Chapter Seventeen
Lucian and Mr. Bishop waited at the factory’s entrance for at least fifteen minutes before a large, lumbering carriage appeared.
“That must be them,”
Lucian murmured, while Mr. Bishop straightened and puffed out his chest.
The carriage slowed, and the door swung open, revealing an older man with a lively expression waiting to descend. He was short and a bit round, with a head of thick, graying hair. He regarded the two of them with interest, and Lucian had a pang, wondering what it would be like to have this kind of man as his father instead of his own.
The earl—since that was who it obviously was—turned and held his hand out to the countess, who was dressed in the height of fashion, an enormous hat on her head. Like her husband, her expression was engaged and curious, and she met Lucian’s gaze with a warm smile.
He advanced, Mr. Bishop close on his heels, holding his hand out to the earl. “Good morning, my lord. It is a pleasure to meet you at last.”
The earl shook his hand with vigor. “Let’s hope you’re not as much of a dolt as your father.”
Lucian was struck dumb for a moment, surprised not only at the other man’s candor, but also how gleefully he spoke.
“I am Mr. Bishop, my lord. The duke is my cousin.”
Mr. Bishop extended his hand to the earl. He had already assumed his most obnoxious demeanor, but in this case Lucian couldn’t blame him—the earl had just referred to his cousin and benefactor as a dolt, so Mr. Bishop’s frostiness could be understood.
“May I say it is a pleasure to see you again, my lord?”
the countess said. She held her hand out to Mr. Bishop. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”
By now, Diantha and her sister had emerged and were standing just to the rear of their parents. Lucian met Diantha’s eyes and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. She gave him a brief nod, then took her sister’s arm and walked to stand beside their parents.
“Mr. Bishop, I believe you have not met my sister, Lady Drusilla. This is Mr. Bishop.”
“Yes, a pleasure,”
Drusilla said, dipping her head. “Can we go in? I want to see the building that has caused so much trouble.”
She strode swiftly to the door, flinging it open and popping inside before anyone could stop her. Diantha ran after her, while Lucian followed, hoping the rest of them could manage on their own.
“We don’t know what’s—”
Lucian said.
The factory was impressive, despite not having been used for a long while. Dusty machines ran in tidy rows down the length of the vast room, while clouded windows let in a meager amount of sun, spotlighting more of the dust and cobwebs.
But it still looked like promise. Like hope. Like something could be created here, and he would be useful in figuring that out.
Because, he thought as he took in the vast display of mechanization, that was what he wanted. Or at least wanted his father to recognize: that his son could be useful, despite his penchant for pleasure. That it was possible to have fun and be productive. That he wasn’t just an idle wastrel.
“Goodness,”
Lady Drusilla said, trailing her finger along one of the machines.
Diantha tugged something from her pocket, handing it to her sister. “Here. You’re going to get filthy if you don’t stop that.”
“It hasn’t changed!”
the earl exclaimed.
Diantha turned to regard her father with an amusedly tolerant expression. “Except none of the machines have been used for over twenty years, there are no workers here, and spiders and other small creatures have made this place their home. Other than that, yes, I can imagine it is exactly the same.”
“Pooh, Diantha, you have no imagination,”
her father chided.
Even in the dim light, Lucian saw her flush.
“With a little bit of elbow grease and some workers, this place will be running again as usual,”
the earl continued. “Mr. Felks—”
“Mr. Felks is not going to produce his dirt here,”
Diantha said in a firm tone.
The earl sputtered some incomprehensible word but eventually subsided.
“Because Lord Lucian and I have promised to our respective parents that we would manage this problem and solve it,”
she continued, sounding quite firm. “You cannot imagine the duke would agree to let you decide what will happen here, do you? Especially if it was worm-related?”
The earl frowned, scratching his ear as he thought.
“No,”
he admitted in a grudging tone.
“And dirt, that can be dealt with anywhere. You don’t need a specific factory to pair dirt with worms, and vice versa.”
“I suppose not.”
“I will be involved in the solving of the problem as well,”
Mr. Bishop interjected. “Of course, your daughter and Lord Lucian are handling the initial conversations, but I will weigh in when there are some reasonable possibilities for what to manufacture here.”
Lady Diantha looked as though she was going to speak, but Lucian shook his head quickly, and she closed her mouth.
“Yes, my father trusts Mr. Bishop implicitly,”
Lucian said in a bland tone. Knowing the earl would likely view that gentleman with more suspicion because of how the duke favored him.
Lady Diantha’s expression shifted to one of understanding, and Lucian was once again grateful that she was so quick to comprehend things.
That she was intelligent, witty, and lovely to look at, with an eagerness to explore, only made it hurt the more that she was also the daughter of his father’s bitterest enemy.
“Well,”
the earl said, clapping his hands together, which had the unfortunate effect of unleashing a massive cloud of dust, “shall we be off? I just wanted to reassure myself that the factory was still here, just in case that intransigent idiot—”
at which point he stopped as though waiting for applause “—had done something to it.”
“It seems to be fine, Father,”
Lady Diantha said. Her tone was weary, as though she was in the habit of reassuring her father on any number of questions.
It must be difficult, Lucian thought, to be the only sensible person in a family of waywards.
For the first time, and possibly also the last, he had an iota of sympathy for his father, viewing the world through his uncompromising lens. But only an iota.
“Shall we be off, then?”
he repeated. “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord, Mr. Bishop.”
The earl sounded sincere, as though he hadn’t insulted the duke, and by extension Lucian and Mr. Bishop, when they had met mere minutes earlier.
“Thank you, my lord,”
Lady Diantha murmured.
“Oh, Lord Lucian,”
Lady Drusilla called. “We will be visiting Madame Tussauds, in case you and your guest wish to join us.”
“We are?”
Lady Diantha said, looking nonplussed.
“Yes, we decided when you were out at the boring old British Museum yesterday,”
Lady Drusilla said.
Diantha’s eyes immediately darted to his, and her cheeks started to turn pink. He kept her gaze, wishing he could drag her behind one of those dusty machines and reenact what they’d done the day before.
But he thought that might strain the earl’s general conviviality just a bit too much.
“Why Madame Tussauds?”
Diantha asked, when they had arrived back home.
“Why not?”
Drusilla retorted. “It is there, we are here, and we like amusing things.”
Was it odd that that made sense to Diantha? Perhaps she’d been system-cleansing too much.
Or not enough.
“I’ll help you dress,”
Drusilla offered, assessing Diantha’s appearance. She frowned at her sister. “That is fine for viewing a factory, but not for waxworks.”
She narrowed her gaze. “And I hope you did not wear anything close to this to go to the British Museum yesterday. I wonder at you going so soon after we’d just been. What did you get up to?”
Diantha’s mind frantically searched for some reasonable explanation.
“Uh . . .”
she began.
Drusilla swatted her on the arm. “I am just teasing. I know you are far too measured and far too much of a British Museum enthusiast to get up to anything.”
Diantha repressed a wince, then gave a faint nod. “Yes, your help would be welcome.”
“So what did you see yesterday?”
Drusilla asked, as they ascended the stairs. Drusilla was already gowned for the event in pale blue with cream accents. The gown wasn’t an evening gown per se, but it was more elevated than a tea gown.
Was there some sort of interim garment suitable for viewing waxworks that Diantha didn’t know about?
“I saw—”
I saw his eyes darken when he kissed me. I saw how the usually silver-tongued devil lost his ability to speak for a moment. I saw his expression as we parted.
“I saw some manuscripts. I’ve been interested in viewing books from—”
“Never mind that,”
Drusilla said, waving her away.
Diantha bit back a smile. If there was one thing that was consistent about her family, it was that they were completely disinterested in what Diantha found fascinating.
So she didn’t have to lie, at least.
They entered Diantha’s room, and Drusilla immediately went to the wardrobe, flinging it open and surveying the contents.
“Thank you, my sister is going to help me,”
Diantha said to the maid who had sprung up at the ladies’ entry. The maid nodded, then walked out, leaving the two of them alone.
“Why are so many of your gowns so boring?”
Drusilla asked, turning to glare at her sister.
“How can a gown be boring?”
Diantha replied. For once, she was actually amused by her sibling’s impatient judgment. “Does it sit there and speak about cultivating rutabagas or turnips?”
Drusilla gave her a pointed look. “No, that would be you.”
Diantha wasn’t as amused anymore.
“Here, let’s try this one.”
Drusilla drew out an evening gown that Diantha had purchased the same day she’d gotten the pink gown she’d worn the first night she’d met Lucifer. It wasn’t as elaborate as the pink one, but it was just as lovely: made of blue satin, it molded to Diantha’s upper body, while the skirt was voluminous, the satin stitched with black thread to create a crosshatch pattern of sorts.
“That isn’t too fancy?”
Diantha said.
Drusilla placed the gown on Diantha’s bed. “Of course not. Many people will be there. And Lord Lucian might pop in.”
Her tone was arch, and Diantha wondered how much Drusilla suspected of . . . anything.
If she actually knew, there was no possibility of her sister not demanding to know all the details, so Diantha assumed Drusilla just had suspicions. Which she should do her best to deflect.
“If you think so,”
Diantha replied. She shouldn’t have so much trepidation about going out this evening, she went out frequently, and usually she was bored and wanted to go home, but she was never nervous.
Until now.
Likely because she’d recently been kissing someone who was not only someone she was seriously uninterested in as a spouse but the last possible human that could be considered for her husband. That would be the recent anomaly.
After Drusilla groused about having to do up all of the buttons at the back of the gown, she stood back, gesturing for Diantha to take a look at herself in the glass.
“Oh,”
Diantha said, her eyes going wide at her reflection.
She didn’t look like herself. Instead, she looked like a woman who knew what she wanted and was going to get it.
Unless she was that person now?
But she didn’t know what she wanted. That was the point, wasn’t it? That she needed to get him out of her system so she could settle into the life she thought she wanted? Settle into calm normalcy, not prone to whatever emotion happened to be passing by.
“You look spectacular,”
Drusilla said, sounding smug. “Not as lovely as me, but then again, you aren’t as fortunate.”
Drusilla tossed her head as she spoke, and Diantha couldn’t help but laugh.
“Thank you,”
she said, patting her sister on her arm. “I do appreciate you helping me.”
Drusilla’s expression shifted, now almost . . . vulnerable. “You’ve never said that before. Usually I insist on offering advice or help, and you just ignore it.”
Diantha frowned. “Do I? That seems rather rude, doesn’t it?”
Her sister shrugged, a faint color washing over her cheeks. “I think I’ve grown accustomed to it by now. I just like to be able to help every so often.”
Diantha enfolded her sister in a hug, eliciting a shriek of surprise, and then Drusilla wrapped her arms around her, squeezing her tightly.
It felt good. Had she ever hugged her sister so fiercely? Usually she was strategizing how to minimize her family members’ impact, not appreciate what any of them had done.
Granted, that endeavor was ongoing, and likely she would be forced to deal with some nonsense or another in the future.
But right now, this felt good. Loving, even.
She was changing, and not just because the very thought of a museum was suddenly igniting a sensual fire inside her.