TuesdayNights Page 7

The butler nodded, disappearing in the same direction Eloisa had a moment ago.

  “Would you like to tell Mr. Cunningham about the coal gas?” Harold wondered, directing his attention to his youngest daughter.

  Olivia colored up a bit, her face taking on a pinkish hue, but her mother spoke before she had chance to respond. “Really, Mr. Waterford. Do you think it appropriate for Olivia to be discussing ... gas ... at the breakfast table? It was bad enough that she spoke of it at the dinner table last month.”

  George grinned, displaying a distinct lack of front teeth while his father rolled his eyes. “Louisa, really. If it wasn’t for coal gas, London wouldn’t have outdoor lighting,” Harold admonished her. And we wouldn’t be as wealthy as we are, he added to himself.

  “I rather suppose he’s already read the paper,” Olivia offered. “But if you want me to, I will mention it,” she agreed, her stomach suddenly filled with flutterbies. She regarded the fried egg on her plate, deciding not to eat it just then. Perhaps after she’d given the news to their guest. ‘I do wonder if Mr. Melville’s device improves upon the one that Mr. Murdoch invented,” she said as an afterthought.

  Harold regarded her with a bit of surprise. “Reading up on steam engines, are you?” he wondered, a hint of amusement evident in the question.

  Olivia shrugged. “Steam ships, actually,” she admitted.

  “Good morning,” Michael Cunningham said as he crossed the threshold of the breakfast parlor. “Please do not get up on my account,” he said as he patted George on the shoulder. The young boy was already half out of his seat upon seeing their guest enter the room.

  “Good morning, Mr. Cunningham,” Olivia said with a nod. “Would you like breakfast?” she offered, barely aware that she was asking what her mother should be.

  “I can fill a plate for you,” Eloisa offered, having just appeared in the room, apparently on their guest’s heels.

  Louisa grinned, finding amusement at her daughters’ dueling efforts to welcome their guest.

  “Thank you, but no,” Michael replied, standing behind his usual seat when he was in residence. “Just coffee for me.”

  Eloisa hurried to the sideboard, pouring a cup of coffee and adding a bit of cream before placing it on the table in front of Michael.

  “Thank you, Miss Waterford,” he said, waiting until Eloisa had filled her own plate at the sideboard and was seated before he took his own seat.

  Harold gave him a nod. “Have you read The Times from last ... Wednesday?” he asked, pausing a moment to confirm the date of the paper spread out next to his breakfast plate.

  Michael shook his head. “I have not,” he answered quickly, thinking he had several days’ worth of papers to read. “Not more bad news, I pray?” he wondered, a worried expression darkening his face. After what his father had told him at White’s the night before, he was prepared for the worst.

  Marcus had apparently gambled away his monthly allowance in the first nine days of the month. When the rake had shown up at the house in Mayfair requesting an advance on his allowance, their father refused to see him. Incensed, Marcus stormed out of the parlor, hurling their mother’s favorite vase against a wall in the vestibule as he took his leave.

  Drawn from her rooms at the sound of breaking glass, Violet hurried to the top of the stairs and watched her oldest son’s poor behavior as he tried to kick a footman on his way out. Her lower lip quivering, she slowly descended the stairs. When her husband emerged from his study, she begged that he forgive Marcus. “It was just a vase,” she said in off-hand manner, the words at odds with the tears making their way down her cheeks. “Please, forgive him.”

  Mark Cunningham would have none of it, though. “Your favorite vase, as I recall,” he countered, giving her a quick hug before summoning the butler. “Get the constable. I will be pressing charges,” he said with a grim expression.

  Marcus was arrested before he made it to White’s. Perhaps a few nights in lock-up would make him regret his poor behavior. Or, perhaps it would make him worse.

  Michael left London before his brother was incarcerated.

  Aware the others in the room had their attention on him, he gave a quick shake of his head. “It’s nothing affecting our business, I assure you,” he stated with a quick shake of his head. “What has The Times to say?”

  When Harold nodded in Olivia’s direction, Olivia took the cue to mean she was to speak. “Over in the States, a Mr. David Melville was granted a patent on an apparatus he developed to create coal gas,” she stated evenly. “Are you familiar with his work, Mr. Cunningham?” Olivia kept her gaze on Michael, well aware that her sister had just rolled her eyes and was displaying an expression of boredom. Eloisa had no interest in matters of science.

  Michael considered Olivia’s words, nearly interrupting her with a request to call him ‘Michael’. They had known one another for several years now. She might be his wife some day. If so, they would spend their mornings much like this, sharing news over breakfast, making plans for the rest of the day. Perhaps they would ride through Hyde Park during the fashionable hour. Have dinner under the crystal chandelier in the dining room at his townhouse. Drink port and claret in the library afterwards. Share a bed for the rest of the night in a room lit by a single candle. There would be no need for coal gas in his bedchamber.

  He was suddenly conscious of everyone else in the room staring at him. Concentrate, he scolded himself. David Melville. Coal gas. He’d been aware of several inventions claiming to make illuminating gas from coal, but none that had been patented. “Is this Mr. Melville the same one who has the patent for the gas light?” he wondered, one eyebrow arching up, his interest piqued.

  Nodding, Olivia added, “And the gasometer.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Michael regarded Olivia with even more appreciation. I’m going to marry this chit, he thought, reminded of the decision he’d made the year before. “Indeed,” he whispered. He turned his attention to Harold. “We may be able to get what we need for the next venture,” he said sotto voce. How much more profitable their coal and smelting ventures would be if they could capture coal gas as a by-product! At some point, all of England could be lit by coal gas – indoors and out.

  “Great minds think alike, Mr. Cunningham,” Harold answered with a smirk. “I believe we have our next venture.”

  Michael nodded and took up his coffee cup. “I concur,” he said with a grin. And then holding the cup in Olivia’s direction as if he was making a toast, he added, “Well done, my lady.”

  A pink blush coloring her face, Olivia allowed a demure smile. “Thank you, my lord,” she replied as she dipped her head.

  Having completed her assignment, she took up her fork and ate her breakfast, her thoughts on what it would be like to impress Michael Cunningham on a daily basis. To be the object of his attention, even for just a few minutes. To find him watching her as she went about her daily routine. To share an evening meal and conversation about everything and nothing. To welcome him into her bedchamber. To allow him to undo the fastenings of her gown and watch as she prepared for bed. To help him unwind his cravat and remove his coats. To watch him as he climbed into bed next to her. To settle herself into his arms with her lips against his for what had to be the very best kisses.

  Was a life with the handsome Michael Cunningham even possible? she wondered, her eyes lifting to find his regarding her with what appeared to be fondness. Of course it was possible, she considered as she gave him a slight nod and returned her attention to her plate.

  A girl could dream, after all.

  Chapter 8

  Happy News on a Tuesday

  May 3, 1814

  A year later, during the Seward’s formal Sunday dinner, Arthur Seward announced he would be marrying Miss Penelope Winstead. The wedding ceremony, to be officiated by a bishop at St. George’s, was scheduled for mid-June in the hopes
that most of the ton would still be in London to attend the event of the Season.

  Edward heard the words and smiled. With any luck, Penelope would give birth to a boy within a year. Once he was free of his obligation to the Eversham earldom, Edward would propose to Anna, they would marry, and the two of them could finally live together in the townhouse in Bruton Street as man and wife. As he’d always imagined life with Anna.

  “You look rather happy,” Michael remarked as he joined his friend in the library at Michael’s townhouse. He poured a bit of brandy into a balloon glass and leaned against the sideboard. “But not as happy as I am, I’ll wager,” he said as he held up his glass.

  “I’ll take that bet,” Edward countered as he joined Michael at the sideboard, pouring himself a generous serving of brandy. “And raise you a hundred,” he added as he took a sip.

  Stunned at his friend’s wager, Michael shook his head. “You know I’m not a betting man,” he replied then, wondering what had his friend so damned happy.

  Michael had just returned from Sussex with news that the coal gas extraction device was working. Although it had taken nearly a year to acquire the necessary plans and parts to build it, and another month to get the thing working, it seemed worth the effort. The type of coal mined in Sussex was optimal for the extraction process, and the plant was set up near enough to a mine that transporting the coal to the device hadn’t been an issue. His banker, Arthur Huntington III, had been in attendance at the demonstration, as were Sir Richard and Harold Waterford.

  And Olivia.

  She had ridden in a barouche with her father, her excitement palpable when she greeted Michael and hurried to inspect the device. Her enthusiasm had been infectious, especially when she hurried back to her father’s barouche and returned with a bottle of champagne and glasses, insisting a toast was in order.

  Michael complied, of course, acknowledging all those who had contributed to the device’s financing, building and operation. And when the spray of champagne doused his favorite topcoat, he didn’t mind a bit. Especially when Olivia’s upturned face displayed a pink blush at having been somewhat responsible for the cork popping a moment too soon.

  He smiled as he remembered how that blush had deepened after he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

  Or perhaps it had because Michael winked at her.

  Olivia had winked right back, giving him a brilliant smile.

  Edward snorted as he took his seat in his favorite chair. “And this from a man who has one of the oldest wagers on the books at White’s,” he challenged, giving Michael a shake of his head.

  His face coloring up a bit, Michael regarded his friend with a sideways glance. “I was rather hoping that damned marriage bet had been forgotten,” he allowed; until Edward mentioned it that moment, he had forgotten it, after all.

  After taking a sip of brandy, Edward shook his head. “Time only helps it take on a life of its own,” he countered with a hint of satisfaction.

  Alarmed, Michael straightened. “What are you saying?”

  Edward shrugged with one shoulder. “Let’s just say the bet is no longer just between you and Sir Richard. And the stakes are far greater. In your favor, should you marry before your twenty-eighth birthday.”

  Sighing, Michael closed his eyes. Damnation! What if word of the bet got out beyond the members of White’s? He might be the laughingstock of the ton if the bet made the rounds of the gaming hells. Or not, as long as he kept his promise and married by next April. I can do this, he thought as he took another sip of his brandy. Hell, I have to do this.

  And then he remembered why his bet had become a topic of conversation. “What, pray tell, has you so happy?” he asked, glad to put the attention back on this friend. Never mind that he hadn’t been able to share the news of the success of the coal gas extraction device.

  Smiling broadly, Edward stood up to make his announcement. “Arthur, my less than esteemed brother and future Earl of Eversham, has proposed. Lady Penelope said ‘yes’. And they’re to marry next month.”

  Holding his breath for a moment, Michael found himself wondering why this particular bit of news would make his friend so happy.

  When he didn’t respond right away, Edward held out a hand as if he couldn’t believe his friend’s bland expression. “My brother is getting married. If he gets a child on Penelope right away, and she has a son, then I’ll be free to marry Anna next year,” Edward explained quickly.

  Edward had been so happy after Sunday’s dinner, he had gone directly to Anna’s townhouse and shared the news with her. Although her reaction hadn’t been quite as euphoric as Edward’s, she gave him a brilliant smile and kissed him quite thoroughly.

  He was looking forward to another one of those when he paid her a call the next day.

  “Congratulations,” Michael managed after a moment, allowing his friend a gracious smile. “I’m happy for you,” he added with a nod and a raised glass. “To you and Anna,” he said by way of a toast.

  “To Anna,” Edward countered as he raised his own glass and finished off his brandy.

  Chapter 9

  A Relationship Ends on a Wednesday

  May 4, 1814

  Edward Seward tapped the roof of his coach with the top of his cane and within moments he was aware of the driver slowing and then parking the conveyance in Bruton Street. He took a deep breath and departed the vehicle, glancing about as if he was concerned about being seen. Hurrying to the townhouse he had let on Anna’s behalf two years ago, he paused when he noticed a child’s toy near one of the round bushes that flanked the front door. When he used the door knocker, there was a long wait before a young man opened the door just a crack. Startled, Edward glanced up at the transom to be sure he had the right house number.

  “Sir?” the boy at the door said in a voice that confirmed he was much younger than Edward first thought. He was dressed in short pants, but seemed well groomed.

  “Good day, my boy. I am looking for Miss Holdwalter,” Edward said, a feeling of panic gripping him. Why didn’t Anna open the door? And who was this boy?

  The lad shook his head. “There’s no Anna here, sir,” the boy replied. “Used to be, I think, but she moved out so we could move here.”

  Edward glanced up and down the street, giving half a thought to asking neighbors if they knew what had happened to her. “Do you know where she moved to?” he asked hopefully. But the boy’s shaking head confirmed what he feared.

  “How long ago?” Edward wondered, his heart racing. My God! How had she managed to move out so quickly? He had just been here Sunday night to give her the news about this brother.

  Then he remembered the house had been let with all its furnishings. Anna had little besides her clothes and a few sundries. If she had to leave in a hurry, she could do so.

  She had done so.

  But, why?

  A myriad of thoughts flew through Edward’s mind. Had something happened with her position at the modiste’s? Had she been let go? Had something happened to her father?

  Shrugging, the boy turned his head, as if his name had been called by someone in the house. “I have to eat now,” the boy said and moved to shut the door.

  “Thank you, my boy. Sorry for having bothered you,” Edward said before he placed his beaver atop his head and hurried back to the coach.

  Edward was forced to take a deep breath and then another before he opened the coach door. Taking a seat inside, he sat still for several minutes, wondering what might have happened. Why had Anna taken her leave of the house? The lease was about to expire, but he had every intention of renewing it.

  Or had the landlord asked her to move out?

  The landlord! Certainly the man would know where she had gone. Probably her father’s apartment above his shop, Edward realized then. The realtor was on the way to the tailor’s shop, though. He tapped his can
e on the ceiling, prompting the driver to open the trap door. “Yes, my lord?” the man wondered as he stared down.

  “Oxford Street. Mr. Townsend’s office at number thirty,” Edward spoke, hoping the man had a forwarding address for Anna. If he didn’t, they would drive on to Mr. Holdwalter’s shop. And if Justin didn’t know where his daughter was ...

  But Edward couldn’t think about that. The love of his life had to be somewhere. She couldn’t have gone far. Now that his brother was about to marry, it wouldn’t be long before he could marry her without reprisals from his father. His mother would no doubt disown him, but he couldn’t think about her reprisals right now. He had to find Anna.

  Townsend had no word on Anna’s whereabouts, claiming she had left the townhouse in impeccable condition and returned the key to his office the day before. “A rather desirable tenant,” the portly man commented, giving Edward a look through a pair of opera glasses that hung from a chain around his neck. “No complaints from her or her neighbors,” he commented lightly. “But she left no information as to where she was headed.”

  Of course not, Edward thought sadly. And when he arrived at Justin Holdwalter’s shop, he found a team of tailors cutting and stitching fabric, but no sign of the man whose name was painted on the shingle above the door.

  “He is paying a call on Lord Everly at the earl’s request,” one of the young men explained when Edward asked.

  Edward considered this bit of news. He supposed a tailor would make a house call given how much he could earn. He knew Lord Everly, an explorer and scientist, had just returned from an extended trip to somewhere on the African continent. He probably needs new clothes, Edward figured. “Is his older daughter in residence?” he asked then, knowing his query would be met with curious glances. He wasn’t expecting heads to shake.

  “She is not here,” the oldest man answered. “I do not believe Mr. Holdwalter could accommodate another of his children if she did return, though,” he said sotto voce, leaning toward Edward so that none of the other tailors heard his comment.