The Silver Skull (The Elemental Web Chronicles Book 2)

by Anne Renwick

  Steam Clara held up two ribbons. One blue, the other green.

  “The blue, Steam Clara. It deepens the color of my eyes.” Exhausted from hours of monitoring her silent neighbor, she closed said eyes and leaned her head back against the wall. “Is he in there?”

  But the steambot didn’t answer; her metal eyelids clicked open and closed in confusion.

  Olivia didn’t need an answer. She knew he was.

  In nothing but her combinations and stockings, she slumped against the wall that divided her room from the suite in which one Lord Rathsburn was ensconced. She’d heard his heavy boots hit the floor soon after he’d entered. “It’s been over thirty-six hours!”

  What good was the convenient connecting door if the man never left his rooms? She glared at the box Mr. Black had given her, the one holding the acousticotransmitters.

  Olivia spun a lock pick in her fingers. Would that she was a full agent. She’d caught Lord Rathsburn’s glances at her chest, at her lips. If only she were an unchaperoned widow, she could combine work and pleasure, for her target did not have the pallid skin of a corpse from working too long in a windowless room. Nor did he have a hump on his back or a permanent squint.

  Though Lord Rathsburn’s attire was unfortunate, he was tall and broad-shouldered. The wind had blown back the edges of his great coat, and she’d glimpsed the black-satin waistcoat beneath, surprised to note it showcased a firm chest and a flat stomach. While the black cravat knotted tightly about a stiff collar seemed to emphasize a stuffy nature, his dark brown hair was overlong, waving gently to form the slightest curl about his collar. And wrapping her arm about his, beneath the layers of clothing, she’d felt inexplicable strength.

  No, rather than being repulsed, Olivia was intrigued.

  She’d enjoyed teasing a smile onto his too-serious face far more than she’d expected, enjoyed watching how his laugh transformed him into a different man. Most of all, she’d enjoyed being the focus of his attention. Months had passed since a man had last looked upon her with anything beyond lust—and never before with such intensity and focus.

  Flirting shamelessly with the man as they climbed to the gondola, she’d managed to extract a number of anatomical compliments. She now knew Lord Rathsburn found the high placement of her zygomatic arches—cheekbones—pleasing and considered the gentle curve of her cervical vertebrae to be most elegant. Her neck, in other words.

  She’d also confirmed exactly which piece of luggage held items of interest. The entire time he’d not once set down the silver case, the one she’d seen leaking fog on Clockwork Corridor. Though his eyes flashed at her compliments, his white-knuckled grip on its handle never relaxed. She knew, for she’d stared overmuch at his hands. To the point where she’d begun to fantasize about them, about what those fingers would feel like, stroking over her face, threading into her hair, catching the angle of her chin and pulling her close for a kiss.

  Widowed agents had all the fun.

  Olivia smiled, imagining herself in his bed even now, done with her task. For she’d overheard the female agents’ whispers. She would have planted those acousticotransmitters while he slept from exhaustion, then returned to the warmth of his body, seeking yet more pleasure from those all too tempting lips. What it would feel like if he… well, she’d never know, would she?

  She huffed in frustration.

  Instead, she was stuck here, various body parts going numb from lack of movement while Mother gallivanted about the airship, enjoying all it had to offer. Her chaperone would be back soon, to escort her to the dining hall where more drastic steps would need to be taken.

  Steam Clara flapped the blue ribbon.

  “Very well, Steam Clara,” she said, shoving away from the wall and pushing to her feet. “I suppose you’re right. Best to start preparing for the banquet.”

  Boots first. Olivia eyed her new riveted, patent leather ankle boots longingly, but if—when—the distraction succeeded, she would need to shed her shoes quickly. Slip-on silk slippers would have to do.

  Corset second. Always. For it contained her lock picks. She slid the curved hook she’d been toying with into the second left boning slot of her corset, then—out of long habit—checked each slot to ensure her set was complete. Then and only then did she wrap her corset about her torso and slide the metal posts of the busk into their corresponding steel eyes.

  “Pull the laces extra tight,” she instructed her lady’s maid.

  A low whistle from Steam Clara’s release valve indicated that Olivia was reaching the limits to which silk and steel could cinch her waist.

  “I don’t care,” she said, her voice breathless. “Tighter.”

  Not only was a tightly laced corset a necessity, given her recent overindulgences in cream cakes, but she also wished to showcase her female assets, to watch Lord Rathsburn struggle to keep his gaze above her neck, to render him speechless.

  She should be concerned about how badly she wanted this particular gentleman to acknowledge his physical attraction to her beyond teasing her with obscure anatomical references negated by the wink that followed. Yet it was a part of the larger game. A man distracted by all things feminine missed much.

  Steam Clara tied the corset laces off and helped Olivia into her cage bustle and a number of petticoats before slipping a low-cut blue silk gown over her head. As Steam Clara’s articulated fingers threaded the blue velvet ribbon through Olivia’s hair, braiding and twisting and pinning, Mother appeared in the doorway.

  “Good.” She nodded at the vast expanse of her daughter’s exposed cleavage. “I see you’re ready.”

  Olivia stood and ran her hands down the smooth silk sides of her bodice, reassuring herself that the seams still held, that they didn’t strain overmuch the threads that bound them. She’d had nothing but clear broth since receiving her assignment, but two months of cream cakes could not be undone in two days. “How do I look?” she asked. Then wished she hadn’t.

  “Exactly as you are. A desperate woman on the hunt for a husband.” Mother’s brow furrowed. “Make certain you don’t mistake Lord Rathsburn as an acceptable target.”

  She ignored the insult, opting instead for another attempt at extracting mission intelligence from Mother. “What, exactly, is in that case of his?”

  “A medical device.”

  “That does…?”

  “Not your concern, Olivia. You need only help track where it goes. Nothing more. You need not even do that if you’d care to leave the task to me.” Mother glanced at the box Mr. Black had given Olivia and held out her hand.

  “No.” Absolutely not. There was no way she would give up her first chance to help collect intelligence, no matter how small. She crossed her arms and stepped in front of the box that rested on the dressing table. “You told me I needed to prove myself.”

  “You can prove yourself by marrying Baron Volscini.” Mother’s hand dropped. “You know the rules. You have until your twenty-fifth birthday. After that, targets will look past you. Don’t scowl, you’ll give your face premature lines.”

  Olivia marched past her. “I will complete this assignment. All you need to do is keep Lord Rathsburn occupied in the banquet hall.”

  “Oh, that won’t be a problem. I arranged to have Lady Farrington seated at our table.”

  She froze. “I thought the intent of this trip was to set the past aside.”

  “A societal liaison does not set aside convenient tools,” Mother stated. “Use her.”

  ~~~

  Ian was late to the table.

  Steam footmen bearing platters of baked oysters wove through the banquet hall serving the first course. He’d abandoned all hope of teaching himself to program the osforare apparatus, making it halfway through the schematics before conceding defeat. Living systems were his forte, not machines. Learning to program the device would take months, not days. He hoped the rudimentary movements coded for by the handful of punch cards accompanying it would suffice.

  Instead, he�
��d plotted his route into Germany, then turned his attention to a pitiably thin laboratory notebook generated by Mr. Hutton during the original—and failed—rat trials of modified osteoprogenitor cells. It was the only notebook not stolen by Warrick. The initial weeks of the study had been so promising… Then the rampant growth and spread of the immortalized cells had resulted in an aggressive bone cancer. There’d been no choice but to terminate the study.

  It had been a year since that first study failed, and Ian had made much progress using an entirely new technique; strengthening a man’s bones without sending him careening toward an early death was now more than mere fantasy. Though not a procedure he would divulge to the Germans. They need only think he would do so long enough for him to secure his sister’s freedom.

  But the German’s demands that he cure bone cancer? A task impossible to complete.

  Submersed in the intricacies of bone tumor pathophysiology, Ian had lost all sense of time. If not for the sudden onset of a storm that pelted raindrops against his window, he might have missed the banquet altogether. And when Lady Farrington’s presence registered, he nearly made his excuses. It spoke volumes that he’d rather contemplate the possible manner of a man’s demise than spend several hours in her company. Self-proclaimed arbiter of all that was proper and right, the woman’s acid words could etch metal.

  But something about the way Lady Olivia perched upon her chair—her face pale and pinched, her lips pressed together as if she’d swallowed shards of glass—roused some innate protective instinct. She wasn’t the lively, flirtatious woman he’d first met—and he was to be seated next to the reason why: Lady Farrington, a dried husk of an old, bitter woman.

  Why did he feel such a need to watch those long eyelashes of Lady Olivia’s lift, to catch her gaze and stare into her bright blue eyes? Eyes as windows to the soul. Rubbish. No, he merely wanted to ensure they weren’t tear-filled. And if they were? What exactly could he do? It would be a dangerous thing to court the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Avesbury. He’d insulted the duke, and the duchess’ cold smile made it clear her invitation to the table was a farce designed to keep a suspect close. If Ian dared initiate anything with Lady Olivia beyond a light-hearted flirtation, he might mysteriously go missing in the night, never to be heard from again.

  At last, she glanced up and Ian felt a strange frisson of recognition. There were no tears, but something else. Something indefinable in her eyes gave him the decided impression he’d not quite met the true Lady Olivia. His inquisitive nature aroused, it would be no easy task to walk away from this woman. Not that he had a choice. His fists clenched. Would the ramifications of Warrick’s duplicitous dealings ever end?

  “Ladies.” He greeted each by name.

  “Lord Rathsburn.” Lady Farrington reached out, her fingers wrapping about his arm as a kraken grasped its prey and dragged him down into the seat beside her. “Do sit down and stop making a scene. Do you not possess a pocket watch?” She didn’t pause for so much as a breath. “I was just congratulating Her Grace upon the advantageous matches two of her children have made while consoling her upon the loss of her youngest, Lady Emily.”

  A death in the family? He glanced at the two women—and his gaze nearly tripped and fell into the depths of Lady Olivia’s exposed cleavage. No, they were decidedly not in mourning.

  “Nonsense.” The duke’s wife waved off the meddling woman’s sympathies. “Emily merely ran away with the gypsies. What is distressing, however, is the way your grandson handled his engagement to my Olivia. Rather spineless of him to abandon a woman so clearly in need of support.”

  Lady Farrington’s eyebrows arched. “I myself counseled him to terminate the entanglement. You’ve far too many family members pursuing alternative lifestyles. It speaks to mental instability. Why, even now you travel to visit Lady Judith Ravensdale…”

  Ian looked up from his plate of oysters and leaned forward. “The cryptozoologist whose studies of the reproductive habits of the giant kraken were instrumental in informing London shipyards how to prevent future infestations from destroying their docks?”

  “Yes indeed,” the duchess said, her voice betraying a note of pride.

  Lady Farrington inhaled sharply. “Well. That may be, but devoting one’s life to studying such horrible water beasts…” She turned toward Lady Olivia, her face contorted with false concern. “You always struck me as the sensible member of the family, but rumors circulate that you’ve dabbled in programming household steambots. Do tell me you haven’t been driven to,” she lowered her voice, “scientific research.”

  Could it be? He stilled, awaiting her answer. As brilliance ran in her family’s veins, it followed that she too was more than a pretty face. Yet Lady Olivia remained silent, her eyes empty of yesterday’s spark.

  “And why not?” Ian objected to the snub on her behalf. He hoped she traveled to Rome to do exactly that. “This ridiculous prejudice against dirtying one’s hands in the direct pursuit of knowledge prevents numerous men—and women—from applying the many talents they have to offer.”

  All three women stared at him in wide-eyed horror.

  “I’m afraid I have no interest in, or talent for, academic pursuits, Lord Rathsburn,” Lady Olivia said quietly. Her eyes dropped to fix upon her plate as she poked a bivalve with the tines of her fork.

  Lady Farrington’s presence did have a way of ruining one’s appetite.

  “You would do well to take a greater interest in your appearance,” Lady Farrington harrumphed, “lest you begin to gather dust upon the proverbial shelf. I advise you take many walks about the decks at a brisk pace and avoid sweets. A more slender and enticing figure might help a gentleman overcome any concerns of marrying into your family. Isn’t that so, Lord Rathsburn?”

  Lady Olivia laid her fork on the table and allowed the footman to carry her untouched plate away.

  Enough. This entire conversation was evolving into one long, never-ending insult. “On the contrary,” Ian said. “Most men find a woman with generous curves appealing. I find it abhorrent that women are forced to pick at their food. The preoccupation with corsets and the tendency to wear them tightly laced inhibits digestion, preventing food from passing through the alimentary canal in a normal fashion.”

  Lady Farrington gasped and pressed a hand to her mouth.

  “Not an appropriate dinner topic, Lord Rathsburn,” the duchess chided.

  Blinking quickly to hold back tears, Lady Olivia pushed to her feet. “If you’ll forgive me.” But in making her escape, her chair tripped a passing steam footman bearing a large porcelain soup tureen.

  The footman wobbled on its wheels, throwing its jointed arms into the air in a desperate attempt to right itself. For a moment, the soup tureen seemed to hang suspended above her. Ian reached for it, but his fist wrapped about nothing but air, a fraction of a second too late. The tureen tumbled, upending its bouillabaisse in a steaming cascade down Lady Olivia’s skirts, turning her sky blue silk gown into the color of an angry rain cloud.

  A flurry of activity followed wherein Lady Olivia burst into tears as steam footmen—bells ringing—rushed forth to blot her skirts. A multitude of faces turned to stare in horror.

  “Are you…?” Ian began, pushing back from the table. Except she wasn’t fine, and all he had to offer was a perfectly useless handkerchief.

  “Please stay,” she gasped. “Don’t… I’ll just…” Then she turned and ran from the room.

  He moved to go after her.

  The sharp hooks of Lady Farrington’s tentacle-like fingers once again sank into his arm. “Sit down and let the girl go.”

  Chapter Seven

  CLUTCHING HER RUINED skirts, Olivia ran through the gondola’s hallways, past the curious stares of strangers. She paused only once, as she passed through the great entrance hall. The many mirrors that stretched from floor to ceiling beckoned. She had to look.

  Cranks and springs! She was a mess.

  Olivia blotted away cr
ocodile tears and fought back a self-satisfied smile. Wet and crumpled skirts dragged the floor. A side seam in the bodice had pulled free. The silk dress was beyond hope, an unfortunate casualty in an otherwise beautifully executed public set down.

  As was to be expected, the ever-acidic Lady Farrington had been unable to resist an opportunity to sit in judgment and pinpoint every inadequacy of her figure and her family. Olivia rather regretted meekly allowing that woman to use such ammunition, but the more one worked within the realm of truth, the more convincing the outcome.

  A shame she’d not been able to smile and wink at Lord Rathsburn when his gaze had finally slid below her neck. She’d hoped to arrange for him to accompany her on a ‘brisk walk about the deck’ and expound upon the reasons men found her figure attractive.

  But the soup course was the perfect exit strategy. She’d waited patiently until the steam footman was behind her, listening for the telling click of elbow gears. And then disaster spilled down upon her.

  Her lips twitched as a smile threatened. Pressing a fist to her mouth, she feigned distress, then turned and resumed the race. For that’s what it was. A race.

  She had some two hours to complete her assigned task. Lord Rathsburn would not easily escape Lady Farrington or Mother. Still, that was where the uncertainty lay. The social behavior of scientists was unpredictable. She needed to hurry.

  Olivia slammed the door behind her and fell against it, panting. Lord Rathsburn was correct; her corset was far too tight. “A stunning success, Steam Clara,” she gasped, as her breaths slowed and adequate oxygen began to reach her brain.

  Steam Clara held out Olivia’s dressing gown, whirring and whistling in confusion when she waved the steambot away, kicked off her slippers and reached for her oversized reticule, shoving the box containing the acousticotransmitters inside.