Chapter 2
Three weeks was forever until they had gone.
Nic had hoped to make them good weeks, but his father’s presence made smuggling company into the house unwise and sneaking out even less so, while hours vanished into fittings and lectures and rehearsals preparing him for the last days of his life.
The only silver lining to the impending lock-in’s dark cloud was Nic’s new wardrobe, full of the latest fashions. Although much to his disgust, the duke had picked out what Nic was to wear for the Serral delegation’s arrival. The coat was excellent, but the waistcoat…
He glared at it while Rowerre prepared his shaving water, glared at it while he buttoned up his crisp new black shirt, and was still glaring at it when a knock sounded on the outer door.
“Nicholas?”
Nic froze, neckcloth half-tied around his throat. The servants had been through his rooms days before, days during which his sitting room had returned to its usual state—untidy and full of things that may as well have been deliberately designed to annoy.
Unfreezing, Nic hurried out in his valet’s wake, stepping in front of a pile of books as the opening door spilled the duke’s heavy footfalls into the room.
“Father, I am almost ready to—”
“I was informed your rooms had been cleaned,” the duke said, looking about with distaste.
“They were, sir. The maids went through twice alongside their usual—”
“They cannot have, or all this… junk would not still be here.” He turned to Rowerre. “Fetch Mrs. Podmarsh.”
With a quick, apologetic glance Nic’s way, his valet hurried out. In the resulting silence, the duke strode to Nic’s worktable, where boxes of mechanisms and gears and springs sat neatly stacked alongside tools and oil drippers, reels and cranks, and dozens of incomplete clockwork creations.
“How often have I told you not to waste your time on such nonsense?” the duke snapped, picking up a half-finished frog only to drop it with a metallic thunk, sending springs and screws scattering.
Nic reached out as though to save it, aborting the gesture as his father turned a glare his way.
“You are my heir and it’s time you acted like it. All this goes.”
As the duke stepped away from the table, Nic hurried over to gather up the frog’s remains in shaking hands. “But, sir, it brings joy to—”
“The Conjuror’s Monthly? Laurence Sterne?
” Lanced through with horror, Nic spun as his father picked up books off the table before dropping them as though the bindings bit.
“Voyage d’Egypte et de Nubie,” he read, discarding that with as much disgust. “Ann Radcliffe! No one should touch anything written by that woman.”
“It’s an account of her travels, sir, along the Rhine and—”
Hurried footsteps brought Mrs. Podmarsh scurrying through the door, already bobbing a curtsy. “Your Grace sent for me?”
“Yes. The Serral delegation is all but here and these rooms have not been cleaned to my satisfaction. Have these books removed and that table cleared, along with anything else that is… out of place.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“No one is going to see the inside of my rooms except me!” Nic cried, making a futile grab for the book the duke tucked under his arm.
“That,” his father said, striding toward the door, “is not a risk we can afford. See it done, Mrs. Podmarsh. And as for you.” He rounded on Nic. “Our guests are due within the hour and I want Lord Monterris there to meet them, so start at least acting like you are my son.”
With that the duke strode out, leaving Nic’s hands shaking with as much fury as grief.
“My lord.” Rowerre touched his arm. “Shall we hide things?”
Out in the hallway, Mrs. Podmarsh was shouting for her maids. Soon they would descend upon him to clear away his joys, but Rowerre’s pained expression was a timely reminder that not everyone thought such pursuits beneath him.
“Yes.”
A smile lit his valet’s face. “Bring what you can to the dressing room. Quickly.”
So while the housekeeper shouted in the hallway, Nic grabbed his favourite travelogues and periodicals and all but threw them at Rowerre, before hurrying to his tinkering table.
Most parts he could replace, but he piled the half-finished pieces into a box, followed by as many of the tools and spare reels as he could grab before footsteps approached the open door.
“Everything on the table and all the books,” Mrs. Podmarsh said as Nic thrust the box into Rowerre’s hands. “And anything else that looks… out of place.” She didn’t glance Nic’s way, yet he felt her censure all the same.
“It won’t be forever,” Rowerre said, rejoining him as two maids carried clockwork parts clinking and clattering out the door.
“Won’t it?” Nic sighed. “Marriage is quite definitely forever, especially with a vowsmithed contract. Did you know there are people who don’t bother vowsmithing marriages? If I was French, or poor, I could do the thing and still run away afterward.”
“I’m sure Lady Leaf Serral is a fine young woman, my lord, and your marriage may… settle His Grace somewhat.”
“You mean her money will.” Nic glanced at the mantelpiece clock—a heavy monstrosity of bronze and ormolu. “I had better finish dressing. All it will take is for the Serrals to be early and my father will have my head for being late.”
By the time the maids had finished clearing his belongings, a deep, familiar anger had settled in Nic’s gut. That the duke owned him was just the way Brilliance Law worked, but that he sought to control Nic’s passions as well as his life always rankled.
“If you could just lift your chin, my lord,” Rowerre said, holding the powder box. “I fear we are running out of time.”
“No powder.” Nic thrust the box away. “It’s too old-fashioned.”
“But, my lord, His Gra—”
“If he complains, tell him I insisted.”
What could the duke do about it after all? Marry Nic off for the good of the family? Lock them all in the old, rambling house for the length of the negotiations? Oh, would you look at that. The worst was already happening.
“No, none of that either.” Nic rose from the dressing table as his valet reached for rouge.
“But, my lord—”
“No buts, Rowerre. I’ll be damned if I meet my future wife dressed like a puppet.
” His gaze fell upon the duke’s chosen waistcoat.
“And I’m not wearing that,” he added, pointing at the gaudy garment, all pale green smothered in gold.
“It’s the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been in the third duke’s mausoleum. ”
Rowerre wrung his hands. “His Grace had that made specifically for the occasion.”
“Then let him wear it.” Alight with the freedom of knowing there was nothing more his father could do to him, Nic added, “I’ll wear the understated cream with the red flowers. Since I’m walking to my execution, I may as well look good.”
“Yes, my lord. The cream.”
It was, in the grand scheme of things, a small act of rebellion, but it was rebellion all the same.
Easier to do as he was told, yet his father’s admonitions had never stopped Nic from conjuring and tinkering and dreaming of far-off places, had never fully quashed the rebellious spirit that allowed him to find life in the crevices of his dry existence, growing where it ought not have been able to grow.
“I hadn’t a chance to mention before, my lord,” Rowerre said, returning with Nic’s chosen waistcoat hooked on one finger. “My cousin sent over your sales for the last batch. I left the envelope on the mantelpiece in your bedchamber.”
“Oh, thank you.” Nic felt suddenly much smaller—a hopeful child again. “Do they… want more?”
“His letter says they continue to be well received, as such curiosities make excellent gifts. It seems the shopkeeper is requesting another dozen small automata and a couple of larger ones for special occasions.”
“Oh.” A smile tugged at Nic’s lips. “I’ll look through what I have, but I think without taking from Mama’s collection I’ll have to make most from scratch. Something to keep me busy during the lock-in.”
Rowerre held his waistcoat ready. “Yes, although getting into the old grotto for parts may prove difficult. His Grace has had the old wings locked up.”
“Of course he has.” Nic sighed. “A problem for another time unfortunately, or I’ll be late.”
Time was short, yet once dressed, Nic couldn’t help stealing a look at the envelope on his mantelpiece.
Inside, a small collection of bank drafts added up to more than he’d received for the last batch, meaning Nic now had more money hidden away than he’d ever seen before. Although that wasn’t saying much.
Rowerre appeared in the doorway. “His Grace is waiting, my lord. I feel the most pressing need is your hair.”
“My hair?” Nic turned to the mirror and found his sandy hair sprouting from his broad brow in a look he liked to think of as romantically dishevelled. An unruly haystack, his father called it. “I like it like this; it makes me look dashing. Roguish.”
“Roguish, my lord?”
“Yes, like a highwayman.”
Worry lines creased Rowerre’s face, cutting his wrinkles deeper. “I might lose my job if you meet the Serral delegation looking like a highwayman.”
“Father would never let you go, but you may tidy it. Just a little.”
“Somewhere between highwayman and the heir of House Monterris?”
“Something like that, yes.”
With his valet’s skilled hands and a generous amount of oil, it was the work of mere moments.
“All ready, my lord,” Rowerre said, stepping back with something of a proud smile.
The oil added burnish to Nic’s wavy hair and the cream waistcoat looked elegant beneath his perfectly cut coat.
Now he needed only to slip his stockinged feet into his shoes and he would be ready.
Ish. Could one ever be truly ready for such a thing?