by Lenora Bell
Men hurried about with soot-blackened faces, feeding coal and wood furnaces. Bricklayers constructed walls for new outbuildings. There was a bustle of activity and noise.
“What is that enormous hammer protruding from the building?” shouted Lady Augusta over the chaos. “It almost seems alive, as though it could break free and crush us all.”
The gigantic black iron hammer surged upward and then descended, pausing for a moment at the bottom with a sigh and a groan before continuing upward again.
“A Watt steam engine,” replied the duke. “Fry of Bristol was the first to install one more than ten years ago. It harnesses steam power to grind the cocoa and will take the place of twenty men.”
“All that power.” Lady Augusta shuddered. “Are you sure you can control it?”
“Men built it, men control it.”
Lady Vivienne lifted her hem to step over a pile of horse dung, wrinkling her nose, while Lady Augusta eyed one of the strapping young bricklayers working nearby.
“How many acres do you have here, Your Grace?” asked the countess, coming to stand next to Charlene.
“Fourteen hundred or so. Banbury Hall was the only existing structure.”
Charlene wasn’t concerned that he wouldn’t meet her eye. She understood now that it was a promising sign when he avoided her. She’d seen the longing in his eyes when he’d handed her the apple, and again after Alice’s precipitous departure.
The flare of heat, the desperation.
He wanted her. As much as she wanted him.
Charlene had been sorry to see Alice go. She’d grown fond of her bizarre pronouncements and marriage-avoiding machinations. Too bad Lady Vivienne hadn’t left instead. She was the biggest threat to Charlene’s success.
Charlene surveyed the scene with interest. So many of the working girls in Covent Garden started as child laborers, then turned to selling themselves because of paltry wages and appalling conditions. She was glad to have the chance to view the inside of a manufactory and see the conditions firsthand.
An elderly man with a shock of white hair that matched his white coat bustled to meet them.
“Ladies, my chemist, Mr. Van Veen,” said the duke. “He came all the way from Amsterdam to help me find a method for taking away some of the natural bitterness of cocoa to produce a milder, sweeter drink.”
Mr. Van Veen’s watery blue eyes crinkled, and he bowed over and over, like a windmill. “My ladies, such an honor. Such an honor.”
“Will you give us the tour?” the duke asked.
“With pleasure. This way, please, ladies.” Van Veen led the way through the doorway and up a flight of stairs.
Lord Dalton settled into step beside Charlene at the back of the group. He leaned down to speak in her ear so the countess wouldn’t hear them. “I must say, Lady Dorothea, you have hidden depths.”
She searched his face as they continued down a long corridor. Best to remain silent until he explained himself.
“All those nights hovering on the edges of ballrooms with the wallflowers. I hardly noticed you at all. And now this.” He winked. “Hidden depths.”
Charlene smiled, relieved that he still believed her ruse. “Thank you, Lord Dalton.”
“My money’s on you,” he said. “Don’t disappoint me now.”
“What do you mean?”
“All of London is placing wagers, waiting with bated breath to see which one of you Harland chooses.”
Drat. The countess wouldn’t like the notoriety. “How do you know?”
“I had a letter from a friend at the club. Seems the bets are flying fast and furious.” He patted her arm. “You’re not going to become faint-hearted, are you? When you’re so close to winning your duke? I’ll do what I can to help. You can rely on me.”
He winked again.
He was handsome, with those mischievous, deep blue eyes and that thick, burnished hair, and his shoulders were nearly as broad as the duke’s, but Lord Dalton’s hand on her arm didn’t make her feel anything. No mad urge to lick his chest. No palpitating.
The duke’s wide shoulders led them into a room at the far end of the corridor. It was quieter here.
“This is the winnowing room,” he said. “Here the roasted cocoa beans are shelled and readied for grinding. We only have a small operation now, as you can see, but soon there will be room for more winnowers in the new hall.”
It was a large, open room, obviously the old hall’s kitchens, with ten young girls seated at low wooden tables.
The duke nodded to a tall, heavyset man with a bulbous nose, who was overseeing the winnowers. The man swept off his brown hat and bowed.
The winnowers were young girls dressed in white pinafore aprons and white frilled caps, industriously cracking and rolling what Charlene recognized as the same beans the duke had shown her last night.
She tried smiling at one of them, a thin girl with long brown hair plaited in braids, but she only ducked her head back to her work. She couldn’t be more than fifteen.
Charlene took an instant dislike to the foreman with the bulbous, pockmarked nose when she caught him staring at her chest. She’d seen that appraising stare too many times at the Pink Feather.
The duke ran his hand through the beans on one of the tables, bending down to breathe in the aroma. “I’m eager to bring some of our new drinking chocolate formula back to Trinidad so the cocoa farmers can taste it. They will be so pleased.”
He wasn’t doing all of this for the money, that was certain. So why was he doing it?
She remembered the reverent quality in his voice when he’d described the dense forest where the cocoa beans grew. She could picture him on his farm in the West Indies. He’d be in shirtsleeves and breeches, the sun bronzing his skin and taking some of the shadows out of his eyes.
He helped nurture the trees, growing the finest cocoa, his dream to make drinking chocolate affordable for the masses. It was his way of being useful, and different from his father.
Affordable chocolate was certainly something Charlene could approve of, since she’d never been able to indulge in the expensive luxury.
“And here we have the experimentation chamber, where Van Veen reigns supreme,” the duke said, placing his hand on Mr. Van Veen’s shoulder as they entered the next room.
Van Veen rubbed his hands together. “These vats are full of our new formula, ladies.”
The copper vats steamed and hissed, giving off a rich chocolate smell. It made Charlene remember the duke’s kiss in the kitchens.
Her heart simmered like the cocoa solution bubbling in the vats. She stole a glance at the duke. Their eyes met and he quickly turned away.
A frisson of anticipation loped down her spine. Tonight she would taste him again.
“What will you call your drinking chocolate?” Lady Vivienne asked.
“I haven’t found a suitable name yet.”
“Perhaps Van Veen’s Cocoa? You wouldn’t want your family name associated with commerce, I’m sure.”
The duke frowned. He was about to answer, when Lady Augusta interrupted. “This frothing stuff is cocoa?” She bent to peer into a copper vat. “May I have a taste? I take a cup of Fry and Hunt’s cocoa every morning.”
“Please have a care, my lady,” exclaimed Mr. Van Veen. “You mustn’t touch! You’ll be scalded.”
The duke took one of the round cakes of dried cocoa stacked on a table and broke off a small piece. “You may sample this if you like, Lady Augusta, even though it would be much better when dissolved with milk and sugar and heated.”
Lady Augusta nibbled on the grainy bit of chocolate. Her tongue snaked out to capture a stray fleck. She placed a hand on her cheek, as if quite overcome. “Oh my. How delightful. May I take some home with me?”
“Of course,” the duke said. “You’ll all leave with a s
upply of my cocoa.”
How magnanimous. A cold comfort for the girls he didn’t choose. Charlene planned to leave with a duke.
Well, Lady Dorothea would leave with a duke.
And Charlene would have to save up her money and buy a tin of his chocolate if she wanted to taste his lips again.
The party moved to the next room to view the steam-powered cocoa press. Charlene took the opportunity to duck back into the winnowing room, just for one minute. She wanted to talk to the girls, ask them about their lives. Then she’d rejoin the group.
She lingered outside the winnowing room door, watching, unseen. The overseer bent down and whispered into the ear of the girl with the long brown plaits. She shrank away, shaking her head. He grabbed one of her braids, bending her small head backward in his powerful grip, reaching down her bodice with his other hand.
Hot rage gripped Charlene.
“Take your hands off her!” she shouted, striding into the room.
The overseer snatched his hand away and snapped upright. “You should stay with the duke, milady.” He leered at her. “Wouldn’t want to get lost now. All by yourself. You could trip on something.”
Was that a threat? Charlene took a deep breath. This was probably going to become ugly. “You have no business touching these girls, sir. They are under your trust and care.”
His large nose advanced. “Go back to your friends now, milady. This isn’t your concern.”
Charlene stood her ground. “You are my concern. Any man who abuses his power is my concern. Now apologize to . . . what’s your name, dear?” she asked the brown-haired girl.
The girl shook her head and continued winnowing, mute and unresponsive.
The overseer glared down at Charlene, every individual crater on his nose visible.
All the tension of the past days stoked the fire of her fury. “You’ll apologize to this girl, sir, or I’ll use your bollocks for bells until you beg for mercy.”
His eyes bulged. He only stopped himself from an angry retort because she was dressed as a fine lady. “You’d best leave now, milady.”
Charlene was accustomed to bullies. Men who thought of girls as nothing but property and playthings. Her stomach churned.
The girls watched, stealing surreptitious glances at the scene unfolding in their workplace. Charlene had to be strong for them, and show them that females could defend themselves. She craned her neck back and shoved down her revulsion.
“You’re such a big, strong man.” She made her voice soft and suggestive. She ran her gloved finger lightly down his cheek.
He hesitated, unaccustomed to ladies in fine muslin touching him. “Er . . .”
“A strapping fellow such as yourself . . .” She smiled and skimmed the grayish edge of his neck cloth, searching for the right grip. “ . . . do you really need to show your power over these small little girls?”
“Smith!” The duke’s deep voice boomed into the room like a cannon blast.
The overseer jerked away from Charlene, staring with dismay at the duke. “Your Grace.”
“I’ve been in the exact situation you find yourself in now, Smith, and whatever you have done to incur this lady’s wrath, I assure you it’s not worth the punishment she will inflict.”
Smith stared at the duke, then at Charlene.
The duke strode into the center of the room, tall and menacing.
“Is there a problem here?” he asked Charlene.
Charlene glanced at the brown-haired girl, who was still feverishly working, her thin hands dexterously shedding husks, not daring to lift her eyes. Charlene pulled the duke aside, out of hearing of the girls. “I caught Smith with his hand down one of their bodices.”
The duke’s eyes darkened. “Smith,” he roared. “Come here.”
Smith skulked toward them, crushing the felt hat he held in his hands. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“I hear you were handling one of my employees.”
Smith swallowed. “I was only teaching her how to winnow.”
“Wrong.”
Smith took a step backward. “But she’s an indolent girl, she needed me to teach her.”
“Wrong again.” The duke’s voice was as cold as a January wind and sent shivers down Charlene’s spine.
Smith’s face went white. Even his ruddy nose turned as pale as the inside of a radish. “Now see here, I wasn’t doing anything wrong. She’s a lazy girl. She needed a lesson.”
The duke flicked a finger toward the door. “You’re discharged. Gather your things and leave.”
The winnowers stared, mouths agape. Charlene caught the brown-haired girl’s eye and gave her an encouraging smile.
Smith clenched his huge hands into fists. “Now let’s not be hasty, Your Grace. Let’s talk this through like gentlemen.”
As tall and big as Smith was, the duke was taller. And he had the advantage of intellect.
Before Charlene took another breath, the duke caught Smith by the collar and lifted him a full inch off the floor. The overseer scrabbled at the duke’s fingers, attempting to loosen his hold but encountering nothing but unyielding granite.
“You’re no gentleman.” The duke shook Smith by the neck like a fox toying with a field mouse. Smith’s eyes bulged and his feet kicked the floor.
“If I ever hear of you entering these premises again, I’ll have you arrested,” the duke said. “Or I’ll kill you. Probably I’ll kill you.”
Now Charlene understood how he’d come by the title of His Disgrace. He didn’t look anything like a proper peer right now, with his muscles straining and murder in his eyes.
She wouldn’t have been surprised to see his image on a tavern wall, stripped to the waist and advertised as England’s reigning bare knuckle heavyweight champion.
Smith’s mouth opened but no words emerged.
“What was that?” the duke asked, shaking him again.
“I-I’m leaving,” Smith squeaked.
The duke thrust him away, and Smith caught the edge of a table to keep from falling. He lurched toward the door.
The duke approached the brown-haired girl. “You there, what’s your name?”
The girl’s brown eyes widened. “R-Rosie, Your E-eminence.”
“Has Smith bothered you before?”
The girl’s eyes scrunched up and a tear slid down her cheek.
“You’re frightening her,” Charlene whispered. “She won’t talk to you. Let me try.”
“Rosie?” Charlene asked.
“Yes, your ladyship?”
An older girl with the same brown hair and eyes nudged Rosie. “Curtsy to ’er ladyship,” she whispered.
Rosie stood and dropped a clumsy curtsy.
“Don’t be frightened,” Charlene said. This would work better if she could exchange her fine lavender muslin for plain worsted. They would trust her more then.
The other girls at the table watched closely as she stood next to Rosie and bent to examine the cocoa beans heaped on the table. “How old are you?”
“Fifteen, your ladyship.”
“And how many hours do you work every day?”
“Fourteen I reckon, your ladyship.”
“And your pay?”
“Three bob a week, milady.”
Charlene squeezed a cocoa bean until the husk crumbled into dust between her fingers.
Another tear slid down the girl’s cheek. “Please don’t send us away. We need the work, milady.”
Charlene raised her head and spoke loud enough for all the girls to hear. “None of you will lose your place. There’s no fear of that.” She took Rosie’s hand. “You can talk to me. Don’t be afraid. Did Mr. Smith touch you often?”
She looked around at the other girls. The older girl nodded at Rosie. “You can tell the truth.”
&
nbsp; Rosie’s lower lip trembled, and her gaze found the pile of beans in front of her. “Yes, milady, ’e touched us. But nothing more . . . so far.”
Charlene’s stomach sank into her boots, and she bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.
“ ’E’s rotten to the core, that one,” the older girl said.
“I’m so sorry,” said Charlene. What an inadequate thing to say.
There was nothing to say that would make the situation any less heartbreaking. She squeezed Rosie’s hand. “We have to leave now, but please don’t worry. Smith will never be back.” She turned to the duke, who’d been watching the exchange with thunderclouds in his eyes.
The duke nodded grimly. “I’ll find a female overseer and conduct an investigation. The salary they mentioned is lower than the one I authorized. Smith was probably pocketing the remainder. Back wages will be restored.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Rosie said, her eyes lighting with a happy spark. “That will be most welcome.”
The duke was silent as they left the room. Charlene waited for him to say something, to apologize, but he only strode swiftly, so that she had to hurry to keep up, his back ramrod straight, his face set into harsh lines.
Outside in the corridor, he backed her against the wall. “What do you think you were doing sneaking off like that? Given your record, you could have fallen into a vat of cocoa and been scalded to death. I was worried.”
So much for an apology. Charlene stuck out her chin. “I needed some air and tried to find my way outside.”
“Don’t lie to me.” He flattened his hands against the wall, bracketing her face.
Charlene stayed motionless, listening to her own breathing. It made one’s opponent commit errors.
“Admit it.” He leaned in until his face was inches away. “You wanted to prove me wrong.”
She smiled. Another effective technique. “And it worked, didn’t it? Three shillings a week? Do you call that a fair wage for skilled work?”
“I told you that wasn’t the contract I approved.”
“When was the last time you did an inspection to ascertain if your precious contract was being honored? I thought your manufactory would be more humane, yet I find these girls hunching over tables fourteen hours a day, subjected to harassment and low pay.”
