A Reflection of Shadows

by Anne Renwick

  “Not new information, Colleen.” His voice was flat. “I’ve watched the two of you skulking about London for years now. What, exactly, is she?”

  “Cat sìth, a kind of hybrid cat—part wild, part domesticated. A number of them live in the woods of my family’s estate. Some say they’re fairy. Others believe that the cat sìth is the animal form of a witch, one who can transform into a cat nine times. Legend, myth, folk tale. Take your pick. Regardless, Dr. Farquhar—by name—is Scottish. He ought to have respected tradition and not subjected a rare and precious animal to such treatment.” She crossed her arms. “I can see from your face that this information holds significance.”

  “It does,” Nick admitted. “But it’s a long, complicated story that needs to wait.” He waved at the fume hood. “This doesn’t fit with Mrs. Farquhar’s account of the situation.”

  “What do you mean?” She dropped the ruined papers and crossed to his side.

  “If he planned to set fire to his laboratory and bolt with his device, why would he have set up an experiment involving a rare and precious animal?”

  Why indeed?

  “After you abandoned me,” he glanced sideways at her, eyebrow raised, “his wife admitted she’d pressed her husband to demand more money for his work. Denied, she claims he accepted a more lucrative offer.” Nick waved his free hand, and Sorcha snarled. “Yet if he was here, working in his laboratory when the fire was set—”

  “Then his wife told you a passel of lies.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I see no evidence of his body. You?”

  “None. Rather, a door open to the rear garden.”

  So Farquhar had left, run for his life and left the cat sìth to her fate. Were fairies real, the man would have tripped and died on the doorstep while making his exit. Pursing her lips, she threw a final glance about the laboratory. “There’s no indication of where he might have gone, and there’s nothing else here that’s salvageable. Shall we go question her further?”

  His expression hardened, turning his face to granite. “Yes.”

  She hefted Sorcha’s cage into her arms.

  Ever the gentleman, Nick reached for it, but the cat sìth hissed, and he stepped back. “Something tells me she’ll shred my hands and arms through the bars. Should we not simply set her free?” he asked, though from the look on his face, he already knew the answer to that.

  “Were she not injured and afraid.” Even in Colleen’s care, the large cat crouched with narrowed eyes, decidedly displeased and only just managing to tolerate her rescue efforts. “I don’t want her to bolt.” She wouldn’t risk losing Sorcha to the city or men like Dr. Farquhar again.

  They tromped back onto the street. Only a few gawkers lingered, staring at the burned-out building, marveling that the firemen had been able to save anything about it. The scent of the fire hung in the air, so thick and pungent Colleen could smell nothing else.

  About the still-dark edges of the streets, figures skulked, scampering away like rats when she turned her eyes directly upon them. Though all appeared guilty of something, most were servants, late to their morning posts. Some looked as if they bided their time, hoping for a chance to loot the shell of a building for any valuables that had survived the blaze. One man, in particular, glared at her from across the street, but by the time she turned Nick’s attention in his direction, he’d disappeared.

  They persisted, but no matter how many people they questioned or the number of dark alleys they stalked, there was no sign of Mrs. Farquhar. Neighbors curled their lips when questioned and denied knowing where she might have sought refuge for the remainder of the night.

  As Nick’s frustration grew, so too did Colleen’s sense of unease. Nick’s hunt for a medical device, her participation in an obfuscation chain, and this fire were all tightly linked. And both of them knew more than they were sharing.

  As a glimmer of light filled the morning sky, Nick turned to Colleen. “Time to admit defeat. For the moment. You need to return home before your absence is discovered.”

  Impossible to argue with that statement. Besides, he needed to know about her latest task for Witherspoon and Associates. Sooner rather than later. Once they’d retrieved the clockwork horse, lashed the cage—covered by Nick’s coat—to the saddle and were well on their way back to Mayfair, Colleen could no longer suppress her stomach-churning knowledge. She very much doubted her employer would be willing to name names. Not, at least, without first charging Nick an exorbitant fee. “There’s something you need to know.”

  Chapter Eight

  Restored by a few hours’ sleep and dressed once more like a respectable gentleman, Nick pulled his phaeton to the edge of the street and tossed the clockwork horse’s reins to a boy before flipping him a coin. His was not the only vehicle present. Was The Much Honored Colleen Stewart of Craigieburn beset with unwelcome guests? He expected so. Glover and his ugliness were certain to be among them, attempting to claim what was not his.

  Despite the mounting frustration that had followed Colleen’s horseback revelation, Nick smiled. When he’d seen that man backing Colleen into a corner, his blood pressure had spiked and set his blood on fire. Only later—when reason returned—did he realize that she’d had Glover exactly where she’d wanted him: in a position of public humiliation. As she was normally one to avoid the limelight, it was an excellent move. No one would ever guess what she’d been about. With such drama before them, who would notice the addition of an unassuming rosewood box upon a table beside a globe? He certainly hadn’t.

  Nick’s “rescue” had been entirely unnecessary. Yet she’d accepted his ring. Allowed him to publicly claim her. But convincing her that they belonged together long-term? That would take time and trust, the first tentative bonds of which had been established last night.

  As dawn threatened, he’d dropped Colleen in the dark shadow of her choice before returning to the scene of the ball where the house was quiet with exhaustion and oblivious to his reentry.

  No surprise. The rosewood box—contents unknown—was gone.

  It burned that he’d stood so close.

  An obfuscation chain, a rosewood box, a fire, a fairy cat. Not only was it not a coincidence, but Colleen was the common thread running throughout. All those times he’d teased about Sorcha being her “familiar” and not once had she said a word. Upon reflection, he ought to have asked sooner. The creature wasn’t a proper house cat. Its legs were a bit too long, its tail a touch too thick. Much like a Scottish wildcat, save it was black, had a white patch of fur upon its chest and was overlarge. And apparently believed by some capable of transforming into a human female. To that end, he needed to bring her into his confidence and inform her of the existence of CEAP and a shadow committee within London itself.

  Step one: rid her of Mr. Glover’s attentions so that they might progress to step two: a morning drive in the park wherein he might learn her employer’s price. Convincing her employer to reveal the name of the ultimate buyer, she’d explained, would cost him dearly—should he agree at all. His family, he’d assured her, could well afford the price. Everything hinged upon learning the buyer’s name.

  No, not everything. But he expected the task of locating Dr. Farquhar might prove difficult or impossible.

  Nick mounted the stairs, took a deep breath and knocked, bracing for objections to his presence.

  The door flew open. Lady Maynard herself stood before him, her eyes red-rimmed and her nose pink and swollen. “Thank aether!” she cried, reaching out to catch him by the sleeve, dragging him inside and slamming the door behind him. “You’re late. Please tell me your solicitor is not far behind.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t—”

  “Believe me?” she huffed. “Most gentlemen know of my husband’s love for legal entanglements and unorthodox dealings.”

  Stacks of trunks and boxes lined the entryway. Perched atop, a wicker basket. A pair of golden eyes peered forth, watching his every move. Sorcha. Were Colleen an
d her cat being sent away? If so, he’d offer them sanctuary.

  “This is highly irregular, my lady.” A flustered steam butler rolled back and forth, clutching a silver salver while attempting to navigate past his mistress to reach Nick.

  “Hurry, Mr. Torrington,” Lady Maynard urged, ignoring the steambot and pushing him toward a tightly closed door. From within came muffled cries of outrage. Lady Maynard’s voice dropped. “This morning Mr. Glover arrived with a special license and a minister. You must do something!”

  That explained the luggage. Lord Maynard intended to ship his niece off with her husband. Immediately.

  With a curse, he burst into the parlor to find Colleen and a group of squabbling gentlemen gathered about a large desk. In a far corner, a silent, thick-necked man stood. Nick would save the question as to why a man such as Maynard felt it necessary to employ a bodyguard for later.

  For now, he had eyes only for his fiancée who stood, arms crossed and jaw clenched, bristling with indignation. Once again, she was dressed every inch the respectable lady. Neatly knotted hair and tinted round spectacles. A somber blue gown and sensible shoes. All fashioned to hide her true spirit.

  How many had ever seen her in her element, free and unencumbered by society’s restrictions? The flash of amber eyes, the lithe bend and twist of her form, the grin of a woman who dared to sneak kisses from a man. He could swear he’d seen a flash of red silk beneath her black shirt last night and hoped she’d entertained thoughts of seduction. He’d all but cursed the first rays of sunlight that forced him to abandon the chance to learn the answer.

  Never had a woman captured his interest so completely.

  He was glad to see his ring upon her finger, proof of the claim he was about to make.

  “What is the meaning of this?” His voice thundered.

  Lord Maynard turned a pinched face in Nick’s direction. Like his starched, stiff collar the man never unbent. “You.”

  Colleen glanced at Nick, and her shoulders dropped ever so slightly. “As I explained, Uncle. Mr. Nicholas Torrington proposed, and I have accepted. This,” she waved a hand at the minister, “is an unseemly spectacle.”

  Mr. Glover flushed an angry red, pointing the fountain pen at Nick as if he might run his competition through. “I saw you at the club. You’ve heard the rumors. They’re all true. Had she wished to take a different husband, Miss Stewart should not have lifted her petticoats. You can’t possibly want a compromised woman.”

  Sharp indrawn breaths sucked all the oxygen from the room at once.

  “Mr. Glover!” her uncle warned.

  “Bite your tongue!” Nick couldn’t say he was happy that she had a past, but so too did he—and Nick would never utter such words about any woman with the intent to shame her into compliance.

  “How dare you!” Colleen’s eyes flashed with fire behind her tinted lenses. Her fingers clawed into the folds of the blue gown she wore. Had Glover any idea how close he was to having his eyes gouged out? “Not for an entire dragon’s hoard would I marry an unsophisticated boor such as yourself.”

  “He has a valid claim,” her uncle insisted in a calm and controlled voice, though irritation narrowed his eyes. “The settlement is quite fair, and Mr. Glover comes from a good family.”

  Outrage rolled off Nick’s back in waves. This was how her family protected her? He couldn’t begin to imagine treating his sister in such a manner. He opened his mouth to protest, but Colleen spoke first.

  “This is the nineteenth century!” Anger shook her body. Behind gray lenses, her eyes flashed. “You can’t bind me to a man of your choosing to force his fealty. Find a way to solidify your business dealings that doesn’t require some misguided feudal maneuver.” She drew breath. “Enough of this. My twenty-fifth birthday is in two days, and I intend to return to Craigieburn to run the estate myself.”

  She’d mis-stepped. Her uncle’s gaze slipped to the amber ring upon her finger, and his lips twisted with suspicion.

  Nick crossed the room to stand before Lord Maynard. He dropped his voice to a low growl. “When we wed, Lady Stewart will retain all rights to funds and properties in her name. And, yes, I promised she herself will oversee the Craigieburn estate.” He held out a hand, beckoning Colleen to his side. As she came, tension fell away from his shoulders. His protection wasn’t strictly necessary, but it felt good to offer it, to have her accept it without question. “I care not about her romantic past, only her future with me. If family connections matter, may I remind you that my father is a viscount. But more importantly, Lady Stewart has accepted my suit.”

  Her uncle’s eyes narrowed. Clearly, the man wished to refuse him.

  The clergyman cleared his throat. “I’m afraid the names are already inked. This turn of events will require a new license.”

  “No!” Mr. Glover cried out. “She is promised to me!”

  “It will require no such thing,” Nick stated. “We plan to marry in Lady Stewart’s own kirk.”

  Another gasp. But this time it was Lady Maynard, who looked to be suppressing a smile. But it recalled to mind her presence, and her husband’s frown etched itself deeper into the granite of his face.

  “Unacceptable. Your outrageous behavior caused quite the upset last night, and I want no further disgrace touching my family. You must marry here. As soon as possible.” He turned to the clergyman. “How long to obtain a new license?”

  Mr. Glover yelled a protest, while the clergyman answered, “A few hours?”

  Nick’s mind frantically sought a way to delay the actual event. He’d have her as his bride willingly. Or not at all. A special license was too fast, but a wedding in Scotland required twenty-one days of residency. That would provide them with at least three weeks to alter course. He must hold fast to his insistence of a Scottish wedding.

  Beside him, Colleen stiffened. “Scandal,” she spoke slowly and clearly, “will not touch you,” she glanced at her aunt, “or yours. Unless you persist with your protests.”

  Her uncle’s face paled.

  Touché. Though he could only guess at the particulars, Nick recognized blackmail when he saw it. He fought to keep the amusement from his face.

  “I will marry whomever I choose, whenever and wherever I choose,” she continued. “You’ve never cared about my reputation or marital status before, and I’ve no idea why you should involve yourself now. I will, however, bow to your sensibilities and vacate the premises. I intend to take a room at Claridge’s.”

  “Nonsense.” Nick turned to Colleen. “My family will welcome you with open arms. We’ve rooms aplenty and both my mother and my sister can serve as chaperones. If you’ll gather a few of your most important possessions—”

  Lord Maynard slapped his hand down upon his desk, his lips pressed into a white line as he glared at his niece. “Think beyond yourself, beyond the next year. Neither you nor Mr. Torrington have family in Scotland. Speculation will run rampant should you, like your unreasonable mother, persist with this plan. Is that how you wish to begin the next stage of your life?”

  At the mention of her mother, Colleen’s back snapped ramrod straight yet, much to his annoyance, Nick rather agreed with her uncle on this point. Scandal aside, the Duke of Avesbury wanted him here in London working, not haring off to Scotland at a moment’s notice to marry. Not when a ceremony in the city would serve much the same purpose. But he kept his opinion to himself.

  Colleen turned her face toward Nick, her eyes full of questions she could not voice aloud in present company. She’d brightened at the mention of marrying in Scotland, but recent developments in London demanded their immediate attention. And they’d yet to discuss any aspect of a future together. He played for time.

  “The choice is yours.” One did not capture the heart of a wild creature by backing her into a corner. “And not one that must be made this very moment. Better to make a reasoned decision.” He watched her internal struggle, noting the moment when logic gained the upper hand.

  �
��Very well,” she said. “We will remain in the city for the present while we consider my uncle’s perspective. But,” eyes filled with apology, Colleen’s gaze slid toward her aunt even as her shoulders stiffened, “I refuse to remain here under household arrest with that man,” she lifted her chin at the thick-necked brute who stood silently in the corner of the room, “dogging my every footstep.”

  “Fine,” her uncle bit out, appearing to capitulate, but there was a stubborn set to his jaw. “Your fiancé’s house or a hotel, I care not.” He turned his attention to Nick. “Rather than feed the flames of last night’s upset, I would prefer we meet later.” A pointed glance was thrown at Colleen. “Alone. A meeting wherein two gentlemen discuss possibilities for the future of a favorable relationship between our respective families.”

  Something oily roiled beneath the surface of the lord’s words. An unpleasant conversation lay in Nick’s immediate future. “Very well. Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow. Two o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “Agreed.” That left Nick plenty of time to consult with his solicitor.

  Glover’s mouth fell open as he stared at Lord Maynard. “Tell me you are not actually considering Torrington!”

  “And why not?” The lord snarled at the man he’d thought to welcome into the family not a quarter hour past. “I cannot force her hand, and you failed to secure her interest.”

  “You will regret this! All of you.” Eyes blazing, Glover stormed from the room.

  Colleen’s uncle reached out and pulled a cord behind his desk. “If you’ll see yourselves out, there is much to which I must attend.” He crooked his finger at the thick-necked man in the corner. “Mr. Vanderburn…”

  The steam butler appeared at the door, ushering them outward and away from the lord’s presence.

  Chapter Nine

  Minutes later, tears ran down Lady Maynard’s face as she and Colleen held each other’s hands promising the other that this was not a permanent separation. At their feet, Sorcha crouched inside her wicker cage, ears flat and tail switching while a steam footman loaded a single trunk onto his phaeton, lashing it in place. The process drew the attention of the finely dressed. Curious faces turned in their direction then, eyes wide, their steps hastened as they hurried to be the first to spread the news of Lady Stewart’s departure with one Mr. Torrington. Fresh scandal, the life and blood of the ton. Even if they married, speculation surrounding the circumstances of their engagement would take some time to die down.