by Anne Renwick
Chaos erupted.
Guardsmen drew their swords, but Zheng moved with blinding speed. With a loud cry, he leapt forward wielding his curved blade and lopped off the butler’s head with one blow.
Valve oil spurted from Hanover’s severed neck as some internal pump continued to churn away. Hot steam hissed from several damaged valves, one of which happened to be on level with the count’s face.
Howling in pain, the count shoved away from the table with such force that his chair toppled backward. Warrick, sycophant that he was, jumped to his feet and rushed to the count’s side, dragging Elizabeth with him in an attempt to press a napkin against the man’s cheek, all the while shouting at a guardsman to bring ice.
His sister screamed as blue electricity arced. The smell of burned flesh met his nose at the very moment Elizabeth’s eyes rolled backward. With surprising agility, Olivia flung herself between his sister and the floor, cushioning her fall.
“Warrick!” Ian yelled, running to his sister’s side. “Fix the damn dial, you bastard.”
Olivia had pried the wrist band free by the time he crouched beside Elizabeth, and her convulsions had stopped. He put a hand to her chest. Still breathing. Checked her pulse. Thready, but regular. He shoved aside the ruffled lace at her wrist and grimaced. First degree burns.
Elizabeth’s eyes flickered open. “I think it’s broken,” she whispered. “My wrist.”
He lifted her arm, but Warrick slapped away his hand. “She’s mine now.”
“Boys,” Olivia chided, helping Elizabeth to sit up. “Fighting over her will worsen her injury.”
They both ignored her.
“You take poor care of whom you claim to love,” Ian snapped, turning on Warrick. “That convulsion, that fall could have broken more than her wrist. What were you thinking? An axon thrall band?”
Ripping the master control band from his arm, Warrick slammed it down upon the table. “It would not have been necessary had you not poisoned her mind against me.”
“Necessary!” Ian yelled. “In the presence of twelve guardsmen and Zheng? You vastly overestimate my abilities.”
“Step aside, Lord Rathsburn.” Katherine crossed the room to stand beside the count. “Doktor Warrick will see Lady Elizabeth’s bones set.”
Ian growled. A vein pulsed at his temple. He’d not broken a dozen rules to reach his sister only to be brushed aside when she needed him.
“I’ll be fine,” Elizabeth whispered. “It’s but a minor break. Warrick is competent enough. You’ll cause more problems if you insist upon setting my wrist yourself. Look around, Ian. This is not the time to stir up trouble. Please.”
He glanced up. All eyes were upon him. Zheng adjusted the angle of his sword and his eyes flashed, daring him to contradict the countess’ words. Twelve guardsmen held knives at the ready.
Elizabeth was right. The situation had degenerated past repair. Though his body—his fists—shook with the need to lay Warrick flat on his back, doing so would only cause the count to tighten security. “Very well,” he conceded.
In deference to his sister’s wishes and the inevitable trouble that would ensue, he forced himself to rise slowly and hold his tongue. He caught Olivia by the elbow as she struggled to stand, steadying her as she tripped on the train of her dress.
“Thank you,” she slurred and fell against him, her body soft and warm.
“Guards,” the count bellowed. “Take the prisoners to their assorted cells.”
As four guardsmen bore his sister away—Warrick in their wake—Ian scooped Olivia into his arms and exited the room at the point of Zheng’s blade.
~~~
He deposited his drunk wife on her feet.
No.
His pretend wife.
But he was right about the drunk.
“What the hell were you thinking, drinking half a bottle of wine in the space of two courses?” he yelled. It was enough that he now had to worry about Elizabeth’s broken wrist in the care of Warrick.
“Nothing else to eat…” she slurred, wobbling as she turned about on her too-high heels to face him. “I’m not drunk.”
“You are. Drunk enough to smile at Count Eberwin.”
It had been a defining moment. Never before had he felt such an upwelling of insane jealousy, of irrational possessiveness. Acting the possessive husband had not taken the slightest effort. She was his. At least for the duration of their time in Germany.
“I wasn’t smiling,” she said. “I was trying not to laugh. At him.” She stepped forward and jabbed at his chest. “And I didn’t see you eating any poisonous, jellied kraken, taking the chance that a sharp barb might get caught in your throat.” Olivia spun away. She staggered to the bed, steadying herself by clutching the bedpost. “Two glasses of wine were a necessary coping measure.”
“Three.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.
Thud. He looked up. Her ruined bodice sparkled upon the floor. He stared as she unfastened the hooks of the skirt, the ties of the petticoat, and let it all slide to the floor. She kicked them away and bent over, reaching for her shoes… and presenting him with a most enticing view of her rump.
Approving, his shaft rose to attention even as his brain vetoed the thought. What was wrong with him? He was angry. They faced a life and death situation. His sister was injured. Why was he lusting after this woman? This very beautiful, if frustrating and exasperating woman.
“I thought it added a certain verisimilitude to my role,” she said, her tongue tripping over the long word. Her shoes made an odd clang as she kicked them beneath the bed. “Bride in a snit when confronted by her husband’s former paramour.”
“She’s not… I didn’t… we were never romantically involved.” Not really. He might have proposed to Katherine, but they’d never shared so much as a kiss, thank the aether. Though if not for the attack upon their balloon… How had Olivia managed to make this about him? Time for the voice of reason. “Something like this can’t happen again. You agreed to help. If it’s too much, play ill. Confine yourself to this bed for the duration.”
This task he’d undertaken was beginning to look impossible. He raked a hand through his hair. How was he—unassisted—to stop Warrick, free his sister, and return both Olivia to her father and the osforare apparatus to his laboratory?
Somehow he would manage. There was little choice.
Olivia swayed as she turned around. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Alcohol consumption in the presence of the enemy…” Her eyes met his. She clamped her mouth shut.
“You are a spy,” he accused. An incompetent spy, perhaps, but any help was preferable to none at all.
“No. I only want to be.” She flapped a hand in the air. “But I think one is about. A spy, that is.” Olivia giggled. “To be able to say the butler did it…” She shook her head. “Such a middling assassination attempt. A corroded tripod butler wielding kitchen knives…”
Ian tipped his head. “Could you have done better?”
“Of course!” Her eyes grew wide. “Not that I would. Kill someone. Or try to do so.”
“Who—if anyone—in the room do you think would want to attack the count?”
She fell silent as her face contorted in an effort to concentrate, trying to pluck a coherent thought from the alcoholic pickle she’d made of her brain. “I think… What if Hanover wasn’t meant to succeed?” She reached deep into her bodice and dragged forth a metal cartridge. “Can you pry the lid free? My fingers aren’t quite so… nimble.”
“How?” He gaped. She was intoxicated. “Is that from—?”
“Hanover.” She flapped her fingers at the cartridge. “Everyone was yelling. He just lay there on the floor, his chest cavity cracked. I thought… I wondered… who was trying to kill who. So I… Just pass me the cards.”
“The steam butler was clearly after the count,” Ian said, handing her the stack of yellowed, dog-eared punch cards.
“Was he?” With the palm of her hand she spread them
out upon the desk where a single tallow candle burned and bent over them, reading the pattern of holes. “Crude. Though no surprise here. He’s a Model 2A Grefenshaus. Some twelve years old. Daily commands: polishing silver, selecting wine, dinner at eight… Wait. There it is.”
“What?” Ian asked, bending closer. “Can you truly determine who punched a card by looking at it?”
“Not without a sample identified as their work.” She studied the card, then held it out to him. “Look.”
“Same kind of paper,” he observed, turning it over in his hand. “Only in pristine condition.”
“Exactly. A series of commands instructing Hanover to kill ‘the Chinaman’. The butler wasn’t attempting to kill the count, but Zheng.”
“Katherine is no doubt behind this,” Ian said. “She’s the only one with unimpeded access to the steam staff and, married to the count, a simple knife to his throat while he slept would make her a widow.”
Her mouth fell open. “That’s a gruesome view of marriage.”
“A pragmatic one, steeped in historical tradition. But why kill Zheng? He provides the antimony. Without him, there can be no unbreakable army. Perhaps she was testing Zheng’s loyalty? That corroded, old steam butler was bound to fail.”
Nodding, she swayed forward and caught herself by grabbing the lapels of his coat. “I agree. But what if she deemed either outcome acceptable?” She lowered her forehead to rest against his chest. “I do not believe you. I think you were once lovers. Katherine clearly mourns the loss of your affections. I think she aspires to widowhood.”
He agreed. Just not with the countess’ motivations. Katherine was playing her own game, yes, but Ian sincerely doubted her motivations were amorous. “We weren’t lovers and never will be.”
“She is so beautiful.” Both of Olivia’s hands now gripped his coat. “So very tall and regal. And I’m… not.” She sniffled.
Oh, no. No, no, no. Was his mock wife about to cry because she believed he lusted after another woman? The excessive wine had made her maudlin. “Stop,” he said. “You are far more beautiful than her.”
“Really?” She looked up. A stray tear ran down her cheek.
He sighed. Words. She wanted words. Romantic ones. Strangely, he felt an urge to provide them. “Were you not listening to my many compliments when we boarded the airship?”
“Silliness to pass the time.” She waved a hand.
“Not silliness.”
“But earlier, I offered you…” Her face flushed. “Everything. You turned me down.”
“And before that, I kissed you.”
“So you did.” She shifted closer and tipped her face upward. Her blue eyes caught his. “So which is it, husband? Attraction or revulsion?”
He brushed away the tear, then trailed a finger down the side of her face, tracing the edge of her jaw until his finger slid beneath the tip of her chin. “You captivate me, Olivia. With an allure beyond having curves in all the right places. I’ve yet to meet a woman with such complexity.”
She blinked. “Is that a good thing?”
“It is.” Except it wasn’t. It was going to take every ounce of his self-restraint not to respond to her unpracticed advances.
Her eyes fluttered closed. “Then might we try a kiss again now that I’m not terrified of plunging to my death?”
So tempting, those soft, full lips. But he was a gentleman, and she was drunk. His hands moved to press against the satin and steel of her narrow, corseted waist. Gently, he turned her around, directing her toward the bed. “Another time. The only thing you’re fit for at the moment is sleep.”
Chapter Seventeen
OLIVIA DREAMED SHE was in the kitchen, standing before a toasty oven. She reached out and pressed her hand against the delicious heat, sliding her palm over its hard surface. The stove grabbed her wrist.
“Olivia,” the stove said. “Wake up.”
Her eyes flew open. “Ian,” she breathed. He was stretched out beside her on the bed—beneath the covers—one arm about her waist.
Half undressed, she was curled against him, her head on his shoulder, one leg draped over his. He held her hand pressed to his chest. His warm, hard chest. Never had she been so cozy and comfortable and… humiliated.
Wine. There had been much wine and no food. No edible food.
She groaned and tried to snatch back her hand, but he held tight. She lifted her head. “What did I say?”
The corners of his lips twitched. “What do you remember? Anything?”
Her face grew hot as memories of the night before flooded back. She’d all but stripped in front of him, suggested he was the motive behind attempted murder… and thrown herself at him, begging for a kiss.
He’d turned her down.
But he hadn’t slept on the floor. That had to be a good sign. On the other hand, where else would he sleep? They were supposed to be married. Anyone with a key could march into their room at any moment, and appearances must be maintained.
A rush of guilt chilled her. “I remember that I was slow to catch your sister as she fell. I’m so sorry.”
“The break was minor, and Warrick is capable enough.” The admission came through tight lips. “Though I will double check his work.”
“He has the eyes of a basilisk,” she said. “No wonder you don’t trust him.”
There was venom in his answering laugh. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“I should. Your wife would know. Tell me, how is it that your sister came to be engaged to such a man?” Any man who would force a woman to his will using axon thrall bands didn’t deserve a wife, he deserved a prison cell. It pleased her that even in a muddled state, she’d managed to smuggle the bands away, to kick them beneath their bed. The minute an opportunity presented itself, she would secrete them inside Watson.
Ian’s eyes met hers. “Not everyone considers a man of medicine a social pariah.”
“I didn’t say…” Olivia sighed. “I did. I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, I’m becoming rather fond of one physician in particular.”
“Then put your head down.” Tension melted from his face. “It’s a long tale.”
Lowering her head again to his shoulder, she curled back into his warmth. There were, it seemed, to be some benefits to her temporary marriage. She’d have to be careful not to become too accustomed, but she would not argue if Ian wished to hold her close. It was the oddest sensation to feel so secure.
“Once, Warrick was a student at the Lister University School of Medicine. I became his mentor when he asked to join my laboratory, to work upon my research project. He was a bright young mind. We became friends. One summer, he came to visit me—all the way to the wilds of Yorkshire—at my crumbling, country estate.”
Crumbling? That would explain rumors of the heiress hunt that had reached her ears. “Where he met Elizabeth.”
“It seemed like love at first sight,” Ian said. “And he offered for her hand. Before Warrick, she had no prospects, no hope of a family, and she begged for my blessing. I hesitated.”
“As would any caring brother. Her condition…”
“She was of age. If she insisted upon marrying, who better to look after and care for her than another scientist, a future physician?” His fingers tightened upon her wrist, and his voice grew resentful. “Except Warrick wasn’t courting her. He was courting her condition. Who she was as a person didn’t matter.”
Olivia knew the feeling. She too had been viewed merely as a prize, a means to an end. “How could you know?”
“I didn’t. Not at first. Our research had become his obsession. He found her mutation fascinating and was convinced a cure was possible. If they married, Warrick would have the legal right to—”
“No.” Olivia gasped. “You can’t mean… He wouldn’t…” They had to save Elizabeth from marriage to such a monster.
“I do.” His hand slid over the back of her hand, and his fingers threaded through hers. “When a project has merit, wh
en it has shown potential to effect a cure, it is protocol to conduct the first in vivo—in a living animal—study upon rodents. We proceeded, but our cells quickly grew out of control. The rats were riddled with tumors. Somewhere, our work had taken a wrong turn.”
The poor creatures. She curled her fingers, holding tightly. There was comfort in touch. “Continue.”
“Warrick insisted our work was valid, that a human’s immune system could control the cell growth. But to perform such a test would break every last rule and regulation set in place by oversight committees at Lister Laboratories.”
She stiffened. “He didn’t!”
“Not on British soil,” Ian answered. “While looking for a particular data set, flipping through his laboratory notebook, I came across a research proposal addressed to a group identified only as CEAP. With this group’s approval and funding, Warrick proposed to test the cells in humans. A perfect first candidate, he argued, would be a woman suffering from osteogenesis imperfecta.”
“Elizabeth.” Olivia lifted her head and stared into Ian’s eyes.
He nodded, his eyes haunted. “If her bones could be made indestructible, he argued, think what the cells might accomplish within the ranks of the British military.”
“Unbreakable soldiers,” Olivia said. “Such as the count’s guardsmen.”
“I confronted Warrick.” His arm, strong and muscled, tightened about her waist. “He didn’t even bother to deny my accusations, answering only that his project was supported unconditionally by a shadow board within Lister University.”
“A shadow board? You think CEAP and this shadow board are the same thing?”
“I do.”
Something cold trickled into her stomach. She’d heard that term before, shadow boards. In her own home. Listening at doors, one rarely heard anything good. A lesson learned at the tender age of eleven.
Unable to sleep and annoyed with her nursemaid for taking away her book, Olivia had slid silently from her room and tip-toed down the grand stairway. She’d slipped, unseen, into Father’s library and pulled the largest book she could reach from the shelves, a volume written by Charles Babbage. Secreting herself on a window seat behind heavy curtains, she’d read by the light of a small, bioluminescent torch, secure in the knowledge that her nursemaid would never find her. Later, when the meeting convened at midnight in the library, no one thought to look behind the curtains.
