A Cowboy Unmatched (16 page)

“Of course, sir.” Wellborn's dour expression never altered. Nor did he comment on the fact that no neighbor had come to
chat
in several months. A fact they were both well aware of.

Darius salted the second half of his egg and popped it into his mouth.

Wellborn didn't so much as raise an eyebrow. “Your caller is an applicant. For the position you posted in Liberty a few weeks back, I believe.”

Darius choked the egg down and lunged across the carpet toward his butler. “Why didn't you say so, man? That's the best news I've had in days. Send him in at once.”

Wellborn's disapproving gaze raked Darius from his rumpled hair, to his unshaven jaw, to his rolled shirt sleeves. “Perhaps you'd like to freshen your appearance first, Mr. Thornton?”

Darius shook his head. “Time is of the essence, Wellborn. Please show the man in.”

Wellborn opened his mouth, held it for a moment, and closed it. “Very good, sir.” He bowed his head slightly, then left to collect the applicant.

Darius watched the flawlessly attired butler stride out the study door. The world was far too concerned with superficial trappings to Darius's way of thinking. What difference did a few whiskers or wrinkles make when people were dying? Nevertheless, he took a few seconds to shove his shirttails into his trousers.

“Your applicant, Mr. Thornton,” Wellborn's ponderous voice echoed through the chamber. “Miss Nicole Greyson.”

Miss?
Darius spun around to find a young woman stepping forward as his butler backed out of the room. Her wine-red dress was the height of fashion, sloping over her slender shoulders in a deep
V
and nipping in at her tiny waist before belling out to the floor. The straw bonnet she wore framed her face in a perfect oval, showing off rich brown curls and a smile that projected confidence mixed with confusion as her golden brown eyes scanned his appearance.

She was quite the loveliest creature he'd ever seen. And the worst possible applicant he could have imagined.

Nicole needed a moment to recover from the shock of seeing her future employer in a state of
dishabille
. Shirt sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms, collar open at his throat, eyes red rimmed, dark whiskers lining his square jaw, blond hair tousled as if he'd lost his only comb.

Maybe he really
was
a madman. Thank goodness she'd continued with the false surname. She'd decided to drop Juliet's name in favor of her own since Oakhaven was rather remote, and if the postmaster was to be believed, townsfolk avoided it as much as possible. Yet caution demanded she maintain a measure of anonymity. Was lying about
half
a name less of a sin than lying about the whole thing?

“Miss Greyson.” The man offered her a courtly bow, one that would have been right at home in any Boston drawing room.

Perhaps he was just slovenly, not actually mad. She could deal with slovenly. Especially since he appeared to be familiar with bath water. No stench wafted toward her as he made his bow.

“Mr. Thornton.” Nicole dipped her head and offered him a smile. “I understand you're in need of a secretary. I'm here to offer my services.”

“Well, I'm afraid your services aren't exactly what I had in mind.” He eyed her clothing as if it told him all he needed to know about her. “I'm sorry you came all this way, but I am not looking for someone to help me pen fancy invitations and polite correspondence. You'll be of no use to me.” He waved her toward the door. “I'll have my man compensate you for your time.”

His out-of-hand dismissal raised Nicole's hackles. How dare he assume he knew her capabilities simply because she'd worn a stylish dress? Was it a crime to want to look her best for this interview?

“Perhaps if I'd arrived donned in a pair of trousers, with my hair in a tangled mess—a style you apparently prefer—you'd have shown me the courtesy of granting an interview before sending me away.”

His gaze shot to hers at her scathing tone. His brows arched in surprise, then turned downward in displeasure. “Time is my most
precious commodity, Miss Greyson. I refuse to waste it.” He stepped closer, and Nicole fought the urge to back away. “I know your type. Well-educated in literature, art, and . . . embroidery. You have lovely penmanship and a high opinion of yourself but no real skill in the things that matter to me. Science, mathematics, mechanics. Besides, you are far too young and much too pretty to work for a man in close company.”

This last statement threw a chunk of ice into her rapidly boiling temper. He thought her pretty. Then she remembered he also thought her worthless in all areas that mattered to him. The simmer heated again.

Nicole lifted her chin and stepped so close to him, her skirts brushed his shoes. “I'll have you know, Mr. Thornton, that I am well versed in mathematics, including algebra and Euclidian geometry. My father never had a son, to his great regret, so he passed his business acumen on to me. Instead of reading novels as a girl, I read shipping manifests and accounting ledgers. I will admit to only a rudimentary knowledge of science and mechanics, but I'm a quick study and have a logical mind that can grasp scientific principles with ease.”

His brows were arching again, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but she wouldn't give him the chance.

“Audition me, Mr. Thornton. I dare you.”

His head quirked to the side. “I beg your pardon?”

“Give me the chance to prove my value.” Nicole raised a brow of her own. “If I fail to meet your expectations, you may send me on my way, and I'll leave without a word of complaint. But if I demonstrate myself capable of the tasks you demand, well . . . then we both end up with what we want. You'll have your secretary, and I'll have employment. Surely that's worth wagering a few moments of your oh-so-precious time.”

His gaze sharpened—with curiosity, thank heavens, not anger. Despite her brave words, her knees trembled beneath her skirts. Thoughts of madmen and unpredictable rages had flitted through her head. Yet now that she studied him at close range, she noticed the deep slate-blue of his eyes and a glint of intelligence. Mr. Thornton might be eccentric and rather unkempt, but she doubted he was actually mad.

The man regarded her closely for several seconds, then crossed his arms over his broad chest. “All right. I'll accept your wager.” He stalked over to the desk that dominated the center of the room and picked up a small leather-bound book. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it at her.

It sailed in a shallow arc, spinning like a well-wound top. No doubt he expected her to squeal and lunge out of the way. Instead, she snatched it out of the air with one hand, just as she used to do with the wood-carved guns and cutlasses Tommy Ackerman used to toss her when they were under attack from invisible pirate lords.

Mr. Thornton nodded in appreciation, and Nicole couldn't quite keep her lips from curving in a small smile of triumph.

“What I am looking for,” he intoned, “is someone who can interpret my admittedly horrid handwriting, duplicate my diagrams and schematics, and reproduce my computations in an organized and thoroughly legible manner, so that I might submit my findings to the Franklin Institute, the foremost authority on advances in mechanical and physical science.” He stepped around the desk and balanced a hip against the flat edge, nodding toward the book he'd just tossed her. “Reconstruct the first five pages in suitable fashion, and we can discuss terms.”

Nicole examined the book, flipped it around when she realized it was upside down, then bent back the flexible cover and scanned the first couple pages.

Heavens.
He certainly hadn't exaggerated his poor penmanship. If she hadn't spent so many months deciphering her father's scratchings while overseeing his business correspondence prior to heading off to Miss Rochester's Academy for Young Ladies, she would have truly despaired.

As it was, it would be challenge enough. But she hadn't come all this way to give up at the first obstacle laid in her path.

Squaring her shoulders, she smiled at the man who lounged so smugly before her. “Would you mind if I used your desk?” She nodded toward the cherrywood furnishing that surely would have been quite lovely if it hadn't been strewn with untidy papers, journals, and . . . was that a miniature engine?

“Of course.” Mr. Thornton stood and gestured for her to come around and avail herself of the chair. “You'll find paper in the top left
drawer, and here is pen and ink.” He lifted a stack of publications to reveal an ebony inkstand. “I'll just be over here, reading.”

Taking the top journal off the stack, he dropped the rest onto the floor and moved toward an upholstered chair situated between a pair of towering bookcases. In less than a minute, he was fully absorbed in his reading, leaving Nicole free to inhale a large breath unobserved.

Collecting the papers scattered over the desktop, she arranged them into a single stack and set them aside. Now that she had room to work, she pulled out a sheet of paper, creased open the logbook, and put pen to ink.

However long it took, she'd not let this task best her.

Darius flipped a page and inhaled a harsh breath. He'd avoided reading this particular article earlier, but putting it off any longer would only prove him a coward. So, steeling his spine, he forced his eyes to scan the words detailing the report of another New Orleans steamboat explosion.

Unlike the
Louisiana
, the
Anglo-Norman
's boiler hadn't burst as the boat pulled away from the landing, making this case somewhat unusual. In his study of boiler explosions, Darius had learned that around sixty percent occurred either as a vessel pulled away from a landing or while docked. However, according to the journal's accounting, the
Anglo-Norman
had successfully traveled upriver a good distance, had navigated a turn, and was on her way back to the Port of New Orleans when her boiler exploded eight miles from the city. The differences made the report a little easier to stomach, and it wasn't long before his intellect suppressed his emotional response. Images of dead and dying passengers faded beneath the factual description of the type of boiler the boat had carried.

The author of the article supplied wonderful details about the size and layout of the wagon-form design, the diameter of the eight cylindrical flues, the exposure of the water legs, etc. Darius reached for the pencil he always kept on the library table beside his chair and began sketching the steam engine in dark strokes on top of the text of a neighboring article contrasting vertical and radial paddle wheels.

So intent was he on his diagram, he failed to notice the woman standing before him until she delicately cleared her throat. He jerked up from his drawing to see a plethora of red brocade skirts draped
just beyond his knees.
Drat.
He'd completely forgotten she was there. Dread sunk deeper into his gut as his gaze lifted to meet her slightly amused eyes.

Drat. Drat.
Drat.
He'd also completely forgotten her name.

“I'm finished, Mr. Thornton,” she said, holding a thin stack of papers out to him. “The pages are ready for your inspection.”

It was
Miss
Something-or-Other. He remembered that much. She wasn't married. Though why that fact should register in his brain when her name failed to stick was beyond his understanding.

“I'm sorry it took so long,” she was saying, “but I discovered an error in your computations on page three and had to recopy that entire page after calculating the correct figures.”

“What?” No longer caring about her name, Darius snatched the papers from her hand and immediately turned to page three. How dare she presume to correct his calculations?

He held out an empty palm to her, demanding his original logbook as his eyes scanned the page. She must have understood the silent demand, for his notebook slapped against his palm without delay. He took it from her, opened to the page in question, and set about comparing the two equations, eager to point out her mistake.

The little upstart. Just because she fancied herself something of a mathematician did not give her the right to tamper with . . .

His eyes narrowed as he took in her calculations. She'd adjusted the cargo weight. He'd only factored in the difference of engine weight between the double-tier flue boiler and the newer tubular boiler. The amount of cargo would naturally be different on the two types of vessels since the tubular boiler not only weighed less but took up less space, leaving room for more cargo. Therefore, her numbers actually were more accurate when it came to predicting water displacement or draft on a seagoing vessel.

Although, she
had
been kind enough to include his original calculations under a separate heading denoting the even greater difference in draft if the cargo remained unchanged. Of course, no sea captain worth his salt would load less cargo than his ship could carry if it were available. Why would he, when more cargo meant more profit? And she'd known this.

Hadn't she said something about reading manifests instead of novels as a girl? Her father must be involved somehow in the shipping
industry. Maybe a female secretary wasn't such a bad prospect after all. If it was
this
female.

Darius glanced up from the papers, peered at her thoughtfully, then frowned. She was still far too pretty.

“You must not distract me from my work.” He growled the command at her, but all she did was smile.

She smiled with such untarnished joy that he felt like a man stepping out of a dungeon to behold the vision of a sunrise cresting the horizon. Glorious. Yet so bright, he wanted to scuttle back into the hole from whence he'd come.

“Thank you, Mr. Thornton.” She nearly clapped her hands together in her excitement. Hands without gloves, he noted. Hands that consisted of dainty fingers stained with ink at the tips. Capable hands. Delicate hands. The fact that they were
both
intrigued him, even as she stole them from his view by pulling them behind her back as she made an effort to compose herself.

“The advertisement mentioned accommodations.”

She was dictating to him again. Odd that he didn't seem to mind. But then, he'd always appreciated people who spoke their minds instead of dallying with polite niceties. He just wasn't accustomed to finding that trait in a woman. Especially one who looked like she belonged on a shopping excursion with his mother and sister, or sipping tea with them in the parlor.

Darius rose from his seat. Time to do some dictating of his own. “There is a small chamber near the kitchen that should suffice. My butler and his wife, my housekeeper, room down that hall, as well, so you'll not be alone. You will work in here”—he gestured around him at the controlled chaos that was his study—“and occasionally with me at the workshop, if I need your assistance. However . . . ” He paused to glare down his nose at her, emphasizing the importance of his next point. “You are
never
to interrupt me when I am in the midst of an experiment. Do I make myself clear?”