Page 2 of The Rumpled Gentleman

Chapter

Two

A summons from the Duke of Sutton always set a knot of apprehension in Orion’s stomach. He stood rigidly outside his father’s study, steeling himself, and knocked firmly.

“Enter.” Even that single word in the duke’s voice made Orion shudder.

Pushing the door open, Orion stepped into the study, a room that always seemed as cold and uninviting as the man who occupied it.

The duke’s sharp gaze lifted from the papers on his desk to meet Orion’s. “Fitzmartin. Here you are.” His voice dripped with a familiar mixture of condescension and feigned warmth. “I have something of interest to discuss with you.”

After delivering the customary bow, Orion remained standing, his posture formal. “Your Grace.”

The duke’s fingers curled into his palm. His smile turned sly. “An apothecary, a peculiar man, claims he has found a way to transmute living objects into gold. Flowers and grasses, to be precise. His preliminary findings are compelling.” He nodded to a book and stack of papers upon his desk.

Orion raised an eyebrow, skepticism immediately warring with his own findings from intense study of transmutation. “Turning flora into gold? That seems improbable.”

The duke’s eyes narrowed, a flash of irritation crossing his features. “Regardless, I have decided to let him try. The potential is too great to ignore. Perhaps the secret isn’t in turning a baser metal to something pure, but to take another aspect of nature and transform it.”

Orion knew all too well his father’s ruthless ambition to obtain even greater wealth and power. “And if this apothecary fails to deliver on his bold claims?”

The duke’s lips curled disdainfully. “You know how I handle those who waste my time. Besides, he brings more to me than mere theory. He has a daughter gifted in natural magic. Relating to flora, specifically. I doubt he would risk his child’s life if he could not deliver on his promise. If they disappoint me, both will be dealt with accordingly.”

The implicit threat hung heavy in the air. When the Duke of Sutton “dealt with” those who fell short of his expectations, it was never pleasant. Any number of grim fates awaited the duke’s enemies. The apothecary’s life, and his child’s, hung in the balance over an impossible feat.

“What have I to do with any of this?” Orion asked, his voice carefully neutral.

“You?” the duke replied with a sharpened edge to his tone, “I want you to witness this. To see what real alchemical prowess might achieve. Perhaps it will inspire you to something other than your usual fruitless tinkering.”

Orion clenched his jaw. His own research and experiments, driven by a genuine desire to improve the world, were nothing but a waste of time and resources in the duke’s eyes. It was a very good thing the nobleman didn’t know about Orion’s latest pursuits, nor how close he was to a breakthrough.

If he could rid mankind of its need for coal as fuel, rid England and the rest of the industrial world of the putrid air and filthy output of factories, he would also cause financial distress for every man who had holdings in coal mining and dozens of related industries. Men like the duke.

“I see.” Orion kept his voice even. “Where is this genius of alchemy?”

“In the guest wing,” the duke answered with a wave of his hand. “Trot along and meet him, if you wish. His daughter has been sent for, too. Speak to them. Take notes. It might prove enlightening.”

With a curt nod, Orion turned to leave the study.

“Oh, and one more thing. You are coming to the masquerade this evening.”

Orion looked over his shoulder. “I wasn’t aware I was invited.” He’d heard of the ball the week prior, but the lack of invitation had given him leave to relax somewhat.

“Of course not. I made the decision not an hour ago. You will attend. Dressed appropriately.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.” He bowed one more time and left the study.

The prospect of witnessing another man’s life crushed under the duke’s unyielding ambition weighed heavily on him.

A harried-looking footman in the guest wing gave Orion the precise location of the apothecary and informed him that the man’s daughter had also arrived.

He came to the room to which the footman directed him and raised his hand to knock—but hesitated when he heard a raised, feminine voice from within.

“Don’t you see what you’ve done, Papa? The duke will not forgive this—and you told him about me? Why? Why would you do this to us?” Desperation and tears dripped from the final question.

Something was terribly wrong. He knocked and opened the door without waiting for the answer. Then froze at the scene inside.

A man stood in the center of the room with his back to the door, dressed in clothes once fine but now frayed, hands clasped behind his back and head bent. But it wasn’t his shamed demeanor that arrested Orion’s attention. It was the woman kneeling in front of him.

When the duke had mentioned that the apothecary had a daughter, Orion had pictured someone much, much younger than the woman who had crumpled to a kneeling position on the floor. A woman whose beauty couldn’t be diminished by the drab clothing she wore. Not with a face so expressive that it made his heart break to see tears upon it.

She hadn’t realized he’d entered, staring as she was up at her father with tears streaming down her cheeks. They hadn’t heard his knock, it seemed. And he’d walked in on a tableau that made his heart crack.

He cleared his throat.

The woman bolted up to her feet before her father fully turned around. Her gaze collided with his, full of fear. “Please, sir. Please, won’t you take me to His Grace? There’s been a mistake.”

“What sort of mistake?” he asked, coming far enough into the room to shut the door behind him. “Are you this man’s daughter?” What was the name his father had given? “Mr. Millstone?”

The man turned, his eyes wide and confused. “I am Amos Millstone. This is my daughter. We are the duke’s guests. We’re supposed to be here.”

“Papa, please.” She put her hand on his arm with gentleness. “We shouldn’t be here. Even if the duke said to stay.” She looked at Orion again, her expression now pleading. “My father is confused, sir. He didn’t mean to mislead the duke. This is all a mistake. I would like to take my father home now. If you will show us out?—”

Orion slowly shook his head. “You cannot leave here without the duke’s permission.” He looked at Mr. Millstone, whose gaze had turned unfocused. The man tugged at his waistcoat, and his lips moved a moment in silence before he spoke aloud.

“I am an apothecary. The finest in London.” He didn’t sound certain of either statement. They were almost questions.

“Yes, Papa.” The woman patted his arm. “You are a fine apothecary. Everyone knows it.” She gave Orion a beseeching look before again directing her words to her father. “Here. Sit down a moment. Let me talk to this…gentleman?” She glanced at Orion again, perhaps at last noting he wasn’t dressed in the livery of his father’s household.

He nodded once and watched as she led her father to a chair near the fire. She wiped at the tear tracks on her cheeks as she took rapid steps to Orion’s side. “Forgive me, Mr.…?”

“Fitzmartin. Orion Fitzmartin.” He raised his eyebrows and bent his head slightly forward, waiting for her name. Or for her to realize what his surname meant— Fitz was enough of a tell for most to recognize a tie to nobility, if not to the Duke of Sutton himself. Even his name marked him as something shameful. An illegitimate son of a man with power.

She tilted her chin up and offered her full name in return. “Elara Millstone.”

“Miss Millstone. What sort of misunderstanding has occurred?”

He feared he already knew.

“My father gets confused.” She kept her voice low as she glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Millstone. “He used to keep an apothecary and was well-respected in his guild. Then my mother died, and he hasn’t been the same since. He dabbles in alchemy. Makes notes and calculations. He hasn’t done any experiments in over a year.” Her voice trembled as she continued. “I promise, he didn’t mean to mislead anyone. Especially not someone like His Grace. My father is not well. That is all.”

Orion’s heart sank, and he acted on instinct alone when he took one of her hands in both of his. Her hands were delicate, finely boned but not soft. They were chapped from the cold, and when he looked down at them, he saw smudges of green around her nails.

What sort of work had the woman taken up to support her father?

“Your father arrived here making claims of alchemical achievements to the Duke of Sutton. His Grace believes your father can turn flora to gold.”

Her hand gripped his, desperately. “No one can do that,” she whispered. “Surely, His Grace is a reasonable man. If I explain?—”

Orion slowly shook his head. “I am afraid that the Duke of Sutton is not reasonable. Not when it comes to alchemy.” He needed her to understand. “I have seen him try everything to create gold from baser materials. If you go to him now and tell him what you told me, he will send your father to an asylum. Or worse, have him executed for attempting to defraud a peer of the realm.”

Her face paled to a ghostly shade of white. “If I explain?—”

He shook his head, and she pressed her lips closed. “The duke will not care, Miss Millstone. And you will suffer the same fate as your father. I’ve seen it before. He is petty in his annoyance. And that is all this would be to him. An annoyance.”

She stared at him, her lips barely moving as she tried one last time to save them both. “Then let us leave, now.”

Again, he had to shake his head. “The servants will not let you out. Their positions depend upon it. There will be footmen watching you. Perhaps even a guard beneath the window. And the duke will not be mocked, Miss Millstone. Even if you made it out, he would send someone after you.”

“We haven’t done anything,” she insisted, voice cracking.

“It doesn’t matter.” Orion shook his head. “I have been trying to escape his grasp for years, Miss Millstone. And I know him better than anyone.”

Her brow furrowed. “Why are you telling me all of this? Who are you? Why are you here?”

He winced. “I am the duke’s only son. Illegitimately born of a woman who was as much a victim of his wealth and power as anyone. As your father will be.”

She snatched her hands away from him, her eyes widening.

Everyone knew the Duke of Sutton had no legal heirs. Even Elara, far from his rung on the social ladder, knew the stories of his anger that his wife hadn’t given him children. But she’d come from a powerful Hungarian family, so he hadn’t dared put her aside, according to rumor.

If the duke’s own son, legally recognized or not, thought her plight hopeless, she was in worse straights than she’d suspected.

Elara studied the handsome man before her, taking in the gentleness in his eyes that she’d hoped meant ally-ship. Now she suspected it was only pity.

She looked at her father, anxious as to how much he might’ve heard. If he’d come out of his fog again, their situation might send him into a worse state. However, his chin rested against his chest, his eyes were closed, and he slept. Likely worn out from his sojourn through the streets of London.

At least she’d found him. He hadn’t been hurt. He wasn’t lost. That counted for a great deal. Her tired heart would’ve shattered entirely if she’d lost him. How would she have told her sisters?

She took in a deep breath, pleased her hands had stopped shaking. Another victory, small as it was.

“My father has made mistakes before,” she said quietly, as much to herself as to Mr. Fitzmartin. “And I have always found a way out of them. He once bargained with a bookseller for thirty-seven volumes of poetry to be delivered to our home.” She smiled at the memory. “They were worth more than three years’ wages. I managed to keep us out of debtors’ prison then. I can keep us from harm now, too.”

Mr. Fitzmartin didn’t appear convinced, but she wouldn’t let his pessimism hurt her. She squared her shoulders.

“My father’s notes. Where are they?”

He shook his head. “You cannot wish to try to make gold out of weeds, can you?”

“I have to try something.” She forced herself to smile even as the thoughts within her mind began to unfurl. “This is the first step. Please have his notes returned to us. I will prepare a list of supplies.”

She needed to buy them time. There was always a solution, if she had long enough to think things through. That was how she’d managed to sell those volumes of poetry to pay her father’s debt to the bookseller. With interest. That was how she’d negotiated enough food to keep them healthy, not merely alive. How she’d talked herself into a position with a florist and had her less-than-enthusiastic relatives take her sisters in so they could live away from the pollution of London while she earned enough money to support them.

The man stared at her a moment, his expression changing from one of pity to something else. Something akin to admiration. Perhaps he thought her foolhardy. It didn’t matter. Even a duke’s by-blow would have lived a better life than she had of late. He didn’t know what desperation drove a person to accomplish.

“Where can I find pen and paper to write out my list of needs?”

“The desk.” He nodded to a small writing desk and chair in the corner. “The duke will return the notebook. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“My father will have more papers and notes where we stay.” She rattled off an address, and he nodded.

“I will see to your father’s papers myself.”

“Good. Thank you. And if you would have someone bring up a tray for my father, please. He hasn’t eaten yet today.” Neither had she. But food was the last of her concerns.

Mr. Fitzmartin bowed. A proper bow, too. The sort no one had given her in…well. She couldn’t remember when. His eyes remained guarded behind the spectacles he wore. “As you wish, Miss Millstone. Good day to you. And good luck.”

“Thank you.” She turned away from him, her heart already beating faster with fear and fortitude. She needed luck. She needed a fairy godmother. But only princesses and princes were worthy of such notice from fairy-folk.

No help was coming. She’d have to rely on herself.

Like always.