Free Quicksilver by Amanda Quick Page A

said. She removed her bonnet and stepped into the hall. “It is his own fault. He did not send word that he intended to call this afternoon.”
    “I invited him to wait in the parlor and offered tea, but he declined,” Mrs. Crofton said. “He and his carriage have been standing in the street for nearly forty-five minutes.”
    “I understand, Mrs. Crofton.” Virginia put some steel into her words. “You may serve tea to him now. We will be in my study.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Crofton took Owen’s hat and gloves with a solicitous air. “I have some tarts fresh out of the oven that will go nicely with the tea.”
    Owen smiled at her. “That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Crofton. I haven’t eaten in hours.”
    Mrs. Crofton beamed and sailed away in the direction of the kitchen.
    Owen followed Virginia down the hall. This was only his second time on the premises, but she was acutely aware that he seemed very much at ease in her house now, as if he were in the home of a longtime friend. Or the home of his lover. Where in blazes had that thought come from? She had obviously spent far too much time discussing treatments for female hysteria with Charlotte today.
    “Your housekeeper is an interesting woman,” Owen said. He sounded amused.
    “I’m afraid Mrs. Crofton does not really approve of me,” Virginia confided as she led the way into the study. “She has recently come down in the world, you see. Her previous employer was a wealthy woman who moved in exclusive circles. Sadly, the lady was somewhat absentminded. She died owing her staff several quarters’ worth of back wages.”
    “Let me hazard a guess. The heirs saw no reason to pay the back wages.”
    “No. Poor Mrs. Crofton found herself without funds and without a post. She was obliged to accept the first position that came along. I’m afraid the post was in the household of a woman who not only conducts business but often does so at night.”
    “You.”
    “Indeed.” Virginia sat down behind her desk.
    Owen lowered himself into one of the reading chairs with a fluid, masculine grace that struck Virginia as decidedly sensual. She realized that he had brought an aura of energy into the room that stirred her senses.
    “Have you considered letting Mrs. Crofton go and perhaps replacing her with an employee who might not be so concerned with her own social status?” he asked.
    She took a grip on her overheated imagination and forced herself to pay attention to the conversation.
    “That would be quite impossible,” she explained. “Those in service are every bit as concerned with their social standing as those who move in society. Besides, Mrs. Crofton is an excellent housekeeper. I am very fortunate to have her.”
    Laughter glittered in Owen’s eyes. “I have the impression she is well aware of that.”
    Virginia sighed. “Yes, and there is no doubt but that she can do better than this household. In fact, between you and me, I am quite certain that I will not have her much longer.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “She received a letter earlier this week. I could not help but notice the return address. The letter was from the Billings Agency. That is the agency that sent her to me. I have a feeling that Mrs. Billings now has a better post to offer Mrs. Crofton. But enough of my domestic problems. Did you learn anything when you examined the clockwork carriage?”
    “A few things,” he said, “but I’m not sure any will prove helpful. The quality of the materials used to construct the device and the fine detailing are reminiscent of some of the elaborate clockwork curiosities crafted during the Renaissance. That leads me to believe that the person who created the carriage considers himself to be a true artist.”
    “But the carriage is a weapon, not a work of art.”
    “The distinction between the artist and the armorer has not always been obvious. During the Renaissance, fine weapons were produced that were also masterpieces of craftsmanship.