Saving the Scientist

by Riley Cole

Before the rest of them could react, Meena turned and placed a comforting hand on the lady’s arm. “Not at all, Mrs. Fogle. You haven’t missed a thing.”

  The old thing smiled. “That’s grand.”

  Meena turned back toward them. “Don’t worry, Ada. We have everything in hand.”

  With a quick glance at her grandmother, Ada nodded and moved to follow her escort outside. Carrying the wide basket, Edison negotiated the doorway behind them.

  He studied the men, the way they moved, the way the lower ranked swabbies appeared to defer to their superior officer as he ordered them about.

  Everything seemed to be on the up and up, but Edison couldn’t shake the odd feeling that niggled at him.

  He handed the battery over to the seamen, who set it carefully in the back of the carriage.

  Something didn’t feel right.

  He eyed the captain who was handing Ada up into the carriage. Tall and well-built, he seemed to have a military bearing. His uniform looked to be in good condition, and it fit him well.

  Same with the lower ranked men.

  Edison ran a hand over the back of his neck and shuffled his feet. Maybe he wanted there to be something wrong.

  Wanted there to be some reason for her to stay.

  Rushing around him as if he were nothing but a boulder set in their way, the two seamen strapped Ada’s luggage on the back of the coach while the captain climbed inside.

  With Ada.

  Edison folded his arms over his chest and tried to appear as if his wasn’t tempted to pull the man out the window by his necktie.

  “Ready, Captain,” the larger of the seamen announced.

  “Right then. Let’s be off,” the captain directed, and leaned back in his seat.

  Ada wrapped her fingers over the open ledge of the window. “Good bye.” She gave him a sad, sweet smile, and waved as the carriage jerked forward.

  At least he wanted to think it was a sad smile.

  He wanted her to miss him. Stupid, that.

  As the coach headed down the drive, he turned back to the house.

  He didn’t want her to leave.

  The thought stopped him right there at the base of the steps. When had he ever worried about a woman leaving?

  He scratched his head. Odd that. But she was, after all, a truly amazing woman.

  Amazing enough to account for the empty ache in his stomach, and the hollow feeling in his chest.

  But not amazing enough to explain the spark of trouble he sensed.

  Something didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  He continued back into the house, letting the events of the morning play over and over, as if he were watching a scene in a play repeat itself over and over. Each time some unnoticed part of his brain picked up on another tiny detail.

  By the time he crossed the foyer, Briar had joined the rest of the family in the dining room. “Don’t you look like a ray of sunshine this morning,” she teased.

  Mind still replaying every detail of Ada’s leaving, he ignored her, and pulled out a chair. “Something’s not right.”

  Meena rolled her eyes. “Because Mrs. Templeton doesn’t find you her cup of tea? Poor boy.”

  He sat back, hard enough to make the chair creak. “No, I mean something about them, those men.” He looked over at Spencer. “Wasn’t there something odd?”

  His cousin-in-law tapped a finger on his chin, thinking. “I see what you mean. Can’t place it exactly.” He slammed a hand down on the table. “The uniforms.”

  “And the shoes.” Edison met the other man’s gaze. “The shoes are wrong. Navy midshipmen wear black half boots. Those blokes—”

  “Hobnail boots.” Spencer broke in. “All three of them.”

  “Damn it.” Edison jumped up so quickly his chair toppled over.

  He raced for the door, Spencer right behind him. As he yanked it open, he thrust out an arm, blocking the other man. “I’ve got this. Best you keep watch here. Once I get her back…”

  “They might move on the family.” Spencer kept his voice low. “Understood.”

  Edison flew out the door. As he jumped down the steps, he heard Meena’s calming voice. “Don’t fret, Mrs. Templeton. Edison excels at rescues.”

  Chapter 8

  Terror had faded quickly, along with the feeling in her hands. But fear—plain fear—lingered. It muddled her thinking and dulled her senses.

  The rope coiled around her ankles had cut off the last of the blood flowing to her feet, making her toes tingle painfully. Making it hard to think.

  If she’d consented to Edison’s offer, she’d be free now.

  Granted, there were three of the sods, and they were heavily armed, but she’d seen him fight. Edison would have routed those men in a trice.

  They’d be on their way to prison, and she’d be eating a fine luncheon by a warm fire at some companionable inn.

  Instead, she was tied to an old wooden chair, contemplating what would befall her when her captors returned. The worst of it was, she had no one to blame but herself. Her need to be away from him, from his mesmerizing sensual energy, had led to this.

  It wasn’t fair. How could wanting to do the right thing—the sensible thing for all concerned—go so badly wrong?

  Ada wiggled her toes, wincing at the tiny needle jabs that cascaded up her legs with each movement. Numb, and growing colder by the moment, her fingers were a lost cause. The back parlor in which they’d stashed her was deadly quiet, but for the scuttling of small creatures in the walls and the sound of her own, harsh breaths. It felt like she’d been there for hours already, but the rays of sunlight seeping like weak tea through chinks in the boarded-up windows had moved barely an inch.

  Minutes—not hours—had passed since she’d been bundled into the rearmost room of the abandoned cottage.

  The coach had hardly pulled down the overgrown drive to the careworn little home before the ruffians escorting her doffed their stolen naval uniforms and revealed themselves for the hired criminals they were. They’d barely allowed her a moment to relieve herself and take a sip of water before they bound and gagged her and threw her into the back parlor.

  At least they’d given her a chair.

  The one pretending to be an officer wanted to toss her straight on the dirty wood floor, but one of the more junior men pulled the only functioning chair into the middle of the empty room and set her on it. Then with only the most cursory check of her bindings, they marched out of the house.

  She’d taken the opportunity to twist around in her chair to survey the room. But for a second, broken chair, a sad old writing desk missing it’s drawer, and piles of dust and garden detritus blown into the corners, it was empty.

  It was only now, now that she was growing cold and stiff, that she surveyed her situation with clear eyes.

  They didn’t want her dead.

  There’d been many opportunities to toss her body in a ditch once they’d left London proper. And they already had her device, blast it.

  So they needed her.

  Needed her to divulge the formula for the battery, no doubt. The mechanics would be easy to recreate once they dismantled it. It was the particular combination of chemicals she’d employed that allowed the stored electricity to drain out slowly and evenly that made it unique.

  They’d be back for her at some point. She had to get out.

  Now that her brain was functioning again, she noticed far more than she had earlier. Dead leaves meant an open window.

  Or a broken one.

  A cheer, muffled by the rag, escaped her. Not one but two broken windows. Both had boards nailed haphazardly across the fronts, but now that she looked more closely, the panes were shattered, leaving large, wicked looking spikes of glass on the floor beneath them.

  She rocked sideways and toppled over, coming down hard on her shoulder. A cloud of dust enveloped her, making her sneeze violently, while the rag cinched over her mouth made breathing difficult. It took seve
ral long moments for her to draw in enough oxygen to move again.

  Her bound feet didn’t afford much leverage, but she was able to spin herself around just enough to gain purchase on a sliver of glass with the edge of her boot.

  She inched it closer, pressing it hard between her shoe and the floor. Once she got it close enough to the chair, she turned herself around until her fingers brushed one jagged piece.

  She flexed her fingers several times, but they were stiff and deadened by the tight rope. A muffled thump came from outside the window, sending her heartbeat skyrocketing. Her fingers trembled as her breath came hard and fast behind the gag. She pressed her temple against the floor planks, concentrating hard, willing her clumsy fingers to grab the sliver of glass.

  And then she had it.

  Now, if she could only turn it between her fingers and saw through the rope. She bit her lip, concentrating hard. With her fingers so numb, and the glass so sharp, it took a moment for her to realize that the sticky feeling at her fingertips was blood.

  At least she couldn’t feel the tiny cuts she knew must be scored into her fingertips.

  The rope was proving tougher than her skin. She let her head droop back down to the floor and closed her eyes, sucking in a few breaths of dust while she allowed herself a break. It wasn’t working. She wasn’t making a lick of progress against the coarse rope.

  And then she felt the vibrations against her cheek. A door slammed, then feet, treading lightly but quickly down the hallway.

  Hot tears filled her eyes and spilled over, cascading down her cheeks.

  Fear and frustration sapped the strength from her muscles. She felt as if she were melting into the dirty floor. They’d make her give up her chemical formula, and then, once they’d drained her of knowledge, they’d dispose of her. A great sigh inflated her lungs, pressing her ribs into her corset.

  A sniffle escaped her, then a great, shuddering breath. She had rather hoped for a more glamorous end.

  “There’s no time to be laying about.” Edison dropped down on the floor next to her and yanked the foul gag out of her mouth. “Are you hurt?”

  Relief stole the last of her strength. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t form the simplest word. She could only stare.

  For an instant, she wondered if her mind had broken under the strain. But the hallucination felt so real. She recognized the timber of his voice, the crisp scent of soap and leather and—

  “Ada!” Edison cupped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. The anguish in his eyes jolted her back to reality. “Ada, are you hurt?”

  “Only my pride.” She closed her eyes against a fresh spate of tears. “Had I allowed you to join me, I wouldn’t be in this situation.”

  He was running his hands over her body, checking her for injuries. Then he caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, wiping away the damp tracks of her tears, and smiled down at her. “I’ll gloat later, if you don’t mind.”

  “I certainly will, but I’ve earned it.”

  The slightest whisper of a smile tugged at his lips as he whipped a wicked little knife from a vest pocket and began sawing at her bindings. Ada jerked at her restraints, which quickly parted.

  She moaned with relief and circled her wrists round and round, trying to restore feeling to her fingers.

  “Let’s get you up.” Edison took her under the arms and lifted her to her feet.

  She swayed as the feeling in her legs and toes returned.

  “Can you stand?” Edison pulled her to him, holding her against him so tightly she had a hard time drawing air.

  Not that she minded.

  She pressed her cheek to his chest, allowing the strong, steady beat of his heart to soothe her.

  “They’ll be back.”

  “No, they won’t.” Edison tucked a lock of hair back behind her ear. “All taken care of. Stacked out by their carriage like a cord of firewood. I’ve got a man watching them.”

  He set her gently away from him and circled the room. Hands on his hips, he poked a booted toe into each dust pile. When he came to the desk, he stopped.

  “What?” She hurried to join him.

  “Damned diabolical,” he whispered.

  Ada leaned against him, trying to inch him to the side so she could see. He held up a sheet of clean while foolscap. The writing was neat and feminine.

  Let it be known that I, Ada Templeton, took my life of my own free will. I am ashamed to admit that my female sensibilities overcame my better judgment. It seems the man I thought would end my loneliness is in fact a heinous cad—and a married man.

  She gasped and jerked back, away from the vile thing.

  “Exactly.” Edison folded the note and stuck it in the inner pocket of his vest, then he reached for a jar of clear liquid that had anchored a corner of the paper. He held the jar up to the light still trickling in though the shuttered windows. Unlike everything else in the room, save the suicide note, it was clean and free of dust.

  “Dare we open it?” Edison shook it gently.

  “Don’t!” Ada grabbed it. Though clear, the liquid had the faintest blue tinge. The color tickled her memory. “Prussic acid.” Her breath caught in her throat, and her fingers trembled. “It’s highly flammable. And most deadly.”

  Edison removed the jar of poison from her limp fingers. “Hydrogen cyanide, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Exactly.”

  Slowly—with exquisite care—he unscrewed the lid and took a cautious sniff of the air far above the rim. “Awful. Like old socks.”

  “And almonds.” Ada blew a strong breath out of her nose, trying to flush out the foul odor. The stench was its unique marker, bitter almonds layered with the putrid sweetness of decay.

  “Instantly lethal if ingested.” He screwed the top of the jar back on. “And did you say… flammable?”

  “Its flash point is preposterously low. If it vaporizes, even warm sunlight could make it explode.”

  Edison glared down at the jar. His chest rose and fell with deep, rhythmic breaths, as if he was attempting to throw off some great emotion.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I am.” His wide shoulders trembled, then rose and fell as he heaved a great sigh. His gazed hardened. “I will be soon.”

  Ada picked up the jar. “We should take this to the police.”

  “We can’t.”

  “We most certainly can.”

  Edison gave her a strange look. “You, Mrs. Templeton, are supposed to be dead.”

  Ada gaped at the jar, horrified.

  “They were supposed to get the battery, then dispose of you.” He frowned, thinking hard. “But why do it so publicly?” He tapped a finger to his chin. “They could have dumped you somewhere you’d never be found. Why go to all this trouble?”

  “So they can claim the battery process for themselves.”

  He gazed at her, confused.

  “Given time, a good chemist could discern the precise mixture at the heart of the battery,” she explained. “If they’re not in a hurry, they don’t need me for that.”

  “Right.” Edison slapped his thigh. “If you died by your own hand, there’d be no investigation. No risk of the murderer being found out. He’d have as much time as he needed.”

  Ada hugged herself and shuddered. “Damned diabolical indeed.”

  Edison was staring down at the liquid as if it held the secrets to the Universe. Then he nodded to himself and reached for her hands, rubbing her fingers as if to infuse them with his own warmth.

  A moment later and he yanked them up to eye level. “You’re hurt!”

  Rivulets of dried blood ran between her fingers and down her wrist. It did look rather worse than she would have thought.

  She wiggled her fingers. “Hardly more than paper cuts.”

  Edison snorted. Admiration—then frightening flash of anger—crossed his handsome face. “We will find them.”

  “I know.” She pointed at the jar of acid. “You were about to say?�
��

  “It would be to our advantage for whoever’s behind this to believe he’s succeeded.”

  Ada frowned up at him, puzzled. “I don’t take your meaning.”

  Edison caught her eye, his gaze focussed and intent. “He needs to believe you’re dead.”

  * * *

  “Dead?” Ada stared down at the horrid note. The evil in it stabbed at her soul. “How will we manage that? Hard to fashion a suicide without a body.”

  For the first time since he’d burst into the dingy cottage, Edison grinned. It was a most uplifting sight. He grinned with the lightness of a schoolboy planning a particularly inventive prank and held up the jar. “We’ve got this.”

  “And?”

  “I forgot. You’re not aware.” He endeavored to look modest. “Explosions are another of my specialities.”

  Despite the terror still playing havoc with her stomach, his smile was compelling.

  Laughter bubbled up in her, lifting her up and scrubbing away some of the malevolent intent. “The flash point of prussic acid is quite low. An overly warm room could set it off.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “So a slow-burning trigger.”

  “And a way to allow the acid to vaporize before ignition. We’ll get a bigger explosion that way, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m after. The bigger the destruction, the longer it’ll take for anyone to realize there’s no body.”

  Ada nodded. It shocked her, how quickly her fear had been replaced by giddy excitement. “We must take care how we ignite it.” Formulas flew through her mind. “There are too many variables. It’ll be impossible to calculate the size of the blast.”

  “Bigger would be better.”

  A shiver of anticipation rippled through her. It would at that. She loved mucking about with chemicals, thinking through different possible reactions, puzzling out what went wrong when she didn’t get the results she’d expected.

  And to do so with a like-minded person. It was as if they were two musicians constructing a joint melody.

  Edison trod the warped floor, considering. “My man outside carries a pipe. That’ll do for a fuse. Why don’t you check the kitchen for something we can use to contain the vapors? Grab the largest pot you can find. A washtub, even a box would do.”