Outrageously Yours (5 page)

Ivy opened her eyes and raised her quill. If Lord Harrow wanted to know
why
, she would tell him. She began writing, so intent on her task that she failed to realize, until Mr. Hendslew’s throat clearing signaled the end of the session, that the hall around her had emptied.

“Thank you, sir,” she said to the man as she handed him her papers. She flashed him a grateful smile, then turned quickly away and hurried out the door when his perplexed frown reminded her that men didn’t smile like that, with their faces tilted and their eyelashes fluttering.

That she could so readily make such a glaring mistake yanked her confidence out from under her, and she began second-guessing every word she had scrawled across her tablet. Surely her amateur ramblings fell a good mile short of the expertise Lord Harrow sought. Then again, the Mad Marquess had probably ruled her out the moment she had raised her hand in violation of his blasted rules.

Ivy’s panicked thoughts swerved to Victoria, alone in Buckingham Palace with her dismal secret. An utter wretchedness washed over her. She had tried her best, but in all likelihood her best would not be good enough.

“I
tell you truly, Ben,” Simon said with a shake of his head, “despite his effeminate looks and how timidly that boy’s hand disappeared from my sight, I encountered an underlying spark that I have not seen in a long time.”

His back to Simon, Benjamin Rivers stood gazing out his office window at the elaborate gateway into Old Schools, one of the university’s oldest sections. The view of Trinity Hall, framed by glimpses of the River Cam and the spacious, sunlit lawns of the Backs on its western bank, was in large part why Ben had been so keen to move into this office after the former dean of the School of Natural Philosophies had retired a year ago. To Ben, Old Schools symbolized the best and most steadfast of Cambridge’s traditions, which had defined the better part of his life, and Simon’s, too.

With an indulgent smile, Ben turned and folded his lean length into the chair behind the desk. A modest porcelain tea service occupied a corner of the leather desktop. Ben poured them each a second cup of tea, then suspended his hand above the plate of biscuits; he carefully studied the assortment before selecting a petit four sprinkled with shaved coconut.

“You have not encountered such a spark,” he said between bites, “since you were a student here yourself and happened to glance in a mirror.”

With a nod, Simon laughed. It had been ten years ago this month that he’d strutted, with just the sort of arrogant confidence he found so irksome in younger men nowadays, into a much smaller office in this same building and thrust out a hand to introduce himself to his new physics don. He had sought out Benjamin Rivers after attending the man’s lecture on John Dalton’s atomic theory, and had been eager to discuss with him the particulars of electromagnetic polarization.

Ben had greeted Simon’s initial enthusiasm with a disregard similar to that which Simon himself had exhibited earlier. Straightening his habitual stooping posture, Ben had peered down the length of his hawkish nose and, disdain dripping from his Welsh pronunciations, had demanded, “Tell me, young man, what need might there be for a marquess’s heir to dirty his hands in the mire of atomic theory? Shouldn’t you be studying law or finance or the proper way to lead a lady onto the dance floor?”

After stumbling through a moment of galling chagrin, Simon had emerged more determined than ever to win the man’s esteem. With a mulish heft of his youthful chin he’d declared, “Beg your pardon, sir, but such trifles are lodged in precedent and tradition. Science is the vehicle of our future, and I intend to be among those manning the helm.”

“I wasn’t sure at the time whether to embrace you or box your ears, but I discovered one of my brightest students and most apt assistants that morning.” Ben flicked a strand of charcoal gray hair off his brow. “Perhaps today you’ve found
your
Simon de Burgh.”

Even after ten years during which Simon had more than proved his prowess in the laboratory, the other man’s approbation kindled a surge of pride. Simon’s response, however, was to smirk, lean back in his chair, and prop a foot on the edge of Ben’s desk. “I shan’t hold my breath.”

“Good God, did I hear some fool attempted to ask a question over at Burgh Hall earlier?”

Simon’s gut clenched, an instinctive reaction. He didn’t need to turn around to know that Colin Ashworth, Earl of Drayton, had just joined them. But he peered over his shoulder to see the other man leaning in the doorway and grinning with apparent delight. Like Simon but unlike Ben, who had grown up in a Glamorganshire mining town, Colin hailed from privilege. He and Simon had attended university together, had shared rooms, their studies, many a bottle of brandy, and occasionally the same demimondaine. And like Simon, Colin was now a fellow of the university’s School of Natural Philosophies.

“One can only speculate,” the earl said with a laugh, “as to whether the poor lad is still in possession of his head.”

Simon pressed his right fist into his left, gave the knuckles a crack, and struggled to keep his expression neutral. “He is, but only just.”

“Ah, we’ve been wondering when we’d see you again.” Pressing to his feet, Benjamin came around the desk to shake Colin’s hand. “What has kept you so long at that chilly manor of yours?”

Colin’s family’s ancestral seat lay far to the west, on the rolling moors of northern Devon. For the most part, the Ashworth family had abandoned their rambling, medieval estate in favor of the comforts of their London and Ascot homes, and they left it to Colin to periodically oversee the accounts, repairs, and welfare of their tenant farmers.

Yet it was to none of those that Colin referred.

“The herds,” he said succinctly.

His dedication to the sciences came in close second to his true passion: horses, and the prized stock of Thoroughbred racehorses his family owned. But to his credit, a good portion of his work at Cambridge and for the Royal Society had been in the interest of developing, through chemistry, higher grades of feed and fertilizers to boost livestock viability.

His enthusiasm for riding and the outdoors showed in his athletic build and bronzed complexion. The sunlight pouring through the office window brightened the underlying streaks of red in Colin’s blond hair as he sauntered through the doorway.

Dragging a chair away from the wall, he straddled it backward and regarded Simon like a chemist inventorying his store of solutions and compounds. He also extended his right hand, and after a brief hesitation, Simon shook it. “Well?” Colin said. “Any results from today’s little experiment?”

The question, as well as Colin’s crooked grin, held skepticism and a faint trace of mockery. Simon decided to ignore the latter. The former he couldn’t deny feeling himself.

“I wouldn’t know yet. The challenge is ending right about now. But based on my previous two attempts, I’m beginning to doubt I’ll ever find a proper assistant.”

Colin’s smile lost some of its warmth. “Perhaps you’re too exacting. They’re only students, with much yet to learn. If it’s a professional you need, choose one of us. Or don’t you trust your fellow Galileans?”

He referred to the Galileo Club, an association dedicated to scientific advancement and the practical application of scientific principles. Named for one of history’s bravest and boldest scientists, the club operated under the assumption that nothing added more fuel to the fire of progress than a good dose of fierce if friendly competition—and at times the inherent rivalries did become fierce. Three of the club’s members presently sat together here in Ben Rivers’s office. The fourth, Errol Quincy, had gone up to London yesterday to head a symposium at the Royal Society.

Ben guffawed in response to Colin’s question. “You know good and well why not. Too many cooks, as they say. A student is capable of following the recipe without dashing in an ingredient or two himself.” After seizing a tiny lemon tart, he held up the plate of confections and added, “Biscuit?”

Colin waved a dismissive hand, both at Ben’s allusion and the offered treat. “Perhaps it’s time the Galileo Club pooled its resources rather than behaved like a pack of jealous debutantes all coveting the same marriage prospect.”

“I’m coveting nothing but the results of my theories.” Leaning forward, Simon plucked an almond puff from the plate, his hand nearly colliding with Ben’s as the man trawled for yet another treat. “Each of us has a very separate, very distinct goal.” He popped the confection into his mouth.

“Based on the same principles of electromagnetism,” Colin reminded him.

Simon agreed readily enough. He swallowed the nutty pastry. “The pertinent issue is how we put those principles into practice. Generally speaking, I am always ready to share my findings on sustainable electrical currents.”

“But no more than that.” Colin’s statement issued a challenge.

“Not yet.” Simon emphasized the last word.

Of the four members of the Galileo Club, contention ran highest between Colin and him; it always had, so much so they’d occasionally nearly come to blows in the laboratory. But while theirs had also been the strongest friendship of the group, circumstances had changed one day last winter, irrevocably as far as Simon was concerned.

Yet it was for a very different reason that he wished to end the discussion. His latest project was still too experimental to be shared, especially with anyone astute enough to grasp the ramifications. His theories were too radical, too . . . dangerous.

“Your reticence has nothing to do with a desire to win yourself a Copley Medal?” Colin accused more than asked.

“Ah, the carrot the Royal Society yearly dangles before our noses.” Simon produced a half smile and shook his head. “Sorry, but the Copley Medal doesn’t interest me.”

Colin scrutinized Simon through half-closed lids. “As always, you remain a mystery wrapped in an enigma. What
does
the Mad Marquess of Harrow have up his sleeve?”

“You’ll see soon enough.” Simon worked at not clenching his teeth, though his muscles had tensed at the moniker that had dogged him since his wife’s death a year and a half ago. Perhaps he had deserved it then, when the slightest provocation had prompted storms of ranting and days of sequestering himself in his laboratory. Grief had driven him nearly beyond the brink, until the people of Cambridge and even his own servants had begun to whisper and to fear him, just a little. And sometimes a lot.

There were men who would not have made it out of that office without blood flowing from one appendage or another, but Simon extended privileges to his fellow Galileans that he would never have tolerated from outsiders. “The Mad Marquess” had become a kind of dark joke between them, a perverse term of affection from the men who knew and understood him best.

Only . . . he had privately revoked such privileges from Colin, but damn the insolent bastard for being too thick-headed to perceive the obvious.

“Gentlemen.” Ben held out his hands and said evenly, “A breakthrough for one of us will be a breakthrough for all. As you very well know, Simon, the Copley Medal is more than a carrot. Ah, but I suppose for an aristocrat with a sizable fortune, the grant that accompanies the honor seems a mere pittance.”

It was true, he didn’t need the funding that came along with the Copley Medal, not in the way Ben or Errol did. Once, the true prize for him would have been winning the instant respect of the scientific community, and bringing his innovations to the forefront. Lately, however, awards and fame no longer held much appeal. Results were now his carrot, breakthroughs the only form of accolade he desired.

“Let’s strike a bargain.” Ben’s dark eyes twinkled, yet behind their humor lay an admonishment, that of a miner’s son who’d first entered Cambridge as a subsizar, performing menial tasks in exchange for his education. “Should either of you win, feel free to donate your grant directly to the university, preferably to the School of Natural Philosophies.”

Simon chuckled. “That’s a promise.”

“To be sure.” Colin delivered an enthusiastic slap to the back of the chair he straddled. “But perhaps a moot point for me this year, and Errol, too. Our present work in electrochemical conversions isn’t typically the stuff of Copley Medals. Not flashy enough.”

“It will be once you employ it to ensure this country’s yearly harvests.” Ben drained his teacup. “Ah, but the consortia will commence soon enough, and it will be up to the Royal Society to decide who wins this year’s medal.”

He spoke of the process whereby scientists gathered in appointed places throughout the country each year to discuss and demonstrate their recent discoveries. Representatives from England’s Royal Society would attend, take detailed notes, and report back to their peers on the most innovative breakthroughs.

Ben’s mouth filled with one last biscuit, he rolled his shoulders as he often did in an attempt to loosen the muscles damaged in a cave-in when he was a boy. That accident had marked his final stint in the mines, for immediately afterward his parents had apprenticed him to a relative, an apothecary in Cardiff.

After consulting his watch, Ben came to his feet and tugged his coat into place. “If you’ll both excuse me, I’ve a lecture to deliver.”

Outside, Simon set off down a walkway beneath the golden canopy of a double row of oaks. His destination lay several minutes away on Market Street, at a tiny dark-paneled pub that served some of the finest home-brewed ale in all of East Anglia.

“Simon, wait.”

His instincts urged him to keep walking, but with a resigned sigh he halted and turned.

Colin slowed down from a sprint and stopped a few feet away. “Look, I know you don’t give a tinker’s damn about the Copley Medal. But what I said about working together—”

“You’re quite correct,” Simon interrupted. “I don’t give a damn about the Copley Medal or any other pointless honor, which would only bring unwanted scrutiny down on my work. I wish only to be left alone and get on with my research.”