Page 9 of Let Me Be Your Hero
She reached up to pat it, and surely enough, her coiffure was listing to the side. “I’ll say I snagged it on a tree.”
He nodded. “That will serve.”
He offered her his arm, and they headed toward the sound of the voices calling out for her. As they neared the front of the gardens, Vauxhall’s famous lamps began blinking at them through the trees, making it easier to see.
As they emerged into the crossing of two paths, Isabella saw her mother and sister, Lucy.
Her mother stalked over, steam all but shooting from her ears. “There you are! I told you to stay away from the dark walks!”
“I’m sorry, Mama. I got a bit turned around, and—”
Her mother cast her eyes heavenward. “A bit turned around, my foot. You’ve been missing for half an hour!”
Izzie was opening her mouth to make some excuse when Archibald laid his hand upon her arm, which was linked with his.
“I came upon Lady Isabella toward the back of the gardens. Her hair was badly snared on a branch.” He nodded toward her ruined coiffure. “Even with me there to help, it took some minutes to disentangle her. I am so sorry that you were worried.”
Izzie glanced up at him in surprise. He had covered for her. She doubted her mother would have believed the excuse had she uttered it.
But Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy’s reputation was much more upstanding. And everyone was feeling warmly toward him right now for his willingness to offer for Cecilia Chenoweth when her reputation had been in shreds.
Surely enough, her mother’s posture eased, and Izzie could almost see the indignation go out of her. She rubbed her brow. “If there is trouble to be found, my Isabella will always manage to find it.”
“I’m sorry, Mama. I was actually quite scared when I realized where I was. You cannot imagine my relief when I saw that Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy was the one who had found me.”
She held his eye as she said this, hoping he would see it was the truth.
“Thank you, sir,” the countess said. “You have performed yet another great service for us.”
The rest of her family had drifted up. Toward the back of the group, she saw the Duke of Trevissick with Cecilia Chenoweth on his arm. They were gazing at each other, lost to the world around them.
Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy’s arm stiffened beneath hers. She glanced up, and his mournful expression confirmed her suspicions that Ceci had accepted the duke’s proposal over his.
He cleared his throat. “Well, then. I’ll turn you over to your family.”
He started to withdraw his arm, but Izzie instinctively clung to it. She did not like the idea of him being left alone when he was feeling low.
Her mother’s expression was arch. “I think it would be better if you walked out with us.”
Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy kept his eyes fixed on the ground. “All right, then. Thank you.”
They left the gardens together.
CHAPTER 5
Late the following afternoon, Archibald was working in his machine shop when he received an unexpected caller.
Jimmy, a thirteen-year-old boy who worked as an apprentice metalsmith, was the one to announce him. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy, sir. But there’s someone here to see you.” Jimmy leaned in. “Says he’s a duke.” He wrinkled his nose, giving the impression that he didn’t really believe it.
Archibald grabbed a rag and began wiping his hands. “Thank you, Jimmy.”
He might as well talk to whoever this was, duke or otherwise. God knew he wasn’t getting a damned thing done today. He usually liked nothing better than finding a few hours to work in his machine shop. Britain had been at war with France for more than a decade, which was excellent for business when you ran an iron works. But it was dull from an engineering perspective. His grandfather had been the one to master the art of boring cannons out of a solid piece of metal, so they were both more accurate and less prone to exploding when in use. Nettlethorpe Iron made the best cannons in the world, and everyone wanted them.
But Archibald had so many ideas. He wanted to build ships out of iron, and bridges out of iron, like the one built at Coalbrookdale the year he was born. But most of all, he wanted to build machines, machines that would build… Well, everything, from screws to locks to steam engines. Machines that would build thingsprecisely.
Instead, he built cannons, cannons, and more cannons.
He therefore treasured those scant hours when he could slip away from the forge floor to work on the projects that truly interested him. But today, he wasn’t good for much of anything. He could think of nothing but Isabella Astley. He’d almost taken the skin off his thumb with an eighteen-inch file, a tool he normally handled as deftly as an Italian master wielded his brush. Clearly, he needed a break.
