Chapter Thirteen
“Good day, Mr. Henderson.”
Diantha consulted the pad resting on her lap. She and Lucifer were in one of his town house’s many rooms; this room was surprisingly pleasant, light and airy with comfortable seating, a small bookshelf filled with clearly loved books at one end.
“Good day, my lord, my lady.”
Lucifer sat to her right, his own pad resting on his thigh. They’d coordinated the appointment schedule so they could take care of as many as possible in the shortest period of time. It wasn’t so much that Diantha would be missed—because she wouldn’t—but that she felt an undue pressure to solve the whole situation before it was too late. Before her father decided to have a séance to see what the factory ghosts might have to say, or move in a murder of crows so he could train them in shiny-object collection.
“Good day, sir,”
Lucifer replied.
He was looking especially devilish today, Diantha thought sourly. His hair was artfully swept back with one audacious lock falling onto his brow; his clothing was exquisitely tailored, his trousers fitting so closely she could see the movement of his muscles as he shifted. His eyes had darkened to a storm-swept blue, and his long, elegant fingers tapped on the pad.
She would not be so attuned to him if they had had their system-cleanse. But Drusilla’s accompanying her to the museum two days earlier meant they hadn’t been able to implement their plans, and they’d had no time to arrange another rendezvous.
So she was left thinking constantly about his kiss, his sensual lips, the low tone of voice that went directly to places she could not mention in polite company. It was very distracting, and she felt personally insulted he had the temerity to look so handsome today when he had to know how she was suffering.
Or perhaps he didn’t care.
“If I may?”
Mr. Henderson began. He looked to be about forty years old, wearing clothing a few years out of date but very tidy and well-kept. A large carpetbag was clutched under one arm, while he held a pair of trousers in the other.
“Please do,”
Lord Lucian said.
“I believe the two of you would be doing the world a great service if you allow my company to set up production in your factory. Most people are too mired in the past to see the vision of the future, but you—”
he jerked his chin toward them, since both his hands were occupied “—are clearly forward-thinking.”
Lord Lucian gave a thoughtful nod, then wrote something on his pad, passing it to Diantha. Does his company manufacture compliments? he’d written in a dashing hand.
Of course his penmanship was just as charming and rakish as he was.
She suppressed a giggle, then inclined her head toward Mr. Henderson. “Thank you, sir. Your proposal?”
It was a not too subtle reminder that the gentleman only had fifteen minutes to present his ideas, and he’d already spent some of them telling them how wonderful they were.
Something Lucifer obviously already knew and something Diantha didn’t want to spend time on.
“Yes. Well. I imagine, my lord, that you go hunting occasionally?”
Lord Lucian shook his head, and the man’s face fell. “Not often, no. But do go on.”
“Well,”
Mr. Henderson said, plunking his carpetbag down on the floor and withdrawing what appeared to be a sturdy piece of fabric, “these are antigropelos.”
“Anti- what?”
Lord Lucian said.
“Antigropelos,”
Mr. Henderson repeated. “They are a shoe–garment hybrid designed to prevent gentlemen from getting their trousers and boots mud-sodden during hunting excursions.”
Diantha pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t laugh.
“A shoe–garment hybrid,”
Lord Lucian repeated earnestly.
“Indeed! I believe that soon men of all classes will be able to go hunting, once modern machinery has made our lives easier.”
Diantha glanced over at Lord Lucian, who was still regarding Mr. Henderson with a serious expression on his face.
Was it possible he actually thought this was a good idea?
“And you see this as benefitting society in general?” he asked.
“Of course.”
Mr. Henderson held the anti-somethings in front of his chest. “People need diversion. They need entertainment. They need ducks.”
Diantha clapped her hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t explode in laughter.
“Ducks.”
“Yes. And duck-hunting can be muddy, as we all know.”
He waggled the garment. “These will make it a veritable pleasure to go duck hunting to put food on your family’s table while also providing an outlet for any man who’s got a few hours of leisure time.”
“I see. Thank you, Mr. Henderson.”
“Yes, thank you,”
Diantha murmured, still not letting herself look at the man’s face for fear she would reveal her amusement.
Mr. Henderson bowed, then pulled out a packet of paper and brought it forward to hand to Lord Lucian. “The entire proposal, my lord.”
“We will take a look at it, sir,”
Lord Lucian promised.
The man smiled in satisfaction, then left the room, leaving the two of them alone.
Diantha waited until the door was shut, then turned to look at him. “You don’t actually think—?”
His head was already shaking no before she could finish. “Absolutely not. Never mind that the demand for those . . . those things would be quite limited, it’s not as though anybody but people like us have time to go indulge in such pursuits.”
“Exactly,”
she replied, relieved. “And we already have people to demud our trousers and whatnot.”
She immediately vowed to take care of all demudding herself, should it ever be required.
“And whatnot,”
he said with a grin.
This moment of accord was almost more dangerous than being alone in a cloakroom with him. As long as she viewed him as a beautiful object to behold and touch, she was safe. Because she wasn’t the type of person who would want a commitment with something like that.
But if she discovered he had his own viable ideas and thoughts?
Oh dear.
Because that way led to heartache: she knew full well that he had no desire to stop his rakish ways and would likely see settling down as a punishment. Even if he didn’t, their families had hated one another for long enough that any acknowledged relationship would be actively discouraged.
No. Far better to think he was a ninny who actually might think shoe–garment hybrid production was a good idea.
Even though she was lying to herself. Because he’d proven he was only a partial dilettante a few days ago, when they’d discussed the factory setup. But that was dangerous thinking, because she couldn’t allow herself to believe what she already knew about him.
Even though she was not only lying to herself but also being nonsensical.
Better nonsensical than heartbroken, she reminded herself.
Lucian kept his gaze on her face. Her expressions were so open, so lively, it was clear what she was thinking at any given moment. The amusement they shared gave him more insight into her character—yes, she was serious and wanted planned spontaneity, whatever that was, but she was also able to laugh at things in a way that his sternly pedantic relatives weren’t.
Not to mention she was a lot prettier.
Today she wore a demure day gown in a soft green, with darker green velvet trim. Her hair was drawn up into a simple style, and a few strands had already fallen out and were caressing her cheeks.
“Let me see,”
she said, her eyebrows drawing together in concentration. “Who is next?”
“I do hope we are able to find somebody with a reasonable proposal.”
She glanced up at him. “We’ve only seen one person thus far, my lord. You need to have patience.”
Lucian was not accustomed to being patient. When he saw something he wanted, he got it. If he decided he disliked something—with the glaring exception of his family—he avoided it.
There was no waiting patiently for something, in his experience.
Until now. But he did not want to wait.
“When should we try . . . ?”
he said, giving her a significant look.
Her eyes widened, and she uttered a little gasp. “Uh, yes,”
she said, giving her head a vigorous nod, “our other appointment. I would be able to meet at the museum tomorrow, if you are free.”
Lucian immediately cleared his mental calendar of any potential conflicts. “I am.”
“Say, two o’clock?” she said.
He glanced to the clock in the corner. About twenty-four hours from now. He could wait for twenty-four hours. Couldn’t he?
“One o’clock is better,”
he said. He might as well try to get to see her earlier.
She nodded. “Yes. Fine.”
She shuffled through the papers on her lap. “Let us call in the next appointment.”
“Thank you for this opportunity.”
The presenters now were a married couple, a Mr. and Mrs. Grimwold, and they were currently setting up their materials.
Mr. Grimwold unfolded a small table while Mrs. Grimwold unlatched a worn portmanteau, swinging it open to reveal a collection of—
“Oh my, are those . . . ?”
he heard her murmur.
Mrs. Grimwold withdrew a few of them, setting them on the table.
Yes. They were taxidermied animals wearing a variety of outfits. As Mrs. Grimwold laid out all the creatures, Lucian noticed a beaver wearing a butler’s garb, a cat in an evening gown and a tiara, and a rat in the plain clothing of a scullery maid.
Mr. Grimwold turned to his own suitcase and placed scenery on it, a wooden dollhouse with three floors, ranging from the depths of the kitchen to the attic.
The beaver and the cat were set on the main floor, while the rat was placed belowstairs.
Eventually, the two finished their work and turned to Lucian and Lady Diantha.
They looked expectant, as though they were about to be wildly applauded.
“And what are we looking at?”
Lady Diantha ventured in a hesitant voice.
“This is the Grimwold Menagerie, my lady,”
the man replied. He gestured to the tableau. “These are only three of our hundreds of such taxidermied creatures, I assure you. The demand for them is quite high, and we believe that mechanizing the production of them will yield even more interested parties.”
“Because it takes us some time to make all of them. We’re doing them by hand. Never mind we have to wait until we find suitable animals. Cats, rats, and squirrels are easy to obtain, but just you try finding a dead owl in the forest!”
Mrs. Grimwold added.
“Just you try,”
Lucian murmured, and he heard Diantha smother a laugh.
“You believe, if I am hearing you correctly, that the reason that there are not more of these animals in every person’s home is that the supply hasn’t been able to keep up with the demand?”
Lucian asked.
She quickly withdrew a handkerchief from her gown, covering her face with it as she faked a coughing fit.
“Precisely!”
Mr. Grimwold exclaimed. “Why wouldn’t anybody like one or more of these friendly animals in their home? Perhaps dressed like their favorite deceased relative or set up in an amusing situation. Dogs playing cards, cats knitting, and the like. We foresee a world filled with these creatures!”
“Yes, well, thank you so much for coming to see us,”
Lucian said. Diantha was still coughing into her handkerchief, and he could see tears sliding down her cheeks. So she’d be no help at all. “If you have a proposal for our review?”
“Yes, and let us present you each with one of our creations as our gift.”
Mr. Grimwold placed the cat in front of Lady Diantha and the rat in front of Lucian. He stood back and beamed at them, as though thinking the gift was the best possible thing anyone could ever receive.
“Indeed,”
Lucian said, staring at the rat. Was it wrong he wished Mr. Grimwold had given him the beaver? Because the beaver butler was more impressive than the rat, though he didn’t think he wanted any dead animals in his room.
“We look forward to hearing from you, my lord, my lady,”
Mrs. Grimwold said. She picked up her suitcase, nodding to her husband to pick his up, and the two of them made their way out of the room.
“Well,”
Lucian said, taking a deep breath. “That was—”
“Yes, it was,”
she interrupted, blinking her tears away. “I don’t know how you didn’t just—”
“I have a strong handle on my emotions, Lady Diantha,”
Lucian cut in, using an exaggeratedly pompous tone. “Unlike you.”
She gave him a wry look. “Because you’re so demure about expressing your feelings? The person who asked me what I most wanted the first night we met?”
He smiled, meeting her gaze.
“Because I knew what you wanted was what I also wanted.”