For that reason, she would curtsey to the gauche Americans as if they were Prinny himself.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “Welcome to our home.”
By the time Benedict had worked up the nerve to join his guests in the drawing room before dinner, all but Wildeforde and his mother had arrived.
Even from a distance, he could tell Amelia was annoyed at his tardiness—he’d said he’d be down directly, and that had been more than a half hour ago.
Trying to hide his discomfort, he strode toward her in long, confident steps, acknowledging those he passed with a quick nod.
They were staring at him. They might be trying to disguise it behind their fans, or a drink, or by looking into the long mirror against the wall, but he felt every glance burn through his jacket.
He’d been turned into a zoo animal. He could picture the sign: HALF-BRED BUSINESSMAN TURNED SOON-TO-BE PEER. NATURAL HABITAT: NOT A DAMNED DRAWING ROOM.
However annoyed Amelia was at his tardiness, she let it go as he neared, her brows furrowing in concern. She took his hand and pressed a quick kiss to his knuckles—a very forward gesture in front of guests, and exactly what he needed. His chest relaxed slightly.
“Mr. Asterly.” The misses Grunt dipped into perfect curtseys, deep enough that light bounced off their diamond necklaces. In all other ways they were perfectly demure, but it was clear to anyone who looked what the two girls were offering. And what they were after in return.
Benedict executed a quick bow, and by the time he’d looked up, Amelia was well into her conquer-through-charm assault on Grunt and Harcombe, leaving him alone to deal with the two debutantes.
The eldest was exquisite. Her black hair against her pale skin gave her an almost otherworldly look. Her facial structure was perfectly symmetrical, her lips rosy—although he suspected not without the help of some paint—and her golden eyes arresting. And sharp. Taking in everything around her.
Her sister, Miss Eliza Grunt, was less—everything. Pretty but not striking. A participant, not predator.
The girls smiled at him expectantly, and he realized he had no idea how to talk to young women. Twelve-year-olds? Sure. His wife? Absolutely. A female engineer? One hundred percent. But debutantes?
“I, uh, I hope everything is to your liking.” He looked around for someone to save him. Right now he’d even take one of the coxcombs Amelia had invited.
From the side of the room, he caught Peter smirking in his livery, clearly enjoying his employer’s distress. What Benedict would give to be a footman and not a host this evening.
“Are you enjoying London?” he asked the girls.
“It’s a lovely experience,” Miss Grunt said. “But it’s a pleasure to visit the country to spend time with such distinguished persons.” Her smile was smooth, gentle, and as fake as the diamonds around her neck were real.
“It’s a pleasure to be somewhere I can breathe,” the younger Grunt muttered. Benedict decided that, if he had to sit next to either of them at dinner, he hoped it was her. He gave the girl an encouraging smile, which was met by an utterly bland one in response.
Devil help him. He’d give one hundred quid to whoever got him out of this conversation.
He looked over at his wife, who was smiling and laughing. She playfully batted Harcombe on the shoulder with her fan, and the man turned deep red.
Help was not coming from that quarter.
He turned back to the debutantes to find Miss Grunt’s eyes alight and fixed at a point over his shoulder.
Behind him, Greenhill cleared his throat. “Their Graces the Duke and Duchess of Wildeforde and the right honorable Earl and Countess of Karstark.”
The energy in the room shifted—not that his guests would notice. But his staff? They went tense. Peter didn’t hide his anger, his lips pursed and jaw set.
Hairs stood up on the back of Benedict’s neck, and the chatter in the room suddenly sounded much farther away. It took a second for him to remember to breathe.
What were the Karstarks doing here?
He turned to Amelia, who gave him a barely perceptible don’t-ask-me shrug before going to greet the new arrivals.
Agatha Karstark looked even more ancient than she had a month ago. She wore a three-foot powdered wig—perhaps that was how she hid her horns—and a red, wide-skirted dress that looked more like a costume than a dress of today. The powder on her face had settled into the creases, creating a ghoulish effect.
Lord Karstark looked much the same as he had that night that he’d manipulated Benedict into this marriage—small and frail, but it was a façade. Karstark didn’t need a physical advantage to take advantage of others. He had power and money, which was enough to cow the young women unfortunate enough to work for him. They never lasted in his employ long.
Benedict looked over at Peter, who was tracking Karstark’s movements. His sister had worked for them a few months back, and it had not ended well. She was still reluctant to be alone and was skittish in the company of any man.
Peter needed watching tonight.
Benedict stretched his jaw. “Excuse me for a moment, ladies,” he said to the Grunt sisters. Taking a deep breath, he stalked toward the foursome at the entryway.
He would tell them to leave. With any luck, they’d refuse. Then he would grab Karstark by his breeches and toss him out the door.
Except he couldn’t, because Amelia got there before him, and instead of throwing them out, she curtseyed.
“Your Graces,” Amelia said to Wildeforde and his mother.
Benedict wondered if he were the only one in the room that noticed the slight tightening of her lips as she paid deference to her ex-fiancé.
Turning to the Karstarks, she said, “It’s a pleasure to see you both again.”
All eyes turned to him.
He wouldn’t bow. Not in his home. Not to these people.
It didn’t go unnoticed. Lord Karstark smirked, as if Benedict had just proved him right on some front.
Lady Wildeforde tut-tutted. “Benedict, stubborn boy. You’re taller again. You’re putting a crick in my neck.”
It was the same welcome he’d received from her every time they’d met during his youth—always accompanied by a disapproving inspection. She’d made it repeatedly clear that he was not the friend she wanted for her son.
How he hated these people.
“Agatha, why are we here?” Karstark asked his wife loudly.
“I believe you’re satisfying your wife’s need to know everyone’s business,” Benedict said. A murmur rippled through the room.
Damn these people. If they weren’t going to try for civility, neither would he. Who showed up to a dinner without an invitation?
“My love…” Amelia’s tone was honeyed but her eyes flinty. Whatever their shared opinion of the Karstarks, it was clear they did not share a strategy for dealing with them. Her glare was as clear a warning as he was going to get.
“What a surprise to have you join us,” his wife said to them. “I’ll arrange some extra seating, though we may be a touch squashed.”
Lady Karstark sniffed. “To save you the surprise, girl, we’ll be here every night.”
The only thing that got Benedict through a dinner having to watch the Karstarks eating and talking and laughing as if they were at home in his home was to focus on the plan. The reason he’d agreed to this bloody hunt in the first place.
This morning’s tour. The contract that would be signed after.
He had laid it all out. He would wake at country hours, meet Harcombe and Grunt in the foyer, and the three of them would visit the firm, where he would show them firsthand why they should contract his team to produce the engines that would run the trains between the coal fields of western Virginia to the port at Alexandria.
By the time the rest of the guests woke, the deal would be done, and he’d be able to disappear into his study for the remainder of the week.
The first hitch began before the day
even did. Nathaniel Bradenstock overheard him making plans with the Americans the night before and decided that it would be a smashing way to start the week. A real look at the other side of life.
He put the idea out to a group of puffed-up, pompous peacocks that had gathered in Benedict’s drawing room. One unwanted tagalong quickly became three, and it was decided among the guests that eight in the morning was frightfully early, and why didn’t they all leave at midday?
Which meant Benedict had all morning to work himself into a jumble of knots, questioning every part of the well-prepared presentation he needed to give. By the time the three coaches pulled up outside the workhouses, his hands were sweating and heart racing.
He fingered the ribbon in his waistcoat pocket. Amelia had given it to him that morning, along with a kiss full of confidence. Her absolute faith in him had the opposite effect to what she’d intended. It just added to the number of people he could let down today.
Oliver was standing outside. Benedict had sent Charlie to the firm in the morning to let them know of the change in time and the additional visitors.
Oliver had taken note and looked as clean as Benedict had ever seen him in a white shirt, brown breeches, and jacket. The foreman was usually covered in grease and soot—everything a shade of grey, regardless of what color it started out as. The fresh shirt showed how seriously he took this visit.
“Oliver.” Benedict shook his hand, and then introduced him to the guests.
Lord Bradenstock was as curious and enthusiastic today as he’d been when he arrived. He’d come somewhat prepared, in a plain coat and old boots that had clearly known hard work. Amelia had said the earl was dedicated to his estates. The worn patches on the boots increased Benedict’s opinion of the man.
The two popinjays that had joined him were another case altogether. They were dressed in colored silk tailcoats entirely unsuited to visiting a work site. They had pomade in their hair and sweet-smelling perfume on their elaborately tied cravats.
They shrank back when Oliver approached. Benedict didn’t blame them. Plenty of men shied away from Benedict’s presence, and Oliver made Benedict feel diminutive.
“My lords.” The foreman’s tone was stiff and formal. “If you would come this way.”
The two colorful lads held kerchiefs to their noses and exchanged nervous glances, as if realizing this might not be the lark they were expecting. Benedict couldn’t help looking at their white pantaloons and grinning.
Grunt and Harcombe were unfazed by the firm or its foreman. They had worked their entire lives and were no doubt more comfortable here than back at the house.
The firm was a hive of activity as his team worked on what would be the second engine.
Nathaniel and his friend stood stock still near the entrance to the room, wincing at each clang of a hammer on metal. More than one worker went out of his way to jostle them as they walked past, leaving smears of dirt and sweat on their perfect jackets. There had been a different energy in the firm since the Karstarks had announced the clearances, and today it was palpable.
Jeremy, his recalcitrant stoker, spilled an entire barrow of coal at the boys’ feet. “Sorry, m’lords,” he said, sniggering as they jumped back, horrified.
“Move along, Jeremy.” Oliver put himself between the coxcombs and those who were looking at the party with undisguised disdain. His opinion of the two might not have differed from everyone else’s, but he knew what rested on today’s visit and would keep the men in line.
Grunt returned from having done a quick solo inspection of the building. “Looks like a very well-oiled operation,” he said. “Workspaces laid out for maximum efficiency. Clever.”
“My wife,” Benedict said. “She looks gentle but has the organized ruthlessness of a general. She tends to make things run better.”
“You’re a lucky man then,” Grunt said.
Jeremy snorted. “Sticks her bloody nose in,” he said, not to anyone in particular but loud enough to be heard above the din of the machines.
“I said get gone, lad,” Oliver barked. “Or you’ll find yourself scrubbing the floors until the second coming.”
Benedict could box Jeremy’s ears for making such comments—particularly in front of their guests. He’d been meaning to have a conversation with the boy about the consequences of the path he was going down but hadn’t had a spare moment in months.
“So where’s the engine?” Nathaniel asked.
“This way.” Benedict gestured to the rails that extended from the center of the building out through large wooden doors, which ran the width of the south wall. The test track ran in a three-mile circuit around the perimeter of Benedict’s estate.
Tessie, the reason they were all here, glinted in the sun twenty feet away. She’d been washed and polished, ready for inspection. The light caught on her brass trimmings, and he’d never felt prouder.
“We call her Ten-Tonne Tessie,” Benedict said as they walked toward it. “Although her actual weight with no additional wagons is closer to five tonnes.”
“And what makes her special?” Lord Bradenstock asked. “No offense intended.”
“She has a return flue boiler, and her cylinders concentrate on one drive shaft rather than two. Their vertical function makes it safer for the fireman. They don’t need to duck the piston rod in order to shovel coal into the firebox.”
His English guests looked at him blankly.
“More power and less chance of decapitation,” he said.
The young ones sniggered. “Do you think their blood would be red or black?”
“I’d rather be decapitated than spend my life shoveling coal.”
From the corner of his eye, Benedict saw the workers around them stiffen. A few shook their heads. One clenched his fists as if to take a swing.
The last thing he needed was an all-out brawl in front of the men they were hoping to be employed by. Oliver fixed each of his men with a glare and got them moving along with a small gesture.
“It’s no laughing matter,” Benedict said to his idiot guests. “Not to the families that have lost loved ones who were just trying to make a decent wage.”
The popinjays didn’t answer, just rolled their eyes.
“Flanged?” Grunt asked, bending over to run a finger over the cast-iron wheels. “We were planning to run a rack-and-pinion system. Can these be modified?”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t recommend it. In theory, the rack provides grip between the track and wheels. But in practice, there’s enough adhesion with smooth wheels—even in the wet—and it’s cheaper to produce and causes less wear. I’d suggest taking another look at your plans for the track.”
The Americans exchanged a glance Benedict couldn’t quite identify. Had he ruined his chances by criticizing their plans?
“We were hoping to see something…interesting,” Nathaniel said.
Benedict tried to ignore him and focus on the questions Harcombe was asking about the gear train and axle-load and the framing of the bogies. All things he knew like the back of his hand, but which he struggled to articulate with an audience of lords making snide remarks.
“Projected maintenance costs over a ten-year period?” Grunt asked as he examined the piston.
“Roughly one hundred—no, five hundred—pounds per annum using Trevithick’s train as a base and considering the decreased grinding to the gear train. Having one shaft—”
“What kinds of speeds is she getting?” Harcombe had a notepad out and was jotting down figures.
“She is the premier engine. She could make the trip between Boston and New York in—”
“In miles per hour, man. Give me the figures, not the story.”
Benedict struggled to get his thoughts to line up. He’d spent a week running through his pitch—the strengths and weaknesses, the financials, the social and economic benefits, his vision for the future. And now they were asking questions all out of order.
“The flue is smaller than others I’ve seen.
”
“The psi is higher. The additional pressure creates additional force.”
Grunt nodded and continued his inspection, getting close up to every part of the engine, even getting onto his back and shuffling underneath. He fired question after question, barely stopping to hear the answer.
Harcombe was just as thorough, if less chatty.
It was a full half an hour before the two of them stood in front of Benedict, dusting off their hands.
“Well, let’s see it work then.”
Benedict nodded at Jeremy, who glowered at the visitors and then climbed onto the platform in front of the firebox. The glowing red of the smoldering coals reflected against his leather tunic. He transferred a shovel of black rock from the tender to the boiler.
Heat billowed out. He stoked the flame with an iron rod, the added oxygen causing the fire to expand with a pop and crackle.
Benedict held his breath and waited for the piston to start moving, for the wheels to start turning.
And he waited.
There should be motion by now. Something. His heart started to race. The past year had all been leading to this moment. The Americans. Their contract.
Jeremy looked at Benedict uncertainly. With a cough, Benedict gestured toward the pile of coal.
Another shovelful on the fire. Another billow of heat. Steam shot from the chimney, but the wheels remained where they were.
Goddamn it.
They waited there in awkward silence for a full three minutes. Almost silence. The muttered comments from Nathaniel and his friend turned into giggles, turned into laughter. Then they started with a slow clap.
Benedict was tempted to shove them in the damn boiler.
Grunt and Harcombe looked at each other and then turned to Benedict. “Well, thank you for your time.” Harcombe slapped Benedict on the arm and turned away.
All the air rushed from his lungs, and the general noise of the firm disappeared behind a ringing in his ears. Benedict grabbed at Grunt’s arm. “No. Wait,” he choked.
Grunt’s expression was kind, if somewhat pitying. “I’ve been in this business for many years, lad. You’ll get there eventually. Progress is a succession of failures until it’s not.”
How to Survive a Scandal Page 22
