by Anne Renwick
Papa would not leave London before she wheedled him into surrendering to yet one more treatment.
Exhaustion flitted about the edges of her vision. It was late, and it had been a long, trying day. Sleep would mend much of her misery, and a day spent with her family should set the rest to rights. But before she could return home to lick her wounds, she needed to put the library to rights.
Carefully, she placed the jar of steeping mistletoe upon the floor beside the library’s great carved door. Her bent and crushed bustle clattered to the ground beside it. Brushing away the tears that kept escaping from her eyes and blurring her vision, she reached into her coat pocket for the iron key, only to have her fingers encounter the tin whistle the gypsy man had tossed to her.
The night had held such promise. Then, in the space of moments, it had disintegrated about her. An illusion without substance.
A lump in her throat threatened to choke her. She swallowed, hard, and squared her shoulders.
Ash could keep the useless mechanical squirrel. She hoped those red, beady eyes would stare at him in knowing accusation. A constant reminder of the night he’d undertaken to aid and awe a woman. Of the night he’d failed. Utterly and miserably.
Except he hadn’t. Not until he’d accused her of conducting a meaningless dalliance while planning to husband hunt high among society’s ranks.
Suspicion and mistrust had no place in any relationship. She huffed. Enough. Evie had no interest in shoring up a man’s self-worth.
Except.
She dropped her forehead against the solid library door and let tears trickle down over her cheeks. One by one they dropped to the floor. Her mental tirade wasn’t fair to Ash. She’d seen the pain and desolation on his face when she announced her intentions, and his resultant anger wasn’t entirely unjustified. All evening she’d known of Oxford’s offer, kept it hidden from him despite a nagging conscience and the certain knowledge that he’d wanted more than a short affair. Moreover, she knew of the blow a certain vicar’s daughter had once dealt to his heart, and Evie had made no effort to challenge his assumption that she might hold similar goals.
Ash was not the only one in the wrong. She too bore a certain responsibility for the disaster that the evening had become.
Ought she turn around, climb the stairs, lay bare her emotions, and see if they might repair the rift between them?
Yes.
But the hour grew late.
Or was it early?
Regardless, those books must be returned to their crates. How many had they emptied? Two? If she hurried, the task would not take long.
Fishing the iron key from her coat pocket, she jammed it into the keyhole. Twisted.
Click.
She gave the heavy door a shove. About to lift the precious mistletoe tonic, she froze. Hell’s bells.
Across the room, the fire snapped and crackled in the grate. Before it, Dr. Bracken reclined in a wingback chair twisting that horrid mustache about his finger. Beside him, Hardwicke’s Leechbook rested upon the table alongside the china teapot and cups. Most concerning, however, was the notebook propped upon his lap. It contained the entirety of the project she and Ash intended to present before the review committee.
With great attentiveness, Dr. Bracken perused its contents.
The sharp claws of a pteryform sank deep into her chest and squeezed.
“Do come in, Miss Brown,” he called, setting aside the notebook and rising. As if nothing were amiss. As if he’d not broken into the library. Not manufactured an explosive chemical to ensure the incendiary death of a competitive colleague. “We’ve much to discuss.”
Take tea with a murderer? Not a chance.
Stepping backward, she gathered up the length of her skirts, readying herself to run. Ought she dash down the stairs in the hopes that Mr. Black and Lord Thornton still lurked about the morgue? Or race for the door and take her chances in the streets?
“I’d rather not give chase, Miss Brown.” Dr. Bracken lifted the ancient manuscript and held it over leaping flames.
Heart in her throat, she froze. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, but I would.” There was no hesitation, no tension in his shoulders, no indication at all that he might be bluffing. “Given the hour, the date, and the reverence with which this text was laid out upon the table beside a most fascinating notebook, I gather you intend to further your career by incorporating the contents of this tome into this project you’ve formulated. Run, and I’ll destroy what must be a groundbreaking treatise on medieval medicine.” The hard edge of his voice bit to the bone.
“Don’t.” She was a fool. Bargaining for a book with a man willing to snuff out a life on Christmas Eve. Against her better judgment, Evie stepped inside the library and shoved the heavy, oak door closed with her backside, praying that security might notice the unusual flask of liquid and a woman’s bustle in the hallway and seek to investigate. Odds were, however, low.
Insides aquiver, she crossed the room.
Dr. Bracken replaced the manuscript, then assisted her with the removal of her old wool coat. As she perched upon the edge of the wingback chair, his gaze traveled over her disheveled form. Frowning, he tsked. “How very disappointing to find a grain of truth in the public’s perception. An airship captain’s daughter who, despite years of education and training, stoops low to rut with a gardener. One who, it seems,” he plucked a leaf from her tousled hair that she’d not yet pinned back into place, “could not be bothered to so much as spread a rough blanket upon the ground. I’d thought better of you.”
Indignant, Evie wanted to scream in protest, but—though her face burned—she’d not dignify his comments with a response. “If you’d wished to discuss my research project, you only needed to ask.” A lie, but one must appease such a man. “It’s a fledgling idea, one that would no doubt benefit from your expertise and insight.”
“That’s better.” He lowered himself into the chair across from her, perfectly at ease. Madness personified, yet every inch the gentleman, from his pressed trousers to his starched collar. A diamond pin winked from the deep folds of his silk cravat, neatly tucked beneath his double-breasted, brocade waistcoat. He tapped the cover of the notebook. “The data you’ve gathered here is enough to keep several scientists occupied for years.”
Unfortunately, it was also neatly penned and outlined. She’d all but tied it up with a bow.
Her skin prickled. “It is.”
“Do endeavor to explain why you’ve kept this bit of brilliance tucked away.” Dr. Bracken leaned forward. His eyebrows lifted and drew together, furrowing his brow. “When you well-knew I was looking to find exactly such a project.”
Heat gathered beneath her collar, all but choking her. She forced her eyes wide when all she wished to do was narrow them and spit at him in anger. “I directed your attention to ginger, did I not? It is a most promising plant.”
Disappointment twisted his lips. Did he expect her to pander to his ego and grovel? Most probably.
“My dear, you are not a trained scientist, merely a librarian. It is not your place—or a gardener’s—to judge which project might best suit my needs. You offered me a tiny dribble of information, when what you should have offered me was full and unrestricted access.” He snatched up the notebook and leaned backward, crossing a leg as he flipped through a few pages. “Here, the data is collated and cross-referenced, not merely suggesting the individual constituents of a single plant. Progress has been made correlating various recipes—including details of their preparations—with a variety of illnesses. A project of considerable complexity with the potential to transform the practice of medicine, tossing aside the nonsense of medieval magical beliefs to extract the active ingredients.”
To think Ash had accused her of trawling for a peer. What use had she of men who expected the world to serve them? Lazy was one of Dr. Bracken’s defining personality traits, though he was perfectly capable of innovative thought. He was bright, well-educated, and ha
d access to resources of which most men could only dream.
Including hers.
In the few short hours she’d spent with Ash away from the library, Bracken had divined the entirety of their plans and recognized their brilliance. Her stomach knotted for—she could see it in the flare of his eyes—he intended to take it for himself, use it to advance his faltering career.
With no conclusive proof of his guilt, would the Queen’s agents be able to press charges? Might he escape all blame? Would the board of the Lister Institute grasp the long-range and broad possibilities of the medicinal plant project, and convince themselves that there were no risks, only benefits, in appointing the chemist to the Hatton Chair?
“Many of these recipes are complex, which makes them perfect for investigation. Take this eye salve, for example.” Bracken read aloud from the notebook. “Onion or leek. Garlic. Wine. Ox gall. A brass vessel. Mix and let sit for nine days.” He smiled, smug. “A laboratory project easily conducted. We test the antimicrobial activity of all combinations in order to tease out any and all active ingredients. Brilliant.”
It was. Not that he would be claiming any of it for his own. But it would be ill-advised to rile a man prepared to eliminate the competition. She folded her hands in her lap and kept her thoughts to herself.
Dr. Bracken flipped a page, slowly shaking his head. “Mr. Lockwood is, without an advanced degree, a mere gardener. He is not the man to develop such a project, merely the one who should execute the commands as to which plants ought be grown. I, on the other hand, have the background for such an undertaking. As my wife—”
“Wife?” An icy dagger scraped down her spine.
Married, he would be within his rights to dictate and manage every aspect of her life. From the direction of the projects she worked upon to the conditions of their marital relations. Her skin crawled at the thought of his hands groping her bare flesh.
His features tightened. “Do endeavor to not interrupt, Miss Brown. As my wife, you would have been relieved of all the mundane responsibilities of a librarian.” He tugged a small box from inside his coat. Flicking open its lid, he stared at the glimmering emerald and diamond ring within, mournful. “But I cannot take a bride with such appalling restraint.” He snapped the box shut and tucked it away. “And you know too much.”
Evie’s heart pounded at the evil glint in his eye. Did he mean to do her harm? No, he couldn’t possibly. Nonetheless, she hastened to humor him. “You are, of course, correct. Take the notebook. Consider it my Christmas gift to you.”
“Thank you.” He poured a single cup of tea with a sigh, as if the task was too burdensome. “Alas, it is too little, too late.” From another pocket, he produced a small vial filled with a fine, white powder. He pulled the cork free and upended its contents into the teacup before setting it before her. “Consider my quandary. You’re an unusually intelligent female. I can’t let you walk free. But in the spirit of reciprocity and a nod to the holiday, I will offer you a choice as to how your corpse is found.”
“My corpse?” The words wheezed from her chest.
Dr. Bracken produced a pistol. Firelight glinted off the intricate, engraved scrollwork. “A woman traipsing about the streets alone in the dark of night. A wrong turn down a dark alleyway. Who would be surprised to learn of the horrible death she suffered refusing to hand over her purse to a common criminal?”
Spots appeared in her field of vision. She gripped the edge of the table, willing the numbness in her fingers to cease. Would informing him that the Queen’s agents had cause to question him help or hurt her cause? All pretense of charm had fallen away from Dr. Bracken’s face. His eyes were dead and cold. Hurt, she decided. If he knew Mr. Black was in pursuit, no one would ever find her corpse.
From the corner of her eyes, she cast about, looking for something—anything—she might wield in self-defense. “You’d chance ruining your sartorial splendor with a spray of blood?”
“I would.” His icy stare froze the blood in her veins. “Though hemlock is a rather slow-acting poison, it is painless. The better choice. They’d find your corpse here, slumped in a chair. Overcome with shame, Miss Brown took her own life. If questioned, I’ll inform the Queen’s agents of your flirtation with the gardener. Drop hints that he pressured you, suggest that your,” his lip curled, “disheveled state implies you were forced against your will. Who won’t believe that you took your life after such an assault? Either way, the project is mine.”
Rape.
She would be dead, and Ash would lose his position. The repercussions he would suffer would be far, far worse than any pain her heated words had already caused him. Alternatively, she could die alone, cast into the gutter of an obscure alley. Either way, her family would be devastated. Her hands began to shake.
Was there any hope of escaping this nightmare?
A distant blur of motion caught her eye.
Chapter Twelve
Finding the posey ring had taken far too long. Searching the ground had turned up nothing. Only when he’d straightened, close to abandoning hope, had he spied the glinting circlet, resting upon the broad leaf of a taro plant.
Ash had snatched it up, then stuffed his feet into his shoes and his arms into his coat. The streets of London weren’t safe at this hour and, though Evie would protest, he’d see her safely home.
He would apologize. On his knees—no—prostrate on the ground before her, all while begging her forgiveness for the horrible words he’d uttered, for the irreparable harm he’d done to any future they might have shared. She would, however, be within her rights never to speak to him again.
If so, then he would take himself off to drown his sorrows in a pint of wassail, heavy on the brandy.
Chit. Chit. Chit. The lump in his pocket shifted. He pulled out the clockwork squirrel with needle-sharp claws and honed incisors, flicking its nose. Mengri stared back with those horrid red eyes, alert but inactive. Until a command was called and a note played upon the tin whistle.
He frowned. Evie could take the cursed contraption, or he’d turn it over to the Rankine Institute for analysis and dissection.
The sound of his heavy, sorry footfalls echoed in the deserted hallway. Had she already left? No. There beside the library door sat the bottle of steeping mistletoe. His heart twisted at the memory of the kiss they’d shared in Hyde Park beneath the oak tree, one full of such promise. There was little hope he’d ever find Evie’s equal.
He pushed on the heavy door, grumbling about the non-existent library security. Then jerked to a halt, praising the man who had kept the hinges of the door well-oiled. Before the fire sat Bracken—with every ounce of his attention focused upon Evie.
This was why the Queen’s agents had been unable to locate their suspect. Somehow, Bracken had discovered both that she was not at home, and that she meant to pass the night here, in the library. He’d invaded her sanctuary and, finding her absent, made himself comfortable while awaiting her return.
Ash knew well how much she detested the man. What could have induced her to enter the library knowing he was present? Why did she sit so still, focused upon the cup of tea Bracken poured?
A single cup.
Something was very wrong.
Dropping down onto all fours, Ash crawled into the room, pushing the door gently closed behind him. Mengri scurried upward onto his back, nails digging through the wool of his coat and into flesh as they sought purchase. Crouching behind the massive circulation desk, he caught snatches of their conversation.
Bracken intended to claim all their work—the botanical list, the cross-referenced charts, the detailed reference—for himself. Along with any credit if—no, when—biochemical studies provided insight leading to a medical breakthrough.
Insults.
A pistol.
Hemlock tea.
And an implication of sexual assault.
Shit. Aether, the man was cold.
Meanwhile, his own blood boiled.
Ruining Ash�
��s future was nothing compared to what the man planned to do to the woman he loved. He wanted to tear the chemist limb from limb.
Ash considered his approach, clenching his teeth so hard bright spots flashed before his eyes. All he had in his possession was a small penknife. What to do?
Rush forward, fists raised?
No. With that pistol in hand, Bracken would shoot Evie long before Ash reached him.
Ought he run for the morgue to flag Mr. Black?
No. By the time they returned, it might well be too late.
Mengri.
Her coat—with its deep pocket and the gypsy’s tin whistle—was within arm’s reach. With one short note, the creature could be instructed to attack, subjecting Bracken to a world of chaos and pain. And handing the advantage of surprise to Ash.
Curling his lip, he pried the mechanical squirrel with its red, glowing eyes from his back. Setting the creature atop the desk, he willed the squirrel to chatter, for Evie to glance in the contraption’s direction. This had to work. He couldn’t lose her. Not like this.
“Certainly this situation need not be resolved by murder?” Evie’s voice shook, making Ash grind his teeth. “This ancient book is in Old English, a language I can easily read. I can help you.” She reached for Hardwicke’s Leechbook.
“Leave it.” Bracken’s voice was sharp. “It’s easy enough to find another translator. Drink, Miss Brown. Think of your family. It will be so much more tidy for them to find you here tomorrow morning…”
Enough. Ash rapped from the underside of the desk, attempting to rouse the contraption.
Chit. Chit. Chit.
“What was that?” There was a soft scrape, the sound of a man rising from his chair.
“Oh!” Evie exclaimed. “That?” Surprise metamorphosed into calculation as she realized Ash must be inside the library, ready to come to her aid. It soothed the ache in his heart ever so slightly.
