Asher’s Invention(8)

Minerva greeted her visitors. The younger Mr. Monk bowed low over her hand and held on to her fingers for several more seconds than was necessary or polite. “May I say how charming you look this afternoon, Miss Minerva.”

She gave him a mild smile before turning to Asher. “Mr. Quigley, may I introduce Mr. Monk and his son, Mr. Dorian Monk.”

Asher shook the claw of the elder Mr. Monk and then turned to his son. Dorian Monk proffered his left hand.

“Probably more comfortable with this one,” he said easily enough.

A brief scan told Asher all he needed to know. Instead of flesh and blood, Dorian’s right hand was constructed of metal plate, wire and cogs. It seemed to be a finely detailed piece of equipment, and his first instinct was to examine it more closely, but good manners forced him to shake the man’s left hand as if he hadn’t noticed.

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Quigley,” Dorian said to Asher. “Have you known the Lambkins long?”

“Only a passing acquaintance a few years ago.”

Asher hadn’t missed the look Dorian had given Minerva upon first entering the room, nor the way he took the seat closest to her. There was something distinctly possessive in his manner toward her. Minerva, palely composed, gave no hint as to whether she welcomed his attentions or not.

“Will you take tea with us?” she asked, and rang for Hetty. She turned her attention to Mr. Monk, who perched on the couch with his spotted hands folded over the top of his malacca walking stick. “I haven’t seen you in a while, Mr. Monk.”

“Your father is not at home?”

His voice was as creaky and rusty as his appearance, but his eyes, Asher noticed, were ferret sharp.

Minerva smoothed down her skirts. “He has an appointment out of town today.” After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “I don’t expect him back for several more hours.”

“I see.” Mr. Monk rested his chin on his knuckles, his eyes never leaving Minerva.

Dorian bent forward. “I have been meaning to call on you for some time, Miss Lambkin. Will you not come for a ride with me in my new curricle? I’ve just taken delivery of it.”

Dorian, too, couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off Minerva. She was surrounded by a pair of snakes, Asher thought disagreeably.

“Thank you, Mr. Monk, but no. The weather is too inclement today for riding out.”

Dorian buffed his glossy side-whiskers, undeterred. “What of tomorrow, then?”

Minerva murmured a noncommittal reply. Asher couldn’t stop himself from scowling. How well were these two acquainted? He couldn’t tell from Minerva’s expressions what she felt toward the young man, but there was no mistaking what he felt toward her.

“Mr. Quigley, are you a business acquaintance of Mr. Lambkin’s?”

Asher found himself under the avid scrutiny of Mr. Monk. “No, my association is more…personal than business.”

“Oh.” Mr. Monk slurped his tea, his bulbous eyes moist with speculation. “I thought I knew most of Mr. Lambkin’s personal acquaintances.”

“I say,” Dorian broke in. “Are you not the Asher Quigley of whom I’ve read?”

Asher had no option but to incline his head in agreement. “I suppose I am.”

“Who are you talking about?” Mr. Monk asked his son.

“Don’t you remember, Father? He was in the news about a year ago. He saved the Irish potato crop from blight.”

Mr. Monk’s dour countenance screwed up. “You’re that Mr. Quigley?”

The disparagement in his tone rankled Asher. “I take it you don’t approve of my actions.”

“Nay, I certainly do not,” Mr. Monk brayed. “You’re meddling with nature. No good can come of that. None at all.” He thumped his walking stick on the floor several times to emphasize his point.

“Well, I think several thousand Irish would disagree with that sentiment,” Asher drawled, not bothering to hide his contempt.

The old man’s expression soured. Using his stick, he heaved to his feet. “Thank you for the tea, Miss Lambkin, but I won’t stay any longer.”

Dorian blinked and rocked back in his seat. “I say, Father. We’ve only just arrived. I was hoping…” He trailed off, darting a glance at Minerva.

“Never mind that,” Mr. Monk snapped. “Take me home. I’ve wasted enough time as it is.” Not waiting, he stalked out the room.

Red-faced, Dorian followed, sending an imploring look in Minerva’s direction as he left.

“Charming friends you have,” Asher said as soon as they were alone. “Especially the elder Mr. Monk.”

“I don’t know if you can call Mr. Monk that.” Minerva busied herself tidying up the tea tray. “He’s more our landlord than our friend.”

“Landlord? How on earth did that happen? I always thought this house belonged to Silas.”

“Father had more debts than he could handle. He was forced to mortgage this house. To Mr. Monk.”

Asher groaned inwardly. Was there no end to Silas’s folly? Not content with ruining himself, he had now put his own daughter’s future in jeopardy.

“Silas should have chosen more wisely. Mr. Monk looks every bit the miserly rogue.”

Minerva moved to the fireplace and jabbed the fire with the poker. “Don’t let his vagabond appearance fool you. Mr. Monk is one of the richest men in Manchester. He owns several big cotton mills and employs hundreds of people.”

He snorted. “That does nothing to ease my disquiet.”

She released a soft sigh. “I believe Mr. Monk is basically an honorable man. I must believe it. Father is behind on his interest payments. So far, Mr. Monk has been extremely patient, but who knows how long that will last?” She gazed pensively at the flames, the flickering firelight gilding the curve of her cheek.

A hard knot formed in Asher’s stomach as several repulsive thoughts assailed him. Was Mr. Monk’s patience linked to the way his son looked at Minerva? She was no ingenue. Surely she must be aware of Dorian’s admiration. Perhaps she even…encouraged it? The idea made his stomach twist even tighter.

“Perhaps you hold the key to that patience,” he blurted out.

She stiffened, her face fluctuating as several strong emotions played through her. Surprise, disgust and finally anger.

“You mean Dorian Monk. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by your suspicion.” The planes of her face harshened. “After all, you did once call me a whore.”

The words struck him like a blow across the head. He flinched, gasping for air. All at once he was on the back foot. “You—I—” He sucked in a full breath. “When I used that term, I was…intemperate. I didn’t consider my words. I regret saying it. Immensely.”

She drew herself to her full height, her expression aloof. With the leaping flames behind her and the iron poker in her hand, she looked like an avenging angel, the firelight melting gold and red across her skin and hair.

“What’s done is done. I’ve no interest in revisiting the past.” Her composure suddenly crumbling, she threw aside the poker and hurried toward the door. “Please excuse me. I—I have to see to…the laundry.”

Damnation! Asher thumped his fist into the palm of his hand. Minerva was upset, and he was the cause. He didn’t know why that should disturb him so much, but it did. When he’d discovered Silas’s duplicity just two days after his euphoric night with Minerva, her reaction had dumbfounded him. First she had refused to believe her father would do such a thing. Then she had started making excuses for Silas, defending him. That was when Asher’s fury had spilled over. He’d been deceived by both father and daughter. She’d lied to him. She couldn’t love him. She must have slept with him merely to distract him from her father’s machinations. She was no better than a whore. So he had ranted at her, sick and shriveled to the core, and in response she had winced and bowed her head, as if acknowledging the truth of his barbs.

Five years ago he’d been convinced, but now? Did he still believe she was nothing but a cold-hearted tramp? She couldn’t be, or she would have become Mrs. Dorian Monk by now, jaunting about in her new curricle. No, with the clarity of hindsight, he knew there was nothing mercenary about her. Nor could she have been aware of Silas’s plans. He believed that now. But still, when push came to shove, she had chosen her father over him. She’d given him up so easily, without a fight… He had meant so little to her.

Heartsore, he stared out the window at the freezing rain tumbling from the filthy skies. It was a miserable day outside, but he could no longer bear to be inside this house.

As he strode across to the door, Hetty scurried into the parlor. “Oh, excuse me, Mr. Quigley. I only came to take the tea things.”

“Tell your mistress I will be away this afternoon and not to expect me back until dinnertime,” he flung over his shoulder as he exited.

He had to do something, anything, to distract himself from these damned vexatious feelings inside him.





                      Chapter Five

Although it was almost ten and she was exhausted, Minerva knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Taking her lamp, she mounted the stairs to her little attic workshop. There, she tied a leather apron over her dress and sat down at her workbench, hoping to find some peace in her work. The house was hushed, except for the odd patter of rain on the roof. The maid had long since retired, and she knew not where Asher was.