by Lily Maxton
“Capital, capital,” he said, with a nod of greeting toward James. He introduced Cecil Townsend to them, whose voice sounded even raspier up close.
“Are you related to the Earl of Arden, by any chance?” The Earl of Lark asked.
Cecil nodded. “We are distant cousins,” he said.
“Will he be coming to Edinburgh? Everyone is quite curious about him.”
“I couldn’t say.” An almost indiscernible pause. “We are not close.”
“Ah, it happens,” Lord Lark said jovially. “Will you show us your cabinets, then, sir? I’m quite keen to see them.”
Townsend nodded, giving a slight, shy smile.
There was something about that smile…James couldn’t place it, but it bothered him.
But James didn’t know why he was focused on the strange little entomologist when the man whose daughter he wanted to marry was standing right in front of him.
James leaped in to fill the silence as they walked toward the cabinets. “I wonder if it would be possible to dig up the larvae of Lucanus…” He paused, racking his brain, “cervus.” He also wondered if he sounded as idiotic as he felt, uttering a sentence like that.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t the Earl of Lark who answered him. “To observe them,” Townsend said, nodding. “Yes, I’ve wondered the same thing myself. If one were to observe where the female went after mating—though it would be a shame to accidentally harm them, and it might be impossible to tell how deep underground they are.”
“And there is always the fear that taking them out of their natural habitat would disrupt their normal habits. How would a scientist know that what they observed above ground would match what would have happened underground?” the Earl of Lark asked.
They reached the cabinets and the earl leaned forward. “Remarkable,” he said. “How long did this take you?”
“Several years,” he said.
“Capital! I must say, your dedication is amazing, Mr. Townsend.”
James watched, with a heavy sense of defeat, as Lark turned his rapt attention on Townsend, while the entomologist explained how and where and when he’d gathered each specimen. He let the actual conversation fade into the background. Lark had barely even noticed James.
He would never be able to ingratiate himself with the man while Townsend was around.
James decided to wait it out. He was watching the entomologist gesture toward the beetles, though he was barely listening to what was being said, when something caught his attention. A subtle motion. Almost imperceptible. It would have been imperceptible to anyone else. But he’d trained himself long ago to notice almost imperceptible motions.
While he’d been speaking, Cecil Townsend had lifted his gloved hand toward his temple, and then, almost as quickly, arrested the motion and let the hand fall. James had seen women make that exact gesture before, to push back the curled tendrils that framed their faces. An emotion crossed the man’s face—embarrassment—and then was gone in another instant.
James cocked his head and stared at Townsend. He studied his small face, took in the long, dark lashes that were partially obscured by spectacles. Took in the way Townsend narrowed his eyes when he looked at something, as though the spectacles were more of a hindrance than anything else.
He remembered that odd shy smile. And that voice.
He let it rasp over him. It wasn’t the hoarsened voice of a man who was given to drinking and smoking, as he’d originally thought. It was the voice of someone trying to disguise what they really sounded like.
James felt a smile spread across his face. He wanted to bark out a laugh.
He might be doing a damn fine job of hiding it, but James would bet a thousand pounds that Cecil Townsend was no man at all.
Chapter Five
Eleanor was still riding a wave of heart-pounding triumph, though, slowly, gradually, it was fading. The first few moments she’d stood at the podium and looked out at the sea of blank faces, she’d been terrified. So terrified she hadn’t been able to stop her hands from trembling, and she worried that she was going to drop all of her papers and embarrass herself in front of dozens of scientists.
She didn’t drop her papers. And she hadn’t embarrassed herself, thank God. When she’d started talking, started discussing a subject she knew so well, a subject she lived and breathed and loved, it all came together. She’d commanded the attention of every man in that room with only her words, and she’d never felt more powerful.
If she weren’t trying to remain inconspicuous, she would have tipped back her head and laughed or spun around in a dizzy dance of joy.
As it was, she tried to pay attention to what the Earl of Lark was asking her.
Inadvertently, her gaze flitted toward Mr. MacGregor. His amused expression, lips curving in the softest of smiles, unnerved her. She didn’t know what there was for him to be amused about. She didn’t know why he was even here.
His shoulders were about twice the breadth of any other man in the room. His build wasn’t the type seen on most gentlemen. He was positively brawny, in fact. If it wasn’t for his clothes, the cut and fabric of which were in fashion and well-made, she might have mistaken him for a dockside laborer.
His glittering eyes were a calm blue; his hair was an even deeper shade of brown than hers, nearly black. He might have been handsome once. He had a strong square jaw and nicely defined cheekbones and eyebrows that were almost elegant, but a prominent—and prominently crooked—nose ruined whatever effect the rest of his features had. And turned him into a man who looked like what he probably was—an ignorant brawler.
She doubted very much that he was interested in her beetles. He’d barely even glanced at the cabinets she’d so meticulously displayed.
Which begged the question of why he was at this meeting in the first place.
Eleanor realized, belatedly, that silence had fallen.
“Oh…pardon me?”
The Earl of Lark laughed. “No,” he said kindly. “I should excuse myself. I’ve taken all of your time.”
Once he left, Mr. Campbell followed. Mr. MacGregor’s head turned, and he watched them for a second, as though he wasn’t certain whether he should follow them or not, but then he twisted back toward her. His smile deepened as soon as their gazes caught, and Eleanor felt an unwanted twinge in her stomach.
“Cecil Townsend,” he said, as though he relished the name.
She frowned, wondering if he wasn’t…well…a bit slow. “Yes?”
“You’re quite proud of these, aren’t you?” he asked, gesturing toward the cabinets.
“I spent a lot of time on them, yes.”
“They are remarkable.” He cocked his head, an arrogant, sudden gesture that grated at her nerves. “We should celebrate. You spent years compiling these and your moment of glory is all going to be over in an instant.”
Eleanor stiffened. His words were a little too close to the quick.
“Let me buy you some ale.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh…well…I have an appointment I mustn’t be late for,” she lied.
“Nonsense,” he said. “Any man worth a shilling can down a tankard in a few minutes. You don’t have a minute or two to spare?”
“Well—”
“And it’s quite common for the gentlemen who attended the lecture to buy an ale for the speaker afterward. I expect several more will follow us there.”
Eleanor stared at him blankly, feeling like she’d run out of excuses, and wondering how many ales she would be expected to drink. “Do you?”
“I don’t get offended easily, but some of the others might if you refuse.”
In that case, it would be easier to simply go and imbibe some ale.
And perhaps he was right. Perhaps she needed to celebrate her accomplishment, instead of letting it fade into a dream too quickly. Perhaps this was her day for living, and once the chance was gone, it would be gone forever.
She’d never been to an alehouse before. It might be enjoy
able.
She hoped it would be enjoyable.
She acquiesced, and when Mr. MacGregor’s wide mouth curved into a delighted smile, she hoped she wouldn’t regret it.
Chapter Six
They passed over the long North Bridge, heading toward the Old Town. From the bridge, a magnificent view unfolded—to the left, the nearly finished tower of the Nelson monument pierced the sky above Calton Hill; to the right, the castle, perched high on a craggy outcropping to overlook the city; ahead, the old stone buildings of the medieval city, tall and dark and piled close together. Inky smoke rose from countless chimneys, curling into the gray winter sky.
Carriages rambled slowly past them, the rattling wheels and snorting horses mingling with the sounds from the fish and vegetable market below the bridge. Eleanor had gone to the market with Georgina, who liked to people watch, and looked on as fisherwomen sold cod and herring, flounder and salmon and oysters, either from carts or wicker baskets. The haggling between the sellers and buyers had been a shrill crescendo, filling the paved space below the bridge until one could barely hear themselves think.
The alehouse Mr. MacGregor led her to was at the periphery of the medieval part of the city, in a narrow close. It was as dark and dank on the inside as it was obscure on the outside. And it smelled oddly. Was that stale muskiness a male smell? If so, Eleanor wasn’t certain she wanted to get close to any males, ever.
She looked around as men chatted with one another, loud and rambunctious. A few groups were playing cards. All of them were drinking. Most of them were talking, sometimes at the same time. There were a few women drinking at the bar, too—lower class, possibly laborers of some sort, if their staid dresses and the tired hunch of their shoulders was any indication. A harried barman was filling tankard after tankard of ale. He wiped sweat off his brow and a glistening drop plummeted right into one of the tankards.
Eleanor’s stomach churned. She turned away from the barman and went to find a secluded table, or somewhat secluded. The noise was giving her a headache.
Eleanor had expected an alehouse that catered to intellectual people who simply wanted something to quench their thirst while they spoke of ideas and journals and research. Come to think of it, a coffeehouse seemed like a more appropriate place to meet with other society members. This place was clearly frequented by the working class, not scholars.
Did MacGregor live in the Old Town?
He dressed like a rich man, not a poor one. It didn’t make much sense to her.
She slid into the narrow space behind the only open table in the back. Mr. MacGregor, who’d offered to carry her display cabinets on the walk over, set them down underneath the table with a surprising amount of care before heading toward the barman.
She watched him move through the crowd. People parted to make space for him, as though he was an inexorable force of nature and the choices were either to yield or be conquered. His stride was powerful, purposeful, his body like a weapon, finely honed and full of intent.
She glanced away before he turned back, so he wouldn’t suspect her of observing him. A moment later, he set two tankards down and then eased himself into the wooden chair across from her. The chair creaked underneath his weight, even though he hadn’t sat down with particular disregard.
He took a large gulp of ale, and Eleanor found herself unwillingly fascinated by the powerful muscles of his throat.
She hadn’t known men were made like this—a collection of hard bone, hot blood, and thick muscle—a marriage of intersecting pieces that fit together in a way that was strong, but strangely elegant. Barely restrained power coursed through each of his movements, even in the simple lifting of a tankard to his mouth. He could probably take one of these chairs and break it in half if he truly wished to.
He was a rather magnificent specimen. If her interest was anatomy and not entomology, she might have been tempted to preserve his body for future study, to slice into the skin and see how those overlarge muscles were formed.
As it was, she admired the incredible width of his palm around the tankard handle surreptitiously, underneath her eyelashes.
No, the men she was acquainted with weren’t made like this, at all.
“Good ale,” he commented.
She jumped, avoided his gaze, and took a drink from her own tankard. She swallowed too quickly and coughed, which seemed to amuse him.
“What should we do next?” he said idly, that amused tilt never quite leaving his lips. “Visit a brothel, perhaps?”
She felt the blood drain from her face. “A brothel?” she squeaked.
“It sounds like just the thing. It will be a bonding experience, between men.”
Did men truly visit brothels with their friends? This news was alarming, to say the least. “I…I am not that sort of man!” she said, hoping she sounded more indignant than frightened.
“Ah, a virgin, then?” MacGregor said wisely.
She didn’t answer. She felt her face burning. Her whole body was burning, really.
“There’s no time like the present to fix that. I’m sure we can find you a gentle enough woman to introduce you to the ways of love.”
“Sir!”
“Are you waiting for someone special? A genteel lady whose heart flutters at the mere sight of a stag beetle?”
Was he mocking her? She felt like she was being mocked, and she didn’t think she liked it. “And what if I am? Tis better to be too discriminate than be as indiscriminate as…as a tomcat!”
Instead of looking offended, MacGregor grinned. “Oh, keep your wig on, Townsend. I’m only jesting. I’ve never met a man who was so offended by the mere thought of a brothel.”
Oh dear…had she blundered? Was he suspicious? Was it too late to pretend she loved brothels? Or would that make him reissue the offer in earnestness?
To distract herself—and end their conversation—she took a long swig of ale, but this time she was prepared, and she didn’t end up coughing.
She wiped off her mouth with the back of her hand in what she assumed was a manly fashion. “Very good.”
MacGregor laughed softly, a deep sound that caused another little twinge in her stomach.
Truthfully, the ale wasn’t as bad as she’d been expecting, though she still preferred wine.
“This is the best alehouse in the Old Town,” he said.
She tried to puzzle him out. He dressed like a rich man but frequented alehouses in one of the poorer sections of Edinburgh?
“Are you a gentleman of leisure?” she asked bluntly, though she was almost certain he was not.
“I’m a pugilist. A prizefighter for several years.”
Prizefighting was technically illegal, but that didn’t stop it from being a popular sport. She wasn’t that surprised to find it had been his profession, given his size and broken nose, and the arrogance that seemed to wrap around him like a second skin.
“I’m mostly done with competition, though. Now I run a saloon to teach the craft.”
“It does well?”
“Very well,” he said. “Pugilism is a popular hobby among gentlemen.”
“But you are interested in entomology as well?”
“Oh, not at all,” he said blithely, leaning back. His chair creaked again.
“Then why were you at today’s meeting?”
“I was interested in meeting the Earl of Lark.”
She was starting to feel like she was stepping into something she didn’t understand. “Why?”
“I wish to marry his daughter.”
She snorted.
“What?”
“More than one man in Edinburgh wishes to marry the Earl of Lark’s daughter, I’m sure. She’s beautiful and graceful and really quite kind. But that also means she has no lack of suitors.”
“You don’t think I stand a chance?”
“You…”
“Yes?” he said, still smiling. For such a large, forbidding-looking man, he smiled a lot. It was a bit unnerving. But perha
ps he meant it to be.
“Forgive my honesty, but I’ve never even heard your name mentioned in polite Society. I doubt very much that the Earl of Lark wants his daughter to marry a pugilist. Wealth can help, certainly, but it isn’t always enough. And why would she want to marry you?”
“A good question. Though I think I’d like the chance to court her. I’m positive I’m twice as exciting as any of her current suitors.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.” Eleanor found herself reaching for more ale as she spoke. “How will you even meet her? You don’t frequent the same circles.”
“But you do.”
“Why do you assume that?” she asked quickly, remembering that she was only supposed to be a distant relative of the Earl of Arden, not an intimate.
“You said, ‘She’s beautiful and graceful and really quite kind.’”
“Did I?”
“You can’t take it back now. I know you’re acquainted with her.”
“I’m not going to introduce a pugilism instructor to the Earl of Lark’s daughter,” she said. “It would be unusual, to say the least. And I don’t even know you, sir. I can’t vouch for your character.”
“My character isn’t very good, I’m afraid. I swear too much. I speak too bluntly. I was never taught how to behave around a lady. But you can help me with that. And then you can bring me into your circle. And then I’ll take care of the rest.”
She stiffened at his command. “Why should I do a thing like that?”
He tilted his head. “Did I mention you have a lovely voice?”
Everything inside her turned to ice. She realized, too late, that she’d been so focused on their conversation she hadn’t been disguising her voice. He watched her with open amusement, like a cat watching a mouse scurrying for safety when it knew the creature couldn’t escape. He watched her as though he enjoyed seeing her flounder. For an instant, she almost hated him.
As though he could read her thoughts, he said, “I knew after the lecture. You did slip just now, but I already knew.”
“Knew what?” she forced herself to ask, even though her throat felt too thick to speak.
