Capturing the Viscount Page 4

  Laura felt like a raving idiot. She paced her room, sat down on the bed, only to rise back up again and pace. How could things last night have gotten so out of hand? All she had wanted to do was take a photograph to document her first ball so she would have a visual memory of it forever. Everything had been going perfectly. The lighting had been superb, the garden magically lovely, and she had been sitting ever so still, and then...

  Then he had come.

  Whoever he was had taken her completely by surprise. He had been tall, at least six or seven inches taller than her five feet, six inches. His hair was dark, as were his eyes. Brown, she thought, but she couldn't be sure. He had a straight nose and thick brows that slashed over his eyes. His jaw was strong and defined, making his face rather square. His masculine beauty was quite compelling, but it was really his smile that had finished her off. "...I can promise I kiss well enough..." he had said with that beguiling quirk of his full lips. Laura felt her face heating at the thought of her capitulation to his expert kiss. He hadn't been lying. He was quite good at it. As far as she, who had never been kissed, could tell anyways. She could hardly imagine anything better in the entire world than the feeling of his hard, sinuous body against hers as his lips played over her mouth.

  But as much as she had enjoyed his ministrations, she was also infuriated. How dare he accost her in a private setting and attempt to compromise her? As if she would have let him. He was the most presumptuous man she had ever met. Well, "met" might have been a strong word, considering they hadn't even exchanged names. The high-handed ingrate. He hadn't even known who she was and he had stuck his tongue in her mouth. He probably did that sort of thing all the time and didn't care what sort of woman she was at all.

  It wouldn't be happening again, to be sure. Laura steeled her mind against any more thoughts of the mystery man's sensuous skills and decided that it really didn't signify. She probably wouldn't ever see him again, and if she did, she would ignore him completely. Giving him the cut direct would certainly send him the message that she wasn't interested in his brand of social discourse. Having decided on her course, Laura felt much better. Now all she had to do was keep the scoundrel and his kisses out of her thoughts, which was proving much harder than anticipated.

  Ignoring his usual schedule for the day, Remington rose early and drove his cabriolet into the heart of London, looking for a shop he remembered seeing in the vicinity. He made a mental note to be sure to make up for his lack of productivity today first thing tomorrow.

  Normally, Rem spent the first two hours of every morning swimming in the waters at his club. Whereas most of his peers went there to soak in the steaming pools for relaxation, Rem used the extensive baths for exercise, usually done and gone before other gentlemen were out of bed.

  And for facing his biggest fear: water itself. Ever since he was a boy, he had been terrified of water- the closeness of it, the darkness, the infinite power to suck a man down to its depths and not let go. For years, he had avoided going near bodies of water, paralyzed by the nameless terror he felt at the mere sight of it. As he grew older, he had come to realize how much his fear held him back from the enjoyment he saw others take in pastimes such as swimming, rowing, and fishing. He hadn’t particularly wanted to do those things, but the idea that he couldn’t conquer his fear of something that others seemed to enjoy so easily had eaten at him until he finally decided to overcome it.

  It had not been easy. He had only been able to submerge himself completely in the stuff in the last few years. And because he had not wanted to admit his problem to anyone outside his family, he had had to learn to swim by watching others from a distance accomplish the task. Even with years of being able to swim without the panic swallowing him, he did not relish the activity. The pleasure he took in swimming was in conquering a foe, mastering a force that was greater than himself. Every time he entered the water, his chest constricted, and he almost gave into the instinct to get as far away from the wetness as possible. But every morning, Rem forced himself to calm the terror within and enter the pools to tire himself to the point of exhaustion. He had found that the ritual was invigorating exercise and kept him in better form than most other types of exertions that were acceptable for gentlemen of his rank.

  Today, though, he had been too restless to make the usual rounds due to a question that was burning a hole in his mind. After nearly two hours of walking up and down streets he was only vaguely familiar with, he found the place of business he was looking for. "Marion's Mechanical Marvels," was stamped in large lettering over the front window, which was filled with moving toys and backlighted pictures. Rem approached the counter of the shop and placed the case down in front of the shopkeeper. Surrounding them on shelves and tables and every available surface were inventions and gadgets of every sort, from simple sextants and sundials, to complicated pieces of machinery that Rem had never seen before. He addressed the distracted shopkeeper who was humming a tune under his breath and fidgeting with a small piece of metal in his hands. "Sir, I wish to know what this is. I would be very appreciative if you could help me identify it," Rem told the white-haired man, sliding a gold sovereign towards him.

  The man immediately smiled cheerfully, glanced at the object on his counter, and replied. "Oh, I don't need to be taking your money for that, sir. I can tell you what that is easily enough. Haven't seen too many because of the patent, of course, but it's definitely a Daguerreotype plate. Fascinating piece of equipment. To capture a moment of time forever...Almost unbelievable, is it not?" The shorter man looked up at Rem in fervent elation.

  "Er... I am not familiar with this Dagger-type," Rem admitted, more perplexed than ever.

  "Oh, forgive me," the man said, nonplussed. "The Daguerreotype is a camera, my lord. A device capable of cementing a moment in time using light and chemicals onto a metallic plate, such as this," he touched the encased plate on the counter between them. "It produces an image, called a photograph, that, if cared for properly, will theoretically last forever."

  Of course. Remington's mind went back to the night before, and things began to click into place. The box, the woman sitting so still on the bench...It made sense now. She had been using a camera to take a photograph of herself. Immediately, Rem's mind locked onto a pressing question.

  "How do you make the image appear? If this plate has been used in a camera, how does one bring it out?"

  "With a composition of chemicals. Mercury, then gold chloride, I believe. I will have to consult my current edition of Chambers’ Journal. It is a relatively new science, I am afraid. I have not experimented due to the patent, you must understand."

  "Patent? What patent?"

  "There is a patent on the Daguerreotype camera, my lord. Only one man in England holds the rights to own and operate the device. It is being enforced very strictly. Rumor has it that the man is going to open a portrait studio to the public in the near future." The man behind the counter paused, then asked carefully, "Wherever did you get this plate, sir?"

  Rem looked at the fuzzy-haired man and raised a brow. "I found it," Rem replied shortly, brooking no further questions. He thought for a moment. "Mr. Marion, if given sufficient incentive, would you be willing to develop the image on this plate for me?"

  Marion frowned, but Rem could see that he was itching to get his hands on the plate. After a moment of internal debate, Marion replied. "Well, we would need to be discreet about this, you see. I cannot gain a reputation for dabbling in stolen inventions. It would ruin my business. No one would sell to me."

  Rem's heart increased its rhythm, knowing he was going to get what he wanted. The image to be found on that plate was somehow more important than anything else at the moment. "I understand, sir. I have just as much reason for discretion. And I can pay well for your services. How much time would you need?"

  Marion held up the plate in its protective casing. "Oh, I should say only a couple of days. I just need to make certain of the process and gather the chemicals. The actual proc
ess only takes a short while, so I've heard. Come back the day after tomorrow, and it should be ready."

  Rem left the shop feeling both better and worse for the information he had uncovered. On the one hand, he now knew that the woman wasn't completely off her rocker, but on the other... What in the world was a debutante doing with an illegal invention taking pictures late at night in someone else's house? If it hadn't been he who had caught her... He shuddered. She might very well get herself fined or thrown in jail. Not to mention whoever found out about her unusual hobby would no doubt ridicule her to the rest of society and ostracize her. She was putting herself in a very precarious position, socially and legally.

  After his visit to the gadget shop, Remington continued with his usual errands, including the bootmaker's, his solicitor, and Manton's. He only deviated in visiting a small bookstore that specialized in antique and out-of-print books. There he purchased a specific volume and had it wrapped in thin, brightly colored tissue paper.

  On the walk back to his cabriolet, Rem heard his name called out from behind him. He immediately recognized the voice and waited for the two men to catch up to him. The striking pair approached Remington and exchanged greetings. One was Tristan Treadstone, who looked immaculate and polished in a suit of restrained amber that complemented his golden coloring. The other was another close friend, Constantine Clairhope, the Duke of Volmere. Together, the three had named themselves the "Alliterates," which they found quite amusing when they were in their cups. Constantine's coloring was more like Rem's, but the other man's eyes were a stunning, deep blue that women had breathily exclaimed looked exactly like a storm-swept sea. Which was perhaps more accurate than intended, as Constantine was somewhat of an enigma, even to his friends.

  He seemed in a fine mood this morning, though, his blue eyes mischievous as he studied Remington. "I heard you had quite a time at the ball last night," he commented with a smirk.

  Remington frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "Oh nothing," Volmere said airily, crossing his arms over his chest. "Just that it was remarked upon that a certain young lady happened to leave the ballroom at the same time you did and returned later looking quite...charmingly dazed."

  Rem swore. "I didn't leave to meet up with anyone. I was leaving to go to the club."

  Treadstone snorted. "I notice that wasn't a denial of anything."

  Remington looked from one man to the other, their faces identical expressions of unrepentant amusement. He swore again. "How in the world was I connected to some chit if I don't even know who you're talking about?"

  And that was the irony of it. He really didn't know her name, though he knew the sweet taste of her mouth and the way her full curves pressed against his body like she was made for him. Still, for all that, he had no idea who it was that he'd kissed so thoroughly in his own conservatory the night before.

  "Easily enough. Like I said, it was a matter of bad timing, apparently," Volmere sympathized, though he didn't look the least bit sorry about it. "If I were you, I would nip it in the bud before either her mother or yours starts planning the wedding."

  "Bloody perfect. I suppose you two won't be any help in dispelling these rumors?" He looked them both in the eye.

  Treadstone laughed. "Hell, no! It's quite fun to see you squirming under the threat of becoming stuck with some fresh-faced gel you've never even met."

  Remington ran his hand through his dark hair. "How does one avoid things like this? A man simply leaves his own house to go to his club and suddenly, he's dallying with virgins and bespoiling their good name."

  Rem left out the part where the entire accusation was essentially true.

  After a moment more of contemplation, he growled. "I need a drink."

  "Bit early, don't you think?" Treadstone looked up and squinted at the sun high in its zenith.

  "Not for me," Volmere muttered. "I'd be happy to accompany you on a good bender, Rothstone. I know of a tavern on Wharton Street not far from here." Volmere slapped him on the back and began leading him in the direction of the tavern.

  "Well, that's my cue. I have an appointment at Manton's," Treadstone announced.

  "I was just there," Rem commented. "They have a new pistol with a very smooth action."

  "Oh? I should like to-"

  "Now, now, fellows," Volmere admonished. "Rothstone here has an appointment too- with a bottle."

  Treadstone inclined his head in commiseration and departed in the direction of the famed gun sellers.

  True to his word, Volmere led him straight to a disreputable tavern where, after three shared bottles of bourbon, a brawl with the other tavern patrons that neither man remembered the reason for, and a long walk down to the docks of the Thames during a chorus of "Molly Bawn Paddy Whack," Rem began to feel a bit better about his insane obsession and subsequent social inquisition.

  Still stock-and-barrel drunk, the two men found themselves dangling their legs in the water off one of the smaller docks, Volmere still humming a verse from their earlier tune. Distant yells from sailors, the ocean's slosh against the docks, and the piercing cry of seagulls accompanied him.

  "Funny, izznit?" Rem voiced, watching his feet sway under the water. "That ever-one knows I didn't do sumtheen, but they want me to have dunnit, so I godda pay the prize, but I really did do it, and I thing I might wanna pay the prize. D'you know what I mean, Con?"

  Con squinted at the sunset that shot vivid colors into the darkening sky above the water. "Not at 'all ."

  They sat in silence, alternating between watching the dying sun and their feet slowly turn blue and the feeling leach out of their toes.

  "Wait. You did do it?" Con asked after a while.

  Rem sighed. "Not "it." Just...some of it." He shifted uncomfortably, becoming aware of the cold seeping into his limbs.

  "Ah."

  "I dunno what happened," Rem admitted, thinking of the perplexing woman who had seemed to glow in the moonlight the night before. "She just...and I wuz there,,,and it was...beautiful."

  "Hm."

  "I s'pose you think I'm a bloody fool." Rem looked over at his companion's austere profile. "I know I am."

  "I would be the last to condemn you for such a moment. Or the sentiment thereafter," Constantine said softly. And then, more to himself than to his friend, "If you are a fool, then I am one ten times over," he murmured, studying the sun's radiance as if it hoping it would divulge a secret that had haunted him for a lifetime.

  Rem let his companion's statement stand in silence, then blew a lock of hair from his eyes. Con never spoke of any romantic past, but Rem had sensed for some time now that there was a wealth of water under that bridge, so to speak. The man’s reputation for rebuffing female advances and flirtations was legendary and had, in fact, caused a fair amount of awkward social situations over the past year. Though Rem and his friend had been close friends since childhood, Con had always kept his emotions close to the breast. He did not readily volunteer information about private matters, and Rem knew that the feelings which ran deep in his friend were best left unprobed unless Con decided to reveal them.

  He thought about his predicament, and how, for some reason, the situation didn't bother him nearly as much as it should. And that, Rem knew, was cause for alarm in itself. "I think I am getting too sober for this conversation."

  "As am I," Volmere agreed, taking his feet from the water and rolling down his pant legs.

  Both men groaned and swore profusely as needles of pain shot up their legs as blood rushed back into their frozen extremities. Somehow, each of them managed to get to his own residence without mishap, and the next morning, both men privately pretended to not remember the words exchanged at sunset on the docks of the Thames.

  "Remington, do be good enough to pass the cream," his mother requested, leaning towards him at breakfast the next day.

  Rem looked at the miniature pitcher of cream two feet down the table from him. Just the thought of reaching for it made him nauseous. He gritted his teeth
and passed it to her, quelling the unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach. His mother seemed to know exactly what his ailment was and ruthlessly banged the creamware against each other and scraped her fork across her plate with unnecessary vigor. The warm sunshine streaming in through the windows of the breakfast room and the smells of bacon and eggs did nothing to help his condition either. At least his father wasn't here to tease him mercilessly about his over-indulgence, which did not happen often.

  "So, how was your night?" Lady Rothstone asked pointedly.

  "Very pleasant, thank you. Exceeded only by your lovely presence this morning," Rem answered sweetly, forcing himself to take a bite of biscuit topped with blackberry preserves. He smiled at his mother while chewing.

  Penelope raised her brow, but couldn't help the smile that formed. "What an incorrigible rogue you are. I should force you to make my morning calls with me for your impertinence."

  Rem swallowed his mouthful of what tasted like sawdust and answered with a regretful expression. "That sounds delightful, Mother, truly, and yet I must decline. Very busy schedule, you know." He forced another quarter of the noxious biscuit into his mouth.

  "And by busy, you mean occupied in a quiet, dark room, preferably sleeping?"

  "Exactly."

  "Humph. Lady Parrington will be so disappointed I did not bring you along. I hope the reason why doesn't come up." She pursed her lips and took another sip of tea.

  Rem's mind grew alert. Why did that name seem familiar? "Lady who?"

  "Lady Parrington. My friend from the country. She and her husband have finally come to town so their daughter may have a season. I simply must show her all the shops on Bond Street. She hasn't been to town in years, you see."