by Anne Renwick
The difference was that Ian knew who had stolen his research. Proving it, however, had been impossible. His detailed laboratory notebooks along with vials of mutated cells had disappeared with Warrick, and searching for the traitor had led to some dark corners and allegations from which there was no recovery. Accusing Lord Avesbury of complicity had been unwise. It had ended Ian’s work in the field and nearly ended his career in research.
He had done his best to put the past behind him. Until today, when what he’d most feared had come to pass. His own work had hunted him down and presented an ultimatum.
Now his sister’s life was on the line. Ian closed his eyes. Blood began to boil in his veins. All he’d ever wanted to do with his research was to find her a cure—and he was so close, so very close. Trust Warrick to throw a wrench into the gears. Again.
Warrick’s betrayal had done more than damage Ian’s reputation, it had ripped apart his family and shredded his sister Elizabeth’s heart in the process. To think he’d almost called the man ‘brother’. If only he could wrap his fingers about Warrick’s throat and squeeze.
“When Warrick absconded with your work, the original cells showed promise in vitro, did they not?” Thornton asked, forcing Ian to set aside his anger and focus on the immediate situation.
“Yes,” he answered, his voice tight. Inside their glass Petri dishes the first generation of mutated cells had shown every promise, but when transplanted into live hosts, into rats… He shook his head. “But the in vivo tests revealed that the immune system offered no resistance at all. The cells took over the bones. Osteosarcomas formed at unnatural rates.” They’d aborted the trials, euthanizing the unfortunate research subjects.
“I understand Warrick believed the immune system of human subjects would react differently.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Those in medical research should know better than to make such an assumption.”
“He was utterly convinced,” Ian confirmed. “Given the body in the morgue, he managed to persuade at least one German to risk his life to prove it.” Pressing his lips into a tight line, he said nothing about the message, nothing about Elizabeth. She was all the family he had left. Nothing and no one would stop him.
“You followed protocol,” Thornton stated. “Warrick is to blame for this. Not you.”
Ian grunted.
“We need you back.” Thornton’s gaze was intense.
Ian shifted on his feet. Once he’d been a proud member of the Queen’s agents, a member of the inner circle. He missed the camaraderie. “In the laboratory? Or the field?”
“Both. Either.” A pained look crossed Thornton’s face. “Any progress on the hunt for a bride? I only ask because I promised my wife.”
“Don’t.” Ian grimaced. Of late every man and woman in love felt compelled to offer him their advice and assistance. “Just don’t.”
Thornton did anyway. “Should you have difficulty finding a bride amongst the debutants, my wife has offered to make introductions.”
A strangled noise emerged from his throat. Though Lady Thornton was both beautiful and brilliant, she was one of a kind. Thinking about what sort of woman she might drag up from inside the bowels of Lister Laboratories scared him. There were precious few females, and those he’d spied tended to scurry away under a direct gaze.
“Thank you, no. I’ll muddle along on my own for a bit yet. Too soon to settle.”
But he’d done exactly that, hadn’t he? Proposing to a lady he barely knew. And that had gone so wonderfully. Nothing like a proposal that landed a man in the morgue.
The doors slid open, disgorging them into said facility where Mr. Hutton bent over a disfigured corpse stretched out upon a steel gurney. It rankled. His own technician allowed to remain behind in the laboratory while Ian himself—however temporarily—was banished.
The technician snapped to attention, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Lord Rathsburn!” He hastily dragged a white sheet over the disfigured face of the German.
Ian’s eyes narrowed. “Is that SV140?”
Mr. Hutton gulped, then gave a stiff nod.
He took off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves and donned one of the many canvas aprons that hung from the wall pegs. “Let’s begin.”
“But… no… I mean,” Mr. Hutton stuttered. “Mr. Black instructed me to allow no one to examine this corpse.”
“Not even me?” Ian asked, reaching upward to flick on the overhead argon lamp. Brilliant white light shone down upon the body.
“Black is toying with you, Rathsburn,” Thornton concluded. “Giving you rope to hang yourself. Are you certain you do not wish to pursue official channels?”
“I am.” With his sister in danger, every minute counted, and he would not allow politics to stand in the way of Elizabeth’s safety. A coil of dread in his gut twisted every time thoughts of her situation rose to mind.
Ian pulled back the sheet. The German was huge. Well over six feet tall, he had the muscular build of a gladiator, one accustomed to regularly defeating lions. Blond and pale, he would have been the very model of Aryan perfection but for the ulcerating tumors that bulged beneath the skin of his jaw.
His own jaw clenched.
Warrick thought nothing of testing his hypotheses directly upon human subjects; he possessed not a shred of ethics. Before him lay the results of letting the man walk free, of allowing him to leave Britain’s shores. Warrick should be rotting in a dank, dark prison at this very moment if not hung or shot for treason.
He pressed against one of the many lumps that protruded from the man’s jaw. All three nodules were rock hard.
He palpated the man’s upper arm. The man’s deltoids, biceps and triceps were so thick that Ian had to dig his fingers into the musculature to feel for the tumors he was certain grew from the cortical surface of the humerus. There. He could feel them now. A number of them in varying sizes.
He pushed his fingers into the man’s tree-trunk sized thighs. Again he felt a number of tumors deep inside the tissue. A quick glance at the fingers and toes visually confirmed that several of those joints were also affected.
“As expected, a superficial examination shows an exceedingly proliferative osteoblastoma in an advanced state.” A particularly horrible bone cancer. And in this case, a cancer made even worse by experimental manipulation of osteoprogenitor cells.
There was only one way to be certain.
He held out a hand. “Scalpel.”
When nothing landed in it, he glanced up.
Mr. Hutton looked pained. “We should obtain clearance from Mr. Black first.”
Ian made a sound of disgust and grabbed the scalpel himself. He sliced deftly through the pliant skin of the man’s arm, above one particularly large malignancy that bulged outward between two muscles. He peeled back the skin and shoved his fingers inside the tissue, stretching and pulling and cutting to expose the surface of the bone.
Reaching up, Ian drew the argon lamp closer. The tumor was some two inches in diameter and protruded a good inch above what was left of normal humerus. The knotted lump of bone glistened a faint silver beneath the dark red periosteum, the connective tissue that supplied the bone with blood.
“I want to take a sample for confirmation. Pass the vibration knife.” Ian hoped the tool was strong enough.
Mr. Hutton didn’t move.
“If you’re not up to the task, step back.” Thornton crossed the room to lift the device from the shelf. “No. Leave. I’ll assist.”
Mr. Hutton swallowed and backed away, exiting the room with haste the moment the ascension chamber arrived.
Ian lifted two pairs of safety goggles from a drawer and handed one across the body. “I should warn you, Thornton, if the antimony has been densely deposited, we might not be able to excise this tumor.”
“Metal bones?”
“Metalloid.”
He inserted a tissue spreader into the incision he’d made in the German’s upper arm. Crank by crank the fissure widened un
til the tumor was fully exposed.
Thornton cocked an eyebrow, but asked no further questions.
Ian powered up the vibration knife. A loud mechanical buzz filled the air, making further conversation impossible. He pressed the knife against the relatively normal bone adjacent to the tumor. The knife passed though the white bone, then stalled. Ian pushed harder, but there was no give. The vibrational knife protested with an ominous groan.
He pulled the knife back, shifting to change the angle of the blade against the tumor, pushing with as much strength as he possessed. The knife sank into the bone, but only the slightest fraction. Any lingering doubts vanished.
This man was dead because of him, because of the research he’d initiated. His stomach clenched. How many more men faced the same fate?
Without warning, the knife surged forward. A shard of the tumor broke free and flew into the air, skittering across the tiled floor. Ian set down the knife. With tweezers, he plucked the bone sample from the ground and carried it to the sink, rinsing its surface before sliding the sample into the chamber of the aetheroscope. He flipped a switch, waiting a moment for the gas to fill the chamber before peering through the lens at the tumor’s magnified and illuminated surface.
“Mottled gray. Near complete replacement of normal bone minerals.” Ian stepped back.
Thornton yanked off his goggles and peered through the eyepiece. “Impressive. You’ll have Chemistry confirm its composition?”
That would be procedure, but… “To what end?” Ian had all the answers he needed. All the answers he could discover on British soil. Fix this? Unlikely. But he would have to try.
The door to the ascension chamber clanged open. Black stepped out.
Thornton drew out his pocket watch. “You’re losing your touch. I expected you some fifteen minutes ago.”
“Ready to take up your pistol again, Lord Rathsburn?” Black asked without a trace of humor on his face. He held out Ian’s old weapon, one that fired cartridges of tetrodotoxin, TTX, a toxin gleaned from the muscles of pufferfish. One round to stun a man, two to drop him and a third to kill.
Ian’s fingers twitched, but he kept his arm at his side. “No. Not unless the duke finally agrees to discuss shadow boards.” He brushed past Black, jamming a finger into the call button of the ascension chamber.
“Perhaps you have heard, Thornton,” Black said, the tone of his voice odd. “That the triumvirate negotiations with Germany and Russia concerning the Ottoman Uprisings are not proceeding well. That the Queen’s agents are—at the moment—forbidden to cross the border into said country.”
Ian froze.
Thornton’s voice had a ring of the theatrical as he addressed his next words to Black. “You mean to say we are forbidden from investigating the origins of SV140?”
“So we are,” Black said. “Such an action would end a career.”
A familiar hollow feeling expanded in his chest. Despite their insistence that he could re-join the Queen’s agents with a simple apology to the duke, they felt no qualms using his civilian status to their advantage. “Are you telling me,” Ian asked, irritated that they spoke around rather than to him, “that not a single thing is to be done?”
Silence was a loud answer.
Message received. Any actions he took to save his sister and stop Warrick would be unsanctioned and unsupported. He was on his own. But when had that ever stopped him?
Untethered, he was anything but adrift.
Time to go. He had a flight to catch.
Chapter Four
OLIVIA COULDN’T STOP SMILING. She’d finally won herself a mission—even if she didn’t know what it was yet. Not even the inescapable fact that Mother would be accompanying her as a chaperone was able to suppress the glee with which she threw herself into packing.
Time was short. The dirigible launched tomorrow at noon.
Chaos reigned. Her bed was strewn with gowns of all colors and fabrics. With combinations and corsets. Petticoats and stockings. Gloves and lace shawls. Scattered across the floor was an array of shoes. Her dressing table held a tangle of hairpins and ribbons, a profusion of perfumes and powders.
Steam Clara—her personal lady’s maid—whirled about, folding and wrapping and packing while Mother sat by the fire, reading aloud facts about Baron Volscini—in Italian—from a thick folder. No time like the present, Mother had announced, to begin adjusting to the language of her future husband.
“We must be mindful that word of our family scandal may have reached Italian ears,” Mother said, setting the folder aside at last. “You must be on your best behavior. Ever deferential. No arguing or contradicting a gentleman. You must not discuss Babbage cards. Do not mention your degree from the Rankine Institute. No young lady is supposed to know a thing about programming. Baron Volscini is looking for a wife, not a difference engine. A pretty face will draw him close, but an empty head will keep him there.”
“Yes, Mother. I know, Mother. I’ve been doing this for years, Mother.”
As if she could even claim her engineering degree. Olivia had earned it via a correspondence program. Under the name of Oliver Bird. No women need apply to the Rankine Institute. She wished she could trumpet her accomplishments to the haute ton, watch their faces contort in shock and horror, but in the field of espionage appearances were everything, and her particular role required a certain amount of wool between the ears.
Mother’s perpetual frown deepened. “This is not a game, Olivia.”
She sighed. “I’m well aware, Mother.”
In the midst of wrapping a purple, feathered bonnet, Steam Clara’s jointed limbs froze, making odd grinding sounds as she struggled to move. Steam of frustration seeped upward from beneath her collar.
Olivia grabbed a screwdriver from her dressing table and rushed to the steambot’s side, unbuttoning her uniform to expose the metal door in her chest. Opening it, she scanned the array of wires and gears before her. There. Nothing but a sticky valve. Easily fixed. The cipher cartridge, however, was cracked and needed to be replaced. Unfortunately, there was no time to sneak away to visit the scrapyard before their flight departed. She would have to wait until they reached Rome.
“Must you bring that old heap with us?” Mother snapped. “It’s bad enough that your father insists upon retaining Burton. Let me purchase you a new steam lady’s maid. Please.”
“No thank you, Mother. I’ve made numerable and invaluable changes to her programming,” she lied, using an eye dropper to drip oil into the valve. Certainly she’d modified Steam Clara more times than she could count. But invaluable? No. Steam Clara’s presence merely comforted her; she was a mute friend to whom Olivia could speak freely. “I’ll spare you the details.”
A knock sounded on her door.
“Just a moment.”
Olivia set Steam Clara to rights, then opened the door to find Burton, their steam butler, holding a silver salver. A letter rested upon it. With unladylike haste, she ripped it open and read the contents. All five words.
Nineteen hundred. Clockwork Corridor. Caravan.
There was no signature, but she recognized Mr. Black’s spidery handwriting. She grinned widely. How exciting! Father’s top agent was to impart the details of her covert mission in a dark alley. Was it awful that she now wished for a dense, London pea-souper to complete the scene?
She glanced at the clock as she reached for a cloak. “I need to go.”
Mother’s back stiffened “Mr. Black?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll get my wrap.” She began to rise.
“No, Mother,” Olivia pleaded. She had to go alone. “Please? It’s just Clockwork Corridor. You can’t possibly think I need a chaperone in Mr. Black’s presence.”
Mother pursed her lips, always ready to ruin all the fun.
“It may take me some time,” Olivia spoke quickly. “There are a number of items I need to acquire from Nicu Sindel, and we can’t afford any friction between our families. Think of Emily.”
Mention of the gypsy made Mother’s lips curl with distaste. Not only did she thoroughly disapprove of Olivia’s mechanical inclinations, she blamed Nicu’s grandson for stealing away Emily, her youngest daughter. “Directly there and back,” she ordered.
Some two hours later, Olivia’s reticule bulged with a number of ‘necessary’ items. Unfortunately, though she’d rummaged in piles of antiquated ‘junk’, an additional cipher cartridge—model B257—could not be found. She had, however, managed to procure a backup power source for her pet zoetomatic hedgehog. Zapping Lord Rancide had all but drained his battery.
Nicu handed Watson back to her, shaking his head with a faint smile. “Clever,” the old gypsy said.
Olivia beamed. It was strong praise from her mentor.
“Yet I dislike the darkness your mind must conjure that such a thing seems necessary. Remember where danger led your sisters and take every precaution. It is not safe to work with Mr. Black.”
“How—?”
Nicu lifted his chin, and Olivia turned to find the man himself standing in the door of the caravan.
Mr. Black was dressed in a well-tailored, but plain, dark suit. Everything about him seemed dark. Dark hair, dark eyes, swarthy skin. Not quite a gentleman. In a crowd, he would fade into the background, but here, amidst his people, his presence commanded attention.
He muttered something.
Nicu snapped back a reply.
Though her Romani was a touch rusty, she caught the meaning. “Stop, you two.” She turned to face Nicu. “No one is making me do anything. I want this assignment.”
Nicu sighed, then his strong hands squeezed hers. “Be careful.”
“Aren’t I always?” she grumbled. Of late, such caution felt like a decided failing on her part. Weeks of hiding inside the family town home had her chafing for a touch of adventure.
She caught Mr. Black’s midnight gaze. This assignment would finally allow her to prove her mettle. She would make certain of it. “Shall we go, Mr. Black?”