by Anne Renwick
“It’s nothing. Merely a close encounter with the competition.” Mr. Torrington’s intentions were not yet clear. Until he made them so, she would keep his words to herself. She pressed her fingertips against her flushed cheeks. This wouldn’t do. Much as she would welcome Mr. Torrington’s presence were he to call, she had difficulty imagining him perched on the overstuffed divan in the parlor. Mr. Glover, however, would certainly be in attendance, and she did not wish to give him the slightest encouragement.
“Nothing?” Isabella tugged a folded letter from her bodice. Pinched between thumb and forefinger, she dangled it just out of Colleen’s reach. “Then you weren’t expecting a missive from…”
With a single swipe, she snagged the missive. Her pulse leapt. A renewed offer from Mr. Torrington? As Isabella laughed, she tore open the envelope and unfolded the paper within.
Lady Stewart,
It is with great regret that I write to inform you that there has been a most unfortunate accident. A contingent of boys from the Gordon Academy were en route to Inverness when they experienced a small fire aboard the school dirigible. Though ignition of hydrogen was averted when all hands rushed to extinguish the flames, the helm was abandoned and the airship crashed into the south-west corner. The boys were rescued and sustained only a few minor injuries, but the roof has suffered considerable damage.
Your servant,
Watts
Her estate manager had attached a quote for the roof’s repair. Stonework, wooden beams, slate shingles… the supplies required were lengthy. And that was before they accounted for wages to pay the workmen. Her stomach slid to her toes, and her heart dropped to the floor beside it. All the extra funds she’d saved for an emergency? Gone.
Isabella, who had been reading over her shoulder, sighed, “Oh, Colleen. I’m so sorry.”
She nodded absently, her mind already leaping ahead to the only logical solution: she needed speak with Mr. Witherspoon. The safer, smaller—and ethically principled—jobs she usually insisted upon would keep her in London for months—and under her uncle’s thumb. Taking a room at a hotel would increase costs and extend her stay in the city indefinitely. But if she asked her employer for riskier tasks, ones with generous compensation, she need only complete a handful of jobs.
Her uncle would be furious if—when—he learned she’d failed to present herself at tea. But there was no time to waste. She lifted her gaze and met Isabella’s knowing grin. “Will you cover for me one more time?”
Chapter Three
Told to watch for a blonde woman with a distracted air who favored pink, Nick strolled past the entrance to the Rankine Institute for what felt like the hundredth time. Though the Queen’s agents had ties to the engineering school, he preferred to keep his unofficial inquiries carefully away from any eavesdropping bureaucratic ears. Hence his reluctance to enter the building.
He had, however, attracted unwanted attention. A particularly burly guard—who had taken up his post an hour ago—now tracked his every step. Eyes narrowed and arms crossed, his scowl suggested he would like to grab Nick by the scruff of his neck and drag him into a dark alley. Only his gentlemanly attire—the cut of his coat’s lapels and the fall of his trousers—kept him safe.
Though he’d failed to find any incriminating evidence, Nick could not dismiss his suspicions of Lord Aldridge. While the man’s desk had revealed nothing—save the woman he wished to marry was more adventurous than he’d dared hope—there might yet be more information hidden in less obvious locations within the house. Or at the Lister Institute but, much as Nick longed to search the gentleman’s office, security was extremely high. That would be his last resort.
A polished steam carriage pulled to the side of the street and stopped, waiting. More and more crank hacks rattled and clicked past on the street as the well-to-do working middle class hired transport home. Foot traffic also increased, forcing him to step to the side of the pavement. The sun hung low in the sky as he tugged his pocket watch from his waistcoat to confirm the time. Mr. Jackson had suggested that the engineer he sought—a newlywed keen to bask in the afterglow of a honeymoon—made a habit of leaving promptly at five. Except when she didn’t. A Queen’s agent in training, unexpected assignments were guaranteed.
It was now five past.
He’d contemplated paying a call at Lady Stewart’s residence, but wanted to present her with a lead, not merely a ring. Gah, his mother had been far too excited when he’d asked her for the heirloom, flapping her hands and darting from her chair to hug him tight. The anticipation of more grandchildren always set her face alight.
“I’ve yet to propose,” he’d cautioned her. “She might decline.”
“I’ve seen how she looks at you.” His mother had pinched his cheek. “She won’t.”
Nick wasn’t nearly as confident. Lady Stewart had an independent streak a mile long. Not that he wished to cage or leash her. No, he wanted a wife that was his equal. What better way to show her exactly that, than by taking her out on the town while most of the city slept? Which is why he paced the street in the growing dark hoping to latch on to another lead. Not solely motivated by saving his sister, but also by a growing emotion that he struggled to name. It was more than desire, but was it love?
The attraction had been instantaneous that first night they’d met eye to eye on a dark rooftop. A shock of awareness had rippled through him and set his pulse racing like a runaway steam train careening down a mountainside. He’d teased. She’d laughed… and responded with a flirtatious comment of her own. Encounter had followed encounter—both while running free across the cityscape or whirling across the confines of a dance floor—and their conversations deepened. The death of her parents, her unusual eyes, and her desire to leave London. His frustration with laboratory work, the irritations of being a second spare, his sister’s heart condition.
The birth of his precious niece had exacerbated his sister’s heart condition. Blue fingernails and fainting spells—otherwise known as Adams-Stokes syncope and seizures—were now commonplace rather than occasional events, and Anna’s pulse rarely exceeded forty beats per minute, a severe bradycardia that even atropine injections could not accelerate.
At any moment, her heart could simply… stop.
Her husband—a Naval officer on assignment in the South China Sea—had been sent for, though at the rate his sister continued to deteriorate, he wasn’t at all certain an airship could carry the lieutenant home fast enough.
Nick unclenched his jaw and rolled his shoulders. Strolling, he reminded himself, not stalking.
“There’s nothing you—or anyone—can do, Nicholas,” Anna had murmured, cradling her infant daughter and smiling down upon the sleeping child with wonder. Marriage and the wished for pregnancy had been a risk she’d taken despite all medical advice. “I’ve accepted my fate and regret nothing. My daughter is a miracle, nothing less.”
It was a miracle that Anna had survived the delivery. But he’d bit his tongue. Anna might be resigned to an invalid’s life and an early death, but he wanted nothing but health and happiness for his sister. He wanted his niece to know her mother, but without a method to restart Anna’s heart when it ceased beating…
He’d glanced at the collection of contraptions gathering dust in the corner of her room. All generated low levels of harmless electricity, designed to stimulate the nervous system and prod her heart to greater effort.
“None of the… less invasive medical devices worked?”
“None.”
Which explained the newest contraption—P.C. Hutchinson’s Magneto-Shock Machine—and the full-time nurse. Covered in knobs and dials, it hummed at a low level, ready to generate a burst of electricity. All well and good until one took note that it sported a metal probe designed to be inserted through the chest wall and directly into the ventricles of the heart. That was just as likely to be deadly as curative.
He’d quizzed the nurse directly and reached the horrified conclusion that there was
merit in such a device, if also a high risk of infection. The machine would only be used if Anna’s heart refused to beat after three minutes, before which a less invasive approach—percussive pacing and chest compressions—would be attempted. It hadn’t made him feel any better, but at the four-minute time point, brain death would threaten. Such an action would be a last-ditch effort.
“But know that I’ve not given up hope.” He never had. Never would. “I’m still looking for a solution.”
Anna had squeezed his hand. “I know.”
For three years he’d served as co-investigator of a cardiophysiology laboratory in the basement of Lister Laboratories. They’d isolated and studied a number of cardiac glycosides, chemicals with structures similar to that of digitalis—a drug extracted from the foxglove plant that strengthened the force of a heartbeat—but though many had proven to be alternative treatments for those suffering from congestive heart failure, for Anna, each had proved toxic. Only atropine—a derivative of deadly nightshade—had increased her heart rate. Until, with the worsening of her condition, it didn’t.
This past year, work as a Queen’s agent had placed increasing demands on Nick’s time, and he’d spent less and less time in the laboratory. Instead, he’d found himself chasing reports about a small group in London who believed in such nonsense as selkies, werewolves and witches, in creatures who could alter their physical form. Believing was one thing, but attempting to force it was another. Rumors midst the cryptid hunter community were rife, but when confronted directly none—like his lead in Scotland—could provide any proof or name names. Locating—forget infiltrating—this shadow committee suspected of such unethical behavior was proving difficult.
When he wasn’t chasing down men suspected of animal cruelty, Nick had turned his attention to chasing another whisper he’d heard uttered in the hallowed halls of Lister Laboratories. He’d taken that rumor directly to one particular board member. Lord Aldridge. The man had hesitated—for the briefest of moments—before denying that he knew of any such researcher.
“I’ve caught word of an independent scientist working upon a novel method to restart the heart once it has stopped beating. Not,” he waved his hand at the monstrous, invasive machine beside them, “this. But a small, miniaturized, cardio-pacing device that can be implanted into the chest wall, one that will monitor the heartbeat and deliver a tiny, well-timed electrical burst to the cardiac tissue when it detects no beats.”
“I’d rather,” Anna hadn’t met his gaze, “that you spend your time courting Lady Stewart, for I’d very much like to see you married before I…” The baby had begun to cry in her cradle, and his sister had scooped up Clara, jiggling and cooing as she rocked the infant back to sleep.
He’d taken that as his cue to depart.
Marriage. Device hunting. Stop a ring of gentlemen from turning their interests in shape-shifting creatures upon humans. While he waited for new information on the last, he thought he might combine the pursuit of the first two activities and take Lady Stewart prowling about London in an attempt to win her heart.
The sun hung low in the sky by the time a young woman wearing a rose walking dress stepped forth from the building and paused beneath the portico, pinning a straw hat to tousled and crimped blonde hair.
“Mrs. Leighton?” Nick inquired.
Her hand slipped into the folds of her skirts and into a conveniently located pocket. No doubt her fingers wrapped about the hilt of a knife or the handle of a small firearm. Her eyebrows lifted. “Have we met?”
“Allow me to introduce myself.” Careful to maintain a respectful distance between them, Nick doffed his top hat and bowed. “Mr. Torrington, begging a few moments of your time. I’m sorry if my approach caused you concern.” He straightened and drew back the edge of his coat, providing her with a glimpse of his TTX pistol. The burly man stepped into the doorframe, his fingers curling into a fist, but the weapon gave him pause. Nick shot him a smug glance. “We have a mutual colleague. Mr. Jackson suggested you might be able to provide insight into a particular conundrum I’ve encountered.”
Mrs. Leighton held up a hand. “It’s fine, Cyrus.” She led Nick a few steps away to stand beside a lamppost. Foot traffic flowed about them, and the street noise of passing clockwork horses, crank hacks and steam carriages provided a certain measure of privacy. But her hand didn’t leave her pocket; not all the suspicion had left her eyes. “What information is it you seek?”
Nick ducked to avoid losing an eye to the prong of a parasol. “Mr. Jackson informed me your work encompasses the miniaturization of portable energy sources, a Markoid battery was mentioned.”
Her eyes slid sideways and she frowned. “Mr. Jackson should not have spoken so freely, but go on.”
“There is rumor of a new medical device, one that proposes to stimulate the heart should it cease to beat by delivering an electrical impulse.”
Concern—and maybe a touch of horror—furrowed her brow. “I make it a point never to associate with galvanists.”
That drew him up short. “I wasn’t…” Or was he? If his search for information had exhausted reputable sources, ought he look elsewhere? Most galvanists were charlatans, preying upon a family’s desperation to bring a relative back to life, but… “I’m not looking for a confidence man who has constructed a grand device, one that fills a room with wires and spinning gears to produce impressive arcs of electricity that would cause a corpse to twitch and jerk, but rather someone with a more furtive bent. A scientist who works toward his own ends quietly, out of the public eye, focusing primarily upon the heart. One disinclined to publish his or her findings and who may have escaped the notice of the larger scientific community.”
“And you came to me because…?” She shifted on her feet. Uncomfortable with the concept or did she know something?
“Because the device I’m searching for would be intended for the living. To keep their heart beating, jolting it back into motion mere seconds after it ceased to beat.” His effort was aimed at keeping Anna’s heart beating steadily and fast enough to sustain life. “The power source would need to be small, compact and safe. Mr. Jackson insinuated that your research into alternate power sources for automatons occasionally brings you into contact with some of the more unsavory characters who occupy the fringes of your field of study.”
“He would,” she quipped, “after a particularly unfortunate incident on the train.” But her shoulders relaxed. “This past summer an unscrupulous foreign investor attempted to steal my prototype. He was caught and interrogated. A list of people interested in purchasing my battery was compiled, but most sought to power automatons. But as to biological uses…” She tapped two gloved fingers upon her lips. “One woman, a spiritualist, was convinced that regular stimuli to the occipital lobe of the brain might allow an individual to detect—to see—the presence of spirits.”
“No.” Nick shook his head.
“Another,” Mrs. Leighton’s voice dropped, “hoped to revive flagging male virility.”
Heat crept into his cheeks. “Certainly not.”
A tiny smile crept onto her face. “The heart is a muscle, is it not?”
“It is.”
“Then you might want to speak with the third scientist. Classically trained at the University of Edinburgh, Dr. Gregory Farquhar’s thesis presented a study of how the electrical stimulation of nerves causes muscle fibers to contract.” A certain gleam entered her eyes and Nick realized she’d been toying with him, tweaking his nose with the nonsensical possibilities of her battery before finally handing over the information he sought. “He’s quite mad, however. His intended use of my battery? To power a portable device to jolt the bodies of dead animals in the hopes that they might reanimate in an altered form.”
In short, transmutation. The transformation of one species into another. Not over the course of generations, but via a process best described as sorcery. And by a mere battery. Was such a thing even possible?
Nick fought to k
eep his jaw off the pavement. Had his hunt for a remedy for Anna’s heart condition uncovered new information pointing directly to a key member of the shadow committee he sought?
“Thank you, Mrs. Leighton.” He bowed. “You’ve provided me with much to consider.”
“You’re quite welcome, Mr. Torrington.” She lifted a hand and the driver of the steam carriage hopped down to hold open a door. “Please keep all information about my research under tight wraps.”
“Of course.” He handed her into the waiting steam carriage.
With a solid lead in his pocket, he’d intended to hasten to Lady Stewart’s side to present her with the promise of an adventure. He was certain she would prefer such a gift to hothouse flowers. But if this information fell under the umbrella of Queen’s agents’ business, could he justify the risk of sharing such a promising detail?
Chapter Four
Reflexively, Colleen glanced over her uncle’s shoulder to assess the light levels in Lord Aldridge’s ballroom. In a nod to tradition, the crystal drops of the central chandelier glittered in the flickering light of wax candles. Along the walls, gas jets burned within milky-white globes to cast a steadier light. Not a single Lucifer lamp was in evidence as its harsher blue-white light was considered unflattering to a lady’s complexion.
Bright enough that any odd reflections from Colleen’s eyes would likely go unnoticed were she to tuck her tinted lenses away. Yet given the antics she planned this evening, it was best if she left her spectacles perched upon her nose. It would not be her eccentricities she wished commented upon when tongues wagged about tonight’s events.
In the receiving line, Lady Aldridge stood beside her daughter, Lady Sophia, whose gown—what with its profusion of pale blue ruffles and lace—threatened to swallow her whole. Though her deportment was demure and polite, there were faint shadows beneath her eyes and a certain tightness to her shoulders. She had the look of a cat subjected to a leash. Or a cage. Lady Sophia glanced up, their eyes locked, and Colleen could swear she saw a flash of fire deep inside those pale, silver eyes.
