An Unexpected Encounter ( Half Moon House, Novella 1) (6 page)

Both agreed, however, that was the point at
which Lord Cotwell’s concentration on his mechanical work began to
take up most of his time. He set up a laboratory at his country
estate and worked there for a few months, but eventually picked it
up and moved to London where supplies were easier to purchase and a
few men of similar interests could be found.

Lisbeth watched him disappear into the
sacrosanct room every day and wondered just what he was doing in
there. She listened to the rattling and thumping and burned to know
just what he was hiding from.

“There’s the fishmonger,” Aurelia said.
“We’re going to start there, aren’t we?”

Lisbeth nodded. “Stick close,” she said, low.
“Carry your net lower and try to look hungry.”

They picked their way over to the cart. They
started to wander past, then Lisbeth pulled up, as if caught by the
sight by the sight of the cod. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Those look
nice. Are they fresh?”

“Caught fresh this morning,” the costermonger
answered. She glanced at Aurelia. “Some o’ them’s likely still
breathin’.”

“That sounds perfect for a nice fish pie. How
much for two fair-sized ones?”

“Two shillings.”

Lisbeth frowned. “How much for just one,
then?”

The haggling commenced, but concluded
quickly. Lisbeth accepted the wrapped package with a smile of
relief. “How glad I am to get them priced reasonably. I’ve a friend
who works in a baron’s kitchens and she warned me an order like
this would come ever so more dear.”

“Which baron do you speak of?” the woman
asked.

“Lord Cotwell.”

“Ah, that great bear of a man.” She shivered.
“And that’d be Maggie, who does his lordship’s marketing. Good,
regular customers, they are.” She winked. “Items do come more dear,
at times, for them that can pay. That’s the way o’ things, eh,
dearie?”

Lisbeth stiffened. “Is it?”

“It is.” The woman narrowed her eyes.
“There’s no sayin’ that those with the blunt shouldn’t make it
easier on the rest o’ us.” She sniffed. “His lordship can afford
it.”

“His lordship more than does his part,”
Lisbeth admonished. “He has the care and feeding of a great many
people. Already he employs more staff than is strictly necessary
and that’s just at his London house. He treats them extremely well,
too. He does his duty in the Lords, contributing to the governing
of this great country. Did you know he serves under the committees
that keep our soldiers in supplies? He funds research on ideas and
inventions that could aid all men. His investments help create
wealth, some of which is likely spent here, in this market.”
Restraining herself from mentioning the baron’s care of a girl not
strictly his responsibility, she drew herself up. “Can you say the
same? What do you do for anyone other than yourself?”

The woman gaped at her. “I’m busy enough,
jest keeping me and mine.”

“By committing highway robbery against a man
more generous and better than yourself?” Lisbeth snorted. “I’ve
seen the prices you’ve been charging his lordship. I thought he
must have been purchasing diamonds and sapphires here, rather than
fish and vegetables.”

“Here now!” the costermonger objected. “Who
do you think you are?”

Lisbeth projected her voice so that it
carried to the surrounding vendors. “I’m Lord Cotwell’s new
housekeeper and I won’t have my employer cheated on a daily basis.
This is the only warning I will give. Maggie will meet with fair
prices when she shops here, or the baron’s wealth will, from now
on, be making things easier on the vendors at Covent Garden or
Hungerford—even if I have to order up the carriage to take her.”
She cast a glance about. “His lordship can afford it, after
all.”

Taking up her basket and Aurelia’s hand, she
marched on. Not until they were well clear of the place did she
smile down at the child. “Now that, my dear, is how you protect
your household interests.”

Aurelia nodded, her face full of wonder. “I
did not realize his lordship was such a good man.”

That was the problem. Lisbeth suspected that
not many people did. It was a wrong that needed righting—something
she’d never been able to resist. She nodded and quickened her step.
It would be best all around if she finished this project and got
her recommendation before she succumbed to growing temptation.

* * *

Edmund slid open the wide door to his
laboratory—and stared in horror. Miss Moreton stood there, armed
with a bucket, mop and duster and flanked by a trio of
servants.

“It’s time, my lord,” she announced.

“Time for what?” Even to his own ear he
sounded defensive.

“I’ve seen to the rest of your house. Now
it’s time to allow me into your sanctuary.”

He couldn’t argue with the first statement.
The chit had gone through his house like a whirlwind. With her
curvy figure hidden behind the folds of a voluminous apron and her
thick chestnut locks forever escaping the confines of a cap, she’d
cleaned, polished and mended her way from the top of the house to
the bottom. Aurelia at her side, she’d rearranged furniture from
one room to another, brought old pieces from the attics and
banished others to take their place. She’d turned the place upside
down—and vastly improved it. She’d shaken up his servants, doubled
their workload—and they loved her for it. Yes, she’d done a bang-up
job with the rest of the house, but—

“I’ll be damned if I let you turn my
laboratory arse over tea-kettle.”

“I’ll do no such thing.” His mouth hung agape
as she flounced past him, then he wondered what on earth she might
be thinking when she slowed and came to a halt in the middle of the
room.

He tried to view the place through her eyes.
She likely saw a jumble of gears, rods and pipe or perhaps just
dust, clutter and disorder. But it was beautiful to him—full of
function, potential and the miracle of small things connected to
create bigger, useful objects.

“Oh, my,” she breathed.

She turned on her heel, staring from one
cluttered worktable to the next, and on to the large tarp in the
corner, covered with rope, pulleys and the internal parts of a
steam engine.

He hunched his shoulders. “It might not be
obvious, but there is an organization here, one that I cannot allow
you to—

He trailed to a halt as she spun about and
confronted him, eyes shining. “Oh, I can see a hint of it.” She
appeared not to notice how he towered over her as she grinned up at
him. “No wonder you spend so much time in here. You are
creating
.” She sighed. “How marvelous.”

He sank onto a stool, the wind quite taken
out of him. He should have guessed she would not be so easily
chased away.

“I’m quite envious,” she said, bending over a
table covered with complicated designs. “I’ve always thought it
must be marvelous to create something. You harness the work of your
brain, your shoulders and back, and suddenly there is something
entirely new in the world.”

The position she’d taken pushed her shapely
derriere, covered in fine wool, out from the cocoon of her massive
apron. He told himself to look away. Firmly. He did avert his gaze,
finally, but found it didn’t help. The acceptance and appreciation
in her tone felt as heady and appealing as the sight of her pert
behind.

She gasped and quickly moved on the next
table, intently staring at the metallic, skeletal beginnings of
four long legs and a hundred tiny parts spread out next to them.
“Oh! Is this what I think it is?” She looked at him, her hand
covering her mouth. Her eyes shone. “Are you making a giraffe? For
Aurelia?”

He nodded and shifted uncomfortably. “It
seems she shared an affinity for the animal with her mother.” He
shrugged. “It’s to be an automaton. I’d hoped she would like
it.”

“Like it?” Her hands were clasped in front of
her now. “She will love it.” She turned to grip the table, then.
“Do you know—one of the reasons I accepted this position was
because I feared you might be an . . . unkind guardian.” Some
emotion roughened the edge of her tone. “But here you are—paying
attention
.” She gave a little laugh. “That is something
flattering and agreeable to females of any age, I assure you. I’m
so glad to be proven wrong.” Shaking her head, she straightened.
“Your concern is the very best thing for a girl who has lost so
much. You are just the sort of guardian that I . . . that any girl
would wish for.”

Edmund frowned. This odd girl was doing
things to his insides—she was stirring him up with her unusual
beauty and her blunt ways. He didn’t know how to talk to her, but
he found himself wishing to. He wanted to know more about her. What
had happened to put her in such straits that she would accept this
position? What had made her so wistful just now? More than just
curiosity afflicted him, though. He felt . . .
hectic
, in a
way that he had not in a very long time.

It was intriguing, and a little annoying.
He’d spent a good deal of time and effort reconciling himself to
his current isolation, learning to push the world away before it
got close enough to do serious damage. Now she came along and
dismantled his defenses almost without effort.

“Well,” she said briskly. “I can see that
care must be taken. You’ve been given a gift. You must get a great
deal of satisfaction when you share it with the world.” She shook
her head. “I would dearly love to do something like that, but alas,
maintenance is all I’m good for.” She brandished her broom. “But I
shall take care and you can watch us closely.”

He did watch and it took all of his
determination not to object as she beckoned to one of the maids and
set her to cleaning out the hearth. Another she handed a long,
cloth wrapped pole and bade her destroy all evidence of spiders and
their webs. He followed in her wake, feeling foolish as she walked
amongst the tables herself, pocketing at least a dozen pencils,
quills and charcoal sticks from the floor and retrieving notes,
pictures and designs, offering them up for him to keep or discard.
Finally, she stopped to examine a listing cabinet near the hearth.
“Does this serve a purpose?”

“Not any longer. I’ve meant to repair it, but
never got to it.”

“I’ve a better idea,” she said brightly.
“Now, you go do what you must and I’ll see to the sweeping and
shining of your floors. I vow we will not touch a thing at any of
your work stations.”

He did as she bid. Or tried to. It took a
while, but eventually he was able to ignore her busy bustling about
and retreat into the puzzle of his latest attempt at a
steam-powered lift. Nearly an hour must have passed before she
called him back.

He marveled as he went. The windows and
floors sparkled. The lights shone brighter with so many months of
grime removed. It all looked the same, yet better, somehow. And
she’d replaced the hearthside cabinet with a small table and padded
chair. On the table was a crock containing all of his various
writing instruments, several different sizes and types of paper and
a covered pitcher of lemonade. With a flourish she opened the
drawer to display a platter of sandwiches and biscuits and a squat
cup.

“Cook complains that you work through all of
her good meals. I’ll instruct the staff to keep this supplied. Now
you can pause a moment, rest and eat, and still think and plan as
you need to.”

He met her gaze, touched by her
consideration. “I see I’m not the only one paying attention.” She
flushed and on impulse, he took her hand. An elegant hand, despite
its calluses, with long, delicate fingers that he thought she might
snatch back, so startled did she look. He was too close, and she
was all eyes and bounding heartbeat—he could feel it beneath his
own thick digits, see the fluttering pulse point in the turn of her
graceful neck. He felt burly and bearish again—and also abruptly
possessive. “Thank you. I didn’t think it possible, but you’ve made
a real improvement in here.”

“I’m glad to do it, sir.” She did pull her
hand back, then, but she didn’t move away. She cast her eyes down.
He felt her draw breath, as if she was pulling the air straight
from his lungs. He braced himself, sure that her retreat was
imminent, knowing that her reluctance was going to hurt more than
any had in the past.

But Miss Moreton was made of sterner stuff
than he suspected. She hesitated, then looked him square in the
eye. “I beg your pardon for offering my opinion, but I believe that
even creative people need to relax once in a while.” She drew
another breath, then rushed on. “Perhaps you’ll be better if you
leave this place for a bit of each day. Too much concentration, all
of that intense focus, it leaves a person drained and dreary.
Ill-tempered. Might you not wish to meet your friends for dinner,
socialize a bit, or take Aurelia to the park?” She raised a brow at
him. “Who knows? You might even be tempted to attend a Society
event or two?”

Edmund stilled—as did the warm, low buzz
she’d awakened inside him. Now this, this was a lesson in why he
should stay locked away in here,
by himself
. A pair of
enticing eyes, a mind as bright and engaging as a smile, and he’d
forgotten all the hard lessons he’d learned. He’d opened a little,
let her into his laboratory, which, by some miracle, she’d found
charming. And though she’d shown neither fear nor aversion, still
she’d found his person lacking. The hard, piercing pain of it
shouldn’t have surprised him.

He took a step back. “You’ve done a fine job
with the house, Miss Moreton. I’m not sure who has disparaged your
abilities and charms to such an extent that you believe them of so
little value. You are talented. You have created, as much as I’ve
ever done at least. You’ve taken a house and made it into a home. I
appreciate this, as I appreciate your efforts with Aurelia.” He
frowned. “But I warn you now. Do not think to turn your penchant
for improvement on me.” He turned away. “I cannot be fixed, Miss
Moreton.”