Therefore, Stephen had taken it upon himself to fill the days with as many distractions as possible. This far from London, he did not have access to his workroom at home, but that did not prevent him from turning his cousin’s castle into a makeshift temporary laboratory.
Stephen stood in the dungeon at the rear of the castle. An old trapdoor, positioned above his head, hadn’t been used in centuries. Over time, the door had been covered with soil and seedlings. Stephen had unearthed the portal out of boredom, his first week here. It was now wide open.
Sunlight streamed into the dungeon below. Footmen clamored around the opening, taking delivery of Stephen’s latest purchases as rapidly as possible.
They had to be quick, because Stephen did not wish to be seen. Not because the ruse might fall apart. He and his cousin favored each other enough to easily be mistaken for brothers. Stephen was not worried about some Grand Unmasking. He worried aboutpassingconvincingly enough that someone would shoot an arrow through his heart.
Richard Reddington had threatened to do just that. And since more than one of his known prior enemies had disappeared without a trace…
“That’s the last of the deliveries,” said the butler, McCarthy.
Once the servants had gone, Stephen closed the trapdoor. After exiting the dungeon, he secured the interior door separating the underground chamber from the rest of the castle. This lock could only be opened from inside the residential part of the castle. Meaning anyone unlucky enough to sneak in through the trapdoor would find themselves trapped inside the dungeon for good. The last thing anyone needed was for one of the employees to be stuck inside.
Out in the passageway, the footmen did not tarry. They had already formed a queue and were passing Stephen’s crates up the stairs to the medieval Great Hall, where Stephen had set up his work area.
He was not used to so many servants. Though in this old pile, he very much appreciated their assistance. Stephen helped carry the heavy objects upstairs, but taking on all that labor by himself would have caused an untenable delay in the current project underway.
On the main floor, Mrs. Hennessy, the housekeeper, arched her gray brows. “Have you considered receiving somethingnormal?”
Like what? Mashed peas? New cravats? Visits from friends or paramours?
Stephen didn’t know enough about fashion to mind that he didn’t have any. The same went for other people. Romantic relationships lasting longer than one night weren’t worth the bother. He was a recluse and liked it that way. In fact, he had spent decades keeping peopleout. Even at home, the only time he stepped out of doors was to receive a delivery like this one.
If only Stephen weren’t so fond of his disarmingly charming, unabashedly useless cousin, he wouldn’t be in this pickle.
Stephen did not understand other people, and other people tended not to understand him, but the Earl of Densmore…Therewas an easy fellow to fathom. Densmore liked exactly two things: fine wine and a good wager, not necessarily in that order. The probability that the earl had forgotten about his cousin entirely and was off in his cups in some gaming hell was approximately 0.9854, which was damn near mathematical certainty.
That was the sort of thing Stephen understood. Facts, figures, mathematics, science, machines. Things he could puzzle out with logic. Things he could put his hands on and touch.
The butler slapped the latest stack of correspondence into Stephen’s hands.
“Are you certain you don’t want me at the front door?” McCarthy asked, his eyes pleading.
“It’s impossible to enter that way,” Stephen reminded him.
“It wouldn’t have to be,” McCarthy grumbled, “if it weren’t for your… renovations.”
“And I have not finished my improvements,” Stephen informed him. “I will continue until the rightful Earl of Densmore returns and my life is no longer at risk.”
Stephen strode to the Great Hall. The enormous room could host a party fit for the Queen. Not that Stephen would ever host a party. He didn’t even host tea. At home, he employed exactly one maid andexactly one manservant. Who, like Stephen, had expected him to return in a few days, not months.
“The new crates have been stacked next to the previous ones,” reported a footman. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“I’m not your lord,” Stephen reminded him.
“You said to pretend until the earl returns.”
“I said to do so in the presence of witnesses who might otherwise—” Stephen cut himself off. The footman was apparently teasing him. At least the staff still had a sense of humor. “Thank you. That will be all.”
The footmen filed out of the Great Hall. A few of them glanced askance at the mathematical equations scrawled over every inch of the gray stone walls in bright white chalk.
Yes, that was what Stephen needed. More chalk. It ought to be in one of the new crates.
He headed over to rummage through the boxes, tossing the stack of unread correspondence atop one of the piles while he searched.
The walls were covered in chalk equations, and the perimeter was lined with wooden crates. But theinteriorof the enormous salon—that was where the magic took place.
Not literally, of course. Magic did not exist. Only machines, which could be designed to perform tasks that seemed like magic.
