Seth longed for a cup of tea, especially after his earlier exertions, but he wasn’t confident that he could make his way to the table in the middle of the room without toppling over someone.
All the same, it was likely cold by now.
A large table took up a third of the room, displaying a long rifle complete with a line of shining brass cartridges and a stack of diagrams and schematics.
All were untouched.
“My apologies for keeping you waiting.” Seth bowed to the occupants in the room before standing next to the table. Cooper gave him a questioning glance. Seth responded with an incremental nod, and relief flashed over the other man’s face before being replaced with his trademark grin.
“Splendid,” Cooper said. “Now that we’re all present, let’s get straight to business.”
Matthew Cooper, Viscount Lincolnshire, was tall and slim. Twenty-six years old, he had a boyish appearance, worsened by his untamable mass of dark curls growing back haphazardly after being shorn close to the scalp. They had discovered early on that not only was styling longer hair an inconvenience; it was also highly flammable in their work setting. With Cooper’s return to society, he was determined to appear distinguished, though Seth doubted the man capable of it with his jovial nature and perpetual optimism.
Ultimately, it had been Cooper that broached the idea of competing in the rifle invention contest. In the spring, His Grace, Duke Frederick Kendall the Third, announced a nationwide contest—a call to all aspiring gunsmiths and inventors to design a long-range hunting rifle, the best that the kingdom could offer. Earl Bolderwood would hand-select three finalists, and invite them to showcase the capabilities of their creations during his annual hunting party. The winner would receive an unseemly ten thousand pounds, and a mystery prize—rumored to be of even greater value—to be announced at the conclusion of the competition.
The news spread through thetonlike wildfire.
At first, Seth wanted nothing to do with it.
As a sapper with the Royal Engineers, he had drafted designs for cannons and mortars to aid in the ongoing war against Napoleon. With his military experience and an exacting memory recall, he had plenty of ideas on how onecouldwin the competition, but he had no interest in arms manufacturing. He wanted to build houses or bridges. Something that would last.
A safe trade that wouldn’t get him shot at.
Even so… ten thousand pounds! A fraction of that would be more than enough to purchase fertile land with a water source, far away from the inescapable crowds of titles and expectations. Somewhere that he could…be.An open space where he might lie in the grass and enjoy his nights under the stars.
Even if he couldn’t sleep through them.
He couldn’t compete with nobles with their riches and resources. But… what was the harm in drafting out a design? To keep his skills sharpened and clear his head? Soothed by the mathematical equations and a steady scratch of charcoal against parchment. Nothing more than flexing a muscle.
Over drinks, Seth presented a rough draft to Cooper. Only a thought exercise of ‘what if?’ But after an evening of poring over the draft—and pouring his fourth glass of brandy—Cooper experienced an epiphany, offered a genius suggestion, and proposed a partnership. In exchange for Seth’s labor and knowledge, Cooper would provide the space, the forge, and the funds. In the unlikely event that they won, they would split the winnings evenly.
Seth honestly hadn’t expected to make it to the semi-finals, with the villain from his childhood once again holding power over his fate.
In the chair next to Cooper, Earl Bolderwood’s broad frame strained against his armrests, a deep set scowl burrowed hard-lines into his face. In any other instance, the anger and impatience radiating off theman would have had Seth snap to attention, but it was difficult to be threatened by any man when his knees hit the table in front of him whenever he moved.
On the far side of the sofa sat a fawn-like but otherwise unremarkable man in a tan tweed suit. He peered curiously at the display over his shoulder. The boy looked to be no older than twenty, with an excited air about him, as if simply pleased to be invited along. Most likely a son from “Sanders & Sons,” a firm long employed by Lord Bolderwood. Seth hadn’t caught his name and didn’t care to learn it.
On the other side of the sofa sat Cooper’s solicitor, Mr. Hughes, crunching loudly on a biscuit. Seth had met Mr. Hughes before, in London, when he signed the contract to partner with Cooper. Specks of shortbread accumulated on his grey mustache and chest before he brushed them off with thick fingers onto the lap of the thoroughly displeased man next to him.
Shoulders and arms squeezed together in the middle, dressed in a burgundy velvet suit, Duke Kendall’s personal representative, Mr. Edgars sat with an expression of a cat caught out in the rain, sour and seething. He glared at the crumbs on his lap with disdain, and then redirected his irritation at Seth, the rifle next to him, and then Cooper.
Seth fought the urge to groan.
He hates it.
“Let’s not waste any further time.” Lord Bolderwood turned to Seth. His thick eyebrows cast a shadow over his face. “I’ve seen dozens of rifles this week, and yours is the worst by far. Lord Lincolnshire tells me it was fashioned from scrap metal in a barn.”
Seth shot a deadly look at Cooper, to which he replied with a sheepish expression. Why was this family so intent on self-sabotage? He tried to breathe evenly through his nose and not throttle his friend.
“Hardly fit for a duke,” Lord Bolderwood said.
“The rifle isn’t even in one piece.” Mr. Edgars moved to stand. “Look at it, it’s near split in half. I’m sure that we can all agree that—”
“Sit down,” Lord Bolderwood snapped. “I’m not finished.”
Cooper choked on a sip of tea. He coughed and cleared his throat. A grin slipped through his pursed lips. With his head down, he set the teacup on its saucer and carefully placed it on the table, safely away from the Earl. Cooper straightened, but the corners of his mouth remained raised.
Distinguished, indeed.
