8. Chapter Eight

“E xactly how many clocks has my cousin managed to break?” Miss Woodbury’s eyes widened in surprise censure.

“I, uh . . .” Hugh didn’t know what to say. While he didn’t have a great deal of social visits on his calendar, he’d never had to explain his presence after being personally invited somewhere.

It didn’t help that he wasn’t entirely certain why he was there either. Despite Mr. Woodbury’s claim that Hugh was the first person he’d encountered in London who wasn’t afraid of spending time with an aristocrat, coming to such a fine house without a purpose felt more than a little strange. Yes, he was evening out the social numbers if one wanted to balance titled and non-titled, but he’d never heard of that being a host’s priority.

After his arrival at precisely 5:59, he’d been shown to the billiard room where Mr. Woodbury and Lord Eversly were already waiting. They’d soon been joined by Lord Northwick, and it was suggested they play a few games and venture to the dining room after the ladies departed for the evening.

Hugh had just completed his turn before excusing himself to visit the retiring room, but all he really needed was a moment by himself to put his own thoughts in order. Now that he’d, quite literally, bumped into Miss Woodbury, those thoughts were even more scattered than they’d been moments ago.

The young woman’s brow was deeply furrowed, and her lips were pulling tightly at the corners. Hugh’s concern shifted from himself to her. “I say, are you well? You appear . . .” He cleared his throat, searching for a word that could delicately indicate a woman was looking out of sorts. “ . . . Distressed. Might I be of assistance?”

Miss Woodbury’s straight spine stiffened, and her nose tilted ever so slightly higher into the air. “I am not a pocket watch, Mr. Lockhart. I do not need you to be ceaselessly coming to my rescue.”

Once more, sensible words abandoned Hugh’s mind. How did people gain the gumption to simply walk away from conversations they no longer wanted to be in? He’d dearly love to be one of those people at that moment. His uncle, however, had taught him it was the height of rudeness, and years of business experience had trained him to never be the one to abandon a potential opportunity.

So he stayed.

And shifted his weight.

And counted to five.

Still the right words, or even a potential option of words, didn’t come.

Fortunately, Miss Woodbury tired of the silence first. “Besides, this is not a threat you can simply snatch out of the sky and crush beneath your boot heel.”

The anxiety swirling into a fog through Hugh’s mind instantly settled. There was actually a threat of some kind? “If you are in need of help and I can be of any assistance, I am at your service, my la—er, miss.”

She sighed. “You might as well call me a lady. It’s certainly not the worst thing I’ll be forced to endure this Season.”

Hugh gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “I’ve always been under the impression that most ladies enjoyed their first Season in London.”

“The ladies of your acquaintance have a different idea of an enjoyable time than I do, it would seem.”

He refrained from saying his knowledge of ladies stemmed from brief encounters in the shop, occasional observations at church, and daily glances at the society section of the newspaper.

Miss Woodbury sighed and looked down the stairs. “It would seem most ladies also have a different idea of charity than I do.” Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Particularly the Virtuous Ladies Society for the Care of Wounded Soldiers.”

In his short but concentrated exposure to this family, he’d learned that the elder Mr. Woodbury held a living in Leicestershire. If his daughter had aided him in tending the parishioners, Hugh could only guess what the suggestions of the Virtuous Ladies had sounded like to her. He stifled the urge to chuckle.

Heat flushed Miss Woodbury’s cheeks as she turned back to Hugh. “I beg your pardon. I’m speaking out of turn. Please forgive me.”

“You are allowed to have an opinion and to express it in private conversation.” Hugh nodded down the stairs, toward where he assumed the virtuous ladies were gathered. “They do good work, you know. Well, I don’t know about them in particular, but groups such as those. It takes money to buy food and other necessities.”

Her frown deepened, forcing Hugh to fight the urge to squirm. “I . . . that is, your father’s church. I assume it had collections for the poor?”

“Of course.” Miss Woodbury’s chin lifted, a feat Hugh would have thought impossible a moment earlier. “I am not unaware of the fact that money is required for the movement of goods, even those that are necessary for sustaining life, but I am personally more accustomed to a deeper involvement that does not seem to be acceptable in polite society.”

Hugh pictured some of the areas around his uncle’s church where people would go when they needed basic care. He couldn’t hold back the wince at the idea of Miss Woodbury and her pristine, fashionable, clean skirts waltzing along the same paths. “Frankly, there are some parts of London that wouldn’t be safe for someone of your—”

She narrowed her gaze at him, but he continued, albeit with a different wording than originally intended. “Someone who appeared to be of the more gently reared portion of society.”

“Are you telling me there is no one in need of care, attention, and good news that does not live at the docks or wherever it is so very dangerous for me to wander?”

Hugh sighed. “You know that isn’t the case. There will be people in ball rooms tonight that are only there because they can’t afford food any other way.”

“I can hardly go around asking the party guests if that canape is the first thing they’ve eaten all day.”

Why, oh why hadn’t Hugh simply said pardon me and continued walking? The other gentlemen likely thought him struck with a stomach malady by now.

In the interest of extracting himself from this conversation, Hugh tried to offer a modicum of reassurance. “There are, obviously, groups in London that are more involved in the lives of those they are helping. Then there are the groups that provide the means for such involvement. Both are important.”

“Where might I find one of these involved groups?”

“I really should get back.” He took a step toward the billiard room.

She followed. “Do you know where they meet? Can you introduce me?”

“Wouldn’t it be better to wait until you’re married? Then you can find something close to your home and socially appropriate.”

Her hands turned into tight fists, and for a moment Hugh genuinely worried for the safety of his chin. Then those tiny fists found their way onto her hips. “You would have me rot away my time in London being utterly useless to both God and man?”

There wasn’t a good answer to such a question, but Hugh opened his mouth to try. He didn’t get a chance.

“I can’t spend all my waking hours in search of a husband, you know. I’ll go mad. The Season has barely begun and I’m already halfway ’round the bend.” Desperation was evident in her voice, face, and even her posture.

Hugh sighed. “It’s not proper for me to take you about and introduce you, but I could maybe put in a word. Tell someone to be looking for you.”

She took a step closer to him until the edge of her skirt brushed the toe of his boot. “Where would I find this person?”

“There’s a church—”

“I can go to a church.”

“It’s not in Mayfair.”

“I know how to walk.”

“It’s barely even in London.”

“I can take Ambrose’s carriage.”

“It’s not as populated as this area.”

“I can take a footman.”

“You’d have to go near the dock—”

“For goodness’ sake, are you going to tell me where to go or not?”

He’d rather not, but as so often seemed the case when this woman was involved, Hugh didn’t appear to have a reasonable option. He sighed. “Have you other dresses to wear? Some that are . . . plainer?”

“What’s wrong with my dress? It’s far plainer that some of the ones my aunt wanted to purchase.”

Hugh sighed. “The people near St. Anne’s Limehouse don’t want to be considered some wealthy lady’s pity project.”

Miss Woodbury frowned. “Limehouse?”

Hugh looked from her to the billiard room door a scant few feet away. Had anyone poked a head out looking for him yet? As odd as the invitation had been, he didn’t want to ruin this social encounter. Aside from the fact that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually received a personal invitation and not simply joined a community gathering when he needed company, he had no way of knowing how deep the viscount’s pockets were. His name had been connected to an investment or two in the past.

“Right, then.” He shifted his weight in the direction of the billiard room. “I’ll just . . . go.”

“Wait!” Miss Woodbury reached out a hand to grasp at his sleeve. “Who do I ask for?”

Hugh shook his head. “If you show up, she’ll find you.” He’d send a messenger over first thing in the morning to warn his cousin, but even if Miss Woodbury somehow arrived before his missive, Eleanor would find her. She had a knack for sniffing out a do-gooder.

Before she could come up with another question to ask him, Hugh strode down the corridor. He cast a glance over his shoulder before opening the door to the billiard room.

She had yet to move, but her gaze had shifted to the ceiling and her lips were moving rapidly. Was she praying? If so, the smile would indicate it was one of thanksgiving. Hugh had never been the answer to someone’s prayer before, and he really wasn’t certain he wanted to start with a fresh-faced, na?ve woman from the country.

Much better to focus on creating a business that would allow him to sustain himself, his family, and some of those charitable groups Miss Woodbury wanted to get her hands on.

Back in the billiard room, Hugh managed to push Miss Woodbury and her concerns out of his mind. He needed all his wits about him to traverse his own God-given opportunity.

“There you are, Lockhart.” Lord Eversly extended Hugh’s cue toward him. “It’s your go, though we’ve put you and Marmaduke in a rather precarious position.”

Hugh took the cue and analyzed the table before making his next shot.

Play continued, and the conversation was easy and surprisingly amiable given the mix of men in the room. Hugh refused to laugh at some of the more risqué jokes Lord Eversly and Lord Northwick bandied about, but as Mr. Woodbury wasn’t laughing at them either, no one seemed to notice his occasional silence.

The game finished in favor of the aristocrats, and the balls were reset for another game. Lord Northwick leaned over the table and lined up his cue stick. “Lockhart, I hear you’re in trade over on Piccadilly.”

“Yes. I work with clocks, watches, and chronometers.” Hugh swallowed hard, insides shaking enough to make him thankful they’d yet to eat dinner. “Currently I work with Mr. Johns, but I’ll have my own shop in the future.”

“Interesting.” Lord Northwick completed his shot and stood, leaning one hip on the billiard table. “My father has some interest in a shipping company. He met with some of the captains last week, and they were talking about chronometers.”

“I don’t doubt it. They’ve no way to reset their clocks when at sea, so a reliable chronometer makes all the difference in keeping accurate logbooks and maintaining daily and shipping schedules.”

Lord Northwick nodded. “And you make those?”

“Repair them, mostly, but I’ve ideas on how to improve the device.”

“The Royal Observatory is holding a contest.” Mr. Woodbury winked at Hugh before setting up his next shot.

“Are you entering your design?” Lord Eversly asked.

“I’m afraid I haven’t the funds or workspace to make the necessary prototype.” He could spend his entire savings to make it happen, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to gamble everything on a single chance.

“If you had those, would you win?” Lord Northwick crossed his arms and leaned back against a large leather armchair as he considered Hugh. “Could you make something that would truly improve on what captains currently have?”

A steady confidence blanketed some of the vibrating anticipation in Hugh’s gut. It couldn’t be this easy, could it? Shouldn’t God be making him sacrifice something or sweat blood to gain this chance? “Yes. I’ve some ideas on how to improve upon Harrison’s design, thereby allowing captains to more accurately chart their position.”

He swallowed hard and committed to the claim that would sell his position. “Greater chart accuracy will allow for the creation of faster trade routes and more precise military navigation plans.”

In the silence that followed his statement—the longest he’d made in this group’s presence all evening—Hugh found himself unable to breathe. Every part of him, including the air in his lungs, was waiting for the aristocrats’ reactions.

Lord Northwick slapped a hand on the edge of the billiard table. “I’m in.” He spread his arms out wide as he grinned. “If this works, Father will have to stop chiding me about not paying attention to our financial affairs.”

Lord Eversly laughed. “Have you any idea how this will affect your financial affairs?”

One of Lord Northwick’s arms gestured toward Hugh. “Didn’t you hear him? Faster trade routes.” He shrugged, then leaned down to line up his next shot. “Father and Uncle constantly discuss how to trim shipping costs and keep things moving through the warehouses before they spoil or rot. If a new chronometer helps, then I contributed.”

“And all without putting down your cricket bat,” Mr. Woodbury said.

“Can’t have you getting one past me again.” Lord Northwick slapped Mr. Woodbury on the shoulder. “I don’t suppose you’ve any interest in switching to the Marylebone Club? I’d rather play with you than against you.”

Hugh had to brace his hands against the baize and rail to keep them from shaking as he took his next shot. That any balls connected with each other was pure luck, because he could barely see the table in front of him.

To enter this contest and gain the attention of the Astronomer Royal would change everything. If his chronometer won in the trials—and he was confident that it would—it would garner enough demand from captains, shipping companies, and the British Navy that he could easily go into business for himself. Not even Mr. Johns would be able to keep him in the back room anymore.

His hands itched to grab a pencil and revisit his preliminary sketches, but a verbal indication of interest wasn’t actual funds in his pocket.

Besides, as Mr. Woodbury scored the winning point and let out a whoop of celebration, Hugh had to admit he was having an enjoyable time.

The idea that he might be able to make friends, even if only behind closed doors, with such men was a novel idea. The two aristocrats were far above Hugh’s station and would likely never acknowledge him in a wider social setting, but Hugh hadn’t ever managed to find true camaraderie among the other tradesmen either.

Whether it was his awkward position with Mr. Johns or his upbringing in the church under his uncle, he didn’t know. It could even be the fact that he wanted to change his entire industry, not just create a simple business within it. The why didn’t matter as much as the reality, though.

As the evening rolled on from billiards to dinner to cards, the conversation would regularly return to a potential investment in Hugh’s ideas. By the time he was accepting his jacket from the butler, funds had been promised and workspace secured.

Why had God decided to bless Hugh in such a huge way now? Hugh would likely never know, but that wasn’t going to stop him from accepting it and making the most of it. He breathed in the cool night air and began the long walk back to his rooms. As he passed beneath a streetlamp, he looked at his pocket watch. Three minutes past midnight. His someday had officially arrived.

Today was the first day of the rest of his life.