Chapter 28

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

NEXT DAY

T he rain had decided to make itself an uninvited guest and stay all through the night and into the morning, making it necessary to cancel all the day’s activities, which were to have taken place out of doors.

This was how Beatrix found herself—unexpectedly and improbably—stepping inside Deverill & Shaw Company, their steam engine manufacturing factory in Camden.

When she’d awakened this morning to the admittedly dreary day, the idea hadn’t yet formed. After midday tea, it was the Countess of Bridgewater who had spoken the fateful words. “Oh, I know what we can do. Let’s visit Dev’s—Mr. Deverill’s factory.”

Beatrix had kept her mouth shut and waited. Artemis had begged off and taken herself and Bathsheba to the stables. She’d needed to see for herself that the animals were being cared for properly. Most of the other ladies had been content to stay by the cozy fire, do needlework, and gossip. Many of the gentlemen were similarly engaged with billiards and cigars—and gossip, too, no doubt. Men weren’t immune to the seductive whisper of tittle-tattle. Besides, it gave them an excuse to imbibe spirits before evening tea.

Still, that left many in need of something to occupy them. Which was the only way Beatrix could explain the round of ready agreement to the countess’s proposal.

“It’s only a factory,” said Dev with an unbothered shrug. “I can’t imagine you’ll find anything of interest there.”

Lady Bridgewater glanced around the room, undeterred. “Raise your hand if you’ve ever been to a steam engine factory—or any factory at all, for that matter.”

Only Dev, Shaw, and Mrs. Shaw lifted their hands.

Lady Bridgewater smiled in the manner of a woman accustomed to having her way. “See? It’ll be a lark.”

A bolt of annoyance flashed through Beatrix. A lark . That factory was Dev’s livelihood. It paid for this roof over their heads and the sumptuous meals they’d been enjoying, even the fire in the hearth had its beginnings with a servant paid to start and stoke it. A lark!

Dev’s piercing aquamarine gaze cut across the room and met Beatrix’s. “And you, Lady Beatrix? Will you be joining us on this lark?”

She detected a spark of the serious and urgent…

Will .

He was willing her to say yes .

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she said, and he smiled.

That smile was why she’d assented. To please him—and to please herself, it must be admitted. She was curious about his factory.

An hour later, she was entering the receiving room of Deverill & Shaw Company, which was not at all as she’d imagined. She’d thought they would step through the doorway and find themselves suddenly coated with grime and grease. But the room was tidy and clean.

Then they were passing through the threshold of another doorway and into a large, cavernous space with high windows that provided ample light, even on a rainy day. This was the factory proper, machines in various stages of assemblage filling row after row.

It was the silence Beatrix noticed next. The odd giggle or whisper peppered in by a lady here or there didn’t break it, for it was the near oppressive silence of a typically loud space—as if the cacophony were only just held at bay.

Dev had explained on their twenty-minute carriage ride that as Saturday was a half-day, the workers had already left. They had Sundays off altogether. In their wake, the workers had left this quiet that would burst back into life first thing Monday morning.

Ahead, Dev began leading the group slowly along the rows, explaining this or that part or machine. Beatrix lagged at the back. Not that she had no interest in learning about this place—she was curious about everything , in fact—but she wanted to form her own impressions first.

For a lady of the ton , she’d always felt she led an interesting life. At least, one more interesting than that of her peers. True, she didn’t have money or a husband or children, but she did have freedom. And even though she would readily trade that freedom for money, husband, and children, she daily took advantage of her freedom to float through society as she willed—from a resplendent ball held by a duke to the odd lowly racecourse on a Wednesday afternoon.

Yet as the reality of this factory—of Dev’s real life—sank in, she saw that her freedom existed firmly within the structure society had laid out for her. She never truly stepped outside it.

But this factory…this life of Dev’s… It existed in an altogether different realm from hers. Not only did he experience true freedom of mind and practice, he contributed to the world in a meaningful way.

Dev led an interesting, free life.

Dev led the life he wanted to live.

It was a revelation to Beatrix—and it rattled the foundations of the good, solid life she’d always thought she’d wanted no small bit. For it inspired a question: was that life nothing more than another sort of prison?

Ahead, Lady Bridgewater tossed her head back and laughed as if Dev had just said the funniest thing in the world. Lord Bridgewater had stayed back at Primrose Park, presumably to partake of billiards and the copious amounts of spirits he was so fond of. Which gave his wife leave to flash her beautiful smile about and laugh and take none of what Dev said seriously. Just as a lady would, of course. Wasn’t this a lark, after all?

Beatrix experienced another flash of annoyance.

But, oh , how attractive Dev was at this moment. So handsome and deliciously wicked. The former a quality known to the world, and the latter known only to her.

And possibly— probably —to Lady Bridgewater.

Again, the flash of annoyance.

A low, persistent thrum at this point.

As he demonstrated his knowledge, skill, and talent, there stood a man who knew his business.

It rivaled both handsomeness and wickedness in attractiveness.

“It was a lucky day when I met Blake Deverill.”

Beatrix turned to find Mr. Shaw smiling at her. “Was it, indeed?” She kept her tone light, even as she noted his unwavering sincerity.

“Aye,” he said.

“There are likely others who feel that way about Mr. Deverill.”

The words had left her mouth before she could contain them. That they were the truth mattered not.

Not every truth needed to be spoken aloud.

Mr. Shaw nodded, pensively. “I hail from a family of landed gentry who have done well for themselves over the generations.”

Beatrix understood he had something specific to say to her and he would come around to it in his own time. She waited and listened.

“I was a younger son and wouldn’t be inheriting. I understood that from the moment of my birth,” he continued. “Because my father was good man, he saw me educated, and upon my graduation, he gave me my inheritance all at once, rather than as an annual allowance. ‘This way you’ll have both the blunt and the incentive to make something of yourself in the world.’ There would be no more where that came from, was what he was saying.”

“Sounds like a fair man.”

A nostalgic smile crossed Mr. Shaw’s features. “The best man I ever knew.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I took the money and invested in a few factories. Textiles, for one. Then shoes. They kept me in a comfortable living and able to have a household and family. But they were nothing with vision.” A dry laugh escaped through his nose. “Then came the night of Baron Whitsby’s supper party.”

Beatrix’s head tilted slightly to the side. Whitsby… “Lady Bridgewater’s father, correct?”

“The very same,” said Mr. Shaw. “Whitsby wanted to show off the brilliant local lad he’d put through school and who would be his future estate manager. Except I saw right from the moment Deverill opened his mouth to describe his inventions that he was no future servant. He was that rare visionary with the skill to put his ideas into practice.”

“You saw all that over the course of a single supper?” Beatrix wasn’t surprised, in truth. Dev was a force.

“I pulled him aside and told him I had the experience to help him realize those plans of his. I proposed we immediately go into business together and never once looked back. So, in answer to your question, aye, a lucky star was shining its light on me that night.”

That Beatrix felt the same was yet another realization for her.

One it was better not to think about presently.

Another of Lady Bridgewater’s gales of laughter caught Mr. Shaw’s attention. “They grew up together, you know.”

Beatrix nodded.

“I think he thought he would marry her.”

Beatrix swallowed against a suddenly tight throat. “I think you’re correct.”

How very straightforward was Mr. Shaw. While Beatrix appreciated his candor on one hand, she very much did not on the other.

“But it’s for the best he didn’t.”

“No?” Beatrix’s heart became a sudden hammer in her chest.

Mr. Shaw met her question with a smile. “He wouldn’t have had the chance to marry you .”

“Oh…right.” She couldn’t quite believe she was having this conversation. “Of course.”

Arms crossed over his chest, Mr. Shaw rocked back and forth from heel to toe. “I’ve found the stars align in configurations of their own reasoning and in their own time. We mustn’t question their logic.”

“How very mystical of you, Mr. Shaw.”

He smiled. “Only what life has shown me thus far on the journey.”

Somehow, Mr. Shaw made stars aligning and shining down their good fortune sound pragmatic. But then, a person who took lofty ideas about how engines could work and translated them into functioning machines would. Daily, he and Dev made stardust tangible.

“Is he telling you how all our workers have started calling me Mr. Devil?” came a familiar voice behind her.

Dev.

She’d been so engrossed in her conversation with Mr. Shaw, she hadn’t noticed him approach.

“It’s a compliment,” laughed Mr. Shaw. “No one can puzzle out how you come up with your ideas. Devilry is the easiest explanation.”

Dev shook his head. “Nothing so interesting, I can assure you. Time spent tethered to the draftsman’s table into the wee hours.”

Mr. Shaw winked at Beatrix. “Night is the best time to catch stardust. Now,” he said, “I’ll continue with our guests, shall I?”

As he went on with the factory tour, Beatrix remained at the back with Dev.

“So, what do you think?” The way he was watching her— intently … He wanted to know.

“It’s amazing what you do here.”

A chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Is that all?”

She couldn’t help laughing, too. “Everyone knows this is how you made your fortune, but to see it makes it real, if that makes sense.” She couldn’t help adding, “I’m impressed.”

His brow lifted. “I’ve impressed you?”

“You have.” Her smile grew pensive. “Daily, more and more, it seems.”

The moment stretched beyond the limits of one second to the next as their gazes held. Beatrix could neither draw nor release her breath. Into the moment, Dev said, low and gravelly, “Bea, can we talk… please .”

Please.

That please penetrated and quaked through her.

A please that couldn’t be denied.

It wasn’t in her to deny it.

Except…mustn’t she?

One day—today…tomorrow…or the next day—she must deny him.

She must deny herself him.

A change of subject was necessary. “Where will this batch of steam engines be heading off to?”

Dev looked as if he wanted to press her, but he answered smoothly, “They will be going to France. I was thinking of seeing them to Paris myself.”

Beatrix felt a smile tip about her mouth. “I’ve always wanted to visit Paris. I hear it’s lovely.”

“You should come with me.”

“I…”

She couldn’t finish the thought aloud. She didn’t need to, for he knew how it ended as well as she.

She wouldn’t be going to Paris with him.

“Such intense conversation the two of you are having.”

The Countess of Bridgewater was approaching, a feline smile perched on her lips, and Beatrix wondered if anyone had ever told her to shut her mouth.

“Of course,” continued the countess, “Lady Beatrix could be speaking of the weather, and it would be an intense conversation.”

It was meant as a put-down, a joke at Beatrix’s expense.

The countess would have to do better than that if she was aiming to needle under her skin.

“Lady Beatrix observes the world in a thoughtful manner,” returned Dev. He sounded…defensive. “Thus, she experiences life deeply.”

Lady Bridgewater narrowed her eyes. “I suppose that’s what made you fall in love with her.”

All the breath left Beatrix’s body, and she went entirely too hot.

Love.

What a word to be spoken aloud on a factory floor.

What a word to be spoken in relation to her and Dev.

She dared not glance his way.

“We…” she began, somehow, the croak in her voice rivaling that of a toad. “We were discussing the destination of these steam engines.”

The countess observed her with an air of impatience.

“Paris,” Beatrix supplied.

“Oh, Paris,” said the countess. “Bridgy took me there for our honeymoon. Well, he said it was our honeymoon, but there was a horse to purchase, of course.” Remnants of past annoyance yet lingered. “Anyway, Paris holds an appeal, I suppose, but, oh, the stench.” Her eyes went bright with a sudden idea. “Oh, I know. You could elope to Scotland right quick, then dash off to Paris with the steam engines for your honeymoon.”

It wasn’t meant as a sincere idea, but rather as a joke. Or even a dare, Beatrix supposed.

Lady Bridgewater was all but explicitly daring Dev to follow through with a marriage to the too-intense Lady Beatrix St. Vincent.

“But not in August,” continued the countess. “Paris is dreadful in August. Worse than London.” She gave a dramatic shiver. “Now, Dev, you are needed to tell us precisely what provided the inspiration for this device.” She’d already begun ambling ahead.

“ Later ,” said Dev, urgent and only to Beatrix. “Later, we shall talk.”

And he was gone.

Except he wasn’t truly.

That word yet reverberated through her—shaking her…rattling her.

Later .

She had the promise of him —later .

She didn’t have to deny him—or herself—yet.

Which was, of course, a state of denial in itself.

That was all reprieve was…

A state of limbo.

A state of grace.

The fact was she’d like to stay here a bit longer.

To know Dev better.

To know herself better, too.

The woman she became when she was with him.

And she understood.

Later couldn’t happen.

Within later lay the sort of fantasy Dev was so expert at weaving.

She must resist.

Not him.

But her own self-defeating desire to surrender to its lure.