by Anne Renwick
Resigned, Nick sighed and turned to pay the boy looking after his clockwork horse.
“No!” Colleen cried, and he spun back to find a man with a shock of wild, unkempt hair attempting to wrest the wicker basket that held Sorcha from her arms. Inside, the cat sìth hissed and spit. A large paw—claws unsheathed—swiped from between two bars and drew blood moments before Nick delivered a sharp left hook to the man’s jaw. Hard enough to discourage him, to send him staggering, but not enough to render him unconscious.
Colleen backed away, clutching the basket to her chest.
Hand pressed to his jaw, the attacker’s feral gaze jumped from Colleen to Nick and back again. “I was promised the cat sìth would be mine!” Blood welled from the deep gouges scratched into his arm.
“Who made you such promises?” Nick demanded, wondering why the man’s face seemed familiar.
“The committee, of course,” he spat.
“What is the meaning of this?” The lord’s bodyguard, Mr. Vanderburn, scowled from the top of the stairs.
The attacker glanced at the lord’s minion, then scuttled off at a dead sprint. Only then did Nick notice his sooty, singed trousers. The missing scientist, Dr. Farquhar!
Dammit. Queen’s agents were expected to maintain a low public profile. But after six months of failed leads, he wasn’t letting this one go. “Stay here,” he ordered Colleen, then gave chase.
He wanted answers. “Stop!” he yelled. “Thief!” A lie, perhaps, but one that would draw the attention of the many policemen who patrolled Mayfair. With luck, he might gain assistance and be mistaken for a private citizen trying to regain his stolen purse.
Though the older, spindly-legged scientist was no match for Nick in a foot race, what he lacked in speed, he made up for in lunacy, dashing into the busy street. An ill-advised attempt to weave between clockwork horses and steam carriages sent him bouncing off iron wheels and into a tumble before nearly meeting his end beneath steel hoofs.
Nick cursed. Not a chance he would risk such a death. He waited for an opening, only to see Dr. Farquhar stagger back onto his feet. No. There could be no escape. He needed to end this now. He yanked his TTX pistol free from its holster and took aim.
Zwing. Nick’s dart found its mark.
A constable skidded to a halt beside him. “You can’t—” His eyes widened as they took in the make and model of Nick’s weapon, a sidearm issued only to Queen’s agents. In a heartbeat, the policeman became his ally, yanking out his whistle and waving at traffic.
Farquhar was getting away. Again, Nick took aim. Zwing. A second dart landed neatly between the man’s shoulder blades. He slowed. Wavered. And finally fell.
“Well, that’s something to see,” the policeman commented, his voice ringing with awe and a bit of dark hope. “I hear a third dart kills?”
“I need him alive,” Nick said, irritated that he’d been forced to act in such a public location. “And restrained.” Answers would have to wait.
On the far side of the street, a small knot of uncertain people gathered about the paralyzed man. One ventured close to pluck the dart from Farquhar’s back and hold it up, peering at it while others, too well-bred to draw close, forced their slack jaws closed, pretending nothing was amiss.
“Yes, sir!” The constable blew hard on his whistle. Wading out into traffic arms spread wide, he brought the entire street to a standstill before waving Nick across.
He snatched back the dart. “If it’s potent enough to drop a fleeing suspect, should you be handling it?”
“Well I—” Offended, the man stalked off.
The other onlookers drew back, moving away from the presumed thief as Nick searched Farquhar’s pockets, turning up nothing but a smooth snail shell and a handful of loose coins. Added to a missing cravat and the lightly singed, rumpled clothing he wore suggested the man had not intended to leave his home last night. And he looked to have spent a rough night on the street, trailing them here, rather than turning to friends or neighbors.
Where was his wife? Was she an accomplice or an adversary? Why had he not run to his employer, pleading his innocence and begging assistance? And what, exactly, did he plan to do with the cat sìth when his laboratory was a lost cause?
Nick wanted answers to each and every question, but it would be hours before the man woke up, and even then Farquhar would be groggy and disoriented. What to do with him in the meantime? Even now, he could see his phaeton approaching with Colleen at the reins, her expression daring anyone to challenge her as she wove her way through the stopped traffic. He couldn’t very well toss off her trunk and replace it with Farquhar’s limp body.
Or could he?
No. He shook off the thought. Not only would the Duke of Avesbury have his head for such a public display as it already was, Nick did not wish to invite any aspect of his work into his personal living space or that of his family.
Another constable joined them. “You can’t just—” But the first elbowed the second in the ribs, lifting his chin to point at Nick’s TTX pistol. “Sorry, sir. My apologies, sir.”
“Is there a station house nearby, one with a cell?”
“Of course, sir!” the constable rocked onto his toes. “Not more than two blocks away. Shall we assist him to a cell?”
“Yes, please.” A compromise. Treated like a common thief, Farquhar would draw less attention and perhaps lessen the paperwork that was certain to land on Nick’s desk. “This man’s name is Dr. Gregory Farquhar. He stole something extremely rare and valuable. Moreover, he is wanted for questioning with regards to an intentionally set fire that occurred early this morning. Lock him up, but treat him with kid gloves. He’ll wake in a few hours. Send word to me here.” He handed the policeman a punch card and a few coins. “By private skeet pigeon.” The card would provide the clockwork bird direction and the coins the funds to do so—the municipal flock was notoriously rusty and unreliable—with an extra bonus added to ensure they were motivated to see the task done.
“Will do, sir!” the constable barked.
“Mr. Torrington?” Colleen inquired, stiff and formal from her perch. “Is that—”
Nick vaulted into his vehicle, landing beside her and the voluminous froth of her skirts. “Dr. Farquhar? Yes.” The two police officers slung their arms beneath those of the mad scientist and heaved him upward, dragging him down the pavement. “They’ll take him into custody. When he wakes, we’ll question him.”
“We.” A note of doubt hung in her voice. She tugged on the reins, pulling the control lever to a sedate, proper level three, then took the corner, directing them toward his family’s townhome. A light rain began to fall, dampening the feather that sprouted from a bonnet carefully pinned in place upon her head.
“Yes, we. Partners, remember?” He let his gaze fall upon the black buttons that marched up the front of her coat. “Easiest for us to enter the station dressed as a lord and his lady, but wear sensible shoes. And a skirt that won’t brush the floor. Detainees are often ill, and there’s no predicting if a mop has touched the floor in recent years.”
Colleen threw him a small smile. “A point in your favor, fiancé, that you escort me to such delightful locations.”
The burden on his shoulders lifted ever so slightly. “And in yours, if you can resist the temptation to strangle the man who caged your familiar.” Behind them, the cat sìth cried a pitiable displeasure at being stuffed in a cage and hauled about London streets. “How is Sorcha?”
“Physically, the wounds are superficial. Dr. Farquhar appears only to have punctured a vein. The patches of shaved skin must have been preparation for further experimentation. The fire stopped him before he could do any significant damage.”
“What is supposed to happen,” he began, “when you mistreat a fairy cat?”
“Nothing good,” she said. “Show a King Cat kindness—a saucer of milk or a fresh-caught fish—and good fortune follows. Mistreat him, and misfortune descends. All the dairy cows go dry. Or,
should you be so unlucky to have a death in the family, the cat sìth might steal the soul of the dead before burial.”
“Or a wife, for example, might decide to burn your townhome to the ground and lay the blame at your feet.”
She laughed. “Exactly.” Snapping the reins, Colleen slowed the horse, expertly weaving through a knot of traffic at the intersection.
“And if your cat sìth happens to be a witch?”
“Ah, the darker myth. She can take the form of a cat nine times.”
“And after the ninth?”
“Stuck.”
“And left wandering the Scottish countryside, perhaps to be trapped by cryptid hunters and sold on the black market as a curiosity.” He glanced at the wicker carrier. “Or they accompany young women with beautiful, flashing eyes to London.”
Colleen stared straight ahead. “I’m not a witch.”
“I didn’t think you were.” He reached out and squeezed her arm. “I meant only to note the similarities. It can’t be coincidence that Sorcha, in particular, ended up in his laboratory.”
“Dr. Farquhar values Sorcha—enough to follow us in an attempt to reclaim her—but not over himself, or he wouldn’t have abandoned her to the fire.” Colleen fell silent, as carts and carriages rattled past them. She slid a glance in his direction. “You mentioned a long, complicated story. Queen’s agent’s business. Could this mad scientist really believe Sorcha is a witch in cat form?”
He would tell her all about CEAP, all about the shadow committees that the Queen’s agents hunted. Not here on the streets, but soon. Before they interviewed Farquhar.
“Aether, I hope not,” Nick sighed. “I need answers. A solution to Anna’s condition. Not the mentally disordered ramblings of a thwarted researcher who has abandoned key steps of the scientific process in his quest to prove an obscure folk tale from his childhood.” He recalled Mrs. Leighton’s words. “Unfortunately, it seems he might. There have been whispers of men exploring the possibilities of animal transmutation, a kind of sorcery where an animal shifts into a human form, then back again.”
She sucked in a breath. “Like the witches associated with the cat sìth.”
“Exactly like that.” And though Colleen possessed a number of catlike skills—excellent night vision, good hearing and astounding agility—she was all woman. One who could help him untangle fact from fiction. “He’ll wake in a few hours. We’ll question him then.”
His family’s townhome drew into view.
“About your family—”
“They will be thrilled to have you as their guest.” He grinned. “Or, rather, in their clutches. My mother wants nothing more than to see all of her children married. But—” He held up his hand as she drew breath to protest. “If you prefer, I will inform her—and my father—that this is a work arrangement. That our engagement is a façade constructed for the benefit of society while we investigate a situation at the Duke of Avesbury’s command.”
“Perhaps that’s best,” she said. He tried not to let his disappointment surface. “I want to accept your offer, but what we know about each other has been gained in such snatches. Spending an extended amount of time in each other’s company is the only appealing aspect of the situation in which we find ourselves. Well, that and departing my uncle’s household.” A long, silent moment passed before she slanted him a glance from beneath long, dark lashes and, when she spoke, her voice held a note of invitation. “And when opportunity permits, perhaps we might explore our…” A patch of bright color bloomed high upon her cheeks. “Physical compatibility?”
Nick’s heart leapt to life inside his ribcage and began to pound. Other interested portions of his anatomy also took note. “I’d hoped as much, but a gentleman should never presume. Kisses, no matter how hot they burn, need not progress. If you wish, we can discuss terms.”
“I’m no innocent,” she said. “As you well know. Without any expectations that I would ever marry, I have taken the occasional lover. Quietly and discreetly.” Her lips pressed into a flat line. “At least in the past. None have been so crass as to publicly announce such a fact until now.”
Once made public, such a perceived transgression was rarely, if one was female and unmarried, forgiven. “What is it you want from an affair?”
“What do I want?” Her odd glance suggested not a single lover had ever asked. “I want…more. I’m no delicate flower.” Her very ears were now pink.
Ah, she wanted excitement. Passion. Tightly controlled in the presence of all other ton, she thought he might be willing to unleash the woman who prowled through London beneath the moon, slipping in and out of rooms in the dark of night. Aether, he wanted that too.
He leaned close to her ear and growled, “Large, solid desks can be accommodating. It’s a shame we were interrupted. Chairs. Walls. Floors.” He paused. “Soft mattresses too have their charms.”
“And yet are so very prosaic,” she breathed. “I was hoping you might have other ideas.” Her hands tightened on the reins. “In two days, I celebrate my twenty-fifth birthday. Shall we mark that as the day we decide if a future as husband and wife suits?”
“Two days. Will that be long enough?” he asked, stiff with arousal. Her chest rose and fell quickly beneath her buttoned cape. He blinked, forcing himself to stop speculating about layers that clung more closely to her skin. “Two days of close companionship while we uncover whatever Farquhar is about, and investigate if he’s made any discoveries that might prove useful.”
“I expect it will be all society is willing to afford us. If that. Now, speaking of Dr. Farquhar…” Without taking her eyes from the road, she reached into a small purse that hung from a chain about her waist and drew forth a long, narrow slip of paper. “I launched a skeet pigeon at dawn and have a response. Mr. Witherspoon is not pleased, but in light of Mrs. Farquhar’s arsonist tendencies and Anna’s pressing need, he will provide a name for three thousand pounds.”
Nick nearly choked. “Three thousand pounds?” He snatched it from her fingers, his eyes focusing on the ink-scrawled figure, upon the bank instructions as to where the money was to be deposited. “For a name?”
“Clients would swiftly abandon him,” her lips twisted, “if it became known he was willing to sell their information. Therefore, even as a special favor to me, a breach in client confidentiality does not come cheap.”
Chapter Ten
Beside her, Nick fell silent. Overhead, gathering clouds darkened the skies as a faint mist strengthened into a steady rain. Her gray lenses filtered the remaining light such that when she stole a long glance at his tight face, his features stood out in high relief. All of them tense. Three thousand pounds was a small fortune. Far more than most would be willing to spend on an ill relative—particularly a female—for the chance at a cure. No, not even a cure, a treatment. One his sister would be reliant upon her entire life. Should it work. And all that dependent upon finding the current whereabouts of one particular rosewood box and the precious object contained within.
“Ready?” They’d arrived at his family’s townhome. Tall, terraced and proud, it stood at attention beside its clones, all of them neatly lined up alongside this side of the square.
He took a deep breath. “My family knows I work for the Queen. Nothing specific, but they hold no illusions that I spend all my time locked within four walls of a laboratory. I’ll inform my mother that you have a similar profession, that our engagement is temporary, a societal necessity while we work together. But…” He caught up her hand, stroking his thumb over the amber stone. “Not only is this my grandmother’s ring, it’s an exact match to the color of your eyes. My mother and sister will doubt our story.”
“As well they should.” The longer she was with Nick, the less she wanted to part ways. “We’re playing for time. Time alone. Time to interview a mad scientist.”
“Time,” he repeated. “That my sister might not have.”
“And will therefore use as efficiently as possible.” She
gave him a weak smile. “What with your swift capture of Dr. Farquhar, the price Mr. Witherspoon demands for a mere name might not be worth paying. Not if you can persuade the scientist to share his secrets. Why, we may have answers before nightfall.”
“That may be, but I like to know all the players in a game, to roll over every log to see what crawls out. Whoever purchased the device from Mrs. Farquhar went through much effort to conceal his identity, and I want that name. Regardless, we’ll find time for a courtship. Even if we must squeeze it in between interrogations.” The corner of his mouth curved upward. “Poetry and roses? Sweet nothings whispered in your ear?”
He hadn’t released her fingers, had made no move to climb down from the phaeton, but instead stared into her eyes as if answers could be found deep within their depths. Eyes were often said to be “windows to the soul”. What, then, did he imagine he might see?
She cared for him very much. Admired him. Enjoyed his company. Ached for his touch. But she wasn’t—not yet—in love with him. Though it wouldn’t take much for her to tumble hat over boots. Time to lighten the mood, if only briefly.
“Only if they’re suggestive.” Colleen leaned close and teased the shell of his ear with her lips, quite satisfied when his hand tightened about hers. “And only if you’re prepared to act upon them. Tell me, how seriously will your mother and sister take their assigned role of chaperone?”
“We shouldn’t need one on a public street, Lady Stewart,” he chided, though lights danced once more in his eyes. Good. She didn’t want to dwell on what their future may or may not hold. Not when the present demanded their full attention. “Now hand over the reins to the groom. Sorcha may be Scottish, but you’ll never convince me any cat enjoys the rain.”
