A Reflection of Shadows

by Anne Renwick

  Robby unpinned her apron, flipped open a panel upon her chest, and swapped one punch card for another.

  “Now, while you’re in there, look deeper.” He handed Robby his decilamp. “That cable I yanked will have unplugged from its socket and should be dangling free. Do you see it?”

  The boy bent over the steambot, peering into her illuminated innards. “I do!”

  “Push it back into the empty receptacle, and she’ll reset.”

  With a whistle, Steam Mary straightened, glanced at her dust bin and broom in confusion and moved on.

  “Thank you, sir!” He bounced on his toes, holding out the decilamp.

  “Keep it.” Nick handed Robby the hooked wire as well. “But try to catch all the other steambots before you have to resort to sabotage.”

  “Sir! Yes, sir!” And Robby ran off, a grin stretched across his bright face.

  His own grin fading, Nick stared at the door. He leaned closer, listening. All was silent. What had he expected to hear? The yowls of a wildcat? No, more like the sounds of a woman unpacking. Then again, she had but a single trunk in her possession. His lips curved. He could only hope it held a few scraps of red silk.

  With a yank, he opened his own door, and all the air left his lungs in a single whoosh. For the space of a heartbeat, all he could do was stare at Colleen, lounging in his favorite chair reading by lamplight. Her skirts hiked up by silver chains to fall above her knees, legs dangling over its arm to cross at her booted ankles. She looked up from a thick journal propped upon her lap. But his eyes refused to focus on its title, preferring the hollow of her throat where a soft curl of hair brushed as she toyed with a long strand wrapped about her finger.

  He closed the door behind him with a thud. Sorcha—who, peripheral vision informed him—lounged dead center in the middle of the bed, leg in the air, bathing with complete disregard for onlookers, certain she would not be disturbed. And she wouldn’t be, for he had no interest in beginning their courtship upon a bed.

  Perhaps the chair?

  “The basic anatomy of the heart is simple enough.” Colleen swung her feet to the ground with a soft thud and nodded at a nearby anatomy textbook. “But you neglected to mention that many of the facts you presented me with during your horseback lecture on heart physiology were drawn from experiments conducted upon the heart of an eel.” She shuddered and pulled a face. “An eel, Nick.”

  Nick swallowed, finally realizing that she’d found and read the draft of an article submitted to the Journal of Physiology by J.A. MacWilliam in which the scientist detailed his studies conducted upon the heart of eels. “On the Structure and Rhythm of the Heart in Fishes, with especial reference to the Heart of an Eel.” He’d wondered where he’d mislaid it.

  “It’s a fascinating thought,” she said. “If hard to wrap the mind about, to reconcile oneself with the idea that the heart is essentially autonomous, that various sections beat at their own pace, speeding or slowing in response to heat and cold.”

  “You’ve been busy.” Impressive, her willingness and ability to throw herself into the topic at hand. All these years, she’d hidden a spectacular mind from the ton. Perhaps there were many such young ladies concealing their intelligence, but only one particular woman had disturbed his dreams last night, leaving his sheets tangled about his waist. He met her eyes. No barrier blocked their gaze, as she’d set aside her smoky glasses to read in the dim light of his room, and her golden eyes gleamed. “And now your grasp of cardiac electrophysiology easily surpasses that of many first year medical students.”

  “Only after a concerted effort to understand all matters of heart physiology pertaining to our particular case. Information as currency. We do have a galvanist to interview.” Tossing aside the paper, Colleen arched her back, stretching her arms above her head before rising onto her feet. Lips curving upward, she stalked across the space separating them and rose up onto her toes, wrapping her arms about his neck. “Dr. MacWilliam seems to have left out one particular stimulus. Or perhaps eels don’t possess them?”

  “What’s that?” Anticipation set his heart pounding as he dropped his hands to her hips.

  “Emotions.” Her soft breasts pressed against his chest as her fingertips toyed with the fringe of hair that brushed his collar.

  Vague thoughts of leaving the room flitted about in his mind, then flew away altogether. His sister and skeet pigeons could wait. “He’s a mind as sharp as a scalpel but, no, I don’t think he’s interested in theory of mind. MacWilliam has, however, begun a systematic investigation into the mammalian heart studying cardiac fibrillation and the possibility that a spark of electricity—carefully timed and applied—might help restore a normal heartbeat.”

  “Begun.” She kissed the corner of his mouth. “But impatience compels you to chase after a scientist who might already have fabricated such a device.”

  “It does.”

  “How long until Dr. Farquhar awakens?”

  “Another hour at least.” He slipped his palms over the smooth satin encasing her waist, drawing her closer still. “We’ll bring pen and paper. If he can’t pinpoint the location of his device, a composition exercise detailing its features and functions might be in order.” He skimmed his lips across the edge of her hairline.

  He bent and caught her lips with his own, spinning her off her feet and pinning her against the door. All while plundering her soft, sweet mouth while she mewled her encouragement, wrapping her legs about his and tugging at his cravat.

  Nick couldn’t recall the last time a woman had driven him to such distraction that he stood on the knife’s edge of losing control. Yet his mind constantly returned to a certain sturdy desk, the first time she’d offered herself to him—in a location that flirted with the possibility of discovery. Despite all public appearances, Colleen was a woman who enjoyed flirting with danger and discovery. Indulgences he’d be happy to provide.

  He nipped her lower lip, then drew back, tucking a long, silky strand of her hair back into the coil at the base of her neck. “Not here,” he murmured. “Someone might come looking for us, and it’s too obvious a location.”

  “So it is.” Her legs dropped to the ground, and she straightened his collar, all business, though her amber eyes were still dark with desire.

  He swallowed. Hard. “Introduce me, formally, to Sorcha. Then we’ve things to do,” he slid her a knowing glance and a smile, “before we can carve out a moment to play. Some place a bit more… exotic.”

  Colleen’s breath caught in her throat. She’d been smothering her disappointment that Nick had failed to do more than kiss her against the wall, but at his words, her pulse jumped anew. The sooner necessary tasks were behind them…

  “Sorcha?” She approached the bed—hand extended—where the cat sìth sat, enthroned. “Might I?”

  The feline returned Colleen’s request with a long, steady gaze, then rose onto her feet, tail lifted, and approached, arching her back as Colleen stroked a palm down her soft, sleek pelt.

  A quick scan of the shaved patch of skin upon her shoulder informed her that the small incision remained uninfected. Thank aether Dr. Farquhar hadn’t had a chance to do further damage. “Allow me to present Mr. Torrington, the gentleman who led me to your prison.”

  “She’s quite majestic.” His lips quirked. “If the male of her species is a king, does this make her a queen?”

  “On par with Queen Victoria herself, yes.”

  Smiling, he bowed. Then extended his own hand, fingers curled.

  Sorcha sniffed, her whiskers twitching as she considered his offer of friendship, then accepted a brief chin scratch before padding to the head of the bed to select a pillow for her nap.

  “Quite at home,” Nick commented. He slid open a bedside table drawer, slipping something from its recesses into his pocket. “Much like you’ve made yourself.”

  “A compliment,” Colleen replied, leaning backward against the thick and solid carved bedpost that reached toward the ceiling. �
�I love the darkness of your room. The rich wood, heavy curtains, worn leather and the whorls of vines that twist across the forest green wallpaper. So much better than the light, the airy, and the ruffled that’s forever thrust upon women.”

  “The dark suits you.”

  She lifted her chin toward the window where raindrops pelted the panes and ran in rivulets down the glass. “Rain suits me as well, though it makes the rooftops treacherous.”

  “So it does.” They shared a knowing glance, spy to burglar. “Come, let’s stop by the nursery. We’ll visit Anna and I’ll introduce you to my niece, Clara.”

  He reached for her, tugging her from the room. Had a man ever held her hand in such a manner? She had no memory of anyone save her father, but that was years in the past. Every inch of her skin delighted in the feel of his palm sliding against her own with a roughness that came from gripping stone walls, drain pipes, and ropes. It created a delightful friction that she couldn’t wait to feel brushed across the rest of her skin.

  She blinked, then focused on the moment. “Your sister is among those family members who know?”

  “That I’m a spy?” Nick closed the door behind him, then led her up a flight of stairs. “Yes. She and my parents are aware, not so much my brothers. It would have been impossible to hide my odd comings and goings from this house, given I often stay here when she’s feeling poorly. Anna is fully aware that I’ve also been making more private inquiries on her behalf, but all of them know better than to press for details about the tasks I carry out for the Queen.”

  Carefully, quietly, Nick opened the door. Inside, Anna—a woman with the heart-shaped face of an angel—sat in a rocking chair beside a fire, cuddling an adorable baby. Three months? It had been years since Colleen had held an infant. Her heart gave a twist. The price of refusing to consider any London gentlemen. She glanced at Nick. What kind of father would he make?

  “She rarely leaves my niece alone,” he whispered. Colleen understood. With an uncertain lifespan, precious moments must be savored. “But both of them have an aid, should help be required.” At the far end of the room, one nurse’s face lifted from the sewing she held in her lap, while the other glanced up from a book. At Nick’s wave, both nodded respectfully, then dropped their gazes back to their occupations.

  “Shh.” Anna held a finger to her lips. “Clara has only just fallen asleep.”

  They tiptoed across a soft carpet to Anna’s side. The room was dim, but the low light hid nothing from Colleen’s eyes. Behind Nick’s sister, a large, disturbing machine hulked and hummed in the corner. Dials and buttons and switches covered its surface. A long wire extended—tentacle-like—from its side, its end screwed into a sharp, pointed metal rod. One designed to pierce the skin and touch the heart to deliver a life-saving bolt of electricity? A shudder of terror ran over Colleen. The thought of wielding such a device turned her insides to custard.

  “Anna, allow me to introduce Lady Colleen Stewart,” Nick whispered. “She’ll be working as my partner while posing as my fiancée. We’ve unearthed some promising information about a new device.”

  They politely greeted each other with a nod.

  “We’ve met, though briefly.” Colleen kept her voice to a murmur.

  “A fiancée?” Anna’s eyebrows rose.

  She felt awful, letting his family wonder about the depth of their involvement. “Your brother has proposed. I’m considering his offer but, like him, I also possess a flair for prying into affairs that men and women prefer to keep hidden.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Nick struggle to control his shock, followed by a subtle straightening of the shoulders as satisfaction settled upon them.

  “Ah, I see.” A knowing grin stretched his sister’s face. “I won’t turn down a miracle or a new sister-in-law. Either or both would be more than welcome.”

  Nick lifted the sleeping infant from his sister’s arm with practiced expertise, and warmth spread through Colleen’s chest at the sight. Gentleman, scientist, spy. Devoted brother. Quite probably he’d make a most excellent husband and father.

  Marrying him would be the adventure of a lifetime, but it would also bind her to London. What of her responsibilities in Scotland? As laird, people depended upon her, and she’d been absent far too long.

  He turned and passed the baby into Colleen’s arms, smiling at her shocked expression. “If you don’t mind. Anna has spoiled her. To the point she rarely sleeps unless held, and I want to listen to her mother’s heart.”

  “Of course.” Colleen gathered the precious bundle close, and found herself gently swaying. She pressed a kiss to the fine, silky curls upon the baby’s head—inhaling her soft, sweet scent—and caught a small waving fist as she stirred, all while marveling at the perfect, tiny, pink bow of her lips.

  When she thought to glance up, Nick—eyes closed—held a stethoscope to his sister’s narrow chest. Only then did Colleen note the bluish tinge of Anna’s fingertips and the heavy woolen rug draped over her knees despite the warmth of the room. She’d taken a risk, bearing a child, and regretted nothing. Impossible not to admire a woman who’d reached out and grabbed what she most desired despite all advice to the contrary. Colleen resolved to do the same.

  “Are you still experiencing occasional numbness in your hands and face?” Nick asked, moving his fingers to Anna’s wrist, taking note of her pulse. A careful blankness clung to his face. “A feeling of being out of breath? Damp palms?”

  “Yes, yes, and yes,” Anna answered. “Along with all the usual symptoms. Fatigue, chest pain, dizziness, and shortness of breath. But only one seizure in the past week.”

  As Nick straightened, pain and a hint of helplessness flickered in his eyes, but quickly resolved into steely determination. No stone would be left unturned, no scientist left unquestioned. He shifted, impatient and keen to take action. “When Mother returns, do try to keep her contained.”

  His sister laughed softly. “You ask the impossible.”

  Resignation tightened his mouth, and he lifted his gaze to Colleen. “Time to visit the aviary. We’ve a message to send.”

  Indeed, Mr. Witherspoon could be counted upon to act quickly once funds reached him. “And one to watch for.”

  As she slid the swaddled baby back into her mother’s arms—somewhat reluctant to part with the soft weight, Anna whispered, “I’ve been away from society, but don’t think I never noticed the sparks that fly whenever the two of you are together. It’s easy to see you’ve captured my brother’s… regard and have the look of a woman about to lead him on an adventure. I heartily approve. He needs a partner…” She glanced at Colleen’s skirt hikes, then gave her an impish wink. “And a distraction.”

  A slow burn crept across her cheeks. She’d certainly offered him one. Repeatedly. But the man was determined to torture her with searing kisses and teasing promises. He’d best deliver, and soon.

  Chapter Twelve

  The narrow, metal staircase leading to the aviary folded back upon itself several times before it reached the roof. A hatch opened to reveal a low wall supporting an arch of iron and glass that protected the message-carrying skeet pigeons—and them—from the afternoon’s soft, misty rain. At one end, a glass door. At the other, a square window—propped open—allowed the clockwork birds entry and exit. A corner of the space had been appropriated for more than birds. Warmed by the sun’s occasional appearance, a small potted garden of purslane, rosemary and fennel thrived upon a low bench.

  Steadying herself on the iron railing she climbed into a different world where, through grit and soot-smudged panes of glass, all of London stretched before her. High overhead, silver dirigibles dotted the sky. Slate roof-tiles glistened in the dim light while smoke rose in billows from thousands of chimneys. Thousands of windows glowed—some yellow with oil, some a brighter white with gas, and a few with the blue tinge of bioluminescence.

  Colleen pressed her palms against the cool glass. In this vast city, rooftops meant freedom. Explo
ring the possibilities that lay above London had saved her mind from the gloom that descended following the loss of her parents, of her forced relocation. “So breathtaking. Always.” And in the raincloud-muted light, her spectacles were unnecessary. She tucked them away and turned to watch Nick.

  He was all brisk business and impatience, examining the legs of the six skeet pigeons who perched upon the aviary’s interior ledge. For years they’d circled each other—beneath both the glow of chandeliers and the twinkle of starlight—sharing casual flirtations. Light touches. Pointed, knowing glances. And details of their lives not meant for anyone else. Never quite daring to fully enter the other’s orbit. Until now.

  “No message yet from the constabulary,” he reported, selecting a dispatch canister from a metal box and inserting a tightly rolled scroll. “Funds are being transferred to your employer as we speak. I assume you keep a punch card with his location near at hand?” He lifted a bird from its perch, fastening the canister to its ankle.

  Mr. Witherspoon hadn’t been pleased at her request. Though he’d agreed to reveal the buyer’s name for a hefty sum, the skeet pigeon hadn’t contained a return token. A clear message that—had she not retired—her employment would have been terminated. But Mr. Witherspoon knew Colleen kept a backup punch card, permitting her to contact him by bird one last time. Not that she wished to return to his employ. Not after what she’d found in that burnt-out shell of a laboratory.

  Pushing all dark thoughts aside, she smiled. Nick would like this.

  “I do.” Lifting her fingers to the first button beneath her chin, she turned to face him as she unfastened her bodice, letting silk panels fall open to expose the lacy trim of her chemise.

  His eyes brightened and the corner of his mouth lifted. Silent, but keenly attentive, Nick raised an eyebrow and waited.

  With the edge of her underbust corset revealed—along with a generous bit of cleavage—she extracted a pen knife from the pouch at her waist and slit the half-dozen threads that held shut a tiny pocket sewn into its hem. She extracted a punched address card and pressed it into his palm. “It’s my last token.”