by Anne Renwick
She’d changed her mind. Any old man would not do. Particularly this one. He was still young enough to last another decade. Perhaps more. There must be an alternative. “I really don’t think that’s a proper activity for a young lady, Lord Rancide.” Under no circumstances would she… No. Not even for England.
The paunchy, red-nosed marquis leaned forward on the settee, leering at what he already assumed to be his property. His eyes came to rest on her bosom and the edges of his lips curved upward in a self-congratulatory, self-satisfied smile.
Her day dress covered her from wrist to throat, but it was exceptionally well tailored. With exactly this effect in mind. A valuable tool to employ as an element of distraction. If her recently increased proportions now strained the seams, well, she blamed cream cakes. And Emily.
Two months ago, news of her sister’s elopement, detailed in that horrible gossip rag and picked over by all of ton society, had caused Lord Carlton Snyder to terminate their betrothal. Ever since, Mother’s search for a new fiancé who wouldn’t care if his bride was the brunt of society’s current gossip had subjected her to increasingly intolerable individuals.
Olivia was, after all, a well-dowered daughter of the Duke of Avesbury. Certain gentlemen would overlook just about anything. She could have three eyes, a lantern jaw and a mechanical arm—and still such men would offer for her.
“Oh, come now. Can’t we do away with all the missish protestations?” Lord Rancide patted his knee. “Come. Have a seat now. I’ll give you a taste of the pleasures to come once we’ve married.”
“I think not. I expect my mother to join us at any moment.”
A blatant lie. In an attempt to cement a betrothal, Mother had taken to abandoning Olivia to her most recent male suitors, pretending to be overcome by agues, angina and aether fluxes.
Setting her empty tea cup upon the tea tray, Olivia shifted her weight onto one leg. Her ankle wobbled. Cogs and punches! Why had she worn shoes with heels? Still, Lord Rancide was portly. She intended to be out the door before he could rise.
Just in case, she glanced down at RT—the roving table that held the afternoon tea—preparing her defense. To the untrained eye, the silver teapot would seem her best bet. It wasn’t. From beneath the lacy tablecloth, a tiny metallic nose and wire whiskers peeked. Watson, her pet zoetomatic hedgehog was.
She snapped her fingers twice. Watson’s nose extended into a long, thin rod. A faint hum indicated that the Markoid battery had engaged. Maybe it wouldn’t be necessary.
Olivia sprang to her feet and darted toward the door. “Let me see what is keeping my mother.”
But Lord Rancide was quicker than he looked. Damp fingers wrapped about her wrist, yanking her backward. Thrown off balance, Olivia wobbled on her heels and landed with a thump in his lap. His arm snaked about her waist, pressing her against his burgeoning girth. “Just like that, sweeting.” Sloppy, wet lips squelched against her neck.
“Let me go!” Olivia twisted her face away from the foul odor of rotting teeth. “This is unseemly. I have not agreed to marry you.” She pried at his arm, but he was stronger than looks alone would suggest.
RT whirled about, his brass bell clamoring in distress. The tea tray slipped from his surface with a clang and a clatter, spilling sugar, milk and Earl Grey all over the carpet. Watson backed up in alarm, dragging the snowy-white tablecloth with him into the mess.
Lord Rancide pulled away ever so slightly. “Stop this nonsense. We both know I’m the best—and last—chance you have at marrying a title.”
He’d brought it upon himself. “Watson,” she snapped. “Engage.”
On tiny, two-toed feet, the mechanical hedgehog rushed forward, ramming his galvanized steel nose into Lord Rancide’s ankle.
There was a loud zap. Lord Rancide bolted upright, and Olivia took the opportunity to slam the flat of her palm upward into his nose. There was a satisfying crunch.
He howled, lifting both hands to cup his now bloody nose.
The door slammed open as Steam Mary burst into the room, steam billowing from beneath her skirts, whipping the coarse black cloth about her metal appendages. Behind her, a number of household steambots gathered in the doorway, all of them hissing and ringing and clanging their displeasure.
“Stand aside,” Olivia instructed them. “Lord Rancide was just leaving.”
Slowly, and with a reluctant creak of wheels, her loyal staff formed a narrow pathway to the front door.
Pressing a handkerchief to his nose, Lord Rancide stood. He yanked his waistcoat downward, smoothing the yellow satin over his rotund belly as he turned a dark eye on her. “You are unfit as a wife,” he pronounced, then stormed from her house.
~~~
“I must speak with Father,” Olivia informed the steam butler, Burton, who rolled down the hallway behind her.
“I’m afraid he is not available at the moment.” Burton’s jaw creaked. He was an older model and forever in need of more oil.
The only household steambots that spoke—and their vocabulary was limited—were butlers. Theirs was a particularly ancient model, but Father refused to replace him. Olivia had done what she could, on the sly of course, but there were only so many commands his aging cipher cartridge was capable of reading.
Understanding Burton’s need to fulfill his programming commands, she paused before Father’s study rather than storming in. “Open the door, Burton.”
“Impossible, my lady. His Grace left orders he was not to be disturbed.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Did he?” Olivia tried the handle. The door refused to open. Locked? The great and mighty duke hid from his daughter? There was only one conclusion to draw. Father had known about Lord Rancide. Tacit agreement was still a form of assent. “Never mind,” she said. “I’ll open it myself.”
Puffs of steam vented from Burton’s ears. His fingers clenched and unclenched, his programming cards stuck in a feedback loop, one set of instructions demanding he always follow Lady Olivia’s commands, the other insisting he never override those of his master, the duke.
Olivia reached into the bodice of her gown, slid two lock picks free from her corset, and bent to the keyhole. A second later the lock snicked free, and she strode into Father’s office.
He took one look at her and sighed, sinking backward into his chair behind the massive oak slab that was his desk. “What was wrong with this one?”
“What wasn’t?”
“What are we going to do with you, Olivia?” He lifted a palm upward. “Lord Rancide was the last old, titled target who was willing…”
“Yes, it’s clear Mother scraped the ooze from the bottom of the barrel.” Was basic decency too much to ask?
“My sources informed me Lord Rancide was impotent,” the duchess herself said as she swept into the room.
“They were wrong.”
Father choked.
Mother waved away her complaint. “Nevertheless, this is unacceptable behavior, turning down suitor after suitor. There are no more suspect gentlemen above the age of sixty. We will have to look abroad.”
Father cringed. “Olivia, enough with this determination to marry someone old enough to be my father.”
“It is a critical consideration given our daughter’s aspirations,” Mother said. “If there are offspring, it will indefinitely delay her entry into fieldwork.”
“Listen,” Father said. “There’s a delegation of Icelanders arriving in a month’s time. Some are nobility. Let me see if—”
“Iceland.” Mother raised her eyebrows at Olivia. “Foreign experience would be valuable.”
“Not Iceland.” Olivia lifted her chin. Then, considering her present standing, adopted a more conciliatory tone. “Please, don’t banish me to that icebox. All I want—”
“What now?” Mother huffed.
“No,” Father rose and slapped a palm on the desk. “Enough. No more restrictions.”
Swallowing a lump in her throat, one that felt the size of an entire cream
cake, Olivia blurted, “Please, will you ask the Queen to waive the widow requirement?”
Father stiffened. Raking his hands into his hair, he pushed his palms together as if trying to keep his skull from shattering. “God, Olivia. You ask for the moon!”
“There’s precedent.” She looked pointedly at both of them.
“I entered the service by marrying your father.” Mother’s eyes were wide with horror. “Not by traipsing off into the countryside an unprotected innocent.”
Father cringed.
“Absolutely not,” Mother snapped. “The Queen will deny such a request.”
“Why?” Olivia objected. “I’ve devoted myself to the Queen’s service. I am the only societal liaison to hold a degree in programming from the Rankine Institute. I’ve completed every single task assigned to me.”
“Except marriage,” Mother pointed out.
“Not my fault.”
“Your engagement to Lord Snyder was unreasonably protracted,” Mother countered. “If you’d managed to lead him to the alter within a reasonable time frame, you would even now be making reports to the Queen.”
She and Mother glared at each other.
“No,” Father said. “I refuse to consider such an option. You will marry a designated target, or you will leave the Queen’s service.”
“But—”
“No.” Father turned toward Mother. “Are any foreign targets acceptable?”
Mother tapped her lips. “Mmm.”
Olivia fought the urge to slump. Nothing ever went according to her plans, no matter how much effort she expended. She’d played the role of brainless fool, agreeing with Carlton’s every opinion, his every demand, and still it had not been enough. The freedoms afforded a married woman remained beyond her grasp. Perhaps it was time to give up.
Bed. That’s where she wanted to be. Curtains pulled, under the covers, buried by soft, muffling feathers. Steambots would circle, bringing her endless cups of chocolate and cream cakes. Then, when all her gowns stopped fitting, she’d have an excuse to stay in bed all day. To see no one. To go nowhere.
“Italy,” Father suggested. “Visit Aunt Judith.”
“Aunt Judith!” Olivia’s voice held a note of alarm. They would banish her? “But she’s in Venice! It’s far too dangerous.”
Aunt Judith was a cryptobiologist studying the giant kraken that had devastated the city. There were reports that buildings fell almost daily as their sharp claws gouged away the pilings.
“Judith is in Rome for the winter.” Father waved a hand dismissively. “Fulfilling academic teaching duties. Mother will accompany you.”
Mother closed her eyes, reading down the list she held in her mind, men chosen for the secrets they might keep. “Baron Volscini,” she announced. “Age eighty-three. Two previous wives. No issue. Likely sterile.”
“Perfect.” Father’s voice sounded choked. “I have but one request. A bit of assistance on an unfolding situation. One small favor on behalf of Queen and country.”
Olivia moaned. A catch? With Father there was always a catch, a price to be paid. Already his eyes had begun to sparkle with mischief.
“No,” Mother said. “I object.”
“She wishes to work in the field. Why not?”
“Because he is not suitable as a target,” Mother answered.
“Agreed, but why not let her conduct a little surveillance en route?” Father lifted a shoulder. “She’s trained all these years for it. Why not let her test her mettle?”
Mother’s lips pressed together.
“I agree,” Olivia said. Unsuitable meant young. Or smart. Maybe both. Perhaps Mother even thought him handsome enough to distract her from her mission. It didn’t matter. Anything that Mother objected to held immediate appeal.
Chapter Three
“WHERE IS THE GERMAN man who was brought in?” Ian demanded, glancing over the shoulder of the head nurse of Lister’s secure hospital ward, searching the hallway. “I need to question him. Immediately.”
She stared back at him over wire-rimmed glasses. “If you refer to patient SV140, the man involved in the balloon crash, he’s no longer here.”
Irritation festered. If Black thought he could keep him out of this… “Please clarify.”
“SV140 was moved to the autopsy suite approximately thirty minutes ago.”
Ian’s eyebrows rose. Dead inside of an hour? He’d seen the rise and fall of the German’s chest as the agents heaved him onto their shoulders. Of course, the tumors were massive and many, but if he’d survived this long… “Thank you, Nurse Quinn.”
With a nod, he spun on his heel and headed for the ascension chamber. But when he reached it, as he lifted his hand to dial the code, he realized access would be denied. The combination was changed every month. He’d been gone two.
“Four. Six. Seven. Two,” a familiar deep voice informed him.
He entered the sequence of numbers and the doors slid open. “I owe you for this, Thornton.” A few minutes with the man’s body was all Ian needed. Irrefutable evidence before he tore off to Germany.
“Black will be here shortly,” Lord Thornton warned, following him into the chamber. Though they’d never worked together, the man was both a neurobiologist and a Queen’s agent.
“I don’t need your protection.”
Thornton snorted. “I didn’t offer it. I’m merely satisfying my own curiosity.”
Ian tipped his head back, studying the grating that formed the ceiling of the ascension chamber as it lowered them deep into the ground. In truth, he was glad of the company. If anyone would understand his situation—betrayal, misuse of one’s own inventions—Thornton would. Three months past, Thornton had been embroiled in a hunt for a foreign operative who had stolen his laboratory biotechnology.
The difference was that Ian knew who had stolen his research. Proving it, however, had been impossible. His detailed laboratory notebooks along with vials of mutated cells had disappeared with Warrick, and searching for the traitor had led to some dark corners and allegations from which there was no recovery. Accusing Lord Avesbury of complicity had been unwise. It had ended Ian’s work in the field and nearly ended his career in research.
He had done his best to put the past behind him. Until today, when what he’d most feared had come to pass. His own work had hunted him down and presented an ultimatum.
Now his sister’s life was on the line. Ian closed his eyes. Blood began to boil in his veins. All he’d ever wanted to do with his research was to find her a cure—and he was so close, so very close. Trust Warrick to throw a wrench into the gears. Again.
Warrick’s betrayal had done more than damage Ian’s reputation, it had ripped apart his family and shredded his sister Elizabeth’s heart in the process. To think he’d almost called the man ‘brother’. If only he could wrap his fingers about Warrick’s throat and squeeze.
“When Warrick absconded with your work, the original cells showed promise in vitro, did they not?” Thornton asked, forcing Ian to set aside his anger and focus on the immediate situation.
“Yes,” he answered, his voice tight. Inside their glass Petri dishes the first generation of mutated cells had shown every promise, but when transplanted into live hosts, into rats… He shook his head. “But the in vivo tests revealed that the immune system offered no resistance at all. The cells took over the bones. Osteosarcomas formed at unnatural rates.” They’d aborted the trials, euthanizing the unfortunate research subjects.
“I understand Warrick believed the immune system of human subjects would react differently.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Those in medical research should know better than to make such an assumption.”
“He was utterly convinced,” Ian confirmed. “Given the body in the morgue, he managed to persuade at least one German to risk his life to prove it.” Pressing his lips into a tight line, he said nothing about the message, nothing about Elizabeth. She was all the family he had left. Nothing and no one would stop him.
“You followed protocol,” Thornton stated. “Warrick is to blame for this. Not you.”
Ian grunted.
“We need you back.” Thornton’s gaze was intense.
Ian shifted on his feet. Once he’d been a proud member of the Queen’s agents, a member of the inner circle. He missed the camaraderie. “In the laboratory? Or the field?”
“Both. Either.” A pained look crossed Thornton’s face. “Any progress on the hunt for a bride? I only ask because I promised my wife.”
“Don’t.” Ian grimaced. Of late every man and woman in love felt compelled to offer him their advice and assistance. “Just don’t.”
Thornton did anyway. “Should you have difficulty finding a bride amongst the debutants, my wife has offered to make introductions.”
A strangled noise emerged from his throat. Though Lady Thornton was both beautiful and brilliant, she was one of a kind. Thinking about what sort of woman she might drag up from inside the bowels of Lister Laboratories scared him. There were precious few females, and those he’d spied tended to scurry away under a direct gaze.
“Thank you, no. I’ll muddle along on my own for a bit yet. Too soon to settle.”
But he’d done exactly that, hadn’t he? Proposing to a lady he barely knew. And that had gone so wonderfully. Nothing like a proposal that landed a man in the morgue.
The doors slid open, disgorging them into said facility where Mr. Hutton bent over a disfigured corpse stretched out upon a steel gurney. It rankled. His own technician allowed to remain behind in the laboratory while Ian himself—however temporarily—was banished.
The technician snapped to attention, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Lord Rathsburn!” He hastily dragged a white sheet over the disfigured face of the German.
Ian’s eyes narrowed. “Is that SV140?”
Mr. Hutton gulped, then gave a stiff nod.
He took off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves and donned one of the many canvas aprons that hung from the wall pegs. “Let’s begin.”
