When he deemed the pressure sufficient, he signaled to Ivy with a nod. She drew a breath and, with the same care he had used, flipped the lever to its open position. Within seconds the generator’s coils began to glow, and soon tiny bolts of light flickered between them. The gears began to turn, the pistons to pump, the center beam to dip and rise, the wheels to rotate. Even at this power level, a tingling sensation traveled up Simon’s arms. He locked the valve in place and joined Ben and Lowbry at their demonstration table.
“All is ready,” he told them.
Ben dipped a bow toward their mystified audience. His hands insulated with the cork-lined gloves, he took up the longest and thickest of the wires. He paused to gesture to the footmen ranged along the walls, one at each sconce. “May we have darkness, please?”
As Ben had arranged beforehand, the sconces were extinguished all at once. But for the incandescent glow of the generator’s coils, a dramatic blackness draped the room. The drone of voices added a suspenseful note to the generator’s hums, ticks, and whirs. Ben raised his gloved hands. “Gentlemen, please direct your attention to the globes on the table.”
With that, he moved to the generator and hooked the wire he held to the energy output terminal. Dimly, the first of the globes began to glow. Then the carbonized threads began to sparkle and brighten. A glimmer blossomed in the second globe, and so on until all five burned so brightly they lit up that end of the ballroom as if daylight poured through the darkened windows.
The effect was startling. An uproar of excitement went up, echoing against the ballroom’s lofty ceiling. The audience pressed closer to view Ben’s small miracle, and Simon’s instincts sprang to the alert.
Seeing the potential for a regrettable accident, he hurried around the table and attempted to hold the crowd at a safe distance. He briefly glimpsed Alistair’s, Colin’s, and the Earl of Barensforth’s alarmed faces as they, too, attempted to restore order. In the next instant, a thunderous crack rent the air and a burst of energy shoved Simon into the crush.
Glass shattered; darkness fell. An eruption of panic ensued. Simon took elbow jabs to the ribs, shoves from behind. From near him came a sharp grunt. A man fell against his chest and they both went down, knocking into others who had the misfortune to be pressed too closely. Simon hit the floor. When he attempted to roll to his feet, he discovered his chest pinned by a considerable weight. Shouts of “Candles, please!” echoed above his head. The acrid scent of smoke burned his throat and started him coughing.
Finally, a wavering pool of light angled across the ballroom, emanating from a single sconce. Soon another and another added their glow, restoring visibility and a semblance of order. As the clamor subsided, Simon realized he could no longer hear the hum of the generator. Ivy must have rushed to close the steam valves, then tossed the insulated canvas over the apparatus to cut the power. Again Simon attempted to sit up but found himself held fast by the individual who had fallen facedown across his torso.
“Sir?” He gave a nudge but received no response. The fellow’s arm slid limply, his hand hitting the floor with a thump. Simon’s own hand came in contact with something wet . . . warm. . . . “I say, sir, are you hurt?” He raised his voice to a shout. “Will someone help us, please?”
A moment later several pairs of hands lifted the unconscious man from Simon’s chest and laid him gently faceup on the floor. Someone offered a bundled coat to place beneath his head. Sir Alistair crouched at his side.
Dazed and winded, Simon sat up. He craned his neck to see around Alistair’s shoulder. “Who is that?” Alistair shifted, and the youthfulness of the fallen man’s insensible features struck Simon a blow of surprise. Pockmarked skin stretched taut and ashen across a bull-shaped face—a face he knew.
The student who had playfully tackled Ivy that day in Second Court.
Though he was aware of Colin kneeling beside him and asking if he was all right, the wetness dripping from Simon’s hand drew the whole of his attention, as did the stain spreading like a rose across his coat.
“Colin,” he said quietly, his insides turning to ice, “tell Alistair to check for a pulse.”
“It’s so frightfully dreadful.” Ivy winced at the inadequacy of her words to convey the horror of Preston Ascot’s sudden death. She and Jasper Lowbry sat side by side halfway up the curving staircase, awaiting their turns to be questioned by the local magistrate.
Jasper sat pale and staring, his eyes large and shadowed. With a shudder, he set his elbows on his knees and propped his chin in his hands. “If only our illumination globes hadn’t exploded. Then the lights wouldn’t have gone out and poor Preston wouldn’t have tripped and hit his head. Funny, his hitting his head that way ...”
Remembering that Jasper and Preston had attended Eton together, she placed a hand on his shoulder. “You mustn’t blame yourself. If anything ...”
Her own sense of guilt rising up in a choke hold, she couldn’t continue. She and Simon had worked for days to match the calculations Dean Rivers had given him. What had caused the power surge—what?
Jasper lifted his face. “First Spencer. Now Preston ...”
“But the authorities believe someone murdered Spencer, whereas tonight’s tragedy was surely an accident. Jasper, you don’t think . . . ?”
“I expect we’ll learn the answer to that soon enough.” His expression pinched, Jasper returned his chin to his palms.
Ivy gazed through the newel posts at the closed dining hall doors. The inquiries were being conducted inside, and Simon had been detained for the better part of an hour. Poor Preston had fallen on top of Simon, so naturally the constables wished to question him about everything he remembered immediately prior to the incident.
For the umpteenth time, she uttered a silent prayer of thanks that Simon hadn’t been injured.
“Pack your things. We’re leaving at once.”
Ivy faced back around to discover Aidan looming at the base of the staircase and staring daggers up at her.
“Now, Ned.”
Beside her, Jasper raised his head and took Aidan’s measure. In a murmur clearly intended for Ivy’s ears only, he asked, “Is this ill-mannered chap speaking to you?”
“ ’Fraid so,” she whispered back.
“Who the devil does he think he is, ordering you about?”
Aidan gripped the banister and placed one menacing foot on the bottom step. “To whom do you intend to listen, me or the insolent whelp sitting beside you?”
Jasper went rigid, a muscle dancing in his cheek. Before he could fling a caustic quip back at Aidan, Ivy pressed her hand to his coat sleeve. “Jasper, this is my brother-in-law.” Louder she said, “Lord Barensforth, may I present Mr. Jasper Lowbry. He was a close friend of the deceased.”
The antagonism instantly drained from both men’s bearing. Aidan ascended the steps and extended his hand. “I’m sorry. Truly.”
Jasper accepted his handshake with a nod.
“But my purpose remains the same. Ned, go and pack your bags. Now, if you please. Mr. Lowbry, you are welcome to ride back to Cambridge with us.”
At that precise moment, the dining room door opened and Simon stepped out. The sight of him jabbed straight at Ivy’s heart, for he looked much as he did that day she found him on the floor of his laboratory: beaten and pallid and utterly lost. That Preston Ascot’s death pressed heavily upon his conscience showed in the brackets of pain surrounding his mouth, the hollow disbelief in his eyes. Ivy longed to go to him, yearned to hold him and be held by him. . . .
“There is no need for anyone to pack their bags,” he said in a monotone drained of all energy.
“I disagree.” Aidan rounded on Simon as if readied for battle. “I intend getting my brother-in-law away from this place as swiftly as possible.”
“I am afraid that will not be possible, not just yet.” Alistair Granville appeared on the threshold beside Simon.
For once, Windgate Priory’s owner appeared less than his elegant best
, a happenstance he quickly sought to put to rights by buttoning his brocade coat and straightening his silk neckcloth. “The authorities have declared the house essentially sealed until they discover how Preston Ascot died. Until then, no one but the constables will be permitted in or out. You will all therefore remain my guests until further notice.”
At this pronouncement, Aidan’s demeanor changed, and as he approached Simon and Sir Alistair, it was with the shrewd look of a Home Office agent rather than with the hostility of an indignant brother-in-law. “They believe he was murdered, then?”
“The coroner judged the head wound to be indicative of a blow from a heavy object with a pitted surface,” Simon told him. His eyes fell closed for a moment. “The weapon bashed in a portion of Ascot’s skull and left a ragged lesion.”
Ivy surged to her feet. “Isn’t that how Spencer Yates was killed?”
Exhaustion dragged at Simon’s broad shoulders. He nodded, his head dipping low. “It appears there is a killer among us, one with a penchant for ending the lives of promising young science students.”
When the day mercifully reached its end, Simon wasted no time in retiring to his chambers. Ivy had gone up a few minutes ahead of him. Now as he strode determinedly through his guest quarters, shedding his coat, cravat, and waistcoat as he went, he found her in the adjacent dressing room, clad in her gentlemen’s nightshirt and climbing into her narrow bed.
“No, Ivy. Not tonight.”
“I don’t understand.”
He said nothing more until he’d swept her into his arms. “Here is where I need you.” He pressed his face to hers. “Here is where I must have you.”
Turning about, he retraced his steps into the bedroom. She didn’t struggle, but stared at him with large eyes and said, “But, Simon, my brother-in-law. Should he find out ...”
“The worst he can do is challenge me to a duel, and the authorities have already confiscated every weapon in the house.”
Her fist closed over the back of his shirt. “Don’t jest. Aidan is ferociously protective—”
“So am I.”
“Yes, well, what’s more, he is perfectly capable of making your life a misery. He is an earl, after all, and has a great deal of influence.”
“Yes, and I am a marquess. I therefore win.”
He reached the bed and set her down. She started to raise another protest; he leaned low and kissed her into silence. Against her lips, he said, “None of that matters. I need you in my arms tonight. A young man—a boy, really—lies dead and I cannot help but feel at least partly responsible. I—”
Her delicate fingers slid up to press his lips and stop his words. “This could not have been foreseen. It wasn’t your fault. There is a murderer—”
“And I provided him with the perfect opportunity to kill again. It was my generator that malfunctioned and threw the room into darkness. If not for that—”
“Simon! Do you realize what you just said?” Her voice trilled with agitation. “The malfunctioning generator provided the murderer with his opportunity. Do you not see the significance? The power surge was no accident or miscalculation on our part. The guilty party must have tampered with the equipment.”
Simon’s thoughts had raced at a frenzied pace ever since he’d sat up in the ballroom and discovered Preston Ascot’s blood on his hand and coat. Now they skidded to a dizzying halt. “Can it be possible?”
She gave an emphatic nod. “You’ve been so guilt-ridden, you didn’t stop to consider the obvious. Thank goodness I’m here to offer a fresh perspective.”
“I’m not glad. Galileo’s teeth, not glad at all.” Sitting beside her, he pulled her into his lap and enveloped as much of her as he could within his arms.
“Dear God, Ivy, when the magistrate declared it a murder, I thought I’d go out of my mind with fear for you. Why did I bring you here? Why did I keep you in my employ when I knew full well I should have sent you straight home to your family? I’d give anything now to see you ride away with your brother-in-law rather than have you remain within reach of a madman.”
“I am not going anywhere,” she whispered into his shirtfront. “A loyal assistant does not abandon her master.”
With a burst of bittersweet laughter he collapsed onto his back, bringing her down with him to cover his chest.
Her face hovered above his, her curls framing a sober expression. “An unsettling thought just entered my mind.”
“Go on.”
“Simon, do you suppose there could be a connection between your sister’s flight from London and these murders?”
He sat back up, matching her rumpled brow with a frown of his own. He had entertained this exact thought following Spencer Yates’s death—entertained it and immediately dismissed it. Or nearly so . . .
“No,” he said firmly. “I do not suppose. How can you even suggest my sister had anything to do with such heinous acts?”
“I’m sorry. But it is a rather extraordinary coincidence. And consider the object believed to be the murder weapon. Has it not crossed your mind that it could be the very stone your sister took from the queen?”
“Bloody hell, Ivy ...”
“I’m not inferring that Gwendolyn is a murderess. I am only suggesting that we must consider the possibility that her actions and these crimes are somehow related. Perhaps in the morning we should—”
Once again he kissed her to stop the words. He’d heard enough, lived through enough, for one day. Yes, perhaps come morning they should . . . He didn’t know what. For reasons he couldn’t name, the thought of tomorrow filled him with dread. In the few short hours remaining to the night, he needed simply to hold on to Ivy and know she was safe. And he needed peace, the sort of peace only she seemed capable of bringing him.
“No more words,” he commanded in a whisper.
Her eyes filling with tenderness, she nodded. He stripped off her nightshirt and pulled back the bedclothes.
In the morning, Ivy slipped out of Simon’s bed before he awoke. She wished to be dressed and fully occupied by the time Aidan rose, in order to avoid questions he might ask concerning where she had spent the night.
She thought it a small miracle that he hadn’t already brought the subject up, but perhaps present circumstances had rendered that subject one he preferred to avoid. Though an uninvited guest, he was, as an earl, an honored one, and there had been a great fuss and a good deal of guest shifting last night in order to oblige him with a suitable room.
Without bothering to light a lamp or stoke the fire, she dressed hurriedly, shivering in the predawn chill. The corridors of Windgate Priory were deserted, the morning room empty but for the footmen preparing the buffet for the guests. A pot of hot coffee and a platter of scones and muffins waited on a sideboard. Ivy helped herself to a warm blueberry scone and poured a cup of coffee.
She wandered back upstairs, drawn by the comfort of the cushioned settee in Sir Alistair’s library. On her way along the corridor earlier, she’d heard voices inside. Good. The magistrate had left a warning yesterday that no one, especially the assistants, should wander the house alone. Was the killer intent on preying upon the students, or had Yates’s and Ascot’s deaths been a coincidence? The constables still weren’t certain, and so urged everyone to have a care.
Holding her scone between her teeth, she reached to open the library door. A sudden shout from inside startled her, and her cup slipped from her grasp. It shattered against the floor and sent up a spray of hot liquid that hit her legs like tiny flames. The scone slipped from her mouth to bounce on the edge of the carpet. From inside the room came a loud thud, a sound all too reminiscent of last night’s events.
For a second she wavered between bursting inside and retreating to the morning room to seek help. A slam from inside sent her over the threshold at top speed. Then she stopped so suddenly her boots slipped on the Aubusson rug. Across the room, in front of a roaring hearth fire, Jasper Lowbry lay prone and unconscious.
Chapter 22
“Thank goodness he’salive.”Ivy dropped her face into her hands, trying in vain to banish the image of Jasper Lowbry lying sprawled in the library rug, a mere few feet from where she now sat. From behind the desk, Inspector Scott, chief investigator for the Cambridge Borough Police, busily scribbled down every word she uttered, even those last.
Upon bursting into the library about an hour ago, Ivy had recognized Jasper by his wavy hair, and her heart had rocketed into her throat. She’d immediately fallen to her knees beside him and dipped her fingers into the bloodied patch at the back of his head. The source of the flow proved to be a shallow gash, and when Jasper had let out a tortured groan, relief had cascaded through her in dizzying torrents.
After he’d been revived and seen by the physician from the village, the authorities had questioned him. No, he had neither seen nor heard a thing. He’d been standing in front of the fire warming his hands when a dreadful pain had threatened to split his skull in two. The next thing he knew, he’d come to with Ned Ivers’s anxious face hovering above his own.
When asked why he had been in the library alone, he said he had come here with his master, Benjamin Rivers, who had left him to retrieve a book from his room. With his head carefully bandaged and a laudanum-laced tonic having been administered, Jasper was now sleeping comfortably in his bed.
“Is there anything more you would like to add to what you’ve told me so far?” The inspector, a round-faced man with a mustache, whose spectacles gave him an owlish appearance, dipped his quill and eyed Ivy expectantly.
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