The Bed and the Bachelor (12 page)

Chapter 11

“H
is lordship will be taking dinner at home tonight,” Waxman informed the staff as the valet strolled into the kitchen several afternoons later. “Lord Drake informed me that he is embarking on an important new experiment and prefers not to be unduly disturbed.”

At the news, Sebastianne’s fingers tightened against the handle of her teacup. She was seated at the small kitchen table, where she’d been having a chat with Mrs. Tremble and sampling her fresh-from-the-oven Banbury cakes. Casting down her gaze, she worked to regulate her features in case they revealed the sudden leap of nerves that made her heart pound like one of the cook’s best wooden mallets.

“Humph,” Mrs. Tremble grumbled under her breath. “It’s us ought to worry over being
unduly disturbed
if he’s up to those experiments of his again. Near gave me a paroxysm of the heart last time he started in with all that noise and such. And that little housemaid . . . what was her name—” Breaking off, she waved a flour-covered hand in the air, clearly struggling to remember.

“Mae,” Finnegan offered from where she stood stirring a pot of deliciously scented chicken-and-barley soup that would be served at the servants’ table in a couple of hours.

“Mae! Exactly so,” the cook chimed in with a satisfied nod. “Poor girl wasn’t here above three days when his lordship scared her so much she quit without even finding time to ask for a new character.”

“What did he do?” Sebastianne inquired blandly, taking a drink of tea to cover her own bout of anxiety—thoughts that had nothing to do with the present conversation running wild inside her head.

Is tonight the night?
she wondered, thinking of the powerful sedative locked even now inside the lowest drawer of her desk inside the housekeeper’s room.

As she’d assumed, obtaining the draught had been far from easy. First she’d had to locate an herbalist who could produce the type of medicament she required. Then she had to make sure, for a rather large sum of money, that the person would agree to conveniently forget she had ever paid his establishment a visit.

Luckily, Sebastianne hadn’t needed to contact Vacheau. Instead, as providence would have it, another visit to Covent Garden market had elicited the names of three possible chemists. She’d chosen the one farthest away from Audley Street and in the least refined neighborhood, visiting only yesterday on her afternoon off. And now, Waxman had just announced that Lord Drake would be dining at home this evening.

Do I dare try for the key tonight?

But she already knew the answer. Nearly two weeks of her allotted month had passed already, and she would be incredibly foolish to squander such an opportunity. Even more, with the aristocratic Season at its height, Lord Drake often went out in the evening, attending dinner parties, balls and the theater.

And four days ago, quite without warning, he’d informed her that he was having a group of gentleman to the house for dinner and libations and to ready the house for their arrival. She’d had no time to think of sleeping draughts and ciphers that evening, every servant in the house, including herself busy managing the entertainment.

No, she would have to make a try tonight and hope it succeeded.

“—with a bang fit to wake the dead and a smell so horrible it were as if a couple of ’em were laid out inside the house,” Sebastianne heard Mrs. Tremble say as her attention returned to the cook’s story.

“Poor Mae had been sweeping the hall floor outside his lordship’s workroom when the explosion went off. Girl came running in, shaking so I thought she’d fall ter pieces. Up and quit on the spot, she did. Said she wouldn’t work in a madhouse.” Taking up a long-handled whisk, Mrs. Tremble began beating the eggs she’d cracked into a bowl. “Guess the rest of us are made of sterner stuff.”

Sebastianne sipped her tea again and hoped such an emotion proved to be the case tonight. She would need to be made of very stern stuff indeed if her plan was to prove successful.

I
nside his workroom, Drake sat at the long wooden bench built against the east wall. On its top he had arranged a grouping of glass Leyden jars that he was using to create what was known as a voltaic pile—or as the American Benjamin Franklin had termed it in his day—a battery. Using copper and zinc rods and solutions made separately of potassium and sodium, he planned to create a viable electrical charge that would produce enough power to create light inside another attached glass tube.

“Only imagine the way the world might work if people weren’t forced to rely on candles, wood, and coal to light and heat their homes,” he mused aloud.

For the present, however, even he was still confined to such antique methods of illumination, his workroom lighted by the mellow glow of two branches of fragrant beeswax candles. While he’d been working, night had fallen, warm early-summer sunlight fading gradually from the sky without his notice—at least until the room had grown too dark to see, and he’d been forced to pause and use a flint to light the candles.

Glancing at one of the myriad, quietly ticking clocks positioned around the room—every hand pointing toward the hour of fifteen minutes to nine, he stretched his arms over his head and wondered how much more work he could squeeze in before dinner arrived.

Engrossed in his efforts, he’d forgotten all about the meal by the time a gentle tap sounded at the door. “Come,” he called absently, applying a wrench to a particularly stubborn nut and bolt he was tightening.

“Good evening, your lordship,” said a melodious feminine voice.

The wrench slipped off the nut, coming within a millimeter of hitting one of the Leyden jars.

Bloody hell,
he swore under his breath, thankful it hadn’t broken. What a colossal mess that would have been. From the way he acted, you’d think he was some green youth in the throes of his first infatuation. He gave a low, derisive snort. And here he’d been once again assuring himself that he had finally conquered his lustful tendencies where his pretty housekeeper was concerned.

“Good evening,” he replied, careful to reveal none of his inner musings. Keeping his back turned, he busied himself with the housing for one of the voltaic cells.

“I’ve brought your dinner,” she continued, carrying in a heavily laden tray.

He gave a slight nod. “Set it on the desk. I’ll eat there.”

“S-should you like to wash up first?”

Aware of the grime and various chemical solutions lingering on his hands, he supposed he ought to do so or else risk poisoning himself. “Yes,” he agreed, laying down the wrench. “I shall be back directly.”

Striding out the door, he walked down the hall to the small ground-floor commode that always held a pitcher and bowl with a supply of freshwater and towels.

T
he instant he was gone, Sebastianne hurried to the desk and set down her burden. Pouring wine into a waiting goblet, she stoppered the crystal decanter, then reached quickly into her pocket for the small vial of finely ground powder inside.

She’d been assured it was tasteless, or nearly so, hoping any slight bitterness would be disguised by the heavy port wine. She’d chosen the vintage herself for exactly that reason, relieved Mr. Stowe was away from the house this evening since procuring wines and spirits was part of his usual list of duties.

But luck seemed to be on her side. She only prayed it held long enough for Lord Drake to fall asleep so that she could make an impression of the key. She’d taken the precaution of preparing a small, two-sided plate, rather like a visiting card case, into which she’d poured an especially soft kind of wax. Once the impression of the key was secured, she would be able to take it to a locksmith, who could use it to fashion a new key solely for her use. With a duplicate at her disposal, she would be able to open the safe when she knew Lord Drake was away from the house. That way, she could copy the cipher, return the original to its hiding place, and leave her actions virtually undetectable.

First, however, she had to actually get her hands on the key.

Knowing time was growing short, she tapped just over half of the sleeping powder into his wine, then used a spoon from his tray to give it a good stir.

She’d just dried off the utensil on a handkerchief and set it back down—the vial containing the sleeping draught secure once more inside her pocket—when Lord Drake walked back into the room. Removing the covers as if she’d been busy arranging the tray all the while, she revealed a delicious-looking and succulent-smelling supper of roast guinea hen, honeyed parsnips, new green peas and an herbed bread dressing. Brandied pears and a pudding made of caramel and almonds rounded out the meal. She wondered how much of the repast he would manage to enjoy before the sleeping draught took over.

Pushing aside the knot of guilt clenched like a band around her middle, she finished arranging the tray, then stepped aside to let him pass. “If there is anything else, your lordship, you have only to ring.”

He shot her an enigmatic glance before seating himself behind his desk. “From the looks of this, I’m sure I shall be well provisioned.” Leaning forward, he picked up the glass of port.

She nearly called out for him to stop as she watched him lift the goblet to his lips. But he had to drink the wine, and she had to let him, however wretched she felt about the prospect.

With her fingers twisted against her skirts, she kept her silence, wondering how many minutes it would take for the drug to take hold. The herbalist had explained that the efficacy of the sleeping draught depended strongly on the individual who consumed it. Given Lord Drake’s size and constitution, Sebastianne suspected it would be a while.

“Thank you, Mrs. Greenway,” he said, returning the goblet to its place before reaching for his napkin. Shaking it out, he laid it across his lap. “That will be all.”

Realizing she was hovering, she came back to herself. “Enjoy your meal, my lord.” With a curtsey, she let herself out of the room.

Once in the hall, she took a moment to regulate her breathing, her heart thudding like a blacksmith’s hammer. She would check on him in twenty minutes or so. She only knew that those few minutes would seem like an eternity.

D
rake waited until he heard the door close behind Anne Greenway; only then did he relax in his chair. Despite her absence, however, he couldn’t shake his awareness of her, the subtle fragrance of the violet water she wore lingering in the air. Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep breath, letting the scent tease his senses.

Moments later his eyes snapped open again, his brows furrowed.
Honestly, I either need to put her out of my mind or bed her.
Unfortunately, neither option seemed likely at present, which left him exactly where he’d been since the day she walked into his life.

With an exasperated sigh, he reached again for the wine, quaffing a pair of deep swallows. Grimacing, he set it down again and picked up his fork.
The wine seems off,
he thought, as he inserted the tines into the crispy, golden skin of the roast guinea hen and the tender flesh beneath.
I’ll have to talk to Stowe when he returns and see if there’s a problem in the cellar.

In silence he ate, the gentle ticking of the multitude of clocks providing a soothing rhythmic accompaniment. As was his habit when he dined alone, he opened a book and began to read, focusing his attention between bites.

About halfway through the meal, he started to yawn, a curious weariness stealing over him. Too many late nights and early mornings, he supposed, although generally he didn’t require a great deal of sleep. Usually, he felt fit with no more than a catnap here and there, and five or six uninterrupted hours at night—or morning depending on when he decided to take to his bed. He could rest for a while now, he supposed, but the evening was still early yet, and he had a great deal more work he wished to complete.

Finishing the poultry, dressing, and most of the vegetables, he downed his dessert in a few quick bites before shoving the tray aside. He tossed back the last of the wine, smacking his lips against the off flavor before setting down the glass with a careful thump.

Perhaps some coffee would help shake off this languor,
he thought, determined to return to his experiment. Hands braced on the edge of the desk, he shoved to his feet and crossed the room to the bell pull. He gave the cloth a sharp tug, then strode across to his workbench and dropped into his seat. Forcing his eyes wide, he reached for the wrench.

He startled slightly when a knock sounded at the door a few minutes later, and his housekeeper entered the room.

She’s back,
he thought, catching another whiff of violets as she walked farther into the room.

“Coffee,” he said after affording her no more than a cursory glance. “Black, no sugar.” The more robust the brew, he decided, the more good it would do him.

But instead of leaving to do his biding, she stood motionless for a long moment, her auburn brows gathered into a frown. “C-Coffee, my lord?”

He scowled back. “Yes. And you may take the tray. I’m finished with dinner.”