Outrageously Yours

by Allison Chase

“No. As I said, I heard a shout, a thud, and then a noise like a door slamming.” She turned her head to view the small door between the bookcases that led into the adjoining music room. “By the time I entered from the corridor, there was only poor Mr. Lowbry lying on the floor.” She pointed at the empty space in front of the hearth. “Just there.”

  “And why had you ignored my advice and been skulking about alone, sir?” The inspector aimed his quill at her as if it were a dart he might toss. “I know you young bucks tend to believe yourselves invincible, but one would think two recent murders should have divested you of such foolish notions.”

  “I’d heard voices in the library earlier,” she said. “Besides, I believed there were enough servants about to rule out the possibility of another crime.”

  “Apparently not.”

  Outside the library doors, a buzz of voices grew steadily in volume as the consortium members learned of this second incident. She had not yet seen Simon this morning, but his impatient demands to speak with his assistant had risen above the general din some quarter hour ago. Inspector Scott had not granted his wish, though he had been kind enough to stick his head outside long enough to assure Simon that no harm had come to the boy.

  Ivy wished he were here with her, sitting beside her. The initial shock of finding Jasper had left her disoriented and overset. Her hands were shaking; her stomach was a skein of knots. How she wished she had simply remained in bed beside Simon’s warm, solid body.

  But no. As Inspector Scott obligingly pointed out, she had very likely interrupted an attempted murder. He believed, and Ivy agreed with him, that the crash of her coffee cup outside the library door had startled the villain into flight.

  Once again, her gaze drifted to the music room door. She had gone running into that room, but only after she’d been certain that Jasper was alive. By that time the culprit had long vanished. There had been no sign of him in the corridor, either.

  “If only I had acted sooner,” she said with no small regret, “we might now know the identity of this deranged individual.”

  Inspector Scott set down his quill. “My dear boy, in that case you might just as well have ended up his next victim. In fact, you are the next logical target.”

  Ivy felt the blood drain from her face. “How so?”

  “Think about it. Among this Galileo Club Lord Harrow told me of, three out of the four assistants have been attacked.” He aimed a forefinger at her. “That leaves you.”

  “Oh . . . goodness ...” An icy claw gripped her. “In all the turmoil, I hadn’t considered that.”

  “Well, do consider it, and do not attempt to play the hero. You are not to go off on your own again. And should you remember any detail that might help us apprehend whichever consortium member is responsible for these acts, you are to come to me immediately.”

  “A consortium member.” Ivy shook her head in disbelief. “It is hard to believe a man of science could be capable of such an act.”

  “Mr. Ivers, it has been my experience that deviance hails from all walks of life. No class or society on earth is immune to crime. Whether a prince or a pauper, a desperate man will resort to desperate measures.”

  Despite his ill-fitting coat and its collar’s frayed edges, the inspector proved himself a gentleman when he slipped out of the library and forbade all but Simon to enter. “You may go on in now, my lord. That assistant of yours has certainly earned his keep today. By my soul, he saved a life.”

  Simon shut the door behind him and turned the key. Then he was across the room, and Ivy found herself caught up in his arms. “I’m not letting you out of my sight again.”

  “I’m fine, truly.”

  Truly she wasn’t. Trembling uncontrollably, she yielded to his greater strength, let her cheek sink to his shoulder, and gave in to her shattered nerves. A few tears slipped out, and she didn’t bother trying to hide them. As Ned Ivers, who would have been raised to be brave and resilient, she’d been forced to maintain a stiff upper lip. She wondered briefly how men managed to remain so outwardly stoic, why they didn’t suddenly burst from restraining their emotions.

  Just as on the night she wore the lovely emerald dress, she needed these moments to be Ivy, to be her feminine self. She needed time to mourn and be afraid and seek the comfort of a masculine shoulder, and to feel a firmly beating heart beneath her ear. It helped steady her, that dependable beat, as did the gentle rumble of Simon’s voice and the stroke of his fingers through her hair.

  Her respite proved short. A knock sounded at the door, and when Simon unlocked it, Alistair Granville leaned his head in. “Just letting you know that no one may return to his room just yet. The inspector and his men have launched a search of the entire house in hopes of finding the murder weapon, for he has deduced that the culprit wouldn’t be carrying anything so weighty on his person. Until he says otherwise, we are all to remain together in the public rooms. No one is to be left alone, for no one is above suspicion.”

  “Ivy, see here. You were right.” Simon grasped one of the bolts that should have held the gears securely to the pistons. He gave the small attachment a spin. It should not have turned at all, much less at the slightest touch of his fingers. “It’s not the only one that’s loose. Someone has tampered with the equipment.”

  The slackened connections between the generator’s components meant that despite all the calculations and corresponding adjustments he and Ivy had made, the current passing through the generator would not have been a controlled one.

  “This is why Ben’s illumination globes exploded.”

  Ivy reached out and fingered the loose bolt. “Who would do such a thing?”

  They spoke in whispers, careful not to be overheard by the others quietly engaged in their work nearby. The consortium proceedings had come to an abrupt halt, but Inspector Scott had seen no harm in granting the scientists access to the ballroom. Allowing them to occupy their time, he had deemed, would help alleviate the panic that had begun to take hold following the attack on Jasper Lowbry. Their keeping busy would also help quell speculation about what might turn up during the search of the house.

  Despite the activity, the ballroom remained as hushed as a tomb. Furtive looks angled from one man to the next as each seemed to maintain a wary distance from his neighbor. Ivy caught Simon staring pensively out over the assembly.

  “It’s grown downright eerie, hasn’t it?” she noted. “Only yesterday, this was such a lively, vibrant place.”

  “No longer.” He took up a wrench and began tightening the loosened bolts. “I can only hope to God that we were wrong about Gwendolyn coming here, and that she is somewhere far away, safe.”

  “Yes.” A note to her voice caused him to look up from his task. Her lashes veiled her thoughts, and she took an overly keen interest in a wire burned by the power surge.

  Simon decided not to press her, not just then, for whatever she was choosing not to share. He tightened another bolt. “One face I haven’t seen in a while is your brother-in-law’s. Was he given permission to leave?”

  Sensing her hesitation, he regarded her again. She bent lower over the wire she had already thoroughly examined. “Yes, well . . . he is busy assisting Inspector Scott.”

  The implications took Simon aback. Why the devil would a public official involve a civilian in a murder investigation? “Care to explain?”

  “Em . . . there’s something I haven’t told you about Aidan.” Her pretty lips compressed. She darted a cautious glance at their closest neighbors. “When I said he could make your life a misery if he wished, it was no hollow threat. You see, Aidan works for the Home Office.”

  It took several beats for Simon to absorb this information. Then he set down his wrench and crossed his arms. “When this is over, you and I are going to sit down together and discuss this extraordinary family of yours.”

  She nodded absently, her attention suddenly diverted. “Yes, when this is over. But here is Aidan now, and Inspector Scott with him. Good Lor
d, why do they look so grim?”

  “Lord Harrow.” Inspector Scott sounded no less serious than he looked. “I am afraid I must ask you to come with me.”

  Ivy stepped between them. “What’s happened? Have you discovered something in your search?”

  Puffing through his lips as if from exertion, the inspector barely spared her a glance. “I have some questions for Lord Harrow.”

  “What sorts of questions?”

  “It’s all right, Ned.” Simon rested a hand on her shoulder as he moved past her and stepped away from the equipment. “Mr. Scott, I shall answer any questions to the best of my ability.”

  The inspector gestured for Simon to accompany him from the ballroom, and then fell into step beside him, not a step behind him as should have been expected given Simon’s rank. At his back, Ivy let out a protest.

  “Wait—”

  Her brother-in-law quickly silenced her. “Don’t make a scene. The others are watching.”

  “But, Aidan—”

  The earl’s hissed rejoinder sent an ominous weight dropping to the pit of Simon’s gut.

  “Be quiet, Ned. There is nothing you can do.”

  With no thought other than that Simon needed her, and that whatever he faced, she wished to remain by his side, Ivy moved to follow him and the inspector. Aidan’s hand clamped around her upper arm.

  He swung her to face him. She tried to smooth the panic and sheer desperation from her face; tried to clear away the love she knew must be clearly written across her features.

  It was too late. Aidan saw it, all of it. His face became a thunderhead about to break over her. Tightening his grip on her arm, he forced her across the ballroom. From the corners of her eyes she saw the others turn their heads to stare. No one intervened; no one questioned why this earl, who had no apparent business at the consortium, had taken such a forceful hand with one of the assistants. As Ivy passed each scientist in turn, he met her gaze only briefly before swerving his attention back to his work.

  Aidan hauled her down the corridor and into the servants’ domains until they reached a closed door. With one hand he flung it open and propelled her into a gardening room that led to the conservatory. The door slammed behind them, causing a collection of hand rakes and small shovels leaning in the corner to clatter to the floor.

  Aidan hovered before her like a bull digging in to charge. “You lied to me.”

  She didn’t need him to elaborate on his meaning, nor did she attempt to deny the accusation. He stepped closer; she backed away.

  “Lord Harrow knows bloody well that you are a woman, and what is more, you have been in his arms.”

  Again, she didn’t deny the assertion; how could she? As her back sank into the assortment of aprons hanging from pegs along the wall, she voiced the only coherent thought her mind could form. “They can’t mean to charge him. He is innocent.”

  Aidan lurched to a halt. “My God . . . you’ve been in his bed.”

  It wasn’t so much his anger but the bitter hurt peering out from behind it that made her press her back tighter to the aprons. She turned her face away. “That does not make him any less innocent. Aidan, please, we must help him.”

  “Help him? I’ll see him hang.”

  She swung back toward him. “You don’t mean that. You wouldn’t condemn an innocent man.”

  “Correct, I would not. But neither am I convinced that Lord Harrow is innocent.” An unnatural calm settled over him, which Ivy feared more than his fury. “One of the inspector’s men found what is believed to be the murder weapon. It matches the description of the stone you’ve been searching for, and it was among Lord Harrow’s possessions. So tell me, Ivy, how do you feel about your marquess now?”

  Outside his bedroom windows, the afternoon shadows grew long as Simon pondered his fate. Each time he heard noises beyond his chamber door, he braced himself for more bad news. Not that matters could get much worse. Gwendolyn was still missing, and now he was officially under house arrest, accused of murdering two young men and attempting to murder a third. Inspector Scott seemed assured of his guilt. The man had ordered the electromagnets removed from this room, along with the bulk of Simon’s personal effects. Simon expected at any moment to be hauled from his rooms and transported to the village jail.

  He’d be damned if he left Ivy unprotected. If only he could devise a means of escape . . .

  Though he had not yet seen the murder weapon with his own eyes, the inspector had described it as a stone at least twice the size of a man’s fist and rough to the touch. Those details had sent his stomach plummeting. How could it be any other but Victoria’s, the one his sister had stolen?

  That Gwendolyn could be involved in these hideous murders iced his soul. For now, he shoved the thought away. His sister might be brash and prone to histrionics, but she was never depraved. Never cruel.

  “Ah, Gwennie . . . where are you?”

  The door opened; his pulse lurched and his body tensed, ready to grasp any opportunity that might gain him his freedom. His lean-faced guard peered in at him, and then stepped aside as Ivy appeared at his shoulder. At the sight of her sweet face, every bit of Simon’s readiness drained from his limbs. For the span of a heartbeat she simply stared across at him, unshed tears magnifying her eyes. Then she hurried to him.

  The chamber door remained open, the constable watching. Ivy stopped abruptly a foot or two away and grasped Simon’s hand in both of hers. Blinking, she gave it a masculine shake for their observer’s benefit.

  “I know you are innocent,” she said without preamble.

  “Do you, my dearest?” he whispered. The constable narrowed his eyes in an apparent attempt to read his lips, but the man remained where he was on the far side of the threshold. “I would understand if you doubted me. But upon my honor, I don’t know how the stone came to be in my clothespress.”

  “Someone obviously put it there.” A ghost of remorse flitted across her features. So she had entertained a doubt or two. He couldn’t blame her. But now she squared her shoulders in a show of resolve that made his throat constrict. “I promise I shall not abandon you.”

  The sentiment filled his heart with equal measures of joy and fear. “Ivy, please let the authorities handle this. I won’t have you running full throttle into danger.”

  “I have an idea that may reveal the killer. We must set a trap—”

  “We mustn’t do anything.” He started to reach for her, wanting to seize her shoulders and give her a good shake. The constable’s presence forbade it. Simon lowered his voice to a stiff-jawed murmur. “Damn it, I want you gone from here today. Surely Inspector Scott has given everyone permission to leave.”

  “He has not. Despite the evidence of the stone, I don’t believe he’s entirely convinced he found his man. And that is why—”

  “No!” Frustration raised his voice above a whisper.

  The constable cleared his throat. “I don’t know what the two of you are yammering about, but I’m breaking the rules in allowing you this much time to prattle.” He jerked his chin at Ivy. “Collect your things, and be on your way.”

  She treated him to an impatient wave and set off into the dressing room. When she returned, hastily bundled clothing spilled from her gaping valise. That earnest, studious little crease Simon loved formed above her nose. “I will work this out.”

  Her conviction had him believing her. Despite his pleas to the contrary, Ivy Sutherland would do as she damned well pleased. Cradling her bag in her arms, she started to turn away. Again Simon nearly reached for her, loath to let her go so soon. She caught the sudden movement of his hand, for she stopped and questioned him with a look.

  “How is your friend?” he asked.

  A smile lit her expression. “Much better. Jasper sustained little more than a flesh wound and is fussing to be up, though the doctor insists he must keep to his bed for now.”

  “Good advice, I’m sure. Mr. Lowbry is a lucky young man.”

  “Ahem.”
The constable’s signal could not be any clearer. Still, Ivy lingered.

  “Please be careful out there, my dearest Ned.” Simon mouthed the endearment. She nodded, blinking away a tear that undid him. He grasped her shoulder and pulled her closer, not as a lover would, but as a master wishing to convey instructions to his protégé. “I will not remain idle much longer,” he whispered.

  Her eyes widened with comprehension and fear, and an imminent appeal that he do nothing rash.

  It was an appeal he could not satisfy, not when she and the others here were still in danger. “Windgate Priory is as familiar to me as Harrowood,” he said in a rush. “If I can break free of this room, I’ll head straight for the attic. They’ll never find me there.”

  A thousand questions burned in her eyes, but she gave a single nod. Gently Simon pushed her away, and with a last look back at him she turned into the corridor. The constable reached in to shut the door.

  “Not so fast,” a voice commanded. “I need to speak with both of them.”

  Chapter 23

  Ivy was ushered back into the room by Inspector Scott, followed by her brother-in-law, who shut the door on the constable’s curious gaze.

  In his hands, Scott held an object slightly smaller than Ben’s illumination globes, swaddled in gray flannel. He set it on the bed and pulled the wrapping free. A black stone, pitted and speckled with silver, rolled onto the coverlet. “This, sir, is the murder weapon we found in this very room earlier today, and which presently stands as evidence against you.”

  “Dear heavens.” Ivy dropped her valise onto the nearest chair and crossed to the bed. Simon moved beside her, and together they beheld the stone that had caused such turmoil, which possessed the power to disrupt the new queen’s reign.

  Simon found the unassuming hunk of rubble absurdly anticlimactic. Reaching out, he touched a finger to the rough surface, expecting to feel . . . something. A charge. A waft of energy. Ivy had described the stone as powerfully electromagnetic.