Compulsion (Asylum for the Mechanically Insane Book 4)

by Sahara Kelly

  “You’ll come back, lass?”

  “Of course.” She dropped a hand on his shoulder as she rose. “You know I can’t live without a few of those biscuits of yours now and again.”

  “They’ll be ready for yer.” He grinned. “You bring a bit o’ light with you, girl. ‘Tis good for me.”

  “I’ll see you soon then. You take care of yourself.”

  “I will that.” He waved and nodded at her as she whisked herself out of the room.

  It was still cold outside and she pulled her coat tightly to her neck against the chill. She had more information now, at least, and perhaps it was something that Devon and Burke could work with.

  Information, they all agreed, was the foundation of an investigation. She hoped she had a few blocks to add to the one they were building against Harbury Hall and its owner.

  She was disappointed there was no news on Lady Alwynne. If she was up and around, she might be discussing the events of that terrible night. And if she pointed a finger at her husband…well, Devon’s case would take a rapid turn for the better.

  Not inclined to linger on the walk back to the cottage, she covered the distance with rapid steps and an increasingly cold nose. The warmth that hit her in the face as she opened the front door was a welcome caress that made her eyes water.

  “Lord above, it’s cold. But the trip was worth it.”

  Devon, who had come into the hall at the sound of her arrival, grinned as he helped her unbundle herself. “Been at those famous biscuits, I see.” He flicked a crumb off a cool lip, then followed it up with a quick kiss.

  She sighed with pleasure. “Not as tasty as you.”

  He held her tightly, his grip growing firm. “God, Portia. We have to get all this settled soon. I want you as my wife and I’m really terrible at waiting.”

  “I’d marry you today if it were possible, love. You know that.”

  He nodded, closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. “I have to get Harbury back. For you, for me and for the people who depend on it. I just wish it was over and I could sweep you off into a quiet place for about a week or two. Just us.”

  His hands drifted around her slim waist as he pressed her closer than ever.

  She shuddered, and not from the cold. “I want that too.”

  A loud throat clearing interrupted the interlude and Portia groaned as she moved away from Devon’s embrace. “I know, Burke. I know. Not ‘til we’re wed.” She made a face at him and stalked past into the parlor. “Come on.” She tossed the invitation over her shoulder as she neared the roaring fire. “I’ve learned that there’s only one scientist left. Possibly German. A baron, ‘tis said.”

  Burke and Devon joined her.

  “Baron Gerolf von Landau.” Burke looked smug. “Found out this morning when I went to the Dower House for a final evidence check. That Arthur lad was there. Got him chatting.”

  Portia’s eyes widened. “You had a conversation with Arthur?”

  “Well, I did have to work at it. But it turns out that his mum comes from my part of Hertfordshire. Gave me a bit of an edge in the chat department.”

  “Well, I’m impressed. I always thought that the only person he ever spoke to was Robert, and vice versa. You know, the RobertandArthur thing.” She paused. “And to be honest, they made me quite nervous.”

  Devon rested a foot on the hearth. “I haven’t seen them yet, but I’ve heard things. You’re right to be wary of them, Portia. I don’t think they’re very nice men.”

  “Probably not.” Burke shrugged. “But at least I got a name out of Arthur. Now I can do some research on this von Landau fellow and see what he’s up to.” He turned to Portia. “No news on her Ladyship?”

  “None.” She gulped, remembering the last time she’d seen Alwynne Harbury—or what was left of her after the savage attack. “She’s still in her rooms and not talking at all, so I hear.”

  “It’ll take time, I’m sure.”

  There was silence for a few moments, each of them busy with their own thoughts. Then Burke glanced at Devon. “I have to wonder what sort of connection this Baron might have with the Harburys…”

  “Time to find out, I think.” Devon nodded. “Your machine?”

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  The two men walked out of the room and Portia knew within a few minutes they’d be standing in front of the complex piece of copper, wire and gears that connected Burke to his London office.

  Lord only knew how it worked. Portia loved science and scientific things, but when it came to this particular creation, she was ready to admit her shortcomings since there were other matters occupying her thoughts these days. She’d even felt comfortable enough now to remove her Jallai at night, placing the delicately ornate arm weapon on the bedside table.

  The security offered by the knowledge that Burke and Devon were also sleeping in the tiny cottage made her feel safer than she’d ever felt before. Of course it was dreadfully improper…or would be until she and Devon could be wed…

  She swallowed. Good God. She was becoming an English miss. Oh dear, this would never do.

  *~~*~~*

  In the silence of the underground laboratory, Gerolf von Landau pored over his notes. There was a rudimentary set of heating pipes running around three-fourths of the chamber, but given that the walls were thick stone, it wasn’t exactly what anyone would refer to as toasty.

  He folded his hands into his armpits to warm them as he read, his tweed jacket and thick woolen shirt working hard to keep his body comfortable.

  However, he wasn’t really aware of the conditions; he was focused completely on the material before him. Three lamps provided additional illumination, spilling their light over the large, leather-bound notebook in which he had been recording his thoughts, his results, his theories and his ideas for further research.

  It was, in many ways, a von Landau bible, chronicling his life’s dedication to an examination of the human mind.

  His body of work revolved around the hidden aspects of man’s psyche; the ability to be mesmerized, or the insatiable desires for food, passion and— in some cases—mayhem.

  A successful mesmerist in his own right, Gerolf had been able to penetrate many of these hidden layers during his experiments. He had learned of the deep terrors, pains, pleasures and hatreds that lurked in dark places within the minds of so many otherwise ordinary people.

  He had correlated these secrets to any behaviors that fell outside the norm, and had a lengthy section in his notebook on aberrations and their related psychological deviations.

  In fact, his insightful theories and revelations had caused a sensation when he had read a paper based on them at the Munich meeting of Allied Physicians of the Mind.

  But that was several years ago. He had moved forward since then, into an area that would have caused a lot more than a sensation had it been made public to anyone at all.

  He freed a hand from its snug nest and turned pages until he reached his current section on the experiments he was developing at Harbury. Re-reading his notes he frowned, wondering yet again why his first attempt should have resulted in such a catastrophic explosion.

  He had removed the standard circle of bone from the skull, and used no more than the normal probe insertions. But once he had begun the process of powering up the extraction units, all hell had broken loose and the subject’s brain had literally blown up.

  There had been no time to attach the mechanical collar around the neck, which would have kept the bodily systems functioning.

  To add to the problem, Gerolf himself had fallen from his stool at the shock and knocked himself out. When he came to, his patient had gone, something he’d never anticipated in his wildest nightmares.

  How the man had the strength to not only free himself, but walk such a distance—well it was beyond belief. Although it did testify to the strength of autonomic bodily reflexes.

  Unfortunately it was also the worst of bad luck that he’d escaped the Harb
ury grounds and died in front of villagers.

  However, he trusted that Randall’s men would clean up any derogatory social implications as thoroughly as they had cleaned up his laboratory.

  He glanced around, looking at the assortment of Leyden jars arranged neatly on shelves along one wall. They were shining; wires, lids and connections ready for work. The power they would require was also at the ready, pipes and cables threading their way from the floors below to terminate at one end of a pristine marble workbench.

  Gerolf understood that Harbury offered a unique power supply that relied more on some strange kind of human-generated fuel than coal or wood. He wasn’t sure he fully understood it, and under other circumstances he’d have been deeply immersed in finding out more.

  But at this time, he had one goal—one crucially important goal—to keep Randall Harbury happy.

  And that meant pursuing his original experiment. One that had almost succeeded in Germany…one that he determined would succeed here in England. Because if it didn’t, Randall would continue to devastate far too many lives and that wasn’t permissible.

  Gerolf von Landau had been invited to Harbury to do something impossible. He was to transplant a living brain from a tormented body into a new home, a healthy thriving human home.

  He hadn’t, as yet, had the opportunity to mention to Randall that the likelihood of accomplishing the entire process was small. But he believed he could certainly transplant the essence of Lord Harbury into a suitably adapted Leyden jar.

  This was his ultimate goal—to remove and preserve the life force of a human, external to the body. It would be a first step toward brain transfers, but Harbury seemed to believe the process could be accomplished all at once.

  Gerolf was not ready to disillusion his host, but managed to avoid a detailed discussion of the procedure by dint of his adroit conversation. And his conviction that he could remove a human brain and keep it alive.

  There were still a few issues to resolve, however.

  He sighed and straightened, his neck bones cricking as he rolled his head around on his shoulders.

  There would have to be another trial run, without doubt. The problem with the patients secreted in the lower levels of the Harbury laboratories seemed to stem from their overall health. They were suffering the effects of extended incarceration and seemed weak, drained of any resistance, too…malleable to make good test subjects.

  He needed someone vibrant and healthy. The first man, that McCardle fellow, he’d been fit as a fiddle as the English liked to say. But sadly, his mind wasn’t quite as strong as the rest of him, although physically he would have been ideal.

  Gerolf had concluded that any kind of weakness in the mental processes might adversely affect the procedure.

  He drummed his fingertips absently on the table, deep in thought. Perhaps he would be better off using one of the patients, after all. If there were any more problems, one of those men could at least be contained.

  He weighed the pros and cons, then turned to a fresh page and dipped his pen in the inkwell. The scribbling sound of nib against paper was the only sound in the chamber for several minutes, stopping and starting again in rhythm with his ideas as they ebbed and flowed.

  Finally, after about an hour of cogitation and calculation, he nodded, blotted the pages a final time, and closed the book.

  He had a plan. He had a better grasp of the desirable assets his next subject should possess. And he had all the equipment he needed. Eager to begin, he glanced at the clock and cursed. He had promised Randall he would visit this afternoon.

  But then he recalled that he was also going to see if he could obtain his Lordship’s permission to visit Lady Harbury.

  His experiments were an ongoing process, so with a sigh of resignation he turned away from the immediate tasks and switched his focus to the dangers of socializing with a fiend.

  And the possibility of reacquainting himself with Alwynne Harbury, the most tragically shattered woman he’d ever met.

  Chapter Three

  Lady Alwynne had experienced torture and abuse the likes of which even she could never have imagined.

  She’d not been the best of women; in fact, her life had revolved around herself and her upward climb to the top of the social strata. She’d done what she considered necessary to get there, and only she knew what lines she’d crossed or morals she’d ignored.

  It had been a long time since she’d wasted time evaluating her own worthiness. Especially since she’d found those two brilliant lads with their scientific magic—vapors she had inhaled regularly—and the effects still lingered, rendering her skin smooth and creamy.

  Except where scars puckered the milky perfection, marking seams sewn by careful surgeons after they had repaired her bones and done what they could to put her back together.

  She stirred a little in her large chair, the blanket covering her knees shifting as she crossed her legs at the ankles. There were bandages there still, but the splint had been removed. Her strength was slowly returning and she knew her own iron determination would carry her past this and onward to the future.

  Hadn’t she wed Randall Harbury when everyone advised her against it, telling her he was deformed in visage and whispering of his brutal soul? That he had a shocking disease and was not long for this world? Those were minor inconveniences compared to the status that came with the position of Lady Harbury.

  The horrors that came with that title had ultimately revealed themselves in all their terrible brutality. But that was something she could not yet resolve. Not until she was fully recovered.

  Her gaze drifted from the flames in the white-tiled hearth to one of the tall windows, where her heavy blue velvet curtains had been drawn back, letting in the brilliant blaze of sun and snow.

  She was surrounded by the ultimate in luxury; warm, cossetted and treated with the respect she’d always known should be hers. What were a few broken bones next to that?

  She stared at the wintry landscape, with eyes that looked inward more than at the sharp blue sky or the ice-coated branches of the bare trees. She steered her thoughts away from what they’d done to secure the Hall.

  Randall’s brother had been a half-mad drug addict in his final moments, and it had been quite simple to dispose of the only heir…his son Devon. A wrecked ship, a missing young Harbury allegedly lost at sea…and the thing was done. Once or twice Alwynne had wondered if he was still alive in the lower levels of the laboratories, but as time passed, even that idle curiosity faded into a distant memory. She had perfected the art of forgetting that which was unimportant to her.

  Besides, those places weren’t designed to house anyone for a long time. And the experimental setup guaranteed eventual extinction. She knew that. It was a fact of life and science and the unique invention that powered just about everything.

  The benefits however…they far outweighed any trivial concern about those patients.

  She sighed. Now she would have to try and rebuild some sort of credibility in London with those who mattered. The scientific community prided itself on its rigid adherence to all that was good and beneficial for mankind.

  That was a façade she knew to be completely artificial, because they were happy to turn a blind eye to any experimentation that failed to meet those criteria as long as money was involved. Like the rest of the world, scientists could be bought. It was just that now and again they were a darn sight more expensive.

  She turned over ideas in her mind, trying to evaluate the potential of presenting herself as an invalid, using the attack as a way of appealing to her sources. She could beg them, prettily, to help her find a way to heal. Why yes, she had a scientific facility at her country estate. Would they care to visit and see if it would serve their needs?

  That might work. But it might also nudge their memories of the gossip surrounding the “incident” as she referred to it. How else could she describe the atrocities?

  No, she didn’t want to remind them of her catastr
ophic injuries. What she needed was something else. Something unexpected that would bring her attention and acclaim, mixed with perhaps just a soupçon of sympathy for her past troubles. Along with awe at her amazing recovery. She sought something that would lure those anxious to continue their work unhindered by governmental scrutiny.

  With the current war ongoing in Asia, there must be some military projects looking for a private and secure location. The issue was all about reaching the right ears with the right information and yet not compromising her own situation any more than it was at present.

  She pursed her lips and tapped them with one elegant finger. The war.

  Hmm.

  And then it came to her.

  A Winter Ball.

  A ball to honor the brave men serving at Her Majesty’s Pleasure, complete with veterans of the various theaters…and definitely an airship or two tethered in the grounds.

  It would be extravagant, extraordinary and a way for Alwynne to reappear in society on her own terms, not theirs. Not as a wounded victim, but a triumphant survivor.

  Just like the honored guests.

  There were a few problems to be surmounted, of course. The first, and the most formidable, was Randall. He could not be allowed to ruin the occasion. If she could keep him away completely, all the better.

  And the second was the actual organization.

  Realistically, she was not yet able to gather the strength required to produce an event of this nature. She had no household staff skilled in such matters, since she’d hitherto taken a great deal of pleasure in making most of the arrangements herself and in addition, the numbers of their servants had dwindled since the…tragedies.

  But once these two problems were solved—and she had no doubt she would arrive at some satisfactory answer to them—then the ball could take place with all the fanfare and accolades she desired.

  A quiet tap on her door pulled her thoughts back into the warm parlor and away from the magnificence she was spinning in her mind.

  “Yes?”

  “Excuse me, my Lady.” The maid peered around the door. “Baron von Landau asks if you would allow him to visit. He has Lord Randall’s permission to see you.”