Page 4 of The Lady Sparks a Flame (The Damsels of Discovery #2)

4

Respecting the nature of light we have little more than conjectures. It is considered by most philosophers as a real substance, immediately emanating from the sun, and from all luminous bodies, from which it is projected in right lines with prodigious velocity. Light, however, being imponderable, it cannot be confined and examined by itself; and therefore it is to the effects it produces on other bodies, rather than to its immediate nature, that we must direct our attention

—Mrs. Jane Marcet, Conversations on Chemistry

“What do you mean, Lady Karolina is indisposed? She was fine yesterday.”

Sam Fenley stood in the front hallway of Hunt House, his voice echoing off the tiled floors and bare walls. He faced the grand staircase, which split in two, lit by a huge window on the first landing that looked out over the square.

There should be a table where Sam stood, topped by a vase spilling over with hothouse tulips.

Phoebe had sold the table, however, and the Hunt women’s budget barely allowed for tea, let alone an expense like fresh flowers.

“Is this about my offer to buy Hunt House?” Sam asked. “Because it’s the same whether Lady Karolina goes for a ride with me or not.”

“You are sure of yourself for someone so young,” Phoebe said, unsure whether she admired this quality or not. “Assuming Lady Karolina’s disposition has anything to do with you.”

His blue eyes darkened as clouds passed over the sun and the light in the hallway dimmed. There were tallow candles aplenty, but none of the Hunt women could stand the smell, especially not in the rooms where they might be receiving folk. Beeswax candles were too dear, however, and they compromised by using paraffin lamps.

There were none to hand now and Phoebe had to squint to read Sam’s face.

“How young?” he asked.

She’d tried to read his face because his tone remained indecipherable. Had he taken offense? Phoebe didn’t care.

“I beg your pardon?” She didn’t. Phoebe didn’t beg for anything.

“However young you think I am, Lady Phoebe, I am old enough to take your sister for a drive. Or you, for that matter.”

Was Sam here to court Karolina, or was he angling to make a profit off the Hunt family’s desperation?

Even more pressing was the question of why Phoebe’s stomach flipped at his last words.

Or you, for that matter .

The clouds moved and Sam’s smile looked like a sneer.

“Lady Karolina is unwell today,” Phoebe told him. “However, it is not serious, and she would like to reschedule your drive. Perhaps Monday afternoon would suit better.”

When he stepped forward, Phoebe pulled in her stomach muscles and fought to keep from backing up. This was England and although a social-climbing capitalist like Sam Fenley pushed some boundaries, there were others he would never cross.

Still, she flinched.

Sam’s gaze flickered over her face and the smirk disappeared.

Damn.

Damn him if pity softened his eyes. Too much to hope his sister Letty hadn’t revealed what she knew of Phoebe’s past. Back then Phoebe had been too angry to hide her bruises or make up stories to explain her long absences when her father locked her away.

“That is a shame,” he said, so gently, Phoebe wanted to shake him. He glanced at the hat in his gloved hands and turned it once by the brim. “The weather is fine today, and I don’t know when we will have another afternoon as warm as this one until spring.”

Phoebe jerked one shoulder up rudely.

“Will you join me instead?” Sam asked.

Her gasp came out as a cough. “I’m sure I cannot.”

“Come with me.” His face lit with a grin, and it made him ridiculously attractive.

How annoying.

“I’ve gone through the trouble of borrowing an open carriage for today, I may as well get some use out of it. I will take Lady Karolina to the opera when she feels better.”

Phoebe’s chest was hollow enough to echo if she tapped it. A drive along the Serpentine. How long ago had it been since she was young and carefree enough to take enjoyment from a ride in the park with a handsome young man?

Ages.

Possibly never.

“Don’t be stupid,” she said without bothering to hide her distress. “You cannot take me for a drive. I can’t have speculation about where I’ve been and why I left in the first place.”

He took another step forward, but Phoebe was too upset to react.

“What if I want to take you?” he asked, his voice ripe with a cheerful curiosity. He paused, then asked more softly, “What if it was you I wanted to sit next to all along?”

Because her chest was hollow, the beating of Phoebe’s heart sounded overloud in her ears. Sam’s smile was warm and golden like the sunlight that had returned and spilled down the stairway, illuminating the places on the window where cobwebs had accumulated and the blank spaces where treasures once stood.

“Go away, Mr. Fenley,” Phoebe said, her throat tight with anger or sadness, she could never tell which was which. “Come back on Monday for our answer to your offer. About Hunt House,” she emphasized.

“As you wish, Lady Phoebe,” Sam said, his shoulders level, his chin down a fraction of an inch so he looked her in the eye. “Whatever pleases you.”

He was not so uncultured as to whistle a tune when he took his leave, but he wanted to—Phoebe read it in the set of his shoulders and the spring in his gait when he turned and walked away.

“Fec—”

With a strangled yelp, Sam tripped on the threshold.

The ungainly dance that followed as his legs churned and his arms wheeled round like a windmill could have turned fatal if he hadn’t stopped himself from pitching face down onto the marble floor tiles.

Instead, he grabbed his topper, which had rolled a few feet away, glared at Phoebe, glared at the floor, slapped the topper on his head, and made his way outside.

Whatever pleases you.

Phoebe sucked in the smell of dust and a hint of citrus.

“Was that the Fenley man?” Moti emerged from the library.

“Yes, that was Mr. Fenley,” Phoebe replied.

“Did you walk him to the door, Bee?” Moti asked.

Phoebe turned her head aside and rolled her eyes. Her mother was no longer so superstitious it ruled her days, but some traditions stuck fast. If a guest was not accompanied to the front door, they took some of the house’s luck out the door with them.

“We don’t have any luck for Mr. Fenley to take with him, Moti,” Phoebe said, smiling when she recalled Sam’s face when he glared at the floor as if it had grabbed his ankles.

“I am sorry he is come for nothing,” said Moti. “Poor Karolina.”

Karolina was indeed unwell. Her courses were debilitating some months, with cramps so painful, she could not even walk. Today she lay in bed, surrounded by hot bricks wrapped in sheets and sleeping off a dose of Peterson Apothecary’s Monthly Troubles Tincture.

Most remedies for women’s menstrual pains were made with laudanum—a derivative of opium. An unscrupulous apothecary might include enough opium in the first dose that a woman would come to crave a second dose, then a third. Soon, she’d sleep the day away, coming out only at night when her pupils had swallowed the color of her eyes, her skin was dull and drying, and her hair greasy from inattention.

Lucy Thorne was a secret scientist with connections to Athena’s Retreat who owned an apothecary, albeit in a neighborhood Karolina would never visit herself. Instead, Phoebe sent a servant to fetch the tincture, the only one she knew of that didn’t contain either opium or an extract of coca.

“We must hope the Fenley man comes back for her,” Moti continued. “Even if Mr. Armitage gives up his suit, there is no end of men who would take your sister for her beauty or her name and not provide for her in the way she deserves.”

“Do not worry, Moti,” Phoebe said. “We will play least-in-sight with Karolina, bundling her off to Prentiss Manor for a month or two. No one in their right mind would come a-courting there.”

Moti worried the dry skin on her bottom lip with her teeth. “If we sell off the houses and everything in them, there are consequences. Everyone will look at us with pity and men like Armitage will see your sister as something to be bought. Mr. Fenley, on the other hand, will treat her like royalty no matter what.”

Phoebe snorted. “His sister is married to Lord Greycliff. He isn’t without social status.”

“His is low enough. Karolina’s title will mean something to him.” Moti’s voice thinned to silver needles of worry. “We will sell it all, yes? Down to the last scrap of carpet. There will be nothing left of your father except for his name. And when you and Karolina marry, the name goes as well.”

“And you, Moti?”

“You did not have to come back to take care of me,” her mother said, waving away Phoebe’s concern.

Phoebe bit her tongue and the metallic zing of blood flooded her mouth.

Once, when her father had been exceptionally angry with her mother, Moti had decided to save her family. She’d woken the girls from their bed in the early hours of the morning and led them down the back staircase and out to the stables. An old turnip wagon was there, already packed with clothing and a hamper of food.

Phoebe and her sisters had not made a sound. Something light and terrifying caught hold of their throats. The youngest, Karolina, was only a babe and slept soundly in Alice’s arms.

Moti had stood at the front of the wagon and stared at the reins, then over at the stable. Her mother had not thought this plan through, so Phoebe had slipped off the wagon and gone to stand next to Moti, holding her hand and leaning into her side.

“You have to hitch the horse now, Moti,” she had whispered.

Tears had stood in Moti’s eyes.

“I don’t know how,” Moti had whispered back. “I don’t know how to do any of this.”

Phoebe’s sister Rose had volunteered to get a horse from the stables, but it was too late by then. The butler had found them and when he asked where they were going, Moti told him they were going on a picnic.

It was February.

The marquess had teased Moti that afternoon at lunch as though it was a joke. No doubt, to him, it was amusing.

He didn’t even beat her for it.

“I am stronger than I was when you were a child,” Moti said now. “Fallowshall, he was sick these last years. I had to”—Moti held her hands palms up as if asking permission—“to speak for myself more.”

To the small child hidden deep within Phoebe, her mother’s tremulous smile was like a punch to her gut. Why couldn’t Moti have learned to speak for herself sooner? Speak on that child’s behalf when everything went awry?

Phoebe had learned to shut that child up by encasing her in ice.

Still, she hadn’t hurt herself in a long time, so she asked, “Did he mention me after I left?”

Moti said nothing. Dropping her hands at her side, she tilted her head as if listening to voices far off, then nodded slightly.

“We missed you,” she said. The voices must have continued because Moti turned and walked away as if someone had called her name.

Phoebe stood alone in an empty hallway. This was what she deserved, wasn’t it? She’d abandoned her friends, her morals, and her integrity when she used another scientist’s work to create a weapon. The weapon had killed someone.

That this wasn’t her intention did not matter.

That someone else had triggered the weapon did not matter, either.

The fact remained a man was dead.

As Sam Fenley had pointed out, anyone else would have gone to prison or been hanged. As the daughter of a marquess, Phoebe had been spared that ignominy and sent to America.

Not for her own sake, but for her father’s.

The irony that Phoebe’s father had imprisoned her on occasion himself did not make up for the wrongs she had committed.

Phoebe knew why her mother had refused to answer her questions.

If Phoebe’s father had asked after her, it hadn’t been to inquire as to whether she was coming home. It had probably been to ensure she stayed away.

···

“They’re at it again, Fenley.”

Sam had turned his wooden chair to face the courtyard window in his office, even though there was no view but a patch of dirt and the windows of the building opposite. On the top floor, Margaret Gault had established her engineering firm.

He had to twist in his seat to regard his editor, Wolfe, who leaned against the doorframe, frowning through his auburn beard. Seeing as it was after hours and the doors of the newspaper were shut, Wolfe had discarded his jacket somewhere and wore only his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. A waistcoat stained with powdered sugar from whatever pastry he’d been eating earlier.

The man was never far from a muffin, biscuit, pastry, or roll and yet was so thin, he walked sideways between the raindrops. Or so Sam’s mam claimed, which is why Wolfe was a frequent guest at the Fenleys’ Sunday dinners.

One day Sam would have to ask a scientist from Athena’s Retreat if folks with bigger brains were the same as folks with bigger muscles—both needing extra food to fuel their energy.

“Who’s at what again?”

“Those scribblers next door.” The word dripped with Wolfe’s special brand of sarcasm. Much like powdered sugar, Wolfe was known to sprinkle it generously.

Sam cast a glance out of the window and up toward a balcony where Margaret once worked. Now that she was a married woman and a countess, she’d moved to a better address.

It hadn’t quenched the scandal surrounding her decision to open a women-only firm, nor the scorn heaped on her husband, Grantham, for marrying a working woman, but it did keep her away from the unruly louts next door at the offices of Gentlemen’s Monthly whenever the Guardians of Domesticity were planning a rally.

Had Sam loved Margaret?

He’d admired her.

But loved her? No. Not in the way Grantham loved her, as though she were vital to the beating of his heart.

Sam preferred a love like his parents’. Comfortable. Full of laughter and acceptance of one’s foibles. Complementary and easy. He reserved excitement for his business dealings.

Lady Karolina appealed to him not only for her title, but also because she seemed uncomplicated and sweet. Sam was almost certain he would ask her mother’s—and her sister’s—permission to court her.

“Fenley. It’s been a year since Margaret went and married an earl. Stop mooning about. You have bigger problems.”

Sam sighed.

Rising from his chair, he dragged it over to his desk.

“What is it now, Wolfe?” Sam asked, only mildly curious. The articles in Gentlemen’s Monthly Magazine were achingly pedantic and oftentimes simply a list of grievances. “Have they burned a woman scientist in effigy? Shut Peterson’s Apothecary? What cause do we rally today?”

Wolfe ran his fingers through his beard, the two lines between his brows deepening in disapproval at Sam’s tone.

Wolfe was of a serious bent.

“They have written an article about you.”

What was this?

“Me?” Sam grinned. “I didn’t know Gentlemen’s Monthly wrote pieces on handsome young newspaper tycoons. Did they include an etching of me? Is it flattering?”

Wolfe’s long, drawn-out sigh only served to amuse Sam. If he couldn’t drive folks up a wall or two, what was the fun in living?

Ambling into the office, the editor sat himself gingerly in the chair mostly reserved for the Earl Grantham when he came to visit. It seemed sturdy enough, but occasionally furniture fell apart after holding Grantham’s mass. Wolfe crossed his legs and leaned forward.

Ah. Business, then.

“No. They did a piece about the encroachment of the merchant class in areas once reserved for the aristocracy. You and your housing scheme were given as an example. The words ‘trumped up’ and ‘exploit’ and ‘vultures’ were thrown about.”

This was the problem he’d told Grantham of a few days ago. Sam couldn’t get past the invisible wall of class standing between his hunger and the men who had access to the feast.

Now Gentlemen’s Monthly and that puppet, Lionel Armitage, were going to throw another spanner in the works.

“I suppose it would be unadvisable for my broadsheet to run a series on how the next generation of merchants are poised to create new jobs, spread the wealth, and are the most handsome men in London?” Sam asked.

Wolfe shook his head without a trace of humor in his expression. “We are currently running a series on puerperal fever epidemics and whether they are a consequence of overcrowding in lying-in wards.”

Ah, yes. This was the subject on which the apothecary Lucy Thorne was advising the paper. Women scientists from Athena’s Retreat were frequent contributors to The Chronicle . Under male pseudonyms, of course.

Folks like those Guardians were idiots.

Being a genius didn’t have anything to do with your sex. It had to do with something in one’s brain. Sam didn’t rightly know if there was a word for it.

Great brain syndrome?

“I am not going to take space away from a serious article simply to burnish your reputation,” said Wolfe, interrupting Sam’s train of thought.

Sam sighed. “This is my newspaper, isn’t it? I bought it from Grantham last year, didn’t I?”

Wolfe raised one bushy brow. “Yes.”

Silence.

“Then who has the last say over what we print?” Sam asked.

Wolfe sighed. “Face it, Fenley. The earl ruined this place well before you bought the paper. He never said no to those lady scientists. They have first say, I have second, and you? Somewhere behind the clerk out front.”

True. Grantham had much to answer for.

“Who is Lady Phoebe Hunt?” Wolfe asked.

What was this?

Sam relaxed against the hard back of his chair and put his hands behind his head. “Friend of m’sister and those scientists. Friend of the earl as well, a while back. Why?”

Wolfe shrugged. “Noticed you personally wrote up the advert for the sale of her family’s house. Saw you pulled papers from the archives from four years ago, papers full of stories about a canister weapon that went off at an Omnis’ rally and killed a constable.”

Genius came in all sorts. Not only scientists, but also reporters and newspaper editors. Wolfe could smell a story one hundred leagues away.

“No reason,” Sam said. “She’s leaving soon to go back to America. She’s no one you and your team of ferrets need to be investigating.”

Gah, how Sam hated it when folks raised one eyebrow at him, as though he were transparent and easy to suss. Sam could be a master of concealment if he wanted to.

“I smell a story,” Wolfe said, a feral look in his eyes. Like holding a piece of bloody meat in front of a starving dog.

Even if Sam weren’t trying to ingratiate himself with the Hunt women, he would have discouraged Wolfe from writing the story. He tried to stay far away from the sort of political intrigue that surrounded men like his brother-in-law, Greycliff, who had worked for a secret arm of the government, or Grantham with his ties to Prince Albert.

If those two had wanted anyone to know of Lady Phoebe’s crimes, it would have been public knowledge long ago. Sam did not want to anger either of them by setting a hound like Wolfe on their trail.

Sam warned Wolfe away. “Lady Phoebe Hunt was a founder of Athena’s Retreat. For that reason alone, we will leave her be. I know, I know”—Sam waved off Wolfe’s protests—“you’re going to tell me about independent reporting and integrity and such.” He stood and walked to the coatrack for his heavy wool greatcoat.

“I am prepared to face the scrutiny of Gentlemen’s Monthly , because I will overcome whatever obstacles they put in my way,” said Sam as he buttoned his coat.

“Because you could out-stubborn a mule,” Wolfe allowed.

“That’s right,” Sam agreed. “Those women scientists, though. They may be as stubborn, but until the rest of London comes around to the idea women are people, we need to protect them and what they do.”

Sam put on his topper and tilted it at a rakish angle. “So, leave Lady Phoebe Hunt out of your stories. Besides, a few more weeks and she’s gone for good.”