by Anne Renwick
Hours had passed since the mad scientist’s death. Hours upon hours spent modifying the device to safely extract her not-quite-a-husband’s tumor. Consulting with Rankine engineers to examine the algorithm scratched out by Dr. Thrakos. Generating a series of tiny punch cards to fit inside the slot of a miniaturized cipher cartridge. Adjusting critical features of the clockwork mechanism based on novel elements found within the irreparably damaged pituitary extractor retrieved from the bowels of the Opera Comique.
But the worst had been the tests.
Lady Thornton, neuroscientist extraordinaire, had placed the entirety of her completed device atop a squash—a gruesome stand-in for Jack’s brain—where it had crouched like an overlarge metallic insect, drills and pinchers ready and waiting.
With the flick of a switch, clockwork had clicked and whirred, executing an extremely precise mechanistic sequence devised to avoid all critical structures en route to extracting the offending tumor.
An observer might have been forgiven for thinking the device a harmless children’s toy. But the claw-tipped arms of the contraption were designed to grip a victim’s face while a hole was drilled into the base of their skull via the nose, an approach Lord Thornton termed “transsphenoidal”.
Her stomach flipped over and shuddered as her mind recalled the horrifying details. Would Jack survive? Would he be the same man?
“Cait!” Her mother rushed into the waiting room, wrapping her arms about her daughter and holding her close. “Mr. Black tells me there was a fire, an accident at the Opera Comique, that your husband is in surgery!”
“A head injury.” She gave the agreed upon answer as the tears that had built behind her eyes finally burst free. The device—its history and function—was classified, not to be spoken of outside agency circles. “He collapsed, unconscious, and has yet to reawaken.” She swallowed. “His prognosis is… grim.”
She allowed herself to sink into the softness of her mother’s comfort. Only when she finished drying her eyes, some long minutes later, did Cait notice Logan’s silent presence.
Annoyance dried her sniffles. “Any news?”
His eyes were tired, having passed the hours hunting for the escaped lamiae. “Lady Saltwell and her nanny have vanished.”
Her mother sucked in a shocked breath. “Goodness, scandal is about to break amidst the ton. Tongues already wag.” She lowered her voice. “Lady Saltwell was once an actress who sang at the Opera Comique and…” Realization struck. “The ointment.” Blinking, her mother clapped a hand to her mouth.
Logan glared at Cait.
“But for my mother’s insight,” she defended, “we might never have unearthed our suspect.” There was no need to burden her with knowledge of the unfortunate Miss Smyth’s end.
“Your contribution was valuable.” Reluctant gratitude forced the words past her brother’s lips. “However, please keep the details to yourself, Mrs. McCullough, lest your daughter be unable to avail herself of requesting your assistance in the future.”
Her mother nodded, wide-eyed at the thought of working, however peripherally, for the Queen’s agents.
“The rest you will read in the papers.” Logan sighed. “Carruthers, Lord Saltwell, was found in the vaults beneath the theater. Trapped under a fallen beam. His death appears to have been asphyxiation by smoke inhalation. With his wife and child missing, there will indeed be much scandal.”
“A missing heir?” Her mother’s eyes danced. “Speculation will last for years. Search parties will be launched. In two decades, we can expect fraudulent claims.” With her fingers, she made a twisting motion before her lips. “I will not speak a single word.”
Gossip would abound, and her mother could sit at the center of it, smug with her secret knowledge.
Even better if she could do so in Lady Aubrey’s parlor, with the satisfaction of knowing that—as a grandmother to the future heir of a viscounty—she was the woman’s equal.
Provided her marriage endured. Cait pressed a hand to her stomach, sick with worry.
“Have you filed the license?” her brother asked, easily reading her mind.
Curse him for putting her in such a position. Were they still children, she’d kick him in the shins for his high-handed failure to file her marriage certificate. Might still, when no one was looking.
She narrowed her eyes and swallowed the expletive that leapt onto her tongue. “Not yet.” First, she needed to be certain beyond all shadow of a doubt that Jack still desired a shared future in light of his brother’s inability to procreate.
Rocking backward upon his heels, Logan fixed his gaze upon the ceiling. “Aubrey will make trouble for you. Tragic though his injury may be—”
Did he roll his eyes? Cait suppressed a reluctant smile. “It will not shorten his life,” she finished. “My societal role would not alter.”
“For now. But if you have children, certain adjustments will be necessary.”
“Do not speak in circles around me,” her mother huffed, turning hard eyes upon Cait. “Are you not legally married?” Her voice grew louder with each word.
“There are complications…” How to explain she would have a willing husband or none at all?
Spine stiff, her mother huffed. “The duchess assured me of her steadfast determination to see you respectfully wed.”
Logan’s eyebrows reached for his hairline. “Tell me it was not you who informed the duchess that Cait was the woman alluded to in the gossip rags?”
“Why would I not?” Her mother bristled. “Her role was bound to be discovered. Someone had to safeguard her future.”
For a moment, Logan was speechless. A first. “Never lecture me again about her recruitment,” he snapped. “The duke and duchess never let an opportunity to—” He stopped.
“Finish,” Cait demanded, her hand shifting toward her holster. If a single dart remained in her pistol, the temptation to skewer him where he stood might have overwhelmed her good sense.
Her brother drew a deep breath. “Via the duchess, your mother may have brought you to the duke’s attention, but his precipitous decision to welcome you into the Queen’s agents speaks to your skills. You’re beyond qualified.” His expression softened. “Never doubt that.”
She gaped, uncertain how to respond to such praise.
The doors to the surgical suite swung open. Lady Thornton pulled a mask from her face. “All went exactly according to plan.” Though her eyes were tired, she beamed. “Your husband is asking for you. Forgive the delay. We wanted to wait until he was awake, that we might fully assess the procedure’s outcome.”
Heart soaring, Cait rushed to Jack’s side. She dropped onto her knees, bedside, relieved at the sight of his lopsided smile, no matter the grogginess that lingered in his eyes.
She examined his head, his face with gentle fingertips. The only evidence of the grip exerted by the pituitary tumor extractor’s pointed legs were six small perforations, three on each side, that had been swabbed with iodine and left to scab over.
The surgical wound itself was hidden deep inside Jack’s nose where the drill bit had passed from the nasal cavity into his sphenoid, the bone at the base of his skull that housed the gland. The Thorntons had assured her that such was the most direct and least-damaging pathway to access the pituitary. At least, when the device was modified and placed in the hands of an ethical and competent neurosurgeon.
The only evidence that such had taken place was a slightly bloody bandage beneath his nose.
“A near perfect outcome,” he said, answering her question before she asked. “A slight loss of peripheral vision in the left eye, but nothing that will keep me from a mission. Once I’m cleared for duty,” he amended. “Thornton insists upon three days of bedrest, six weeks of near inactivity, and a full twelve weeks of recovery before I’m allowed to resume an agent’s duties.”
“Thank aether. I was so very afraid,” she snatched up his hands and squeezed tight, “that I might never have the chance to tell
you that I’ve fallen—madly, desperately and deeply—in love with you.”
“I’d meant to profess the same moments before my brother rudely interrupted us, bursting in and wielding a scalpel.” Stars filled his eyes as he tugged at a loose lock of her hair. His brow furrowed. “But something is wrong. Tell me.”
She swallowed, forcing doubt and worry back into her stomach where she prayed the churning acid would dissolve them to nothing. “It needs to be said. In the eyes of ton society, I am the worst possible mother imaginable for a future viscount. Registering our marriage is a step from which there is no easy retreat.”
“You’ve not filed yet?” Sadness lined his expression. “Cait…”
Tension drained away. “I had to know.” She tightened her grip on his hands. “You’re certain?”
“Beyond all doubt.” A teasing smile overtook his face, and a lightness brightened his next words. “It’s you who won’t be able to escape your brother-in-law. You’re certain you wish to be my wife?”
She laughed. “My willingness to endure him should be viewed as testament to my devotion.” Happiness suffused her chest with a buoyancy that felt as if it might overcome gravity.
“Our children will be his heirs.” He pulled a face. “Aubrey will be insufferable.”
“A decided drawback,” she agreed. Her voice, light as it was—as if filled with bubbles—was barely recognizable. “At least we won’t be saddled with titles.”
“Yet,” Jack warned, grinning. “Don’t underestimate his self-destructive tendencies.”
“Your warning is duly noted,” she said, then snorted. “Our mothers will fight.”
“Like cats and dogs.” His eyes danced. “My mother will hate every minute.”
“Her discomfort will delight mine.” Cait laughed, then lifted an eyebrow and infused her next words with a hint of conspiracy. “All of which we could side-step, at least for a while, by accepting foreign assignments. My brother owes us both. I will force him to file our marriage license this very afternoon, then insist he give us our choice of missions. Someplace warm and sunny. An Italian villa, perhaps.”
“Lest he find a poisonous creature beneath his pillow?” Jack tossed her a knowing grin, then hesitated. “But what of your research?”
“The constraints of working within Lister walls rather dulls the shine of such a career in comparison to the excitement of field work.” She leaned forward. “If we miss it badly enough, we could always establish our own secret laboratory in the basement.”
“True.” He dragged her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Are we off to Paris, then, for a proper honeymoon, Mrs. Tagert? After all, we’ve yet to explore the possibilities of a mattress.”
“As soon as you’re fully healed.” Heart full, she laid her head on his shoulder. “We’ll try to slip away. But I place low odds on us leaving British shores without a new assignment.”
“Perfect,” he answered, pulling her hand to rest against his chest, directly over his heart. “Life will never be dull with you at my side.”
Epilogue
Quinn touched a match to the missive informing him of his sister’s marriage. When flames began to lick his fingers, he let the wind carry it away in a cascade of sparks to the waves below. Leaning against the railing, he fixed his gaze upon the distant horizon.
Another sibling married. For better or worse, Cait was one of them now, a Queen’s agent. A smile tugged at his lips. With quite the courtship tale if he read the grumbling between the lines of Logan’s scrawl correctly.
“Mr. McCullough,” the man sent to collect him from the docks called. “The train leaves in half an hour. We should go.”
At his side stood a dark-skinned woman. Trouble, from the looks of her. She kept her own council, but he recognized the fire in her eyes—the same flames burned in Cait’s.
Was she the man’s wife? A fellow agent? Both?
Not Quinn’s place to ask. This meeting was merely an exchange, the handover of a dull brown envelope packed with information that would orient him to the situation brewing in New York.
He had a few more months, perhaps less, to wrap up this assignment, before the Duke of Avesbury demanded his return to British shores. Time to make use of every minute that remained.
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A speeding train. A determined villain. A reconciliation of broken hearts.
Lady Alice Hemsworth wasn’t supposed to fall in love. It was her duty not to. Alas, she’d failed miserably. Mr. Benjamin Leighton—despite being turned away by her steam butler—can’t stop thinking about her. Alone, both are miserable—until a deadly encounter throws them together on the night train to London.
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Keep reading for the opening chapter of In Pursuit of Dragons
In Pursuit of Dragons
Chapter One
Scotland
March 1885
Natalia Zakharova Kinross, Lady of Kinlarig, knelt on the flagstone hearth seeing to the task of shoveling out the cold, dead ashes of last night’s fire. In the far corner of the chamber—part study, part laboratory—a rusty steam maid stood immobile, gathering cobwebs and dust. Coal was too scarce to waste on extravagances such as steambots when one lived in a cold, damp Scottish castle. Particularly when one’s husband had preferred to direct all funds to his lavish townhome in Edinburgh.
The rotten, inbred popinjay.
Upon his death, a list of outstanding bills had been forwarded to her. A headache—beginning at the back of her neck and spreading upward to encompass her entire skull—had grown as she’d flipped through sheaves of paper detailing his extensive purchases. Unlike her, her husband—Stuart Kinross, Laird of Kinlarig—had been accustomed to living in luxury. Oolong tea from China. Blood oranges from Spain. Embroidered textiles from India. All indulgences he enjoyed because the Department of Cryptozoology had awarded her a generous stipend to conduct research into the therapeutic properties of dragon venom. But the funds were deposited in her husband’s accounts, affording him complete and total control; the paltry amount he had allocated to his wife barely covered basic research and household expenses.
Never mind she’d swallowed her pride and begged for more.
Not once in three years had her absent husband deigned to visit his family’s ancestral castle, not until the Department of Cryptozoology declined to continue funding her research. With his lifestyle threatened, he’d returned with a sole purpose in mind. Frowning, Natalia sat back on her heels and studied the treasure trove heaped within the fireplace. A dragon that spent her days pillaging the countryside for items he could pawn—golden goblets, strands of lustrous pearls, or gemstone-studded tiaras—might have pleased him. Alas, the dragon collected nothing so grand. Quite simply, he had decided her dragon was worth more dead than alive.
But to knowingly sell his wife’s beloved pet to a lowlife like Rathail, a man who would butcher a rare and precious creature, selling the dragon’s parts and pieces on the black market to the highest bidder? Comparing her dead husband to a spineless worm was too kind.
A flash of silver caught her eye. That was new. She plucked the coin out of her dragon’s treasure trove, leaving Zia’s other prized possessions within the fireplace untouched. Scattered throughout a heap of smooth stones fetched from alongside the nearby River Teith were several items of questionable value: silver spoons, shards of a broken mirror, a pewter tankard,
twisted fragments of metal, buttons, a pearl earring, a brass shoe buckle, a key, a handful of iron nails. Natalia’s dead husband’s pocket watch.
A faint—and entirely inappropriate—smile tugged at her lips. She couldn’t begrudge Zia her trophy, not after what Kinross tried to do.
Greedy bastard. What had he expected to happen? She shook her head. Trying to cage a dragon with sharp claws and teeth, never mind the poison glands. Served him right for merely pretending to listen when she’d spoken about her research.
Castle Kinlarig was now legally hers, but without funds, continuing to reside within its walls would soon become untenable. But her options were poor. A fugitive from the Russian government, she’d arrived on British shores with nothing to her name save the possession of a very real, mythological creature. Keen to have a dragon on British soil, the Department of Cryptozoology had offered her asylum in the form of a Scottish husband.
Despite the silver threads in his hair, Kinross was no more than a decade or two older than her and still handsome. In the space of a heartbeat, she’d agreed. Marriage altered her citizenship, provided her a residence outside a quiet, Stirlingshire village, and—via a subsidy—funded her research into the properties of dragon venom.
Still mourning her father, she’d not thought to ask why a Scottish laird would agree to marry a foreign woman, sight unseen. Stupid of her. Her own childhood had been so very lonely that twice now she’d placed her trust in the hands of unworthy men, all in pursuit of safety, security, and hopes of starting a family.
Children, however, were not on Kinross’s list of interests. After a perfunctory wedding night, he’d taken his leave, appropriated the vast majority of her money—legally his—and returned to the arms of his mistresses. She’d not seen her husband again. Not until he returned a month past, bringing with him most unwelcome news: he’d sold the dragon. To Rathail, a man who sold exotic animals, piece by piece. Dragon blood. Dragon scales. Teeth. Skin. Bones.
