by Anne Renwick
“Anthropomorphic,” she repeated. “Ascribing human characteristics to nonhuman creatures?” The ice crept back.
“Selkies, for example. Seals who can turn into humans. There have been reports of them on the northwest coast of Scotland.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you telling me selkies are real?”
“No. But neither am I saying they aren’t. Someone else is tracking down those sightings.” He drew her hand to his heart and caught her gaze. “Within CEAP are individuals who are also interested in humans with animal characteristics. Men who would like nothing better than to capture and study such humans with an eye toward exploiting their unique skills. They’ve no interest in protecting even the most basic of individual rights and are not to be trusted.”
Humans with unique skills. “Such as myself,” she whispered. A woman who might once have been burned at the stake for suspicions of cavorting with the devil beneath the moonlight. Colleen struggled to keep her breathing steady. That mad scientist had stared at her, not with fear, but with amazement. And far too much interest.
“If you keep working with me, if a member of this CEAP committee is watching, it may well draw his attention to—”
“My distinctive eyes,” she spoke on a soft exhalation. Caged within her ribs, her heart began to pace. “My uncanny athletic abilities. But it’s too late. Dr. Farquhar has already taken note of my eyes. That explains his spellbound stare before he turned tail and ran.”
Nick swore.
Precious few cat sìth roamed the woods of her family’s Scottish estate. The same could be said of the men, women and children who also possessed golden eyes. Sorcha had been snatched from the streets of London, but now that Dr. Farquhar had made the link from the cat sìth to her, it was only a matter of time until someone connected her to Craigieburn and its unique occupants.
Knees weak, she sank to the floor, leaning against the low wall at her back.
Nick crouched beside her. “Colleen?” Concern filled his voice, but throughout it threaded a note of curiosity. “I have to ask. Are there any truths to the myths surrounding the cat sìth?”
“Truths?” She took a deep breath and looked into the eyes of the only man to ever treat her as an equal. “I’ve the eyes of a cat—as did my father and his mother before him. A number of families who live on or near my land can name at least one member—past or present—with eyes such as mine.”
“A tapetum lucidum, a reflective layer of the retina allowing an animal—”
She winced.
“Or the rare human,” he squeezed her hand, “to see in the dark.”
“In low light,” she corrected. “A candle. A spark. A thin ray of moonlight. But there must be at least a glimmer light for them to reflect, for me to see.”
“And your spectacles?” Nick gathered her to his side.
“Bright light tends to blur my vision, hence the tinted lenses.” She waved a hand at the arch of glass above them. The rain had stopped and rivulets no longer ran down the glass panes in long streams. “But fog, clouds, rain. Soot. Anything that turns London bleak and gray brings the world into sharp focus.”
“Enhancing your nighttime prowling abilities.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “And what of Sorcha’s devotion, do you have a unique attachment to her?”
“My familiar?” The term once used with lighthearted humor had lost its appeal.
“I didn’t mean—”
“But perhaps it’s true. Cat sìth are rumored to be drawn to those who share my eyes.” She shrugged. “We’ve an affinity of sorts, an ability to understand their thoughts when others sometimes struggle. Nothing unnatural, but I can easily deduce from the sound of their cries, the tension or position of their bodies, the intensity of their stares, what they want or need. More so than most. What seems a bit exceptional is that a cat sìth who has attached itself to a human will carry out tasks on their behalf. Sorcha occasionally assists me. Fetching an item from a top shelf, for example. Yowling if another prowler approaches while I’m working. And she’s learned to carry messages home to Isabella, a precaution in the event I ever needed help extracting myself from a sticky situation.”
“And has that ever happened?”
She smiled. “Not yet.”
“Nonetheless, we have circled back to the cat sìth and the origin of one particular myth.”
“Or, in other words, am I a witch with nine lives?” Her laugh was rueful. “If only. I can’t shape-shift, and I assure you, were I to fall from a rooftop or lose my grip on the cornice, I might land on my feet, but the impact would kill me, same as it would you.” Sadness swept through her. “Death, after all, stole away my father, as it did my mother and every other life on that ill-fated train.”
She’d told him once of the Tay Bridge disaster, when a violent storm had caused the bridge to collapse as a train ran across it, plunging all aboard into the river. Over seventy lives lost that night and not one survivor.
His thumb brushed a tear from her cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s five years in the past.” And was a tragedy that had altered the course of her life, but did not define her. “It may have stolen away my parents and my home, but I intend to recover the latter. I won’t sit idly by if there’s a threat to those like me, to the cat sìth.”
“Spoken like a woman with sharp claws.”
“Who is ready to prowl.”
They both laughed.
Smack. Crunch. Four soft paws dropped back onto the slate roof, and Sorcha proudly carried in a freshly crushed skeet pigeon. The thin, overlapping plates of the bird’s irises stared blankly, all input terminated. The cat sìth deposited the newly arrived mechanical bird at Colleen’s feet. A gift. Dropping onto her haunches, the cat awaited the praise that was her due.
“Thank ye.” As Colleen stroked her hand down the feline’s sleek back, Sorcha closed her eyes, quite pleased with herself. “Your assistance is noted and appreciated.”
Beside her, Nick smothered a snort and reached for the message canister.
“My turn.” She batted his hand away to unfurl this new scroll sent to them by none other than her former employer, Mr. Witherspoon. “Cornelius Pierpont,” she read the scrawled name aloud. “It sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it. Is he anyone you know?”
“No. I am, however, curious to discover if one particular individual might find it familiar.” Nick stood and held out a hand. “A steam carriage collects Lord Aldridge from the Lister Institute promptly every evening. The rain has stopped, and his house—with the mews behind it—is only a few rooftops away, while beneath us lies nothing but trouble.”
She let him pull her to her feet. “In the form of dress fittings, guest lists and menus.”
“And my mother.” Nick tugged her close. “Who is certain to be overenthusiastic to the point where she might already have browbeaten my father into procuring a special license.”
Colleen lifted an eyebrow. “Not much chance of stretching out before a fire to conduct our… discussion?”
“Not without interruption.” He lowered his mouth to hers, savoring a slow and sultry kiss that ended all too soon. “We’ll have better luck as the midnight hour approaches. I’ve climbed that trellis too many times to count. Leave the window open. In the meantime, shall we interrogate Lord Aldridge?”
Chapter Fourteen
From the roof of the mews, Nick kept his eyes on the activity of the stable hands in the alleyway below them, waiting for Lord Aldridge’s distinctive steam carriage to emerge from the carriage house. Clockwork horses mixed with the living beasts, an increasing rarity in the city. Most vehicles housed in the stables that backed against the terraced homes of Mayfair were of the steam-driven variety, though a few crank-wagons were kept close for the sake of convenience.
“You’re certain Lord Aldridge won’t have us thrown behind bars?” Skirts hiked, Colleen crouched beside him. As did Sorcha. The cat sìth had followed them across the rooftops. Not closely, but behin
d them. Occasionally in full view, but the feline often disappeared behind rooflines and chimneys and aviaries.
It was all he could do not to let his gaze wander to Colleen’s ankles, to admire the boots snugged against her calves, to note the shape of her stockinged knees. Later. There would be time later to contemplate how easily the woman he hoped to call his wife transformed from a lady into a thief. Perhaps he ought not feel so deeply satisfied that she hadn’t so much as hesitated when he suggested they sidestep propriety to invade a gentleman’s private conveyance and demand answers, yet he was nonetheless.
“For the minor transgression of a brief ride in his steam carriage?” Nick smirked. “He ought to appreciate the discretion with which we approach this matter. He was asked—directly—by a Queen’s agent to provide information that would inform a course of action—”
“To be fair, you were prying into matters for personal gain, not in the service of the Crown.” She rolled her eyes. “Are you not his employee?”
“Debatable. The Lister Institute’s board supervises the medical school and all research conducted under its roof. Some of us, including Lord Aldridge, also answer to the Duke of Avesbury. His will supersedes all.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Does it now? There seems to be some debate about that, given his daughter, Lady Amanda, somehow managed to enroll in medical school. And I hear Lady Olivia was involved recently in some kind of scandal? Though both seem happily married now.”
“Indeed.” He wasn’t privy to all the details, but the whispers he’d heard were fascinating. “Marry me, and I’ll introduce you to them. Perhaps you can pry free their secrets.”
She gave an amused snort. “Are you attempting to lure me to the altar with the promise of gossip?”
“Among other things. Have you ever thought of becoming a Queen’s agent yourself? Not all of us are scientists.” He winked. “I could be persuaded to put in a good word.” She laughed, and it occurred to him he’d never asked. “What exactly precipitated your appearance in Lord Aldridge’s study?”
“I snatched his daughter from the jaws of a harsh future. What?” She smacked his arm. “Don’t look so disappointed. You know I worked to set wrongs to right, not to relieve the wealthy of their family jewels or stock holdings.”
True. “An ethical sneak thief, so rare.” He grinned. “You’ve never been tempted to snatch a necklace, a ring, stock certificates? By now you could have built a hoard that even a dragon would envy.”
“Temptation at every turn. But no. None of my activities could ever be traced back to me.”
“Ah, but they could,” Nick disagreed. “If an interested party presented Mr. Witherspoon a number with enough zeros.”
“With all I know?” Her lip curled. “I doubt it.”
“Bedtime stories?” he teased.
“None that would lull you to sleep. The peerage, for all its talk of honor, has a dark underbelly.”
That it did. “Not a problem,” he said. “I’ve no real interest in using a bed for sleep. Not if you’re in it.”
Her cheeks flushed, and he debated teasing her with a few possibilities for passing the small hours of the night, but a belch of black smoke curled about the roof’s edge, and a moment later, Lord Aldridge’s steam carriage jerked and rattled onto the cobblestones. It was time.
“Ready?”
Her eyes—muted behind the dark lenses once again propped upon her nose—swept their surroundings once more. Satisfied, she nodded. “Let’s go.”
The scratch of a phosphorus match across the roof slate ignited a flame that he touched to the short wick of a loud firecracker. He lobbed it to the cobblestones below.
Bang!
A cloud of smoke billowed upward, and shouts rang out as stable hands turned about, searching for a miscreant guttersnipe who laughed at their expense. But he and Colleen had already leapt to the ground and slipped inside the earl’s steam carriage.
None of them paid any attention to the cat who followed, disappearing beneath the vehicle, no doubt finding a handy cubby in which to secrete herself.
A well-appointed interior surrounded them. A Lucifer lamp for light. An iron box filled with hot coals for heat. And velvet upholstery for comfort. But even better was the view. Perched on the seat opposite him, Colleen unhooked her skirts from their hikes to smooth them over booted ankles. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to dwell on the memory of them wrapped about his hips, braced on the railing while he—
“Straighten that cravat of yours,” she chided.
His eyes snapped open, the dream shattered.
Colleen’s eyes glittered in the lamplight. She knew exactly where his mind had wandered. “And tuck in your shirt. Or Lord Aldridge will think we commandeered his carriage for entirely different purposes.”
Such a plan inked itself onto his mind. A private carriage on the streets of London. He’d see it happen. And soon. “Not helping.” His voice was strangled.
She laughed. “While I have to admit I rather like that hungry look on your face, you need to make yourself respectable.”
While he did his best to repair his attire, his eyes were fixed upon Colleen’s own transformation. It was like watching a butterfly crawl back into its cocoon. Loose locks of hair were ruthlessly pinned in place. Her spectacles adjusted upon the bridge of her nose. Elbow-length gloves—over which she carefully slid her ring—appeared from inside a pocket slit into her skirt. All of this followed by a small hat and a glinting hatpin to position it at a jaunty angle upon her sleek, dark hair. By the time the steam carriage jerked into motion, she looked every inch a lady while he—hatless, gloveless and rumpled—still very much resembled a profligate rogue.
“Tell me I’m the only one to ever watch such a transformation.”
“The only man.” She leaned forward to trail a single gloved fingertip down the edge of his face while the ghost of a tease clung to her lips. “Isabella, working to stall or divert my discovery, has caught glimpses.”
Two days, he reflected as the steam carriage chuffed, clattered and swayed toward the Lister Institute, was not going to be enough time with this woman. He wanted to look into those golden eyes of hers and speak vows. “How set are you on returning to Scotland?”
She blinked at the sudden change in topics. “Extremely.” Colleen glanced out the window, worrying the stone of the amber ring with her thumb. “I’ve long-neglected responsibilities to shoulder.”
“The University of Aberdeen, complete with research facilities, is a short dirigible ride away from Craigieburn Castle,” he answered, initiating negotiations.
“Are you offering to relocate?” She glanced at him from the corner of her eyes.
“I am. Not all Queen’s agents are located in London year-round. If a position were to open, might there be any chance you would allow me to build a landing platform upon its roof?”
“Were there a roof to build upon.” His mouth fell open while she recounted a story of irresponsible boys and a fiery crash—and the reason behind her participation in the obfuscation chain involving the rosewood box. “Now is the perfect time to incorporate such an upgrade. But are you certain you wish to leave London?”
“Do I detect a slight note of regret?” he asked. “Could it be you’ll miss the city? Do you worry you might tire of land management and home repairs?”
She pressed her lips together. “It’s true. The city, though overcrowded and grimy, is bursting with innovations and activity of all sorts.”
An interesting tangle. “Married female agents are not unheard of. Many work on a case by case basis. Any interest?”
“You’d permit a wife of yours—”
He leapt across the space separating them to sit beside her. “Not permit.” He growled in her ear before nipping the lobe. “Encourage.”
Her breath caught. “Perhaps we could split our time between country and city.”
“A perfect compromise.” He nibbled at the corner of her jaw as he spoke.
Alas, the carriage chose that moment to rattle to a stop. Outside, there were thuds as feet landed upon the ground.
“I suppose that might depend upon the outcome of this interview. You might find yourself summarily dismissed from employ.” She batted at his leg, and her voice took on a haughty tone. “Now place a respectable distance between us, that I might cling to the few remaining shreds of my reputation.” As the carriage door swung open, Colleen folded her hands and dropped her gaze, once again assuming the mantle of the demure, lusterless young lady she was anything but.
Nick drew himself straighter. He was about to step onto thin ice with little knowledge of what clawed tentacles might lurk beneath, ready to snag his career at Lister Institute into an abyss from which he might not escape.
“Torrington?” Lord Aldridge gaped for a brief moment before his bushy eyebrows slammed down. He pointed a silver-capped walking stick at Nick. “What cause have you to invade my carriage? If it’s about that—” He caught sight of Colleen and recoiled. “You.”
Interesting.
“And you would criticize my manners?” Nick reproached. “May I presume a prior acquaintance with Lady Stewart?”
Lord Aldridge pressed his lips into a flat, bloodless line.
“Join us,” Nick waved, inviting the man into his own vehicle. “We need to discuss the whereabouts of one Dr. Farquhar.”
“Sir?” The guard holding the door—for that was his role despite his braid-embroidered livery—possessed an unusual amount of muscle. A single word from Lord Aldridge and he would empty the carriage of uninvited guests.
His graying mustache twitched. Lord Aldridge knew something. “No worries,” he told his guard before climbing into the carriage. The ease of his movements suggested a wiry strength, identifying his walking stick as a weapon, not a support.
The door closed behind them and, a moment later, the carriage lurched into movement.
