be of service and eager to see what you can build beyond your steam engine.” He paused and took her hand. “I also give you my sincere condolences regarding the loss of your father. Lord Morrison may not have had all of his faculties these past few years but he raised a remarkable daughter. You—and what you do with the rest of your life—will be a tribute to him and his belief in you.”
Tears filled her eyes. “Thank you, Mr. St. Clair.”
“I’m off then,” he said briskly, releasing her hand.
For some odd reason, the lack of contact left her feeling bereft.
“Goodbye, Mr. St. Clair. I wish you a pleasant journey.”
She watched him descend the stairs and then turned, steeling herself. Papa needed her now, for the last time. Mia entered his bedchamber, knowing with his death that a chapter in her life had come to an end. A new one was ahead. One filled with the unknown.
Thanks to Mr. St. Clair’s generosity and their new business arrangement, however, almost anything was possible.
Chapter Five
It was only sixteen miles to London from Morris Park so Hudson’s carriage reached the city shortly before two in the afternoon. He had directed his driver to head straight to Mr. Davidson’s office. He wanted the contracts written immediately. His gut told him Cousin Horatio would prove to be the proverbial fly in the ointment. Having a legal, binding document would protect the St. Clairs.
And Lady Mia.
Mia Sloane was unlike any woman he’d ever met. He’d run the gambit, having been raised in abject poverty and then elevated to high society, thanks to Jeremy’s largesse. Perhaps she seemed unique because she was so untouched by society, poor or wealthy. She lived in a small world and had likely never strayed far from Morris Park, especially after her mother’s death. Though she had none of the accomplishments of a typical English female, Hudson liked her more for it. She wasn’t ashamed or embarrassed about her skills in maths or the sciences.
It did worry him when she said her aunt wanted her to make a come-out. Polite Society was the last place this woman needed to be. The rules and conventions would make her miserable and she wouldn’t fit in with anyone. Her age, too, would prevent many men from considering her as a prospective bride—although they would look. She had a fresh, untouched beauty and an astonishing figure. He’d longed to peel the tight trousers from her and see those long legs and plump derriere in the flesh. Not see. Feel. The woman tempted him beyond reason. He hoped once she came to London she would at least dress in the manner of other females. Seeing her in trousers again might be his—and her—undoing.
The vehicle stopped and Hudson bounded from the carriage, seeing Matthew Proctor coming out the door. The two men ran various aspects of the St. Clairs’ businesses and scheduled monthly meetings to keep one another apprised.
“It’s fortuitous meeting you here, Matthew. Do you have time to come back inside and hear what I wish our Mr. Davidson to do?”
His former tutor chuckled. “He won’t have time, Hudson. I have given him a mountain of paperwork to wade through and more to prepare.”
“That may have to change. I’m on to something big.”
They entered the building and went to Davidson’s offices, where they were greeted by his secretary. If the man thought it unusual for Matthew to be back after so short a spell, he hid his surprise well. He led them to a conference room, where Davidson already had papers strewn upon the large table, organizing them into different piles of priority.
“Greetings, Mr. St. Clair,” the solicitor said. He frowned. “Don’t tell me you thought of something else, Mr. Proctor?”
“No, but St. Clair here thinks what he’s bringing will be more important than everything I’ve given you. I am curious to hear what he has to say.”
Davidson indicated for them to sit and Hudson launched into his idea to create a new railway company since he believed it to be the transportation of the future.
“I’ve kept abreast of the research and have found an inventor who has designed a variation of the steam engine the Darlington is using now.”
Quickly, he explained the prototype as best he could, using examples from Mia and even producing the two sketches she had drawn to illustrate her points, explaining why her model would be more efficient and most likely more cost effective.
“I need two different contracts drawn up immediately,” he continued. “One deals with the purchase of the design and prototype of this steam engine. We’ll call it the Sloane engine,” he suggested. “It was created by Lady Mia Sloane.”
“What?” both men said, astonishment written across their faces.
He explained how Mia had help
ed her father for years in working on creating and testing different inventions and how Lord Morrison’s mental health had decline over a period of years, so much that she had taken over the entire operation.
“You’re telling me this daughter—a lady—has continued her father’s work?” asked an incredulous Davidson.
“Yes. She has many other inventions, as well. I’m having them brought to our warehouse and giving her space there to work on perfecting them. You see, her father just passed away. Since it’s her design, I want the contract to reflect that she has sole ownership of the design and machine. You’ll also need to see about applying for the patent. She’s done so for previous creations but has only perfected this one and hasn’t had time to file. She is aware our purchase will include getting the patent.
“The second contract is to retain her personal services for a term of three years, where she will supervise testing and production of this steam engine.”
“How old is this viscount’s daughter?” Matthew asked. “I’m curious.”
“In her early to mid-twenties is my best guess. I do know she’s of legal age and can sign the contracts. Her uncle, Lord Trentham, will be helping her retain a solicitor to read over the documents we draw up. If her machine is as good as I think it is, we may try to sign her to an exclusive contract, where she would create devices solely for St. Clair businesses.”
“Your gut has never steered us wrong, Hudson,” Matthew said. “If you believe in her skills this much, I say this is definitely Mr. Davidson’s priority. I know the last time you and I met, we discussed various investors beyond the St. Clair family that would be interested in forming a partnership for a new railway.”
“Yes, I have firm commitments from the peers I mentioned,” he said. “Mr. Davidson, I’d like the contract drawn up at once for the steam engine. Four copies of each for now. We’ll retain one. One is for Lady Mia. Another for her solicitor.”
