He’d been out all afternoon and come back many hours later, damp to the skin and disinclined to talk. Over a stilted dinner, he’d told her he’d tracked down Mr. Grimlock. He had observed Grimlock supervising the unloading of her father’s belongings into a warehouse, and when everyone had left for the day, he had broken into the warehouse. He’d combed it from top to bottom, searching for a hidden cell where an abducted man might be held, but had found nothing. She’d been surprised by his diligence, but he’d gruffly waved away her thanks. After dinner, he had declined the port and gone directly upstairs to the guest room.
Minerva drew her tools toward her and tried to concentrate on the task at hand. She’d always found solace in her work. From a young age, she’d found it more natural to handle a soldering iron than a darning needle, and her indulgent father had abetted her curiosity, allowing her free access to his tools. She’d begun her learning by pulling apart and reassembling musical automata. The innards of these machines had intrigued her more than piano or tapestry or all the other arts a good woman ought to master. She’d long realized she wasn’t the kind of “good” woman most men would want for their wives. It didn’t bother her anymore. It was futile worrying about her lack of convention or her questionable social status. Just as it was futile thinking about Asher and wondering about what might have been…
A light tap at the door disturbed her reverie. “Who is it?” she called.
“It is I,” Asher’s voice came through the door. “May I come in?”
Her heartbeat stumbled. “Of course.”
He entered, still fully dressed and bringing in the fresh night scent of the outdoors. “I was taking a turn in the garden when I noticed your light was on. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I was curious about your workshop last night, so it’s only fair I allow you in here.”
He scouted the room, and somehow she intuited what he was thinking. Here, in this small neat room, while her father was away on business and they were alone in the house, he had told her he loved her, which had stunned her, and wished to marry her, which had astonished her even more. That same night, on her blue velvet chaise longue, she’d allowed herself to be swept up by her emotions, and she’d given him her maidenhood unreservedly. Along with her illusions, the chaise longue had long since disappeared. She’d gotten rid of that piece of furniture many years ago, unable to sit on it or even look at it.
“What are you working on?” he asked as he approached her bench.
His presence in this room disturbed her. Tiny tremors rippled down her back. She didn’t want to remember that night with him, but her body held the memory of his every caress indelibly imprinted on her skin like a tattoo.
She shook herself as she held out the piece she’d been working on, for his inspection. “It’s a new mechanical hand.”
“For Dorian Monk?”
She nodded. “His current prosthetic is mostly ornamental and not very useful. I hope to give him more movement with this one. I’m consulting with a surgeon to hopefully attach my device to Dorian’s own nerve endings and so give him complete control.”
He picked up the intricate contraption and examined it. “This is fine craftsmanship. And expensive materials. Isn’t this a zircon crystal?”
“He can afford to commission the best.”
“How did he lose his hand? He doesn’t seem like a soldier to me.”
“It happened in one of the Monks’ mills. A scavenger got her hair caught in the spinning mule. Dorian jumped in to free her, and his hand was crushed in the process.”
“He lost his hand saving a child?” Asher appeared reluctantly impressed.
“Dorian is a good man.”
Yes, Dorian had many admirable qualities, but he excited nothing in her beyond mild amity. Why was that? Why did he fade so quickly from her thoughts, especially when Asher was around?
Asher set down the mechanical hand and wandered round the room, distractedly picking up this object and that. She couldn’t help noticing his long legs and muscular shoulders as he moved about with animal grace. Like a restless tiger he paced, a single line grooved between his keen green eyes. Finally, he stopped.
“Minerva, why do you do this? Why do you remain with your father, after everything that’s happened?”
She drew in a swift breath. “You make it sound as if I have a choice.”
“Of course you have a choice. You don’t have to live like this—” he gesticulated about him, “—fending off disgruntled investors, tolerating grasping landlords, worrying about your safety. You’re young and intelligent and talented. You could set up your own business making these sorts of artificial limbs for paying clients. You could be independent, Minerva. You could be your own mistress.”
His grave sincerity made the blood flutter in her veins. Did he really care about her future? After everything that had happened?
“I’m twenty-five. Not that young for a woman. And have you ever heard of a female setting up such a business? I wager I wouldn’t get more than a handful of genuine customers in a year. Dorian comes to me more to humor me, I suspect, but the only people who seek my help are those who can’t afford to pay.”
“You think too little of your talents. I’m sure wherever Dorian Monk goes, people notice his hand and comment on it, and I’m sure he mentions your name wherever possible. People may be skeptical that a woman can deliver such excellence, but once they saw the remarkable innovation of your gadgets, they would soon be won over.”
No one had ever suggested such a possibility to her before. It seemed so propitious, and yet… Minerva shook her head. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It’s not easy. It would be a lot of hard work. But wouldn’t that be preferable to the situation you find yourself in now?”
She viewed her surroundings, and the truth of his words hit her hard. Even if she managed to rescue her father from his kidnapper, what then? Was she doomed forever to live in this kind of anxious limbo? Always worrying about her father’s imbroglios, always wondering what the next knock on the door would bring. Didn’t she deserve a life of her own?
“You’re suggesting I cut myself loose from my father.”
Asher sighed and hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat. “Let’s face facts. Silas will never reform. He will always be a gambler, a chancer, a cheat. He’s too old to change.”
She rubbed her fingers over her face, kneading the ache in her temples. The dream he’d spun for her melted away.
“I could never abandon my father, regardless of what he’s done.”
A line of frustration scored Asher’s forehead. “He doesn’t deserve your loyalty!”
“Oh, but he does. He’s the only family I have.” Agitated, she fidgeted with her tools. “I was only eight when my mother died. Father’s cousin Gertrude wanted him to send me to her, to work as a seamstress. He could so easily have said yes and washed his hands of me, but he didn’t. He kept me with him and saved me from a life of drudgery and ill health.” She sucked in a long breath and slowly exhaled. “Do you think I could ever forget that?”
His face altered. He moved closer, so she could see the tiny lines etched at the corners of his eyes. “You never told me this.”
He was near enough she could feel the warmth radiating off his body. His gentle tone scaled her defenses and made her throat tighten. An angry Asher she could handle, but a compassionate Asher was altogether more difficult.
She swallowed. “It’s not a pleasant memory.” The death of her mother had left her bereft and incapacitated. She’d been unable to eat, sleep or even speak. In response, her desperate father had treated her like a baby bird, swaddling her in blankets and spooning hot milk possets into her mouth, never leaving her until she recovered. Whenever she became exasperated by her father’s predicaments, whenever she felt like shouting at him in frustration—which happened with increasing frequency these past years—she had only to recall how he had nursed her back to life for her ire to lower.
“What of your mother’s family? Have you no relatives on that side either?”
Hesitating, she tinkered with the screwdriver on her bench. She’d never told him about her mother, but now she saw no reason to keep it secret. “My mother’s family cut her off when she eloped with my father. I scarcely know anything about them, except that they want nothing to do with me.” She raised her chin. “And I want nothing to do with them either. My father and I are alone in the world, but I prefer it.”
He was so close now she could see his pupils dilate, swamping her with an intense luster. “You are not alone, Minerva. I am here.”
She could scarcely breathe for the sudden pitching in her stomach. It was if she were in a dirigible plunging toward the earth.
“Does that mean you finally believe in my innocence?” she asked shakily.
His face contorted as he struggled with some inner turmoil. “I believe you. I believe you knew nothing of what your father planned. I believe you were as shocked as I was, when the truth came out.”