by Anne Renwick
Easier to be angry at him than to reveal the bone-deep sadness his childhood story elicited. How awful to grow up under such a dark cloud, to feel obligated to pursue a career in research and medicine. What might he have done with his life otherwise?
No. She pushed her concern aside. He was a grown man and suspected of nefarious intent by her government. She could not allow sympathy to cloud her opinion of his activities here in Germany. For the moment, Ian had done nothing traitorous beyond carrying a few potions and that osforare device across international borders. He might claim he was loyal to Queen and country, but she’d seen how the pain and suffering of a sibling could cloud a person’s judgment. Her own sisters had made several questionable decisions while pursuing a treatment for her brother.
What might Ian be prepared to do in order to set his sister free?
Her stomach growled, so empty it had tied itself into a knot. Anger combined with hunger was dangerous. Perhaps she wasn’t thinking clearly anymore. Thirty-six hours of nothing more than broth and a single roll of soggy bread. She held great hopes for a heavy German meal—sauerbraten, strudel, kuchen—at least this once while the count and countess still pretended that she and Ian were “honored guests”.
For that reason alone, she tried her hardest not to burst into the great hall at a dead run in hopes of finding a feast laid out upon groaning boards.
She was certainly dressed for a banquet, trussed up in a blood-red, bustled skirt and laced into a red-embroidered and glass-beaded gold bodice. Though the sleeves stretched to her wrists, the neckline was cut low. A row of red, knife-pleated ruffles fanned upward from its edge, highlighting her generous feminine assets.
Katherine knew how to attract the hungry gaze of a man, and Olivia had the distinct impression she’d been dressed not for her own husband’s approval, but for that of Count Eberwin’s. With Ian nearby, and provided she could blunt her hunger with something thicker than bouillabaisse, she would endure the count’s leer.
To her great disappointment, the long banquet table was devoid of food.
“Frau Rathsburn!” Count Eberwin strode across the room in red and gold military splendor to grasp her hand in his. He bent low, breaking all manner of protocol to press his lips to bare skin. Gloves had not been among the items provided by the steam valet. The count straightened, taking in her appearance with hungry eyes, and the countess, who stood behind him, smirked.
Ian was already across the room. He’d cast aside all manners to reach for the hands of a tall, thin woman who must be Lady Elizabeth. She was garbed entirely in a gown of pure white that covered her from to wrists to chin, leaving exposed only the creamy oval of her face. Purple half-moons underscored pale blue eyes that sparked with hope at her brother’s approach—even as she glanced warily at the glowering man beside her and cringed as Ian lifted her hand.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
A silver cuff encircled Lady Elizabeth’s wrist. The man at her side wore a matching cuff—complete with switch and dial—and broke into a nasty smile as Ian glared. This would be the hated Warrick, the man who peddled defective biotechnology to Britain’s enemy.
The edges of the silver cuff glowed an eerie blue. Olivia’s eyes widened. An axon thrall band? If Lady Elizabeth tried to pull away from Warrick, the resultant electric arc would send a bolt of electricity traveling up her arm straight to her spine, forcing her into submission. How could such a woman, who resembled nothing so much as a ghost, be considered a flight risk?
No, she realized, not Lady Elizabeth. Ian was the risk. All those weapons he’d carried were the mark of a man prepared to do violence to protect those he loved. A primitive thrill shot through her even though he was decidedly not hers.
“Ian,” Lady Elizabeth’s voice held a note of warning. “It is a special night. In honor of your arrival and,” she caught Olivia’s eyes and smiled, “your recent marriage, the count has graciously permitted me to join you.”
In other words, now was not the time to cause a scene.
A vein throbbed on the side of Ian’s temple. He ground his teeth, such that his molars nearly cracked with the effort of not rounding upon on the count and howling his displeasure. But with Zheng standing nearby and a cancer-ridden guardsman positioned at every door, each with his hand upon a sword, there was no choice but to cooperate with this parody of a dinner party.
“Are you well?” Ian asked through gritted teeth.
“For the moment,” his sister replied.
With a final lewd glance at her bosom, the count wrapped Olivia’s arm about his and drew her forward. “I don’t believe you’ve met Doktor Warrick or his fiancée, Fräulein Elizabeth.”
“Fiancée?” Olivia’s gaze flicked to Ian’s. A muscle jumped at his jaw.
“Your husband will have informed you otherwise,” the count said. “Yet I happen to agree with Doktor Warrick. His country did him a great wrong. Fräulein Elizabeth has no need to fear her future husband. His entire life is devoted to finding her a cure. Besides,” the count sniffed, “I find it a grave miscarriage of justice that the British allow a woman to cry off with no consequences, while a man may be sued for breach of promise.”
“You would force Lady Elizabeth into marriage?” Olivia asked the count. Of course he would. She glanced around the room. Was anyone present here voluntarily?
The look that crossed Ian’s face would have frozen the Thames. “I’ll not allow it.”
“Force? Allow?” The count’s head shook slowly back and forth. “Nein. Not into marriage. I will insist she make reparations for the damage done to Doktor Warrick’s reputation. If—when Fräulein Elizabeth is cured, she still finds marriage to him undesirable, I will allow her to dissolve their connection.”
“Let’s be clear,” Ian spat. “By reparations, you mean my sister is to serve as an unwilling research subject, an experimental hostage.”
“She will be cured,” the count insisted. “Now, take your seats.” He pulled out a high-backed chair, waving to indicate that Olivia should sit at his right hand.
Vibrating with anger, Ian lowered himself into a chair beside her. Across the table from them sat Lady Elizabeth and Warrick. The countess perched at the far end.
“Let’s begin.” Katherine clapped her hands and called, “Hanover! The wine!”
There was a low whistle, then with much clicking and clacking and hissing, a tripod butler lurched forward from behind a carved wooden screen. One of his three wheels wobbled making his rapid progress unsteady and uncertain. As the steam butler bore down upon them, his single eye blinked in a frantic and irregular pattern, suggesting a number of internal loose wires and an improperly calibrated pacing unit. Like Steam Matilda, the butler was a relic of a generation past, sorely in need of updates or outright replacement.
Her stomach rumbled, complaining at the steam servant’s slow progress as he dispensed a generous amount of wine to each guest. At long last he wheeled away.
“A toast.” The count raised his glass. Everyone followed suit, some more grudgingly than others. “To scientific progress.”
The wine was heavenly, a rich Bordeaux, and Olivia drank more than she ought. Anything to sooth the gnawing ache in her abdomen.
Hanover returned, this time clutching an enormous silver urn to his chest. His other arm now ended in a ladle attachment, and she watched with alarm as the steam butler slopped a pink, silver, and spotted gelatinous goo into their bowls, making her think imminent starvation might be a more appealing prospect. Task complete, Hanover careened back behind the screen.
She stared at viscous… soup? And began to recall soggy brown bread with great fondness. With regret and dread, she lifted her spoon.
“Wait!” The count held up a hand. “Send in the girl.”
Wei stepped from behind the screen and moved to stand beside the count. Though dressed in a beautifully embroidered silk dress with a high Mandarin collar, her wide eyes were glazed, and her face was tight with fear.<
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“We begin the meal with the ceremonial first taste.” The count picked up a spoon and lifted a sample of the glutinous material to Wei’s lips. “Open,” he commanded.
Olivia’s stomach twisted with a growing sense of unease. Surely this was mere formality, the count acting as if he were king of his castle.
Wei’s lips parted only slightly and Zheng—standing guard behind the count—slid his sword from its sheath, ready to prod his niece into obedience. A tear ran down her cheek, but her mouth opened, and the count inserted the utensil. Wei closed her mouth, and after a second, swallowed.
“What—?” Ian began, but was cut off by a raised hand.
“One minute.” The count tugged a pocket watch from his waistcoat, counting down the time.
Did the count fear someone might try to poison him? She took a deep breath, ready to protest, but across the table Lady Elizabeth’s eyes were wide, and she was slowly shaking her head.
“Otto,” the countess said. “Really, is this demonstration necessary? The cook assured me it has already been tested.”
“It is tradition,” the count replied. After a long, steady look at Wei, he snapped the face of his pocket watch closed. “Excellent. Dismissed.” He waved the pale girl away. “We may proceed.” Picking up knife and fork, he wasted no time in enjoying this…?
Olivia lifted her own flatware, gently nudging the rubbery item that curled tightly upon her plate. It flipped, and—the light was dim—were those suckers? She cut a tiny portion from the tip and lifted it.
“Jellied kraken, a local delicacy from the Rhine, Frau Rathsburn,” the count announced. “The sharp claws and poison glands have been removed so as to assure safety. Nonetheless, precautions must always be taken to ensure the cook didn’t accidentally pierce the poison sac.”
Setting down her fork, Olivia lifted her wine glass and took a long, steady swallow.
The count waved at her plate. “You must try it.”
Her throat constricted. “Poison glands? I wasn’t aware river kraken were poisonous. My aunt—”
“Those in the Thames are not,” Ian interrupted, fixing her with a pointed stare.
Olivia replaced her wine glass. A misstep, referencing her aunt. There could be only so many female cryptobiologists who studied kraken.
“Yes, like many things German, our kraken too are deadly.” The count’s eyes were still upon her. Steady. Waiting. His tight smile a reminder that everyone in this room was subject to his whims.
She lifted her fork again, abandoning a childish plan to cut the tentacle into tiny pieces and move them about the plate until the next course arrived. She took a deep breath, put the slimy morsel in her mouth, then swallowed, nearly gagging as it slid part way down her throat. And stuck.
Dropping her fork, she reached out and grabbing her wine glass to gulp down the remaining contents.
The count bellowed a dark laugh. “Ah, perhaps you will prefer the next course, knödel made from black potato and stuffed with shredded wild boar.”
“Black potato?” More potentially deadly food items?
Already, Hanover was at her elbow, pouring more wine. The liquid splashed and overflowed her glass, but he also lifted away her plate. Grateful, she tried to ignore his increasingly jerky movements as he rolled about the table.
She lifted the glass to her lips. Ian caught her eyes and frowned. She looked away.
“The black potato is a marriage of an arbuscular mycorrhizas fungi with a common potato,” Warrick proclaimed in a tone she recognized: lecture mode. “A plant-fungi symbiotic union that restores nutrients to the soil as it grows such that the Germans have no further need to fear famine, nor to let a field lie fallow.”
By the end of that lengthy sentence, Olivia had again drained her glass. That was a decided mistake; her head felt… floaty. She set the glass down. No more.
Warrick launched into something more concerning onions. This variety was purple. But she was distracted by the count’s steady gaze. Which had come to fall—surprise, surprise—upon her bosom. The countess smirked.
Forget consistency. There was no need to feign jealousy or some lover’s tiff. No need to manufacture more drama for there was already enough tension in the room to set everyone at each other’s throats at the slightest provocation. Olivia knew when to keep her mouth tightly shut.
And so she lifted her wine glass instead.
Chapter Sixteen
HIS WIFE GUZZLED WINE under the count’s appreciative and overly familiar gaze. As the count ogled, a smoldering sensation built deep in his chest, as if a sleeping dragon awakened to find a gold coin missing from his hoard. In a premeditated move, Katherine had loaned Olivia an exceptionally revealing gown. To distract her husband? To prick Ian’s ire? Both, he suspected.
He cleared his throat. Loudly. “It is British tradition for a woman to wait until she has produced both an heir and a spare before conducting an illicit liaison. You’ll need to wait a few years, Count Eberwin.”
All conversation stopped.
Had he a knife, Ian would have been tempted to aim for the count’s throat and put an end to this madness, but he’d only been provided a fork and a spoon. Every muscle in his body tensed. Eyes could be removed with a spoon.
But no. It would solve nothing. Too many in this room would stop him. Still, he saw no reason to act the gentleman. The food was inedible, the company unbearable, and he could no longer tolerate the count’s lustful glances at Olivia’s chest.
He dropped his fork with a clatter and tossed his napkin on the table and stood.
Several guardsmen about the room slid knives from sheaths.
Ignoring them all, he addressed the count. “What is the point of forcing us to share a meal together? We are not friends, not guests. Three of us are prisoners. Your guardsmen are dying. Yet you force us to cease working so that we may engage in pointless social charades.”
“Scientists.” Count Eberwin sighed. “Such little regard for manners. I’d hoped your status as an earl might restore some dignity to the profession, but alas.” With one last longing glance at Olivia’s bosom, the count leaned back in his chair. “If you could view my goals in a different light, we might be partners. Sit down and hear me out.”
The wobbly steam butler rolled back into the room, this time with a tray balanced upon metal fingers. It began slapping down a most disgusting, steaming pile of black hash upon their plates. He supposed this was the infamous black knödel.
“Partners,” Ian sneered, reluctantly taking his seat. “Germany is an enemy of Britain. How could we be partners?”
“Even now our two countries’ ambassadors meet.” Katherine spoke from the distant end of the table. “Allegiances change.”
“Do they, Countess? Which country is it that you support?” For the moment. With that stray thought, Ian realized that it needn’t be either Germany or England. With new awareness, he studied her face more closely and… No, there were no telling features. She could be loyal to any number of countries.
“Why that of my husband, of course.” Her mouth drew into a knowing smile. “Though my heart will always hold England near and dear.”
The count set down his fork. “Zheng recognizes the value in aligning China’s interests with that of Germany. When this project succeeds, he will win both fortune and favor with emperors, both his and mine. Doktor Warrick’s own country dismissed him, but with my patronage, he continues his work here in Germany. Why not join us?”
“I have no cause to abandon my country,” Ian said.
The count’s eyebrows drew together. “Your queen has forced you from your laboratory, away from your passion, and by now she will suspect treason. Your estate is in shambles, in need of a great infusion of funds, but you chose to marry whom?” He barked a laugh. “A research assistant?”
Ian stared. Loathing rose like bile from his gut. “I am only suspected of treason because Warrick betrayed his country and you kidnapped my sister.”
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�But of course.” His eyebrows lifted in haughty disdain. “Time is limited. Persuasion was necessary.” He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers across his chest. “Now that you are here, I hope you will allow me to make you happy, but if you refuse to cooperate, there are many avenues of enticement I intend to pursue,” the count’s gaze flickered again to Olivia’s bosom, this time with a pointed message, “many of which will make me a very happy man.”
Ian wanted to throttle him and Olivia who, sipping her third glass of wine, watched the exchange as if she were at a cricket match. No experienced agent would overindulge while in such a precarious position. With all the guards lining the room, the situation could easily turn ugly.
The count leaned forward and tapped a finger on the table. “Solve my problem. Build me an indestructible army, and I will see you established in Berlin—in a laboratory at the prestigious Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität—where you will be allowed to poke and prod at any anatomical curiosity your heart desires.”
“What assurances do I have that you, an egotistical, maniacal despot, can accomplish such a thing?” Ian sneered. “From the primitive, downright antediluvian appearance of your castle, your family has been out of political favor for generations. For all I know, you will squander any such army attempting to storm the Berliner Stadtschloss and die before you cross its threshold.”
The count slammed his hands down upon the table. The dinnerware and all its guests, who had grown silent and wary during their exchange, jumped. “This time and this time only, I will not kill you for your insults. However, should you address me in that manner again—”
Olivia screamed.
All eyes followed the point of her finger. Gleaming kitchen knives attached to the steam butler’s arms waved wildly in the air as it pitched across the great hall on a direct course for the count.
