With a great huff, Helena tossed her leaf-strewn plait over her shoulder and planted fists on either hip. “You can’t fall in love with that brown-eyed charmer, Maggie. You just can’t! Do you hear me? It’s expressly forbidden. Because if you fall in love, you’ll want to get married. And if you get married, you’ll have to resign. And then everything will change, and we’ll never see you again. So you see, you just can’t fall in love, because it would absolutely ruin completely everything!” All steam expended, Helena released a garbled hiccup.
Margaret blinked.Fall in love? Brown-eyed charmer?Had Helena had an accident with one of her mushroom specimens? She turned her gaze on Jane, whose face remained impassive. “Explain.”
Jane sighed. “I observed something at the ball, and Helena isn’t taking it well.”
“And that observation would be what, exactly?”
“That Mr. Noble fancies you, Maggie.”
Her forehead scrunched. Fancy ...her? Mr. Noble? “There are myriad definitions of the wordfancy. I’ll need you to be more specific.” For, surely, Jane could not mean—
“Mr. Noble fancies you in accordance with the definition provided by the Oxford English Dictionary. A verb, meaning ‘to find romantically attractive’, e.g., ‘Mr. Noble has taken quite a fancy to Lady Margaret Kingsley.’”
Romantically? Attract—no, no. She’d not even think the other word. “You cannot be serious. Mr. Noble isn’t ... no man could ever ...” Margaret shook her head and rolled toward her workshop, suddenly overcome by the need to tinker. “You’re mistaken, Jane.”
Footsteps indicated a swift pursuit. “I’m not mistaken. Have you not noticed how the man looks at you, Maggie?”
No, Margaret hadn’t noticedhowMr. Noble looked at her—just that he actually lookedather. Not at her chair as though she were naught but a piece of furniture. Not skimming over her head as though she were a bothersome child underfoot. Not straight through her as though she were nothing at all. Not evasively, gaze hovering just over her shoulder, as though to fix upon the sight of her was physically painful. He just looked ather. Was that what made Jane think his feelings were more than mere kindness?
She zoomed into her workshop with celerity and picked up the first tool in reach. A pair of pliers, which she immediately employed in prying open a machine. “Mr. Noble is nice. That’s all.”
Helena stomped after her with Flopsy now swinging from her satchel. “Niceness doesn’t make a person blush, and Jane said she distinctly saw him blush as soon as he set eyes on you.”
The pliers froze in Margaret’s grasp.
“And that his eyes twinkled every time you spoke.”
Margaret gnawed on her lip.
“And that when you left the room, his gaze followed after you as though utterly transfixed.”
She swallowed, not daring to look up from her machine and pliers. Apparently, Jane had done as much spying from the doorway as she had standing guard before it. “Is this true, Jane? Did you say these absurd things?”
Jane knelt before her, forcing Margaret to meet her blue eyes. “I merely said what I observed firsthand. The sight of you brought Mr. Noble great delight. A delight that was not duplicated when he was in the company of your fellow lady inspectors.”
Unaccountably, Margaret’s heart rate accelerated. She’d never known Jane to speak a falsehood. Therefore, her observations must be true. But that didn’t mean her analysis of what she’d observed was accurate. Jane’s early childhood had been spent around the theater, where her mother had worked as an actress. Was it possible her friend had transposed theatrical notions of romance onto a congenial conversation? “I don’t know, Jane. Your theory seems conjectural.”
“Then conduct a scientific experiment to prove my theory. When you meet with Mr. Noble again, make the most ridiculous of requests and then bat your lashes. If he grants your request, my theory is sound.”
Margaret gaped. “You wish me to bat my lashes ... for science?”
Kneeling with a huff, Helena glared at Jane. “That sort of experiment wouldn’t be conclusive even if it were scientific. Besides, the man’s feelings are irrelevant, because Maggie is not going to fall in love. None of us are. We’re going to cling to our spinsterhood and remain together. Just as we are. Lady inspectors for the Daughters of Genius Society.” She placed her satchel on Margaret’s lap. “Promise, Maggie. Promise asolemn oath on Flopsy Cottontail’s hallowed ears that you won’t fall in love.”
“Promise you’ll try the experiment,” Jane countered.
Margaret looked between her friends, separated by matters of scientific theory and a white lop-eared rabbit. “Fine. I promise to try the so-called experiment.” Helena sighed in exasperation as Jane raised a fist. Placing a hand on Jane’s fist, Margaret gently lowered the presumptuous gesture of victory. “I’m only agreeing as a means of assuaging Helena’s concerns when you’re proven wrong, Jane. Regardless of the outcome, I won’t promise to consider the experiment legitimate or the results scientifically conclusive. And before you pipe up again, Helena, I shan’t bother promising not to fall in love either.”
Because the notion of any man fancying her, let alone falling in love with her, defied logic.
Chapter
20
Charles was not going to make a fool of himself. He would conduct himself with the utmost professionalism. A lady inspector was simply coming by his place of work to conduct a secret investigation. She was not coming to see him. Though he couldn’t quite suppress a grin at the thought of seeing her again. Lady Margaret Kingsley. A reverie among women. Oblivious to the ardent feelings of mere mortals. Pah, did a rose take note of the admiration of men? Never, too occupied was it with the opus of blooming.
Placing a single blushing rose in a glass beaker he’d found shelved with the factory supplies, Charles set it on his desk. All right, so he’d gone a little out of his way this morning to purchase the rose from a flower girl in the hopes it might make Lady Margaret smile. But aside from that—and the romantic musings that had just gamboled across his mind like a composer giddy on his own melodies—he was not going to make a fool of himself. Sense, not sensibility, would mark his actions today. Starting right now.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Noble.”
