Aubrey frowned. “Pardon?”

Lindsey cleared his throat. “I mean, rather than myself into yourself, it might be yourself into myself?”

It took Aubrey a moment to untangle the logic. When he realised Lindsey’s intent, he flinched. “You don’t want that.”

“Why not?”

“If this is your idea of—some effort at egalitarianism—of balancing the scales—”

“What?” said Lindsey. “No, of course not.”

“Then why?”

Lindsey smiled coyly. “You seem to enjoy it well enough. Why shouldn’t I?”

“I’ve had plenty of practice.”

Aubrey intended to make his retort light-hearted, but the words carried a defensive edge. Lindsey seemed abashed. Aubrey swallowed his guilt and pressed his advantage.

“It’s not terribly comfortable, the first time.” Or the second or third, as far as Aubrey could recall.

“You doubt my courage?” said Lindsey.

“I doubt your understanding,” said Aubrey, exasperated.

Lindsey gave him a considering look. “If the idea’s truly distasteful to you, I’ll not press the issue. But I wish you'd believe me when I say I’m in earnest to try. My faculties aren’t so diminished that I cannot imagine the risk.”

Aubrey hadn’t meant to imply anything regarding Lindsey’s intelligence. The idea of taking Lindsey as others had taken Aubrey in the past—that was distasteful, yes. But if the thing were done properly... Aubrey’s pulse quickened, throbbing low in his groin. No, that notion wasn’t distasteful at all. Quite the opposite.

Somewhat humbled, Aubrey replied, “If you’re certain...”

“I am,” said Lindsey.

Aubrey kissed him and left the bed to fetch the pomade.

As he returned, he instructed Lindsey to lie on his belly. Lindsey obeyed so willingly, Aubrey felt tempted to tell him to sit up and roll over. Instead, he positioned himself behind Lindsey, slathered his hand in ample lubrication, and pressed a finger in up to the first knuckle.

“Oh!” said Lindsey. “That’s—”

“Too much?” said Aubrey. He’d halted at the very instant Lindsey exclaimed.

“No, no,” Lindsey replied. “Not at all, it’s... interesting.”

“Shall I stop?”

“What? No,keep at it, I think I...”

Whatever Lindsey thought trailed off, lost forever as Aubrey resumed. His fingers delved deeper to graze a certain gland. Lindsey gasped. Aubrey couldn’t help grinning.

“Good?” he asked.

“Yes, rather,” Lindsey panted. “Is—ah—is this why you’re so fond of—?”

“It’s certainly a contributing factor,” Aubrey admitted.

Slowly and surely, he worked Lindsey open, massaging that sensitive point until Lindsey rutted against the sheets and rocked back onto his fingers. Aubrey himself had a devil of a time resisting the urge to relieve his own tension by frotting against Lindsey’s bare thigh.

“May I?” Aubrey asked, his voice hoarse.

“Yes,” Lindsey hissed, following it up with a string of, “Please, please, please—” for good measure, cutting off with a groan as Aubrey’s fingers withdrew.

Aubrey smeared a handful of pomade on his cock. It had stood at the ready for the past ten minutes, his instincts demanding he bury it in hot, quivering flesh. But his rational mind overruled his primitive urges. He braced one hand on Lindsey’s shoulder and slowly guided himself inside. He had almost the whole head through the tight clench of Lindsey’s hole before he felt Lindsey wince around him.

“Sorry!” Aubrey started to retreat, but Lindsey reached back to stop him.

“Go on,” Lindsey gasped over his shoulder.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You did warn me,” Lindsey reminded him.

Still, Aubrey hesitated. Lindsey pushed back onto his cock.

Aubrey quickly pulled away, pinning Lindsey down with his free hand. “Don’t do that!”

“Sorry,” said Lindsey. “I just—give it another go, won’t you?”

Aubrey sighed, massaging Lindsey’s shoulder absent-mindedly as he thought the matter over. “You’ll tell me if it pains you?”

“I believe I’ve already promised as much, yes.”

Aubrey pressed into him once more. The head slipped entirely in. The ring of muscle clenched around his ridge, drawing an involuntary gasp from his throat. He jerked back just enough to feel it tug against his most sensitive nerves. The shock nearly cost him his balance.

Lindsey stiffened under him. Aubrey forgot his own pleasure and rubbed Lindsey’s shoulder, leaning forward to press a kiss to the straining muscles of his back.

“Breathe,” Aubrey said. “You’re all right.”

He could’ve used the reminder himself—the stimulation of such a tight sheath stole his breath away—but he waited until Lindsey’s sharp inhale became a sigh before he dared move again. He sank halfway into Lindsey on the second push.

“How is it?” he asked, pausing as Lindsey shuddered beneath him.

“It’s—” Lindsey gasped for air. Aubrey’s heart leapt into his throat—if he’d hurt him, he’d never forgive himself—but Lindsey added, “Good, it’s...very good. And yourself?”

Aubrey could only describe the feeling with an extended groan. Lindsey laughed.

Aubrey resumed the exercise, but Lindsey twitched beneath him so violently that Aubrey was almost unseated.

“Oh, God!” Lindsey cried. “There, that—could you do that again, please, it—”

Aubrey gave a gentle thrust. Lindsey clenched the sheets in white-knuckled fists, his ecstatic exclamations muffled in his mattress. Aubrey bit his lip to keep from laughing and sheathed himself to the hilt.

Lindsey squirmed under him with a wondrous gasp. Aubrey’s arms, braced on either side of Lindsey’s prone from, trembled with exertion. He relaxed them, bringing his chest flush with Lindsey’s spine. He could feel Lindsey’s breath reverberate in his own ribcage, could feel Lindsey's pulse pound through the flesh wrapped snug around his cock. He could’ve lain in such union for centuries, utterly at peace. Even so, it took conscious effort to keep the rutting instinct at bay.

“Are you...?” he whispered into Lindsey’s ear.

“Fine,” Lindsey replied hazily. “Better than fine.”

Aubrey rolled his hips. Lindsey moaned into the pillow and pushed back against him. Yet still Aubrey gritted his teeth and held back. He knew all too well the damage an errant thrust could do.

But Lindsey pushed back again, more insistently, and Aubrey couldn’t help snapping his hips forward to meet him. An exclamation in the affirmative from Lindsey, and Aubrey was off, his fingertips digging possessive marks into Lindsey’s hipbones. He kept his movements shallow, though he couldn’t check his speed. Lindsey responded with enthusiasm. They fell into a back-and-forth rhythm, a push and pull that wrung pleasure from every one of Aubrey’s taut muscles. Lindsey lifted his hips from the mattress. Aubrey slipped a hand beneath him to tug his cock.

“More,” Lindsey begged. “Please, I’m nearly—”

Aubrey dragged himself out until only the tip remained inside, then re-sheathed his cock in one quick shove. Lindsey gave an ecstatic cry. Repeating the motion caused Lindsey’s command of language to devolve into murmured repetitions of Aubrey’s name, his chant interrupted by arrhythmic gasps and half-stifled groans. It was all Aubrey could do to keep from spending at the sound.

Then, like the spring of an over-wound watch, Lindsey broke. His entire frame stiffened, clenching around Aubrey. His cock jerked in Aubrey’s fist as he spent, calling Aubrey’s name into his sheets until he collapsed, boneless, underneath him.

Aubrey kept up his pace throughout Lindsey’s orgasm, slowing only when it ended. He couldn'’t keep his hips from rolling, his cock still raging hard, but he redirected his energies towards kissing Lindsey’s shoulders and neck until Lindsey recovered enough to turn his head and attempt to meet his caresses.

“Have you...?” Lindsey asked.

Aubrey shook his head. “I can finish myself off.”

“That’s hardly fair.” Lindsey wriggled his hips experimentally. A mischievous smile tugged at his lips when Aubrey bit off a moan in reply. Then he pulled himself up, Aubrey slipping out of him, and turned over to lie on his back, drawing his knees up.

Aubrey reached down between them to re-align his prick with Lindsey’s hole, then pushed into Lindsey once more.

Now that they faced each other, Aubrey could watch the way Lindsey’s lip caught between his teeth as he entered him and feel the warm rush of Lindsey’s near-silent sigh. Lindsey encouraged him with hungry kisses and murmured reassurances, telling him he felt wonderfully, the fit just right, how Lindsey wanted him, wanted this. Aubrey pulled him down onto his cock, again and again, driving like a piston until Lindsey’s voice in his ear, Lindsey’s lips on his throat, Lindsey’s hot flesh enveloping him, brought him to the brink. A whispered, “Yes,” pushed him over the edge. He spent inside Lindsey in frantic thrusts, shuddering with a violence that would’ve broken him had Lindsey not wrapped his arms around him, holding him tight both outside and in.

Aubrey crumpled atop Lindsey, who caught him with a breathless laugh. Aubrey knew little else for many moments. When he regained focus, it was to Lindsey’s lips on his cheek, and Lindsey’s soft hands stroking his ribs.

Aubrey had done it. He’d taken his Lindsey, and neither of them were any worse for it. He felt worthy of a knighthood. Lindsey seemed to feel similarly, nuzzling at Aubrey’s jaw.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Lindsey asked. His tone might’ve passed for irreverent, but Aubrey detected an undercurrent of concern.

Aubrey smiled and turned his head to catch Lindsey’s lips in his own.

“No,” he said when the kiss ended. “Not so bad at all.”

They remained in bed for some time after, Lindsey reclining, Aubrey sitting up to look at him. One of Lindsey’s arms lay behind his head. The other reached out to trail his fingers lazily over Aubrey’s bare thigh.

“There’s still the matter of your employment,” Lindsey said, apropos of absolutely nothing.

Aubrey, lured into a sense of security by the gentle touches and murmured endearments immediately preceding the statement, balked.

“It’s not right,” Lindsey continued, frowning at the ceiling.

“Right or not,” said Aubrey, “it’s how things are.”

“Then things are terrible.” Lindsey rolled over to face him. “What will you do?”

“Clerk somewhere else. Mr Jennings will give me a good recommendation wherever I go. And an excuse for my dismissal that doesn’t involve me punching a co-worker.”

“But I thought you wanted to be an engineer?”

Aubrey swallowed hard, then forced a laugh. “Well, we can’t all get what we want, can we?”

“Why not?”

Aubrey stared at him. “I should’ve thought it obvious.”

“If it’s a question of money—”

“Don’t.” Aubrey looked away.

“Don’t what?” said Lindsey. “Help you? What would you have me do instead? Watch you suffer and do nothing to alleviate it?”

Aubrey didn’t see why that would be so difficult. It came easily enough to everyone else. But such complaints were too petty to voice. “You might trust, having come this far on my own, I’m capable of continuing on in much the same fashion.”

“Your capability has never been in question.”

Aubrey, his gaze focused on his lap, couldn’t see what expression accompanied Lindsey’s proclamation, but its tone rang sincere. In the silence after it, Aubrey caught Lindsey’s hand and brought it to his lips. Such a distraction had worked for him in the past. Not this time.

“If there’s anything you need,” Lindsey went on. “Anything I can do—”

“—I’ll ask.” Aubrey smiled through the lie. “All right?”

Lindsey’s mouth twisted to one side, uncertain. “All right.”

Aubrey attempted to kiss a smile back onto his face. It nearly worked.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

In Manchester the next morning, Aubrey shaved, dressed, and opened the door to go out before he remembered he’d been sacked. He stared into the empty hallway with unseeing eyes. Then he shut the door and put his head in his hands to think the problem over.

He had the whole day to himself. No responsibilities, no appointments, no schedule of any kind.

And he hadn’t the first idea what to do with it.

The day yawned before him, empty hour upon empty hour gaping into infinity. The thought of it made his stomach knot. His savings wouldn’t last forever.

One short trip out to buy a newspaper later, he pored over the help-wanted advertisements. There weren’t as many as he’d hoped. Still, he circled in pencil every business seeking a clerk. Tucking the paper under his arm, he ventured out into the city.

The first mill seemed promising. Its manager, Mr Dobson, listened attentively as Aubrey recounted his relevant work experience.

“What did you say your name was?” Mr Dobson asked when he’d finished. “Warren?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr Dobson frowned thoughtfully. “One moment.”

Aubrey waited as Mr Dobson flipped through the documents on his desk. At length he produced a telegram and brought it close to his nose. His eyes flicked over the words. His frown deepened. He glanced back and forth between the telegram and Aubrey’s face. Then he put the telegram down on his desk, his hand over the text.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid the position's been filled.”

Aubrey mirrored his frown, confused, but thanked him for his time all the same.

Similar scenes played out in every subsequent office Aubrey visited. One manager shut the door in his face the moment he said his name. Another was less careful than Mr Dobson in keeping his telegram’s contents secret. The body of the message remained hidden, but Aubrey caught the sender’s name. Block capitals spelt out SMITH.

Aubrey’s eyes widened. He corrected his expression and returned his gaze to the manager’s face in time to see a responsive flicker of fear in the man’s eyes.

The contents of the telegram were easy enough for Aubrey to guess. He forced a smile and cut the interview short. No sense in wasting the manager’s time, much less his own.

As he walked down the road away from the office, it took considerable effort to keep his chin up. Internally, his emotions volleyed between despair and rage. And yet, for all his anger, he knew he had no one to blame for his predicament but himself. Smith didn't need to stretch the truth to give any prospective employer more than enough reason not to want Aubrey in their office.

When Aubrey reached the next business on his list, he stared up at the door and found he couldn’t muster the will to knock. He turned and started back for home. A hot packet of chips from a stall along the way improved his mood somewhat, but his mind remained overset by hopeless dread. Soon he wouldn’t be able to afford food at all.

Aubrey trudged up the stairs to his garret well after seven. He made a game attempt at reading The Engineer as he finished off his chips, but couldn’t focus. With a frustrated huff, he crumpled up the empty, greasy newsprint wrapper and chucked it into his wastepaper bin. Then he went to bed and lay staring up into the darkness.

Smith had destroyed all Aubrey's hopes of future employment in Manchester. Aubrey didn’t want to leave the centre of the industrial revolution, the home of Mechanics’ Institutes and engineering schools, and the rush and roar of iron and steam. But Manchester was hardly the only city in England.

London, for example. London had hundreds of offices and counting-houses and businesses who’d never heard of Smith, much less received his telegram.

It also had Lindsey.

The next day, Aubrey boarded the train to London. The ride took up most of the morning. Aubrey spent it combing The London Star for potential leads. By the time he arrived at his destination, he had a list of offices to visit, sorted by neighbourhood and arranged in a loop through the city which would bring him back to the station by seven and home to Manchester by midnight. Before he visited any of them, he stopped at the Post Office to post a letter.

As he’d supposed, no one in London had heard of Smith. They’d also never heard of Mr Jennings or Rook Mill. Despite this handicap, Aubrey made some favourable impressions. He felt much better about his prospects than he had the previous evening, and relaxed enough to nap on the train back to Manchester.

When he returned to his garret, he found a letter shoved under the considerable crack between the bottom of the door and the threshold. He picked it up with a smile, which widened as he opened the envelope and saw it was exactly what he’d hoped—a reply to the letter he’d sent Lindsey that morning.

The day after, he made another trip to London, reading the same paper and making a similar list. But the labyrinthine route he planned didn’t return him to the train station. Instead, after walking the city from noon to dusk, he turned towards Belgrave Square and landed on Lindsey’s doorstep.

Mr Hudson raised an eyebrow at his appearance—the mud, soot, and smog hadn’t been kind to his only suit—but led him into the library, regardless. There, Lindsey sat reading a fat leather-bound volume. When he saw who stood in the doorway, he broke into a grin and leapt out of his chair.

“Aubrey!”

Relief washed over Aubrey as he returned Lindsey’s grin. He’d felt conflicted about inviting himself over Lindsey’s house. He hated to be presumptuous. Yet it gnawed at him to spend so much time in London and none of it seeing Lindsey. The letter he’d received in reply, while affirmative, retained the perfunctory tone required to give the impression that their relationship remained businesslike. As such, Aubrey couldn’t quite convince himself his presence was truly welcome.

Now, however, with Lindsey pulling him into a strong embrace, Aubrey had to admit he might be wanted.

Aubrey leaned into Lindsey’s shoulder, enjoying the warmth of his body, the secure hold of his arms across his back, and the gentle nudge of his chin against the top of Aubrey’s head. Lindsey loosened his grip to brush his fingers through Aubrey’s hair. Aubrey tilted his face up for a kiss, which Lindsey provided with enthusiasm.

“Did you have any luck?” Lindsey asked when he broke it off. “Are you hungry at all? Thirsty?”

“Tired,” said Aubrey, but he did so with a smile. “You?”

“Oh, fine as ever,” said Lindsey. “Please, sit—”

Aubrey found himself ushered into a plush armchair with a glass of brandy by his elbow.

“Really,” Aubrey began, “you don’t have to—”

“Nonsense,” said Lindsey, dragging his own chair close to Aubrey’s. “Now, tell me everything.”

He put a hand over Aubrey’s, thumb rubbing across his knuckles. Aubrey turned his palm up to squeeze Lindsey’s in return, and told all. Lindsey’s hand clenched his as he described what Smith had done to his reputation in Manchester, but relaxed as he moved on to his greater success in London. Just as he finished, Charles arrived and announced dinner was ready.

“Dinner?” said Aubrey, after Lindsey sent Charles on his way.

“Dinner,” Lindsey confirmed with a smile. It waned when Aubrey didn’t return it. “Is that not amenable to you?”

Aubrey, recalling his last dinner at Lindsey’s house, hesitated. “Won’t your sister mind?”

“She’s visiting Lady Pelham in Yorkshire. There’s no one here tonight but us.”

And the servants, Aubrey didn’t say.

But when he followed Lindsey to the dining room, the only servant there was Charles. The table was set far more simply than at the dinner party, with fewer courses and more familiar fare. Lindsey watched Aubrey carefully as the latter took his first spoonful of soup.

“Is it...?” Lindsey began after Aubrey swallowed.

Aubrey smiled. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”

Lindsey relaxed and dug into his own bowl with a fascinating combination of relish and decorum.

“What were you reading when I came in?” asked Aubrey.

Lindsey swallowed. “Poe. Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque. Are you familiar with him?”

Aubrey hated to disappoint Lindsey with his ignorance, but he couldn’t pretend to know what he didn’t. “What sort of stories does he write?”

Far from looking disappointed, Lindsey perked up. “Promise you’ll stop me if I bore you.”

Aubrey nodded, and Lindsey launched into a passionate explanation lasting through dessert. He had his dessert spoon in hand, and had used it to poke at his sorbet no fewer than three times, but hadn’t brought any of it to his mouth—he kept pulling it away to throw his arms out wide in broad, emphatic gestures. Aubrey held back a fond smile at the sight.

“Doyle owes Poe a greater debt than he realises,” Lindsey concluded. “No matter what Holmes would say on the matter.”

Aubrey supposed he ought to read it for himself, and said as much. Lindsey, who’d finally managed to sneak in a mouthful of sorbet, gulped it down to grin at him.

“What have you been reading?” Lindsey asked.

“Nothing so fantastical as Poe,” said Aubrey. “Just The Engineer.”

Lindsey shrugged. “I’m interested.” When Aubrey continued to hesitate, he added, ”You’ve listened to me prattle on about Poe for the better part of two hours.”

But Aubrey, glimpsing the clock on the wall behind Lindsey, shook his head. “I ought to return to Manchester.”

Lindsey’s face fell. “What? Why?”

“Because that’s where I live.”

“Well, yes, but—it seems dashed inconvenient for you to travel all the way back there, just to return to London in the morning.”

Privately, Aubrey agreed. Aloud, he said, “What else can I do?”

Lindsey stared at him. “Stay here, of course.”

The offer lifted Aubrey’s heart to new heights. He swallowed hard to put it back in its place. “I don’t want to impose.”

“It’s hardly an imposition if I invite you.”

“After I’ve already invited myself over for dinner.”

Lindsey scoffed. “That’s not—dash it, surely you know you’re welcome here at any hour?”

Aubrey didn’t, actually. Such a notion hadn’t entered into his wildest fantasies. He knew he ought to respond with gratitude, but shock trapped the words in his throat.

When Aubrey failed to reply, Lindsey added, “I’m happy to host you for as long as you remain in London. Perpetually, if need be. It’d be my pleasure.”

Aubrey coughed. “Not perpetually. Just until I find employment. And a place of my own. Shouldn’t take more than a week.”

“It could take a decade for all I care,” Lindsey said with a laugh. It died when he saw Aubrey’s face at the thought of remaining unemployed for so long.

“A week,” Aubrey insisted.

Lindsey’s smile returned, weaker than before. “As you wish.”

Aubrey mirrored it more sincerely. “Thank you.”

They retired to the library after dinner. Lindsey happily handed his book over to Aubrey and selected another from the well-stocked shelves. Aubrey settled on one end of a long sofa. Lindsey stretched out on the remainder of it, the back of his head coming to rest on Aubrey’s thigh. Aubrey cast a bemused look down at him. It took Lindsey a moment to catch it.

“This all right?” he asked, peering up from his book with wide eyes, all the more ridiculous for being upside-down.

Aubrey bit back a laugh and nodded. Lindsey gave him a concerned frown in return.

“Are you sure?” he said, starting to sit up. “Do you need more room?”

But Aubrey put a hand on his forehead and gently pushed him back down. Lindsey acquiesced, his head rubbing against Aubrey’s thigh as he resettled. Aubrey kept his hand on Lindsey’s curls and trailed his fingers through them as he read.

Aubrey hadn’t read fiction since he’d been a boy in the workhouse, piecing together scraps of improving penny literature donated to the Sunday schoolhouse years before. Poe proved leagues above anything churned out by the authors of Jessica’s First Prayer and Froggy’s Little Brother. Yet even the tension of The Fall of the House of Usher couldn’t keep Aubrey awake after the day—the week—he’d had. His eyes burned with exhaustion. He’d just made up his mind to soldier on without complaint when his half-stifled yawn caught Lindsey’s attention.

“Sorry,” Aubrey said in response to Lindsey’s quirked eyebrow. “It’s not the book, it’s—”

“—staying up past eleven after rising at five to tramp all over London on foot?” Lindsey ventured a self-deprecating smile.

Aubrey blinked at him, chuckled, then bowed his head in defeat.

Lindsey shut his own book, plucked Poe from Aubrey’s hands, and marked the page with a red ribbon from the library table drawer. Then he tugged the weary Aubrey up from the sofa, put an arm around his waist, and led him down the hall to bed.

The soft, warm bed began lulling Aubrey to sleep as soon as he crawled between its sheets. He stayed awake just long enough to feel Lindsey’s lean limbs curl around him. Then he was out.

He awoke the next morning with his cheek on Lindsey’s breastbone. He lifted his head from the steady rise and fall of Lindsey’s chest to gaze upon his sleeping face. The temptation of his parted lips proved too much for Aubrey. He crawled up to kiss them. Lindsey, half-waking, gave a hum of pleasure. Aubrey pulled away to watch his blue eyes flutter open.

“Good morning,” said Aubrey, unable to suppress a self-satisfied grin.

Lindsey echoed the sentiment and leaned in for another kiss. Aubrey happily complied, rearranging his hips to line up with Lindsey’s. As he’d suspected, Lindsey’s prick stood as ready as his own. They’d both gone to bed naked, which made it easy for Aubrey to frot their cocks together between their bellies. He grinned wickedly down at Lindsey as the latter’s throat bobbed in a swallow of eager anticipation. Then Aubrey rolled his hips. Lindsey arched his back and spent in short order. Aubrey’s crisis followed close behind.

An hour or so after a more drawn-out encore, Aubrey rose, washed, and dressed to hunt for work again. Lindsey, still abed and watching throughout, persuaded him to stay just long enough to gulp down a hot cup of tea and a biscuit. He couldn’t, however, persuade him to come back to bed, or to take a holiday from his quest.

Even after rising late and leaving Lindsey’s house later still, waking up in London rather than Manchester gave Aubrey an early start on his search for employment. He covered more ground than the two preceding days, following up on the more promising offices he’d visited on his first trip into the city.

When he returned to Belgrave Square that evening, Lindsey awaited him with a ready smile, a hot meal, and hours of fascinating conversation interspersed with quiet leisure. That night, Aubrey slept better than ever before, no doubt aided by the sweet release that came with clenching Lindsey’s cock between his own slick thighs.

The rest of the week fell into the same routine; Aubrey woke in Lindsey’s bed, marched all over London, and returned to Lindsey in the evening. Throughout the day, the thought of Lindsey kept his chin up and a smile on his lips. He could happily spend forever like this—provided he found employment soon.

Saturday arrived. Aubrey rose at half-past six and began to dress. A low grumble from Lindsey stopped him.

“Where’re you going?” Lindsey mumbled, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

Aubrey, who’d bent to put on stockings, abandoned the effort with one off and one on. “To look for work.”

“On a Saturday?” Lindsey sat up and blinked at him. “Who’ll be hiring on a Saturday?”

“Plenty of people, or so I’m hoping. Most offices should be open for half the day.”

“Good God,” Lindsey groaned.

Aubrey bristled. “We can’t all afford to live on five days’ pay.”

“No, I know, it’s just—it doesn’t seem fair.”

“It isn’t. And yet, here we are.”

Lindsey sighed. “You’ll be back in the afternoon, then? We could attend the theatre tonight. Or the opera.”

Aubrey preferred the theatre, but a more pressing concern pushed itself to the forefront of his mind. “I haven’t anything to wear.”

“Borrow something of mine. Or if you return early enough, have a tailor come ‘round and take your measurements. It wouldn’t be ready for another few days, but you’d have it by next Saturday, and then we could...” He trailed off at the look on Aubrey’s face.

“I should probably find work before I buy a new suit,” said Aubrey.

Lindsey frowned in confusion. “I meant I would buy it for you.”

Aubrey had suspected as much. His eyes flicked over to his only jacket, hanging off the back of one of Lindsey’s chairs. Its battered, dusty elbows and frayed cuffs looked even more worn in the midst of all Lindsey’s luxuries. Aubrey couldn’t deny it needed replacing. A new suit might even better his employment prospects. Yet the thought of Lindsey spending so much tied Aubrey’s guts into knots. Knowing Lindsey was rich as any Rothschild did nothing to ease Aubrey’s conscience. The money might be meaningless to Lindsey, but it meant everything to Aubrey.

Rather than voicing any of his actual concerns, Aubrey replied, “I had a notion we might visit the Crystal Palace. They’ve got an electrical exhibition on.”

Lindsey would likely be terribly bored, but Aubrey wouldn’t need a new suit to attend.

To Aubrey’s surprise, Lindsey didn’t seem at all bored by the prospect. On the contrary, his face lit up as if it, too, were powered by electricity. He announced his delight at Aubrey’s suggestion and shrugged on a dressing gown to cross the room and give Aubrey a celebratory kiss. Aubrey found himself smiling in return as Lindsey ran a hand through his hair and on down his cheek.

The offices open on Saturday weren’t as promising as Aubrey hoped, but the prospect of an electric afternoon with Lindsey did much to soothe the pangs of chronic unemployment. He returned to the Althorp residence at quarter to three. The moment he stepped into the library, Lindsey tossed aside Varney the Vampire and took up Aubrey’s arm in its place, pulling him out of the house to a waiting hansom.

Travelling from Belgrave Square to Sydenham by hansom cab couldn’t be called a fiscally responsible decision by any stretch of the imagination, but the sight at the journey’s end drove all question of cost from Aubrey’s mind. The Crystal Palace’s magnificent glass walls glowed from within, banishing the fog with clean electric light. He approached its entrance, Lindsey beside him, stepped over the threshold, and stumbled to a halt, struck dumb by the overwhelming display of scientific progress.

Every engineering firm in England, and several foreign, was exhibiting their newest, most advanced electric innovations. Aubrey’s eyes skipped from the passenger lift to the travelling crane to the wall of incandescent lamps. The glow intensified as the whirring hum of electric power surged through the air around him. He stood gawking for far longer than a reasonable man ought.

“Are you all right?” said Lindsey, a note of amusement in his voice.

“Fine,” Aubrey replied, a half-second too late. Then he remembered to blink, and to turn and look at the person he’d spoken to.

Lindsey gazed down at him with a dimpled half-smile. The soft crinkling around his eyes suggested far more warmth than the electric lights had to offer. Aubrey felt his cheeks heat up with it. He stuttered a little as he began his explanation of the exhibition. No matter how many half-formed words tumbled from Aubrey’s lips, Lindsey’s affectionate look never wavered. Aubrey hoped the affection he felt in return showed in his own expression.

“If we could only see the motor transformers!” Aubrey said some hours later, having just finished his short lecture on the electric tramway for Lindsey’s benefit. They’d meandered through most of the exhibition by this point. The sunlight filtering down through the Palace’s glass walls had developed an orange glow.

“Motor transformers?” Lindsey echoed. He walked beside Aubrey with his hands clasped behind his back. Aubrey imitated his pose, lest the urge to take Lindsey’s arm overwhelm his better judgement. Not that the crowd swarming around them seemed to pay them any particular mind, but still.

“They power the whole exhibition,” Aubrey replied, daring to bring an arm up to gesture broadly at their surroundings, then quickly replacing it behind his back, safe from temptation. “Ten of them, forty kilowatts output apiece, hidden away underneath the Palace. I only know of it from The Engineer.”

“And the public is prohibited from gazing upon this marvel of engineering?”

“Not prohibited, precisely, but I don’t believe permission is easy to come by.”

Lindsey nodded thoughtfully and looked off into the distance. Aubrey’s attention returned to the tram. Thoughts of fantastical future transportation distracted him for many minutes. When he came back to himself, Lindsey had disappeared.

Lindsey’s name sprang to his lips. He only just managed to prevent himself from calling out. Panic proved harder to suppress. Nevermind that Lindsey was a grown man, permitted to leave if he wished, and more than capable of looking after himself.

Aubrey swallowed his fears and cast his eyes over the crowd in a slow, methodical search. Lindsey stood head and shoulders above most men. He couldn’t stay hidden for long. Most likely he’d wandered off out of boredom. Aubrey couldn’t blame him. No one could be expected to listen to his engineering chatter indefinitely. The real surprise lay in how Lindsey had tolerated it up ‘til now.

“There you are!”

Aubrey whirled around to see Lindsey approaching him with a surly engineer in tow. Lindsey waved merrily at Aubrey, who found himself grinning in reply.

“Right where I left you!” said Lindsey as he drew up beside Aubrey. “Mr Warren, this is Mr Gowrie. Mr Gowrie, Mr Warren.”

“How do you do,” said Mr Gowrie tonelessly.

“Mr Gowrie has agreed to show us the motor transformers,” said Lindsey.

Aubrey, preoccupied with shaking Mr Gowrie’s hand, jerked his head up to regard Lindsey, who looked very pleased with himself.

“That’s—!” Aubrey choked down his instinctive oath of surprise—and his desire to embrace Lindsey along with it—and looked back to Mr Gowrie. “Dashed good of you, sir!”

Mr Gowrie’s mustache didn’t so much as twitch. “If you’ll follow me, gentlemen.”

As Mr Gowrie turned away, Lindsey bent his head towards Aubrey’s and spoke in a low tone.

“Do let me apologise for running off without explanation. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Aubrey squeezed his arm in gratitude. He didn’t dare open his mouth, lest he say something to attract the crowd’s attention. He wondered what Lindsey had done to obtain permission to see the transformers. Title and fortune probably had something to do with it. He felt a twinge of frustration, but the promise of engineering spectacle quieted it, leaving him with a vague sense of guilt, which he found easier to dismiss.

They followed Mr Gowrie down an electrically-lit staircase to a subterranean corridor. As they walked, Lindsey looked around with a puzzled expression.

“Rather warmer than I expected,” he said. “Drier, too.”

Before Mr Gowrie could do more than inhale, Aubrey spoke.

“Fire insurance requires each transformer be housed in its own separate brick enclosure. So they’ve repurposed the archways supporting the Palace’s heating system. Thus—” He waved his arm up at the brickwork. “—warm and dry.”

Mr Gowrie raised an eyebrow. Aubrey would’ve explained himself, but Lindsey stepped in.

“Mr Warren,” he said with a look of tremendous pride, “is an engineer.”

“Aspiring,” Aubrey rushed to correct him.

Mr Gowrie glanced between them. “Indeed.”

Aubrey turned his attention to the transformers. True to The Engineer’s promise, ten massive machines hummed in perfect harmony. The sight prompted a corresponding hum in Aubrey’s chest. He imagined what a similar system could accomplish if installed at Rook Mill.

“How do they...?” Lindsey began.

Mr Gowrie opened his mouth to explain. Aubrey beat him to it. A torrent of words—mentions of high-tension currents, field magnets, volts, poles, and circuits among them—poured from his mouth. When it closed some minutes later, Aubrey found both Lindsey and Mr Gowrie staring at him. He coloured.

“At least,” he coughed, “I presume that’s how it works. Mr Gowrie can no doubt correct me.”

But Mr Gowrie merely raised his formidable eyebrow again. “Are you certain you’re an aspiring engineer?”

“Quite,” said Aubrey.

Lindsey grinned. “Could you elaborate on the difference between watts and volts?”

Aubrey was only too happy to explain.

Back in Belgrave Square after the Palace closed for the night, Aubrey did his best to show his appreciation for the afternoon’s indulgence. The way Lindsey’s cock jumped in Aubrey’s hand, as if current ran through it, accompanied by electrified gasps from Lindsey’s throat, assured Aubrey his message of gratitude was well-received.

“When can you start?” said an office manager the following Monday.

Aubrey blinked, stunned. He hadn’t dared hope to hear those four words so soon. He recovered in time to agree to seven o’clock on Wednesday morning. The manager, Mr Lawson, shook his hand on it. Aubrey left the office with a step so light he feared he'd float away.

Mr Lawson’s office handled bookkeeping for a shipping firm. The work, even further removed from engineering than Rook Mill, wouldn’t be glamorous, but the promised pay was almost double what Aubrey had earned previously. He could afford to rent his own room in London, perhaps even multiple rooms, and still put away something towards retirement. Hell, after six months or so he could buy a new suit to wear to the theatre with Lindsey. He quick-stepped towards Belgrave Square to give Lindsey the good news.

“Wonderful!” Lindsey cried, once Aubrey told him. He kissed Aubrey in celebration and seemed intent on celebrating further, but Aubrey forced himself to pull away.

“I must return to Manchester,” he said. “Pack up, give notice to Mrs Padwick, that sort of thing.”

“Do you need any help?”

Aubrey tried to picture Lindsey in his garret, carrying a soapbox of The Engineer back-issues down the rickety stair, and choked back laughter. “No, but thank you.”

Lindsey looked a little disappointed, so Aubrey kissed him again and promised to return the following evening.

On the train back to Manchester, Aubrey’s mind wandered miles away and ahead to his future in London with Lindsey. He walked dazed and distracted from Manchester Central to his lodging house, up the stairs to his room—the room he’d soon leave behind, and good riddance.

However, before he could leave, he had to confront the pile of mail shoved under the door in his absence. On top of The Engineer’s latest issue lay a letter postmarked two days past. Aubrey opened it with a worried frown.

Dear Mr Warren,

Splendid news! I have spoken with our chief engineer, Mr Cartwright, and he has a position available for you as a coal passer. It is difficult work, and not quite what you are used to, but I have no doubt you will turn it to your advantage and rise up to become a proper engineer in no time. Do write back with your decision as soon as possible.

Best regards,

Mr Edward Jennings

P.S. Don’t worry about Mr Smith. I have the matter well in hand.

Aubrey sat down hard on the edge of his bed and stared at the letter. The paper crumpled in his clenched hands.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Despite spending most of the night and all the next morning’s train ride considering the problem, Aubrey had come no closer to a solution by the time he reached Lindsey’s doorstep. He found Lindsey at breakfast, surprised at his early arrival, but delighted to see him. Aubrey sat beside Lindsey as he was bid and made a valiant effort at returning Lindsey’s joyful expression, but could do little more than push his bacon around his plate.

“Is there anything else you’d prefer?” Lindsey asked.

Aubrey jerked to attention. “No, sorry, it’s—I haven’t any appetite.”

“Everything all right?” said Lindsey, frowning. A handsome frown, but the sight cause a pang in Aubrey’s chest regardless.

“Fine,” Aubrey hurried to reassure him.

Lindsey hesitated, then spoke again. “Forgive me, it isn’t that I don’t believe you, it’s just...”

“...you don’t believe me?” A wistful smile tugged the corners of Aubrey’s mouth.

Lindsey mirrored his expression. “If there’s anything I can do...”

“I’ll ask,” said Aubrey, the lie coming to his lips even easier the second time.

Lindsey’s forced smile did nothing to alleviate Aubrey’s guilt. Aubrey sighed and set down his fork.

“I received a letter from Mr Jennings,” he said. Lindsey’s eyebrows rose against his reluctance to explain further, so he added, “He’s offered me a job as a coal-passer.”

“Excellent!” said Lindsey. “What’s a coal-passer?”

“The person responsible for keeping the engine fed.”

“Ah,” said Lindsey. “And this... distresses you?”

“I have to refuse,” said Aubrey. “A coal-passer doesn’t earn near so much as a clerk. And I can’t return to Manchester. Not when I’ve everything waiting for me in London.”

Lindsey nodded along, but his brows remained knitted. Aubrey returned to his plate. He poked a few morsels, then dared another glance at Lindsey, whose expression hadn’t changed.

“What?” said Aubrey.

“You don’t seem entirely at peace with that decision.”

Aubrey, unused to being so transparent, hurriedly dropped his gaze and replied to the table rather than to Lindsey. “It doesn’t matter. I’m moving to London. I’ve a new job. A good job. I’d be an idiot to turn it down to shovel coal.”

The room fell silent, save for the tines of Aubrey’s fork scraping his plate as he stabbed at his eggs.

“Is it because coal-passing has more to do with engineering than clerking?” Lindsey asked.

Aubrey brought his head up sharp to regard Lindsey, whose confused frown had given way to concern.

“It does,” Aubrey admitted. “But that’s irrelevant.”

“But if you’d prefer it—”

“—then I’m an ass, and deserve to starve in the gutter, which is where I’ll end up if I—” Aubrey swallowed. “Besides, if I return to Rook Mill, I become your employee again.”

“I could sell it back to Clarence.”

Aubrey blinked. “What?”

“Clarence Rook,” said Lindsey. “If I return the mill to him, then you'd be his employee, not mine.”

Aubrey stared at him, unable to comprehend the notion of a massive property transfer for no other purpose than his personal comfort. “Mr Rook would slash wages back to where they were when you acquired the mill. And he’d sack me again in the bargain.”

Lindsey appeared shocked. “Why would he do that?”

In lieu of explaining exactly what Lindsey’s dearest friend had imparted to Aubrey during their meeting, Aubrey replied, “Because I’ve a habit of violence towards my fellow staff.”

“Only under duress.”

Aubrey shook his head. “This clerking job—it’s the only one I’ve ever earned. Every other position I’ve held has resulted from personal connections. My—” Aubrey scrambled for the correct word. “—friendship with Mr Jennings convinced him to hire me on as an office boy, and before that—the Post Office didn’t hire me for my brains.”

“Then they were fools,” Lindsey replied with conviction. “You’re brilliant.”

Aubrey’s instinctive protest stuck in his throat.

Lindsey spoke on. “Let’s pretend your friendship with certain individuals provided an advantage in seeking employment. What good would this advantage have done if you hadn’t proved yourself worthy of the positions you held? Would Smith have done half as well in your place?”

“Smith still has the job I was sacked from. I’d say he’s done better.”

Lindsey, who’d opened his mouth to continue, choked off whatever he’d intended to say.

Aubrey supposed he ought to feel victorious. He’d made his point and silenced his opponent. By the rules of logical debate, he’d won. Yet all he felt was a growing, gaping void in his chest. His soul threatened to sink into it.

Lindsey’s grimace became a sad smile. “Your mind’s made up, then. Clerking over coal-passing.”

“Yes, but—” Aubrey stopped himself.

“But what?”

“Nothing. It’s not rational.”

“To the devil with rational,” said Lindsey. “What is it?”

Aubrey forced the words out in a rush. “Clerking in London would be a step away from engineering. Likely forever. If I start as a coal-passer, I could learn on the job and advance to fireman, second engineer, engineer—”

“So become a coal-passer.”

“At what cost?” said Aubrey. “It wouldn’t be fair to Mr Lawson. I’ve promised to start first thing on Wednesday.”

“What do you owe him? Write an apologetic letter and wash your hands of it.”

“It wouldn’t be fair to you!” Aubrey blurted.

Lindsey sat back and stared at him. “What?”

“If I return to Manchester, it’s farther from you—and we’ve already planned that I’d move to London so we might be—” Aubrey cleared his throat and looked down at his plate, stabbing his eggs again. “It’s not fair to you to have me run off, not after you’ve been so obliging. Putting up with my nonsense.”

“What nonsense?”

“This,” Aubrey didn’t say. Instead, he replied, “You wanted to go to the theatre, and I dragged you all over the electrical exhibition.”

“I suggested we attend the theatre,” said Lindsey, enunciating each word with careful patience. “You suggested we visit the Palace. I agreed, and had a wonderful time. We both did. That’s not nonsense. You listen to my prattling about Poe and Braddon and Doyle and heaven knows what else. You overlook my blunders—”

Aubrey lifted his head. “What blunders?”

Lindsey half-smiled. “I asked you if you rode horses.”

“That’s—” Aubrey coughed. “Anyone could make that mistake.”

Lindsey’s sheepish smile broadened. “I gave you a calling-card case.”

Aubrey, who hadn’t realised Lindsey had recognised his error, flushed scarlet. “And I cherish it!”

“You do?” Lindsey sounded genuinely surprised.

Aubrey thrust a determined hand into his jacket pocket and produced the object in question. Silver flashed in the morning sunlight. Lindsey stared at it. Then a tentative grin appeared on his face, and he closed his hands over both the case and Aubrey’s palm.

“My point,” he said softly, gazing into Aubrey’s eyes, “is I’m delighted to see you happy. And stricken to see you miserable. Engineering—if you could’ve seen your face at the exhibition!—it makes you so—” He shook his head. “I can’t bear to watch you throw that away. You shouldn’t let anyone stop you from striving for what you want most. Least of all me.”

Aubrey’s reply—that Lindsey was what he wanted most—stilled on his tongue at Lindsey’s tone. It sounded as though Lindsey knew precisely how it felt to be kept from his most heartfelt desires. What could prevent one of England’s richest, handsomest bachelors from having everything he wanted, Aubrey couldn’t fathom. He thought back on what Miller and Graves had told him of Lindsey’s school days. That must be what Lindsey meant; his father keeping him from school, and his friends shielding him from romantic developments.

Then Aubrey recalled why Graves and Miller had wanted to speak with him in the first place. Why Rook and Miss Althorp had done the same. Every person in Lindsey’s life wanted Aubrey out of it. And Lindsey wanted—

Aubrey.

Lindsey wanted Aubrey most of all.

The revelation swept over Aubrey, flooding his mind with panic.

“Are you all right?” Lindsey asked.

Aubrey didn’t trust himself to speak. He stood and closed the short distance to Lindsey’s chair. Lindsey looked up at him, his stunning blue eyes wide in confusion. Aubrey closed his own and swooped down to press a ferocious kiss on Lindsey’s parted lips. Lindsey returned it with equal passion. When the awkward position grew too much to bear, Aubrey pulled back to rest his forehead against Lindsey’s.

“I suppose I’ll be an engineer,” said Aubrey, still not daring to open his eyes.

Lindsey kissed him again. “A brilliant one.”

Aubrey laughed and nuzzled Lindsey’s throat.

Dear Miss Rook,

I write to thank you for showing me your compositions for the piano, and to inform you of a recent change in my own circumstance which may interest you. I am no longer a clerk. I am now on my way to becoming an engineer by profession. The position is less intellectual and more physically rigorous, but I have already learned much in my first week of employment and look forward to expanding the breadth of my knowledge as time goes on.

Regarding The Engineer—if you have no subscription of your own, perhaps the copies I have already acquired might be of some use to you? Forgive me if this is an impertinence; I am not well studied in the ways of society.

Your servant,

Aubrey Warren

Dear Mr Warren,

I am delighted to hear of your promotion! Your offering of The Engineer is far from impertinent, it is most generous of you and I am thankful for it. My father, God rest his soul, had a subscription when I was a child. I used to steal away the issues before he could send them on to Clarence at Oxford. I’m not sure what Clarence did with the ones that made their way to him. He didn’t bring any home with him when he left university. He cancelled father’s subscription as soon as father died, much to my private distress. I was able to save a few issues from his purge. 7th of July 1871 is a particular favourite of mine.

To our purpose: I cannot have The Engineer delivered to my house for reasons we have already discussed, but Rowena’s address ought to be safe enough. I may read it in her library. She very kindly does not consider this rude of me, for she is often reading herself when I arrive for morning calls. We pass the time v. quietly this way. Forgive me, such news must bore you terribly. Please tell me everything you have learned in your new position. Life is very dull for me otherwise.

Your friend,

Emmeline Rook

Dear Miss Rook,

As promised, here are the last eight months of The Engineer, with a short note for company. I regret I cannot write more. I no longer have a desk at work, and light is in short supply at home. I fear a description of my day-to-day would put you (or anyone) straight off to sleep. However, I have learned that our own steam engine is rated at 35 horsepower, will stand a cold water pressure of 135 pounds without displaying weakness, and can carry up to 85 pounds of pressure. Our chief engineer is Mr Cartwright, and he has been more patient with me than I deserve. For the most part, my duties consist of watching the gauges, and adding water and fuel as needed. Our mechanical stoker means I shovel less coal than might be supposed, but still more coal than any clerk shovelled before. Apart from that, what I learn comes from eavesdropping on Mr Cartwright’s commands to engineers more senior than myself. I do hope you will forgive me for that.

Your servant,

Aubrey Warren

Dear Mr Warren,

Thank you, thank you, thank you ever so much for your gift! I’m afraid I quite bored Rowena, imploring her to look over my shoulder at the reports of the Electrical Exhibition (which I am sorely vexed to have missed!) or Edison’s latest patent. Did you by any chance catch the note on page 87 of 29 January of this year regarding what occurs when simple table salt is mixed with whitewash? It is an old experiment, I know, but the limited view I have had of the world until now makes it quite new to me. I would dearly like to try it for myself, but I dare not perform any such experiments in my own house for reasons we have already discussed.

Forgive my naïveté in being jealous of your position. I should love to shovel coal into a great thrumming engine, fuelling the fires of industry! But I trust the reality of your situation is none so exciting as my imagination makes it. Still, I beg you will continue to tell me all that occurs. You are a coal-passer. Who must you surpass to become chief engineer?

Your friend,

Emmeline Rook

Dear Miss Rook,

You’re very welcome. You’re already making far better use of them than I ever did. I would perform the salt and whitewash experiment myself and report the results back to you, but I fear my landlady would not be well pleased.

In the interest of giving a full and complete account of the engineering done at the factory, I will attempt a sketch of my co-workers. The second engineer of the day shift is Mr Hepworth. He is nearer to forty than thirty, I believe, with almost twenty years of engineering study under his belt. I shall not be able to surpass him for some time. I fear he may resent any attempts on my part to do so. But he has no objection to my work as a coal-passer. Mr Cartwright likewise continues to find my progress acceptable. There is also a day fireman, Mr Barr. I do not have much opportunity to socialise with them on the job, but they all seem like good fellows.

Your servant,

Aubrey Warren

Dear Mr Warren,

Rowena has been so gracious and kind and allowed me to perform the salt and whitewash experiment in her house. I’m afraid we put off the cook and housekeeper in the process, but Rowena concurs that it is a small price to pay for the progress of scientific understanding. The Engineer recommends mixing three parts quicklime to one of common salt. The result is a wash hard as adamantine and impossible to remove. We had anticipated this result, and thought ourselves well prepared by applying the mixture to the back of an old magazine cover (NOT The Engineer!!!) with a worn-out watercolour brush, but the chemical reaction was complete before the brush made it from pail to paper, and the end result of our experiment is a lump of what might pass for enamel stuck on the end of a brush handle. The sable hairs are completely obscured, with no hope of extrication. Rowena said she was glad she had not sacrificed a new brush to the rites of Science. I was eager to repeat the experiment and affirm our conclusions, but I fear Rowena was quite bored by the prospect, and so it shall have to wait. Truth told, I would much rather be experimenting with magnets and glass tubing and copper wires, but those are harder to procure.

Returning to The Engineer, I have reached the 12 February issue of this year and find myself in agony at not having attended Mr Tesla’s lecture before the Institution of Electrical Engineers. I should have dearly loved to see the incredible phosphorescent glow produced by the passage of high-frequency volts through Mr Tesla’s very body! Imagine, to be in his position! To feel such power coursing in one’s own mortal frame! What a thrill it must be!

Rowena does not seem enthused about my proposal of repeating Mr Tesla’s experiment in her home. She is, however, warming to the notion of accompanying me to the Crystal Palace. The Palace is very old news to you and the rest of the engineering world, I’m sure. Still, I cannot help but want to see it for myself. Rowena thinks it unlikely that we should be permitted to view the motor transformers underneath the floor of the Palace, but I should like to try. Surely it couldn’t hurt to ask permission? Failing that, I should like to ride the electric passenger lift.

Your FRIEND,

Emmeline Rook

Dear Miss Rook,

My congratulations on the success of your experiment in chemistry, and my condolences and commiserations with your agonies regarding Mr Tesla’s lecture. I myself was lucky enough to visit the Crystal Palace. I hope you may do the same. It is a truly inspiring sight. If you do manage to convince Miss Althorp to accompany you, I do hope you will write back and tell me your opinion of all you have seen. Particularly of the motor transformers, if you can get a look at them. They are most impressive.

The mill continues on much the same day after day. Do not take that as a complaint! I much prefer watching the gauges to filling the ledgers. I’ve learned far more on the job as a coal-passer in a month than I ever did in all my years as a clerk.

Forgive the brevity of this letter. Light is in short supply here at the end of the work day. I hope it finds you well.

Your friend,

Aubrey Warren

Fog rolled over the cobblestones of the Rook Mill yard, the sun little more than a faint sliver on the eastern horizon. The mill itself, empty of workers, loomed over the chill morning in silence. Aubrey waited by the boiler shed for the chief engineer, as he’d done every day these past two months.

The chief engineer, Mr Cartwright, arrived at quarter to seven. He nodded good-morning to Aubrey, who returned the gesture. The second engineer, Mr Hepworth, would soon follow, and together the three men could start the mighty mechanism and bring power to the mill—like Prometheus granting fire, as Lindsey put it.

In the meantime, Aubrey and Mr Cartwright waited in companionable silence. Unable to converse during the twelve hours a day the engine ran, Mr Cartwright seemed to have fallen out of the habit of conversation altogether, speaking only when necessary to impart technical information—which suited Aubrey fine.

The clock tower struck seven. Hepworth didn’t appear. Instead, a thin, grubby boy ran up with a letter clenched in his fist.

“Cartwright?” he said.

Mr Cartwright handed over a penny for the letter. The boy scampered off.

Whatever the letter’s contents, they didn’t sit well with Mr Cartwright, whose cheeks drained of colour as he read. He folded the letter up and turned to Aubrey.

“Think you can handle the engine yourself?” he asked. “At least until Hepworth comes along.”

Aubrey confirmed he could. Mr Cartwright thanked him and took off as near to running as respectability allowed.

Aubrey continued waiting for Hepworth. At half-past seven, he could delay no longer. He started the engine.

It took some fiddling, as he was alone and had to run between stations to check gauges, turn cranks, and pull levers, but he managed. The engine came alive, roaring with “the fires of industry,” as Miss Rook would have it. Aubrey stood back to monitor its progress.

At eight o’clock, a figure approached. Aubrey couldn’t determine its identity through the perpetual fog, soot, and lint. He thought it might be Miss Brewster come to discuss union duties now that he’d become a proper member of the workforce, but as the figure stepped closer, he recognised it as Smith.

Before Smith opened his mouth, Aubrey spoke, pitching his voice above the engine’s clamour.

“What do you want?”

“Mr Gardener wants a word,” Smith replied, his face pinched up in disgust at his proximity to the greasy machine.

He had to repeat himself twice, unused to speaking over the engine. The unlikelihood of his message made it even harder for Aubrey to understand. Mr Gardener was the foreman of the weaving room. Aubrey couldn’t recall ever exchanging a word with him. He only recognised the name thanks to his former payroll duties.

“Tell him to come out here,” Aubrey directed, jabbing a finger down at the cobblestones beneath his feet.

Smith shook his head.

“I can’t leave the boiler,” said Aubrey. “There’s no one else to watch it.”

“I’ll watch it,” said Smith.

Aubrey gawked at him. “You?”

Smith bristled. “Can’t be that hard. You manage all right.”

Aubrey would’ve liked to demonstrate exactly how hard it was, but he doubted even the steel plates of the boiler could break through Smith’s thick skull.

“Fine,” Aubrey said, pointing to the gauges. “Watch these. If any of them go above this level—” he tapped the appropriate spot on each, “—run and fetch me. Otherwise, stay here, and don’t touch anything.”

“Who died and made you king of the boiler?” said Smith. But before Aubrey could respond, he rolled his eyes and added, “Fine. As you wish.”

Aubrey reluctantly turned to go.

“Quick step, mind!” Smith called after him. “Gardener’s not a patient fellow!”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Mr Gardener had no idea what Aubrey was talking about.

“Who are you, again?” he shouted. They’d met in the stairwell outside the weave room, but a closed door did little to muffle the cacophony of the machines.

“Warren,” Aubrey shouted back. “Coal-passer.”

“Thought you were a clerk.”

“I was, but—”

“Weren’t you sacked?”

“No, I—”

“So a disgraced clerk thinks he can come up here and waste my time?” Mr Gardener stood shorter than Aubrey—a small miracle—but the puckered frown under his walrus moustache indicated a sizeable temper.

Aubrey withheld any sign of his own impatience. “Mr Smith said you wished to speak to me.”

“Oh, Smith said that? How convenient, him having such a commonplace name as Smith.”

“Mr Gardener—” Aubrey began.

But Mr Gardener had already turned away to yank open the weave room door. With a final glare at Aubrey, he passed through and slammed it shut.

There was nothing for it but to return to the yard. Aubrey descended the stairs in haste, fuelled by his annoyance with Smith. As he departed the mill and strode across the yard, he readied a fiery sermon against stupid schoolboy pranks and the idiots who pulled them.

But when he reached the boiler shed, he found no one to hear it. Smith had gone.

Aubrey could’ve kicked the boiler in frustration. He settled for checking the gauges. All read normal. None of their needles had moved so much as a millimetre since he’d left them. He watched them a minute or so longer. They remained still.

Too still.

The boiler, the furnace, and the engines all generated constant vibrations along with steam power. The omnipresent thrum should’ve rattled the needles. Furthermore, it’d taken Aubrey at least a quarter hour to run into the mill, speak with Mr Gardener, and run back. In that time, the furnace should’ve consumed fuel, the boiler should’ve consumed water, and both gauges should’ve dropped. Yet they hadn’t. They’d remained fixed at the point where Aubrey had seen them last. Where they’d been when he’d left Smith alone with the machinery.

Aubrey expelled a stream of every oath he’d ever heard, from workhouse to whorehouse to mill yard and back again.

Of course Smith would interpret his instructions literally. Anything to avoid the labour of watching the gauges. Much easier to prevent the needles from moving in the first place.

Unfortunately, this left Aubrey with no way of knowing the actual pressure in the boiler. If he kept it running, he’d do so blind, every passing second ticking closer to a potential explosion. The only safe option was to shut it down.

If Smith hadn’t broken those mechanisms as well.

Which, of course, he had.

Every lever had disappeared, most unscrewed, some snapped off. The toolbox Aubrey turned to for wrenches or pliers or anything to replace the levers had also vanished. As had the knobs and dials. The boiler, furnace, and engine roared on beyond Aubrey’s control.

Horrific headlines flashed through Aubrey’s mind. The Atlas Works explosion of 1858. The catastrophe at Billinge in 1865. Thick metal panels torn like wet tissue, careening through brick walls with enough force to decapitate a man and send his head flying a hundred yards off in the opposite direction. Stories he’d pored over in The Engineer, stories he’d seen as mere illustrative case studies, were now all too applicable to his present reality. Everyone within a thousand yards of Rook Mill was in mortal peril.

Aubrey sprinted back towards the mill. With every stride he racked his brain for a plan. He could run onto the mill floor and shout for everyone to leave. “BOILER EXPLOSION!” at top volume would probably do the trick. However, a panicked rush at the exits could kill and maim as many as the explosion itself.

He vaulted up the stairwell two steps at a time. In the midst of one such leap, he realised he didn’t need everyone to know the details of the imminent danger, necessarily. He just needed them to leave in a quiet and orderly fashion.

And for that, he knew exactly where to go.

“You again?” Mr Gardener shouted over the clatter of the machines as Aubrey entered.

Aubrey ignored him and strode down the line of workers to tap one woman on the shoulder. Miss Brewster turned around with a scowl. It softened into a raised eyebrow as she recognised him. Aubrey jerked his head towards the door. She followed him into the stairwell despite Mr Gardener’s protests.

“Good morning, Mr Warren,” she said when they could hear each other.

“Have you planned for a strike?” he replied.

For the first time in their acquaintance, he’d surprised her, rather than the reverse. She gave him a long, wary look. “I have.”

“Good,” he said, surprising her again. “It needs to happen now. Stop work and walk out. Everyone. Can you manage it?”

She crossed her arms. “That depends. If we walk out now, can you guarantee Sir Lindsey will agree to our terms?”

“If you don’t walk out now, I can guarantee you’re at risk of being blown to pieces.”

Miss Brewster’s eyes widened. “Is that a threat, Mr Warren?”

“No, I—” Aubrey shook his head. “Something’s wrong with the boiler. Mr Cartwright’s gone. I can’t fix it alone.”

“And it’s going to explode,” she concluded in a detached deadpan, as if she couldn’t quite believe it herself. “And take all of us with it.”

“Unless we get everyone out of range.”

“Without causing a panic.” Miss Brewster nodded. “I believe I take your meaning, Mr Warren.”

“Can you do it?”

“I can.” She squared her shoulders. “And I shall.”

Without another word, she turned on her heel and re-entered the weave room. She strode straight to the nearest girl and put a hand on her shoulder. When the girl met her gaze, Miss Brewster raised her fist and made a sign across it. The girl’s expression changed from curiosity to resolve. She stepped away from her machine, put a hand on the shoulder of the girl next to her, and made the same sign as Miss Brewster. And so on down the line. Miss Brewster, meanwhile, galvanised the next row of girls.

Mr Gardener’s face turned a spectacular shade of scarlet as he shouted at his radical workforce. He caught sight of Aubrey in the doorway and, pointing an accusatory finger, attempted to rush at him, but the women’s march towards the exit impeded his progress. Aubrey escaped down the stairwell.

Word travelled between floors much faster than Aubrey had expected. By the time he reached the yard, the entire weave room had followed, and a few men from other stations as well. The crowd swelled as he stood helpless, wondering how best to herd them outside the mill complex entirely. Before he could gather the courage to address them, one girl clambered atop the shoulders of another, and, through shouts and arm gestures, told the crowd their goal lay outside the mill bounds. The workforce flowed towards the gate, most men marching, some boys skipping along with their fists in the air, and the women with their heads held high.

Unfortunately, their route ran between Aubrey and the boiler shed. He’d given up hope of cutting through their ranks and was plotting an alternate route around the back of the mill when a voice behind him called, “Warren!”

Aubrey turned to find Mr Jennings rapidly approaching. His mouth moved, but the crowd’s murmurs had grown to rival the rumble of machinery, muffling all speech. Only when Mr Jennings’s stood in front of him could he understand him.

“What the devil’s going on?” Mr Jennings demanded.

“It’s a walk-out, sir,” said Aubrey.

“I can bloody well see that!”

In all the time Aubrey had known Mr Jennings, he’d never seen him angry. Sad, frustrated, resigned, yes—enraged, no. But the Mr Jennings who confronted him at present had a throbbing purple brow, and Aubrey had to suppress an instinctive backwards step.

“The boiler is going to explode,” said Aubrey, leaning in lest one of the crowd overhear him. If they started a panic, all Miss Brewster’s careful organisation would be for nought.

“What!” cried Mr Jennings.

“Please, sir.” Aubrey held up his hands in supplication. “Walk out with everyone else. I swear I’ll have a satisfactory explanation after—”

“A satisfactory explanation for a boiler explosion!?”

One of the passing workers whipped his head around to give Mr Jennings a second glance. He may have intended to stop, but the crowd pushed him along.

Aubrey motioned for Mr Jennings to keep his voice down. “Edward, please!”

That got him Mr Jennings’s full attention. Aubrey didn’t waste a second of it.

“Miss Brewster and I are trying to get everyone to safety. Please, go with them—for supervision or solidarity, it doesn’t matter. Just please get yourself and Smith out of range!”

Mr Jennings frowned. “Smith?”

“Yes. Isn’t he with you?”

“He hasn’t deigned to grace us with his presence today, no.”

Aubrey stared at him. “What?”

“I said he’s not here, boy, so you needn’t worry about him. Or me, either. I’ll walk with you.”

Aubrey was only half-listening. “No, no, I must—see to the boiler—”

“Aubrey!”

The ill-considered shout had no effect. Aubrey had already run off. Mr Jennings’s voice was replaced by the drone of the crowd and the distant clatter of unattended machines. These, too, fell off as Aubrey drew closer to the boiler shed. Mechanical clanging and a high, persistent hiss filled his ears. He came around the corner and stumbled to a halt. In front of the boiler, prybar in hand, his back to Aubrey, stood Smith.

“What’re you doing?” Aubrey shouted over the industrial noise.

Smith whirled around. Seeing Aubrey, he snarled. “What your mother ought’ve done when she realised what she’d whelped!”

Aubrey forced his fists to unclench. “That trick’s not going to work twice.”

“Sod off!”

Aubrey gave up trying to pry any useful information from Smith. He cast his eyes over the machines. Apart from some scratches and dents, the situation didn’t seem much changed from how he’d left it. Which meant pressure had continued building in the boiler all the while. The impending explosion would be colossal.

Smith hit the boiler with his prybar.

Aubrey threw his arms up over his face, but the boiler merely squealed in protest. Smith brought the prybar back for another blow. Aubrey hastened to interrupt him.

“Whatever you’re trying to do, it’s not working.”

“It should’ve gone off by now! I don’t know what’s—” Smith seemed to recall who he was speaking to and rounded on Aubrey with a violent expression. “Oh, you think you’re so clever! Just ‘cause you shovel coal, doesn't make you an engineer!”

“More of an engineer than you,” Aubrey said, stepping forward.

Smith lifted his prybar high over his head. “Come any closer, and I’ll—”

What Smith intended, Aubrey never found out. The cuff of Smith’s jacket, held aloft, caught on the shafting of the mechanical stoker. Before Aubrey could even think to shout a warning, the mechanism yanked the jacket up, and Smith with it. The prybar fell to the cobblestones, its clanging impact overwhelmed by Smith’s screams and his bones snapping as the rotating shaft forced his body to wrap around it.

Aubrey rushed to the machine’s controls to stop the horror—but the knobs had disappeared, the levers broken off. Smith’s sabotage had been thorough, if ignorant. He’d left Aubrey with no way to shut down the stoker.

Smith’s ear-splitting shrieks resolved into words. “Help me! For God’s sake, save me!”

Aubrey snatched up the prybar and thrust it into the stoker’s open maw. Teeth designed to devour coal screeched against steel. The stoker shuddered to a halt.

Smith’s screams became wheezing sobs. “Please, please...”

The stoker trembled with unspent energy. Pressure was building, Aubrey knew, regardless of what the gauges read. He had no time to think of that. He needed something to tear the stoker open and pull Smith out.

“The toolkit!” he shouted up at Smith. “Where?”

Smith could only sob.

Aubrey spun in a futile circle, searching for anything Smith had left untouched. Each passing second felt like hours. In desperation, he dropped to the ground and peered under the machines. There, in the oil and soot, lay a forgotten wrench.

He grabbed it and launched himself at the stoker. Every nut he tried had rusted stuck, every bolt stripped, and every failed attempt rattled the machine, tearing more screams from Smith.

Aubrey backed off, forcing himself to abandon his panic and consider the whole. The boiler couldn’t stop until the furnace stopped. The furnace couldn’t stop until the stoker stopped. The stoker couldn’t stop whatsoever. And all the while, fire burned, steam built up, pressure rose.

Pressure needed to fall.

He ran to the boiler. Smith had wired all the safety valves shut. Aubrey reached to untie one and snatched back burned fingers. The wires, glowing hot, had melted together. Untying them was now beyond Aubrey’s power.

So Aubrey tightened his grip on the wrench and swung.

The first blow glanced off the valve. The second struck true, taking the valve off with it.

Steam spewed forth in a concentrate jet, billowing into scalding clouds. It'd just begun to sting Aubrey’s flesh when, with a deafening bang, the boiler ripped open from the valve outward. The explosion flung Aubrey across the mill yard. Steam engulfed his airborne form, the agony unlike anything he’d felt in his short, painful life. His own screams joined Smith’s.

When he struck the cobblestones some hundred yards distant, he was silent.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

TERRIBLE BOILER EXPLOSION AT MANCHESTER. — A most violent boiler explosion took place at Rook’s cotton mill this morning, killing one and injuring several others.

Mr Jonathan SMITH, Jr, aged 26, clerk, was caught up in the machinery and killed outright by the explosion. Mr Aubrey WARREN, aged 24, coal-passer, was thrown no fewer than one hundred yards and badly scalded. He was removed to Withington Hospital, where he now lies in a precarious state. Three other mill employees are likewise injured: Miss Maud WILSON, aged 20, piecer, slight burns; Miss Mary MARSHALL, aged 16, piecer, twisted ankle in flight from mill; Mr Thomas WHITE, aged 42, mule-spinner, cut by glass from broken window. Further injury to humanity was spared by the curious coincidence of a union walk-out occurring at the very moment of the explosion. Considerable damage to property also resulting resulted from the incident, as the boiler itself is rent in twain, with fully half of the wreckage being forced across the mill yard and crashing through the back wall of the mill, crushing textile machinery on three floors. The noise of this calamity carried no less than two miles.

A formal investigation is ongoing.

The same morning, Lindsey organised the library of his new house in Chorlton-cum-Hardy, just outside of Manchester. As he straightened the books on the gleaming mahogany shelves, he heard a distant boom of what he assumed to be thunder. He looked out the window, perceived no rainclouds, shrugged, and returned to his happy task.

Lindsey had acquired the house when Aubrey accepted Mr Jennings’s offer to become a coal-passer. Rowena arrived soon after, staying in one of the guest rooms whilst she helped Lindsey arrange the house to his liking. Graves rendered assistance via correspondence, offering up hints from The House Beautiful. Lindsey deferred to them on most points, but ignored all outside suggestions regarding the south-east guest room. He’d earmarked it for Aubrey; it had sober slate blue walls; a black walnut desk, shelves, and wash-stand; and a modern metal bed frame large enough for two. A few of the adventure novels Aubrey had mentioned enjoying as a boy adorned the shelves. Lindsey had left the rest for Aubrey to fill as he wished.

All that remained was to invite Aubrey to see it for himself. Lindsey had just begun composing the letter when he received a telegram from Mr Jennings.

Not thirty seconds after, Lindsey hurtled down the stairs towards the front door, shouting for Rowena as he ran.

The ensuing argument would’ve become the stuff of legend, had anyone besides Charles overheard it.

“You cannot go!” Rowena insisted for the third time.

Lindsey paced the foyer like a caged tiger. “You ask me to know the one I love is lying in agony—alone, in hospital, with no friend to comfort him—and do nothing?”

He punctuated each point by stabbing his finger at the front door. He would’ve passed through it long ago had Charles not bodily barred the way. Charles remained there now, calm yet firm, bearing silent witness to their dispute. Lindsey considered himself above coming to blows with his valet, but gave serious thought to relaxing his moral code.

“You will damn him and yourself!” Rowena shot back. “In society’s eyes there’s no reason for you to take any personal interest in the matter. No other mill owner would give half a damn if one of their engineers got himself blown up.”

“Got himself—!?” Lindsey rounded on her.

“Nevertheless,” she said over him. “You must feign indifference. It’s the only way to keep him safe.”

“For God’s sake, Rowena, he’s dying!”

“Then let him die in peace.”

Lindsey gaped at her. She pressed on.

“If you go to him now, and he should survive, you will condemn him to two years hard labour in Newgate. To say nothing of what would befall yourself. You must wait.”

“For what?” Lindsey roared. “For the law to change? For him to perish? For you to develop a single scrap of human empathy? Horns will sound, and the devil will triumph over the might of Heaven, before you ever show anything so precious, so mortal, as compassion!”

Rowena’s face went white with rage. He expected her to shout something just as horrible back at him, but when her jaw unclenched to speak, her voice was low and cold.

“Go, then. Go and be hanged, for all I care.”

Lindsey realised her eyes glistened with tears.

Before he could apologise, she fled up the stair. A door slammed after her.

Lindsey stared stupidly at the path she’d taken, then turned to Charles, whose stoic expression hadn’t changed.

“That...” Lindsey struggled for words. “...that wasn’t very well done on my part, was it?”

“I wouldn’t presume to say, sir,” Charles replied.

Lindsey, too drained by anger to muster any annoyance at Charles’s response, blinked at him, then climbed the stair. Charles didn’t follow.

A brief investigation proved Rowena hadn’t locked herself in her guest chambers, as Lindsey’d first assumed, but in his own bedroom. He knocked on the door. No one answered.

“Rowena?”

Her skirts rustled, reassuring him she was, in fact, alive.

“Rowena, I’m sorry. I’ve been an ass. I didn’t mean it. Please come out. You were right. I need you.”

She said nothing.

“Please,” he begged.

He waited two hours in vain.

Rowena didn’t come down to dinner. Charles brought a tray up to the locked door and left it with a few words regarding the temperature of the meal over time. Lindsey, sitting alone in his new dining room, ate nothing. Charles was a competent chef, provided the party was small, but Lindsey had no appetite.

Night crept over Manchester. Rowena remained in Lindsey’s room. Lindsey endeavoured to wait up for her and made it to one o’clock before the day’s stress caught up to him. He crept to Aubrey’s room. There he drifted off into an uneasy sleep, jolting awake again and again, his brain afire with what-ifs and if-onlys.

By dawn, Lindsey would’ve charitably described himself as a wreck. Charles came to his door at nine, but he’d already awakened hours earlier.

“Any word from hospital?” he asked over Charles’s greeting.

“None, sir,” said Charles, laying out Lindsey’s clothes. “From hospital or mill.”

Lindsey felt ready to crawl back under the sheets until he realised, in order to retrieve his clothes, Charles must’ve gone into his bedroom. Which meant it’d been unlocked. Which meant Rowena—

Lindsey dressed in a waistcoat-rumpling rush and ran downstairs to find Rowena finishing her breakfast in the dining room. She raised her eyes to him.

“Good morning,” she said, after a long silence.

“Rowena, I’m sorry.”

“Yes, I recall you saying something to that effect last night. Do sit down, your bacon’s getting cold.”

Lacking the energy to do otherwise, Lindsey sat down. He managed a few mouthfuls. Then anxiety cramped his insides and reduced him to pushing his food around his plate in a haze. Rowena watched him carefully, saying nothing. Their grim repast was mercifully interrupted by Charles arriving with a telegram.

Lindsey snatched it from Charles's fingers. “From hospital?”

“From Mr Rook, sir,” said Charles.

Lindsey knew it already, having read it through twice before Charles spoke.

Mr Clarence Rook

Sir Lindsey Althorp

My condolences for your troubles. Come to me at your convenience and I will do my best to distract you.

Lindsey dropped the telegram, letting his face fall into his hands. When he lifted his head, Rowena had the telegram.

“But this is ideal,” she said.

“I fail to see how,” said Lindsey.

“It gives you the perfect excuse to leave Manchester.”

Lindsey shot upright. “Leave Manchester! Now? Aubrey—”

“It will remove you from the temptation to rush to his bedside. And, if you succumb to temptation regardless, we’ll have a few hours’ warning of it.”

Lindsey stared at her. “Remove me from temptation. You’ve picked up where Father left off, haven’t you? First Eton, now Manchester. Is there nowhere we might keep little Lindsey out of trouble? Perhaps you’d better dispense with the formalities and put me under lock and key once and for all.”

“There’s no call for melodrama,” said Rowena.

“I’m astonished you haven’t put a leash and collar on me,” Lindsey continued. “‘If found, please return to Rowena.’”

“Stop it.”

“‘But in the meantime, don’t let him near the other boys, he’s an incorrigible sodom—’”

“Stop it!”

Rowena stood up from the table. Lindsey cut his speech short.

“If you can’t take this seriously—” she began.

“I am,” said Lindsey. “I will. I’m trying. I’m sorry.”

She glared at him, then sat.

Lindsey swallowed hard. “I’ll return to London on one condition: you visit Aubrey in my stead.”

Rowena’s glare became a stare.

Lindsey hurried to explain his reasoning. “It’s perfectly appropriate for you to see him. Angel of the house, angel of mercy, and all that. You can pretend to care, and I can pretend not to.”

His throat closed. He feared he’d lost her with that final strike against her character, but when she replied, her tone sounded as kind as he’d ever heard it.

“I’ll have to visit the other victims as well,” she said. “Wouldn’t do to show favouritism.”

Lindsey held his breath.

She sighed. “Send me a telegram from London, and I’ll go to Withington Hospital.”

And so he went.

“You look dreadful,” Clarence said after the parlour maid had shown Lindsey up to the study.

Lindsey smiled weakly. Clarence rewarded him by draping an arm across his shoulders and leading him to a chair.

The train ride from Manchester to London had been a waking nightmare. Lindsey had spent it staring out the window, fantasising about jumping up to yank the emergency stop and demand a return to Manchester, to Withington Hospital, to Aubrey. He’d made himself sick imagining Aubrey’s face—his clever, handsome face—twisted in pain, his body wracked with wounds. Perhaps even now Aubrey drew his last rattling breath to cry out for Lindsey, his fingers grasping for a phantom hand.

Clarence poured Lindsey a glass of whisky. Lindsey managed a thankful nod as he took it. He drained it in silence. Clarence let him. He neglected to refill Lindsey’s glass, instead standing over Lindsey, leaning back against his bookshelves and holding his own glass with no apparent intention of drinking its contents.

“Terrible business,” said Clarence. “Do allow me to offer my condolences. What can I do to ease your burden?”

Lindsey would’ve told him not to trouble himself, that his friendship was comfort enough, but grief made him sluggish.

Clarence continued without his input. “I’d be happy to take the mill off your hands.”

Lindsey blinked at Clarence, then at his empty glass, then at Clarence again. Surely he’d misheard. “Pardon?”

“The expense of paying off the injured parties and shutting it down is an unjust imposition on you. Let me take care of it.”

“That’s—” Lindsey struggled for words. “—dashed good of you to offer, but I couldn’t possibly—”

Clarence shook his head. “I should’ve done it long ago. Ought to have bought it back the week you won it from me.”

“Steady on!” Lindsey bolted upright. “How could I possibly hold you to that debt? What gentleman would? I’d have given it back gladly then, but now—now, it’s impossible. I couldn’t ask you to take over a broken enterprise.”

“Lindsey,” Clarence chuckled. “You haven’t the heart to do what needs to be done.”

Lindsey supposed Clarence meant it as a compliment. He waved it away. “What needs to be done is reconstruction.”

Clarence’s indulgent smile faltered. “What?”

“I intend to rebuild,” said Lindsey. “Lord knows I can afford to. It’d be unfair to the workers to do otherwise. Best get things back to normal as soon as possible, no matter the cost.”

Clarence appeared at a loss. “There’ll be an inquest.”

“Inquest be damned,” Lindsey snapped, surprising himself. “I’ll weather it.”

An inquest was nothing to the agony Aubrey faced. The thought of Aubrey’s pain made Lindsey wish his glass full again, and simultaneously glad it was empty.

“You seem awfully attached to the mill,” said Clarence. “I can’t imagine why. It’s not as though you depend upon it.”

Lindsey considered telling the truth. He didn’t mind playing fast and loose with his own reputation, but he wouldn’t be risking his alone; he’d endanger Aubrey, as well.

But Clarence was his dearest friend, the subject of his first tender fantasies, the guardian of his schoolboy days. Surely Clarence, of all people, could be trusted with their secret.

As Lindsey mulled over his dilemma, he noticed Clarence studying him.

“Perhaps,” Clarence said when they locked eyes, “there’s more to this than a mere mill.”

Lindsey perked up. If Clarence had already guessed the truth, it’d make Lindsey’s confession far easier.

“Perhaps,” Clarence continued, “it’s something to do with a certain clerk-turned-engineer you invited to dinner.”

Lindsey didn’t approve of Clarence’s tone. “And if it does?”

Clarence shrugged. “Then it’s no concern of mine. A man’s home is his castle, and his bed is his own business.”

It ought’ve felt reassuring to hear Clarence say so, but Lindsey found he couldn’t relax. “Then why mention it?”

“Because it’s beginning to have repercussions outside the bedroom.” Clarence set his full glass down on his desk. “Par exemple, your refusal to relinquish the mill. But I think I can persuade you yet. Let’s strike a bargain. You give me the mill, and I give you my sister’s hand in marriage.”

“Why should I want that?” asked Lindsey.

“Because,” Clarence said with an air of quotation, “it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a man in possession of a need to deflect society’s suspicions, must be in want of a wife.”

Lindsey wondered if Clarence had put something besides whisky in his glass.

“More plainly put,” Clarence continued, “society looks less askance at a man’s friends if the man in question is wed to a woman.”

“Society has yet to look askance at me.”

“Yet,” Clarence echoed.

Lindsey frowned. “I appreciate your concern, but—”

“Then you mistake me. If you don’t marry my sister and return the mill to me, I will give society reason to look askance at you and your clerk.”

Had Lindsey not been seated, he would’ve staggered. As matters stood, he gripped the arm of his chair in one hand, while the other clenched dangerously tight around his empty glass. He meant to ask a question, but his voice had plummeted along with his hopes, turning it into a pathetic monotone. “Why.”

“I’m in need of funds,” said Clarence, lacking the decency to look abashed.

“You can’t be desperate enough to sell off your own sister. Surely your uncle will settle your debts.”

“I fear you underestimate my debts. My father made a similar error. When he left the mill to me, he cut off my allowance from the family trust. I can’t touch a penny until my twenty-fifth year. He supposed the mill’s profits would support me until then. Alas, no. So I endeavoured to be rid of it, assuming my uncle, as executor of the will, would reinstate my allowance in its place. I put up the mill against your infinite fortune, and lost. But I, too, erred. According to my uncle, if I can't be trusted with a mill, I can’t be trusted with anything. Thus, until I come into my rightful inheritance, my only hope lies in recovering the mill. Getting rid of my sister and her drain upon the household is a bonus to me, and a favour to you.”

Lindsey stared at the man he’d called his friend. A man who might’ve been more than that, if he’d felt so inclined.

Lindsey’s sense of decency, dignity, and justice demanded he refuse Clarence’s terms. But decency, dignity, and justice were immaterial. Aubrey, lying broken and alone in Withington Hospital, was all too material. He’d endured enough already. Lindsey couldn’t risk any further harm to him, should he survive.

It was only a marriage, after all. Just a little matrimony. Probably wouldn’t even hurt. And besides, the mill was worthless without Aubrey.

Lindsey withheld a sigh. “When should I propose?”

“Now will do.”

Lindsey gawked at Clarence. "Now?”

“Why not?” asked Clarence. Lindsey could think of a hundred thousand reasons, but before he could voice them, Clarence continued. “She’s downstairs. I can arrange for the maid to be out of the way. You’ll have perfect privacy.”

“And if she should refuse me?” Lindsey asked.

Clarence’s expression grew darker than any Lindsey had yet seen upon his face. “She had better not.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Withington Hospital had grown out of the Chorlton Union Workhouse in Nell Lane, Withington. Later, Aubrey would reflect with bitter irony upon the circumstances that led him from one workhouse to another.

At the time of his arrival, however, he concentrated on not screaming. He succeeded in his brief moments of consciousness between fainting fits on the way to hospital. But his resolve had worn thin by the time he arrived, and he felt very thankful for the chloroform in the operating theatre. When he next awoke, he was but one patient in a long row of beds.

His wounds caused him excruciating pain, but pain he could endure. The true torment came from the burning itch crawling under his bandages. He writhed in a futile effort to escape it. If hospital staff hadn’t belted his limbs to the bed frame, he’d have clawed his skin off. Or what remained of it, anyway.

Once they’d tied him down, he'd had nothing to forestall his madness but counting the seconds until his next dose of morphine. After a half-dozen doses, he lost count.

At some point between doses, he heard a voice. He ignored it as he'd come to ignore all hospital sounds—the cries and moans of his fellow patients, the chatter of the staff, and his own fever-induced auditory hallucinations. The cacophony rose and fell around him. But the voice didn’t abate. With nothing better to distract him, he supposed he might as well listen to it.

“—hope you appreciate the sacrifice, Mr Warren,” it concluded in a brisk tone.

Aubrey gathered what few wits remained to him and concentrated on opening his eyes.

The speaker was an angel.

No, that was ludicrous. It’d take more than a mere brain fever to sway his rational mind into believing in angels. He’d given up hope of angelic intervention long ago, when yet another one of his workhouse playmates died crying out for a mother she’d never known. A sparrow couldn’t fall without God watching, but He seemed blind to impoverished children.

Still, angel or no, the figure above him sat tall and elegant, with a golden halo.

Hope thrilled through Aubrey’s chest. “Lindsey?”

“No,” said the figure, “though I can see how one might become confused.”

Disappointment sobered him, and he realised the voice belonged to a woman. A woman with a striking resemblance to Lindsey.

“Good morning, Miss Althorp,” Aubrey tried to say, but the words tangled up somewhere between his throat and his tongue. Only a creaking whine escaped him.

Miss Althorp cocked her head to one side. “I’d ask if I could do anything for you, but I doubt I’d receive an intelligible reply.”

Aubrey said nothing, his mind afire with questions. Why had she come here? What did she want from him? Where was Lindsey? Doubtless Lindsey had more pressing concerns—like preventing the entire mill complex from collapsing, assuming it hadn’t done so already. Whatever his business, it had kept him from Aubrey’s bedside. If he’d ever intended to visit at all. Aubrey supposed it was stupid to hope for such. In the midst of berating himself, he realised Miss Althorp had continued speaking.

“I’m told you enjoy engineering periodicals,” she said. “I brought some along, though you don’t seem in any condition to read them.”

So she’d come to taunt him. How sweet.

“Shall I read aloud, then?”

Aubrey blinked in surprise.

Miss Althorp took it as consent. She picked up a magazine from beyond Aubrey’s field of vision and began declaiming.

“‘We suppose that everybody having worked on the plan laid down in our issue of the 16th of April, has succeeded in drawing that mysterious spark out of the inert matter under his hands—’”

Aubrey instantly recognised the editorial style of The English Mechanic and World of Science.

“‘—we say mysterious spark advisedly, for who can tell but what the essence of the life principle be not involved in that strange and vivid manifestation?’”

His attention wavered somewhere between frictional electricity and Leyden jars, but he appreciated the distraction from his sorry state. He drifted off entirely when she began reciting the Ellershausen process for refining iron.

When next he woke to the prick of a needle in his arm, Miss Althorp had gone. She had left a stack of magazines in her place.

Miss Rook, it would give me great pleasure to make you my bride.

Lindsey left Clarence’s study in a rage. As his swift strides carried him through the hall to the top of the stair, he banked the smouldering coals of his temper. He couldn’t imagine any woman accepting a marriage proposal delivered in a furious shout.

Miss Rook, would you be so kind as to become my wife?

Cold feet couldn’t prevent him from descending the staircase, however slowly. As he sank down, step by step, he ran through his proposal again and again, trying to make it pleasing to his ear in form, if not in content.

My dear Miss Rook, your brother is a monstrous ass and my continued liberty depends on shackling myself to you, and you to me, regardless of our individual wishes. Shall we wed?

By the time he alighted on the ground floor, he was angry again. His white knuckles clenched the banister as he closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. It wasn’t Miss Rook’s fault her brother was a lying, cheating, conniving wretch intent on ruining Lindsey’s life. She was Rowena’s friend. If he had to marry, a familiar face was preferable. And besides, she...

Lindsey attempted to recall any of Miss Rook’s finer qualities, and realised he knew none. Rowena thought her a worthy companion, though due to her own merits or Lindsey’s insistence upon maintaining his friendship with Clarence, he couldn’t say.

No matter. His own feelings on the occasion were irrelevant. It must be done. It would be done. Even if he would’ve preferred to refuse Clarence’s offer and go to prison, he wouldn’t let Aubrey suffer the same fate.

Besides, Miss Rook... could play the piano?

Lindsey sighed, straightened his cravat, and marched to the morning room. The door hung wide open. He paused on the threshold.

The morning room remained just as Lindsey remembered it—furiously chartreuse. As Clarence promised, its sole occupant was his sister, her hands full of embroidery. She seemed unaware of his arrival.

Lindsey gazed upon his unfortunate bride-to-be. Even in her own element, away from the crush of society, she appeared small. Her thin, pursed lips and narrowed eyes expressed grave concern, far more than needlework required. She’d pulled back her pale brown hair into a severe bun, to which a lilac ribbon added no levity. The bright chartreuse of the room made her look doubly washed-out.

Seconds ticked past. Lindsey gave up postponing the inevitable and announced himself.

Miss Rook’s head shot up. Her grey eyes widened. Lindsey hurried to beg her pardon. She forced out a staccato greeting as she rose and set her embroidery aside with trembling hands. He made a small bow. She curtsied in return.

“Forgive the intrusion,” said Lindsey. “May I enter?”

She nodded with an ineptly-disguised look of confusion.

Lindsey stepped into the room, hesitated, then crossed the carpet to stand before her. How to begin? He recalled the proposals he’d read in his novels. Few of those conditions applied to his current predicament, but he found some parallels.

“If I might have your hand,” he said.

She gave it, her expression growing still more confused.

Lindsey dropped to one knee.

“Oh!” cried Miss Rook.

“Miss Rook,” said Lindsey. It was more difficult than he’d expected to keep his eyes on her face; they seemed to want to fall to the floor. With his attention focused on maintaining eye contact, it was almost impossible to remember the speech he’d prepared. “It—it would be an honour—would you—”

He swallowed. Miss Rook blinked at him. He tried again.

“Would you do me the honour of becoming my bride?” Not quite as elegant as he’d hoped, but it did the trick.

Miss Rook gasped. Her grip on his hand tightened. Yet she said nothing.

“Miss Rook?” Lindsey asked.

“I...” she began, her pale cheeks blotched with blush. “That is to say... Do you truly wish...?”

“Yes,” Lindsey lied.

As soon as he did, he regretted it. A lie was an inauspicious beginning to any marriage. Even one of convenience.

Miss Rook didn’t notice his discomfort, overwhelmed by her own. “But, Mr Althorp—!”

“Lindsey,” he corrected gently.

“Of course,” she hurried to add. “Forgive me—Sir Lindsey—”

That wasn’t at all what Lindsey had meant, but the poor girl looked so upset already, he didn’t dare correct her again. She continued regardless.

“—it’s only—I hadn’t supposed you were the marrying kind!”

Lindsey balked. “I beg your pardon?”

She clapped her free hand over her mouth, mortified, and mumbled through it. “I said I hadn’t supposed you were the marrying kind, sir.”

“Whatever do you mean by that?” Lindsey asked, though he had a creeping feeling he knew exactly what she meant, and she wasn’t the only person in his circle of acquaintance to hold that opinion.

Miss Rook made a fist of her hand, allowing more of her voice to slip out around it. “Forgive me, please, I must have misunderstood...”

“Misunderstood what, Miss Rook?” Lindsey said softly. Her voice sounded so small, he feared to speak any louder, lest he overpower her entirely.

Despite his efforts, she looked thoroughly miserable as she replied, “I’d assumed you and Mr Warren had... an understanding, of a sort. At least, he seems to hold you in high regard, and you... and Rowena said... and my brother... but no, it cannot be, for you couldn’t be so cruel as to offer me marriage when your heart belonged to another, could you, Sir Lindsey? Though I fear it must come as a crushing blow to Mr Warren.”

Were it not for Miss Rook’s convulsive grip, Lindsey would’ve sunk to the floor.

“Sir Lindsey?” she asked, as he bowed his head.

“Forgive me,” said Lindsey, blinking away the burn of unshed tears. “The last few days...”

“The factory,” she murmured. Louder, she added, “Please, accept my condolences. Such a terrible accident. But so few casualties—a miracle, surely?”

A miracle. Lindsey caught a bitter laugh in his throat, lest it escape and become an anguished howl. “Yes. All spared, apart from Mr Smith and Mr Warren.”

A cry of anguish tore through the air. To Lindsey’s astonishment, it didn’t issue from his own mouth. He lifted his head and saw Miss Rook’s face mirror his distress.

“Mr Warren!?” she echoed. “It can’t be!”

“You didn’t know?” Lindsey asked.

She shook her head with violence and snatched her hand away to cover her face.

Lindsey leapt to his feet. He raised his hands to her shoulders in an instinctive gesture of comfort, but a sudden awareness of propriety stopped him short. His arms hung in mid-air, uncertain and useless. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew—”

She pulled her face from her hands, saw him looming over her, and shrank away. “No, I’m sorry, I should have—”

Lindsey lowered his arms and stepped back. “We’re both sorry, then. Equals at last.” A lame smile twitched at his lips.

Miss Rook tried to return it, and failed. “Mr Warren—is he—?”

Lindsey swallowed hard. “He’s tended by excellent surgeons, and has my sister to comfort him. That’s all we can do for now. Please sit down.”

This last he added because Miss Rook had turned very pale. She allowed him to guide her to the least uncomfortable-looking armchair in the room and perched on the edge of its seat, her eyes downcast.

When she spoke again, her voice wavered with uncertainty. “How is it that while your friend lies wounded, you come to ask for my hand in marriage?”

Lindsey had underestimated her. He wasn’t prepared for questions. Particularly not questions with awkward, painful answers. Before he could craft a suitable lie—and wonder how many lies he’d have to tell to secure this engagement, and how many he’d need to tell in the coming years to keep the resulting marriage from dissolving—she continued.

“Forgive me, Sir Lindsey,” she begged, still not meeting his gaze. “It’s not my place to question. I’m happy to accept your offer. I couldn’t dream of a better prospect.”

She looked up at last with a valiant attempt at a smile. A heart of stone couldn’t lie to such a face. Lindsey stood no chance.

“Miss Rook,” he said, “before you accept, I would have you know the whole. My heart—I hold Mr Warren—I cannot offer you what I’ve already given to him. I cannot be a husband to you in every way I ought. But I would offer you friendship, and a loving sister, and every comfort you ask. I wouldn’t impose upon you in any way. Indeed, I daresay I’d impose on you far less than most husbands.” He failed to withhold a rueful smile. “In exchange, I’d ask you to keep our secret.”

Miss Rook stared at him. “Then, you and Mr Warren are...?”

“As you’ve guessed,” said Lindsey. “Though I’d prefer it not be so widely known.”

“Of course. Hence your offer.”

She didn’t seem enthused. Lindsey couldn’t blame her.

“I wouldn’t make such an offer indiscriminately,” he assured her. “You are my dear sister’s friend, and your brother is... well.”

Miss Rook bit her cuticles. Then she put down her hand and lifted her chin. Her shoulders twitched, almost straightening before falling back into their customary slump, but her chin remained up. “Sir Lindsey, before I accept, I would have you know the whole.”

Lindsey blinked. What possible secrets such a shrinking female might have, he couldn’t fathom.

She didn't wait for him. “First, Mr Warren and I are well acquainted. We’ve corresponded through your sister these past months. I trust our continued friendship is... is acceptable?”

Lindsey, still stumbling over the revelation, took a moment to realise she sought his consent. “Yes, yes of course.”

Miss Rook let out a tiny sigh of relief. “Thank you. Secondly, though my brother is, as you say, a dear friend to you...” She faltered again. Her eyes flicked over the room, seeking escape, perhaps, or courage. Courage she found, and continued. “He has not been so to me.”

Yesterday, Lindsey would’ve never believed Clarence capable of cruelty towards anyone, much less his own sister. Today, it seemed obvious. It enraged Lindsey to think any brother—even Clarence—could harm such a gentle sister as Miss Rook. He expressed his anger in a quick clench of his fist. Miss Rook saw the motion before he could repress it. Her eyes widened. He relaxed his hand as rapidly as possible. He might fail as a husband in every other aspect, but by God, he’d be a better protector than her brother. She, lacking insight into his private resolve, rose to put distance between them.

“If we’re to be wed,” she said, keeping an anxious eye on his hands, “I will have nothing more to do with him. I will not receive him in our home. I will not be a guest at his mercy. If you must keep up your acquaintance with him, then I ask you not speak of it to me. I will not hear of him.”

“Done,” said Lindsey.

Her gaze returned to his face. “What?”

“As far as I’m concerned, he’s dead to me the moment you accept.” If not before.

“Oh. Thank you.” She seemed on the verge of saying more, but held back.

“Is there anything else?” Lindsey asked, thinking perhaps she required gentle prompting.

“Yes,” Miss Rook worked out at last. Then silence.

If her first condition revealed a clandestine friendship with a bachelor of high character but low birth, and her second condition demanded the exile of her only brother, Lindsey couldn’t imagine what her third condition might be. He hoped their marriage wouldn’t be an endless parade of skeletons from closets. His nerves wouldn’t stand it. Though at least he'd never be bored.

“Third...” She drew in a great breath and burst out, “I’m to be permitted to study engineering!”

Lindsey stared at her. “What?”

Miss Rook seemed to fear she’d reached the end of her potential fiancé’s patience. She repeated her request at a much lower volume, with the addendum, “If the notion doesn’t offend you, Sir Lindsey.”

“Not at all,” Lindsey forced out, preoccupied with the question of how the deuce a nice young lady like Miss Rook got mixed up in engineering. His own interest in the subject had been minimal-to-nonexistent until... Oh. “Is that how you came to correspond with Mr Warren?”

Miss Rook nodded meekly.

Lindsey smiled. “Then it seems I’ll have an engineer for a wife.”

She chanced a smile in return. It didn’t last. “My brother—”

“Has no objection to the match,” said Lindsey, which was enough of the truth for now. He held out his hand.

Miss Rook took it. “Thank you, Sir Lindsey.”

“Just Lindsey.”

Her second smile prevailed. “Then you may call me Emmeline.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

To Sir Lindsey Althorp,

TAKE NOTICE that by virtue of the provisions of the Boiler Explosions Act, 1882, 45 and 46 Vict., c. 22, we hereby require you to attend personally before us at the Rook Mill offices on Monday the 13th day of June at one of the clock in the afternoon, for the purpose of being examined upon oath upon the following matters, that is to say, the causes and circumstances attending the explosion of a Boiler which occurred at Rook Mill the morning of Wednesday the 8th day of June.

AND TAKE NOTICE that we also require you then and there to produce all books, papers or documents, which may be in your possession, or under your control, containing any information relative to the matters aforesaid.

AND WE FURTHER GIVE YOU NOTICE that under Section 7 of the said Act the Court may order the costs and expenses of this Formal Investigation, or any part thereof, to be paid by you, or any person summoned before us.

Given under our hands this 10th day of June.

Mr Gordon

Mr Lawrence

NOTE. — Any person neglecting or refusing to attend as required by this Summons will incur a penalty not exceeding Ten Pounds.

Lindsey didn’t know what he was doing.

Rowena would say this was true regardless of what occupied him, but it was especially true today. This wasn’t a dinner party or a night out at the theatre. This was an inquest. An investigation called to order more expediently than most, because one man had died, and another—but Lindsey tried not to dwell on Aubrey’s fate. Rowena assured him Aubrey was “stable” and “comfortable.” Lindsey had to trust she spoke true.

In the meantime, the law compelled him to return to the scene of the explosion.

He arrived at the mill offices promptly at quarter to one. The offices, situated across the yard from the boiler shed, and sheltered by the mill itself, had escaped the explosion with no more damage than shattered windows. There, Lindsey found the Court.

A Court appointed by the Board of Trade had no judge, jury, or bailiff. It did, however, have a barrister . Mr Gordon had twenty-three years of experience in his field, and his partner Mr Lawrence was an equally-experienced engineer. The two of them comprised the entire Court.

Mr Gordon was short and thin, his face overpowered by an enormous bottle-brush moustache. Very little impressed him. Lindsey certainly didn’t.

Mr Gordon interrogated Lindsey with the assumption that he’d arranged the explosion for insurance purposes. Lindsey resented the implication. However, he couldn’t give the true reason he’d never endanger the mill without condemning Aubrey along with himself, so he kept his answers perfunctory. Yes, he was satisfied with the mill’s profits. No, he wasn’t in urgent need of funds. He had no gambling debts, no expensive habits, no financial strain of any kind. His sister wasn’t shopping him out of house and home.

Mr Lawrence, taller and rounder than Mr Gordon, listened with his arms crossed over his ample bosom and a bored look on his black-bearded face. He had no further questions for Lindsey. However, both he and Mr Gordon expressed a preference that Lindsey not leave Manchester and, if that proved impossible, they’d prefer he remained on English soil.

Lindsey readily agreed. He made one request in return—that they permit him to witness the rest of the investigation.

Mr Gordon and Mr Lawrence exchanged speaking glances.

“I see no reason not to grant it,” said Mr Lawrence.

Mr Gordon conceded.

After Lindsey’s interview came the interrogations of every workaday soul present at the mill during the explosion. The questions filled the hours between Monday afternoon and Thursday morning. Overall, the workers’ testimonies indicated the mill’s closure would cause great displeasure. To paraphrase one Miss Mary Brandon, aged six-and-twenty, it was among the few mills where one needn’t suffer unseemly advances from one’s superiors to secure one’s pay. (Her actual testimony expressed this fact in far more colourful terms.) Most of the female workforce agreed. They also agreed that, while the motions of the walk-out were premeditated, the actual date and time came as a surprise. The male population denied all knowledge of the walk-out and claimed to have simply followed the crowd. While many had heard of Mr Smith and Mr Warren, none knew either gentleman particularly well.

Lindsey, to his shame, didn’t know any of his workers particularly well, either. He didn’t recognise anyone until Miss Sarah Brewster. She gave no sign she recognised him in return. Mr Gordon gave her no chance to.

“Miss Brewster,” he said as she took her seat in the centre of the office, with the three men looking down at her. “Please describe the events of the day in question, to the best of your ability.”

Miss Brewster took an impatient breath. “I arrived at the mill when my shift started and worked as normal. About a quarter-hour into it, Mr Warren taps me on the shoulder and begs a word.”

“Was it usual,” asked Mr Gordon, “for Mr Warren to ask to speak to you?”

“No, sir. Most times he avoided me.”

“Then why did he seek you out?”

“I was getting to that.” She flashed a sarcastic half-smile. “He takes me to the stairwell and tells me the boiler’s about to go sky-high, and could I please get my girls to leave in a quiet and orderly fashion.”

Mr Gordon leaned forward. “Mr Warren knew the boiler was about to explode?”

Miss Brewster shrugged. “He’s an engineer, isn’t he?”

“He is a coal-passer.”

“Still works with the engine. I figured he knew best, so I tapped my girls on the shoulder and we walked out.”

“You went on strike.”

“That’s what I told ‘em, yes, on account of when you tell folks the boiler’s ready to blow, they tend to rush the exits and crush each other something awful.”

“You’d trained these women to be ready to walk out at a moment’s notice?"

“Best to be prepared,” said Miss Brewster.

“You’ve attempted to organise a workers’ union in the past,” said Mr Gordon.

Miss Brewster shrugged again.

“In fact,” Mr Gordon continued, “you and Mr Warren planned the explosion as a deliberate anarchist attack on the mill!”

“I say” cried Lindsey.

Mr Gordon and Mr Lawrence ignored Lindsey’s outburst, both focused on Miss Brewster’s reaction. She blinked at them.

“Well?” said Mr Gordon. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

“No,” said Miss Brewster. “It isn’t.”

“You expect me to believe you’re incapable of such an act?”

“Don’t expect you to believe it, no,” said Miss Brewster. “But it’s true regardless. I’m for workers’ rights, not anarchy. And Mr Warren is for neither.”

Lindsey didn’t agree with her last remark, but could hardly say so aloud. He settled for a disapproving frown. Miss Brewster ignored it.

The inquest called in Mr Jennings on Thursday afternoon.

Where was Mr Jennings on the morning of the explosion? In his office—that is, until the walk-out, at which point he exited the office and held a short conversation with Mr Warren, who feared the boiler might explode. Mr Warren departed, and the boiler exploded shortly thereafter. Mr Jennings hadn’t seen Mr Smith at all. But, as Mr Jennings explained, that wasn’t unusual, as Mr Smith had practised terrible work habits for years prior to the explosion. The Court returned to the question of Mr Warren.

“Mr Warren is on record here as a ‘day coal-passer’,” said Mr Gordon, flipping through the payroll records. “However, earlier records refer to him as a senior clerk...?”

Mr Jennings coughed. “He and Mr Smith had a disagreement. I was forced to demote him.”

Mr Gordon raised his brows and lowered his spectacles. “What sort of disagreement?”

Lindsey didn’t move, didn’t dare breathe, lest he reveal all through some nervous tic.

Mr Jennings coughed again. “I believe Mr Smith made some disparaging remarks regarding Mr Warren’s parentage.”

“And how did Mr Warren take these remarks? Badly, would you say?”

“If forced to, yes.”

“Badly enough to seek revenge?”

“Certainly not!” Mr Jennings spluttered on before Mr Gordon could continue his interrogation. “Sir, I realise you’re not acquainted with the young man in question, but I can assure you a thousand times over that Mr Warren is nothing if not steadfast, trustworthy, and devoted to his work above all else! He’d never allow anything so petty as revenge to—”

“So devoted to his work,” Mr Gordon interrupted, “that he might murder his rival to regain his lost position?”

But Mr Jennings shook his head vehemently. “Not in the least! He far preferred engineering to clerking. It was always his ambition.”

Mr Gordon lowered one eyebrow and raised the other to new heights. “Was it?”

“Yes! That’s why I particularly asked Mr Cartwright to make room for him among the boiler-keepers!”

“Quite an extraordinary effort to make on behalf of a man who’d already caused trouble.”

Mr Jennings puffed out his chest at the affront. “I assure you, sir, that was an isolated incident occurring under extraordinary circumstances. Aside from that, Mr Warren is—was—an exceptional clerk.”

The Court next called the chief engineer, Mr Cartwright. Mr Lawrence had at him first. Lindsey couldn’t follow the technical details of their rapid-fire interview, but he thought the gist might be that the boiler was properly inspected and in good repair right up to the morning of the explosion. Judging by the look on Mr Lawrence’s face, this wasn’t how most investigations ran. Still, he surrendered his witness to Mr Gordon.

“How do you explain the gauges?” Mr Gordon demanded. “All their needles stopped at a point indicating optimal conditions. Coincidence?”

Mr Cartwright shook his head. “All I can say is they weren’t so when I left.”

“About that—you say you left at seven o’clock? For what purpose?”

“I had a letter telling me my sister was dying.”

“My condolences,” said Lindsey. Both Mr Gordon and Mr Lawrence glared at him for speaking out of turn.

“Save ‘em,” said Mr Cartwright. “She wasn’t even ill. Didn’t know what I was on about when I turned up on her doorstep in Liverpool.”

“May the Court see this letter?” said Mr Gordon.

Mr Cartwright produced the article in question. Mr Gordon examined it with rigor, but found no fault in its veracity.

“With all due respect for your fraternal devotion,” said Mr Gordon as he returned the letter, “the Court has learned by your own testimony that the second engineer, Mr Hepworth, didn’t appear for work that morning, and therefore the Court must ask—what possessed you to leave the mill in the hands of a mere coal-passer?”

“I wouldn’t call Mr Warren ‘mere’ anything,” said Mr Cartwright. Lindsey privately agreed.

“How would you describe him, then?” asked Mr Gordon.

While Mr Cartwright was more taciturn than Mr Jennings on the subject of Aubrey, he had much the same testimony. Yes, Mr Warren was clever enough to have done it, and yes, he could be said to have had a motive, but Mr Cartwright didn’t believe Mr Warren capable of such an act. In Mr Cartwright’s words, Mr Warren had too much respect for himself, the mill, and engineering to sully it with murder.

The next logical step was to summon the second engineer, Mr Hepworth, and discover why he’d taken an unexpected holiday the morning of the explosion. Unfortunately for the Court, Mr Hepworth was nowhere to be found.

Whilst the Court searched for him, a telegram arrived from Withington Hospital. Mr Warren was awake, aware, and well enough for a short interview.

The Court lost no time in travelling to Withington Hospital.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Lindsey spent the journey to Withington with his heart in his throat, unable to look Mr Gordon or Mr Lawrence in the eye. He stared out the train window, seeing nothing until the hospital loomed into view.

Withington Hospital’s architecture seemed welcoming enough, designed around an open yard for patients’ exercise. Fresh air flowed through the wards. Sunshine reflected off the glazed brick walls and the nurses’ starched white uniforms. Yet Lindsey felt only dread. The friendliest, most scientifically-advanced hospital in England remained a hospital. He could wish for no better place for Aubrey to receive treatment, but he still wished his Aubrey wasn’t in hospital at all.

Aubrey’s ward held thirty or so patients in two rows of beds. The wall between each bed opened up into a window, beneath which stood a waist-high cabinet. A long table ran down the centre of the ward. Nurses retrieved medicine and bandages from its drawers. All nodded politely to the Court. Lindsey, busy searching the ward for any sign of Aubrey, barely met their eyes.

Less than a minute after they entered the ward—which felt like an hour to Lindsey—a surgeon approached the Court and shook hands with Mr Gordon and Mr Lawrence. He tried to do the same with Lindsey, but Lindsey took no notice of him. He’d spotted a familiar pair of worn boots under the foot of a particular bed. It took considerable self-control to keep him from leaping over the table to reach them.

“Sir Lindsey?” said Mr Gordon.

Lindsey whipped his head around to reply. “Yes?”

“We’re ready to proceed, if you are.”

Lindsey forced a nod.

The surgeon led them to the bed and began explaining Aubrey’s condition to the Court. Lindsey heard none of it, his attention arrested by the sight of Aubrey himself.

Aubrey lay strapped to the bed, his limbs belted down to its four corners. A hundred needle-pricks had bruised the crook of his left elbow to a violent shade of purple; his right arm had a splint. Thick bandages covered the right half of his face. The left half looked as white as the linen surrounding it. His cheek had hollowed. His cracked lips parted for shallow, intermittent breaths. His eye, sunken in its socket, rolled back and forth with only the barest sliver visible beneath its heavy lid.

After his initial glance, Lindsey turned away. He couldn’t bring himself to look again, lest his emotions bring him to his knees by Aubrey’s side, where he belonged.

Mr Gordon, having no such weakness, sat on the cabinet beside Aubrey’s bed. “Can you hear me, Mr Warren?”

An abbreviated hiss came in reply, almost inaudible under the omnipresent hospital murmur. Belatedly, Lindsey realised it was as much of a “yes” as Aubrey could manage.

Mr Gordon continued. “I represent a Court appointed by the Board of Trade to investigate the explosion at Rook Mill. Will you answer my questions truthfully and in good faith, under penalty of perjury?”

Another hiss from Aubrey. Lindsey wanted to scream.

“Good,” said Mr Gordon. “Now—can you tell me what happened the day of the incident? From the beginning.”

Lindsey stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets to keep from throttling Mr Gordon. From the beginning. When his Aubrey could hardly breathe, much less recite an in-depth account of what’d likely been the most painful day of his life.

A thin whisper flowed from Aubrey’s lips. Mr Gordon bent close to catch it, taking notes all the while.

Lindsey stared at the vaulted ceiling and tried not to wish he could trade places with Mr Gordon. He wouldn’t take notes—he’d take Aubrey’s hand, cradling the pain-clenched knuckles. He’d tell Aubrey he needn’t exert himself so, that Lindsey trusted in his innocence, that he could rest. He’d tell him about the new house in Chorlton-cum-Hardy and the room set aside for him. He’d lift Aubrey out of bed and carry him there himself.

When Mr Gordon finished, Mr Lawrence stepped in and inquired about the boiler’s state prior to the explosion. Aubrey gasped out his answers. Half an hour later, Mr Lawrence stood, apparently satisfied with Aubrey’s testimony.

The surgeon turned to Lindsey. “Do you have any further questions for Mr Warren?”

Lindsey stared at him, then shook his head, dropping his gaze to the floor.

The investigation stagnated. Lindsey, awaiting word from the Court, paced his Chorlton-cum-Hardy house. Rowena left his side for an afternoon to attend to business in London. Lindsey thought of returning to Aubrey in her absence, but he remembered her warnings. Furthermore, Charles seemed under strict orders from her to keep Lindsey away from Withington. No matter where in the house Lindsey went, Charles manifested between him and any outdoor egress. Lindsey felt both relieved and surprised when Rowena returned in the evening with Emmeline in tow.

Emmeline looked much happier than she had in London, though the faint circles under her eyes told Lindsey she, too, feared for Aubrey. She expressed her hopes for his recovery upon her arrival. Lindsey accepted them as graciously as he could.

“Have you seen him?” she pressed on. Something of Lindsey’s pain must’ve shown in his face, for she added, “Forgive me, I don’t mean to pry—”

“It’s all right.” Lindsey forced a smile. “Yes, I have.”

“How is he?”

“He’s... alive.”

Emmeline’s hopeful expression wavered. Lindsey hurried to bolster it.

“I’m sure a visit from yourself would do much for his spirits. Rowena’s seen him already; she must’ve told you."

“I did,” said Rowena, taking Emmeline’s arm. “He’s doing quite well, given the circumstances. Do cheer up, dearest. Why don’t you sit down in the parlour? I’ll join you in just a moment. Charles will look after you in the meantime.”

Emmeline smiled weakly and followed Charles out of the foyer. Rowena turned to Lindsey.

“I apologise for not giving advanced notice of our guest,” she said, and continued over Lindsey’s assurances that he didn’t mind whatsoever. “Her life in London has become an absolute nightmare. I don’t know what’s provoked Clarence, but he’s in a devil of a mood. I thought it best if she stayed with me. It won’t attract any notice—she’s about to become my sister, after all. You don’t mind, do you?”

Lindsey, having already told her as much, and distracted by his guilt at provoking Clarence into doing God-knew-what to Emmeline, took a moment to muster an appropriate reply. Rowena accepted it with a nod and swept off to tend to her guest.

The next morning dawned dull and grey. The miserable weather threatened to drag down the dispositions of everyone under Lindsey’s roof. Rather than allow that to happen, Rowena proposed they spend their day exploring Manchester.

“I’m told it offers a wealth of scientific interest to the intelligent tourist,” she informed Lindsey with a sidelong glance at Emmeline.

Emmeline took to Manchester as if born to the shriek of a factory whistle and the clang of steel-on-steel. Lindsey supposed this explained how she and Aubrey got along so well. He wished he could share her enthusiasm for the city—and indeed, the way her face lit up when she caught sight of the billowing chimneys brought a smile to his own lips—but he could only think of how Aubrey, too, would’ve enjoyed this outing. He resolved to repeat the adventure when Aubrey left hospital.

“Don’t you agree, Lindsey?”

“Eh?” Lindsey glanced down to meet inquiring looks from his fiancée and sister; Emmeline confused, Rowena sardonic.

“I... I was just asking,” Emmeline said after a prompting eyebrow from Rowena, “if you also thought the mill’s architecture had a certain, er, beauty to it?”

Lindsey looked up to find they’d wandered into the yard of an unfamiliar factory. The glazing bars in the windows had the perfect delicacy of spiderwebs. He mentioned it. Emmeline seemed relieved.

Upon their return to Chorlton-cum-Hardy, Charles handed Lindsey a telegram from the Court.

Hepworth in custody. Questioning tomorrow morning at nine sharp. Will not wait for you.

“For the record: your name?”

“Tim Hepworth.”

“Occupation?”

“Second engineer.”

“Where were you at the time of the explosion?”

Hepworth gave the Court a blank look. Lindsey didn’t tap his foot on the floor, despite his nerves. Hepworth didn’t appear much younger than forty. Certainly too old to think silence could save him from the consequences of his actions.

Mr Gordon consulted his paperwork. “According to the testimony of your superiors, you should’ve been tending the boiler.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And were you?”

“No, sir.”

“And why not?”

Hepworth kept mum.

Mr Gordon adjusted his spectacles. “Need I remind you, Mr Hepworth, your questioning is part of an official investigation to determine the cause of a boiler explosion that has already killed one man and may well claim the life of another before the day is out?”

Lindsey flinched.

Hepworth had gone pale. “You needn’t remind me, sir.”

“Then tell me,” said Mr Gordon. “Where were you at the time of the explosion?”

Hepworth mumbled something unintelligible.

“Speak up, Mr Hepworth!”

“I was at the bloody races,” Hepworth snapped.

Lindsey gaped at him. “What the devil were you doing at the races?”

A glare from Mr Gordon was not unlike the glare of an Etonian tutor with cane in hand. Lindsey didn’t shrink from it physically, but he thought his soul might.

“With all due respect, Sir Lindsey,” said Mr Gordon, his tone implying very little respect indeed, “you’re here under the condition that you do not interfere with the proceedings. If you cannot control yourself, I must ask you to leave.”

“My apologies,” Lindsey assured him. “It won’t happen again.”

Mr Gordon narrowed his eyes, then returned to Hepworth. “What were you doing at the races?”

“It’s not like I make a habit of it,” muttered Hepworth.

“All the more reason to question your presence there,” said Mr Gordon. “Now answer me.”

Hepworth forced a sigh of annoyance even Lindsey could see through. “Because I’d come into a small sum and thought I deserved a holiday to celebrate it. Figured Mr Cartwright and Warren could get on without me for a day.”

“Apparently they couldn’t,” said Mr Gordon, “for on the very day you abandoned them, the boiler exploded.”

Hepworth winced.

Mr Gordon continued. “When you say you ‘came into a small sum,’ what exactly do you mean?”

A bead of sweat appeared on Hepworth’s temple. Lindsey watched it trickle down the side of his face to drip off his jaw in total silence.

“Mr Hepworth—” Mr Gordon began.

“Smith gave me five pounds,” Hepworth blurted.

Mr Gordon blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“He gave me five pounds to skip work and said there’d be another five in it for me if I kept mum about the how and why.”

Mr Gordon opened his mouth to question further, but Hepworth’s tongue ran on like a mad bull.

“He said it was a lark, he was playing a trick on Warren, and I thought, good, take the new man down a peg—you should’ve seen how chummy Mr Cartwright and Warren were, Warren’d hardly been there a month—but I never thought Smith meant to blow anyone up! Honest!”

Hepworth’s panicked eyes flicked between Lindsey and Mr Gordon. Lindsey, with years of practice speaking to his father, kept his face blank even as his mind blazed with the horrific truth. The explosion was no accident. Aubrey was the victim of a deliberate, premeditated attack.

Mr Gordon had no such thoughts to distract him from his relentless pursuit of the truth. “Did you help Mr Smith sabotage the boiler?”

“No!” said Hepworth. “I just didn’t show up to work, that’s all!”

“You taught Mr Smith how the boiler functioned, then?”

“No!”

“You told him where he might go to attain such knowledge?”

“If I told him anything, I told him to go to hell!” Hepworth cried. “I’d tell him so now, if he weren’t already there!”

Lindsey, harbouring many of the same sentiments, excused himself from the Court for a breath of fresh air.

Once Lindsey reentered the office, he discovered Mr Gordon and Mr Lawrence busy tearing it apart for proof that Smith had the mechanical knowledge required to sabotage the boiler. They’d gone over his desk already and turned up nothing. The Court recalled Mr Jennings, who could offer no insight except to say Smith’s desk was such a mess that papers had been known to slip out of drawers and fall down into the gap between the drawers and the interior wall of the desk. Thus, Mr Lawrence was persuaded to disassemble it. Among the ensuing wreckage, the Court found a single hand-drawn diagram.

“Thomas Cowburn’s safety valve!” Mr Lawrence panted with exertion as he showed Lindsey the paper. “And copied out of The Engineer, I’ll bet my hat on it.”

Lindsey could make little sense of the drawing under his nose, but he nodded anyway, which satisfied Mr Lawrence.

In fact, the Court felt altogether satisfied Smith possessed both the motive and the means to sabotage the boiler. Likely Smith hadn’t intended to off himself in his revenge against Mr Warren, but, as Mr Lawrence put it, “What goes around, comes around.” The Court adjourned to write up its report on the incident for the Board of Trade, and bid Lindsey adieu.

Lindsey leapt out of a hansom and trotted up the steps of the Chorlton-cum-Hardy house. Charles barely managed to open the door in time.

“Where’s my sister?” Lindsey demanded.

“In the library, sir,” replied Charles. He might’ve said more, but Lindsey hurried off.

“Rowena!” he called out as he flung open the library door, and halted. “Oh. Miss—Emmeline.”

Emmeline sat on the floor by the hearth, a variety of magazines fanned out around her. Rowena stood with one hand on her chin, frowning down at them. Emmeline looked up at Lindsey’s entrance; Rowena didn’t.

Lindsey recalled the iron rule of the Althorp household—never interrupt Rowena with her friends—and mixed an apology into his greeting. Emmeline would’ve stood to reply, but Rowena stopped her with an outstretched hand, lest she disturb the papers. Emmeline did her able best to curtsy from the floor.

“We’re selecting reading material for Mr Warren,” Rowena replied to Lindsey’s unspoken question, still not looking at him. “Emmeline’s brought her sheet music.”

Lindsey gave Rowena a puzzled look, though she didn’t turn to regard it. Emmeline, however, noticed. She caught his attention with a little wave and held up a sheaf of handwritten pages for his perusal. Lindsey, still confused, took them and discovered they were engineering notes. Sheet music, indeed. He laughed.

“I know little of music,” he confessed as he returned the papers to her, “but your compositions seem brilliant to me.”

Emmeline blushed and mumbled her thanks to the carpet.

“Should I bring The Engineer again?” asked Rowena. “He seemed to enjoy it when I last—Emmeline, darling, what on earth is the matter?”

Emmeline’s face had drained of colour. She flipped through her engineering notes in a panic.

“Emmeline?” asked Lindsey.

“Cowburn’s safety valve is missing!” she cried.

Lindsey and Rowena exchanged a bewildered look.

“I beg your pardon?” said Rowena.

Emmeline flinched. “The design I copied out of The Engineer—it’s not here!”

“You just gave it to Lindsey,” Rowena explained patiently.

“No, she didn’t,” said Lindsey.

Rowena gave Lindsey a look indicating severe displeasure with his decision to contradict her.

Lindsey elaborated. “She gave me her engineering notes, but the illustration wasn’t among them.”

This explanation mollified Rowena. She turned a comforting smile on Emmeline. “Then you must have left it at home.”

Emmeline didn't return her smile. “But I can’t have! That is, if I have, then it’s not in my piano-bench either, for I’m sure I left nothing behind, and—”

“Emmeline,” Rowena gently interrupted, but Emmeline couldn’t be stopped.

“—so I must’ve dropped it, which means it’s out there for anyone to find, and if Clarence finds it—!”

Her grim prediction ended abruptly, its conclusion too terrible to voice. Her hand flew to her mouth as she cast a fearful glance at Lindsey and Rowena.

“Then we’ll take the very next train to London,” said Rowena, “and find it without delay.”

Lindsey, meanwhile, tried to quiet the disturbing hunch in the back of his mind. He found he couldn’t. “When did you last see the drawing? Are you certain it only went missing today?”

Emmeline’s eyes widened farther than Lindsey had supposed possible. Rowena glared at him. He couldn’t blame her. There was all her effort to calm Emmeline down, wasted.

“Forgive me,” he added. “My questions are idle and unhelpful. I’m happy to accompany you home to distract Clarence from your aims.”

“Would you?” said Emmeline.

The look she directed up at him contained more hopeful gratitude than Lindsey could bear. He forced a smile and ignored Rowena’s look of suspicion.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Do you suppose Charles minds?” Emmeline asked on the ride from Lindsey’s house to Manchester Central.

“Minds what, dearest?” Rowena replied without taking her eyes off the scenery.

“Having to hail a cab just as he’s finished sending one away,” said Emmeline.

Lindsey’s stomach twisted with guilt.

“Charles knows what side his bread is buttered on,” said Rowena.

Emmeline blushed and fixed her gaze on the approaching city.

They caught the train almost as it departed. The nearer it drew to London, the more Emmeline fidgeted with her gloves. Lindsey knew from experience how unnecessary movement annoyed Rowena, but Rowena said nothing of it. The journey continued in silence.

When the cab from Victoria Station pulled up to the Rook residence, Emmeline turned pale. Lindsey knew he ought to say something—comfort her, somehow—but his mind was miles away in Withington Hospital. The best he could manage was a brave smile as he handed her out of the cab. Emmeline mirrored it weakly. Rowena patted her arm. Lindsey went on ahead to the door.

“Sir Lindsey to see Mr Rook,” he said to the parlour maid.

The maid peered around him to give the ladies an inquiring look, then directed the same up at him.

“Miss Rook has come to retrieve her sheet music,” he added.

The maid didn’t appear to believe him. “Mr Rook is at his club, sir.”

“Then,” said Lindsey, “I’ll leave Miss Rook and Miss Althorp in your capable hands while I go meet him.”

The maid curtsied.

This time, Lindsey caught the cab before it rattled off to its next fare.

Both Clarence and Lindsey belonged to the same club in Pall Mall. Lindsey himself had sponsored Clarence for membership, a gesture he now bitterly regretted. He had half a mind to withdraw his own membership and seek fraternity somewhere else. Anywhere else, provided it was far from Clarence.

Lindsey asked for Clarence at the door. A footman directed him upstairs to the smoke-filled billiard room. There he found Clarence engaged in the activities one might expect.

“Lindsey!” Clarence cried with a grin upon spotting him, then bent forward to line up a neat shot with his cue.

“I’d like a word,” said Lindsey.

“I suppose I have time for just the one.” Clarence made the shot and handed the cue off to a fellow member, who handed over five shillings and took his place in the game.

“Another wager?” Lindsey asked as Clarence led him to an empty reading room down the hall.

“Do you intend to preach at me?” Clarence countered, shutting the door behind them. “I’m afraid you don’t have the moral high ground, considering your proclivities.”

Lindsey chose to ignore that remark. “The inquest is complete.”

“Oh? Congratulations.”

“They believe the boiler was sabotaged.”

“Indeed.”

“By Mr Smith, a clerk with no apparent knowledge of engineering.”

“How enterprising of him.”

“They found a drawing of a safety valve in his desk.”

“Fascinating,” Clarence deadpanned.

Lindsey blinked. He’d felt sure his last point would garner more of a reaction. He tried again. “Your sister is an engineer.”

Clarence raised an eyebrow. “Is she, now?”

“Yes, and you damned well know she is, because you’re the one who stole her safety valve diagram and planted it in Smith’s desk!”

Clarence stared at him, then smiled. “Oh, well done.”

“Is that all you have to say for yourself?” Lindsey demanded.

“What’s left to say?” Clarence turned away to select an armchair. He found one to his liking, sat down, and leaned back.

Lindsey watched him in disbelief. “Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I wanted the mill, and I wanted Mr Warren out of the way. There are my two birds, and the explosion, my single stone. I’d hoped to quietly remove him from your life—”

“What the devil is ‘quiet’ about blowing him up!?”

Clarence ignored Lindsey’s outburst. “Had Smith succeeded, as he assured me he would, neither he nor Mr Warren would’ve been caught in the explosion. I intended to have Mr Warren, inexperienced engineer, take the fall for a tragic accident.”

“But why?” Lindsey repeated. “Why would you do this?”

“I’ve told you already. I required funds. I needed to eject my spinster sister from my household and reclaim the mill. Unfortunately, and much to my surprise, you grew rapidly attached to the latter. It took some investigation to discover why, but once I had the confidence of my former employee—”

“Smith,” Lindsey supplied, recalling the fight between that miserable wretch and his proud Aubrey.

“Precisely. He made the matter perfectly clear. From there I started to plan. I had to convince you the mill and its brooding little clerk—”

“Don’t,” said Lindsey.

Clarence checked himself at Lindsey’s tone, and continued. “—weren’t what you wanted. I spoke to Mr Warren directly and advised him his continued pursuit of you wouldn’t end well.”

Lindsey let out a hysterical laugh. “His pursuit of me?”

“Regardless, I made it clear he’d be happier elsewhere. He declined to heed my warning. My hand was forced. I turned to my sister’s immodest hobby for the solution.”

Lindsey stared, aghast, at the man he’d called his friend.

“You think me cruel,” said Clarence.

“Oh, I think far worse than that!”

“Then you do me a disservice,” Clarence continued as though Lindsey’s hands weren’t shaking with rage. “I did warn Mr Warren, after all. I gave him ample opportunity to remove himself from your company. Alas, he refused to see reason. He has only himself to blame for what he suffers now.”

“No,” said Lindsey. “I believe both myself and the law will blame you.”

“You may blame me all you like, though I’d rather you didn’t. As for the law, I doubt that will ever enter into it. In order for the law to blame me, you must tell them what transpired here. And you really can’t afford to, Lindsey. If you turn me in for conspiracy to murder, I must confess my motive, and I’m afraid my motive doesn't reflect well on you. Or on Mr Warren, for that matter.”

Lindsey’s blood, boiling with righteous fury, ran suddenly cold.

Clarence grinned.

Lindsey refrained from slapping the grin off his traitorous face. “If you’d but asked me for the money, any sum you named, I’d have gladly surrendered it!”

“And be indebted to my dearest friend as well as my creditors? I think not.”

“Yet my position as your ‘dearest friend’ didn’t dissuade you from murdering—”

“It’s hardly murder yet,” said Clarence. Lindsey protested that Smith was very much deceased, but Clarence spoke over him. “Your precious clerk may not be so handsome as he once was, but he lives. For now.”

“I warned you,” Lindsey growled, “not to speak so lightly of him.”

“And I warned you,” Clarence replied, “that I could speak very lightly of your affair to very interested ears.”

They exchanged glares. Lindsey’s hot blood couldn’t match Clarence's cold indifference.

“The mill for my sister and my silence,” Clarence said when Lindsey looked away. “It’s a fair price.”

There was nothing fair about it, but Lindsey departed the club without further argument.

The return ride to Grosvenor Square didn’t take long. Certainly not long enough for Lindsey to think of a plan.

When he arrived on the Rook doorstep, the bewildered parlour maid peered around him as if his narrow frame could hide Clarence from view.

“Mr Rook still at the club, sir?” she asked.

Lindsey nodded. She let him into the house and directed him to the morning room. He found Rowena and Emmeline methodically disassembling it. At his entrance, Emmeline bolted upright from the sewing basket she’d been rooting through.

“Clarence?” she asked, her voice shrill with fear.

“At his club,” Lindsey assured her.

Emmeline sighed with relief and sank into a chair, then jumped up to flip over its cushion in search of her missing diagram.

Rowena, meanwhile, fixed Lindsey with a curious look. “Why haven’t you remained with him?”

The truth stuck in Lindsey’s throat. He knew he should tell Emmeline her search would prove fruitless. But Rowena’s suspicious gaze stilled his tongue.

Rowena had never questioned his sudden engagement to Emmeline. On the contrary, she’d congratulated his cunning. For the first time in his life, she’d assumed he’d acted with intelligence. Lindsey, exhausted with fear for Aubrey’s survival and reeling from Clarence’s partial confession, hadn’t possessed the energy to disabuse her of the notion. To do so now would be, at best, awkward. At worst... He had no desire to bring a fresh hailstorm of rage down on Emmeline’s head. To say nothing of what the revelation of her brother’s murderous plot would do to her nerves. Coming clean with Rowena would have to wait.

“Perhaps it’d be best if none of us were here when Clarence returns,” he said.

Emmeline paused in her search, turning to give him a look of horror.

Lindsey, knowing how well-placed her fear was, added, “It may in fact be better for none of us to be in London at all.”

Emmeline sat down again, hard.

Rowena, rather than replying to Lindsey’s announcement, looked to Emmeline. “York is lovely this time of year. Particularly the Pelham estate. It’s been ages since we’ve seen Charity.”

“On such short notice?” asked Emmeline. “Wouldn’t she mind?”

“Not in the least,” said Rowena. “She’ll be grateful for the company. How long do you need to pack?”

“No more than half an hour,” said Emmeline. She glanced nervously at Lindsey. “If we have that long?”

“I’ll make sure you do,” he promised.

Her expression of relief twisted the knife in his ribs. “Will you accompany us?”

Rowena raised an eyebrow. “Thought I’d advise him to do so, I think it far more likely he’d prefer to remain in Manchester.”

Lindsey didn't need to tell her she was right.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“You’re going home today, Mr Warren,” the nurse announced cheerfully as she changed Aubrey’s bandages. “Isn’t that nice?”

With morphine flowing through his veins, Aubrey could hardly recall where home was. But the nurse seemed so happy about his impending departure, Aubrey didn’t wish to ruin her good mood, so he mumbled, “Yes,” in return.

She beamed at him. “Your friend should be arriving shortly.”

Aubrey frowned, ignoring the prickling pain under his bandages. His first impulse was to tell her he didn’t have any friends. Then, slowly yet steadily, faces trickled into his mind from his memories. He struggled to match those faces up with the names of people who’d visited him in hospital. Miss Althorp had. He felt sure of it, thanks to the periodicals she’d left behind as proof. But he didn’t think anyone could mistake her for his friend. Nor would she, as an unmarried woman of means, make an appropriate escort for a low-born bachelor, inverted invalid or no. Miss Rook was his friend, but again, an unwed lady, and he wasn’t quite sure if he remembered her accompanying Miss Althorp, or if he’d imagined it. Everything had blurred together since the explosion.

He had a dim recollection of Lindsey’s golden curls contrasted against the dark ceiling. But it was only a flash, and an impossible one. Lindsey wouldn’t be so foolish as to come see him here. And yet, when he considered the word “friend” and all its implications, Lindsey’s smile came foremost to mind. If he had a friend in this world, it was Lindsey. So it must’ve been Lindsey the nurse meant.

The thought of Lindsey typically inspired fond emotions. But the thought of Lindsey coming here, now, to risk his liberty for a glimpse of Aubrey’s ruined body—that thought inspired only panic. Aubrey struggled against the anodyne in his veins for a solution, and found one. He would leave hospital before Lindsey arrived.

The nurse, finished with his dressings and trusting in the morphine to keep him still, departed. Aubrey counted her steps as she went. When the last one echoed away, he sat up, balancing on his good elbow and ignoring the flash of agony rippling across his wounds.

The staff had removed his restraints some time ago—chronology had become difficult to reckon, though he thought it’d been a week, perhaps. At first, a nurse had come by once a day to get him up and walking down the ward. He’d needed two nurses to support him then, but he’d since graduated to a weary, self-reliant shuffle.

Now, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and braced himself to stand.

“What’re you about?”

Aubrey stopped, swallowed, and looked guiltily up.

The nurse had returned with something folded in her arms. “Eager to be off, are we?”

Aubrey looked at the floor.

“Well, it wouldn’t do to wander out-of-doors in a nightgown, now would it? Here.” She set the folded articles down on the bed beside him.

Aubrey glanced over and, with a jolt, recognised his own clothes. The trousers and stockings he’d worn upon his arrival; the drawers, shirt, waistcoat, and jacket provided by an unknown hand. He wondered what’d become of the waistcoat he’d worn the day of the explosion. More particularly, he wondered what’d become of the contents of its pockets. He hadn’t seen the calling-card case Lindsey’d given him since that day.

“Where—” he started to ask, then stopped. The unintelligible croaking of his throat wasn’t worth the pain it caused in his face.

“Yes,” the nurse said patiently. “These are for you to wear.”

Aubrey gave up.

He let the nurse put the clothes on him—modesty was a luxury he could ill-afford after untold weeks in hospital—and thanked her. Talking grew easier the more he exercised his right to speech. Walking didn’t. His initial attempt to rise made his head swim, and startled the nurse besides. In the end, he made it to a chair three steps from the bed. There the nurse left him, telling him to be of good cheer and to wait for his friend to arrive.

Aubrey did wait, at first. He passed the time searching his pockets for the calling-card case. He’d just concluded he was foolish to think nobody had made off with such a valuable piece when he felt something cold and hard in his trouser pocket. Pulling it out into the light, he beheld a tarnished, battered, half-melted lump of silver, barely recognisable as what it’d once been. He put it away again, more determined than ever to escape before the gentle soul who’d given it to him stumbled in. Standing proved an unsteady and uncertain prospect, but he lurched up anyway.

“Where’re you going?”

A man’s voice. Aubrey planted his good hand on the back of his chair, locked his quaking knees, and looked up.

Halloway stood at the foot of his bed.

Aubrey stared, at a loss to understand Halloway’s presence. His own actions, however, he could explain. “I’ve got clothes on.”

“Yes, you certainly have,” said Halloway. “Very forward-thinking of you. Here, let me give you a hand—”

Halloway stepped forward just as Aubrey’s legs failed. He fell against Halloway, who didn’t even stumble.

“That’s right,” said Halloway. “Lean on me, that’s the ticket.”

“What’re you doing...?” Aubrey asked, the “here” getting lost along the way.

Halloway gave him a strange look. “Miss Althorp didn’t tell you?”

Aubrey started to say no, then thought back over his time in hospital. It was entirely possible Miss Althorp had told him something and he’d been too distracted to remember. “I’m not sure.”

Halloway's confusion turned to pity. He put on half a smile to disguise it, but Aubrey saw through him. Aubrey tried not to resent him for it.

Halloway cast a considering look down the ward—full of patients and staff, but none paying them any particular attention—and leaned in to speak more softly. “I’m taking you to Sir Lindsey’s house.” Then he shrugged. “Or anywhere else, if you’d rather.”

Aubrey considered this new information, his thoughts coming in vague waves between the throbbing in his skull. He needed money, clothes, and employment—even if his behaviour during the boiler explosion hadn’t cost him his job, the mill itself had blown to pieces, which didn’t bode well for his career—and, though he felt loathe to admit it, some food and a soft bed wouldn’t go amiss, either.

What he wanted, however, was Lindsey. So he nodded.

Halloway half-carried him out to the street. He left Aubrey leaning against a lamp-post while he hailed a cab. One arrived in short order.

Aubrey expected the cab to take them to the train station. He braced for a long, lurching ride. Instead, the driver steered his horse down a suburban lane in the opposite direction. Aubrey turned to Halloway, who seemed unperturbed.

“Thought we were going to Lindsey’s,” said Aubrey.

“Yes,” said Halloway. “Sir Lindsey’s house in Chorlton-cum-Hardy.”

Aubrey stared at him, then closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. He didn’t have the strength to ask when Lindsey had moved house, or why. Belatedly, he realised he’d forgotten to add a “Sir” in front of Lindsey’s name. Halloway tactfully didn’t mention it.

The cab pulled up in a neighbourhood of spacious homes and green gardens. Charles, waiting at the base of the front steps, rushed to help Aubrey out of the cab. Aubrey would’ve preferred to pretend he didn’t require assistance, but the ride had done nothing to help his pounding head and trembling legs. He made sure to thank Charles and Halloway both as they brought him up the steps. Charles opened the door, Aubrey limped through on Halloway’s shoulder, and—

There, in the foyer, stood Lindsey.

He had a hollow look to his cheek, and disquieting circles under his eyes, but his face—astonished wonder melting into relief and joy—was like sunshine to Aubrey, who’d known only darkness for so long.

Lindsey stepped forward, reaching for him.

Aubrey pushed off of Halloway with a burst of strength. New bolts of pain shot through his arm and ribs. He didn’t care.

Lindsey caught him, held him up, held him close, held him tight. Aubrey buried his face in Lindsey’s collar. His scent, warm, masculine, familiar, filled Aubrey’s lungs until his heart felt ready to burst with sheer relief. Lindsey’s hand brushed through Aubrey’s hair.

“Welcome home,” Lindsey whispered, and pressed a kiss to his ear.

Aubrey said nothing. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He clung to Lindsey until his good arm shook. He heard voices behind him—Halloway making arrangements with Charles. Then Lindsey pulled back, and it took all Aubrey’s strength to keep from collapsing.

Lindsey caught him again, a concerned frown flickering across his face. “Charles, help me get him upstairs.”

Stairs were the last thing Aubrey wanted to surmount at the moment, but he kept silent and acquiesced to Lindsey and Charles supporting him. His legs burned before they’d made it even halfway up, but he refused to complain. Then they reached the landing, and a hallway, and a door, and he found himself in a clean, quiet bedroom. A single-occupancy bedroom. A vision of heaven after six weeks in an open hospital ward.

Aubrey looked over the bed, the bookshelves, the desk, the hearth, and the washstand—with a mirror above it. In the mirror stood a man with his arm in a sling, half his face swathed in linen, the other half covered in scraggly black bristles in stark contrast to skin as pale as the bandages.

It took too long for Aubrey to recognise himself. When he did, a wave of shame washed over him. His bedraggled, ghastly reflection looked all the worse beside such a strong and handsome figure as Lindsey.

Lindsey didn’t seem to notice. He sent Charles off to attend to something else, then sat Aubrey down in an armchair by the window.

“Would you like anything?” he asked, keeping hold of Aubrey’s good hand. “Tea? Something to eat? Anything at all?”

“A razor,” said Aubrey.

Lindsey gave him a blank stare. Aubrey gestured at his unkempt face.

“Ah,” said Lindsey. “Yes, of course.”

He retrieved the basin from the washstand, along with soap, brush, and razor. He didn’t bring a mirror. Aubrey, too tired to question it, watched Lindsey whip up a lather. Then Lindsey moved to bring the lathered brush to Aubrey’s jaw, but hesitated.

“Is this all right?” he asked.

Aubrey’s pride said no, but his exhaustion said yes. He nodded.

Lindsey brushed on the lather, skirting the edges of the bandages, then took up the razor. The scrape of the blade echoed in the otherwise silent room. Lindsey performed his task with meticulous care, his brow furrowed in concentration. It paid off; Aubrey didn’t feel a single nick. When he’d finished, Lindsey gently washed away the remaining lather and ran a thumb over Aubrey’s smooth cheek.

“Better?” he asked.

Aubrey nodded again. He smiled, too, for good measure, and felt a corresponding pinch under his bandages. “Thanks.”

Lindsey smiled in return and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “Anything else I can do for you?”

Aubrey tried to think of what he might need, but the pounding in his head precluded all thought.

Lindsey’s face took on a look of concern. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Aubrey responded automatically. When it became apparent Lindsey didn’t believe him, he added, “Just tired, is all.”

This, Lindsey understood. He suggested the bed. Aubrey spent a little too long considering the fine linen cases over fat pillows; the thick blue coverlet; the width and breadth of the frame; the depth of the mattress; the whole of it in its own room and not in a long row of groaning, miserable invalids, before he agreed that yes, God yes, he could use some rest. Lindsey took his assertion in good humour.

Aubrey started to remove his jacket, hindered by the splint on his arm. Lindsey swooped in to pluck the jacket from his shoulders and likewise made quick work of Aubrey’s waistcoat, shirt, shoes, and trousers, and, guiding Aubrey to the bed, helped him into it. Aubrey’s eyes shut the moment his head met the pillow.

When next Aubrey woke, he was burning all over. The pinpricks of a thousand needles manifested wherever flesh made contact with anything but air. He bit back a groan. Something cool and damp pressed against his forehead. It stung as much as it soothed. He flinched.

“Sorry,” said Lindsey’s voice.

Aubrey forced his eyes open and beheld Lindsey’s face above him. He tried to say Lindsey’s name, but couldn’t gather enough breath. He tried to reach for him, to pull that handsome face closer to his own, but his fingers refused to rise more than an inch above the mattress.

Lindsey caught Aubrey’s hand in his own and kissed his knuckles. Aubrey let him; his hands ached less than the rest of him. Then Lindsey rearranged the damp cloth on his forehead, which had soaked up Aubrey’s fever until it felt lukewarm. Still, Aubrey appreciated the gesture. Though he wished everything else in the world weren’t made of pain, it was a comfort to have his Lindsey beside him at last.

“Lindsey,” said Aubrey. His eyes slipped shut. He didn’t think he could open them again. His hand clawed at the sheets, searching for Lindsey’s.

Lindsey found him and clasped his hand between both of his own. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

”Stay with me,” Aubrey begged, and hated himself for it, hated the fear he couldn’t push down.

“I will,” said Lindsey, and the fear receded, just a little.

The pain, however, did not.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Aubrey didn’t drift off to sleep again. His body wouldn’t let him. The ache in his skin down to his bones tightened as if wound by a winch. His fever gave way to chills, then built back up to boiling. Cold sweats coated his skin in slime. He couldn’t breathe for coughing; his nose ran unchecked. His guts cramped up—this, combined with the room spinning every time he moved his head or his eyes, left him heaving into a basin beside the bed until he brought up the stringy remains of what little water he’d managed to swallow, and bile after that.

Throughout it, Lindsey never left him.

Aubrey knew it was selfish to want this, knew it was unfair to ask Lindsey to hold vigil over him, yet he couldn’t loosen his vise-like grip on Lindsey’s hand, or bring himself to tell Lindsey to go.

He didn’t want to die, but if he must, he wanted Lindsey holding him when he went.

As the sun set, his heart sped up. His chest pulsed with pain. Certain this was the end, he refused to say as much aloud, unwilling to cry mercy when he knew none would come. Instead he rolled onto his side, towards Lindsey, and curled up as best he could, pulling Lindsey’s hand to his aching ribs and stuttering heart. Lindsey put an arm around his shoulders. His touch burned Aubrey’s back. Aubrey gritted his teeth, determined to die with dignity.

Yet, despite Aubrey's fears, the stabbing pain in his heart began to fade away, leaving him gasping in its wake, his cracked ribs grinding together with every panicked breath. Perhaps the worst was over, and from hereon out he might recover. No sooner had the thought occurred than a spike of agony pierced his breastbone, knocking the wind out of him. Again he screwed his eyes shut and waited for the end. Again it was denied him.

The cycle of mortal fear interspersed with flashes of calm continued until dawn. Far from bringing relief, the sunrise creeping in between the curtains struck Aubrey like cigarettes stubbed out in his eyes.

In the midst of this, Lindsey tried to persuade Aubrey to eat breakfast. Sips of weak tea went well enough. But the first bite of toast didn’t go halfway down Aubrey’s gullet before his aching guts contracted and brought it all up again.

Aubrey hoped that was the end of it. He hoped in vain. Like clockwork, the chime of every quarter-hour saw him bent in half over a basin. His efforts produced nothing but acid and bile.

Still, Lindsey stayed.

Lindsey propped him up, brushed his sweaty hair off his steaming brow, wiped effluvia from his mouth, rubbed his back, held his hand, murmured reassurances—and Aubrey couldn’t so much as thank him.

“You don’t have to,” Aubrey managed to gasp sometime in the afternoon.

“Don’t have to what?” Lindsey asked.

“Do this.” Aubrey’s burning eyelids fell shut as he spoke. "All this.”

Lindsey’s fingers trailed across his forehead. “Nevermind that. Get some rest.”

Aubrey, too exhausted to protest further, obeyed.

At dawn on the second day, Lindsey left Aubrey’s bedside for a moment—only a moment—to compose a telegram to his sister. He would’ve liked to send for the family physician as well, but he’d have a devil of a time explaining Aubrey’s presence in his house. He could already hear Rowena’s scolding in his mind—reminding him, quite correctly, of the danger he'd put Aubrey in by telling anyone he was there.

It took perhaps five minutes for Lindsey to write the message. He spent every second fearing Aubrey would pass on without him there to forestall it. When he’d finished, he handed the telegram off to Charles and hurried back to Aubrey’s bedside.