Summer of Scandal

by Syrie James

  No. No. No. It was a bad idea to let her inside his shop—to spend any time alone with her. And it wasn’t as if he could spell out the reason why. “Sorry. That might work for you, Miss Atherton, but not for me.”

  To his dismay, she plunked down on the path at his feet.

  “What are you doing? You will mess your white gown.”

  “I don’t care. I have nowhere else I need to be. I am happy to sit here all afternoon long if necessary. And the nights are warm.”

  “You cannot be serious.”

  “I have never been more serious in my life.”

  Charles shook his head in disbelief. “You are never going to leave until you have your way, are you?”

  “No.” She gave him a determined smile.

  Charles heaved a sigh. He could not very well leave her out here, camped on his doorstep. Well, he’d just have to keep his distance from her and be on his best behavior. He opened the door, allowing her access to the building. “Very well, Miss Atherton. But do not say I didn’t warn you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  As Madeleine stepped inside the cavernous space, her senses were immediately struck by the scents of metal and machine oil.

  It took a moment for her eyes to grow accustomed to the change in lighting from the bright outdoors. When she was able to see properly again, she couldn’t prevent a small gasp.

  She’d been expecting an artisan’s studio. A table heaped with wire, boxes of clockwork pieces, maybe a few sculptures in progress.

  There were boxes of wire and clockwork pieces, but no sculptures that she could see. Because this wasn’t the studio of an artist.

  It was the workshop of an inventor.

  The barn must have been modernized, because it had a floor of hardwood planks and the walls were finished and whitewashed. Scads of machines and tools, whose purposes she couldn’t even begin to imagine, were set up around the room. They looked like the kinds of things she’d seen when she’d visited a machine shop owned by her father. A series of scattered gas lamps shed light on a dozen or more long tables in the large, open space. Everywhere were boxes overflowing with wood pieces and metal parts. The tables held innumerable devices that appeared to be in various stages of construction. Things made of wood. Metal. Wire. Fabric. Cardboard. Tubing. Along with stacks of drawings and endless piles of scribbled notes.

  “As I mentioned, it is rather a mess.” Saunders had removed his apron and was washing his hands at a nearby basin.

  “It’s not. It is amazing.” Madeleine shook her head in wonderment. “I thought you were a sculptor or an artist. But that’s not true, is it? You’re an inventor.”

  He shrugged lightly. “I aspire to be.”

  “How long have you been coming here?”

  “About ten years. I had a small workshop on our own grounds when I was younger. But on my fourteenth birthday, Father demolished it. I tried to give up the practice, but found I could not. So, in time, I found . . . other accommodations.”

  “You mother and sisters seem to know about it, although they won’t admit it.”

  “They know I have a shop. I have never disclosed its location. The only people who know are the farmer who rents me this building and his wife, who keeps me fed.”

  A potbelly stove stood by a far wall, beside a small table where Madeleine guessed he must take his meals. Glancing up, she noticed that the barn’s former hayloft had been remodeled into a pristine living space, reachable by a set of stairs. She spied a bed covered in a heap of quilts. “You sleep here?”

  “At times.”

  An image infiltrated her brain of Lord Saunders, splayed out on the bed, naked except for a narrow bit of sheet draped over his private parts. The mental picture made her cheeks flame. Stop it, Madeleine.

  “Sleeping here allows me to work without interruption,” Saunders was saying, “and reinforces the illusion that I am away.”

  His glance met hers.

  “In Truro,” they said in unison. They both laughed.

  “So whenever you want to work, you tell your family that you’re visiting your friend Leonard?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you even have a friend called Leonard?”

  His green eyes twinkled as he gave her sidelong grin. “No. I invented him.”

  “Your stock in trade.” Madeleine smiled. “Did you perchance name your imaginary friend after Leonardo da Vinci?”

  He looked surprised. “An astute guess, Miss Atherton.”

  “It wasn’t a wild leap. Da Vinci was a brilliant inventor.”

  “Indeed he was.”

  Saunders tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers. The movement caught Madeleine’s eye, and her gaze lingered on his hands and forearms beneath his rolled-up sleeves. The memory of those hands touching her hands, her body, her face, swept through her like a lightning strike, reigniting the feelings he had inspired the one time he had kissed her.

  Madeleine averted her gaze. She wanted to smack herself. That kind of touching should never have happened. And she shouldn’t be thinking about it now.

  Clearing her throat, she crossed to the nearest table. It was covered with metal boxes about the size of a small loaf of bread. “What are you making here?”

  “I am trying to build a better battery.”

  Madeleine was fascinated. “Didn’t Alessandro Volta invent the first battery nearly a hundred years ago?”

  “Yes.” Saunders seemed impressed that she knew this. “But his had a host of problems, including a very short life. Scientists across the world have been working to improve it ever since. It is a long and laborious process. I need a battery that is not too large or too heavy to carry, and will provide power for a full day if possible.”

  “For any particular purpose?”

  “Yes. To power an electric lamp, to save lives.”

  “An electric lamp to save lives?” Madeleine considered that, suddenly understanding the motivation behind his project. “Oh! You are thinking of the mine.”

  “I am.”

  “Forgive me, I never got a chance to tell you how sorry I was to hear about the accident at Wheal Jenny.”

  “Thank you. And thank you for the help I hear you and your family gave to many of our workers afterward.”

  “You’re welcome.” Madeleine paused. “Tell me, Lord Saunders, if I understand this correctly. If a miner’s lamp were powered by a battery instead of an open flame, it wouldn’t be prone to explosion. And thus much safer.”

  “Exactly.” He glanced at her with appreciation in his eyes. She sensed that, despite his reluctance to admit her into his shop, he was pleased to have someone to share this side of himself with.

  “What an excellent notion.”

  “That is only part of my plan. Miners currently wear soft caps.” Saunders picked up a metal helmet, one of several prototypes. “I am designing a helmet that will protect the head, while providing direct illumination right where the man requires it.” He showed her the parts of the device. “This flexible cable attaches to the head lamp, then runs down to the battery pack on the miner’s belt.”

  “That’s ingenious. You must tell your father about this. It will benefit his workers. Surely, he’d be proud if he knew what you’ve accomplished.”

  “He would be the opposite of proud, Miss Atherton. You heard him. He loathes the very idea of a member of his family working with his hands. And I have accomplished nothing.” He plunked the device down onto the table with a sigh. “The infernal thing doesn’t work.”

  “But it will. Think of all the lives you’ll save when you do get it to work.”

  “Well. That is of course my hope.”

  She was about to say more on the subject, when she noticed the picture.

  Propped up against a box on the table, as if to allow optimum viewing, was a picture postcard. Dear God, it was a pornographic picture. Featuring a naked girl on a bicycle.

  Madeleine had heard of such pictures, although she’d never actua
lly seen one. The woman in the photograph was a dark-haired beauty, entirely nude, seated atop a bicycle festooned with floral garlands, her right foot resting atop the front wheel.

  Heat bloomed in Madeleine’s chest and rose to set her cheeks aflame. She was shocked. Yet at the same time, she couldn’t take her eyes away. Looking at the picture made her feel warm in other places, as well. Like her belly. And below.

  Lord Saunders, apparently noting the direction of her gaze and her reaction, quickly flipped the postcard upside down on the table with an unapologetic shrug. “I told you my shop is not a fit place to show a lady.”

  Madeleine forced herself to breathe and to look elsewhere. Her eyes, however, fell upon another, similar postcard propped up on the adjoining workbench. She couldn’t identify the precise details, but it was evidently of the same family.

  What kind of man collected nude pictures of women and decorated his workshop with them?

  This kind of man, apparently.

  A new awareness seemed to fill the air, as if the elements in the room had shifted. She was suddenly all too aware of being alone here with him. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. But no. He was behaving like a perfect gentleman. It was her mind that had been in the gutter.

  “Would you like to see what else I am working on?” His voice tore her from her thoughts.

  “I would.”

  They wandered from table to table, where Lord Saunders explained two other inventions he had in progress: a rudimentary dictation machine and a battery-powered teakettle.

  “I imagine there would be endless uses for that battery of yours, if you could make the power source last,” Madeleine noted.

  “Yes. Automobiles, for example.”

  “Automobiles?”

  “They are developing an automobile in Germany with an internal combustion engine, but I cannot help but think a battery-powered vehicle would be cleaner, quieter, and cheaper.”

  Each device he showed her was as intriguing as the last, and his passion for his craft was obvious.

  His passion for picture postcards was equally as obvious. Saunders politely turned each one over at their approach, but not before Madeleine had caught a glimpse of it. One card featured a photograph of a woman reclining on a chaise, clad in a transparent negligee and ropes of pearls. In another, a naked woman was draped against a fluted column, a serene expression on her face.

  The shock of them gradually wore off. Although Madeleine knew that such pictures were not respectable, from a purely artistic point of view, the manner in which the photographer had captured the naked female form was truly beautiful.

  Looking around the shop again, Madeleine said, “You really do all this work entirely on your own?”

  “More or less. I travel up to London frequently to attend lectures and meet with and get input from other scientists and inventors.”

  She stared at him. “Is that why you go to London? But . . . I’ve seen you at social events. And I heard . . .”

  “You have heard about my awful reputation?” Saunders gave her a teasing smile. “I recall you mentioning that on our drive from the train station. I have seen women from time to time in town, but not all that often, and it has never been my primary reason for going. I quite enjoy the rumors, though. They make it easier for me to disappear when I need to, with no questions asked.”

  Madeleine shook her head in amazement. Here she’d been holding his “reputation” against him, and it had never been true, just a ruse.

  She heard Alexandra’s words in her mind: I think him a good, decent man. It seemed that her sister was right. “It’s so unfair that you have to hide what you’re doing. All your inventions are worthy, and those mining helmets will save lives. When you do get them to work, how will you market them? I mean, if you’re not allowed to sell anything?”

  “I don’t know. I will cross that bridge when I come to it.”

  By now they had made their way to the far end of the shop. Madeleine’s gaze fell on two more tables, where at least a dozen small machines were displayed. A dash of excitement zinged through her. “Are those typewriters?”

  “They are.”

  Madeleine darted over to study the machines. Some of the typewriters looked to be factory-built. Others, which appeared handmade, were in various stages of development. “My father has a few Remington typewriters at his bank that are used for correspondence, but I’ve never tried one,” she said eagerly. “I have always thought it would be wonderful to have a machine like this for writing books. To better keep pace with my thoughts, and so that my fingers wouldn’t get ink-stained and my hands wouldn’t ache.”

  “I had the same idea. I purchased a Remington and a sample of every other machine currently being manufactured, so I could gauge the competition and see if I could improve them. They are still quite rudimentary.”

  “May I try one?”

  “Of course.” Saunders withdrew a blank piece of paper from a package and offered it to her.

  She crossed to the Remington machine. “How does the paper go in?”

  “Like so.” He moved in close behind her, reaching around with both arms to insert the page. Madeleine felt a flurry of sparks travel the length of her body as his arms came into contact with hers and his hard frame pressed up against her back. He turned a lever, rolling the paper into place in the machine.

  Her breath caught in her throat. “Now what?”

  “Now type something.”

  Saunders didn’t alter his position. Instead, his hands came to rest on the edge of the tabletop on either side of her, cocooning her as if in his embrace. Her heart started skittering like raindrops on a roof. Madeleine knew she ought to tell him to step back, that it wasn’t proper for him to be standing so close.

  Instead, she looked down at the keys, struggling to focus. “What a strange keyboard. Why aren’t the letters arranged alphabetically?”

  “Early keyboards were alphabetical,” he answered, his breath warm against her ear, “but the keys kept jamming. So manufacturers changed the layout. They call this the QWERTY keyboard. It is deliberately designed to slow typists down, placing letters that are often pressed in a sequence as far away from each other as possible.”

  “Oh. I see.” Madeleine tapped a key with her right index finger. The type bar lifted upward toward the paper, but fell back without making contact.

  “Try again,” Saunders encouraged. “You have to strike firmly.”

  Madeleine tried again, this time hitting the key more forcefully. It banged against the black inked ribbon with a satisfying thwack.

  “Excellent. Keep going.”

  Madeleine continued, forcing herself to concentrate on the activity at hand, and not on the sensations zigzagging through her as his body pressed intimately against hers. Striking the letter keys firmly, she tapped out the first thing that came to mind:

  “The typewriter is a fascinating machine and this is an interesting exercise.”

  A bell dinged as she neared the end of the page. She glanced up and was about to press on the return lever, when something caught her attention. “I can’t see the sentence I just typed.”

  “Every typewriter is like that. The text, when typed, is covered by the platen. But it becomes visible when you return the carriage.” He hit the return lever, causing the paper to scroll up and bring into view the line she had just typed.

  “Why is it built that way?”

  “It is the only arrangement anyone has been able to come up with for the type bars.”

  “You ought to change that.”

  “Ought I?”

  “Yes.” He was behind her and all around her. Her blood sizzled in her veins. “It is a strange design. Like writing with your eyes closed.”

  “Hmm. An intriguing suggestion, Miss Atherton.” His cheek was nearly touching her own cheek now. “I shall have to take it into consideration.”

  She held her breath, her heart hammering so loudly in her chest she could barely think. She felt
his breath hot against the sensitive skin at the side of her throat. His lips now brushed the hair at the nape of her neck, where he lingered with a gentle touch that was like the promise of a kiss.

  Madeleine felt as if she might implode. Through a haze of desire, she was aware that she wanted him to kiss her there. She wanted more than that. So much more. She slowly turned within the circle of his arms until their faces were almost touching.

  Their eyes met. His were alight with a kind of fire. His gaze traveled down to her lips and rested there. She longed to feel those lips, once more, against her own. She sensed that he longed for the same. He dipped his head. His mouth was millimeters from making contact with hers, when there came a sudden, sharp, staccato sound.

  “Damn it,” Lord Saunders exclaimed, releasing her.

  The loss of contact was a jarring blow. It took a moment for the intrusion to sufficiently infiltrate Madeleine’s brain to be recognizable as a knock. On the front door.

  Lord Saunders answered it. Madeleine remained in the far corner of the shop, out of sight from the doorway. From the conversation that ensued, she understood that it was the farmwife delivering Saunders’s dinner. Had she seen Madeleine pass by and enter the shop? Was she aware that Madeleine was still here? A twinge of embarrassment gripped her.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Smith.” Saunders gratefully accepted a tray of food. The woman left. Setting the tray on a table, he crossed back to Madeleine. “Sorry.”

  She wasn’t sure what he was sorry for—the interruption, or the fact that he’d almost kissed her. Which was she sorry for? Both, she realized suddenly. “I’d better go.”

  He nodded but looked regretful. An awkward silence fell as he walked her to the door.

  “Thank you for the tour,” Madeleine said finally. “I loved seeing what you’re working on.”

  “It was nice to have someone to share it with,” he admitted. “I appreciate what you said about the typewriter.”

  “When do you plan to come home?” she asked, then immediately regretted saying it. It shouldn’t matter to her if or when he decided to come home.

  “In a day or two.” Parting a shutter, he peered out. “The coast is clear.”