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Chapter One
February 1850
Financial District, City of London
Nicholas Irons ignored the knock for a few more seconds, focusing instead on the unpolished marble rock cradled in his palms. The size of an orange, it was cold and heavy, and helped him feel anchored. His thumb ran over his favorite jagged spot, the familiar protrusion slightly sharp.
It hailed from a quarry in the Ottoman Empire, a few hours from his birth city of Constantinople. He had been but a few years old when his family fled the massacres against the Greek population, and his parents had brought the white-and-grey veined rock to England as a reminder of their homeland. From the time Nicholas was a boy, he had felt more at peace when he held it.
After a sigh, he resettled the marble onto its piece of velvet and closed the desk drawer.
“Enter,” he called out to his clerk, having recognized his polite knock.
Mr. Tate came into the office, then flattened himself against the closed door. “TheAmericansare here!”
Nicholas frowned, searching his memory. “Not that clipper captain?”
Mr. Tate’s eyes flared. “And hissister! I informed Captain Miller that we received his missive and his proposal was not of interest. However, I must admit, sir, that I overlooked sending the reply we had discussed. I explained that to him, with my apologies.”
Nicholas rubbed his forehead.
“He still insists on seeingyou, Mr. Irons. I stated repeatedly that such a meeting isn’t possible. Not today.”
Nicholas raised an eyebrow. “Yet…”
“They refuse to depart. And the engineer has arrived! He’s setting up his model. I’ve sent word to Lord Anterleigh.”
Satisfied, Nicholas nodded. “At last, we’ll lay eyes on the grand plan. This should prove interesting.” He lifted a stack of documents. “I’ve finished with these. See them delivered.”
“Of course. Straight away.”
“I wish to speak with the engineer before Lord Anterleigh arrives.”
“Yes, sir. And the”—he looked around before whispering—“Americans?”
Unable to sit any longer after long hours at his desk, Nicholas stood, rolling his muscled shoulders. “I’ll dispatch them myself.”
The clerk picked up the documents, waggling them in the air on his way out the door.
Nicholas stretched before going in search of the interlopers. They weren’t in the large, open room where a dozen employees toiled at desks covered with ledgers and inkwells. He strode toward the entry hall. With luck, the unwanted visitors had accepted their fate and departed already, saving him time and trouble.
No such luck.
Nicholas stopped in his tracks outside the boardroom.
“This is all to scale, you say?” The man spoke fast, his accent at once flat and harsh—American.
“It is, it is,” confirmed the Scottish waterwheel engineer, Adam Macalester.
“What’s the diameter of the wheel?”
“Eighty feet.”
The American whistled.
Where does he fancy himself to be? A barnyard?
“Hmm. That means the wheel itself is about six feet wide?”
