Page 1 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

Chapter One

Start with a Bang

Agremon House, Berkeley Street, Mayfair, Westminster, 1832

Even if Stella hadn’t heard the distant rumble or felt the shift of the chair beneath her derriere, she knew an explosion had occurred in her husband’s workshop when the portrait of Admiral Pulteney Malcolm slid down the silk-covered parlor wall and hit the floor with a thud.

This was the third time it had happened since she and her husband had taken up residence in the Berkeley Street townhouse formerly owned by the Earl of Fenwick.

The carved wooden frame surrounding the painting survived the fall, but the tiny Roman glass vessel atop the fireplace mantel did not. Stella watched in horror as the iridescent blue perfume bottle rocked back and forth, tumbled over, and rolled off the marble surround. Shattering on the hearth, its fragments scattered onto the Turkish carpeting and into the fireplace.

“Oh, no,” she cried out, slamming shut the ledger she had been updating for her quaint bookshop in Ave Maria Lane. “That was one of my favorites,” she complained, tossing aside the quill she had been holding as she came to her feet and rushed out of the parlor.

Her first thought when such an incident transpired was usually concern for her husband’s welfare, which was ridiculous considering that as an Immortal he couldn’t die. At least, not die and stay dead.

He always came back to life.

However, if he was seriously injured by such an event, it sometimes took a few minutes for his wounds to heal—a frightening sight should someone besides herself reach him first. But her more immediate concern was for the apprentice he had taken under his wing, a young blacksmith who shared his vision for developing a reliable means of personal transport that didn’t require a horse.

Holding her skirts up to her knees while cursing the current fashion of wider skirts—why couldn’t they have remained in the Grecian style for a few more decades?—she hurried down the stairs, nearly colliding with one of the housemaids outside the dining room. The poor girl’s brown eyes were wide with fright.

“Miss Baker, did anything break down here?” Stella asked, her gaze darting left and right to determine the marble bust–topped caryatids lining the hall were all upright, as was the marble statue of Venus. The chandelier above still moved about in an elliptical pattern, its crystal drops tinkling softly.

“Not that I heard, ma’am,” the housemaid replied, her face conveying worry.

“It will be fine, Baker,” Stella said, managing a reassuring grin. “It merely means Mr. Agremon has made progress.” She continued on down the corridor and had nearly made it past the doors to the kitchens and the housekeeper’s and butler’s offices when the cook stepped in front of her, a meat cleaver clutched in one hand.

“He’s going to kill us all!” the chubby woman claimed, her rosy cheeks redder than usual. Curly orange hair surrounded her round face but was otherwise covered with a mobcap. Her white apron was stained red down the front, and a quick glance into the kitchen proved she had been using the weapon to hack apart a large piece of beef.

“Oh, Mrs. Crabbe, we’ll all be fine,” Stella said, stepping around the servant so she could continue to the end of the corridor where the last door led into the workshop.

After their purchase of the fashionable townhouse the year before, her husband, Darius, had commissioned a rear wing to be built onto the back of it to accommodate a workshop, accessible from the main corridor, and a laundry off the kitchens. With its brick exterior covered with faux marble stucco, the rear wing looked as if it had always been part of the house. Even the slanted roof was covered in slate tiles matching those atop the four-story structure.

The fact that it took up nearly half of the back garden meant there wasn’t room for much more than a small wrought iron table and chairs, the kitchen garden, and a series of rose bushes along the property’s perimeter.

Black smoke still billowed about as Stella surveyed the scene, and she experienced a moment of relief when she discovered the large double doors leading to the back of the property and the mews beyond had been opened. Pulling a hanky from her pocket, she held it over her nose and mouth as she gingerly made her way over the tile floor, careful not to step on anything—or anyone.

“Darius?” she called out.

“He’s over here, ma’am.”

Relief settled over Stella at hearing the young man’s voice. The blacksmith had only been working with her husband for a few months, but this was his second time being present for an explosion. “Mr. Thompson, are you hurt?” she asked with worry. She made her way around a four-wheeled contraption that took up nearly half of the available space in the workshop.

“I’m all right, Mrs. Agremon, but I’m not so sure about Mr. Agremon.” He coughed and fanned the air in an effort to clear away the sooty smoke. “He appears to be breathing, ma’am.”

“You’re quite sure you’re not hurt?” she asked again.

“I wasn’t actually in the shop when the engine gave way,” Angus Thompson explained. He waved in the direction of the open door. “I was out havin’ a smoke. I think the sound of the blast may have spooked the horses.” The unmistakable snorts and neighs of horses could he heard coming from the mews.

Stella stopped short at seeing Darius lying on his back, his face black with soot. “Could you go out to stable and make sure Mr. Stover and the horses are all right?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Angus replied.

Once the blacksmith had disappeared by way of the open door, Stella turned her attention to her prone husband. The protective overalls he wore over his clothes were blackened, but his limbs all seemed to be attached, and she was counting his fingers when his eyes suddenly opened and he inhaled deeply. She stepped back as he quickly sat up and blinked several times.

“Damnation,” he muttered. He held out a hand, and Stella was quick to help him to his feet. At just over six feet tall and possessing the physique of a pugilist, Darius towered over her petite frame.

“Are you all right, darling?” Stella asked, still examining him for injuries. If he had suffered any cuts, they would heal within minutes. If any of his fingers were missing, they would regenerate in a few hours.