It’s #bookqw and our heroine has her ‘eye’ on the mysterious villain.
More from Chapter 1:
Making a little huffing noise, Polly turned and peered at the framed engravings of Mr. Shearing’s machinery, all from the advertisement illustrations Annmar had rendered. Several were missing, the ones submitted to the New Works Competition. He’d embarrassed Annmar by sending only hers and not any from other illustrators at Rennet’s. His farm machines would make it into the next round—or not—based on her drawings.
Eyes wide, Polly clasped Annmar’s arm. “Oh, my Lord. I have no interest at all in machines, yet these feel…I don’t know, like a bull poised to charge, but by way of some sort of magical workings.” She gestured to the printed initials—AM—at the edge of a reaper illustration. “How can you draw a machine that seems so real? Alive, even?”
Annmar shrugged. She had no idea what made her drawings different, but she explained it off like she always did: “It’s just the flow of the lines, as Mother taught me.”
Polly shook her head and dropped her voice even more. “No wonder he’s plotting to secure your skills exclusively for his business. You must insist you don’t want the shop before the competition announcement.”
A wave of foreboding coursed through Annmar. Polly might have discovered the reason for Mr. Shearing’s recent persistence. If he won, the additional business meant funds to advance more inventions, and their advertisement. The demonstrations of the finalists’ machines were tonight, the announcement of the competition winners two nights from now, time enough to make the newspapers. The real ones.
She had to say no, and say it firmly and businesslike—not ladylike—before her choices were no longer her own.
The door to the factory opened, admitting a brief racket and Mr. Shearing. Broad-shouldered and fit, save for the slight paunch visible when he removed his custom-tailored, dark green coat, he stood a head taller than her five and a half feet. The businessman kept his waves of dark hair neatly trimmed and his strong jaw clean-shaven. Though not a dandy, he dressed well, in the appearance of Derby’s prosperous merchants, down to the black gloves he was tugging into place. One covered a hideous scar she’d once caught sight of and hadn’t forgotten, yet she’d never dared to ask its origin.
He greeted them with a pleased smile.
Dismissing her knotted stomach, Annmar extended her gloved hand in a practiced motion. “Good morning, Mr. Shearing.”
He clasped her hand, and his gaze dropped briefly, as it always did, to her bosom.
His unseemly glances no longer made her twitch. But given his unwanted attention, she still wore unfashionable, high-necked mourning blouses in maroon with dark skirts, though it had been a full year since her mother’s death.
“Good day to you, Miss Masterson.” Mr. Shearing tipped his head to Annmar and turned to assess Polly. “And to your companion, Miss…”
“Porter,” they answered in unison.
“We’re on our way to work,” Annmar added. “I’ve brought the changes to your latest illustration. Mrs. Rennet wishes to send it to the engravers this morning to meet the Mercury’s deadline.”
“Timely, our Mrs. Rennet. Please come in, and we’ll take a look.” He led them into his private domain with its large walnut desk, sturdy chair and piles of orders and invoices. With Polly along this time, the door stayed open.
Mr. Shearing spread the illustration over a side table and bent to study the fine pencil lines. Properly apart from him, Annmar waited, stock-still, yet her weight was balanced on her toes in case she had to take a step back. She forced her gaze to the drawing, but movement caught her eye, as it always did.
Businesslike, she reminded herself, but nonetheless, vines rippled down from the waves of Mr. Shearing’s nearly black hair. Leaves burst forth, and the tendrils spun like miniature gears—
No, that isn’t right. Mr. Shearing did not sport twining plants, any more than vegetation sprouted gears. Annmar dashed her hand across her eyes to dispel the image.
Polly nudged her. Annmar jerked her gaze to her friend. Polly saw nothing amiss with the man’s hair. No one ever saw what Annmar did on Mr. Shearing or, more commonly, in the wild places along the River Derwent. Her fanciful imagination seemed destined to get her in trouble.
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It’s the first of a serialized novel. Read more about the trilogy here.
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