A Reflection of Shadows

by Anne Renwick

  “From becoming a laboratory rat.” He pointed the strange rod directly at her.

  Her eyebrows drew together, struggling to process his words. They intended to… Dr. Farquhar was to be allowed to… stop her heart? The room began to spin. If she could make the front door, fling herself into the street, perhaps the good will of strangers might save her. With a war cry worthy of Boudicca herself, Colleen heaved the book at Mr. Glover and ran for the door.

  But as she passed, the humming weapon met her side and a loud buzzing filled her ears. Every muscle tensed, then she felt herself falling toward the floor.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Nick ground his teeth and muttered to himself as the carriage wound its way—slowly, painfully—though the chaos of humanity and technology that thronged the evening streets of London. Banging on the roof of the carriage had done nothing to quicken its pace, and he suspected the driver had been given specific orders not to arrive before an appointed hour. The vehicle came to a stop before a familiar passageway in Hatton Garden at precisely ten o’clock.

  This was London’s jewelry quarter, famous for its underground tunnels, vaults, and rooms. But in its darker recesses lurked other infamous locations. Tucked away down this particular dark, narrow and dimly lit path lay The Three-Eyed Bat. An outwardly respectable pub during business hours, it became a den of iniquity when the sun fell. Years ago, when he was a new, untried agent, he’d chased a man down this very alleyway nearly losing his life when the criminal turned on him with a knife, striking for his neck. If he looked, would there still be a gouge in the brick wall?

  The door swung open, and Mr. Vanderburn stood before him, blocking his exit. It gave Nick no pleasure to see his worst suspicions confirmed, that Lord Maynard did indeed control this shadow committee.

  “Before we proceed, Mr. Torrington,” the henchman said, “I have orders to confiscate your weapons.”

  Nick bristled. “Unacceptable.”

  “Very well,” Vanderburn said, his voice flat. “The driver will see you home. I will convey your regrets to Miss Stewart. Best wishes for your sister’s continued health.” He began to close the door.

  Nick thrust out his hand, holding it open. The cold wind blew shards of ice beneath his collar, freezing the air in his lungs. How was it possible? “Lady Stewart is here?”

  “She is expected shortly.” Vanderburn’s dead eyes gave away nothing, but it was clear the man could read his. “You think to wait, but it will do you no good. They will divert her elsewhere.”

  His hackles rose. Duty might forbid he comply, but love insisted. He could no sooner leave Colleen to her uncle’s schemes than he could stop breathing. Nor could he turn away from anything that might help heal his sister’s heart. Gritting his teeth, he drew his TTX pistol from its holster and handed it over. Down this path lay disaster.

  Vanderburn turned the unique weapon over in his hands before sliding it into his coat pocket. Nick caught a glimpse of a holster containing a standard revolver. “Blades as well.”

  He growled. One knife followed another, each clattering to the ground as a small pile grew at the henchman’s feet. “Satisfied?”

  “For now.” Vanderburn made no attempt to collect them. “This way, Mr. Torrington.” He turned.

  Between the cobblestones beneath Nick’s feet, a sluggish fluid oozed, glowing with a faint bluish light and leading the way to the old pub. There, small panes of wavy glass emitted the warm glow of oil lanterns and coal fires. A cast iron bracket held aloft the winged sign, as it flapped and creaked in the night wind. Every so often, the bat’s gilded eyes caught a stray beam of light, flashing gold. His stomach tied itself another knot. Only for Colleen and his family would he violate every instinct that screamed “Trap!”

  “If you’ll take a seat, I’ll let Lord Maynard know you’ve arrived.” Vanderburn tugged on the worn, brass handle and waved Nick inside.

  The dark, paneled room was filled with smoke and gentlemen of dubious morality. He ignored the server behind the bar, made his way to a heavy oak table near the fireplace, and sat beneath a low ceiling held up by rough-hewn beams. The pub was rumored to date to the reign of King George the First and, from appearances, had not once been updated. As he waited, the room closed in on him.

  Colleen would have left immediately for the aviary, to send the message before leaping across roofs to reach her uncle’s house. But it was a move her uncle had been expecting. Nick glared at the fire. The bloody package had been a diversion, designed to separate them. He should have anticipated such a move. Wrapped up in emotions from lust and love to disgust and fear, they’d both missed it. She’d been caught, and now an entirely different evening would unfold. This meeting was less interview than it was a hostage negotiation, and Nick wouldn’t like the terms.

  A gust of cold air set the flames dancing as Lord Maynard entered the pub. Vanderburn lurked beside the door while the earl joined Nick, lowering himself into a chair. His eyes were irritated, impatient and set in a face that appeared all too capable of plotting a woman’s demise.

  “Interesting gifts you’ve sent.” Nick felt no need for pretense. Neither, however, could he afford to antagonize the gentleman now in control of both his fiancée and a potential cure for his sister. And so he suppressed his anger and kept his words benign. Any chance Nick had at convincing Maynard to admit him to the inner circle relied upon him keeping his personal feelings about the man and his project locked inside a chained box and buried fifty feet deep. “Original. Well-designed to catch the attention of a man you wish to offer employment.”

  “I thought as much.” Colleen’s uncle tapped his fingers on the table between them, sizing up the man before him. “Mrs. Farquhar failed the simplest of tests, betraying years of her husband’s work for a sum that netted her very little in the way of funds. I considered letting her run free but, alas, she knew too much. It took her husband years to unearth the secret of those curious cats’ longevity, and I won’t chance that information falling into other hands.”

  Failed a test. Maynard himself had arranged the opportunity for his scientist’s wife to betray herself? Were the earl and Pierpont one and the same? When Nick had stormed the man’s office to lay claim to his niece, had he stood—as before—mere feet away from a particular rosewood box? He struggled to keep his face impassive. “Hence the warning that arrived with your offer of a position.”

  “Interview,” Maynard reminded him. His eyes narrowed. “You were sighted at the scene of the fire, and yet are so much more than an inconvenient witness of which I might easily dispose.”

  “Trained in cardiophysiology. Sworn to uphold the law. Engaged to your niece.” Nick leaned forward. “Hence your decision to recruit me.”

  “As we’re being blunt, yes.” Maynard smirked. “The fire, though distressing to a certain organization, presents me—and therefore you—with a unique opportunity to strike out on our own. I alone have access to the cure.”

  Did he? Colleen might have been captured in his study, but there was no chance the earl himself had captured her. Nor did Vanderburn have his fiancée in his grips. If she had managed to breach her uncle’s safe before she was apprehended—and there was, as yet, no proof that she’d been caught—this purported cure might now be in another’s hands. But whose? Two particular men came to mind. A mad scientist and the man who’d campaigned to marry Colleen, despite his obvious hatred of her.

  “What about the minions who carry out your orders?”

  “They answer to me. Like you, they’ve little option but to accept my terms.” The earl’s words were bold, but a tremor of uncertainty ran beneath them. Were the reins slipping from his fingers?

  “Is that so?” It was time to begin negotiations, to lull the man into believing Nick was willing to collaborate for the right compensation. “Farquhar’s work might be dependent upon your funds, but why would you expect Glover’s continued loyalty? He expected to become family, to gain control of Craigieburn, of its lands… of its in
habitants. At last glimpse, he was not handling disappointment well.”

  Maynard’s lips twisted. “There will be profit for all. If he cannot accept a new role…” Then he’d be the next example. No need to speak the words aloud. “Work with me, Torrington, and you’ll be a rich man. No need to rely upon your father or,” his lip curled, “a government position to pay your debts. You’d be surprised what a man will pay for an exclusive and limited remedy to keep his heart beating.”

  Profiting on the sick and desperate. Lovely.

  “I have investments,” Nick countered. “Money alone is insufficient inducement.”

  The earl glowered. “How many more heart seizures will your sister survive? Ten? Two? Or will the next one snuff out that fragile spark of life?”

  Beneath the table, Nick balled his hand into a fist and resisted an urge to throttle the man. “Your scientist appears mad, attempting to rip your niece’s pet cat from her arms. What could possibly induce me to allow him to lay a single finger upon my sister?”

  “Ah, but the creature is so much more than a mere house cat.” The earl cocked his head. “I’d no idea my sister had stumbled into such a windfall when she ran away with a Scottish laird.” His lips pressed together. “Glover proved himself a sluggard when he chose to hand over Colleen’s particular beast to Farquhar rather than make another trip north. But not wrong. Those cats hold the key.”

  Another reason to hate the man. “What could a cat possibly possess that would cure my sister?” Speaking the words aloud, watching the earl’s face as he said them, was the confirmation he needed. There was no electrical pacer. The cure was biological. But what? And how?

  Movement beyond the pub’s windows caught Vanderburn’s attention—and Nick’s—but when the guard dismissed it with a glance and settled back to his post, Nick forced his full attention back to Maynard’s arrogant face.

  “I don’t think so, Torrington.” The earl puffed out his chest. “I’ll not be sharing any details until we’ve reached an agreement. But wipe the doubts from your mind. Dr. Farquhar may dance at the edge of sanity, but he’s proven his life-saving technique again and again. I witnessed one such experiment with my own eyes. It works.”

  “On cats?” Nick lifted an eyebrow in challenge. He hadn’t missed the animal cages or their unfortunate contents.

  “And dogs. We’ve also managed to revive a fox, a weasel and a badger. Most notably, a monkey acquired from the London Zoo. Human trials are the next logical step.”

  Of course they were. And a man who thought nothing of murder and arson wouldn’t let the question of medical consent stand in his way.

  “But Farquhar needs closer supervision and direction. Of late, his mind has taken a maddening turn, veering from the scientific toward the realm of fantasy. I’m in need of a scientific-minded man with a clear head.”

  “Who has connections to the scientific and medical community.” Nick crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair. “You’re proposing a partnership?”

  “No.” Maynard’s eyebrows slammed together. “The cure is in my possession, the knowledge under my control. It is my funds that will pay to establish and outfit a new laboratory.”

  “That may be,” Nick said. “But recall that I am engaged to your niece. Not only will you and I soon be family, but in two days, she will control the Scottish property upon which you rely.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line.

  Damnit. The cure was reliant upon the cat sìth. “I expect convincing my future wife to look past your questionable land management will require much work on my part.” It was an impossible task. “But for equal terms, I’m willing to convince her.” He wasn’t. “She might find it curious to learn her uncle is so keen to profit off her lands. Is the coffer nearly empty?”

  Maynard glared at him.

  Beyond the ripples of the pub’s glass windows, two men passed carrying a large, rolled carpet upon their shoulders. One of a length and width that might accommodate the form of a woman. His heart began to pound. Was this how Colleen was expected to arrive?

  Nick shoved his chair back and began to rise.

  “Sit,” Maynard commanded. “You’ll not make it past the door.”

  A glance at the door informed him the earl was correct. In Vanderburn’s hand was Nick’s TTX pistol. The man’s eyes dared him to make a move.

  “If she’s injured…” Nick began, then realized his mistake.

  “Care for her, do you?” The earl shook his head. “A shame you let that chink in the armor show. You ought to be more careful. Sentimentality is a weakness, and Colleen has been mine. A final tie to my sister that I ought to sever, but I’ve found it curious to observe her preternatural sight and reflexes as she’s busied herself about London’s nightscape, working to fund this very enterprise.”

  Nick held still, for a predator’s stare was upon him. Follow the money. Lord Aldridge’s speculation had had the precision of a kraken sharpshooter. If only they’d known her uncle ought to be considered a target.

  “I find myself facing a curious dilemma,” Maynard continued, annoyingly smug. “I can’t have her marrying someone upright and honorable, someone who might take objection to my project. I’m not at all certain either of you can be controlled.” The earl tapped his fingers on the table, then rose. Vanderburn crossed the room, snatched up a lantern, and disappeared into a room behind the bar. “But I’ll give you one last chance to prove your worth. Follow my assistant.”

  The cellars of The Three-Eyed Bat twisted beneath the ground, a labyrinthine tangle of corridors, stairways and storage vaults filled with stacks of barrels and crates, broken and discarded furniture, crockery and rusty machinery. Without breadcrumbs or string, Nick was quickly lost. Not that there would be any turning back, not with Maynard at his back.

  Long minutes of following the bob and weave of Vanderburn’s lantern led them to a room fitted with a rusty iron door and a strikingly shiny brass padlock. Not the best for keeping people out, but effective at keeping them in. The space was lined with riveted sheets of metal, and beneath the raised threshold ran two copper pipes. His eyes traced the path of those pipes down the hallway to a Linde’s Ice Machine, a vapor-compression artificial refrigeration system. It squatted in the hallway, silent.

  Activated, however, it would cool the space and turn the entire room into a refrigeration unit, into a cold storage room. Memories of the cat sìth beneath the fume hood and a bucket of water sprang to mind. Ice was used by cardiac electrophysiologists to slow—and stop—the heart.

  Nothing good could happen here.

  The door hung ajar.

  Nick heard faint groan of pain, feminine and familiar. Any hope that Colleen’s capture was a bluff disintegrated. An aching hollow took root inside his chest. He pushed past Vanderburn, yanking on the door, and found Colleen stretched out upon a carpet. Her dark shirt was torn and bloody, a rent in the garment exposing pale skin where a raw bullet wound to her upper arm oozed. Used rags littered the metal floor, and a bloody bullet rested in a bowl beside a pair of tweezers. Dr. Farquhar bent over her arm with a needle and thread, muttering to himself.

  Glover stood over her, holding a voltaic prod, one that—turned to the highest setting—could drop a charging rhino. He leveled the humming weapon at Nick, but nodded to Colleen. “By all means, tend to your whore. Farquhar’s a bit out of practice with his human doctoring skills. Too much time with the cats.” Laughter with an edge of anger met Nick’s ears. “Then again, maybe he’s the perfect man for the job.”

  Rage gripped him as he rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside Colleen. He pushed the mad scientist’s unsteady hands aside. Colleen’s eyes were hazy and unfocused. Eyeing the color of her skin, he pressed his finders to the pulse at her wrist. Steady and strong, an excellent sign. No major blood vessel damage. “What did you give her?”

  “Laudanum for the pain,” Farquhar answered, his eyes filled with an awe that confused Nick. As did h
is next words. “I’m so very sorry, sir. Had I known why you sought to join us—”

  Glover cuffed him. “Let the man work. On with it, Torrington.”

  “I told you not to hurt her,” Maynard bellowed.

  “It was necessary,” Glover snapped. “She was too quiet, too fast. But even she couldn’t outrun a bullet. We stopped her, but not before she broke into your safe.”

  “My safe?” Disbelief colored Maynard’s voice. So many strongboxes advertised as uncrackable, but none of them truly were. Yet all the gentlemen believed.

  “Colleen.” Nick grasped her limp fingers. “It’s me.”

  Her head rolled to meet his gaze. “It hurts.”

  Vanderburn hung his lamp from a hook fastened to the ceiling.

  “I imagine so.” And he would see Glover pay for it. “You’ve been shot in the arm. Can you squeeze my hand?” Her fingers flexed. “Harder. Ignore the pain. Crush my fingers like you’re hanging from a ledge fifty feet above the ground.”

  She squeezed, crying out at the pain, but her fingers pressed against his with nearly full strength. Good, there was no nerve damage.

  “You’ll need a few stitches,” he warned. “But you’ll heal.” Assuming he could find a way for them to escape this windowless, underground space. Not a soul—save those present—knew where they were. “I need alcohol to clean the wound.”

  “Er.” Confused, Farquhar turned about as if he might find a bottle conveniently resting nearby in the empty room.

  “We’re beneath a pub!” Nick snapped. “Whisky. Vodka. Find some.”

  Vanderburn sighed and reached into his pocket. “Here.” He held out a flask. “Vodka.”

  It would have to do. Nick splashed a measure over Colleen’s wound, over the needle and thread, then carefully drew the edges of her flesh back together.

  “Your niece may be an unpleasant aberration,” Glover said. “But she is talented. Came in the window of your study, not the door. We almost missed her. A minute later, and she’d have been out the window behind that damned cat.” He shifted, and Nick noted the man favored his left leg. He hoped Colleen was the cause of his injury.