Chapter Sixteen
“You’re home!”
the countess exclaimed as Diantha walked into the parlor.
It was rare for her parents to notice Diantha’s comings and goings, which was why it was so easy for her to arrange rendezvous—either licit or illicit—with Lucifer.
“I am,”
Diantha said, redundantly.
“And you look different,”
Drusilla observed, narrowing her eyes at her sister. “Did you accidentally do something adventurous? Do you need to go lie down?”
Diantha rolled her eyes in response, but inside her heart was fluttering. If only her sister knew that she spoke the truth—that her older sibling, the most staid person in a group of engrossed scholars, let alone in her own riotous family—had met a man and kissed him with absolutely no intention of anything more official. Dallying with him, as it were.
Diantha was not a dallier. Although if she was, her alliteration-adoring father would love it. Dallying Diantha dithering about with the duke’s descendant.
“Never mind that,”
the countess said, waving her hand. “We all know Diantha would never be adventurous, accidentally or not.”
The truth stung. Although it wasn’t the truth, not since earlier today.
She wished she could tell them just how adventurous she and Lucian had been, but they would take it to mean something it did not—that she wanted to be adventurous all the time, that she was interested in kissing random gentlemen in places of antiquity as a general rule, not an aberration.
Most people’s parents, if they discovered such behavior, would insist on marching over to the gentleman’s house and demanding he do something to make his kissing counterpart respectable.
Not hers, however; if anything, they’d far prefer Diantha remain unengaged so she could tick up her tally of kissed gentlemen (or Diantha’s List of Lusty Lords, if her father had any say).
It was exhausting living with such mayhem.
“Diantha!”
Her mother’s sharp tone pulled her from her thoughts. “Yes, my apologies.”
“Your father sent a note that he plans to visit the factory. You know, that one—”
because there were so many factories she could possibly be referring to “—and he wanted to know if you would like to go. He said it would work best for tomorrow morning. Though, tonight we are to go to the opera with the Sneeds, and you know them.”
The countess made it seem as though the Sneeds were liable to stay out all night, when it was really the earl and countess who were the late-night culprits.
“Tomorrow morning, of course.”
She’d have to send a note to Lucian to see if he could possibly adjust his schedule in time to accompany them. Neither one of them could afford to miss the opportunity to actually see the property they were in charge of disposing of.
She should ignore the thrill spiraling through her at the thought of seeing him again so soon.
This was a factory inspection. Nothing else. And she didn’t even know if what they’d done today would ever happen again. Given how he’d run after their interlude today, she suspected it would not.
But still. It would be good to move the factory project along, even if there was no other reason she needed to see him. In fact, she told herself firmly, if her system was indeed cleansed, then her way would be even more clear to get on with her life—not spending any time thinking about a certain rakish rake. Or a rake who wasn’t.
Confusing, but all that kissing had made her head dizzy and her wits muddled.
“And your father has had a few ideas since getting the information about the settlement,”
her mother was saying, and Diantha realized she’d missed some important parts of the conversation.
“What ideas?”
she asked, a feeling of panic chilling her heated brain.
The countess’s expression changed to one of pride, only increasing Diantha’s panic. “Well, he had some ideas for agricultural improvement—”
“Please tell me he doesn’t want to start baking apple pies,”
Diantha interrupted. If they were even able to get apple trees to grow inside a factory, they’d all burn down due to the immense fire hazard.
“No, silly,”
the countess replied. “He was talking about farming, and the dirt the crops grow in, and thinking there might be a way to improve the soil. He knows a friend with an excellent worm collection.”
Drusilla picked up the idea sooner than Diantha, likely because she was more closely aligned with the way her parents thought.
Diantha was still fixating on the fact that her father knew someone with a worm collection. Because of course he did.
“You mean Father wants to infuse dirt with worms and then ship the dirt out to farms?”
Drusilla’s tone was one of disbelief.
“Yes, exactly!”
the countess said, smiling in approval. “These worms are not just any worms. Mr. Felks is an expert in worms. He can tell at a glance if one is good for soil. He advises several estates around the country. Your father first met him when he was working with the roses.”
Oh, so apparently there was more than one ridiculous family in the country who relied on charlatans for information. Perhaps Diantha should scrap her ideas of trying to lead a normal life and take up alchemy or witchcraft. There were clearly enough people to fall for any number of hoaxes, and she should just give in and try to take advantage of that.
But that wouldn’t be true to who she was, and she was a terrible liar anyway, so she wouldn’t be able to pull it off in the first place.
“Well, I want to tour this factory too,”
Drusilla said, a tone of mischief in her voice.
Diantha glared at her, but Drusilla just waggled her eyebrows in return.
“I’ll let your father know,”
the countess said, clapping her hands together. “It will be a family adventure!”
Or a family disaster, Diantha thought. Which in her family was tantamount to the same thing.
“You don’t need to come,”
Lucian said, for possibly the hundredth time that day. He’d been almost embarrassingly grateful to receive her note the previous evening—an evening he’d already spent reviewing the events of the day. From the moments behind the curtain to how overwhelming it had felt when he’d dashed off.
Thinking how he knew one time wasn’t enough.
How many times would be enough?
Perhaps he didn’t want to know the answer. Or didn’t dare to ask himself the question.
Mr. Bishop continued drawing on his gloves. “I am indebted to your father for his hospitality and introductions. He asked me to oversee what is going on with this—”
his nose wrinkled in distaste as he chose the word “—messy situation, and he would be more comfortable, clearly, if there is someone with some business experience involved.”
If by business experience he meant someone who could talk a lot of puffery about nothing at all to get people to toss money at him, then yes. Mr. Bishop had business experience.
But it was no use trying to dissuade the blackguard. Bishop knew the Earl of Courtenay would be there, and likely he saw an opportunity for fleecing as well as being able to preside over whatever Lucian thought was the best course for the disputed factory. Two pigeons with one pedant, as it were.
Lucian finished getting himself ready, then nodded to Mr. Bishop. “The carriage is outside. Let us go. Lady Diantha’s note said they would be there at ten o’clock.”
An ungodly hour to be awake, much less dressed and ready to go out, but then she had said her family was eccentric. Lucian hadn’t been able to disguise his expression when the note arrived, which meant he’d had to tell Mr. Bishop, who’d then insisted on accompanying him.
He wished he had kept his mouth shut, but if word got to his father that he had deliberately excluded their guest from this type of outing—well, Mr. Bishop would be more likely to inherit the town house, and Lucian was determined to prevent that from happening.
“I will get to meet the earl today, then,”
Mr. Bishop said, sounding far too pleased for Lucian’s liking. “I understand there is bad blood between him and your father. I would be all too happy to see if I could rectify that situation.”
It was on the tip of Lucian’s tongue to warn the other man of the futility of that effort, but if he spent his time on that and then incurred the duke’s ire for interfering where he wasn’t wanted, then he would be spending less time on trying to find easy marks for his investment scheme. A win-win situation, in Lucian’s eyes.
Instead, he said, “I wish you luck there. Many have tried to solve the problem—”
including many of London’s finest courts, he reminded himself “—and thus far the problem has been irreconcilable. But perhaps you will prove to be the charm.”
“Indeed,”
Mr. Bishop replied in a smug tone.
Excellent, Lucian thought. Stroking this man’s vast ego was easy, and it was equally easy to discern his motivation in doing anything: all of it was for the benefit of Mr. Bishop.
Lucian himself had a singular motivation at times, namely the amusement and constant pleasure of Lord Lucian Eldridge, but he didn’t pursue that to the exclusion and possible detriment of everyone else. In fact lately he’d been forgetting about that goal and been more focused on working with Lady Diantha to solve their mutual problems.
Was he changing for the better?
Or just adjusting his view of what was worthwhile?
Or was that two different ways of saying the same thing?
And what did it mean that all of this was happening after he’d spent time with her? Was it because he’d been spending time with her? Discovering that differences between people could inspire someone to be a better person?
Thankfully, they arrived at the factory before Lucian could get too philosophical about himself.
“I haven’t seen the place for—how long is it, Mildred?”
the earl asked his wife.
The four of them—the earl, the countess, Diantha, and Drusilla—were riding in the earl’s most luxurious carriage, a lumbering monstrosity that the earl had commissioned when he’d undergone some back spasms. The carriage was therefore doubly cushioned so it felt as though one was riding in a cloud.
The downside, of course, was that the carriage moved very slowly, due to all the extra weight.
“It’s been ten years at least,”
the countess answered. “I think the last time we were here was one of the final attempts to resolve the issue, before the duke escalated the matter to the higher court.”
“Indeed,”
the earl said in a frosty tone. “The duke could have settled this that long ago, and he chose to be intractable. I would have accommodated the stubborn stickler if he hadn’t been such a persnickety pettifogger.”
The countess clapped her hands in glee. “Excellent alliteration, my dear. You have outdone yourself.”
The earl beamed, his previous forbidding expression whisked away in a moment. “I did, didn’t I?”
“What did the factory make, Father?”
Drusilla asked.
The earl waved his hand. “This and that. It primarily produced sailcloth, though we did odd jobs with other materials.”
Sailcloth. Meaning that the machines, outdated though they might be, could possibly be pertinent to the manufacturing of life jackets.
Possibly pertinent. Did this mean she was becoming more like her father?
She shuddered at the thought.
“Here, Diantha, take my shawl. You don’t want to catch a cold.”
The countess flung a heap of fabric toward her eldest daughter, which landed with a plop on Diantha’s lap. She spread it out over herself, since to argue with her mother about whether or not she was cold would be an exercise in futility.
This shawl wasn’t as hideous as the other abomination, but it did have oddly shaped butterflies embroidered haphazardly all over it. Its primary color was a distinct shade of olive, which seemed to be designed to make any wearer look faintly jaundiced.
“Mr. Felks has the patent on several different types of soil machines,”
the earl said in an eager tone. “If that dastardly duke will agree, we could supply enough acreage to fill Wales,”
he continued exuberantly.
“Or,”
Diantha said, after a moment, “we could find another industry that would not be quite so . . . dirty.”
Literally.
The earl completely ignored her reply, instead heading off onto another tangent of conversation. Thankfully Diantha knew it was not meant as offense or a rebuke of what she’d said—just that her father’s mind had wandered elsewhere. “Did you say the duke’s son will be there? The eldest? I knew him when he was just entering university. Just like the duke,”
the earl said, and his tone indicated it was not a compliment.
“No, I believe the duke’s heir to be in Scotland. This one is the younger son, Lord Lucian.”
“Oh. Don’t know as how I’ve met him.”
“We have,”
Drusilla said, nudging Diantha. “He is very charming. Isn’t he, Sister?”
Drusilla’s tone was deceptively mild, which could only mean one thing: Drusilla was up to mischief.
“Charming enough, I suppose,”
Diantha replied. She held her breath as she waited for Drusilla’s next riposte.
While also wishing the carriage wasn’t going at a snail’s speed.
“He is so charming, in fact, that he and Diantha spoke about what statues to view at the British Museum.”
Drusilla leaned forward, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you know she actually mentioned some of them not being portrayed with clothing?”
All three Courtenays turned to Diantha, matching approving expressions on their faces.
“Um,”
she said, suddenly regretting her father hadn’t installed a trapdoor in the carriage, “he appreciates art.”
“He does?”
Drusilla exclaimed. She fidgeted around her seat, then withdrew a dark object. “Then, tell me, why didn’t he want to hang on to this?”
She held the taxidermied cat, now wearing one of Drusilla’s bracelets as a tiara. Diantha froze, while the countess shrieked and the earl’s eyes grew wide.
“I know why Diantha didn’t want it. She isn’t artistic, but I was surprised Lord Lucian didn’t claim it.”
“What is that?”
their mother asked, her voice equal parts interest and terror.
“It’s Lady Meow-Meow,”
Drusilla replied, sounding as though the response was entirely reasonable. “She is dressed to go to a ball. I am going to find a companion for her—perhaps we’ll find one at the factory.”
The thought of stumbling across a suitable companion—in other words, a deceased feline, or some other type of recently dead animal—made Diantha want to bolt from the carriage, but not without screaming first.
Thankfully, the carriage started to slow, and she could put all thoughts of Lady Meow-Meow and friends behind her.
Now she had a long-vacant factory to inspect in hopes she and the dastardly duke’s dilettante descendant could find a way to resolve a decades-long conflict.
On second thought, perhaps she should just allow the Grimwolds to begin production on their macabre menagerie.