Chapter 11

The offices of Percival Sherborne Co was on Threadneedle Street, a mere stone's throw from the commanding Bank of England. The building was located in London's financial hub, the ambiance of wealth and power spilling into a modest but elegant two-story building at the end of the lane.

Gazing at the building he had to admit the admit that the real reason he'd gone to the see the man was on Adam's assurance of profit and the memory had had of the man steering his father right—and the possibility that another steam of income that would take care of Rose for decades.

"Let us see what there is to this, then." Dismouned, he handed his horse off to a footman and then mounted the stairs.

Inside, a clerk, dressed in grey with a mound off book before him greeted Julius and led him to the office above. In the center of the room, a pair of leather sofas with elegant side tables were circled around a low, marble, coffee table facing each other.

The tasteful interior had wood paneling and elegantly subdued décor while a view of the bustling city behind him was seen from three large, bow windows.

He stepped into chaos.

Mr. Sherborne's desk was piled high with book, some open, others not and few were on the verge of tipping verge to the floor. The man in question was before a large blackboard, the length and breadth filled with equations and formulas Julius had no hope of understanding.

The man's eyes flickered to a book and back to the board, the stick of chalk moving swiftly over it. Julius did not take another step in, unwilling to break the man's concentration.

The clocking ticking on the mantel was the only sound until Sherborne closed the book and said, "I apologize for such a rude reception, Your Grace," he turned, "But I do appreciate how you gave me the time to fill in this equation."

Resting the book on a table, he bowed, "Thank you for seeing me. Your associate, Lord Holbrook speaks very highly of you."

"He speaks the same about you," Julius replied, calmly noting the grey at the man's temple. But I think I need to know more about you that what is bandied about around Town."

Clad in an impeccably tailored suit, a silver watch fob shining against the grey of his waistcoat, not a hair out of place, the man would certainly fit in with the local gentry in London. Sherborne could not be more than a half a decade older than Julius, but the man was ageing ahead of his time.

"Please, sit," Sherborne gestured to the leather couches, "May I get you some tea, coffee? A brandy perhaps?"

"Coffee, black, please," Julius replied as he meandered around the room, noting the stuffed bookcases with manuscripts and tomes, some that seemed hastily stuffed back into place— incorrect places.

Most of them were about mechanical engineering, some were on chemicals, a few were on metals, and a treatise by Thomas Savery, the first man who patented steam pump in 1698, but found its power was limited.

"Do you have any interest in mechanics, Your Grace?" Sherborne asked, approaching with two cups in hand.

"Hardly," Julius tilted his head to the examined the figures on the board. "Unless it is a broken carriage wheel, I have no aptitude to fix machinery. May I ask, where did you study?"

"The College at New Towne," he said, then laughed, "Oh my apologies, I know your English are not familiar with Americanisms. Harvard, Your Grace, elite private university located in Cambridge, Massachusetts in the Boston Area."

"Ah, I have heard of that school," Julius stuck a hand in his pocket and sipped his drink. "It is on par with Oxford and Cambridge."

"It is venerated, yes but I believe we do have a way to go before achieving such honors," Sherborne laughed, his charisma and confidence were potent; Julius could see why so many people had invested in his ventures.

"Hm," turning from the board, he asked, "Tell me about your venture."

"First, I would need to give you some history on the mechanism itself," Sherborne said. "The first crucial idea of this technology is that steam produced by heated water is more than a thousand or more times more voluminous. With certain mechanism in place, it becomes power but that is not the problem."

"What is then?"

"The apparatus or the container where the steam is housed," he replied. "As the steam cools and condenses back into water, it produces a partial vacuum and drastically drops in volume.

"If steam is released more quickly, the more vigorous boiling action can cause damage to the piping and the engines. The age-old problem is to build an engine apparatus strong enough to resist the pressures involved. What I am trying to create is an engine and a controlled chamber designed to keep the pressure in the engine constant."

Julius caught on. "Which can be scaled up or down as needed to the need."

"Exactly," Sherborne smiled. "From steam ships to the everyday kitchen or the bath chamber, whatever is needed this invention will make it possible. My steam engine, once completed, will revolutionize the industry."

"I see," Julius looked over the board. "And where do you plan on building these engines?"

"I have a warehouse in New York that is being converted to a factory as we speak," Sherborne added. "And an army of engineers who will follow my directive to the tiniest bolt and nail."

"Why construct the machinery across the ocean instead of here?" Julius asked, brows knitting in the middle.

"The iron ore I need comes from the East and the copper I need comes from Africa," Sherborne. "It is easiest to assemble everything there where the people I need are housed."

Well, the man was American, he would trust his own people.

Nodding to the board, he asked. "Are those calculations for what exactly?"

"The alloy of metals I will need to make the engine," Sherborne, "It is common to use cast iron but I plan of making an alloy, a mix of metals stronger but will allow the water to boil at a faster rate. I am fiddling with iron, copper and tin, but so far, not much success. What I was doing here was fiddling with the ratios of each metal and I am close to a breakthrough."

"Keep me abreast of your developments," Julius said. "And as we get closer, I will decide on my investment."

He pivoted on her heel and looked around the office, at the board and the books, before turning back to man in the middle of it all. "We shall discuss it further. Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Sherborne."

"‘Tis my pleasure, Your Grace," Sherborne bowed. "And I look forward to us speaking again, sooner than later, I hope."

Stepping into the late midafternoon, Julius looked to the skies for a moment before striding to his carriage.

Louisa.

That night of the ball, when he had entered the ballroom and seen her; the shock and fear on her face had cut him to the core.

Under the moons, her bosom had strained with each agitated breath, her expression a rigor of hurt and anger, and if he hadn't thought it possible to hate himself more, he had then realized his error. That same hour, Julius had cursed himself a hundred times over for causing her distress.

She was everything good and pure and innocent while his hands were stained with so much blood. Even before they had wed, a part of him had known that with his past filthier than London's streets, his appetites had made him an unsuitable husband for any well-bred virgin.

"But now…" a wind ruffled his hair. "It is changing. She is seeing who I am and still desires me. Is there nothing better than that?"

Arriving at his black-lacquered carriage, he instructed his driver to head to the private house in Convent Garden and gazed at the distinct Grecian columns as they came closer. "They do not call it the Temple for another reason."

When the carriage glided to a stop, Julius descended and told his driver, "Wait here, Allan. My visit will be short."

"Yes, Your Grace," the man tipped his cap.

Quickly, he headed to the doors and the footmen bowed to him before opening the door and he headed inside. As it was the daytime, he passed very few alcoves with couples performing, and took the steps to the third floor.

Reaching his destination, he knocked and at the coy enter, he pushed the door in and found a tall, thin lady, dressed in pure scarlet and black, reclining on a chaise.

The Madam crossed her black silk-stocking clad legs and moved while setting the book down and rose to her feet in a sinuous wave.

"Your Grace," Madame Arethusa said in rich, seductive tones. "You're early tonight."

"I am not staying, or playing with any of your lovely girls," he replied, noting the irony of her name; Arethusa was nymph who was follower of Artemis that was sacrificed much for her chastity. This Arethusa was the furthest thing from chaste. "I need to purchase some of your handcrafted merchandise."

Her brows lifted. "Are you telling me your lovely, ingénue wife is open to this lifestyle?"

"I do not see how that is any of your concern," he replied idly. "And must you have eyes and ears everywhere?"

She threw her head back and laughed, her soft tones had a note of aloofness through it. "I have not the faintest inkling of what you mean. Are you supposing that I have spies in every important house in Town?"

"Do you not?"

"My lips are sealed on that, but I do have what you need. May I interest you in the silk red rope I twisted today?"

His lips twitched, "Is it a commodity or a web of lies?"

"See for yourself," the madame smiled, "It goes very well with my silk restraints."

Nibbling on the tip of the feather quill, Louisa looked over the task at hand, the menus for this week and suppers with Julius.

How about a change in the locale from the supper room? Would the sunroom be a better choice? Maybe supper on the floor under the stars? Wouldn't that be romantic?

"Unless he has something else planned," she noted.

Looking down, she realized she had been doodling Julius' name like a besotted schoolgirl with her first infatuation. The sight of her husband's drew a wistful smile.

Maybe dessert before supper? Or finger food on a tiered tray? Slivers of roasted meats, cheeses, fruit piled on the lower trays up the top that would be laden with dessert.

"A picnic by candlelight," she sighed. "How romantic."

"Wine, sherry, brandy or whiskey…" she pondered, then felt a bit ashamed about not knowing the drink her husband preferred.

It certainly had not come up during their whirlwind courtship or mentioned while walking down the aisle, heading to their wedding breakfast.

There was more than the lack of trust between them—they did not know each other at all. Maybe that night they could shift from acting on their baser instincts and have an in-depth conversation.

Sighing, she stood and gathered her papers, then spotted the other unopened letter from that morning. It was from her mother.

Dearest.

News had reached us that your dear husband has returned to the marital home. We are delighted to hear such good tidings dear because your father and I know you must have been aggrieved over this matter for months, nigh a year. However, we would have preferred if the news had come from you instead from the rumor mill.

Your father and I, as grateful as we are for you having hosted your sister's bon-voyage celebration, we regret not attending as we are all the way in Northumberland, but we are sure you made it a wonderful night.

We have missed you, dear and we would like to see you one day, to see how you are coming on. One day, when we are back in Oxforshire,-- as we are heading to the highlands for a while— please come visit, or if you would prefer, send us a day when you are free, and we shall come to you. Bearing presents, of course.

Yours,

Mother.

Or formally, Bridget Payne, Countess of Claimond.

A laugh escaped her and, shaking her head, slid the letter to the side.

"What is so amusing?" Julius said while striding into the room. His jacket was off, and he was tugging at his neckcloth. "If I may ask, that is."

"Mother," she replied. "She and father are in Scotland, and she said that when they return, she will be bearing gifts. I fear to even consider what those gifts might be. "Knowing Mother, it could be anything from a pressed flowers and baubles to a cursed artefact from a witch's grave."

He took a seat across her and stretched out a leg, "And why would she bewitch you? You are her pride and joy."

"Actually, I was the odd goose of the family," she shrugged. "I did not have an artistic bone in my body and the best I could do was to learn the pianoforte."

"My father never cared for the arts," he shrugged. "But when I went to my first opera at nine-and-ten, I found the charm of it."

"You are home earlier than I had anticipated," she dipped her gaze shyly. "I have not sent for supper to be prepared yet."

"I don't mind," he said, successfully pulling the neckcloth away, and he dropped it over the arm. "These things feel like they are decapitating me at times."

Reaching over, she slid the cloth from the arm and between her fingers. The soft, fine cloth and the memory of one like it binding her hands the night before made pink stain her cheeks. A square of the cloth rested on her palm, the gold monogrammed JMC glinted in the afternoon light.

I don't even know what the M stands for.

"What is your full name, Julius?" she asked. "To me shortfall, I do not know as much about you as I should be."

"Magnus," he replied. "Julius Magnus Compton, and whatever you need to ask, I will tell you."

Her lashes swept up from the cloth in hand. "No secrets?"

His lips pressed, "As best as I can, yes."

"You have told me about the bad parts," she said. "I want to hear about the good ones."