The difficulty with John’s brain was not just that he remembered everything—he could see every word he’d ever read and every expression on a person’s face—but that his mind continued to make connections between all the different pieces of information. Possibilities erupted like popping corn.
Today the endless ideas that plagued him were a discordant mix of Edward’s sister, potential applications of theoretical concepts in the recently publishedChemistry of Europe, and Edward’s sister.
His habit was to fill his notebooks with these thoughts and ideas, annotations and lines, connections and questions. Each page would be rife with references to other pages in different notebooks. Only the act of purging his thoughts on paper ever brought him the quiet he craved.
But thoughts of Charlotte—her name, her likeness, the memory of her naked toes peeking out from beneath her nightgown—didn’t quiet no matter how many pages he filled. His journals, the existence of which could be subpoenaed in any court case relating to the intellectual ownership of his inventions, were becoming less the documentation of his engineering and more like a smutty novel.
There were kernels of genuine worth in there, though. To focus his mind on the development of ideas that might bring in a much-needed additional income stream, he tossed his latest journal on the floor by his desk, shrugged on his coat, and pulled his gloves from the pockets of it. He would see Fiona. Half of his ideas were about her matches as it was. If he was talking business, surely thoughts of Lady Charlotte could not intrude.
He glanced through the glass doors toward Wildeforde House. There was a door in the wall separating their two gardens that hadn’t been used in over a decade. Perhaps he’d remind Wilde of it. It would be quicker than constantly traversing the block.
The walk was brisk and invigorating, but he hesitated when he reached Wildeforde House. From the street, the residence seemed alive with activity. All the outside lamps were lit, creating a wide, sweeping, welcoming arc of light along the drive. A footman was brushing down the stairs, and as Simmons opened the door to ask the lad a question, John could see maids crossing behind him, arms full.
He should go. He would have to tame his thoughts on his own. He’d almost turned back, but his feet, illogical and unbidden, propelled him forward.
Simmons had the door open. “His lordship or her ladyship?” he asked as he took John’s coat.
“Fi, if she’s available.” If they were about to entertain, she’d be inundated with tasks.
Instead of leading John to Fiona and Wilde’s study, Simmons took him left, to a drawing room that overlooked the front garden. It was as unFiona-like a room as he could imagine. The wallpaper was pretty shades of yellow and pink, and a long bench that spanned the length of the room was laden with vases and intricate flower arrangements. Still-life watercolors hung on the walls and both chaise longues were adorned with tiny blush cushions edged with lace.
This was Charlotte’s room. The details all spoke to her nature: her love of pretty things, her attention to comfort, her kindness. He inhaled and caught the same scent of a summer garden that he’d smelled last night. It set off an unwelcome fluttering within him.
It had been a mistake to come here. Sitting on her chaise longue, enveloped in her smell, was hardly going to make him think of her less. But if he was honest with himself, perhaps this was exactly why he’d hurried to visit—his body could not continue resistance after a day of thinking about her.
“John.” Fiona’s voice yanked him from his musings. He looked up to see her standing in the doorway, her head cocked.
“You’re wearing a gown.” The only time John had seen her in women’s clothing was years ago. She’d had a single dress she wore to church on a Sunday. Tonight, she was clad in green silk, in a dress with flowing skirts and sleeves that would absolutely catch alight in a lab or snag on their half-assembled steam engines.
Fiona rolled her eyes and crossed to the chair in front of him, collapsing onto it casually, in a stark juxtaposition to the finery she wore. “Aye, the French ambassador is coming to dinner, along with half the House of Lords. So I’m wearing a dress.”
She looked…different. Gone was the earthy, raw, common-born engineer he knew. Instead, she looked every bit a duchess.
Their lives had irrevocably changed. The farmer’s daughter and the second son now a duchess and a viscount. Neither was where they should be—in a factory covered in a layer of coal dust, working with the sound of a blacksmith’s hammer to accompany them and the occasional trumpet of a steam train.
She didn’t look unhappy, though, in this new life. In fact, despite the gown and the elaborate hairstyle that the old Fiona would have groaned over, Fi looked whole. Joyous.
“I should go,” he said. “You’re clearly busy.”
She waved a hand. “Stay. I’m nae as busy as ye’d think. Charlotte has it in hand. I just need to show up and be agreeable. What brought ye here?”
“I have an idea, a way to cut the amount of material needed for the match heads by two-thirds.”
Fiona’s eyes widened, and she leaned forward. “Tell me. But tell me over dinner.”
***
It was the second night in a row that John had dined with his peers. Unlike the sharp edges of the previous night’s conversations, where he’d found himself deflecting pointed comments about his work and cutting remarks about how wonderful Walter had been and how John must surely be concerned at being the lesser viscount, tonight the conversation ran gently. Dare he saypleasantly?
The guest list had clearly been curated for a purpose—in among the lords were ambassadors from several European countries with which the government was trying to negotiate treaties. Every Wildeforde had their role. Edward and Fiona talked political and social influence with the men in attendance. Charlotte’s politicking was more subtle; she worked on the women in attendance. Her conversation was more indirect, but there was no doubt that over breakfast the following morning her true value would be felt.
In stark contrast to the company at his earlier foray into society, those in attendance did not have the same derogatory attitude toward industry. They worshipped Fiona, constantly asking about her latest project and what she thought of this innovation or that recent development.
Once the attendees twigged that Lord Harrow wastheJohn Barnesworth, the man whose safety improvements to Hedley’s steam engine had accelerated the adoption of rail travel, curious questions were lobbed in his direction. It was talk he was comfortable with and he barely tripped over his tongue at all. Before he knew it, dinner had become drinks in the drawing room—the men choosing to stay with the women.
John hung at the edge of the room, propping up the wall while the rest of the assembly found places to sit and listen to Charlotte as she sang and played the piano. The pages of sheet music were turned by the eager son of the Spanish ambassador. There was a look of adoration on the boy’s face as he gazed down at her. John couldn’t blame the lad. Her voice resonated with the collective sighs of her audience, creating an energy that quickened his breath and heightened his senses.
He didn’t know how it was possible, but when she smiled, the entire room fell away, as though whoever she was smiling at was the only person who existed. When that smile reached him, his heart pounded.
