The Hellion's Waltz Page 8

  Mrs. Money cut him off. “This was not some mere mechanical device,” she said. “The electricity produced a chemical reaction in certain dyestuffs he had discovered. It is a discovery of no small genius, and many are the men who would be jealous of the knowledge. You see . . .” She lowered her voice. “When properly prepared, running an electric current through a silk fabric dyed in this manner can apparently produce some fascinating chromatic effects.”

  “She means it changes color,” Maddie said bluntly.

  “What?” Mr. Giles’s shock was evident and delicious. He flipped back the wrapping to stare at the blue silk—his eyes fixing on those odd-colored threads with a new and avaricious light.

  God, but you could practically see the gears turning in his head. Winding the net even more tightly around himself. Maddie hid her smile in a scowl.

  “Crudely put, but correct,” Mrs. Money sniffed. “Mr. Obeney saw the letter and wrote to Mr. Money asking him about producing such effects commercially. I believe they had some kind of contract. Certainly money changed hands, as my beloved Horace suddenly had all the funding he wanted for large-scale replications of his early results. But Horace knew others were always hunting for the secrets that he’d found, so he guarded the process most closely—Mr. Obeney became impatient, and went off to America to found his believing the experiment a failure. And then poor Horace . . . passed away.”

  Her voice wavered, and her gloved hand trembled as she wiped a nonexistent tear from her eye. It was all Maddie could do not to applaud.

  “A handful of Carrisford weavers—Miss Crewe being one of them—had been put to work creating a stock of the new fabric.” She tapped the blue silk meaningfully. “The weaving takes no particular skill, once the dye itself is understood. But with Mr. Money dead and Mr. Obeney gone, there is no one to sell that silk. It molders in the storehouse, unsold, unclaimed, and quite useless to anybody.” She whirled on Maddie again. “Which is why I assume this little thief thought a bolt here or there would not be missed.”

  “I did the work,” Maddie said stubbornly. “I deserve some payment for that, don’t I?”

  Mr. Giles’s confident fingers stroked one long red line amid the blue. “I confess, Mrs. Money, your story has astonished me. I am speechless with wonder.” His fingers tapped, tapped. “It seems a waste for your late husband’s achievements to go unrecognized. Surely you wish his genius to be made known to all the world. I know I would, in your place.”

  “It does pain me, I confess,” Mrs. Money murmured. “Horace worked so hard on his creation. But what can I do? Mr. Obeney is not here to sell the fabric.”

  Tap, tap went Mr. Giles. “There might be a way around that,” he said slowly. “If this cloth were to make its way into the market by some roundabout means . . . Mr. Obeney is so far away, and so busy with his utopian society. Surely far too busy to take note of every little ebb and flow of the silk supply here in Carrisford.”

  “Doesn’t sound proper to me,” Maddie pouted.

  “This from a proven thief,” Mrs. Money retorted.

  “An unsuccessful thief,” Mr. Giles added, and straightened. “What you need, madam, is someone more subtle. Someone who has connections with the traders and merchants of the town—and with the fashionable ladies who are their best customers for something like this.” He stroked the corner of the silk again possessively. “Can you control the color change? Is it permanent?”

  “There is a range of hues the process produces,” Mrs. Money said. “They are reasonably permanent—so long as the fabric is properly maintained.” She indicated a red thread, then a gold and a green. “This silk was charged to turn it blue, but the hue is deteriorating in storage.”

  “Could it be corrected?”

  “An electric current would refresh it, yes.” She sighed. “That is one of the problems that has yet to be solved—any gown made of such fabric would need to be refreshed periodically, to keep its color true.”

  “So the customers would have to come back at intervals?” Mr. Giles asked. His hands flexed like a musician’s, limbering up.

  Maddie thought of Sophie Roseingrave, and said: “Like a piano that needs to be kept in tune. Who has the time or the money for that sort of thing?”

  “Who indeed?” Mr. Giles murmured blissfully. Maddie could practically see the visions of profit dancing in front of his bright and eager eyes. “Would it be possible to witness this color change in person?”

  Mrs. Money pursed her lips, pretending to consider. “I suppose it might be possible. I still have the equipment Mr. Money had made up for just such an event.” She narrowed her eyes at Maddie. “You might atone for your sins by granting us the use of the Weavers’ Library for a demonstration.”

  Maddie grumbled. “Long as you promise the electrics won’t harm me.”

  “It is that or the bailiffs,” Mrs. Money said.

  “Oh,” said Mr. Giles too quickly, “I don’t think we need involve the bailiffs, madam. It would make everything so much more public—we ought to let discretion be our watchword. At least until we are ready to trumpet Mr. Money’s brilliance to all the world.” He spread his hands with a deferential little bow.

  Mrs. Money simpered beautifully.

  Maddie had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from chortling.

  “Would one week from now be acceptable?” The date fixed, Mrs. Money took back the blue silk, permitted Mr. Giles to kiss her gloved hand, and swanned out of the tent like a queen stepping forth to her coronation. Mr. Giles tied up the tent flaps again, his glee apparent in the tilt of his smile and the avaricious gleam in his eyes.

  Maddie slipped out soon after and hurried back to the stall to tell Alice and Judith the good news.

  Perhaps it was the elation from their success: they did so well the rest of the day that Maddie had sold all her ribbons by evening. The fair didn’t close until midnight, however. Normally Maddie would have stayed for the dancing and drinking that happened between midnight and dawn. But her secrets were hot and sweet on her tongue, and she didn’t dare risk letting them slip free in a moment of tipsy carelessness.

  So Maddie said goodbye to her friends and walked home to enjoy the rarity of solitude.

  She took her time, stopping for a late meal and wondering at the emptiness of the town, the thrum of the silk mill loud and hungry without bodies to absorb it. The night wind seemed to flick at her heels and skip her down the road the whole way home. We’ve done it, she chanted, a secret song of triumph. Mr. Giles had responded to their lures precisely as they’d hoped: he’d leaped on the opportunity they offered and had been eager to keep the law out of it.

  At least for now. Maddie laughed silently. He’d probably change his mind about that later—but by then it would be too late.

  As she turned her key in the lock, a sound behind her had her whirling around.

  Chapter Eight

  For a moment all Maddie saw was the dark street, its shadows deep and deeply familiar. Then movement—and a figure stepped out onto the sidewalk. Short, round, and judging by the way her eyes flashed, extremely angry.

  Sophie Roseingrave. Cloaked in gray, her muffler wrapped to hide the lower half of a face that shone like the moon in the dimness.

  Maddie’s heart was still racing from surprise, and it sped up still further as Miss Roseingrave moved close. “Won’t your family miss you, little sparrow?” Maddie breathed.

  Miss Roseingrave tugged the muffler loose. “You were at Mr. Giles’s tent. You and your—associate.”

  She made the word sound like a curse. As if that was the worst thing she could think to call someone. Maddie sputtered a laugh.

  Miss Roseingrave bristled like an angry hedgehog. “If I had a shred of any proof of what you’re about, I’d be standing before the magistrates right now to denounce the pair of you.”

  “But you don’t.” It was a guess, but Miss Roseingrave’s scowl deepened, so Maddie knew she’d guessed right. Nevertheless, the girl could cause trouble,
if she made enough fuss that the people in authority took notice of Maddie’s activities.

  She had to be distracted somehow.

  Seduction leaped to mind. It had halfway worked before, and Maddie had certainly enjoyed it. But it had proved temporary—for here the girl was again, still angry, still in pursuit.

  Because she was trying to do what was right. She’d come here to a strange neighborhood, all alone and friendless, to confront someone she believed to be a liar and a cheat—because she wanted to stop people being hurt the way she’d been hurt by Mr. Whoever in London.

  The best way to stop her would be to show her Maddie was doing the same thing: defending people she cared about from someone who would do them harm. It was a risk—but everything was a risk, these days.

  The trick was knowing which risks were worth taking.

  Maddie flung the front door wide. “You might as well come in,” she said. “This is no conversation to have in the street where anyone could hear.”

  She stepped into the hall, trusting Miss Roseingrave to follow. A lit candle spilled gold across the walls and floor just as the girl stepped into the doorway. She paused there, one hand on the door frame.

  Maddie took pity. “It’s only us—everyone else will be at the fair until dawn.” So the only threat to your virtue is me. She bit her lip not to say it, in case it sounded more like a threat than a tease.

  Miss Roseingrave pulled the door shut and hung her cloak and muffler beside Maddie’s on the hook. Maddie tried to ignore how fine the wool was, especially compared to the chunky blue handspun beside it.

  Then Maddie saw what was beneath the cloak. Surprise washed through her. “You’re wearing my ribbon.”

  “What?”

  Miss Roseingrave looked down as Maddie stepped closer, the candle flickering with movement. Soft light flashed over cream-and-pink lovebirds that edged the neckline of her brown linen frock.

  The same pink spilled into Miss Roseingrave’s cheeks. “You kept calling me a sparrow,” she muttered defensively. Her eyes widened. “Wait—you made this?”

  Maddie put out one finger and traced the line of the ribbon. Down from the shoulder, across the collarbone. She let her fingers stop right above where Miss Roseingrave’s heart beat like wings in her chest. “All the best ribbons in Carrisford are my designs,” Maddie said, smug and sure. “I send them to the Weavers’ Library when the fashions change. Sometimes they come around again, though. This is one of mine from a few years back. Very popular—so much so that it’s been copied quite a few times.” She stroked with her fingertip, just an inch of a caress.

  Miss Roseingrave made a faint, high sound like a violin string under strain. “Is there—is there any special story behind the design?” she asked.

  “Story?” Maddie laughed. “Once upon a time there was a girl who needed the money.”

  Miss Roseingrave sucked in a breath, then exploded. “That bastard,” she hissed. “That lying, poisonous piece of shit!”

  Maddie’s eyebrows shot up almost into her hair. Well. Miss Roseingrave knew worse words after all.

  The girl’s bosom heaved with her fury—a sight Maddie secretly appreciated, modest though the beribboned neckline was. “He told me his father designed it for his mother, back in France. Before the Revolution—”

  “—daughter of a comte, escape to England, et cetera,” Maddie went on. “It’s Mr. Giles’s favorite tale. And not a word of truth in it.”

  Miss Roseingrave’s hands fisted and her eyes looked downright murderous. “I once asked you whether your lies or Mr. Giles’s were worse. I think I have my answer.”

  “I have never lied to you.”

  Miss Roseingrave’s mouth snapped shut.

  Maddie folded her arms, smirking.

  “Well.” Miss Roseingrave’s tone when she spoke again was more grudging than gracious. “You’re lying to other people, though.”

  “That’s true,” Maddie admitted cheerfully.

  “To what purpose?”

  Maddie grinned. “Come up to the attic and I’ll explain.”

  Because the house had stood empty the whole day, she warmed some cider in the kitchen. The drinks steamed in the cold air of the attic while Maddie and Miss Roseingrave slipped off their shoes and sat on opposite ends of the small bed. To further fight the chill Maddie brought out her two best coverlets, one for her and one for her sparrow: velvet piecework in a riot of colors, stitched by hand during the seasons when weaving work was scarce.

  The girl stroked a wondering hand down the velvet pile. “These are lovely.”

  “I’m very good with my hands, Miss Roseingrave.”

  The girl blushed and scowled together. “It’s your tongue I am concerned about,” she said tartly, and blushed harder when Maddie chortled. “And you may as well call me Sophie.”

  “Sophie, then.” The blush deepened, blooming from Sophie’s cheeks down into her throat. Maddie wanted to see just how far down she could get it to go . . .

  No. Truth before seduction.

  A swallow of cider for warmth and courage, then Maddie told Sophie all about Mr. Giles: the mistreatment of his workers, the bribes and the lies, every horrible secret of how he’d built his fortune. It was a bit of a test, if Maddie were being honest with herself: How would respectable Miss Roseingrave, tradesman’s daughter, react to this revelation about a man of her class?

  She needn’t have worried. Sophie steamed nearly as much as the cup she held. It was almost fun, watching such a small person simmer in righteous fury. The tipping point for Sophie seemed to be that so many of Mr. Giles’s stories were so transparently, obviously false. “He isn’t even a careful liar!” she hissed.

  Maddie dissolved into laughter.

  Sophie fumed. “I’ve been deceived by a very talented swindler, Miss Crewe. It was deeply painful and I’ve no wish to repeat the experience. But at least I could appreciate the effort and the artistry he put into his deception! Mr. Giles just cobbles ideas together however he pleases, no matter who he’s speaking to. It’s shallow. It’s insulting! It’s—it’s like he’s tied twine to a picture frame and I’m meant to pretend it’s a harp!”

  “He doesn’t have ideas,” Maddie said. “He has scraps of cunning that he stitches together.” She snickered. “You prefer your lies well tailored, little sparrow?”

  Sophie produced the most adorable imitation of a teakettle boiling over. “If you call me that one more time, I swear I’ll scream—”

  Maddie’s voice was flat and final. “You’ve never screamed in your life.” She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “We could change that, if you like.”

  Sophie sputtered. Sophie grit her teeth. And just when Maddie thought she would surely stand up and flounce charmingly out of the room, her eyes flew to Maddie’s mouth and fixed there as she said bluntly: “Later. First I want to know: What is it you’re doing to stop him?”

  Here it was: the secret. “We are selling Mr. Giles something that doesn’t exist,” Maddie said. “A new fabric nobody else has: a silk that can change hues if you put it in a special machine. He’s going to give us all his money in exchange for the whole supply—we keep the money, and he’ll be left with a pile of ugly silk and metal scraps, instead of the miracle he thought he was buying.” She shrugged. “It’s a swindle, like you said.”

  Sophie’s brows rose. “And all this was your idea?”

  “Not entirely.” Maddie’s fingers tightened around her cup. This next part she hadn’t even told the Weavers’ Library. “You are new here—has anyone told you the story of Jenny Hull?”

  Sophie shook her head.

  “She’s a local legend—except that she was real, too. Jenny Hull was a silk weaver here at the end of the last century. Transported for thievery—but she was only trying to steal back her own work.” Maddie swallowed. “From Mr. Giles, who’d refused to pay her properly for it.” She reached up and pulled her necklace over her head, then held it out for Sophie to see. “My mother tried to help
her. She would have done anything for her, she told me. But the law came between them. Jenny Hull was sent away, and my mother died after Peterloo. She took a saber slash to the side, and it suppurated. They never saw each other again.”

  Sophie took the convict token and examined it for a long while. Clever fingers traced every line of every letter around the edge, but forbore to disturb the small figure mourning in the center of the coin.

  The threat of tears made Maddie’s throat ache; she washed them away with another gulp of cider. “My mother is gone—but Jenny Hull came back. Under a new name, with nobody the wiser. She came to find my mother. She found me instead. And she found Mr. Giles more prosperous than ever, his stature and his fortune growing with every cheat and trick he played on those less fortunate than him.” Her cup was empty now; she set it aside. “If you can’t have love, I suppose revenge is the next best thing.”

  “How much longer until your plan is finished?”

  “A week, at most.” Maddie met Sophie’s gaze staunchly. “You probably couldn’t stop it now short of going direct to the magistrates.”

  Sophie took a deep breath. “How can I help?”

  Maddie blinked. Surely she hadn’t heard that right. “Help?”

  Sophie nodded. “Is there anything still left to do? Any loose ends or—or last details?” She tugged the piecework comforter more tightly around her shoulders. “I am quite good at being overlooked, in case that comes in handy.”

  Maddie stared—at Sophie’s brown hair pulled back so demurely, those dark eyes so soft and earnest, everything about her solid and steady and true. She’d been a thorn in the side when she’d thought Maddie needed thwarting; now that she knew Maddie’s cause was just, here she was offering to pitch in.

  The words were out of Maddie before she’d realized she was thinking them: “Anyone who overlooks you is a fool.”

  Sophie’s eyes went hot, and an answering longing stole Maddie’s breath.

  Sophie tilted forward, still holding the convict coin, and clasped the chain back around Maddie’s neck. Her hands tucked the pendant carefully beneath the bodice of Maddie’s gown. The warmth of the metal seared into Maddie’s skin like a brand, even as Sophie’s fingers came to rest against the tender hollow at the base of Maddie’s throat. “You said you’d never lied to me,” Sophie murmured.