by Anne Renwick
He drew her into an alcove behind a potted plant where they could face each other and speak in relative privacy.
“Regain my composure?” His fiancée lifted an eyebrow. “How very patronizing.” Indignant amber eyes flashed behind her grey lenses, and Nick was struck by a desire to pluck them from her face that he might bask in the full heat of their brilliance, in the golden glow that was almost an exact match to the color of the amber ring that now adorned her finger.
Nick cleared his throat. “Apologies, but what kind of agent would I be, shattering the carefully crafted illusion you present to the ton? Though Mr. Glover’s bleating tonight has drawn unprecedented attention in your direction, you might still aspire to slip quietly from the role of wallflower into that of stately matron.”
“A wallflower potted and rooted and content to remain upon the shelf.” Her chin lifted.
“Is that so?” he countered. “Then you should not have encouraged the attentions of Mr. Glover, a man with a tendency to boast within the confines of his club.”
“He did not!” Her eyes grew tight as she muttered a curse. “Of course he did. What did you hear?”
“You won’t like it.”
“Nonetheless, I prefer to know, lest I be taken by surprise. What nasty rumors has he spread? Leave nothing out.”
With the name Dr. Gregory Farquhar in hand, Nick had headed to a club favored by second and third sons who eschewed the tradition of military or church service to pursue alternative paths. Among them were a number of physicians who might know something of this cardiologist’s past, of his present.
And so one had. “Stay far, far away from him,” he was cautioned. “Whatever promise he once showed, he’s descended into madness and no longer even pretends to see patients. His wife grows ever more bitter as her husband toils away in that basement laboratory of his doing aether knows what.” With some reluctance and repeated warnings, he’d been given Dr. Farquhar’s direction.
Though the hour grew late, Nick had decided a brief visit was in order. Perhaps if he approached Dr. Farquhar as one scientist to another, offering flattery and a willing ear, the man might invite him into his laboratory. Unlikely, but worth a try.
Fortifying himself, Nick had tossed back his drink and rose. En route to the door, he’d passed a rowdy bunch of gentlemen, tormenting one of their own about his supposed “conquest”.
“Are you insane? She has no dowry. Leastways, not one worth mentioning.”
“You don’t have to marry the first woman you bed, Glover. Not even if you leave a bun in the oven.”
“She’s hardly the first,” he’d snapped. “And it’s not her that I value, but what she will bring to our marriage.”
Sniggers erupted. “She’s a freak,” a second man said. “Hiding those strange eyes of hers behind smoky glass, slipping in and out of rooms when no one’s looking.”
Nick had slowed his steps, wondering.
“Save yourself,” a third advised. “She turned down your offer. Consider yourself fortunate. We’ll take you to Mrs. Fowler’s house…”
A brothel. He’d heard enough.
Dr. Farquhar lived in a relatively new townhome—terraced—on a respectable street not far from The British Museum. The man’s steam butler had taken Nick’s card, but declared the good doctor not at home and unable to say when he would return. The usual lies, for Nick had not missed the twitch of a curtain that covered an upper window. For a brief moment, he’d stared into the wild eyes of a white-haired man. The physician himself?
With a normal, civilized conversation ruled out, Nick had returned home to dress for the ball and arrived at Lord Aldridge’s front door to find chaos and turmoil surrounding the very woman that drew him to tonight’s societal event.
“Mr. Torrington, tell me.” Lady Stewart scowled, correctly anticipating what he had to share.
“Much what you’d expect.” He cleared his throat. She deserved to know. “Bets were being taken. Odds were rather in favor of you declining his offer, despite… well… his boasts of sexual conquest that would force you to accept his suit.”
“I will claw his eyes out.” Her face flushed, but she did not turn away from Nick’s gaze. “But I won’t pretend I’ve been chaste all these years in London. Are you certain you don’t wish to retract your unspoken offer?” She lifted her hand and began to slide the ring from her finger.
He caught her hand with his. “No.” Were there certain primitive instincts fixed in his brainstem that objected? Yes. But the higher centers of his brain admired her refusal to conceal the truth. “I’ll admit to a selfish urge to guard your reputation and an inclination to defend your honor by resurrecting the tradition of pistols at dawn, but it’s not your maidenly virtue that draws me.” The corner of his mouth kicked up. The words he’d practiced in his mind fell away. Instead he spoke the raw truth. “Not only do I like you, Lady Colleen Stewart, I admire you. Your quick mind, your skills as a sneak thief, your refusal to conform to society’s will. And,” he trailed a finger down the side of her face, “your kisses send fire racing through my veins. You’re the only woman I wish to make my bride. But if I don’t suit you, then by all means, return my ring.”
The pulse at her throat fluttered. The attraction between them was palpable. No, combustible. Yet her hesitation spoke volumes and her words, when they finally came, were soft. “Might we… consider this a trial engagement?”
“A trial engagement.” He lifted an eyebrow.
“We’ve known each other for years now, but only in fleeting snatches.” She took a deep breath. “I’d not thought to marry anyone. Not before you. But—”
“You wish to know me better first.”
She nodded. “And you ought to know me better as well. There are freedoms I do not wish to relinquish.”
“You wish to discuss terms.” Fair enough, especially given her uncle certainly wouldn’t be inclined to negotiate a favorable marriage contract on her behalf. “Contracts and finances.”
“Of course. Much as I loved my father, he tied me—legally—to an awful man he himself did not respect—and all due to a misplaced view of a woman’s abilities. I’ll not willingly or blindly speak vows without securing my future rights.”
“The last thing I want is a reluctant or apprehensive bride.”
“Additionally, you might not appreciate the attention an engagement to me brings. Your own reputation will suffer.”
“Not nearly as much as yours.” Gentlemen were permitted their wild oats, but the slightest hint of indiscretion forever stained an unmarried woman’s reputation.
“And,” her voice dropped as her lips curved upward, “we ought to see if we… suit.”
Heat crept up beneath his collar and cravat. Nick stepped closer. “Are you suggesting—”
She flicked her fingers against his waistcoat, directly over his concealed TTX pistol. “I wish to see how you conduct yourself in the field.”
“You want me to lead you into excitement and danger upon the dark streets of nighttime London?” Never had he thought to woo a woman in such a manner, but he found himself warming to the many possibilities that long hours of prolonged surveillance might provide.
“I do.” She laughed, then became all business. “Now, tell me what you have in mind for our first outing together, and what is it you seek.”
A tiny, irritating voice counseled him that he ought not include her on tonight’s undertaking, reminding him that the scientist might well be employed by the Committee for the Exploration of Anthropomorphic Peculiarities, or CEAP as it was sometimes referred to among the Queen’s agents. Nick could do this alone. He could sneak into Dr. Farquhar’s laboratory without assistance. A partner to watch one’s back was valuable, but not imperative. So asserted his mind. Other parts of his anatomy continued to insist that the presence of this particular woman was, in fact, very necessary. But those parts—ones that were upright and alert—had no business running a mission.
Still, when put to
a vote, his gray matter lost.
“A medical device. One merely rumored to exist, so finding it is not a certainty. To begin, I’ve a basement laboratory I wish to search. Quietly and discreetly.” For her, he tried to separate the task at hand from any future they might or might not share. “Regardless of the outcome of our trial engagement, you will be paid.” He named a sum. “For each evening you assist my endeavors. A bonus of twice that if—when—we find the device.”
A titter of laughter met their ears and though the other couple that wandered past was lost in each other’s eyes, he stepped yet closer to Lady Stewart, dropping a hand lightly upon her waist to discourage any interruption of their conversation.
“A generous offer.” She leaned forward, breathing her next question into his ear. “And what of our trial engagement?” Her fingertips smoothed the lapel upon his jacket.
“Formal and chaste.” He swallowed, fixing his gaze upon the unremarkable cluster of fabric flowers pinned to her shoulder.
“Is that so.” She bit her lower lip, toying with the top button of his waistcoat. “How… disappointing.”
He laughed, then pulled her into his arms so that she might feel his stiffness against the soft swell of her stomach. “Unless you wish otherwise. Though it is by no means a condition of either our engagement or your employment.”
“Well, then, let’s see what opportunities present themselves.” She dropped her hand, then slid her arms beneath his coat and about his waist. “Shall we begin tonight?”
“Yes.” His cock twitched, but he ignored its enthusiasm. This was not the place for anything but a kiss. People—some of them irate—would soon come looking for her. For them. Not only would her uncle take offense, but their scene in the library might well have overshadowed Lady Sophia’s debut. “When will your household be asleep?”
She rolled her eyes. “After Mr. Glover’s uncalled for furor? My uncle will rant, but my aunt will silently applaud my actions. By three in the morning, I will have been sent to my room. Any further outrage will be set aside for breakfast pleasantries.”
He snorted. “Taken to task over tea and toast?”
“It does tend to put off one’s appetite.”
“Colleen?” a voice called in the distance. Their time was up.
“My aunt,” she said, but didn’t pull away. “Now that we’re engaged, you may call me by my given name.”
“As a fiancé ought. Might he also be permitted a liberty?”
“If I may call you by yours?”
“Of course.”
“Well, then. But only a small one for the moment.” Her fingers slipped beneath the edge of his waistcoat and ran over the linen of his shirt, tracing the muscle that ran down his back. “Appearances must be maintained, Nicholas.”
He brushed his lips along the edge of her jaw and whispered, “Not Nicholas. Nick.” Then he captured her mouth with his own, tasting honey and soft sighs as he explored its sweet shape. A perfect fit. He was about to deepen their embrace when the leaves beside him rustled.
“Colleen!” her aunt exclaimed, staring openly through the foliage. “What is this I hear of an engagement?”
He took a step back, releasing his fiancée. “Soon,” he whispered. If there was time to seek out a private corner of London after they searched the laboratory…
Behind her spectacles, Colleen’s eyes flashed as if her mind charted a similar course. “The mews,” she whispered, then dropped her hands from his waist and—at an impatient huff—turned toward the interruption. “Mr. Torrington, you’ve met Lady Maynard.”
“Many times.” He turned and bowed. “Always a pleasure.” Colleen’s aunt was a classic beauty—and older than her niece by a scant few years. He’d heard speculation about the manner of Lord Maynard’s first wife’s death. None of them pleasant, all of them centered around her inability to provide an heir.
“So this is the gentleman that kept you up at night and has set the ball abuzz.” Lady Maynard threw him a saucy glance.
Nick slid his questioning gaze back to Colleen.
“She knows only about my occupation.”
In other words, Nick’s employment with the Queen’s agents had not been discussed.
“And the cat’s,” Lady Maynard added. “Your timing leaves much to be desired, but better late than never. Not that my irate husband agrees. I’ll do what I can to smooth your path, but you had best pay a visit tomorrow. My advice? Bring a competent solicitor.”
“A solicitor?” Nick asked.
Lady Maynard’s eyes widened as she glanced from him to Colleen. “Does it not strike you as odd that your uncle is—after years of ignoring your presence—suddenly so very interested in finding you a husband? One of his choosing? It’s rare his temper flares. He’s up to something.”
“So noted,” Nick replied.
A commotion broke out in the hallway.
Lady Maynard caught up Colleen’s hand, grinned at the amber ring, then tugged. “Come. Mr. Glover is grousing about breach of promise, and I’ve sent for the steam carriage. We have minutes to fabricate a story involving a lengthy courtship and a secret engagement.” She winked. “Clearly, the truth won’t do.”
Chapter Six
By half-past two, the house was perfectly silent, and Colleen slid from her bed. No cat stretched upon the covers or performed brief ablutions before leaping to the ground to twine about her ankles. Instead, the tin of tuna sat untouched upon the windowsill. Each day Colleen’s concern grew.
Despite the white patch upon Sorcha’s chest, her otherwise black fur always set superstitious individuals on edge, leaving Colleen forever worried that the cat might become a target. But how did one hunt—especially in London—for a wildcat that did not wish to be found? Not that it would stop her. If she wasn’t back by morning, Colleen would try.
Stretching, she turned her mind to tonight’s activities. The only specifics she’d been given were device, basement and laboratory. Never had she taken on a job so woefully under informed, with little to no control as to its execution. Still, with the funds to repair her roof secured, she could afford this slight indulgence. For once, pay was not a pivotal factor. Adventure—and a handsome, exciting man—called. For the first time, she would roam London’s streets for the thrill, rather than the necessity.
A current of excitement shot through her as she lifted the lid of her trunk and contemplated her wardrobe with a smile. What did one wear to both explore the laboratory of a—presumably—mad scientist and seduce one’s partner?
French silk. Blood-red silk bloomers and a matching silk camisole. But that was all the indulgence she could spare. Priorities, as always, involved avoiding discovery and the ability to affect a quick escape. To that end she chose a lightly boned corset, a high-necked blouse and linen breeches that tucked into boots that laced to the knees. All black.
She wound her dark hair into a tight knot, fastening it in place with pins sharp enough to draw blood. A belt followed, one adorned with loops from which she suspended a number of useful items such as lock picks, a coiled Rapunzel rope, and a purse filled with smoke bombs—a useful distraction when one needed to make a hasty exit. She slid a long, thin blade into the sheathe within her boot and swung a hooded cape about her shoulders. While warm, its fabric provided the added advantage of hiding her features and her eyes from anyone who might later recall a flash of unusual brilliance.
And to that end, the amber ring upon her finger must remain behind. A perfect fit and the exact color of her eyes, it was evidence that Nick’s proposal, albeit unconventional, was far more than a passing whim. Though she remained wary at the thought of a lifetime commitment, a certain warmth spread through her at the idea of calling him her husband. Placing the ring upon her dressing table, Colleen stepped to her window and searched the misty shadows. Confident her uncle’s minion was not about, she climbed out and leapt free, sliding down the drainpipe and into the murky gloom as she made her way to the mews.
At exactl
y five minutes to three, her ride appeared.
Beneath a lamppost that struggled to cast a dim pool of light through the fog, Nick sat upon a tarnished brass clockwork horse that had seen better days. Soot darkened its leather mane, muck crusted its hooves, and its eyes stared in two different directions, suggesting its winding springs might be wild and unmanageable. Much like its rider’s appearance.
He wore brown-striped trousers tucked into tall boots and a long leather coat, one that bore a number of disturbing stains—all unidentifiable in origin—and was fastened closed by a row of brass buckles that marched down his chest. A highwayman of old. Rough and tumble to her sleek and sophisticated. A thrill coursed through her.
With two steps and a leap, she landed behind him on the saddle and wrapped her arms about his waist. He threw an amused glance over his shoulder, then flipped a lever, setting them off at a sedate, non-attention-gathering pace. She pressed her face against his shoulder, inhaling the pleasant scent of gear oil and saddle soap. A far cry from the earlier over-perfumed and sweaty ballroom crowd. “Whom do we hope to rob?”
He huffed a laugh. “Dr. Gregory Farquhar of 28 Bloomsbury Street. He’s avoiding me. Our visit will be more exploratory in nature than acquisitive. I’ve no idea if the device even exists.”
They had a bit of a ride ahead of them. Time, then, to admire the taut stomach beneath her arms, the broad back crushed against her chest, and the way her hips slid forward on the poorly sprung saddle with each awkward step the clockwork creature took until they were pressed against his firm rear, their thighs tightly aligned. She had the sneaking suspicion that Nick had chosen this beast for more reasons than its off-putting appearance.
“Why the device?” It was easy to forget that her arms encircled more than a Queen’s agent. Mr. Nicholas Torrington was also a scientist. His entire career was spurred by a hunt for a cure—or a treatment—for his sister, Anna, whose heart struggled to beat. On the rare occasions his sister ventured into society, she always appeared vaguely blue. “Have the drugs failed?”
