Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

A few blocks to the north, Archibald arrived at his family’s townhouse, a hulking Gothic monstrosity designed to look like a haunted castle, complete with bars over the windows, crenelated walls, and turrets on each corner. It was his mother’s notion of fashionable architecture, and it was apropos in that it blended in with the sedate Georgian townhouses that surrounded it about as well as Archibald himself blended in at a ball.

He handed his coat and hat to the butler, Giddings. “How is he?”

Giddings understood precisely to whom he referred. “He’s been resting for most of the afternoon. Shall I send up some tea?”

Archibald flexed his hands, sore from working all day at the forge. “Please. In case he wakes up.”

Giddings bowed. “At once, sir.”

Archibald made his way up two flights of stairs to a room in one of the circular corner towers. He rapped lightly on the door. There was no answer, but he pushed it open, anyway.

Inside he found his grandfather, John Nettlethorpe, lying on the bed. The doctors had found a tumor in his chest two months ago. They had cut it out, but the surgery had not slowed his grandfather’s decline.

Today, like most days these past two weeks, his grandfather’s eyes were closed. On days when he was awake, he would ask Archibald how things were at Nettlethorpe Iron, the business he had founded some fifty years ago. His grandfather gave him better advice than anyone. Archibald understood everything about running Nettlethorpe Iron from an engineering perspective. But he was still getting used to the business side of things, which his grandfather had always overseen, and which was just as complex as any high-pressure steam engine. They would talk for a half-hour or so until his grandfather grew tired.

He placed his hand upon his grandfather’s forehead, gently, so as not to wake him. He wasn’t feverish. He seemed to be resting peacefully.

Archibald pulled a shield-backed chair beside the bed, intending to stay a while in case his grandfather awakened. He glanced around the room that would be his grandfather’s final home. It was grand but spartan, with curved stone walls, a high ceiling, and brilliant stained-glass windows. His grandfather had requested this room over one of the bedrooms, all of which had been overenthusiastically decorated by his parents in the Gothic style, because he was a simple man, and the sparseness of the plain stone walls suited him. But Archibald insisted on moving a particular pendulum clock into the room, positioning it facing the foot of the bed where his grandfather might see it.

It happened to be the clock, the one that had started it all. Even as a five-year-old, Archibald had liked to know how things worked. That was how it came to pass that one spring morning, his parents had walked into the front parlor and discovered their son sitting in the middle of the Axminster carpet with a screwdriver in his hand and the pieces of their brand-new clock scattered around him.

His nursemaid was promptly dismissed for failing to mind him sufficiently. His mother was fluttering about the room in despair when John Nettlethorpe appeared in the doorway, just in time to hear his grandson protest, “But, Mama, I can put it back together!”

“Put it back together!” his mother cried, wringing her hands.

“Archie, my boy,” his father said, “do you have any idea how much that clock cost?”

“I can rebuild it,” five-year-old Archibald insisted. “I’ve done it three times already.”

His grandfather chose this moment to stride into the room. “Let’s see ye do it, then.”

That hadn’t stopped his parents’ fretting. But, with John Nettlethorpe watching in silence, young Archibald had, indeed, reassembled the clock.

“Oh, thank goodness !” his mother cried when the clock was once again ticking away.

“You must promise me you’ll never take the clock apart again, Archie,” his father said.

“But Papa!” To be sure, he had some nice toys in his nursery. But nothing nearly so interesting as the clock. “I’ve showed you I can put it back together.”

“Promise yer father,” his grandfather said firmly.

Archibald winced. He had hoped Grandfather would take his side. Grandfather was the only one who didn’t seem to disapprove of his curious nature. “I—I promise,” he whispered.

His mother was back to wringing her hands. “We’ll find a new nurserymaid by tomorrow. But who will watch you today?”

Archibald remembered perking up, wondering if this meant he might get to spend the day with his mother.

“I’ll get one of the kitchen maids to do it, I suppose,” she said, and Archibald’s heart sank.

“Don’t bother,” John Nettlethorpe said, going down on one knee so he and Archibald were at eye level. He fixed his grandson with his blue-grey gaze. “You, my boy, are coming with me.”

“With you ?” his mother cried in the same breath that his father said, “Out of the question!”

At the time, Archibald hadn’t understood why they were so upset. He hadn’t understood that his grandfather was the worst thing you could possibly be, according to his parents, anyway: a working man. He hadn’t understood that John Nettlethorpe represented everything they were trying to leave behind.

But John Nettlethorpe’s money also paid for their lavish lifestyle, so when he calmly threatened to cut them off, the argument ended in an instant.

In short order, Archibald found himself climbing into the plain brown carriage his grandfather used to get around town.

“Where are we going?” he asked breathlessly.

His grandfather’s eyes twinkled. “To the best place in all of London. Nettlethorpe Iron. And don’t you worry, Archibald.” He leaned forward, holding his grandson’s gaze. “I have much more interesting machines to show ye than that clock…”

Archibald blinked back into focus. He must have nodded off. The shadows had grown longer in the room. Someone had brought in a pot of tea, but it had gone cold.

His grandfather was still asleep. He straightened the blankets, then slipped from the room.

He was heading to his bedroom to dress for the Waldegrave ball when his mother emerged from the portrait gallery.

“Archie!” his mother called. “Oh, Archie, come and see!”

Although he was careful to keep his face neutral, the name Archie grated against his ears, as it always did.

It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with the name Archie. But “Archie” sounded like a young man with a mop of blond curls and soft white hands. “Archie” enjoyed racing his highflyer at reckless speeds and was known for the elegant flourish with which he opened his snuffbox.

Meanwhile, Archibald had to use lye soap to get the grease out of his knuckles at the end of each day. He was burly, swarthy, and hairy and had not only calluses but burn scars on both of his hands. The closest thing he had to an elegant hobby was boxing, but he hadn’t learned to box at Gentleman Jackson’s, as one did. Oh, no, growing up, he had learned to box by sparring with the boys his age who were apprenticed at his grandfather’s forge.

Sparring against actual ironworkers had prepared him a little too well, and when, at his parents’ urging, he finally did show his face at Gentleman Jackson’s, he’d managed to make the wrong impression by knocking his sparring partner unconscious within the first ten seconds of their bout.

He hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t even hit him that hard. Did the man not know how to move his feet? But nobody had wanted to partner with him after that, and so, his days at Gentleman Jackson’s had been put on hiatus for a few years until Michael Cranfield, the Earl of Morsley, whom Archibald knew from serving on the board of the Ladies’ Society for the Relief of the Destitute, had invited him to go a few rounds.

Morsley was six and a half feet tall and had spent the past few years living on the frontier in Upper Canada. He was as strong as an ox and had a similar problem in that no one wanted to spar with him, either. And so, they began boxing together a few times a week. They were a well-matched pair. Morsley had the reach advantage, but Archibald was faster, and, most importantly, neither of them were going to fly into hysterics if the other one landed a blow.

Depending on the time of day, they usually went for a coffee or stopped in a chophouse for lunch afterward. Morsley was by far the most down-to-earth peer Archibald had met, and they had a similar disinterest in the pointless extravagance of the ton .

They had become friends, and, as far as Archibald’s parents were concerned, befriending an earl, even a slightly odd one who preferred a log cabin in the Canadian wilderness to a glittering palace, was the best thing Archibald had ever done.

Archibald obediently followed his mother into the gallery. He found his father already inside, grinning broadly as he stood next to a life-sized statue of white marble.

“There you are, Archie, my boy!” his father exclaimed. “Look what arrived today!”

The statue showed a man in Roman-style armor with breastplate, sandals, and a plumed helmet. He was posed as if standing upon a mountaintop, front knee bent, sword at his side as he heroically surveyed his demesne.

“It’s Alexander the Great,” his father explained.

Ah, Alexander the Great. He could see that. But there was something off about the statue. Greek or Roman statues were usually old and weathered. This one was a pristine white and looked brand new.

That was when Archibald noticed that “Alexander’s” facial features were a perfect copy of his father’s.

“You—you’ve commissioned a statue of yourself as Alexander the Great?” he sputtered.

“Yes!” his father exclaimed. “Isn’t it marvelous?”

Marvelous was not the word Archibald would have chosen. His parents longed to be welcomed into the upper echelons of high society. Archibald received the occasional invitation because he was both obscenely wealthy and unmarried. He had the potential to be useful in the form of bringing an influx of capital into some debt-ridden family’s coffers.

But high society had quickly decided that it had no use for his parents. Meanwhile, they seemed to believe that the key to their entrée into the ton was to demonstrate how rich they were through extravagant spending.

Archibald did not pretend to be any great expert on how to impress members of the upper echelons.

But he was fairly certain that commissioning a statue of yourself as Alexander the Great was not it.

His parents were beaming at him, eagerly awaiting his reaction. “It’s, um.” He cleared his throat. “It’s really something.”

“Isn’t it?” his father exclaimed. “My only regret is that I didn’t think to request a pose on horseback.”

“Oh, my sweet,” his mother cried, “would but you had thought of that!”

“I know, it’s a shame, isn’t it?” His father shook his head. “I’ll just have to commission another one.”

Archibald rubbed his brow. Dear God . He hadn’t thought anything could be worse than the time his parents had paid more than a thousand pounds for an Ancient Egyptian statue of the jackal god Anubis. It didn’t sound so bad until you saw that it was in a state of ruination such that the only part remaining was the arse.

That one was on display in the foyer, so that a statue of a man’s arse was the first thing you saw when you came into the house. Which made it awkward to host visitors, to say the least.

But even the Arse of Anubis was easier to explain away than this .

“I’m pleased that you’re happy,” Archibald said. That, at least, was true.

His parents might be the most gauche people in the British Isles. But they did love him, in a fumbling sort of way. And he wanted them to be happy.

“I’ve managed to secure an invitation to the Waldegrave ball,” Archibald announced. “I’d best go and change.”

His father laughed. “I’ll say. You can hardly walk into a ballroom looking like that .”

Archibald bit back a sigh. If he was being honest, the comment rankled. Of course, his parents, whose dearest wish was to be accepted in lofty circles, despaired of the sight of him in all his dirt.

But at the same time, they wanted to live lavishly, and the thing that supported their ostentatious lifestyle was, ironically, the thing they hated the most—his work at Nettlethorpe Iron. Pleasing his parents was literally impossible. They didn’t want him to be in trade, yet they needed him to be in trade. And it was crushing, sometimes, the knowledge that no matter what he did, it would never be enough, that they would never be truly proud to have him as their son.

He was stuck between two worlds, fitting in nowhere.

“Say, Archie,” his mother said, breaking his reverie. “Have you set your eye on any young ladies? Since things with Miss Chenoweth didn’t work out?”

His parents had been thrilled by the news that Cecilia Chenoweth had refused him. They would much prefer that he marry someone with the word Lady in front of her name and had despaired at the news that he intended to propose to a mere vicar’s daughter.

Isabella Astley’s face flashed across his mind, the way she’d looked last night, eyes hazy with… pleasure? Confusion? Distress?

Hell, he didn’t know. But he wasn’t about to mention her to his parents. They would fly into a frenzy at the thought of him marrying the likes of Isabella Astley.

But that was never going to happen.

“Not yet,” he lied. “It will probably have to wait for next year. This is the last event of the Season, so most of the ton will be heading to their country homes soon.”

“Oh.” His mother did not bother to conceal her disappointment.

“Well, aim a little higher next time, son,” his father said with an exaggerated wink.

Archibald thought Cecilia Chenoweth was a fine lady, an opinion that would seem to have been borne out by the fact that she was now a duchess. But he gave a slight bow. “I’ll try, Father.”

He went to his room, a huge space that had been decorated by his mother in the Gothic style. In Archibald’s opinion, it looked like the lair of the villain in some medieval melodrama. Its vaulted ceiling was supported by elaborately carved columns made of stone. Red velvet curtains framed tall, arched windows. The room was dominated by the bed, which was raised upon a dais. As if there was any danger of missing it—it was black and hulking, with a canopy carved into pointed arches and spires on each corner. It weighed close to a ton and even had a scarlet silk counterpane.

His valet, Jack, was brushing a coat of black superfine. Jack used to be employed by Nettlethorpe Iron, but he had injured his shoulder lifting a cannon. It never healed well enough for him to return to the heavy work required at the forge. But Archibald had happened to be in need of a valet, so he had offered the job to Jack so he wouldn’t find himself out on the street.

After all, how hard could being a valet possibly be?

Archibald cast a dubious look at the set of clothes Jack had laid out. He preferred to dress quite plainly. The coat was dark, but the trousers were cream, and the waistcoat was garnet silk brocaded with gold thread.

“Couldn’t I wear this waistcoat?” he asked, pulling one in grey tweed from his wardrobe.

“Don’t go touching nothing ’til you’ve washed up!” Jack snarled, snatching the grey waistcoat from his grasp.

Archibald sighed, but headed for the bathing tub, which was laid out before the fire. He had constructed it himself, and unlike the tiny hipbaths most members of even the upper classes made do with, Archibald fit inside this one with ease.

When you did the sort of work Archibald performed, it became imperative to have proper facilities for washing up. He knew hauling cans of hot water up the stairs for his daily bath was a lot of work for the servants. He had an idea to install a tank of water on the roof with a set of pipes that would enable him to fill the tub himself. He could even add a gas heater to warm the water. The design wouldn’t be all that complex; it was just a matter of finding the time to build anything other than cannons.

Once he had undressed and stepped in, he took up a bar of plain white soap and a scrub brush and went to work. As he lathered up his chest, he eyed the waistcoat askance. “Don’t you think that one’s a bit garish?”

Jack crossed his arms. His expression was mulish. “Bastian says you have to wear this one and all this other shit to go with it.”

Bastian was the Duke of Trevissick’s valet. One week ago, he had arrived uninvited and swept through Archibald’s closet like a tornado, upending everything and even forcing him to submit to a haircut.

It was probably a good thing. Isabella’s older sister, Caroline, was one of the ton’s leading tastemakers, and she had assured him that both the haircut and Bastian’s wardrobe choices were de rigueur . She would certainly know better than he would. But Bastian had apparently come to coach Jack on the art of being a valet every day since, and now everything was Bastian says this and Bastian says that .

Archibald couldn’t help but note that Bastian’s tastes ran toward clothing that was extremely… fitted. He’d always preferred something a bit looser, to draw emphasis away from his brawny frame. A gentleman was supposed to be athletic, to be sure, but athletic in the right way. It was one thing to have strong legs from days spent in the saddle, like Lord Thetford, or the subtle musculature the Duke of Trevissick had developed through hours of practice at fencing.

But Archibald’s body was all wrong. His muscles were huge and bulky from lifting cannons. They served as a constant reminder to everyone who looked at him that, for all his wealth, he spent his days performing heavy manual labor. For all of Bastian’s assurances that his new style was the height of fashion, Archibald could not help but feel self-conscious wearing such tight-fitting clothes.

Groaning, he sank beneath the water to dampen his hair. Once he was satisfied that he no longer smelled like he’d been working in a forge all day, he toweled off and padded over to the mirror so Jack could help him dress.

When it came time to do his cravat, Jack yanked his collar points all the way up to his ears. “Do you have to pull those up so high?” Archibald grumbled, twisting his neck in an effort to force them back down.

Jack glowered at him, jerking them even higher. “I do. Bastian says—”

“Bastian says, right, right. I hope I don’t have to suddenly turn my head. You’ve put so much starch in these things, I’m liable to stab myself in the eye.”

Jack gave one final yank on his cravat, then stepped back, giving a grunt of approval. “Well, if that’s the thing that kills you, at least you’ll look good at your funeral.”

“That will be a great comfort to my mother,” Archibald grumbled as he strode out the door.