by Anne Renwick
“While you were missing,” Anna interrupted, her voice soft but firm. The dark shadows beneath her eyes intensified. “I had another attack. Twice in one week. I don’t expect to live long enough to watch Clara crawl, to walk, let alone speak her first word. I might not even survive to welcome my husband home.”
“Anna,” Nick warned. Pain crept over his face.
“It may well be commensal,” Colleen reminded him, intent on championing Anna’s case. “The cat sìth show no ill effects, but rather live long lives. Remember the women who live in my woods are among the eldest of all Scotland.” She tapped his chest. “Three times you watched me revive. With no side effects. If Anna understands the risks, why not let her take the chance? Those creatures won’t survive in a vial indefinitely. If we wait to be certain, they might be all dead—and collecting more? Well, we can hunt for them in the forest, but there’s no promise we will we be able to find another infected cat sìth. And if we do, can cysts be acquired from the blood? Or must we examine their very hearts?” It would break hers to face such a choice.
“Please,” Anna begged. “No better alternative exists.”
Nick’s lips pressed together. “You’re right,” he conceded with a great sigh. “But we do this carefully, in a sterile environment and—as numerous physicians from the Lister Institute will be involved—there will be endless tests involving much poking and prodding.”
Anna clasped her hands to her chest as a tear ran down her cheek. “Thank you.”
Isabella handed Colleen a fresh cup of tea, then tugged gently at Anna’s sleeve. “Let’s give them a few more moments of peace. Mr. Torrington? Agent Jackson would have me inform you that there is a duke with many questions. He finds my husband’s connection to a ‘shadow committee’ of some concern. I imagine,” she eyed Colleen, “he also requires an explanation for the human remains found in a certain safe. You’re both to report to him as soon as possible.”
Colleen dropped her head back onto Nick’s shoulder, pulling the blanket to their chins. “The Duke of Avesbury himself?” she whispered once they were alone.
“He’ll want to know about how you came to be involved.” He slid his hand behind her head and kissed her. A long moment later, he added, “There will be no hiding anything from him, but once he hears our story, the duke will realize what a fine Queen’s agent you’d make.” She closed her eyes as his hand skimmed down her spine, coming to rest upon the small of her back. “Think of all the secrets we could uncover together.”
So much had changed in the mere space of two days. “You do realize this is not at all the hearthside encounter you promised me? Next time, I will expect much better.”
Nick trailed his fingers along the edge of her jaw, then pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “Recover, sneak thief. As soon as all is settled here in London, we head north to Craigieburn Castle where, a certain laird has assured me, a massive and private fireplace is under her command.”
Epilogue
“Did you ever think you’d call a castle home?” Colleen walked beneath the raised portcullis to slide the great iron key into the rusty lock of the large oak door, the last barrier between her and her childhood home. She had to use both hands to force the mechanism to give way.
Clank. The lock popped free.
“Never. Especially one with a list of repairs longer than the kraken-infested Thames.” Nick winked, then gave the great nail-studded door a shove. It creaked upon rusty hinges as it opened.
The journey to Scotland had been a long one—beginning with a steam train and ending with a clockwork horse-drawn carriage—during which they’d taken every advantage of the private compartments.
Only minutes ago they’d traveled the length of the tree-lined drive, slowly bringing Craigieburn into view. At first, only its turrets peaked above the snow-dusted branches, but then the castle emerged in all its glory, towering above the landscape. A sight she’d yearned to see for far too many years. As they drew closer, her mind grew more critical, noting crumbled plaster, missing shingles and… She squinted. Was that a broken window pane?
The driver of their carriage had dropped them before the castle door and set their trunks beside them. He’d watched Colleen set the cat sìth free, then lifted his gaze to her golden eyes and smiled. “It’s a relief to have you return, Lady...” He hesitated, uncertain how to address her now that she’d married. “Will you be staying?”
“Aye,” she’d said. “And I’ll be setting things to rights, you can count on that.”
“Will there be anything else?”
She’d shaken her head. “Nothing. My new husband and I would like to spend the night alone, but let the villagers know that I’ll be looking to hire help tomorrow.”
Her estate manager, Watts, had indeed been in her uncle’s employ. Though not so much as a shilling of her hard-earned money had been invested in caring for Craigieburn or its surroundings, the dirigible crash and resulting fire had been fictitious. All told, simple neglect accounted for the physical damage done to her ancestral estate. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed with sufficient funds.
But the cat sìth and those humans in possession of amber eyes? They’d melted into the countryside. Convincing them to return would require quite some effort. Perhaps when news of The Much Honored Colleen Stewart of Craigieburn’s homecoming—with a husband, no less—spread through the countryside, a slow and cautious return would begin.
Doffing his hat, the driver had hurried away. Colleen expected that tomorrow would be a very busy day.
Several weeks had passed since their ordeal, ones filled with the joy of their wedding, the anxiety of Anna’s treatment, and endless meetings with the Queen’s agents, all while a confusion of solicitors dug through the layers of her uncle’s misdeeds.
Garbed in the elaborate white gown with amber buttons, Colleen had stood beside Nick in his front parlor and spoken vows. The small and intimate ceremony, however, was followed by a well-attended wedding breakfast. One from which the newlyweds had soon slipped away, discarding their finery to tumble into the solid behemoth that was Nick’s bed.
Later, the heart worm had slipped into Anna’s vein, taking up residence, and within a day, her heart rate had increased from a worrisome forty beats per minute to over sixty. Her pale cheeks grew pink and her hands warm. Not a single seizure had transpired since. Cured. But the parasitologists of Lister Institute were left mystified, for soon after Anna’s treatment, the roundworms extracted from the vial had indeed died.
Impressed, the Duke of Avesbury offered Colleen contract work, a chance to assist the Crown on a case by case basis. Her primary task? To restore her family’s lands, ensuring the health and well-being of the cat sìth within its woods. Nick, content to relinquish his position with the laboratories, would accompany her, directing an attempt to locate a source of the nematodes that could be collected without endangering the wildcats while keeping a sharp eye out for cryptid hunters.
Isabella—a widow whose wealth depended upon the outcome of her child’s delivery and the Crown’s investigation into Lord Maynard’s illicit activities—had waved away Colleen’s invitation to accompany them. “Such nonsense. Go enjoy your honeymoon while I adjust to widowhood. I have much to do, even if it is under the watchful stare of that rat-faced cousin who hopes to lay claim to the title.” Concerned, Colleen had agreed to travel to Scotland for the coming spring only after both Isabella herself and Lady Stafford promised to send regular reports. “I’ll return in plenty of time for the delivery,” she’d promised, not caring for the hint of purple tinging the skin beneath her aunt’s eyes. “Or sooner, if you have any difficulties. Any at all.”
For now, she stepped into the cobwebbed wonder that was the Craigieburn’s entryway, then led her husband up the stairway and into the great hall. “Behold, the enormous fireplace I promised.” A long-forgotten bed of wood lay, waiting. Drying for years upon the andirons and requiring no more than the touch of a match. “Shall we light the fire, or explo
re?”
Nick winked and held a burning match aloft. “I do believe the intent was to do both at the same time.”
She laughed as he tossed it onto the tinder. The flames caught and in minutes, a fire crackled, chasing the chill from the hall. Without a soul to disturb them, they stretched out before the hearth upon a pile of tartan blankets and set about finding new ways to drive each other to distraction.
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A speeding train. A determined villain. A reconciliation of broken hearts.
Lady Alice Hemsworth wasn’t supposed to fall in love. It was her duty not to. Alas, she’d failed miserably. Mr. Benjamin Leighton—despite being turned away by her steam butler—can’t stop thinking about her. Alone, both are miserable—until a deadly encounter throws them together on the night train to London.
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Keep reading for the opening chapters of The Golden Spider
The Golden Spider
Chapter One
London, Fall 1884
The honor of working for the Queen as a spy was overrated.
Crouched behind a burned-out steam carriage, Sebastian Talbot, the 5th Earl of Thornton, tapped on the acousticocept wrapped about his ear. The device should have worked up to a half-mile distance. He squinted through the gloom of the riverside fog. Hell, he could still see their agent. He just couldn’t hear him.
“No signal,” he hissed to the man beside him. Would they ever manage to make this damn device work in the field?
His partner, Mr. Black, frowned. “Same.”
“Repairs.” Thornton pointed across the field of rusting scrap metal before them to a derelict water boiler just large enough to conceal both men in the dark of night. “There.” After years of working side by side, the two men could almost read each other’s minds.
Black nodded and they ran forward, tracing a winding path through piles of discarded machinery in an attempt to melt into the odd shadows the metal cast. Their agent was no more than fifty feet away, but Thornton still couldn’t hear the conversation between Agent Smith and his informant. He threw Black a questioning look, but the man shook his head. Nothing.
Thornton bit back a curse. They couldn’t approach Smith without blowing his cover.
Black ripped the acousticocept from his ear and twisted its dials in vain trying to increase reception. The light continued to blink red. Either the agent’s artificial ear had failed or there was some fresh blunder with the receiver.
Thornton ran through the schematics in his mind. The aether chamber inside the agent’s ear was sealed. Tests had proven that in the laboratory this afternoon. The next logical weak point was the needles contacting the counter rotating disks in the acousticocepts. They had a tendency to dislodge.
He wanted to growl in frustration. Henri should have fixed that problem by now. The device should be beyond field trials. They should have been sitting in a steam coach listening to the informant’s tale in complete warmth and comfort, not running about a scrap yard straight from a debriefing at the opera and risking discovery in blindingly white shirts, snowy cravats, and well-tailored coats. Thornton kept a hand tightly wrapped over his silver-capped cane lest it reflect some stray ray of light and draw attention like a bioluminescent beacon.
And his leg was sending out pangs of warning. Damn sky pirate and his cutlass.
Thornton ignored the radiating pain. He pulled a cigarette case from his coat pocket as he stepped behind the metal tank. He raised his eyebrows at Black. Smith believed his informant finally had a solid lead. If Thornton didn’t attempt field repairs, he and Black would be reduced to simple observation. Too many carefully woven plans had unraveled of late, and he did not relish the thought of delivering yet another report of failure to his superior.
Black nodded and angled his torso to further block any view of Thornton’s activities. Flipping it open, he activated the small decilamp—its light a necessary risk—and selected micro-tweezers from among the various tools within. There was a chance he could reset the needles of the acousticocept before the agent moved to follow the informant’s lead.
His cold fingers fumbled. Gloves. He’d been about to return for them when he’d spotted a determined mother steering her debutant daughter into his opera box. Discomfort, no matter how biting, was preferable to becoming trapped in such a snare. Warmth had been abandoned in favor of freedom.
Black shifted closer as Thornton pulled his acousticocept free and placed it on a steam gauge protruding from the boiler. Thornton flipped a monocle over his eye and, with only the faint blue-green light to illuminate the needles, set to work.
As always, the world about him faded as he untangled an experimental conundrum.
Moments later, the light glowed a steady green. Success, but no satisfaction. He’d uncovered yet another internal defect. Tomorrow, he would sketch out modifications to solve this issue once and for all. He handed the device to Black and set about fixing the second one. Hooking the working acousticocept once again about his ear, Thornton was drawn into the distant exchange.
“…but how is the eye doctor making contact with the gypsies?” Smith asked.
The ragged informant shrugged. “I want nuthin’ more to do with this so-called doctor. Got me two young’uns, I do. Can’t be found floating down the Thames.” He turned away.
“Wait…”
But the informant had already disappeared into the night.
There was a crunch of shoes on gravel. A soft splash followed. Then Smith spoke as if to himself, though the information was directed to them. “I’m going to investigate.”
Thornton glanced at Black in question. The man shook his head. Because of the malfunctioning device, they’d missed a crucial piece of information.
Rising from behind the boiler, he caught sight of their agent—but not his informant. Smith had climbed into a boat and was rowing down the Thames. Risky, with the Thames’ kraken population on the rise. But as long as Smith hugged the shoreline and avoided storm pipes, he might reach his destination—whatever that was—before the smaller kraken swarmed and sank the boat.
But where did that leave them? There was no way to flag down Smith without compromising him. He sagged against the boiler in frustration. At this dark and foggy hour the usual clamor of steam engines, sailors’ calls and horns was muted, and through the acousticocept, he could hear the sound of waves lapping at a boat’s hull.
So much for simple surveillance.
“There’s a dock not far.” Black glanced at Thornton’s leg. “Can you make it?”
He narrowed his eyes. Such concern was unnecessary. For now. “I can make it.”
“Or go down trying,” Black retorted.
Before Thornton could snarl an appropriate response, Black was off and running. Using his cane to counterbalance his awkward gait, he followed across the mud and rock of the riverbank, cursing as he stepped on a decaying kraken carcass and nearly lost his footing. The beasts were everywhere, the stench from their decaying bodies rising to fill his nostrils.
By the time he reached said dock, Black was already casting away the ropes. “Hurry up, old man.”
Thornton leapt into the boat, and a lightning bolt of pain shot through his leg.
As Black rowed in pursuit and shook free the occasional tentacle that hooked an oar, Thornton unscrewed the silver head of his cane and pulled a glass vial as well as a needle from within. With practiced movements, he fitted the vial with a small needle. Yanking a pant leg above his knee, he injected the contents.
Instant relief. He dragged in a deep breath and shoved the empty vial into his coat pocket.
“Better?” Black asked.
Thornton reassembled his cane and gave a terse nod. As the tension melted from his muscles, he scanned the water for their man. “There, by the warehouse.”
Black adjusted course.
The drug’s effectiveness wouldn’t last. Once, a single dose had dulled the pain for an entire month. Now he needed to administer the drug daily. It was time to curtail his field duties further. Perhaps eliminate them altogether. Before an agent fell victim to his injury.
A bitter pill to swallow for a man in his early thirties.
In the distance, Smith effortlessly dragged the boat ashore and ducked inside the brick building. His footsteps echoed in Thornton’s ear.
“There’s a light,” the agent whispered. “A faint tapping.”
There was a rustle, the sound of a coat being pushed aside and the scrape of a weapon drawn. The agent screamed. An agonizing sound that had both Thornton and Black gripping their ears. An altogether too brief scream that ended with a gurgle. There was a loud crunch followed by telling static.
