"My flying machine," said Andrew, sliding out from beneath the thing in question on a wooden dolly. Lying on his back, he cocked a grin up at Charles, obviously quite pleased with himself. "Or rather, the Contraption, as they mostly call it round here." He got to his feet and brushed himself off. "What do you think?"
Charles, shaking his head in amazement and disbelief, walked a slow circle around Andrew's latest invention. He had no doubts about Andrew's brilliance, but a flying machine? It was . . . impossible!
"It looks like a giant kite," he finally said, hoping Andrew did not see the doubt in his eyes.
"But it's not." Andrew pushed the dolly out of the way and clapped a hand behind Charles's shoulders. "I say, Charles, I'm devilish glad you're home, because there are a few things I need some advice on. I'll need to form a company to produce these things . . . I'll need to attract investors . . . and I want to consider whether there's a military application, which you're obviously the best person to advise me on."
"Why is everyone coming to
me
for advice?"
"Are they?"
"Yes," said Charles, frowning. "Gareth wants to bend my ear about some of the problems he's having with his estate, and now you . . ."
"Well, I don't see anything unusual about it," Andrew said, shrugging. "We always came to you for advice before you went away, so why not now?"
"Because . . . oh, never mind." He shook his head.
"That reminds me, what
are
you doing about your Army career? Isn't there a war going on?"
"I'm on an extended leave of absence, which was rather necessary considering that someone else had already been promoted into my place as company commander. I'll probably end up resigning my commission, anyhow."
Andrew screwed up his face. "Whatever for?"
"Because — oh, forget it, it's not important." What was he supposed to say,
because I lost my nerve, my confidence, and am no longer capable of leading men?
He forced a smile. "Come, I wish to know more about your invention. Will it really fly?"
"Damned if I know. Haven't tested it yet, and I won't, until that bastard Lucien conveniently decides to go off to London or something." Already, Andrew's eyes were beginning to flash. "For six months he's been insulting me, taunting me, and quite confidently declaring that I'd never succeed in building it, let alone getting it to work. I'll tell you, Charles, there's nothing that would bring me more pleasure than to make him eat his words, every last damned one of them!"
So, Lucien and The Defiant One were still at odds; some things never changed.
"I'm sure that day will come," Charles said, reaching out to touch one silk-clad wing, then bending and peering underneath, where there was a crude leather harness attached to the frame at the center. "How does it work?"
Andrew, eager to discuss his creation, promptly forgot about his enmity with Lucien. Brightening, he pushed back a stray bit of dark auburn hair that had come loose over his forehead and squatted down beside Charles. "Well, that there is the harness that will keep me strapped in. These are the wings — I've spent all summer and autumn studying the shape of bird's wings, and the ratio of length to weight so I could get it just right — and these extra supports here are for strength."
"I see. And how do you intend to steer it?"
"I'm still working on that bit."
"Hmmm."
"It's meant to ride on air, much as a boat rides on water, but I haven't yet worked out the best way to get it airborne. It's all a matter of finding enough speed to give it lift, which rather limits my choices. I have two, as far as I can determine."
"Oh?"
"I've been thinking that the least dangerous way of doing it would be to hitch a carriage to our two fastest horses, squat atop it with the Contraption on my back, and then make the horses gallop as fast as they can go. When there's enough speed, the craft should lift and
voila
, I shall up and fly like a bird!"
"Uh . . . yes," Charles said, dubiously. He rubbed his chin. "And the other method of getting it airborne?"
Andrew grinned. "A catapult."
"Good God, man!"
"Want to see it?"
Charles blinked. "Well, I —"
Andrew seized his arm. "Come on, I've got it set up on the roof."
His face alight with excitement, Andrew led Charles out of the laboratory, up the stairs, and onto the roof. Up here the wind was gusty and fierce, the view spectacular, the moat below sparkling in the sun. Andrew was oblivious to all of it. He swept his hand forward — and sure enough, there it was.
A giant catapult.
Charles felt his mouth go dry. "Uh, Andrew . . . this is a little high, isn't it?" he asked, a sudden nervousness on behalf of his brother's safety making his palms go damp and a sick feeling to settle in the pit of his stomach. Andrew was not foolhardy; either he had more than enough faith in his creation, or his desire to prove something to Lucien was making him reckless.
"Not as high as the tower," Andrew said cheerfully. "This is perfect, really. And if things go wrong, I've taken into account both the force of the catapult and the weight of me and the machine, and I've calculated it so that I'd land in the moat. It's perfectly safe, I can assure you."
"I'm glad you won't be testing your invention anytime soon."
"Well, I
was
going to wait until Lucien's gone, but, you know something, Charles? I'm so confident that this thing is going to make history, so confident that it's going to make me famous, and so confident that I'm
finally
going to be able to rub Lucien's nose in my brilliance, that I'm going to hold a demonstration at the end of next week."
"Next week?" Charles asked, faintly.
"Yes. And everyone will be there. You do know about the little party that Lucien's throwing to celebrate your return, don't you? Not only is he inviting everyone for miles around, he's sent off a special invitation to the king himself."
"
The king?!
"
"Yes, the king." Andrew's eyes gleamed. "Just think, Charles, what it will mean to have
him
there to endorse my entrance into the history books! His Majesty will grant me royal patronage! I'll be rich beyond my wildest dreams!" Hands on his hips, he gazed out over the downs, his expression already triumphant. "And Lucien will rue the day he
ever
mocked me!"
Charles was still staring at him, trying to digest all he'd just been told. A demonstration? A little party?
An invitation to the king?
Andrew grabbed his arm. "I say, it's bloody cold up here. Let's go back inside so you can help me figure out how to start this company of mine!"
Chapter 25
After meeting Amy Leighton, Juliet walked slowly back down the corridor toward Gareth's old apartments, which she and her husband were sharing during this sudden Christmastide visit to Blackheath Castle.
Her heart was heavy. Troubled. Though Lucien had prepared them all for Charles's imminent arrival after receiving the startling news that he was actually alive and coming home, it had still been a dreadful shock to see him in the flesh. It had been an even more dreadful shock to see what he had become in the nearly two years since she had known him. Juliet had not lied to Gareth about her feelings for Charles, and she would not trade Gareth for the world — or for Charles, for that matter — but she was mature and honest enough with herself to accept that old memories died hard. Seeing Charles again had reactivated a score of them. He had been her first love — and her first lover. You couldn't make a baby with a man and accept his offer of marriage, grieve his death for months, and then cast him out of your heart just like that.
Even if there
was
someone else you loved a hundred times better.
She paused at a window which looked down on the lawn and the graveled drive below. Lucien's coach, polished until it shone like jet, was already being brought round, the clouds floating across the bright blue sky reflected in its glossy paintwork. She was glad that her pregnancy gave her an excuse not to go to London with the others. Already, liveried footmen awaited Nerissa's and Amy's arrival, and in a few moments, a groom would bring Contender out — the magnificent animal she'd first seen Charles mounted on, so many months ago, so many miles away, on Boston Common.
Something began to ache in Juliet's heart and she turned away from the window, continuing on down the West Corridor.
Last night still haunted her. Every time she closed her eyes, she could still see Charles barging into the dining room, stopping short when he'd seen her with Gareth, his shocked gaze going to her rounded belly, his blue, blue eyes so full of hurt.
She bent her head, watching the floor as she walked, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. Her guilt knew no bounds.
Oh, where was absolution? Forgiveness for what she had done — and how she now felt?
Even though she'd though that Charles was dead, it had taken time for her heart to let go of the dashing officer with whom she'd had a few stolen moments and not much more, really, than that. It had taken time for her to stop wearing the miniature of him, painted shortly before Concord, that had long occupied a place around her neck. And it had taken time for her to realize that she'd been in love with an icon. An image. An idea. A man who, really, would never have suited her in the long run. But Gareth was none of those things. She loved him to the fullest extent of her being, and though it was painful to admit, given the crushing guilt she felt about Charles and the way she had inadvertently hurt him, she was very, very glad that The Wild One was the brother she'd married.
But what had that done to Charles?
If Charles could find happiness with anyone, Juliet hoped it would be with that soft-spoken young woman whose bright sense of whimsy would go far toward soothing his hurts and healing his ravaged heart.
She only hoped that Charles would allow himself the freedom to love Amy in return.
~~~~
"Now Charles, there's no need for you to escort us to
every
shop," Nerissa chided, poking her head out the window as the coach came to a stop in front of Madame Perrot's and her brother swung down from Contender. "And we're going to be
ages
in this one. Maybe you ought to go off and visit your club or something. You can meet us back here at, say, three o'clock, and then we'll head home."
"
Three o'clock!
Charles expostulated, as a footman lowered the steps. He moved forward, handing first his sister and then Amy down from the coach and walking them to the door of the shop. "Why do you need three hours in a single shop?"
"Because we're women, that's why," Nerissa returned, as though that explained everything. "I need a new gown for the ball and it will take time to select suitable fabric and colors. Hmmm. I wonder if I will go with an ice-blue silk? Or perhaps a frosty mint-green satin trimmed with silver thread and delicate, matching brocade around the skirts —"
"Right. I'm off then," Charles muttered, much to Nerissa's secret delight. As he bowed to them both, Nerissa noticed that his eyes caught and held Amy's — and that Amy's cheeks instantly darkened with color. Nerissa grinned to herself.
Ha, by the time
we're
through with her, you won't be able to take your eyes off her!
she vowed in silent amusement, thinking back to the conversation she and Lucien had had in the library shortly before leaving . . .
The duke had given her explicit instructions.
"Remember what I told you, Nerissa. Spare no expense when it comes to dressing her. I want her
out
of those hideous colors and fabrics she's in now, and into something that will show her coloring to greatest advantage."
"Silks, satins, velvets?"
"Yes, and the finest, most expensive ones Madame has." Lucien's enigmatic black eyes had gleamed with sly delight before he'd turned away and, his forefinger tapping his lips once, twice, continued on. "And dramatic colors only — no pastels for that girl, no more washed out yellows and wretched browns that only make her look sallow and ill. She's no English rose and shouldn't be dressed like one. No, I want her in blazing scarlet, brilliant turquoise, emerald green, magenta — loud, startling hues that will flatter her exotic coloring and make every man at the ball unable to take his eyes off her." He'd given a dangerous little smile. "
Especially
Charles . . ."
Nerissa had returned his grin. "Especially Charles."
"Just take care, my dear, that he does not learn of the purchases you'll make for the girl at Madame Perrot's. Let him think the shopping trip is for you, and that Amy is along as . . . as training to be a lady's maid. Ah, yes. That will throw him off the scent quite nicely, I think — as well as make him seriously begin to question, if he has not already, whether he wants her to be a lady's maid or
his
lady." He had grinned then, as delighted with his machinations as he must've been when he'd brought Gareth and Juliet together. "It is imperative that he is, shall we say,
pleasantly surprised
when he sees his little friend at Friday night's ball . . ."
Even now, Nerissa's eyes gleamed with a co-conspirator's delight. Oh, she was all too happy to help Lucien play matchmaker! Wouldn't it be wonderful if Charles could find the same happiness that Gareth had found? Wouldn't it be wonderful if she had
two
sisters-in-law that she just adored? All Charles needed was to see Amy outshining a backdrop of English beauties and heiresses, and he'd be completely undone. All
Amy
needed was some confidence and self-esteem. To Nerissa's way of thinking, gorgeous clothes, jewels, and some lessons in comportment would go far toward making her feel every bit as worthy as the women with whom she'd be competing on Friday night.