IN THE THREE hours since Ford and Jewel had arrived back at Lakefield, his niece had suddenly become very thick with Harry, Ford’s elderly houseman. Although Ford knew better than to hope that the old man and girl would become fast friends, he’d jumped at the chance for a brief respite. Now, settled in his attic laboratory, he paused to listen to little giggles floating through the open window.
“Yes,” he heard Harry say, “this is perfect. It’s the exact color of the upholstery.”
Were they redecorating? Ford wondered vaguely.
“Oh, good!” The sound of clapping hands accompanied Jewel’s childish voice. “We must hurry, then, so there will be time for it to start drying. And we need something fun to put at his place, so he won’t be looking.”
“Brilliant, Lady Jewel. I’ve just the thing…”
Their voices faded around a corner of the manor. Ford shook his head. Whatever they were doing to his house, they couldn’t possibly make it look worse. Deciding to ignore them, he refocused on the tiny, intricate gears laid out on his worktable. Finally, he had some peace and quiet.
Watches were so inefficient—the single hand only approximated the hour. Within the last few years, another hand had been added to clocks, one that ticked off the minutes and made time-keeping much more precise. But since watches weren’t pendulum-driven, the mechanism that drove a clock’s minute hand wouldn’t work inside them.
Yet it should be possible to add a minute hand to a watch. A more accurate personal timepiece would be practical, functional—a true benefit to mankind. And after months of trial and error, of scrapped designs and precise calculations and late nights, he was so close to making it work. So close to accomplishing something useful…
“Your guests have arrived, my lord.” Bustling in, Hilda started flicking a dust rag at his various instruments. “Don’t you think you should be downstairs?”
ROWAN CLINGING to her skirts, Violet followed Jewel toward Lord Lakefield’s dining room, wondering how it was that Mum had talked her into dragging the poor boy here again.
And her maid Margaret hadn’t even come along this time! Mum had given the woman half a day off. Margaret was being courted, and Mum—who had introduced her to the “nice footman” from a neighboring estate—thought this a perfect chance for the maid to spend some time with her beau.
How very like Mum to risk her own daughter’s reputation for the sake of someone else’s romance. Question Convention, indeed. Sometimes, Violet thought, the Ashcrofts took their motto a bit too seriously.
Most of Lakefield had seen better days, but the dining room struck Violet as particularly dreary. The paneling was so dark it appeared nearly black, and although the built-in cupboards boasted glass in the doors, very few dishes were displayed inside. The room’s color scheme was an uninspiring mélange of browns. Everything was clean, though—the viscount had a decent housekeeper in Hilda.
“Here, Rowan,” Jewel said brightly as they entered. “Sit here.” She pulled out one of the faded tan chairs. “Right here. I put a toy here for you.”
“At the table?” Violet asked.
“Uncle Ford lets me play at the table. As long as I leave him to his thoughts.”
Violet would lay odds Jewel’s parents didn’t feel the same way. But she smiled as she watched her brother race to the chair and claim the toy, a cup and ball.
“Rowan…” she prompted.
“My thanks,” he murmured absently, making the ball fly up and catching it in the cup with a satisfying—to him, anyway—bang. He grinned and did it again. Well, his mood was improved, at least. Perhaps this visit wouldn’t go as badly as the first one.
“Oooh, you’re very good at that,” Jewel all but purred, sidling up to Rowan.
He smiled, making Violet think perhaps she could learn a thing or two from Jewel about flirting.
Jewel touched him on the arm. When he looked up at her, she fluttered her lashes. “Rowan, will you show me how to do that? I’m just a butterfingers. I miss the cup every time.”
Faith. Rose could learn a thing or two from her about flirting.
But then Jewel reached for the toy, and Rowan jerked away, his frown back in place. “Mine.”
“Rowan,” Violet scolded, silently cursing her mother for sending her here again. “Behave yourself.”
Jewel looked crestfallen. Knowing what it was like to feel awkward with boys, Violet felt for the girl. The sash on her powder blue dress was tied very crookedly in back—the viscount’s work, no doubt. Perhaps some female companionship would ease the sting of male rejection.
“Here, let me fix your bow,” Violet offered brightly, stepping up to retie it.
“Good afternoon,” came a low voice from beside her.
She turned, blinking when she saw Lord Lakefield. Silver braid gleamed on his deep gray velvet suit, rather fancy for an afternoon at home. But she had to admit he looked splendid.
Feeling underdressed in her plain russet gown, she resisted the urge to rearrange her skirts. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
“Please, just call me Ford,” he said with a smile.
That was so improper, she wasn’t sure what to say in return. Should she ask him to call her Violet? Would doing so invite too much familiarity? The oldest of four, she knew how to deal with children, but men remained a mystery. Especially eligible, handsome men the likes of whom usually failed to notice her existence.
She played with the end of her thick plait. Honestly, why was a tall, charming viscount with hypnotic blue eyes and hair that curled just right even talking to a girl like Violet, let alone asking her to call him Ford?
Had the world gone mad?
His smile wilted at the edges. Could he read her terror on her face? “Violet?”
Faith, he was calling her Violet already. Perhaps she should just try his name in her head. Ford. It seemed to fit. But when she opened her mouth, it felt entirely too scandalous to say aloud. She seemed to have lost her tongue.
This was ridiculous.
Evidently her silence had stretched long enough. “I’m just going to call you Violet,” he said blithely. “We’re neighbors, after all. Rowan, my man, what have you there?”
“A cup and ball.” Bang, bang. “Lady Jewel gave it to me.”
“Did she? I wonder where she got that old thing?”
Violet tore her gaze from the viscount—Ford—and glanced at the toy. “It does look rather used,” she said, finally finding her voice. “Ancient, actually.”
“Harry gave it to me,” Jewel said.
Ford nodded. “My equally ancient houseman.”
His housekeeper walked in and set a pitcher of ale on the table. “Is that what my husband was doing with you? I was wondering what you two were up to this morning. That toy once belonged to our son—did Harry tell you that?”
Jewel nodded, then her voice took on that flirtatious quality. “Isn’t Rowan good at it?”
“Very,” Ford said, sharing a smile with Violet that caught her by surprise. Clearly he was on to his niece’s ploys. He waved Violet toward a chair. “Won’t you sit down?”
“I’ll be back,” Hilda said, “after I get my tart out of the oven.”
Seating himself beside Violet, Ford reached for the ale and her cup. At Trentingham Manor, servants did the serving. For a nobleman, he didn’t seem to have very many. “How was your afternoon?” he asked.
“Fine,” she said, watching him pour. He had nice hands, long fingers and square nails. She wracked her brain for a topic of conversation. “I’m reading a book by Francis Bacon.”
He filled the children’s cups, adding water to both. “Philosophy?” he asked, his tone cool but courteous.
“Yes.” He remembered!
“And what does Francis Bacon have to say?”
She sipped while she thought of a reply, wondering why she cared so much what he thought of her. “He believes in liberty of speech.”
“That’s admirable.” He drained his cup.
“He thinks knowledge and human power are synonymous.”
He smiled vaguely as he refilled it.
“Do you agree?” she asked, feeling more awkward by the moment.
“Oh, yes. Yes, I do.”
She sighed with relief when Hilda waddled in with four plates and started setting one in front of each of them. A welcome distraction. Steam from the plain apple tart wafted to Violet’s nose, smelling sugary and delicious. She lifted her spoon.
“I don’t like apples,” Rowan said. “Do you have cherry tart?”
“Do you have manners?” Hilda retorted with a glare. Muttering to herself, she left the room.
Violet wanted to slip beneath the table. “Francis Bacon says,” she rushed out, “that if a man will begin with certainties, he will end in doubts, but if he will be content to begin with doubts, he will end in certainties.”
Ford finally looked interested. “That sounds very much like the new science. One puts forth an assumption and then endeavors to prove it.”
“So then,” she said, warming to the subject, “perhaps philosophy and science are compatible.”
“Perhaps they are.”
He looked surprised or dubious; she wasn’t sure which. She wished she could see him clearer.
“You know,” he said, “some philosophers belong to the Royal Society.”
Bang, bang.
“Rowan,” she said quietly. “We’re trying to talk.”
For once in her life, she was enjoying a conversation with a man.
Bang.
“Rowan!” Her voice was sharper than she’d intended, and her brother looked up midtoss, the toy flying out of his hand. It hit the wall with a thwack, and she grimaced.
“Sorry,” Rowan muttered.
“What was that?” Hilda asked, hurrying in to investigate the noise.
“A mistake.” Rowan rose to go fetch the toy—or rather, he attempted to. How odd. From where Violet sat, her brother seemed unable to rise. His feet didn’t reach the floor, but he put his hands on the seat and pushed, his face turning red with strain.
Jewel burst out laughing.
“Jewel,” Ford murmured, rising from his chair. “You didn’t.”
“Oh-oh-oh, yes, I did,” she chortled. “D-don’t you th-think he deserved it?”
“Deserved what?” Violet asked. “What did you do to him?”
“She stuck me,” Rowan said, and for a moment, Violet thought he meant with a pin. But he wasn’t crying—in fact, he didn’t even look angry. He didn’t look happy, either. He just looked blank. “She stuck me to the chair.”
“With what?” she asked, aghast.
“Harry,” Hilda muttered dangerously, bustling from the room. “I’ll kill the man.”
“I stuck him with glue,” Jewel explained proudly between giggles. “And mud to make it match the brown up-hol-ster-y. And the toy was to make him sit down without noticing.”
Violet felt as blank as Rowan looked. Her mouth hung open. When Ford reached over and pushed up on her chin to close it, she hadn’t enough wits about her even to feel mortified by the impropriety. ”What—how—why—” she stammered.
“It was a jest,” he clarified. “A practical joke.”
“A jest,” she murmured.
“A Chase family tradition.” He turned to his niece with an indulgent smile. “Most especially Jewel’s father’s tradition.”
Jewel hiccuped. “Tell her about one of Papa’s pranks. From long ago.”
He narrowed his eyes for a moment, deep in memory. “Once, when I was young, Colin tied me to a chair while I was sitting there reading a book.” He leaned back, lifting his cup. “In some way or other—to this day I haven’t figured out how—he managed to get the rope around my body but not my arms or hands, so I didn’t notice.”
For some reason, Violet found it all too easy to picture him not noticing.
Rowan stopped kicking. “What happened?”
“He left. The knots were behind the chair, so even after I did notice, I couldn’t reach them. I yelled for help, but the only response was the sound of his laughter.”
Envisioning that, too, Violet’s lips twitched. “Did he rescue you?”
“Hours later. I’d nearly finished the book.”
“You just kept reading?” she asked with a barely suppressed smile. Faith, even she wouldn’t read under those circumstances.
“What else could I do?” he said dismissively. “At least Rowan here won’t have to wait so long.” After a quick mouthful of ale, he rose, moving to Jewel’s victim. “Let me free you, my man,” he said, lifting Rowan into his arms, chair and all.
Suddenly, seeing her brother hanging in midair stuck to a chair, and visualizing a bookish young Ford the same way, the smile that had been threatening broke free on Violet’s face. Jewel was right. Given Rowan’s petulance, he deserved the jest, and a rollicking good one it was, too.
“More stories,” Jewel said.
“Later, baby.” Carrying Rowan out the door, Ford flashed his niece a grin. “Colin will be proud of you when he hears this one.”
And Violet had thought the Ashcrofts were eccentric.