The thought was tempting, but in the early hours of the morning, when she should have been sleeping but couldn’t, her mind had conjured another solution. One that should have been obvious two nights ago. One that would help ensure that Luella never got her talons into him.
Charlotte and John would gamble their way out of debt.
Given his mind and her conversation skills, only a handful of members of thetoncould truly challenge them. The rest were easy pickings. And luckily, society was obsessed with cards. Every dinner party and every ball had a room tucked away where lords and ladies sat in their finery, gossiping as fortunes changed hands.
She and John could take some of that fortune. The solution was so fine that it bulldozed past her embarrassment.
The study she entered looked nothing like the room it had been when she’d visited mere days ago. What had been a relatively tidy state of affairs the morning Luella had voiced her wretched demands now looked like a pig’s wallow. Books and letters and periodicals were strewn all across the room. Scrappy bits of paper were pinned to the wall, ruining the finish.
And in among mountains of notebooks were almost a half dozen—contraptions. That was the only word she could think of to describe the collection of things in front of her—jars wrapped in foil, sharp blades attached to rods. Metal bars circled by copper. She could not make heads or tails of what they were or what they should be used for.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, his back leaning against the glass door that led to the garden, head lolling to the side, was John, his eyes closed. In sleep, the frown lines that had been ever present had vanished. He looked softer, less serious. At some point, he’d removed his cravat, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and the ties of his shirt neck had come loose. The wiry strands of hair that covered his chest were the same chestnut brown as the hair that currently flopped at all angles over his face.
This was the most intimate experience she’d had with a man. Never had she seen one in such a state of dishabille. At least not one who wasn’t a sibling. A warmth pooled in her belly. The temptation to reach for her fan was almost overwhelming. She shook out her fingers, dragging her gaze from the bare patch of skin at his chest.
Mosely had said John hadn’t gone to bed that night. Perhaps he should have. He was going to wake with the most crooked of necks. It was unhealthy to fall asleep at such angles. He clearly needed rest, but should she leave him there or should she wake him and send him to lie down somewhere that was less likely to leave him with body aches when he woke?
He cracked one eye open, and she jumped, hand to her throat in surprise.
“Lady Charlotte? What are you doing here?”
She could appreciate his confusion. After last night’s conversation, he no doubt expected her to be anywhere other than his study without an invitation. “Forgive the intrusion, but I have an idea.” She simply needed a moment to recollect her thoughts following the…distraction of his person.
John snorted. “At least one of us has an idea. I’ve been searching for one all night and yet it eludes me.”
Charlotte gestured to the surrounding chaos. “Is that what this is? The search for an idea?”
“It’s the search for an escape.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “It’s in these papers. I just can’t find it.”
Of course he couldn’t. No one could find anything in this mess. He was worse than Fiona. “Perhaps it would be easier to find if the place was more organized.”
He grunted. “Perhaps.”
Good grief. He was even more taciturn than usual. She hadn’t thought it possible.
“And what are these?” she asked, gesturing to the spools of wire and metal boxes that had taken over the chaise longue.
“That’s the beginning of what could be a revolutionary communication device.”
Charlotte didn’t know how much needed revolutionizing, unless it was a way to keep a quill ever sharp. “That box looks nothing like a pen.”
Despite his exhaustion, John’s expression brightened. “It won’t be if I can get it working. I’m going to call it the telegraph. Messages sent from a distance.”
“Aren’t all messages sent from a distance? At least written ones.”
John furrowed his brow. “True. But these will be delivered by electric signals sent through wires connecting houses, even miles away. Almost instantaneous communication.”
“Instantaneous communication.” As she said the words the impact of his idea was clear. No more stained gloves or fingertips, no more sand that inevitably found its way where it wasn’t wanted. No more waiting for footmen to come back and forth. She could talk with Hen and Josie whenever she wanted. “Well, that soundsdivine. Goodness, that will net you a fortune. You’ll be hailed a hero. Every household in England will want one.”
He cocked his head. “Will they, though? It sounds rather horrific to me. Who wants to be contactable all the time?”
Of course he would think that. She had never met someone who recoiled from conversation as he did. “Why are you working on it if you don’t like the idea?”
John paused. “I enjoyed my life in America. I enjoyed the solitude I found there, but there were times I would have liked to have spoken with my friends. Waiting three months to exchange letters was hard.”
She could imagine. It was torturous every time the season ended and society went back to its country estates. Charlotte would write and receive a dozen letters a day, but it didn’t compare to the immediacy of in-person interactions in London. Living in a whole other country would be unbearable.
“I don’t think I could do it. I couldn’t imagine being that far from my family.” She brushed off her skirts as though she could brush off the melancholy of the thought. “Is this how you will save your estates? Your telegraph?”
