by Anne Renwick
She gave him a cheeky grin and reached for the wicker carrier. “If you insist, Mr. Torrington.”
If her feet hesitated before crossing the threshold, she blamed the sight before her. She’d left the past five years behind her the moment she exited her uncle’s house. Even if she wished it, there would be no reversing course.
Inside, a steam butler waited. Her uncle’s was old and creaky with neglect. Forever belching clouds of smoke, the hallways were dark and gloomy, a challenge to keep clean. Here, the black and white marble-tiled floor gleamed. A tall hallway mirror sparkled, and the furniture was glossy. Even the steam butler himself bore the most lustrous metallic accessories she’d ever seen. All polished daily, she expected.
“Lady Stewart, this is Hopsworth.” Colleen nodded. “Hopsworth, this is my fiancée.” At Nick’s announcement, the steambot’s wire eyebrows slid to the top of his forehead. “Circumstances dictate that she reside here for the next several days. Have a steam footman retrieve her trunk, then send him to collect the remainder of her luggage from Lord Maynard.” He gave the address.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is my mother home?”
“Not at present. She is out paying calls. Your sister and niece, however, are in the nursery,” Hopsworth tipped his head toward a tightly closed door, “your father in the study.”
“Excellent. I’ll speak with him while Lady Stewart settles in. Please show her to my old room.”
Hinges—forced to bend further than their design permitted—protested with a loud creak as the steambot drew himself ramrod straight. The slightest puff of disapproving steam escaped his neatly crimped collar. “Yours, sir?”
“Don’t pop a bolt, Hopsworth. It’s not as if I currently occupy it.” He flipped back the blanket covering Sorcha’s carrier, and the cat hissed, swiping her clawed arm at the steam butler who reeled back, hands raised. Was he afraid his metal casing might scratch? “That wildcat in her arms is accustomed to roaming free,” Nick continued, “and requires outside access. My room provides a convenient trellis. As the cat has suffered a recent trauma, she must be given time to familiarize herself with new surroundings. Once Lady Stewart’s things are placed in my room, no one save myself is to enter. For any reason. Not even the steam staff. They’re to leave a saucer of cream and a tin of tuna on the floor outside the door twice daily.”
Such thoughtfulness. Far, far better than any bouquet of roses.
“Yes, sir.” Hopsworth’s jaw snapped shut with an echoing clang. “Lady Stewart, if you’ll follow me?” With a final glance at Sorcha, the steam butler hooked himself to a rail lift, punched a button, and a great clattering and turning of gears yanked the steambot up the stairway.
“One of the latest models,” Nick said, “but in his chest beats the mechanical heart of an eighty-year-old.” He waved toward the stairs. “Go explore. I’ve a rather sturdy—if prosaic—bed.”
“Don’t think I won’t assess its possibilities.” She winked. “But despite your orders, I’m not at all convinced we won’t be interrupted. The entire household will be wondering what we’re about.”
He laughed and dropped a quick kiss upon her lips. “So they will.”
She widened her eyes in mock fear. “Don’t leave me to face them alone.”
“No worries. I won’t be long. I’ll speak to my father about transferring the funds to Mr. Witherspoon, then I’ll take you to my sister.”
A few minutes later, Colleen stepped into Nick’s room. Though faint, she caught his scent on the air as it swirled with her entry. Spicy, soapy with a hint of musk. The usual shapes of furniture lined the walls, all failing to catch her attention save one. A large, canopied bed dominated the room. Despite her brazen words, her skin heated, threatening to burst into flame. Would she sleep alone tonight? Or would he climb the aforementioned trellis to join her?
She tore her eyes away, scratching Sorcha’s chin through the bars as she crossed to the window, cracking it open. Indeed, the structure was convenient—and not just for prowling felines. “Perfect,” she told the cat. “Access to both the ground and the roof. Though I’m certain you miss the moors, the forests and the abundance of lively rabbits, it’ll do. We’ll be home soon enough.” For, despite Isabella’s presence, her uncle’s townhome had only ever been a temporary residence. A necessary stop before returning to her true life.
Last night—or rather, early this morning—she had scrambled through her window, dragging the monstrous metal cage with her. She’d released Sorcha, then snuck to the kitchens alone, returning with a tray. Ravenous, the cat sìth had consumed an entire leg of mutton before lapping up the promised bowl of cream and executing a lengthy bath before the small fire that burned in the grate. Colleen had crawled into bed and, when she awoke the next morning, found the feline curled into a ball beside her, seemingly no worse for her misadventure.
But there’d been little time to rejoice, for a pounding upon her bedroom door had woken her, and last night’s drama surrounding her engagement resumed. “I’ve been sent to help you pack,” Isabella had announced, brushing away tears. “You uncle insists that you’re to marry Mr. Glover. Today.”
“What!” She’d leapt from the bed. “But I accepted Mr. Torrington’s offer! Publicly!”
Her uncle was delusional if he thought to force her hand. Finish packing she would, but only because she refused to ever spend another night under his roof. A room at Claridge’s it would be. Her every move would be studied and analyzed by hotel staff and the wealthy, outspoken American girls who had traveled overseas to bag and drag a British peer to the altar, but at least she would be free to come and go as she pleased.
The only setback had been getting there, as her uncle had forbidden the steam staff to remove her possessions to a cart until she’d signed a marriage certificate and settlement both binding her to Mr. Glover and granting him control of the Craigieburn estate. An event that would never come to pass. She’d been about to leave the townhome with no more than the clothes on her back and a cat sìth in her arms when Nick had arrived.
Midst the chaos that followed, her uncle had abruptly reversed his position, turning against the formerly favored Mr. Glover, and holding out an olive branch to the man she’d chosen. Colleen didn’t trust it, not for a single second. Nick—or his family—had something her uncle wanted. Badly. But what?
A knock sounded on the bedroom door, and she turned away from the window.
“Your trunk, Lady Stewart.” Hopsworth waved in a steam footman, then followed to place a tray upon the floor. “Cream and tuna. All further feline meals will be left outside in the hall as requested. Is there anything else you need?”
“Thank you, no.” She promptly locked the door leading to the hallway after the steambots had exited. Placing the carrier before the cream, she unfastened the buckles that held the wicker lid shut. While Sorcha considered her new surroundings, Colleen set about unpacking a few essentials.
In anticipation of Dr. Farquhar’s interrogation and the effluvium of a prison cell, subtle adjustments to her attire were in order. There was nothing to do about her corset or the multiple petticoats or the form-fitting bodice until the rest of her luggage arrived. But she could remove impediments to movement. And boots laced to the knee—not the silk slippers she wore—were better suited to tromping through halls that led to—she very much hoped—a dank and rat-infested prison cell.
She slipped her dirk into the sheath sewn into said boots and replaced the thin chain that held her purse with her thick leather belt, one that not only held a number of essential items, but provided D-loops allowing her to hike her heavy skirts.
With nothing left to do save wait, Colleen began to explore the room, avoiding, for now, the bed. Beside a leather armchair, a small side table groaned beneath a lamp and a stack of weighty tomes. She lifted one. Diseases of the Heart. Anatomy was not a topic she’d spent much time investigating but, when he wasn’t running about on Queen’s errands, such was how Nick spent his
time. Given she was about to join him on his current quest, it might be wise to educate herself about matters concerning the human heart.
She gave the Lucifer lamp a good shake, plopped down into the chair and cracked open the text.
“The Scottish girl is a sneak thief?” His father’s expression—no, his entire body—was so stiff, his face so tight that the lightest tap might shatter him, sending pieces crashing to the floor.
Much like an unrepentant cat, Nick couldn’t help swatting at the delicate bauble. “She works to fund her own future. Much as I do. And she is properly addressed as Lady Stewart,” he corrected his father. “The Much Honored Colleen Stewart of Craigieburn. A landholder in her own right.” In two short days, she would control the property in its entirety. “Common knowledge, yet no one—for all their insistence upon propriety—bothers to address her correctly.”
“It’s the eyes,” the viscount snapped. “They’re not natural.” Anything that fell outside a carefully delineated range of human characteristics was unacceptable to the ton. “Impossible not to notice them, even behind those odd spectacles. She has the eyes of her sire, the Laird of Craigieburn.” His father huffed. “With so many eligible females parading through the ballrooms, you pick the one with nothing to her name but Scottish soil and a decrepit castle. No, not even a castle. It’s an aging tower house that will do nothing but drain your bank account to its last shilling. If modernizing it is even a possibility. Don’t look at me like that. I made inquiries about her when your mother informed me you’d laid claim to your grandmother’s amber ring. Dare I inquire as to why you have brought her here? To our family home before the wedding?”
Impulse. Instinct. Need. The bone deep knowledge that they belonged together.
“I told you. She’s a piece of the puzzle.” And… Fine. The image of her reclining in the dark, feet upon a desk and whisky in hand refused to leave his mind. He wanted to peel back the layers and examine what lay beneath. Professionally. Personally. “It’s a temporary arrangement,” Nick insisted. If Colleen agreed to go forward with a wedding, they certainly wouldn’t be spending their honeymoon in his boyhood home. “Her work is much the same as mine.” If aimed at private profit, not the public good. “On Anna’s behalf, we will be working together. Closely. She refused to stay in her uncle’s household, and a hotel is too public.” For any number of reasons.
“I’m not interested in funding the Duke of Avesbury’s secret missions,” his father complained. “Or hosting additional spies.” But he lifted his pen and signed a slip of paper authorizing his bank to transfer three thousand pounds to one Mr. Witherspoon, a virtual stranger. Anything for his daughter. “Be sure you fill out the paperwork for reimbursement.”
“Of course.” Nick rolled his eyes. There was little hope of a refund.
“Now, about your wedding. Your mother claims she knew you and Lady Stewart were destined for each other the first time she saw you share a dance.”
Had she? His memory was somewhat different.
He’d been lurking in an alcove, awaiting the arrival of his contact, when a particularly persistent mother began drifting in his direction, her daughter in tow. He’d cursed—and a soft snicker emerged from even deeper in the shadows a moment before Lady Stewart stepped forward.
“May I offer the assistance of an escape dance?” She’d held out her gloved hand. “A brief waltz from here to there? I assure you, I’ve no interest in being trapped by Lady Delphinia’s chatter.”
“Most gratefully accepted, my lady.” He’d swept her into his arms and onto the dance floor.
She’d been light on her feet, her silk- and boning-encased waist supple beneath his palm. He recalled drawing her closer than was strictly sanctioned, and the sly curve of her lips as she permitted it, a shared moment of mutual collaboration to antagonize their pursuers.
Perhaps he’d taken longer than necessary to traverse the room, but he’d deposited her midst a set of ferns and took his leave with a wink, unquestioning and oblivious to any further depth until they’d met again: at night, atop a roof and behind the concealing bulk of a chimney.
It did not, perhaps, speak well to his instincts as a spy.
“It’s too soon to make plans.” Though he had no qualms, a bride who wished for a trial engagement wouldn’t appreciate such assumptions. “I need Lady Stewart free to work.” Whatever heat flared between them in their free moments was an entirely separate affair. “Not attending frivolous social events.” He reached for the bank slip with the intent to snatch it and flee.
His father slid it out of reach. “I’ll send it by special courier. The funds will be transferred in an hour, perhaps two.” The viscount leaned forward. “Now, I don’t care what arrangements you’ve made with your fiancée, you’ll not be dragging our family’s name through the mud. If she’s to stay here, an announcement will be placed in the papers. I will procure a special license while your mother plans—dress fittings, guest lists, a wedding breakfast—all to be held here, with the ceremony in our London parlor, in a few days’ time.”
“I promised her more time,” Nick objected. “And a wedding in Scotland.” Would Colleen bolt the moment she learned of the viscount’s conditions? She was not a woman to be kept. Such a prospect was as unlikely as keeping the cat sìth in a cage. Were anyone to attempt it, she would slip her tether and there would be hell to pay. “And I agreed to meet with her uncle. I know you don’t trust Lord Maynard, but—”
“He wants something, and it’s bound to be unpleasant.”
Nick agreed, but for the sake of Colleen’s relationship with her young aunt, he was willing to try. “Still, I’ll meet with him. See what he has in mind.”
“For aether’s sake, don’t agree to anything without first consulting me. He’s too fond of leading people into legal quagmires. Do you have any idea how many lives he’s ruined?”
“Too many to count.” All the more reason to lend Colleen his assistance, even if she decided marriage was not to her taste. “I’ll be careful. Did you discover anything irregular about the Laird of Craigieburn’s will?”
“Nothing,” his father admitted. Frustration simmered beneath his carefully starched and ironed collar. “Though the prior Lord Maynard surgically cut his daughter from his life, the family rift was mended after his death. The current Lord Maynard re-established ties, lending his brother-in-law funds and arranging for his niece to have a London Season. My contacts have yet to discover what promises Lord Maynard extracted from Lady Stewart’s father in exchange for such aid. But I’ve every confidence they will.”
“Given Lord Maynard’s sudden attempt to marry her to a business partner, one easily controlled, there must be something.” While his father focused upon his youngest son’s future, Nick wagered that he could pass along a task that, while necessary, might distract them from pursuing any leads their interrogation of Farquhar produced. “There is one agreed upon condition of my partnership, one separate from any wedding that may or may not occur. In addition to an agreed upon fee, our solicitors must collect all necessary paperwork and documents to return complete and total control of the Craigieburn estate and its properties to Lady Stewart upon her twenty-fifth birthday, two days hence.”
“It is with pleasure that I shall rip such papers from her uncle’s hands.” Only then did his father smirk. “Work fast. Regardless of what we tell your mother, when she learns Lady Stewart possesses land and a castle her wedding plans will be in earnest.” His voice dropped to a whisper of conspiracy, one that suggested his parents would—as always—be united in their goals. “Those yellow eyes? They bother me not a whit.”
Chapter Eleven
Family business attended to, Nick mounted the stairs. He’d take Colleen for a brief visit in the nursery. From there, they’d head upward to the aviary and wait for word from the constabulary or Mr. Witherspoon himself.
While he’d been contemplating how to court Colleen for months now, it was strange to realize how ready his family
was to rush him to the proverbial altar. Not that he was opposed. Charles, his oldest brother, had already produced the next heir to the viscountcy and had another child on the way. James, a second son, had married a wealthy American and was the proud father of a sweet, little girl. Only Nick had resisted his mother’s every effort to see him settled.
In the hallway, before the closed door of his room, a steambot rolled back and forth, spinning in circles upon the carpet, wielding a dust bin and broom like knights of old, while steam billowed from beneath her skirts. All in an effort to elude capture by the kitchen boy and reach the door handle.
“Sorry, sir.” Robby jumped out of range to make a quick bow. “Hopsworth sent me to change her punch card, but Steam Mary is hardwired to clean your room at the top of the hour.”
“There’s a trick to these older models, if you you’ll allow me?”
“Please, sir?”
Nick pulled a short length of hooked wire from his pocket.
“What’s that for?” Robby asked.
“Watch.” After a few more wild spins, Steam Mary’s sensors registered that the path was clear. She lowered her arms and approached the door. “Beneath that ruff of lace and ribbon about where you’d expect a shoulder, lies the clavicular joint. When she reaches for the door handle…”
The steambot’s clothing shifted and a chink in her iron housing appeared, exposing wires and tubing. With a strategic swipe, Nick hooked his wire beneath a thick cord of cable and tugged. Steam Mary froze.
The kitchen boy’s eyes grew wide. “You broke her!”
“I did not. What kind of trick would that be? Now finish up. Change her programming.”
