The Golden Spider (The Elemental Web Chronicles Book 1)

by Anne Renwick

  “Except neither his work nor mine encompass nerve agents. Wherever did you get that impression?” Amanda tried to project innocent curiosity into her voice, but acting was not one of her talents.

  “No?” Something flickered in Simon’s brown eyes. “I could have sworn a classmate mentioned something to that effect. I was hoping I might find a new chemistry project.” He leaned closer, and his blond hair fell across his forehead. “Tell me, how were you so fortunate as to gain entry to his laboratory? Especially given how exasperated he seemed by your question that first day.”

  “Yes, well.” Amanda sat back and sipped her tea, stalling. Black had warned her she could no longer discuss her spider. She cast about for a likely explanation. “Lord Thornton was rather…‌ forced into accepting me as a research assistant. I became eligible when…‌ well…‌ the last anatomy exam, I‌—‌”

  “Top student in anatomy.” Simon sat back. “I should have known.” Except, instead of looking proud, he looked wounded. Some men had such fragile egos. “Will you talk to Lord Thornton on my behalf?” he pleaded.

  Amanda set down her teacup. “I don’t think he’s interested in taking on another student, Simon, regardless of the project. Besides, I’ve only just begun working in his laboratory. I don’t have any influence.”

  Simon’s face fell. “You’ll put a good word, right?”

  “I will,” she agreed.

  But she wouldn’t. Working in Thornton’s laboratory was too precious. She intended to hug it tight, not to share it. Even if that made her an awful person. Simon would have claim on enough of her attention if‌—‌when‌—‌they married.

  “I’m sorry. I guess the idea of you spending so much time with Lord Thornton when you could be at my side, makes me realize how jealous I am of your free time. There’s so very little of it.”

  Her lips parted. Jealous? Covetous of her dowry or her position in Thornton’s laboratory perhaps, but not jealous of her time. She tilted her head and studied him, somewhat suspicious, but he seemed serious. “No need to feel so, Simon.” She smiled her reassurance. There wasn’t. Thornton was all that was professional. “I spend most of my time working alone, under the supervision of another research assistant.”

  “Well, then,” he said, sounding mollified, “at least tell me what projects the great Lord Thornton is working on in his laboratory. I hear he’s developing cranial nerve prosthetics?”

  Amanda’s brow furrowed. It was uncanny, the degree to which Simon seemed informed about Thornton’s work. Then again, if he’d been to Thornton’s office seeking out a research position, Simon would have to arrive prepared. Nothing he’d said spoke to any deeper knowledge than one could arrive at by reading Thornton’s published papers or listening to ton gossip about his injury. “Simon, I’m sorry. If you could only see the confidentiality papers I signed. I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything about Lord Thornton’s laboratory or his research.”

  He grinned. “So the man’s a spy, an agent for the Queen?” His voice was light and teasing. “Do promise not to let him take you out into the field, on dangerous assignments.”

  “Don’t be absurd.” Amanda laughed. “Lord Thornton is merely a research scientist. At most, the Queen reserves first right to any of his inventions.”

  He might surgically implant his invention into an agent’s ear, but neither that nor consulting for the Crown on various murder investigations as a medical scientist made the man a spy. Now, Black, he could very well be a spy. Except he answered to Thornton. Which made Thornton…‌ No. Not possible.

  Was it?

  Simon reached out and lifted her hand. His palm was warm and soft as he stroked his thumb across the surface of her knuckles.

  She pushed Thornton from her mind and looked up into his eyes, doing her best to appear charmed. His eyes were so bright, so earnest. Was he about to propose? Would she accept?

  Please, not today. She wasn’t ready to commit to marriage. Not just yet.

  “What I really want is your permission to formally court you. To know I have a right to a portion of your time. Promise me a waltz at every ball, a drive in the park every Sunday afternoon while the weather holds.” Simon’s thumb picked up its pace while he waited for her answer, brushing across the surface of her hand.

  She should be pleased. This had been today’s goal, had it not, to encourage his pursuit?

  Simon shifted closer, the length of his leg pressing against hers. “I want to take tea together. Regularly. In this parlor. Alone.” The fine golden hairs of his beard were visible at this range. He lifted his hand to cup her jaw. A kiss was imminent.

  She’d allow it. If she agreed to marry him, kissing would be a regular event. Best to determine if his initial advances were tolerable, for his lips were rather thin.

  Other lips rose to mind. But as professor and mentor, he was forbidden. Nor had he given the slightest indication that he was interested in anything more than her mind.

  That, perhaps, was one of his biggest draws.

  Parting her lips, she leaned forward in invitation, and Simon covered her lips with his. Unexceptional, but adequate, she decided. Pulling away, she made an attempt at a demure nod and a coy smile. “Of course I welcome your attentions, Simon.”

  Who could be better for her than a peer who was also a future physician? With this first declaration of intent, they could finally begin to negotiate the terms of any relationship their future might hold.

  Why, then, did her stomach hurt?

  Chapter Eleven

  THE FEW TIMES Thornton had taken on a student he’d been the one giving the orders. Yet, for the second day, he sat beside Lady Amanda in his laboratory taking orders from his student, helping her assemble the complicated network of gears, pins and springs.

  Working with such a quick mind was pure intellectual pleasure. Together, they’d sunk deeply into the hands-on technical work of building the new neurachnid while continuing to verbally explore more improvements, often finishing each other’s thoughts. Progress was swift, and at this speed, they should have a working neurachnid by week’s end.

  Not since he’d collaborated with John Huntley had he worked so seamlessly with another. The memory brought pain, like a wound that would not heal. Much like his leg. He pushed the thought away into a deep corner of his mind. He had no wish to explore it further.

  Amazing, what she’d been able to accomplish on her own. A shame her formal training had been delayed so many years. The blame was partially his. Had he not ignored the missive she’d sent some two years past, this neurachnid might already be operational. Thornton regretted losing even the few days Lady Amanda had worked in his laboratory. Though she’d been in Henri’s capable hands, he should have expressed more immediate interest in this project.

  He set down his tools and turned to look at Lady Amanda. Really look at her. Not only was she brilliant, she was beautiful. Even though she wore a stained canvas apron and clockwork grease covered her long, elegant fingers. Even though strands of dark hair floated about her face, catching on magnification goggles that made her eyes seem twice their normal size. As she reached for one tool after another, tweaking and adjusting the tiny creature’s mechanized legs, she bit her lip in intense concentration, and Thornton lost all interest in the task before him.

  All he wanted at this moment was to reach out with his thumb and forefinger to tug her lower lip free from those teeth. His hand twitched as he imagined cupping her jaw, drawing her face across the space that separated them and claiming those soft, pink lips with his own crushing need.

  His mind screamed that this was a horrible idea, a clear abuse of his position. Another, much lower portion of his anatomy disagreed, urging him to take immediate action.

  This wasn’t like him. It had been a long, long time since he’d felt such an uncontrollable rush of desire. So long, in fact, that he’d allowed his mother to arrange a suitable marriage to one Lady Anne Grimwauld, a match that had fulfilled everyone’s expectations
until his injury. At which point Lady Anne had cried off. It seemed she had received a more enticing offer, one from an uninjured viscount.

  Marriage, he’d decided, could wait. There were other ways to meet basic, biological urges, but not with the woman beside him. No matter the inviting glances she threw him, her eyes dilated with desire. No matter the racing pulse at her throat when he returned her stare. No matter the dark satisfaction his primitive brain found in eliciting such reactions.

  What reaction might a simple touch unleash?

  But not only was she his student, she was the innocent daughter of a duke, a duke who had the ear of the Queen. A duke who, as Thornton’s superior, had ordered him to report to his side this very evening. It seemed Lady Amanda’s father, citing his family’s involvement, had been granted oversight of the gypsy murders.

  Thornton closed his eyes to block temptation from view, but her very image was burned into his retinas.

  In his mind’s eye, he could still visualize her as she donned her apron, covering her very generous bosom. Covering the rust and caramel leather of her corset. Covering the wide straps and gold buckles that cinched her waist.

  His hands insisted they could easily span the width of that waist and lift her onto the workbench. His fingers, also traitorous, demanded permission to free the prong from each buckle’s hole, after which they planned to hunt for buttons among the white frills of her shirtwaist. His palms then insisted they must explore the soft curves beneath all those layers. Together, hands and fingers would fondle and stroke and tease until they managed to coax an uncontrolled gasp from her throat.

  Thornton stifled a groan and opened his eyes. There’d be no rising from his stool anytime soon. Mentoring her might prove an impossibility.

  Lady Amanda pushed her goggles onto her forehead, pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. Tiny lines of worry creased her brow.

  “Headache?” he asked, surprised to hear his voice sound normal while the rest of him throbbed.

  “A bit,” she admitted. “Mostly from worry. Has Black had any luck locating my sister?”

  Thornton shook his head, grateful for a topic serious enough to distract his unruly mind. “Not yet. Nobody will admit to Nicu Sindel’s whereabouts, and not a single gypsy has seen Luca Sindel or his gadji bride.”

  Her face fell. “Not surprising.”

  “No. Black did report, however, that the gypsies camped on Putney Heath seem unusually agitated. It seems a man has gone missing. One whose return was anticipated for reasons the gypsies decline to disclose.”

  Lady Amanda frowned. “That does not bode well.”

  “Not at all.”

  It had been over a week since the last gypsy murder. Given past patterns, Thornton feared another death was imminent. It was agony to sit helplessly in his laboratory, banned from fieldwork due to his damned injury.

  He looked at the partially assembled mechanism before them. Not entirely helpless. Once complete, there was a chance‌—‌a very slim one‌—‌that the neurachnid could be programmed to repair his own leg. What would it be like to experience movement via gold threads and rare earth metals? Not that he cared, so long as he regained full function of his leg, of his foot.

  He tucked a loupe into one eye and picked up a screwdriver. Work was one way to dispel the sense of dependence upon others, and an excellent way to avoid staring at Lady Amanda’s form. “What inspired the idea of this neurachnid?” he asked.

  “My brother,” she said, pulling her goggles back over her eyes and lifting her own tools once more. “We were at a house party some five years past. Ned accompanied Emily and me, but only because said party was at Nellie Atwater’s manor.”

  “I see.” Lady Nell was a beauty, and lust was a powerful motivation.

  Her hand stilled. “We teased Ned awfully, insisting he could never steal a kiss for her mother kept her under close watch during the day, lock and key at night, and the trellis outside her bedroom window was covered with thorns of the sharpest variety.” She paused. “Ned took that as a dare.”

  Thornton remembered twenty-five. An indestructible age. Though, at the time, he’d yet to do anything requiring nerve repair. He waited, guessing at the ending before it was spoken aloud.

  “The wood was rotten. He fell, landing on a stone planter below.”

  The wrong angle and just enough force and a man’s life was altered forever.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, pausing at his task. Guilt too was a powerful motivator. In the years that followed, Lady Amanda had designed and built the neurachnid, while Lady Emily toiled to concoct a drug that met the needs of the procedure. “I gather that Lady Emily, despite finding love among the Romani, continues to assist with your project?”

  She nodded. “By letter. Though, as I said, I haven’t heard from her in some time. Nor did I expect to. The last batch of nerve agent should have lasted months, provided the largest test subject was of the murine variety.”

  Mice would require significantly less of the drug during the procedure. To calm a grown man’s nerves long enough to perform the surgery would require much, much more nerve toxin.

  “There’s still hope,” she said. “Ned’s injury is not as severe as most imagine. The fall damaged the L4 and L5 nerve roots.” Her lashes fell. A slight blush tinged her cheeks. “However, the father of his would-be fiancée has expressed concern.”

  So Ned’s spinal cord was not severed. Fatherhood was still possible. But the nerve roots emerging from beneath the fourth and fifth lumbar vertebrae provided a large portion of motor input to the legs. He understood, but the ton at large would not. “I see.” He paused, then discarded delicacy in favor of bluntness. “I gather there are no bastard children to prove otherwise?”

  Her cheeks flamed and she kept her eyes firmly on the work before her as she shook her head. “No.”

  Lord Edward, Ned, might be heir to a dukedom, but if it was suspected he could not produce an heir, no decent father would approve a match. Despite the availability of numerous artificial solutions to cope with such leg injuries, a young lady’s family preferred her affianced to have an unaltered, intact, and fully functioning human form.

  If this procedure succeeded, there would be no surface trace of the repair beyond a scar. Ned would be considered “cured”, and young ladies would throng to his side, hoping to be asked for a dance.

  Dance.

  That was something he himself could no longer do. Not that he wished to attend a ball. The opera and the theater were risky enough, but to attend an event where mothers herded flocks of young available women in the direction of the nearest eligible title…‌ Well, his limp and his cane would only provide him a modest amount of protection.

  Lady Amanda cleared her throat and spoke, seeming to read his mind. “If the neurachnid can fully restore a spinal nerve, its Babbage card can be programmed to restore a partially damaged nerve.”

  “Thank you for your consideration, but the procedure would likely fail.”

  She looked up, meeting his eyes as she pulled the goggles from her face. “Why?” Her direct approach‌—‌where others tiptoed‌—‌was almost a relief.

  So he told her. “The German cutlass that cut through my leg was coated with a particularly virulent bacteria. Its toxin immediately began to destroy my nerve.” Her eyes grew large with concern. “Henri does what he can to stop the damage from spreading, but I’m not certain if enough intact nerve remains for your neurachnid to trace.” Not that it would stop him from trying.

  “Oh, Sebastian,” she murmured.

  The sound of his given name on her lips shocked them both so much they jumped as the clock on the wall chimed the hour.

  Eight o’clock.

  “I must go,” she said, leaping to her feet and hastily arranging her work space. “Father extracted a promise that I would attend the Whitmore’s ball.”

  He reached for his cane. “I’ll see you to your steam carriage.”

  “No, pleas
e.” She glanced at his leg. “I must hurry.”

  He cringed. He hated being viewed as damaged, as requiring repair. But before he could force his stiff leg to bend against the weight of the metal brace, he found himself alone. Staring at his great iron door.

  ~~~

  Amanda turned sideways, admiring the brocade gown she wore in the mirror. The bodice, the draped overskirt and bustle might be black, but the teal underskirt with knife pleat ruffles provided a dramatic flash of color. Yet the color wasn’t the reason she’d chosen this gown. She’d pulled it from her wardrobe because of its bodice. The décolletage was deeply cut, yes, but the eye-catching feature was that it was only held in place by a black silk cord laced through tab accents in a pattern reminiscent of corset lacings.

  It was a stunning gown designed to snare a man’s attention. Unfortunately, the one man whose dark, tortured glances she craved wouldn’t be in attendance at tonight’s ball.

  Simon would be there, of course, and Amanda would try to feel something more for the man than mere friendship. A proposal would not be long in coming; she would soon need to make a life-altering commitment to a man who did little to evoke strong emotion.

  Not long ago, such a marital prospect would have suited her. Now, her thoughts and emotions were in such a tangle, she wasn’t certain she’d be able to work the knots free.

  It had been easier when she’d thought Thornton a soulless, if darkly beautiful, scientist, but there was more‌—‌much more‌—‌beneath the composed exterior he presented to the world. Unless she missed her mark, he too fought to untangle instinct and duty where she was concerned. She wanted him, not Simon.

  Earlier in the laboratory this evening, she’d felt his stare, felt that intense blue gaze on her face. She’d bitten down on her lip. Hard. She’d needed to do something to keep from looking up, something to keep her breathing slow and steady even as her heart raced.