Page 12 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)
R ivendale, accompanied by two footmen, made his way to the doorstep of Mr. Hunter’s workshop, a long brick structure tucked behind an elegant townhouse where most regular gentlemen would have placed a conservatory or an art gallery.
But this wasn’t the house of a regular gentleman.
Mr. Hunter—or, as most of London called him, Chaos—appeared on the threshold, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his dark hair disheveled, and his brown eyes wide and unblinking, as though he hadn’t slept in a week.
A smudge of soot streaked his cheek, and the smell of smoke and hot brass billowed out behind him.
“Lord Rivendale,” he said as if he had expected him. “Come in.”
His butler must have informed him of Rivendale’s arrival, but they did not have a prior appointment, nor had they ever met before.
Rivendale hobbled over the threshold, leaning heavily on his cane.
After exchanging pleasantries, Mr. Hunter returned to his workbench, paying Rivendale no heed, as if the conversation were over.
His attention quickly shifted back to his work, his lips moving silently as he studied a blueprint.
With a ruler in hand, he measured something on the paper, then looked around the workbench, muttering under his breath until he found a pencil and began feverishly scribbling.
Rivendale surveyed the workshop.
It was not large to begin with, but the clutter made it feel even smaller. Wheels, strange metallic objects, and half-built contraptions occupied every corner. It was nearly impossible to take a step without stumbling over something.
Tools hung from every available surface, mechanical contraptions in various states of completion occupied tables and floor space alike, and rolls of blueprints created towering stacks that looked ready to topple at the slightest touch.
Rivendale eased himself toward the shelf-lined wall and leaned against it, giving his right leg a brief reprieve. The room thrummed with a cacophony of ticking—clocks all slightly out of step with one another—leaving no room for silence, making it difficult to concentrate.
Mr. Hunter, however, didn’t seem to even notice.
“A-ha!” he exclaimed, adding a few more scribbles. Then, with steadier inflection, he asked, “What brings you to me?”
Rivendale assumed the question was directed at him, although Mr. Hunter didn’t make eye contact, as there was no one else in the room. He cleared his throat. “I need a chair.”
“Oh.” Mr. Hunter didn’t glance up from his work. “There’s one in the corner. Just sweep the plans onto the floor and have a seat.”
He abruptly raised his head, strode to one of the shelves, and picked up a small piston. Pivoting on his heel, he returned to the workbench and traced a blueprint with one finger while clutching the piston in his other hand.
Rivendale looked around the workshop but couldn’t identify any chairs amid the chaos.
“Hmm…” Mr. Hunter muttered to himself, then spun away from the bench to march toward a collection of gears scattered across a secondary table. He set the piston down and began arranging the gears in different configurations, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“You misunderstood me,” Rivendale said carefully. “I need a bath chair. But not a large and uncomfortable one. I already own one of those. I need something easily maneuverable. I heard you can work miracles with—”
“Oh, no, no, no.” Mr. Hunter shook his head vigorously, finally setting down his pencil but immediately picking up a small wrench, which he began turning over in his hands. “I don’t do miracles. I do science. And engineering.”
He moved to another workstation and began rifling through a drawer of springs and pins.
“Great,” Rivendale agreed. “I’m fine with that, too.”
Hunter’s hands stilled in the drawer. He glanced up briefly, his gaze sharp and assessing as it flicked to Rivendale’s leg, then back to his face. “A bath chair, you say?”
“Yes. But I don’t need one to wheel me around my house,” Rivendale explained again.
“I want something more akin to a miniature chariot. I’m tired of great hulking monsters that my servants can only push me five feet before they’re out of breath.
I want independence. I heard from various sources that you made something similar for a farmer who lost his legs in an accident. ”
That seemed to awaken Hunter fully. He abandoned the drawer entirely and stood motionless for a heartbeat, staring at Rivendale as if already beginning to sketch invisible lines in the air between them. Then his expression sharpened with the intensity of a man struck by lightning.
“Yes,” he breathed, and suddenly he was in motion again.
He strode to his main workbench, swept aside several tools with one arm, and grabbed a large sheet of clean paper.
“Yes, I see. A farmer… Yes, I did that as a favor to…” He straightened, looking around the room, distracted.
“I thought about him recently, that I could have made upgrades. I even have a few… Yes, I definitely have the sketches left.” He walked toward one pile of papers and started rifling through them.
“Not just a chair. A chariot, but smaller. That can be used both inside and out—”
He pulled out an old, dusty sheet of paper and brought it back to the workbench.
“With the new lever technology I developed, I can maybe…” he muttered under his breath as he studied the design, then began sketching on the empty sheet with swift, confident strokes.
“And the brake technology is easier for a smaller… Yes, more maneuverable, you said.”
Rivendale couldn’t follow what the man was talking about, especially since he seemed to have a habit of not finishing his sentences.
Without pausing in his drawing, Hunter called out, “Hand me that gear ratio chart—no, the other one, on the shelf behind you.”
Rivendale picked up a piece of paper filled with numbers and handed it to Mr. Hunter. He took the paper and placed it before him, mumbling something to himself.
Suddenly, he raised his head, his gaze running up and down Rivendale’s form. Then he moved toward Rivendale, easily navigating around the cluttered floor as if he knew exactly where the obstacles lay.
He swept the mess from a nearby chair with one motion and waved his hand. “Sit. I need your measurements.”
Before Rivendale could object, Hunter was already darting about the room, snatching up wheels, propping them against the chair, discarding one, and fetching another.
He muttered calculations under his breath, speaking half to himself and half to the air.
“Large enough to balance, small enough to turn. Needs traction… A horse hitch? Something to—Are you right-handed?” he asked suddenly.
Rivendale frowned. “Yes.”
“So if I place the lever here… Then the brake would go there.”
Rivendale sat back in silence, watching the man’s mind hop from one idea to the next without any obvious transitions.
He did not pause to write. Instead, he sprang to his feet to set some new vision in motion, only to abandon it halfway when another idea struck.
Eventually, he would circle back to the forgotten task, as if nothing had interrupted him at all.
Hunter’s eyes grew wilder, his hair and clothing more disheveled with each passing minute. So utterly absorbed was he that Rivendale suspected the man had forgotten his very presence.
Watching him nimbly navigate the treacherous floors cluttered with hazards, darting from one idea to the next without pause, Rivendale finally understood why everyone simply called him Chaos.
* * *
“Miss Monroe!” Lord Harrington called from the faro table, raising his glass of brandy in salute. “Your establishment grows more magnificent each evening!”
Melissande inclined her head graciously as she walked the floor with Theodosia at her side, navigating through the maze of gaming tables and their occupants.
The air was thick with cigar smoke, creating hazy halos around the candles, while the sharp scent of gin mixed with expensive cologne and the underlying musk of too many bodies in too small a space.
Dice clattered against felt-covered tables, cards snapped as they were dealt, and voices created a constant murmur throughout the room.
“I need you to go to Paris,” Melissande said to Theo, lifting her fan to her lips so her words might carry more clearly.
“Paris?” Theodosia’s eyebrows rose slightly. “And here I thought you’d ask me to do something boring, like balance the books.”
“I need you to look into a few leads on the locket over there,” Melissande continued, pausing to acknowledge Mr. Lucien Drake’s salute from the whist table before turning back to her friend.
“I wouldn’t trust anyone else with this job, and since you speak fluent French, it’s the perfect assignment for you. ”
A sudden roar of triumph erupted from the dice table, followed by groans of disappointment and the scraping of chairs as fortunes changed hands in an instant.
“And if you could map out the route to Dover while you’re at it,” she added, stepping closer to Theo to avoid shouting, “noting the best and worst inns to stop at, and commenting on the availability and luxury of the rooms. I may have need of that information soon.”
Theodosia nodded, but her response was distracted. Her gaze kept drifting past Melissande’s shoulder toward a particular table a few feet away.
“Are you quite well?” Melissande asked.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Theo replied quickly, her attention snapping back. “Find the locket, book your accommodations, etcetera.” But even as she spoke, her gaze flickered again toward the crowd.
Following her friend’s line of sight, Melissande quickly understood the distraction. Lord Beauford, the man Theo blamed for her father’s downfall, was holding court at his usual table near the center of the room.