Chapter Five #2
“I’m scolding you because you’re acting like a child,” she snapped. “Whatever you did wrong, fix it!”
In the same aggravated manner, Cassandra followed Jasmine.
“You brought her here, you fix it!” Matthew yelled out at Cassandra’s back. She threw her hand in the air flippantly. His fingers flexed as she faded from view.
Seth came into the alley, wiping his face with a towel.
Matthew collected himself. “What did she want?”
“To give me this.” Seth sighed, holding a card in the air in his fingertips. “Lord Bolderwood has invited us to Lord Dorchester’s soirée this evening.”
“Lord Dorchester is having a soirée tonight?” Matthew’s brows furrowed. “At the Sinclair Mansion?”
Why was Lord Bolderwood inviting them to the soirée and not Lady Dorchester?
“Foreign dignitaries will be there this evening, so brush up on your Spanish.” Seth crossed his arms and released a long breath. “Lord Bolderwood wants to parade us around.”
Lord Bolderwood was their employer ultimately, and Seth was under an indefinite contract with him to respond to summonses, and if Seth had to go…
Matthew cracked his knuckles and set his shoulders.
“Back to work then.”
***
Falling asleep at his desk night after night had been hell on his back, so he refashioned an office into a makeshift room with a bed, a tub, a mirror, and a washstand.
That was all he needed.
Bathed and toweled off, the humid air of the factory had his hair clinging to his neck.
The smell of hot oil and turpentine wafted up to greet him from the workshops below.
Vaulted like a cathedral and hollowed in the center, the factory’s high ceilings were lined with windows pouring in as much light as possible from the London fog.
The second floor of the factory was all but a thin hallway connecting a series of offices, with an open-air design. Matthew leaned over a wrought-iron railing and took in the full view of the operations below.
One could write sheet music to the sounds of his factory.
Near roaring forges, blacksmiths barked orders to apprentices, clanking away at their anvils, followed by the cymbal-hiss of iron being cooled by water.
On the opposite side of the building, the slight clinking and tinkering of artisans working with delicate metals.
And under it all, the low hum of human communication, and a random burst of laughter—for effect.
Once, Zeke had called it the sound of money.
Whatever it was, Matthew couldn’t get it out of his head.
That was what he needed more than anything—to be completely out of his head. Thoughts wandered when left to their own devices. There was only one way to prevent the mental spiral.
Drowning himself in work.
To maximize space, he shared an office with Seth and Zeke. File cabinets and bookshelves lined the red brick walls. Three identical oak desks created a semicircle in the room. Everything was organized and clean, except for Matthew’s desk near the window.
Grey light illuminated a mountain of papers separated into disorderly piles.
He reached for the paper containing the notes of changes needed for Duke Kendall’s pistol.
Nothing occupied his time more than this piece of rubbish.
A design with cartridge rounds, covered in rubies and gold, and needing to be fully accurate at dueling distance.
But the current model only had eighty percent accuracy, which was pretty damn good if he said so himself!
But the Duke expected perfection, and Matthew had a mere six weeks until the deadline.
And now, he would need to hit a target blindfolded with it.
He crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it across the room. It bounced off the wall and into a full rubbish bin, soundlessly joining the rest of Matthew’s failed ideas. Perhaps with Seth back in London and all three gunsmiths in the same room, they might sort it out faster.
And speaking of deadlines.
He had only one month before Jasmine was wed?
Or sooner, thanks to his big mouth! That was hardly enough time for a proper courtship, and he had already started off on the wrong foot.
Not that there was ever a right foot with her.
And either way, he was no good for her. She was the only child of a marquess—she couldn’t marry a tradesman.
Even though he was a viscount, he was still beneath her.
She deserved more, but he wanted her beneath him, with her hair in his hands, her body arching into his, her eyes on him—wanting him. Loving him.
Fix it.
Matthew took his pocket watch from his chest pocket. Silver glinted in the light as he opened it. A miniature portrait of Jasmine smiled at him, and he ran his thumb over the frayed edges. It felt like a stab to his heart, so he closed it.
He needed to fix things with her.
And maybe Seth and Zeke were right. He could be nicer. Start with an apology, and then try to seduce her.
But what if that didn’t work?
He crumpled another paper into a ball, leaned back in his chair, and shot for the bin at the same time Zeke opened the door. The ball hit the ground and rolled. Zeke leaned down, picked it up, and then placed it in the bin.
“The watchman just informed me that Lady Ravenshaw came by this morning,” Zeke mentioned casually, sitting at his desk against the wall. “She was turned away.”
“That’s a first,” Matthew grumbled. “She must be getting desperate to seek me out here.”
Matthew had rules: never bring a woman to the factory, never sleep with a virgin, and never keep a mistress. Too much trouble by far, and no shortage of tears. A widow or two? Perfectly acceptable. And if he encountered an occasional harpy, that was the risk he took.
Matthew sighed.
Of course, she’ll be a problem.
The last thing he needed was Vivian trying to weasel her way back into his life. No more fortuitous a time to cut ties with her than prior to Jasmine’s arrival. The split was difficult, along with every aspect of their relationship.
There were two sides of him—the side he shared with his family, and the darker side he had only shown Vivian. She indulged his every whim in bed, but he didn’t like who he was when he was with her. He kept going back because at least it was something, and if he closed his eyes…
No.
He wouldn’t think of what he imagined when he closed his eyes, how easily he succumbed to fantasy, or how filthy it made him feel.
But he didn’t have to settle for fantasy.
He had Lord Dorchester’s permission, assuming he hadn’t rescinded it.
And if he did, Matthew wasn’t above a little manipulation—he had a trump card after all.
He had taken liberties with Jasmine, and he wanted to take them again.
But more than anything, he wanted her heart.
He could make her fall in love with him with enough time, but that was the one thing he didn’t have. And the clock was already ticking. He would have to make the most of it.
“Zeke, I’ll be out for the rest of the day.”
Zeke gave him a you-can-do-it nod. “Good luck, Lord Lincolnshire.”
Matthew stood from his desk then gathered his coat. He was wasting time at the office.
He had a woman to win over.