by Sahara Kelly
She’d seen this, been in the room while they were generating energy. And she hadn’t fainted or passed out or done anything any young woman her age should have done.
No, not his Portia. She’d watched, cataloged, noted every detail she could see, and even paid him an unwary compliment. He almost smiled at that. Given where he was, that was amazing in and of itself.
Then they turned the system on and that savagely vicious pain took away all thoughts and sent Devon into welcome unconsciousness…
Above his now-comatose body, many floors above, Portia tossed in her sleep and cried out, waking herself as a jarring knife of agony shot from the base of her spine to the back of her neck.
She lay breathless for a few moments, but nothing else happened. Finally easing down from the rigid tension brought on by the pain, she slowly moved each part of her body, starting with her toes and ending with her eyebrows.
Everything worked, thank God.
She waited for her heart to slow down, and wondered what on earth she’d felt. Had she been dreaming?
No, she didn’t think so. If she had, she didn’t recall any details.
Then an idea struck her.
It had been Devon. His pain. She’d felt what he’d felt in some kind of strange empathic connection.
And she knew, without question, that he was now back in that terrible laboratory, with his manhood extended and swollen, unconscious as they enhanced his psychic energies and syphoned them off for their own purposes.
She wondered who “they” were. Who was the authority behind this horrific process, and to what use were they putting the resultant flow of power. They were questions to which she had no answer at present, and she briefly considered the possibility that she never would.
Then she shook her head at herself and turned, finding a comfortable spot on her pillow.
She was determined to get to the bottom of this mystery and stop the horrors that were taking place beneath Harbury.
Right after she rescued Devon and restored him to his home and his title.
It was rather a daunting to-do list, but Portia wasn’t a young woman who turned her back on a challenge.
Although as she finally dozed, the thought flittered through her mind that this time, she might have bitten off more than she could chew.
Chapter 6
As was his custom, Del woke with the sun and was up and about well before his hosts. He required little, being used to do for himself. Most military men developed the habit and he was no exception.
His quarters were luxurious, but he was glad to escape them through a small door he’d discovered at the end of one hallway. It offered privacy and the ability to take the air whenever he desired, both of which he much appreciated.
This morning the air was brisk, heralding the onset of autumn. Wisps of leftover mist were evaporating as the sun rose over the horizon and it was the kind of day that made Del mourn the loss of his ability to fly.
Today would have been perfect for an airship.
There were few currents and the air was still with the lazy comfort of an early morning. Clean and pure, the sky had yet to harden into daylight and he knew that at the helm of his ship, he’d find joy and peace soaring above the green and pleasant land that was England.
Especially this particular spot.
He took a breath, inhaling the scent of leaves and grass and something he could only describe as home. And yet was it?
He strolled away from Harbury toward a small hill at the rear of the main house, and idly wondered exactly where his home was.
He’d been in service for so long that any lingering attachment for his parents’ modest estate in Wiltshire had dwindled. Besides his elder brother Charles would inherit. He’d perhaps pay a visit over the Christmas season, but other than that?
No, there wasn’t anywhere he could really call home. His rooms just outside London in Barnet were a convenience given their proximity to the Aerodrome and held little more than spare clothing, a bed and a small parlor. All of which were probably covered with dust by now, even though one of his Petty Officers, who was on leave healing from wounds received in India, had offered to take care of the place for him.
It was an acceptable arrangement, but Del knew that he would have to find somewhere more permanent before long.
And with that thought, an image of Vivienne darted before his eyes, so brilliantly detailed he nearly stumbled.
He was still enamored of her. More so perhaps, since the passing years had lent her a mature beauty that surpassed that of the young girl. Her comment last night had made her status clear. She was now a kept woman; some might call her whore.
He wouldn’t—he couldn’t. He knew some of the choices she’d been forced to make and wasn’t one to subscribe to common labels. Several years of active duty tempered a man’s view of life.
He knew well that one did what one must to survive, no matter the cost. In his opinion, Vivienne had done what was necessary to survive. It did not affect how he felt one iota.
Although if he were lucky enough to draw her back into his life, there would be many who would ostracize them both.
He didn’t care, and doubted she would either.
So it was just a question of seeing whether the lady herself was of a like mind. He realized his palms were damp at the thought she might refuse him. He needed a strategy—
A rumble beneath him shocked him into stillness and he waited, silent, holding his breath and ready to go into the typical bombardment crouch if necessary.
His background prepared him, and the adrenaline rushed through his body at the remembered sensation of a violent threat to his safety.
“Stand down, lad.” The voice came from the trees close to the path he’d been strolling. “It’s over. Just one of those damned experiments.”
A man emerged, solid, tall and with a definite posture that spoke of some kind of command.
Del’s eyes narrowed. “Army?”
He saw a grin spread over the man’s face as he held out his hand. “Several years in Africa. Before your war, I’m thinking.”
Del nodded. “It shows, though, doesn’t it? We pegged each other right off. I’m Del Moreton. Fleet Commander.”
“Ah. The Flying Furies.” He gave the popular nickname. “Brave lads, all of you.”
They shook hands, an instant camaraderie springing to life. “James Burke. Ex-Landsroemers.”
Del whistled as he shook Burke’s hand. “Helluva group, I’ve heard.”
“We had our moments.”
“You’re out now?”
Burke nodded. “Had enough. The do in Vanderfontein was my last engagement. That did it for me.”
They walked together, two military men with shared experiences that neither felt the need to discuss further.
“So, that explosion.” Del remembered why he’d stopped in the first place.
Burke paused and pointed at the hill behind Harbury. “Under there is a scientific facility. And somebody beneath that hill is playing with dangerous things, I’m thinking.”
“Hmm.” Del nodded. “I’m going to visit one of the laboratories later today. There’s a scientist and an engineer, along with a couple of other people, working on a new airship design. It’s why I’m here.” He blinked. “Uh…that might well be a violation of the Official Secrets Act, by the way.”
Burke smiled. “Not a problem for me.” He stared at Del in an assessing way. “I have an interest in those laboratories. One I’d prefer others not know about.”
“An interest?”
“Let’s just say there might be other Official Secrets involved. But these aren’t from Whitehall. They’re from a place called Scotland Yard.”
“I’ve heard of it.” Del vaguely remembered someone mentioning a new home for the British police force. “You have my word. No mention of this.”
“A Fleet Commander’s word is good enough for me.”
“As is a Landsroemer’s word for me.”
In a spirit of mutual understanding, the two men walked on, enjoying the morning air and finding enjoyment in a conversation that touched on many topics common to both.
It wasn’t until a pleasant hour had passed and they had bid a polite farewell to each other, that Del realized he’d not learned exactly why Burke was in the area of Harbury Hall. Or what he was investigating.
But on reflection, he realized he’d been gently questioned about his dinner companions of last night and the various matters that had been discussed.
He grinned ruefully. Damn. Burke was very good at his job.
With that thought he took himself inside in search of breakfast. Vivienne would be returning sometime today with the rest of the Coralfield party. He wanted to be in good shape when she got here, because by then he’d have a strategy as well as a full stomach.
At least that was his plan.
*~~*~~*
“Girl.”
The summons made Portia jump as she mopped the floor of the breakfast parlor. “Yes, sir?”
“My name is Professor Ringwood. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”
“Uh, well, sir, we don’t get to mix none with you clever chaps, sir.” Portia slid into her Hampshire burr. “Would you be wantin’ some breakfast, then, sir?”
He blinked. “A cup of tea would be nice.”
“Comin’ right up, sir.” She dipped her head.
“You bring it to me.” It was a command.
“Very good, sir.” Portia curtseyed, a little surprised at that last order. It was quite unusual for any scientist to address a lowly maid, unless something needed cleaning or refreshing. To have one bring tea was very much out of the norm.
Portia peered around the kitchen door at the chef, one of her favorite people. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. ‘Enry.” Somewhere in his sixty-plus years, Mr. ‘Enry had lost the first letter of his name and never cared enough to look for it.
He looked over his shoulder from the chicken he was cutting up. “Oh, it’s you, Mary. Wotcha want, then, luv?”
“One of them scientists wants a cuppa. Can I take him one?”
Mr. ‘Enry rolled his eyes. “Couldn’t come ‘ave one when everyone else was ‘avin’ theirs, could he now?” He sighed. “Go on then, dearie. You knows where the cups are and the pot’s still hot.”
Portia hurriedly found a cup and saucer, added a little milk to a small jug, and put the sugar bowl next to it. The tea was decanted into a smaller matching teapot, and she glanced at the tray she’d filled, nodding.
“If he wants a biscuit, you could add a couple. Got some leftover here from last night.”
Portia darted across the kitchen, planted a loud sloppy kiss on the old man’s bald head and grabbed the biscuit plate from the side table. “You’re a wonderful man. Marry me, and make me biscuits for ever.”
Mr. ‘Enry guffawed. “Go along with you, baggage.”
Portia positioned everything properly and flashed a quick smile before walking back to the parlor carrying the tray. She set it down on the table in front of the Professor. “Here you go, sir. Nice and hot. And there’s a couple of biscuits too.”
“Good, good.” He glanced absently at the tray. “Tell me. How long have you worked here?”
“I s’pose it’s going on a month now, sir.” Portia was working hard to keep in character, since this question was unexpected.
“And you’re from around here, are you?” The inquisition continued as Ringwood poured himself tea and liberally added milk and sugar.
“From the Isle of Wight, sir.”
“Family must miss you.” He munched a biscuit, all the while keeping his gaze on her.
Unnerved, she shrugged. “Got no ma or pa, Sir. Just an aunt. Don’t hear from her much.”
His face changed enough to really make her nervous. “Working here must be a comfort then. And have you made friends?”
Time to put a stop to this. Portia wasn’t stupid and she had a really bad feeling that this line of questioning was aimed at finding out just who she knew and who knew her. And those were things that should not have been of any concern to this man.
The mere fact he was fishing for this sort of information set her nerves afire. This wasn’t right.
“Oh yes sir. Everyone here is ever so nice. Then there’s Mr. Burke, sir. You may have seen him ‘round here. Older gentleman. Very tall. I think he lives nearby. He comes and talks to me now and again, just friendly like. He says I remind him of his daughter. She passed a few years ago. Very sad.”
She was improvising quite dreadfully, but noticed his expression droop a little. “A close friend, would you say?”
“Oh yes sir. In fact, Mr. Burke has said he’d like me to come and visit him over the holidays if I’ve got no place else to go. My aunt might not want me, you see.” She settled in to the story she was creating. “So hard not having a mum and da’, it is, sir.” She sighed gustily.
“I see.” He finished the second biscuit, frowning now.
“I was real lucky meeting Mr. Burke, and him such a nice man. I think he was in the Army. Got that look about him, you know? All solid and protective, he is. Makes me feel right safe to have him around and know I’ll see him. Young girls like me can’t be too careful, sir.” She raised her eyes to his face in what she hoped was an innocent and sincere plea for him to agree.
“Of course, of course.” Ringwood pushed the tea aside. “I must go. Things to do.” He stood impatiently.
“Yes sir.” Portia curtseyed again. “Will you be wantin’ anything else, sir?”
“Nothing, girl. Nothing.”
He walked away, his body radiating some sort of irritation or anger. Whatever it was, she was extremely glad to see the back of him, and her heart slowed down as if recognizing that a threat had disappeared.
It had been a very strange and disturbing encounter, Portia thought to herself as she cleared away his almost untouched tea.
What could he have wanted with her? She certainly wasn’t attractive enough to be regarded as any kind of sexual target. And she was just a maid here, nothing more.
It was a puzzle she couldn’t solve, so she put it with the rest of her unanswered questions, and hoped she would have chance to mention it to Devon the next time she could steal some moments with him.
There’d been nothing in the way of a psychical touch from his mind since that terrible pain last night. His silence wasn’t unusual, but it was a worry that gnawed at the back of her thoughts as she went through her morning duties.
Sometimes it seemed that she was surrounded by danger.
And she was getting dreadfully tired of it.
*~~*~~*
The Professor fumed.
Actually fuming was a mild way of describing his emotions as they exploded in a volcanic turmoil of anxiety and anger. He decided to take a turn outside the laboratory and attempt to quieten his rioting fury.
He’d selected the only possible servant who might have fulfilled his need for a test subject, given his urgent deadline and lack of anyone else to fit the bill. But she’d turned out to have friends who would certainly inquire after her should she disappear.
It was too damn risky and he simply didn’t have the time to set up another through the Harbury network. That was not the way it worked.
The only residents of the facility were apparently too valuable to be donated to his cause, since they were part of another experiment Ringwood didn’t care about. But whatever it was, they’d been placed off limits.
He fumed again, striding down a path, trying to clear his thoughts enough to come up with an alternative.
Thakur Sahib, curse his foreign hide, had issued an ultimatum. And although the substance was perfect, flawless in its simplicity and function, it needed a host. A human subject absolutely had to demonstrate the full potential of the Ringwood Shock Wave.
He would have to put the man off, if at all possible. Weekend visits always meant Saturday and Sunday, with guests departing on Monday mornings. S
o he could, he hoped, at least give himself another twenty-four hours.
After all, the Indian nabob was paying generously, and surely enjoying the hospitality of the Harburys. Him and that fancy woman of his. Both bedecked in tasteful clothing and dripping in jewels.
Or at least the man was. Uncivilized, of course, but what one would expect of a foreigner. Ringwood’s lip curled as he thought how much money was so obviously displayed on Sahib’s turban and garments. It was crass, just brashly unpleasant. One of the things he detested most about foreigners.
“Sir? Professor Ringwood?”
He turned at the sound of his name and saw one of the young male servants coming up the path behind him, waving an envelope. “A note was delivered for you, sir. It’s marked urgent. We thought you should have it right away.”
“Good, good. Let me have it.” He held out his hand impatiently, his fingers twitching. Perhaps somehow the gods of science had taken pity on him and delivered a suitable subject into his clutches.
Ripping open the sealed note, he read the contents with increasing surprise—and a growing touch of anger.
“I appreciate I have placed a burden on you. I promised you would be well rewarded and a Thakur Sahib keeps his word. You will see the attached. I look forward to our next meeting.”
There was indeed an attachment. A bank draft in a sum that made Ringwood’s vision blur. With this, he could buy his own estate and a small army of test volunteers, not to mention every single piece of equipment his experiments would ever need.
The anger rose, sharp and stinging like bile in his throat. How dare this filthy semi-illiterate native try to buy him. How dare he continue to flaunt his money in such a disgustingly déclassé fashion. The man was barely more than an overdressed slave who had somehow acquired a large fortune but had none of the breeding that came with it. None of the distinguishing characteristics of a true gentleman.
Ringwood’s steps faltered as an idea came to him. It was rather devious, and he’d have to be very convincing to pull it off successfully.
