Chapter Twenty-Four
Lucian clung to her promise like he’d been thrown a rope after being cast off a ship—close to drowning, gasping for air, desperate for something that might help him.
A night with her wouldn’t cure him of his love. But it would give him something to remember it all by, the time when he had come close to renouncing his libertine ways because he’d fallen head over heels in love.
Now, it seemed, he would be eternally seeking pleasure, though he doubted the pleasure he would achieve would ever equal what he felt when he was with her. And not just in that way—but speaking with her, listening to her ideas and wit, as she did the same for him.
“Lady Diantha seems quite different from her family, thank goodness.”
The duke’s condescending tone broke through Lucian’s musings.
The three of them—the duke, Lucian, and Mr. Bishop—were traveling home in the carriage after the dinner party. They hadn’t been forced into an emergency charades situation, though there had been a few minutes when it seemed that the duke and the earl were going to challenge one another to a duel, as though they were in the previous century.
But then, to Lucian’s surprise, they’d ended up speaking together for some time in reasonable tones of voice. He hadn’t heard what they’d said, but it was clear the two were getting along.
“You and the earl renewed your acquaintance, though?”
Lucian asked. “Do you still find him as—?”
“Silly? Trifle-headed? Impetuous?”
the duke completed.
Mr. Bishop smothered a laugh, disguising it as a cough.
“If you say so,”
Lucian replied dryly.
“He is not as much those things, not anymore,”
the duke replied. “There might be hope for him after all. I presume his daughter—the sensible one, not the other one—has something to do with his change of heart.”
“She is a quite reasonable woman,”
Mr. Bishop chimed in, sounding surprised at his assessment.
“Yes, indeed,”
the duke said. “Sensible, reserved, demure.”
The adjectives made Lucian want to both howl in laughter and grind his teeth. Had she been demure when she was with him behind a museum curtain? When she was making soft noises of pleasure into his mouth? When they were pressed together in a sarcophagus?
When she was planning to see him for more illicit goings-on?
He wished he knew which Diantha was the real one—the one who impressed the duke, or the one who impressed him.
Because if it was the latter, he would do everything in his power to get her to say yes.
But if it was the former, and she was just dallying with him as a cleansing experiment—well then, he would have to be content with his memories and move on with his life.
“I’ve invited the earl to meet with Mr. Bishop and myself. I believe he would welcome the opportunity to join Mr. Bishop’s venture.”
“The earl cannot but be flattered that you are willing to let him join you with my little business dealings,”
Bishop said. Lucian loathed his obsequious tone even more than his arrogant one.
At Mr. Bishop’s ridiculous flattery, at least, the duke snorted. “Hardly. But the earl does recognize a good prospect when he sees it.”
He tilted his head thoughtfully. “I suppose he might not be quite as bad as I remembered him.”
He nodded toward Lucian. “And once you’ve figured out the answer to the factory issue, he and I can shake hands and resume being cordial to one another. He still has unorthodox ideas, mind you. But he is not as hotheaded as before. Perhaps the result of age.”
“You’re just barely in the first blush of youth, your grace,”
Bishop said, his tone closer to sycophantic than obsequious. Interesting that there were nuanced shades to fawning.
The duke met his younger son’s eyes. “I’m not, though,”
he replied. Lucian shifted in his seat; he couldn’t remember the last time his father had gazed at him with anything but disdain. He couldn’t quite identify the duke’s expression, but it wasn’t completely dismissive. “You’ll have to decide what you wish to do, after the problem’s been solved. John and his family are coming for a visit.”
The implication being that there wouldn’t be room enough for all of them there together. Even if there was, Lucian knew he would chafe at living in such close quarters with his father and his brother’s family, even for a short time, while all of them would likely conspire to get him married off as soon as possible.
Could his life get any worse?
Well, yes. His father could disinherit him, he could develop a dislike for wine, and he might wake up one day to discover that he could only speak in Mr. Bishop’s condescending tone.
But since two out of those three things were highly unlikely, he would have to say no, his life could not get much worse.
At least he had his evening with Diantha to look forward to. And then?
Well, then he would have to plan out the rest of his life.
“Welcome, my lady.”
Diantha blinked at Mr. Bishop’s friendly tone. Not that he’d been unfriendly before, but his voice had lacked the warmth that colored it now.
“Thank you, Mr. Bishop,”
she replied.
They stood in the duke’s town house as she removed her wrap and handed it to one of the waiting footmen, who then sped off into the depths of the house.
“Where is Lord Lucian?”
she asked, in what she hoped was a mildly indifferent tone.
“He is in the presentation room already,”
Bishop replied. He gestured down the hall to the room in question. “Thank you for coming here on such short notice. I hadn’t realized the two of you were so far along in your discussions. I would not want to leave out what might be a remarkable proposal because we’ve already decided.”
“Indeed,”
Diantha replied.
It was two days after the dinner at the Sneeds, and Diantha had spent most of the time since then scheming how to get her entire family out of the house so she could be assured nobody would interrupt what she planned to do with Lucifer. Or he with her.
The problem with living with a group of quixotic people was that they could change their minds at any moment.
So if she was somehow able to persuade them to attend a party whose hosts were famous for entertaining until the wee hours of the morning, there was no guarantee they would stay there, no matter how much fun they were having. They might need to return because the earl had gotten a craving for trifle, and only Cook’s trifle would do. Or the countess would get bored and insist on everyone coming home so she could get into bed with a book.
It was a relief, honestly, to come here for another presentation, even though she thought it would be wasted effort. Saving the lives of British sailors seemed as though it would be hard to top in terms of useful production efforts, but she was keeping an open mind.
“Today’s presentations,”
she began, as they continued down the hall, “do you know what they are? Were they recommended to you?”
“Yes,”
he replied, sounding enthusiastic. “When I realized how important it was to the duke, I redoubled my efforts to find a suitable product. I believe at least one of these will be the very thing.”
“Ah,”
Diantha said, a feeling of dread starting to creep over her, “just how many presentations are there?”
“Not many,”
Mr. Bishop replied. He swung the door open, stepping aside for Diantha to enter, and then followed, shutting the door behind him.
Lord Lucian was already seated at the table, a studiedly patient look on his face. So he thinks this is going to be an excruciating waste of time also, Diantha thought. He leaped up when he saw them, offering a warm smile to Diantha as Bishop escorted her to her seat behind the long table. He took the seat to her right, while Lord Lucian sat back down in his chair to her left.
“Can you tell the first presenter to come in, please?”
Mr. Bishop asked a footman, who was standing near another door. The man nodded, then returned quickly, two gentlemen who appeared to be in their thirties behind him. At Mr. Bishop’s nod, they approached the table, placing a device on its center.
The device was about six inches long, made mostly of metal, and looked like a very complicated seal punch. It had a raised handle in its center, with a curved indented space at the end.
“Isn’t it incredible?”
Mr. Bishop enthused. He nodded to the men. “Mr. Gracken, would you like to explain?”
“Yes, sir,”
the man on the left said. Both men were dressed neatly, if plainly, and Mr. Gracken had a particularly ebullient mustache, while the other man was clean-shaven. “Mr. Bishop has been very encouraging about our device. We know it will make people’s lives eas—”
“But what does it do?”
Diantha interrupted. Her head was already beginning to ache.
The other man spoke. “It’s an oyster opener, of course.”
He drew closer to the table and began to point to various parts of the device. “This is where the shell rests, see, and this is the means by which we open the oyster.”
“As I was saying,”
Mr. Gracken continued in a decidedly more frosty tone, “this is going to change people’s lives.”
“People who don’t already have an oyster shucker?”
Lucian said in a mild tone.
Diantha bit her lip to keep from laughing.
“Our oyster opener is far superior to anything you can buy for pennies at the docks,”
Mr. Gracken said with a sniff. He gestured to the opener. “This is made of Britannia metal. Those dock shuckers are made of whatever scrap metal is lying around.”
“The design is quite complicated, as you can see,”
said the other man. Diantha wanted to find out his name, only—no. No, she didn’t. “We’ve developed an eleven-step production process, and now we are looking for the appropriate venue in which to manufacture them.”
Mr. Gracken looked at Mr. Bishop. “From what this gentleman says, we believe your factory is the ideal spot. Since it is my understanding that the factory must produce something worthwhile, then—well, I see no impediments to our joining together in a business venture.”
“Yes, well,”
Lucian said. “We have to discuss among ourselves. Thank you for your time.”
The gentlemen bowed, the other man taking the oyster opener from the table. Mr. Bishop rose, gesturing to the footman to open the side door.
Lucian and Mr. Bishop both began to speak as soon as the door shut behind them.
“It is obvious we should commit to the oyster opener.”
“That is the most ludicrous proposal I’ve seen yet.”
The two men glared at one another, while Diantha suppressed a laugh. Then they both turned to give her expectant looks.
“Instead of deciding,”
or arguing, “we should see the next presenter, shouldn’t we?”
Mr. Bishop made a grumbling sound as he walked over to the side door, beckoning the footman to stand aside.
“An elevated oyster shucker?”
Lucian said in a low tone of disbelief. “That is even worse than those anti- things we saw.”
“Imagine if the only way to use that thing properly was to wear those anti- things,”
she replied, unable to keep the laughter from her voice.
“How many products that make simple things far more complicated are we going to see?”
he asked, his eyes on Bishop as the latter escorted someone into the room. “At least there are no rodents involved,” he added.
“Yet,”
Diantha replied.
At least, Lucian reasoned, he was getting to spend time with her. Time he knew was limited. They would work together on this project, and then she would be free to do as she liked, while he—he would be living with all of his judgmental, disapproving family.
The person who stood in front of them now as Mr. Bishop resumed his seat was a dapperly dressed gentleman with a particularly artistic hat perched on his head. As though he was an artist or a poet, and not a tradesman.
The man placed a small case on the table in front of them and unclasped it, then unfolded it to reveal a velvet-lined area with about a dozen circular white things placed into corresponding indents.
“Thank you for your time,”
the man said. He spoke in a French accent, which might have explained the hat. Though, that was his father talking, not him: according to the duke, the French were nothing but a bunch of pleasure-seeking wine snobs. Which sounded like an aspiration to Lucian.
“I am Monsieur Batois, and I have a very special item to show you.”
He reached two fingers down into the case, like pincers, and plucked one of the white things from its space. “This, madame et messieurs, is a marshmallow.”
“A what now?”
Lucian asked.
“Marshmallow,”
the man repeated. “In France, we call it guimauve. Here, taste it.”
He whipped a white handkerchief from his pocket and placed the item on it, then slid it over to Lucian.
Lucian gave it a doubtful look, then picked it up and popped all of it into his mouth. It was spongey and vaguely sweet. When he chewed it, it was almost sticky, like toffee.
“They can be used for all sorts of purposes,”
the man continued. “To decorate cakes, to put in your chocolat, as a snack, or in between apple slices. It has an infinite amount of uses.”
“May I try?”
Mr. Bishop asked.
Monsieur Batois gave Mr. Bishop a marshmallow, then nodded to Diantha, who shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“That is delicious,”
Mr. Bishop exclaimed, showing the most enthusiasm Lucian had seen yet. “I imagine everyone would love to eat these, and they are so portable.”
Monsieur Batois’s expression turned smug. “Not everyone has the kind of special case I do here, but yes, they are quite portable.”
Lucian stared at the case again, realizing yes, it was bespoke for marshmallow conveyance.
He might have almost welcomed anthropomorphic rodents at this point.
“Thank you very much, Monsieur Batois,”
Diantha said in a tone of clear dismissal. The gentleman bowed, then put his marshmallow case back together and walked out.
Before anybody could speak, Diantha rose from her chair. “I must be getting back,”
she said. Her voice was strained, and Lucian wondered if she had suddenly caught a cold. “I will return, my lord, to review the proposals later this week. And then,”
she said, turning to Mr. Bishop as that man was opening his mouth to speak, “you need only review what we believe to be the best options for the factory. We do not wish to waste your time.”
Lucian wanted to cheer for her in so quickly recognizing the way to Mr. Bishop’s good graces, but kept his mouth shut. He could show his appreciation for her intelligence and sharp thinking later. When they were alone.
“I will walk Lady Diantha out,” he said.
Once they were in the hall, she burst into quickly smothered laughter, resulting in a kind of snort that was both adorable and funny.
“I am sorry, that was just—oh my goodness, do you think he actually thought those two items were good prospects?”
“I have no idea,”
Lucian replied, watching her joyful face as she tried to curb her laughter.
“It is even more obvious now which choice is the right one,”
she said at last. “We can likely make a presentation to our parents within a week. I can’t imagine it will take us that long to prepare the materials.”
One week. And then—and then it would be over.
“And,”
she continued, “I will be home in two days, if you would like to come by.”
Her voice was higher than usual, and he knew it was because they were both thinking of what would happen when he was in her house alone with her. “Say nine o’clock?”
“Morning or evening?”
he said, then watched her expression shift from shy sensuality to one of pure shock.
“Evening, of course. I didn’t know—the morning?”
she said, and now it was his turn to laugh. But he did manage to control it, since he didn’t want to embarrass her further.
“Yes, people engage in those sorts of things at all times of the day or night,”
he said in as sober a voice as he could manage.
“I see. Yes. Well, then. Two days from now at nine o’clock.”
By now she was at the front door, and he helped her with her coat, then watched as she went down the stairs to her waiting carriage.
Two days from now. And then a week. And then . . . forever without her.