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“What’s it about then?”
“Speed and ease of travel. Lowering prices on coal and commodities. My steam-powered engines will run on the railways, but I’m also developing fire engines. Someone has to stop these fires from sweeping across London every year, killing hundreds and ruining countless livelihoods. The current system isn’t adequate. Those dilapidated old hand-pumped engines.”
It made him so angry that the parish fire brigades still insisted their way was the best.
He was going to show them. He knew that there was talk of consolidating all of the brigades into a citywide one. And he would be ready with his more efficient fire engine when that happened.
“S’that right? Noble cause, eh?”
“Very noble.”
“But profitable.”
“Extremely profitable. If you won’t let the railway through, why don’t you sell me Westbury? It’s only a moldering pile of drafty stones with an army of ghosts. I’ll pay triple what anyone else would.”
West shook his head. “Been in my family too long. I’ve a sentimental attachment to it. Had my first tup there, with a buxom village maid.”
“Sell it to me. No one else will buy it.”
“No.”
“No?” Edgar hadn’t expected so much resistance. This was a former friend. His best friend before Edgar had thrown his old life away.
“You’ve been back in London for nearly two years and you’ve never called on me,” said West. “Not once. After the... incident... with your father, you just disappeared. What happened to you? Where have you been all these years?”
Now Edgar understood—West was hurt by him leaving. “I’m sorry, old friend. I’m not the same devil-may-care fellow I was when I left. I didn’t think you’d want anything to do with me. I renounced my birth. Went underground. Spent seven years as a foundry worker in Birmingham and wasn’t even planning to ever return. I know what they say about me. That I’m not fit to be the duke.”
West slammed down his mug of ale. “You’re joking. A foundry worker?”
Edgar tugged off one of his kidskin gloves and showed West the scars on his hands. “It wasn’t easy, but it was a damned sight more of an honest life than the one I led here.”
“Everyone said you’d gone soft in the head. I didn’t believe them but now...”
“Believe what you want,” Edgar sighed. “But let my railway go through your estate. Or sell me the damned estate. What can I do to convince you?”
“I’ve no need for money. You know what I do need, though?” He stared into his ale morosely. “A husband.”
“Er...” Maybe West had changed more than Edgar had realized in the decade since their last meeting.
“For Blanche,” West amended. “Remember her?”
“This high,” Edgar swiped the air at his waist. “Straw-colored hair. A penchant for sweetmeats?”
“That’s the one. Only she’s nineteen now, and she’s got a penchant for marriage. I’ve got a surfeit of marriage-aged sisters on my hands.”
Edgar shook his head. “Not going to happen.”
“What’s not going to happen? I haven’t asked you anything yet.”
“While your sisters are lovely girls, I’m not going to take one of them off your hands.”
“Who said I want you to marry one of ’em? You don’t have the most spotless of reputations at the moment, y’know.”
“I suppose you’re referring to my children?”
“Twins, are they?”
“A boy and a girl.”
