A Lady's Formula for Love (The Secret Scientists of London)

by Elizabeth Everett

  “I promise, Arthur,” Grey said, “this will be the easiest assignment you’ve ever taken. You won’t even know you’re working. In fact—”

  Arthur never learned what Grey would have said. He was running straight toward the lady, who was now standing on the walkway beneath a first-floor window.

  Barreling through the crowd of reporters, Arthur could finally see her face. Long, thick black lashes opened and closed, revealing dark brown eyes the color of coffee. Smaller than the men surrounding her, she had to tilt her perfect little chin up as she traded jokes. Her lips were the color of ripe plums and prompted a surprising stir of lust.

  The world was full of women more beautiful than Violet Greycliff. Arthur had met some of them, slept with some of them, and taken a massive head wound from one of them. None had called forth such an instantaneous, primal attraction.

  At that moment, an explosion sent the second-floor windows shattering outward, and Arthur leaped the two-foot distance separating them. Estimating the amount of force necessary, he shielded her body without hurting her as they toppled to the ground.

  What he hadn’t counted on was the stupendously ugly armchair flying out the window, smashing to pieces inches from his face and sending splinters flying. Chaos broke out around them.

  Rustication couldn’t come soon enough.

  2

  AFTER VIOLET’S NIGHTLY ritual of brandy and a bath followed by a journey to her empty bed, she concluded her routine with one final step. She would imagine someone climbing into the bed from the opposite side, blowing out the candle, and taking her into their arms before falling asleep.

  These nighttime visitors remained firmly in her head. Violet’s late husband had insisted that a woman with a physical appetite was both unladylike and distasteful. Although she suspected this might not always be the case, she’d never searched out a real-life lover to prove him wrong. Her reputation was too important to the future of Athena’s Retreat.

  Worse, what if he was right?

  In all those lonely nights, Violet had never conjured a pair of arms that surrounded her like this man’s holding her now. The sensation of a warm, solid body against her stunned her more than the chaos and the scattered shards of glass and wood. The soles of shoes whipped past; all around, voices were raised in angry, frightened cries.

  None of this touched her.

  She was safe.

  Not because the man holding her had rasped those words in her ear, although that was delightful, how his lips had brushed against the sensitive lobe. No. Something else told her everything would be well.

  She had seen him before the explosion, standing next to Grey. In the commotion around her, the dark figure at Grey’s side had remained preternaturally still until he burst into motion.

  A typical reaction might have been to step back or shy away from a strange man hurling himself at you. Instead, as he came closer, Violet had the strangest urge to step toward him.

  Nothing about his appearance signaled safety. He wore a dull brown frock coat, a few years out of date. He was tall, but not too tall. Broad, but no more than an average laborer. His top hat of felted wool was nondescript, as was his dark, curly hair and the whiskers halfway down the sides of his cheeks. Deep lines evidenced exposure to the elements over many years, and he’d broken his nose at some point.

  In any other setting, he would have slipped her notice, as though he were a shadow or a slight blur at the edge of her vision.

  Except she happened to look into his eyes.

  Not even when she’d had no idea why he would have laid hands on her, in the seconds it took between the time he grabbed her until the explosion—not even then—was she frightened.

  Cradling her head in one large hand to protect her skull from the fall, he held their bodies flush. When he’d pulled his mouth away from her ear and locked his gaze on hers, Violet had understood. Although they were an unremarkable shade of brown, his eyes were what told Violet she would be safe no matter what.

  His glance swept her face, then traveled the length of her body before he turned his head to survey the crowd. The lack of expression and preternatural calm belied the intense vigilance in the depths of his gaze.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Was she all right?

  It had been so long since anyone had held her, let alone a man to whom she’d had an instant and powerful attraction. A million details filled her brain: the shape of his upper lip, the tiny drops of mist clinging to his lashes, the rapid pace of her heartbeat.

  Her attention centered on the enveloping warmth of his body, her skin awakening beneath his hands. Could he feel her response? Would he be amused or appalled?

  “Thank you for your bravery,” Violet said, speaking into the man’s cravat while he continued to shield her from the pandemonium.

  “How lucky I am you landed in this spot,” she continued. Glancing to where his hips pressed against hers, she blushed. “Not landed in this spot, as in where you currently rest. I mean to say, not . . . We’re not resting, of course . . .”

  He remained silent.

  “Ahem,” she said. “If you could please let me up, I will be better able to—”

  “On the count of three, I will get you up,” he said. “You stay in front of me as we head west. If anyone comes close, you are to drop to the ground and cover your head. One, two . . .”

  On three, the man sprang to his feet and lifted Violet as though she weighed less than a feather. Astonishing. He was stronger than he appeared, beneath his coat. Examining the crowd, he gave her another set of orders.

  “Stay close to the walls of the town houses. Crouch as low as you can without tripping over your skirts. Now, let’s go.”

  He hadn’t glanced at her again. Freed from his scrutiny, sanity returned, and Violet remained in place. Athena’s Retreat was her responsibility. She could not leave before she had ensured that her club members were unharmed and she fed the press a reasonable explanation.

  “Did the explosion damage your hearing, my lady?” he asked, still scanning the crowd.

  “My hearing is undamaged, my head is whole, and my limbs are intact thanks to you, sir. No injuries, just flustered, what with the explosions and the part where you were, er, resting.”

  Unless she had unknowingly suffered a head wound? What else could explain her reaction? A nervous laugh escaped her, then died beneath his flinty stare.

  Violet swallowed. “While I am grateful, I must be certain no one else is hurt. If you’ll excuse me?”

  “No.”

  Violet blinked. It had been a loud explosion. Was her rescuer the one suffering from hearing loss?

  She raised her voice to compensate for the damage to his ears. “I am going this way,” she enunciated, pointing toward the club.

  An opaque gaze examined her, no hint of expression to give Violet the slightest clue to what the man thought. For some reason, she wanted him to think well of her.

  “I can hear you perfectly well,” he said without inflection. “You’re going nowhere but with me.”

  Violet let out a gasp as the man sidled one arm around her waist and picked her up. No respectable man would haul a woman away like this unless he had nefarious intentions.

  She’d never been the object of nefarious intentions before. A ripple of excitement spread through her, followed by shame.

  “I am not ungrateful. You are brave and”—Violet took a moment to appreciate his form—“well-made and nice-smelling. I simply don’t have time to be rescued.” Twisting in his arms, she caught sight of her stepson.

  “Grey, can you explain to this gentleman I don’t have time to be rescued?”

  Grey pushed through the crowd to join them. “Let go, Arthur. You don’t want anyone seeing you with her and drawing any conclusions.”

  The man, Arthur, set her down without
warning, and she stumbled, whereby he reached out and steadied her. Grasping her elbow with the lightest of touches, he threw off enough heat to protect her from the cold.

  “You didn’t tell her I was coming,” Arthur said to Grey.

  Grey’s mouth twisted to one side in a familiar expression. What was he up to?

  “I was getting to that part before you took off running,” Grey said. “How did you know, by the way?”

  The large man at her side lifted his shoulders a scant inch. “It’s my job to know. Let’s go.”

  Violet braced herself, but Arthur politely gestured for her to precede him.

  “Please, for once, let me be the one to make things right for you,” Grey said with a brusque air, trusting that even if Violet had heard the emotion beneath the words, she would not mention it aloud.

  When she did not immediately resist, he pressed his point. “If you come with us, I’ll have my agents clean this up for you.”

  She considered for a moment, then shook her head. “This could not have happened at a worse time. I cannot leave until the members are safe and sound.”

  “I promise their safety will be assured,” Grey said. “On top of that, I’ll keep Mrs. Sweet from quitting.”

  “That would be helpful.” Violet wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. “I would like an explanation, though. The next time something like this happens—”

  “That is why I am here,” Arthur said. “To make sure there is no next time.”

  * * *

  YEARS AGO, ARTHUR had guarded a lepidopterist. Not because butterflies had anything to do with the fate of the British Empire. The scientist was the son of a Greek general and the target of assassins sent by the Ottoman sultan.

  The way the lepidopterist would examine the minute markings on his specimens bore a chilling similarity to the way the two women seated across the room were staring at him right now, pinning him in place as he reached for a jam tart.

  One woman was tall and dark, the other tiny and blond, and they shifted their piercing gazes between Arthur and Lady Greycliff.

  “You will never even know he is here,” Grey was saying. The younger man stood in the middle of the sitting room, having maneuvered his way around the piles of books, overstuffed ottomans, and tea tables with admirable grace, considering his large stature and the small amount of space.

  Oblivious to her audience, Lady Greycliff paced in the opposite direction. When she moved, her enormous shawl billowed around her, sending papers flying and houseplants waving in her wake. Frenetic energy poured off her, setting a charge to the air around them. The way she held herself indicated that energy was a by-product of her thinking.

  The types of folks who needed a bodyguard were often controversial or unsavory characters. Arthur had little experience in protecting the innocent. The lady appeared younger than her thirty years; those wide eyes that had fixed on him earlier had revealed an unnerving vulnerability. He was a tomcat being given a mouse to watch over.

  “I can’t ignore the presence of an assassin in my house,” Lady Greycliff exclaimed.

  Good Lord.

  Now the ladies’ stares morphed from intense curiosity to fierce disapproval.

  “I’m not an assassin,” Arthur told them.

  “You look like an assassin,” said the fierce little blonde, Miss Letitia Fenley.

  “Well, I am not,” Arthur assured her.

  Earlier, Grey had privately recounted the rise of Miss Fenley’s family, from humble butchers to owners of the largest shopping emporium in London.

  “Letty Fenley doesn’t have much use for the aristocracy, except when we contribute to her family’s coffers,” he’d said. “Every word out of a nobleman’s mouth, she interprets as an order or an insult.”

  This might have explained her prickly demeanor toward Grey. From the way she studied the man when he wasn’t looking, however, Arthur suspected a more personal reason for their antagonism.

  “It isn’t as though you would tell us if you were an assassin,” said the tall, handsome woman next to Miss Fenley. Lady Phoebe Hunt, daughter of a marquess, was a sensation in London society circles. A woman who spoke up and spoke out, especially in opposition to whatever cause her father happened to champion. She’d high cheekbones and a full mouth, but her most dramatic feature was the spectacular amethyst hue of her eyes.

  Arthur fought the urge to shift in his chair.

  “If he were a halfway competent assassin, he’d take on that gaggle of reporters outside,” Miss Fenley remarked. “If it weren’t for them hounding Lady Greycliff, no one would have been any the wiser about tonight’s explosions.”

  “He’s not an assassin,” Grey said. His jaw sawed back and forth in a rare sign of frustration. He’d been trying to get the women to leave for half an hour with no success. “He is a trained counterassassin. Mr. Kneland has protected important figures in Europe and the Americas over the last two decades. He kept Lord Dickerson alive despite three attempts on his life in the past year.”

  “Wait. Wasn’t Dickerson shot?” asked Lady Phoebe. “Not a ringing endorsement if his clients are full of bullet holes.”

  “A bullet travels at roughly eight hundred and thirty feet per second,” said Miss Fenley. “One must have extraordinary reflexes to stop it once it has discharged.”

  Lady Phoebe tipped her head. “He’s not a young man. Slowing reflexes might be why he’s retired.”

  “Did you get a discounted rate because he’s old?” Miss Fenley asked Grey. “My father always says you get what you pay for. Couldn’t you spring for a younger man?”

  “I am sitting right here,” Arthur observed. “I can hear you. And the bullet went through me into Dickerson.”

  The women blinked in surprise. They had forgotten him.

  Arthur transferred his gaze to the ceiling and counted to twenty before he said something unforgivable.

  “Hush, Letty,” Lady Greycliff chastised. “Mr. Kneland rescued me quite efficiently earlier tonight.” Her cheeks reddened, and he held back a smile, remembering her words to him.

  Well-made and nice-smelling.

  He’d received more practiced compliments, but none as genuine.

  Miss Fenley’s fists clenched her skirts. “Can we please come back to why he is here?”

  She glared at Grey. “Club members have reported strange men loitering in the mews and the alley behind Athena’s Retreat. Last week, the laboratory in which Lady Greycliff was working had its windows smashed in by bricks.”

  The daughter of a shopkeeper ought to be intimidated by a man as large and wellborn as Grey. Nonetheless, Miss Fenley was standing up to him on behalf of her friend, addressing him directly. “This started when Lady Greycliff agreed to help you with your government work, my lord.”

  Grey pinched the bridge of his nose. “That work was meant to be secret.”

  Lady Greycliff winced. “I haven’t told them what I’m working on—simply that it is vital. You see, I had a question about sulfuric acid and potassium hydroxide, so I consulted Phoebe.”

  Grey sighed. “Of course.”

  “Then there was the particularly complex equation when I took into account Dalton’s law, and who better than Letty . . .” The lady broke off her explanation as a question occurred to her. “I’ve helped you with your government work before, and no one has found out. Why would this time be different?”

  Arthur had had the same question. He studied the lady’s friends with suspicion.

  “I’m not sure.” Grey glanced at Arthur, then away. “But I don’t believe the explosion originating from the second floor was an accident.”

  “Whatever is happening must stop,” said Lady Phoebe. “Athena’s Retreat is hosting its first evening event for the public at the end of the month. We can’t have assassins running loose when we are trying to convince the ton of our r
espectability.”

  Grey turned to Arthur, palms stretched in supplication. “Can you reassure them? I must leave tonight.”

  An orphaned farm boy from the Highlands, raised by an indifferent relative until sent to work, Arthur had never been allowed to forget his station in life. Still, after two decades living cheek by jowl with the wellborn of Europe, he knew better than most that titles were empty honorifics. Lacking a pedigree, he’d learned to use silent intimidation and a well-muscled body to get the attention of powerful men and women who would never otherwise have heeded him.

  Arthur took his time standing now, sending a message. Without saying a word, he informed these women that he could be a threat.

  Lady Greycliff’s life was in danger. He needed everyone here to accept his command. Moving to the window, he twitched shut the curtain.

  “Omnium Democratia is an illegal workers’ organization formed in the Northeast and the Midlands, and now proselytizing in London. Originally, they were part of the Chartist movement, advocating for a reformation of Parliament and suffrage for all men.”

  “Of course it would be suffrage for all men,” Miss Fenley muttered.

  Arthur checked the latches on the windows and frowned. “Omnium Democratia grew impatient. They’re far more radical now and not opposed to using violence to advance their aims.”

  “That rabble is all talk and no action, from what I hear,” Lady Phoebe opined.

  “They’ve graduated to action,” Arthur said. “Their last rally turned violent. When the constables arrived, they encountered a new kind of weapon.”

  “A weapon? The broadsheets mentioned smoke and confusion.” Miss Fenley regarded Lady Greycliff with concern. “You are developing a theory of pressurized gas. How does this relate to rioting?”

  Lady Greycliff’s face lit with interest and she explained. “They’ve fashioned small canisters containing two separate chambers, each holding a mixture of unknown origin. If shaken hard enough, the wall between the chambers collapses and the chemicals combine, creating a harmful gas.”