by Alexa Aston
A butler opened the door and he thrust the letter at him as he heard the vehicle come to a stop behind him. “This is an urgent message for Mr. Sloane,” he said and turned away.
If he kept his head down and his face turned away, he might be able to escape.
“St. Clair? Is that you?”
Damnation.
Hudson turned and saw Sloane standing on the pavement, handing down Lady Hortense. She had been the one to call his name.
“Yes, my lady?” he asked, dreading the upcoming conversation. He would give as little information as possible in order to protect Mia from these vultures.
Mia . . .
Funny how it seemed perfectly natural to think of her that way and not Lady Mia. He would explore this later. For now, he needed to be on his toes.
“Did you hear me, St. Clair?”
He turned and realized Lady Hortense addressed him.
“What are you doing here?”
“Actually, I was delivering a letter to Mr. Sloane. Since you weren’t home, your butler has it.”
By now, the couple had come to stand in front of him. Lady Hortense’s eyes gleamed with interest.
“A letter. How amusing. A St. Clair has become a messenger boy.” She released her husband’s arm and slipped her hand around his elbow. “Come inside. I’m eager to see this letter.”
She pulled him toward the door. There was no gentlemanly way to refuse her request. Hudson was constantly aware of the situation surrounding his birth and had determined never to do anything to embarrass or upset his legitimate St. Clair siblings. They had willingly—and lovingly—accepted both him and Laurel and remained steadfast to the twins. Jeremy had paid for his university education, even though Hudson had qualified for a scholarship. His older brother had said he was happy to do so because it left a scholarship available for another student with true need. Jeremy had also taught Hudson so much about business. Rachel had, too, and she knew a way to handle clients with a deft touch, making things seem like their idea when, in fact, they were hers. Luke had taught him how to ride, fish, and hunt.
Of course, Cor had spent the most time with him, talking about society and life and impressing upon him the lessons that made him the man he was today. The St. Clair spouses and extended family and friends had also befriended him and made him feel at ease. Because of this, he promised himself to always be the gentleman they wanted him to be.
Still, he felt as if Lady Hortense sank her claws into him. He smiled and escorted her inside the house and up to a drawing room, her husband on their heels. Hudson could only imagine what Sloane thought and idly wondered if Lady Hortense had kept to her ways after their marriage.
“Have a seat, Mr. St. Clair,” she purred. “Horatio, darling, ring for tea.”
“But we just came from tea,” her husband pointed out.
“Mr. St. Clair might be thirsty.”
“I’m not, my lady. Ah, here is your butler now.”
The servant entered the drawing room, a silver tray in hand. Hudson saw the letter he’d brought had been placed upon it.
“Since Mr. Sloane has his letter, you won’t need me anymore,” he pointed out.
Instead of bringing it to Sloane, the butler brought it to his mistress. She didn’t bother thanking him as she removed it from the tray and broke the seal. He supposed Lady Hortense ran the household in every way, thanks to the money she’d brought into the marriage. She didn’t read it, though. She opened it and smoothed it in her lap.
“Who is it from? You?” she inquired, batting her long eyelashes at him.
“It is from Mr. Sloane’s cousin, Lady Mia.”
She sniffed. “I’ve heard of her. Horatio has told me . . . things.” She eyed him warily. “Why would you deliver this from her to us?”
“I had an appointment with Lord Morrison regarding one of his machines,” he replied cautiously, refraining from mentioning he’d bought that machine and planned to remove all the rest of the projects from Morris Park. He also kept the news of the viscount’s death to himself, wanting the letter to reveal that news. “Since I mentioned to Lady Mia that I was headed to London, I offered to take her letters and deliver them.”
“I see.”
She lowered her eyes to the page and began reading. Hudson watched her as Sloane said, “The place was in shambles the last time I was there and that was years ago. My uncle’s so-called inventions were everywhere, taking over the house.”
He saw a satisfied smile cross her face and Lady Hortense looked up. “He’s dead, Horatio. You’re Viscount Morrison now.”
“Finally,” Sloane said. “It’s about time the old codger keeled over.”
Anger flared in Hudson but he quickly tamped it down.
The new viscountess’ gaze met his. “You did not mention Lord Morrison could not keep your appointment because he was dead.”
“It wasn’t my place, my lady. I left that to Lady Mia’s letter to break the news to you.” He rose. “I will leave you to your grief.”
“Grief? You think I’m saddened by the death of my uncle? You’d be sadly mistaken, St. Clair. My father should have been the viscount. He had intelligence and knew how to handle people, from his peers to the lowliest servant. Uncle lived with his head in the clouds, always tinkering with his silly contraptions.” Morrison cursed. “I suppose we’ll have to take on Mia now. She’ll have nowhere else to go.”
“Do we?” his wife asked pointedly. “How old is she?”
He thought a moment. “A couple of years younger than I am.”
“Then she’s of legal age. You don’t have to do anything at all for her, Morrison. She can find somewhere else to go. Surely, she has some relative that will take her in. If not, she can do what other spinsters have done and become a companion or governess. She’s no concern of ours.”
Hudson practically bit through his tongue trying to stay silent. This crass pair could go to the devil. They discussed Mia as if she were a piece of furniture they didn’t want in their new house and were willing to set her to the curb.
He couldn’t help himself and said, “I also delivered a letter to Lady Mia’s aunt, Lady Trentham. She and Lord Trentham were terribly saddened by the news and said Lady Mia would be coming to live with them in London. I believe she even mentioned something about a Season.”
Silence was followed by a harsh burst of laughter coming from the couple, angering Hudson further. He forced himself from clenching his fists, wishing he could drive one into each of their laughing, smug faces.
Morrison shook his head. “No one will wed my cousin. She’s as odd a duck as anyone would ever find. Dresses in old clothes, usually hand-me-downs from her father, and follows him about, spouting mathematical formulas and arguing about things no lady should think of, much less know anything about.”
His wife laughed merrily and then suddenly stopped. “You don’t think she’ll expect a dowry from us, do you, my darling?”
“Certainly not. I can’t guarantee that Uncle didn’t set one aside for her but it seems unlikely. She’ll be Trentham’s responsibility now, not ours, dearest.” He smiled. “My viscountess.”
“I didn’t even know the Trenthams had returned from abroad,” Lady Hortense commented. “I suppose it’s a good thing they’re here to collect her.” She glanced back at the letter. “Nothing is mentioned regarding a funeral. I’m glad. I find them so dull to attend. They dampen my spirits beyond measure.”
Hudson had heard all he wanted to and rose. “Since I’ve lived up to my promise and delivered Lady Mia’s letter, I will excuse myself.” He looked to the new viscount. “Lord Morrison, thank you for receiving me. I know you and Lady Morrison have much to discuss regarding your new responsibilities.”
“Yes, we do. Thank you, St. Clair, for being the bearer of such good news.”
Hudson bowed and left the drawing room as quickly as he could. Rage seethed through him. He reached his carriage.
“Take me to Gentleman Jack’s at once.”
&n
bsp; Climbing inside, he slammed a fist into his palm over and over.
Chapter Seven
“Lady Mia! Wagons have pulled up in front of Morris Park. A man named Willis says you’re expecting him.”
Relief swept through Mia as she glanced out the window. Mr. St. Clair had been a man of his word. It wasn’t even ten o’clock yet and here were three wagons sitting in the drive. She went outside and a man of about forty with graying hair and a ready smiled stepped forward.
“Lady Mia, I am Mr. Willis. I was sent by Mr. Garson, who is in charge of the St. Clair warehouse. He said I’m to pick up all of your inventions and return them to London.”
“Yes, that’s correct. Thank you for coming so quickly.”
“It was Mr. St. Clair’s doing, my lady. He was adamant that we be here this morning. In fact, I’m to get a steam engine and anything associated with it first. Once that wagon is packed, it’s to leave immediately and then the others will be loaded. More wagons will arrive shortly. These three merely made it out of London first.”
“Very well. If you can bring a wagon around to the stables, I’ll show you the engine Mr. St. Clair has made a priority.”
Once she had shown them the engine, two burly men lifted it and took it outside to the wagon, which also held empty boxes and packing material. She made a quick decision.
“My journals are just as important as this machine,” she said. “If I have them, I can recreate anything I’ve already built.”
“Are you worried something might fall from one of the wagons and be damaged?”
“Yes, Mr. Willis,” she said, although that wasn’t what was on her mind. Mia worried about Cousin Horatio showing up and keeping her devices out of spite. She assumed Mr. St. Clair had delivered both of her letters when he’d arrived in London yesterday afternoon. She expected her aunt and uncle to arrive sometime today or tomorrow. When her cousin and the new viscountess would make an appearance was what worried her.
“Where are these journals, my lady?” Willis asked.
“In the house. I’ll show you. If possible, I’d like them all packed up and taken in the first wagon with my steam engine.”
“I’m to follow any instructions you give, my lady,” Willis said affably. To the men, he said, “Bring the wagon back around to the front of the house again when the engine is secured.”
She had Mr. Willis and the remaining four men come inside. She walked them through the house, showing them what needed to be boxed and loaded into the wagons.
“Start with the drawing room first if you would,” she said. “After that, anything you see in the hallways. Then I’ll show you which rooms also hold various experiments and prototypes.”
Mia then led Mr. Willis to the study and indicated her journals. “I can pack these if you’ll bring me the boxes.”
“I’ll fetch them now,” he said and left the room.
She began making stacks of those on the desk and pulling other notebooks from the shelves. These notebooks contained her father’s life work—and hers. From the beginning, she’d recorded how she’d aided him and encouraged him to do the same. He never was one who enjoyed writing and told her to keep written records for him of all he did. His ideas. The names for his creations. The tests, where she recorded both failures and successes. Drawings of contraptions in different stages. Everything lay within these pages, especially her own work. When her father had slowed down mentally and struggled to even put sentences together, Mia knew it was vital for her to continue his work. The work became her own, which made these notebooks so precious to her.
Mr. Willis returned with the boxes and the two of them filled all of them. He returned for more empty ones and they finished placing all her journals into them. She watched him carry several out to the waiting wagon in the drive. He returned, along with the two other men, and within a few minutes, the wagon was filled.
“Go ahead and leave with this one now,” he instructed one of the men, telling the other to stay behind in order to help the others. “Mr. St. Clair is eager for this to reach London.”
“I’ll get it there in no time,” the driver promised as he climbed into the seat and took up the reins.
By now, four other wagons had pulled up as a second departed. They were large but Mia doubted they would be enough to take everything today. Mr. Willis echoed her same thoughts and assured her they would return tomorrow to load whatever didn’t leave today.
“Leave everything to us, my lady.”
“I’ll see to some refreshment for you and your men.” She only hoped Cook could scrounge up something. The larder was running perilously low.
Something caught her eye and she looked in the distance. A carriage approached. She recognized it as the one her aunt had come in a couple of weeks ago. Mia waited outside, despite the cold, and greeted her aunt and uncle when they stepped from the vehicle.
“Oh, my darling girl.” Aunt Fanny embraced her. “I know you are grieving for you father so.”
Mia was saddened by the loss of her father but not overly upset. She had seen how rapidly her father had gone downhill and had prepared herself for his loss.
“I will be fine, Aunt Fanny.” She looked to her uncle. “Uncle Trentham, it is good to see you.”
He gave her a hug and kissed the top of her head. “I am so sorry for your loss, Mia. I know how close you were with your father.” He looked about. “Might I ask what is going on? Is this Mr. St. Clair’s work?”
“Come inside,” her aunt commanded. “It’s far too cold to carry on any decent kind of conversation. Though I’m not sure where we’ll be able to sit.”
“They are working on the drawing room, Aunt. Perhaps I can have the men clear a place so we may sit and chat.”
She took them to the drawing room and as she expected, a good deal of her creations already rested in boxes stacked neatly by the door.
“See, we can sit over here.”
“There’s no fire,” her aunt admonished.
“We don’t have one often,” Mia admitted. “We are down to Papa’s valet, who would never deign to chop wood, and a groom who did so infrequently. He’s already left this morning with our two horses in hand. I sold them to a neighbor and the groom will also take a position there.”
Her uncle frowned. “That wasn’t within your authority, Mia. From what I remember of Horatio Sloan, he will be furious with you.”
“The horses were sold a few weeks ago when Papa was still alive,” she explained. “The money went to pay for bills we owed in the village. My cousin can’t fault something that occurred while Papa was still alive.”
He nodded grimly. “From a legal standpoint, you are correct. You know Sloane, though. He can be a petty, supercilious creature. Do you know when he will arrive?”
“No. I gave Mr. St. Clair letters for you and Cousin Horatio. I assume he delivered both yesterday. It’s anyone’s guess as to when the new Lord Morrison might show up to claim the estate.”
“Speaking of St. Clair,” Uncle Trentham said. “Are these his men?”
“Yes, they are. Mr. St. Clair is having a contract drawn up to purchase my steam engine and have it patented. He said he might be interested in other devices I’ve developed.” Mia hesitated. “I shared my concern that Lord Morrison might not be willing to part with all I’ve developed. Mr. St. Clair’s solution was to pack up everything I’ve worked on and have it taken to his family’s London warehouse. I can go through each prototype with him and see if it’s something he might be interested in purchasing. Some are in very early developmental stages so I may have a bit of work to do before—”
“No, Mia. This work of yours needs to cease. I understand it was a part of your life with Morrison but that’s over now. If you’re to have any hopes of making a match, you must put this behind you.”
Fear gripped Mia. Telling her she couldn’t work on her inventions would be like withholding air from her. They were a part of her. Her very life.
“I must keep to my w
ord, Aunt Fanny,” she said calmly, though her insides churned viciously. “I gave Mr. St. Clair my word to review everything with him. He has been kind enough to send all these men and wagons to transport everything, without us even having a signed contract between us. I must hold up my end of our bargain.”
Aunt Fanny sighed. “You always were a stubborn one. All right, we’ll let you discuss things with Mr. St. Clair. He told Trentham to provide you with a solicitor. The contract arrived this morning before we left.”
“It did. I reviewed it on our way to Surrey, Mia. It is clearly worded and very fair in its terms and compensation but I’ll also want my man to give it consideration before you sign it.”
Her aunt shuddered. “I am freezing. We should retreat to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Surely, your cook has a fire there.”
“I should have thought of that.”
Mia rose and they went to the kitchen, seeing Nelson lying in front of the fire. The cat stretched lazily and went back to sleep. Cook fussed over them, putting on a kettle for tea.
“We need to see Morrison buried and then you’ll return to London with us,” Aunt Fanny proclaimed.
“We buried Papa yesterday.”
“Oh!” Her aunt gave her an odd look. “Well, I suppose that’s for the best. Do you at least have a maid to pack your belongings? Nothing is holding us to this drafty old place.”
“I had her do so this morning. I thought you and Uncle Trentham would come as soon as you heard the news of Papa’s death.”
Aunt Fanny took Mia’s hand and squeezed it. “Everything is going to be fine, my sweet girl. You’ll see.”
“I hope so.”
Cook set teacups in front of them and Mia poured out. She apologized for having no sugar or cream. Her uncle looked discomfited. Her aunt rolled her eyes and, thankfully, held her tongue. They sipped the hot brew and its warmth went straight to her belly.
“Lady Mia! Lady Mia!” The maid came running in. “You must come quickly. I think Mr. Willis might come to blows.”
She leaped to her feet. “With whom?”
The maid gave her a pitying look. “Your cousin has arrived.”
