3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Phineas clicked his pocket watch open, compared the hands to those on the large grandfather clock on the opposite side of the room, then snapped it closed.

They were late. As usual, everyone was late.

His chair creaked as he leant against the carved back. The noise split the quiet of the former dining room, now transformed into a cluttered meeting space for Spencer & Co. Travel, located on the ground floor of Number 4, Honeysuckle Street, across the way from his own tower of peace. Footsteps tapped on the floor above while voices and laughter occasionally bubbled down the hall and into the room. The investors’ board for the boutique travel company met here every Tuesday morning to discuss business. Supposedly, anyway.

Phineas turned in his seat to check the door. One of the staff bustled past, singing, then paused.

‘Are you early, Mr Babbage?’ Gena, failed actress and housemistress of Number 4, leant into the room.

‘I am precisely on time,’ he replied with a huff.

‘Oh, I think you’re early. If you were on time, everyone else would be here! Would you like some tea? I’ve got the kettle boiling.’ Her apron tails flicked out of view as she hummed away.

Phineas drummed his fingers along the edge of the table and checked the clock again. They were all most definitely late.

Of all the streets in London, all the places he could have established himself while he carried out his search, what had possessed him to imagine this as the ideal location?

At the time, he’d thought he’d struck gold. The combination of self-made men with working class sympathies living right alongside nobility with links to parliament and power, not to mention the independent women with connections and influence on both, had made him think that here, he’d be able to discover everything he needed to know. He would feel London’s pulse. In a city where a connection and a name counted more than a man’s own mettle, this place should have been the perfect base. He couldn’t pay the deposit to secure a townhouse fast enough.

The reality of Honeysuckle Street? A mishmash of neighbours who found themselves embroiled in scandal, nobles who suffered their privilege as a discomfort, and diplomats without tact. So many petty squabbles and embarrassments… and somehow, he found himself at the centre of every little thing. Aiding a scoundrel. Assisting in what might be interpreted as treason. A baritone in Petunia Hartright’s choir. In a neighbourly feud over windows. In friendships and squabbles. And now, on the board of a travel company, even though he hated going anywhere.

The sooner he finalised things and moved on, the simpler life would be. Today, he’d tell them he needed to sell his stake in the company. Not that he needed the money, but so that they wouldn’t be suspicious and weren’t left with a difficult loose end to tie off. Arley had caused enough upheaval. Then he could walk away, and the only weight on his conscience would be the one he’d brought to London—Imogen.

A nudge against his leg broke his thoughts. Phineas peered under the table. Spencer sniffed at his boot. The grey cat with the white-tipped tail usually prowled the detritus of what had once been Number 6, but since the building had been levelled years ago after that messy incident with the Hartrights—another debacle Phineas had somehow found himself part of—he spent more time lounging in parlours and stalking kitchens to find the best scraps. Phineas checked the door that led into the hallway. Quiet. He leant down and scratched between Spencer’s ears. The feline rewarded him with an easy purr.

Independent. Taking what he needed. Giving in return only when it suited.

Wherever he found himself next, he’d be more like Spencer. He could even take Spencer as his new name, as a reminder to remain aloof. First or last?

There was plenty of time to decide.

A scrabble of voices bounced down the hallway. Phineas straightened in his chair and brushed the cat away. Finally .

Odette Delaney wafted into the room, as light as the melodies she was so renowned for singing. She lived in the large palatial villa directly opposite his own house, where her ostentatiousness made up for his reserve. Rumour and speculation always buzzed around Odette. This season, it was a Bulgarian prince who attended all her performances. As usual, nothing stuck, although her neck glinted with a new emerald choker.

Odette settled beside him at the table and Elise followed, sitting in the chair on his other side. Rosanna Hempel took the place opposite. ‘Father is an apology,’ she announced.

Phineas took a breath as a taunting greeting half formed in his mind.

Rosanna levelled him with a look. ‘Don’t start, Babbage. Not today.’

A flash of concern flicked through him. He almost inquired further, but stopped himself before he gave his worry voice. He needed to leave, not become involved. The entire point of provoking the friendliest man on the street was to avoid getting too close to him and his family. To stay aloof and not be bombarded with pitying dinner invitations.

When he’d first moved in, Phineas had barely taken a headcount of the Hempel brood. They had blurred into one, only distinguishable by their varying heights and hairstyles, always dressed with a touch of red. Gradually, the older children had emerged into adulthood through debutante balls or graduations, and only then had he bothered to learn their names. After a little over a year of sitting across the table from Rosanna, he’d learnt more than her name—he’d learnt her measure.

From a family established as reliable new money, and with an impeccable polish from governesses and finishing school, Rosanna would never be described as a society diamond but as a catch. For nobles scratching at the bottom of the family coffers, she had the potential to become a wife who would repair estates and not embarrass them, and for those with money and aspirations to move in better circles, she offered inroads to a new world with connections and proper etiquette.

He’d expected her to be plucked by some baron or even an earl in her first season. Yet, Rosanna had remained firmly unmarried for four years while continuing to hold her position on the society stage without a whisper of criticism. In clubs and coffee houses where he sat concealed behind papers and blank expressions, men spoke of her not as a has-been, ageing against ballroom walls, but as a challenge to be conquered.

Phineas met her penetrating glare. Fierce green eyes, almost black hair and sun-kissed skin. Without a doubt, Rosanna was not yet married because it didn’t suit her to be.

‘You have a new charm from Lord Richard?’ Odette asked in her light accent that sounded French to most people but wasn’t.

Rosanna suppressed a smile. ‘A daisy,’ she said, and extended her hand across the table, the trinkets at her wrist tinkling.

An uncomfortable prickle ran down Phineas’s spine. ‘Lord Richard? The Marquess of Hanley’s spare?’ he asked with less finesse than he’d like.

‘Third son.’ Rosanna twisted her wrist while Odette gasped and tapped at each charm. ‘Not that it’s any concern of yours.’

Phineas forced his face into a mask of composure as his mind searched and stumbled through the threads to make some semblance of sense of them. The new board member for Argonauts, the company with the perfect ledgers—that had been Lord Richard, hadn’t it?

‘How did you meet Lord Richard?’ he asked, hoping he sounded nonchalant.

‘He stays at the hotel,’ she quipped. ‘Because it’s the best in the city.’

‘No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening.’ Puffed and frazzled, Iris, the Viscountess Dalton, their company head and the brains behind everything, marched into the room and thumped a box onto the table. A thick wad of brochures spilled across the polished wood.

‘Iris, it’s not so bad.’ Her husband, Viscount Hamish Dalton, heir to the Earl of Caplin, followed her into the room.

‘Not so bad, Hamish?’ She swung to face him. ‘Not so bad? Austria. The tour is to Austria. Austria–Hungary, to be precise, but with a focus on Vienna. Art, Architecture and Arias , it’s called. Travel by sea and train, visit some old churches, listen to music, look at paintings, and return within a week.’ Iris snatched a brochure from one of the stacks and shook it out with such force that the paper snapped the air. She held it out without looking, as if she’d read it a million times before. ‘Australia. It says Australia.’

‘There are only a few letters different…’ Hamish offered. ‘Just the two, really. An A and an L.’

‘And thousands of leagues and a lack of marsupials in where the trip will take them! People will notice.’ She threw the brochure into the air, then fell into the vacant seat at the head of the table. Her assistant, young Elise Hartright from Number 7, snatched the paper as it floated down. She folded it and placed it on top of the pile.

Hamish knelt beside his wife. He pushed a stray curl from her forehead. ‘Iris, you need to sleep.’

Iris shook her head. ‘There’s so much to do, and no time to have them reprinted.’ Her voice petered out into an exhausted whimper. She hung her head, her body hunching with the effort.

As if none of them were there, Hamish knelt on the ground and pressed his cheek against Iris’s. Her face contorted with grief before she leant into him. She bit her knuckle as she scanned the room.

‘Sleep,’ he repeated, this time more gently. ‘These aren’t due to go out until tomorrow. We’ll work something out.’ Hamish rose, yet kept hold of Iris’s hand. He turned to the group. ‘Albert’s been having bad nights. He mostly remembers Iris, but not always the rest of us. Iris is doing her best, but it takes its toll, and… and together, we’ll come up with some solution.’ A slight panic contorted Hamish’s expression as his gaze flitted across the empty seats to the few investors who’d bothered to turn up. ‘That’s what we said a few months ago. We stand by one another, no matter what. Didn’t we?’

‘I can fix it by hand. I have excellent penmanship,’ Phineas said, just as Rosanna said, ‘I can correct them.’

Their sincere tones petered out awkwardly as they turned to one another in horrified realisation. They’d spoken at the same instant. He took a breath, ready to withdraw his offer, but the light in Iris’s eyes stilled him.

‘Maybe I could rest for a few hours. Elise might help, too. If you all work together, it will be so much faster. You could be something of a… a… team even.’ She looked from Phineas to Elise and Rosanna, a tired smile curving her lips. ‘Gena will chaperone, if required,’ she added, almost as an afterthought.

‘I’d like to see him try anything that requires chaperoning,’ Rosanna mumbled.

And that, apparently, was the end of the meeting. Odette left amid a flurry of excuses about princes and testing acoustics. Hamish helped Iris from her chair and led her from the room. At the door, he glanced over his shoulder and mouthed a silent thank you .

Phineas flopped back into his seat. With one sentence, he’d fixed himself more firmly to this place. He should be packing. Scratch that. Should be burning his papers.

‘How lovely to be doing something together,’ Elise said. She pulled a high stack of pamphlets from the box and placed it before Phineas.

‘Delightful.’

‘Fabulous.’

Rosanna glared at Phineas, her gaze hard and unflinching as she unscrewed a pen lid. ‘When the viscountess awakes, she should find the task complete.’ She drew a brochure towards her, struck at the offending letters, then pushed it to the centre of the table. ‘We should focus on working fast. We’ll set up a line. Elise, you unfold the brochures and pass them to me. I shall fix the letters. Mr Babbage can fold.’

He would not be folding for anyone. ‘The focus should be on accuracy. Viscountess Dalton does not need to wake to another debacle. I’ll be neater if I work alone.’ He pulled his pen from his coat pocket, unscrewed the lid, and snapped it over the end.

‘I think the focus should be on the A and the L,’ Elise hesitated. ‘There’s no need for speed or—’

‘I can be correct and work quickly. I can do anything I set my mind to,’ Rosanna replied.

‘You may write any kind of gibberish fast. But will your penmanship be readable? Will potential clients be able to read what you have altered? Or will you be sending them to Albania?’

‘Care to make a wager?’ She’d continued working as they’d been talking and stacked another brochure on top of the small pile. ‘I can complete more than you and be precise.’

‘I don’t gamble,’ he sniped back. He took a brochure and made the small change.

‘Just your pride for the stakes, then,’ Rosanna said. She grabbed another brochure, moved her pen over the page, then pushed it aside.

He should be focusing on the information about Lord Richard. He should be sitting calmly and listening to Rosanna and Elise chat and gossip while he combed through their words for information. He should be keeping his distance.

Yet her little pile grew, and when he paused to study her corrections, they were accurate. She was going to beat him. She’d go into the world believing that she could do anything.

Which was an incredibly dangerous proposition.

For her or the world?

Undecided.

Perfect little rich girl, getting everything she wanted, believing everything about herself that she’d ever been told. Someone had to teach her a lesson.

‘You have a wager, Hempel,’ he said, and pulled a pile towards him. ‘But make no mistake. I will have your pride.’