Venomous Secrets

by Anne Renwick

  “Thank you, Mr. Acker.”

  “Mrs. Tagert, will you wait for me in the bar?” A hint of color darkened Mr. Tagert’s cheeks. “I’ve a few more questions of a sensitive nature.”

  “Of course.” She fought the roll of her eyes as she turned away. Really, men were so sensitive about the soft and squidgy dangly bits between their legs.

  She opened the door and was met with a burst of male laughter. In the scant time they’d spent with the proprietor, a crowd of spectators for the bare-knuckle fight had gathered. The tables were full, the bar surrounded. Commerce was lively. Every man held a glass as did the few women mixed in among them.

  Those assembled were divided into two distinct groups, each taunting the other with—mostly—good-natured jeers. Two men, one per group, wore tight trousers and a loose, untucked shirt. The fighters? Given their brooding expressions and the dagger-sharp glares they threw at each other, she’d put good money on it.

  Instinct told her to hang back. Curiosity made her jostle her way through the crowd, intent upon bellying up to the bar and ordering a pint, something positive to offset the certain misery her brother’s wrath would force her to endure.

  “Is this what’s keeping us from the fight?” A man tugged at the flounce of her jacket as she passed. “A pretty piece in the back room?” He shifted, blocking her progress. “Will has no use for the likes of you anymore—they’re not going to grow back. But me?”

  “Try it,” she retorted, “and I’ll remove your full set.”

  His nearby friend laughed.

  “A dangerous woman.” He stepped closer, forcing his ale-addled breath upon her and blocking her path. “I’d like to see you try.”

  Really, it was a wonder so many men managed to keep their parts intact. But as knife skills had yet to be crossed off her list of accomplishments, she applied sharp elbows to the situation and left the lowlife behind.

  Alas, his friend trailed behind her. “Nice moves,” he commented. “Name’s Rob. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “No, thank you.” At the bar, where the lights were brighter, she dropped a coin upon the polished wood and ordered herself a pint.

  “Who’re you for?” A woman with ink-stained fingers and a rough demeanor slammed down a ledger beside Cait. She held a fountain pen, waiting. “Murphy or Gibson?”

  Cait blinked. “Um.”

  Still at her elbow, Rob raised an eyebrow and clarified. “The fighters?”

  “Of course.” Lay a bet? Why not. Maybe she could convince Mr. Tagert that they ought to linger, a most excellent chance to learn more about the rougher aspects of London. “Murphy.” Cait handed the woman a coin.

  “Name?”

  “Katherine Black.” No need to leave a written record of her presence.

  The woman scrawled Cait’s nom de guerre in her betting book then, coin pouch jingling at her hip, turned to accost another.

  “So, Kathy.” The irritation named Rob seized opportunity, sliding closer to bump his hip against hers. “If not the fight, what brings you here?”

  She climbed onto a barstool, lips twitching as her now-scowling companion arrived at her side. “Not what, but who, would be the better question.”

  “The answer is, her husband.” Mr. Tagert pressed a possessive hand to the small of her back.

  “Erhmm. I see.” Pint in hand, the man found something to interest him on the far side of the pub, then fled. It was an annoying truth that the death stare of a robust man would forever eclipse a woman’s rebuffs, verbal or otherwise.

  “Are you always so protective?” It ought to have sounded more like a criticism, except the warmth of his hand sank through layers of cloth and reached her skin, muddling her mind and stirring desires.

  “I take care of my own.”

  “Not to mention presumptive?” Lifting her glass to sip at the frothy brew, she slid her gaze sideways, enjoying the buzz of attraction that simmered between them. “Your intervention is appreciated, but he was harmless enough.”

  With her brothers rarely about, she was accustomed to looking after herself. Self-reliance was critical, was it not? Despite the ridiculous stipulation that a female agent must be married to a male agent, there was no guarantee husband and wife would always work side-by-side.

  Not that she’d object to spending copious amounts of time with a gentleman such as Mr. Tagert. Multiple possibilities of how they might enliven the inevitable long, dull hours of a mission sprang to mind.

  A keen intellect. A willingness to partner with a woman. An undeniable physical appeal. She ached to skim her fingers over the rough scrape of stubble along the hard angle of his jaw. To tug at his cravat. To press her lips to his.

  Did similar thoughts run through his own mind?

  His considering gaze suggested they might.

  What would it be like to belong to such a man? For such a man to belong to her? She winked. Only to be disappointed when his hand fell away.

  Alas, she might never know.

  Their marriage was but a game of the evening, a convenient cover. Reality was a wet blanket. He was the second son of a viscount with an older brother who was as yet childless. Far too close to the title for a Scottish woman of mixed ancestry. His family would object. Vociferously. Better to set her sights on an agent more solidly middle class.

  “Time to go.” He took the half-empty glass from her hand and set it upon the bar. “Your samples require processing.”

  “They’ll keep a few hours.” She didn’t want the evening to end, so when the door to the back room opened and excited patrons surged forward with an excited roar, she slid from her stool and flashed him a bright grin. “We should join them.”

  “No.” His lips pressed into a flat line. “I did not promise you an evening of entertainment, only an interview. We’re leaving. Home or Lister?”

  “But my bet,” she objected, moving toward the back room. “I want to watch.”

  “Cait.” His pronunciation of her name was filled with dire predictions. Had she given him permission to address her so? Well, she had claimed him as her husband. “Have a care for your reputation.”

  And wasn’t that always the refrain? She ignored him.

  A side door opened, one that led to an adjacent alleyway, and a rather odd assembly of men entered, each grasping long, sharpened sticks.

  “Shit.” Mr. Tagert’s arm snaked about her waist. He spun her about and hurried her toward the front door.

  “Who are they?” Cait craned her neck, trying to see past his broad shoulders.

  “He who survived the bite of the London Vampire!” one of the men bellowed. “We must speak with him!”

  “No one you wish to meet.” His grip tightened.

  But there would be no easy escape, for the pub door flew open. “Someone called for a priest?” A man wearing a long black robe blocked their exit. About his neck hung an overlarge, silver cross. His hand gripped a leather case.

  Cait broke into a broad grin. Ridiculous, certainly, but vastly entertaining. Gossip over tea and cakes could not hope to compare. Confined to parlors, parks and laboratories, she missed out on so much.

  The barkeep waved a rag at the men, annoyed. “Off with you. There’s a fight on, and he’s no time for such foolishness.”

  Mr. Tagert cursed again. He dropped into a chair at a nearby empty table and pulled her down beside him.

  “Why, yes, I’d love to stay,” she mocked. Such bad manners begged for immediate disobedience. “Please, do continue to treat me like a sack of potatoes.”

  “Will you be serious?” he hissed. Strong fingers gripped her chin and forced her gaze upward. “This is not the time for antics, not the time to fan flames. Do. Not. Engage.”

  “You forget I’ve a passel of troublesome brothers myself. I can handle them.” Leaning forward, she slid her hand over his cheek, delighting in the rough prickle that met her palm, and gave in to impulse. She pressed a kiss to his lips.

  For a heartbeat, the world receded. S
oft. Warm.

  Unmoving.

  Her stolen kiss was not reciprocated.

  Humiliation burned.

  Cait stood and, with effort, sauntered back to the bar to stand beside the self-styled, ale-chugging priest who had cracked open his leather case for all to admire.

  Within lay a bible. Another cross. Vials of holy water. Bulbs of garlic. Pointed stakes. A wooden mallet to drive them home.

  “Is that a vampire-hunting kit?” she asked.

  “Indeed,” he proclaimed, making the sign of the cross, all false piety. “Tonight we put the London Vampire back in his grave.”

  She laughed.

  “You doubt us?” A question directed at her by a gentleman with wild, feverish sparks dancing in his eyes. Ones she suspected might be fueled by a chemical aid. “You’re a pretty one.” He crooked his finger. “Come closer and I’ll tell you a tale that will curl your hair.”

  “Leave her be.” Jack shoved himself between them. “Take this madness home before someone innocent is injured.”

  “That’s Lord Aubrey, you wet horse blanket of moth-eaten wool. You’re the one who claimed a vampire ruined my engagement ball, so I’m here to help put the undead back in its grave before dawn.” He gave a snort, then spun about, hands wide, to address the room at large. “Has anyone with long, pointy teeth entered this evening?”

  A few sniggered. Many looked away.

  Corpse candles and grave gas. This was his brother?

  Was their cover blown?

  No, not yet. She had never met the viscount before. No reason for him to think her anymore than—what had that man called her—a cracked pitcher.

  Cait tugged at Jack’s coat sleeve. The moment called for a swift retreat. But he shrugged her off and hissed, “Stay out of this.”

  It’s a family matter.

  The words were unspoken, but hung in the air nonetheless. A sharp reminder that she would never count herself among them. She dropped her hand and backed away.

  Lord Aubrey turned back to his brother with a shrug. “Perhaps your hallucination has moved on to fresh hunting ground? Shall we try another pub?”

  Mr. Tagert’s hands fisted.

  “I dare you,” the viscount taunted. “Go ahead. It’ll be worth it, just to show the world what kind of man you are.”

  Better that she depart. That her presence was forgotten.

  While they glared at each other, Cait spun about and slipped out the front door.

  She’d lost her taste for a fight.

  Chapter Seven

  Outside, plenty of people moved about beneath bright streetlamps despite a gathering damp chill. Or had the weather been cold all along, her awareness of it driven away by warmth generated in Mr. Tagert’s presence?

  Best to stick with formality. Her mistake.

  She huffed and set off toward the main road. No use in grieving the impossible. What the evening lacked in terms of matrimonial prospects was offset by the samples tucked into the pockets of her jacket. Properly leveraged, they could win her access to the world of Queen’s agents where there were bound to be better unmarried alternative prospects.

  To that end, her first stop would be Lister Laboratories. Anticipation swelled in her chest as she imagined processing the vials of blood and testing them against her collection of venom samples and—

  Kraken.

  With the chaos of the day, she’d milked the spectacled cobra but hadn’t yet transported the venom to Lister.

  She chewed on her lip. Every sign and symptom of the so-called vampire’s bite matched those of the Naja naja. With one in her possession, she would be remiss not to include its venom in the evaluation panel.

  Home first?

  She sighed, resigning herself to the sensible decision. Refrigeration would hold the samples overnight. A good night’s rest, then directly to the laboratory at dawn.

  At the end of the short road, a gentleman alighted from a crank hack. He hustled past with a muttered, “Good evening”.

  The burly-armed driver jumped down to wind the mechanism of his crank hack. “A ride, miss?”

  “Please.”

  She stated her address and climbed inside.

  Moments later, the hack lurched into motion, clacking down the street at a swift clip. Only then did she realize she was not alone.

  A pale, oval and vaguely familiar face stared at her out of the darkness. “You’re a friend of the viscount’s brother?” The woman’s voice was a sibilant whisper.

  “I beg your pardon?” Cait blinked. Had they been followed? If an audience with Lord Aubrey was her goal, why had this woman not exited with the gentleman?

  She rapped the ceiling and called to the driver to stop. But the vehicle didn’t slow.

  Shivers of alarm rippled over Cait’s skin.

  “A colleague, perhaps?” The woman, wrapped in a dark, blood-red cape, crossed the hack to sit beside Cait. Strange gray eyes rimmed with gold edges peered at her. “Either way, you’re a lovely diversion. An unexpected stroke of luck.”

  Cait dove for the door, for its handle, but the woman leapt, sinking razor-sharp teeth into the muscle of her neck. Pain lanced through her, rippling outward from the bite in waves. In a crush of satin and petticoats, she fell to the floor.

  This wasn’t happening.

  Yes, it was. There was no denying it.

  How could this be happening?

  She could feel her body shutting down. A neurotoxin. Paralytic. In moments, she would be helpless.

  “You should be dead.” The woman reared back, hissing as she dug into an overlarge velvet bag and withdrew a monstrous, gleaming device. Hinged legs ended in claws. Its body, a solid brass core, terminated in a gaping circular mouth filled with sharp teeth. “Why are you not dead?”

  A whirring sound filled the air.

  It took every ounce of Cait’s remaining strength to lift her arm, to wrap her fingers about the cool metal of the door handle.

  This was her chance. Her only one. Else she would be found tomorrow sprawled in a gutter, the latest victim of the London Vampire. Quite probably missing a pituitary gland.

  A twist, a push, and the door swung open. Pavement whipped past.

  “No!” the woman cried.

  There was no other option. Cait heaved herself from the crank hack, careening out onto the street.

  Splash! Muddy water sloshed about her. She’d landed in a puddle. Alive for the moment, though she might yet meet her end beneath iron wheels and steel hooves.

  The crank hack never slowed as a scream pierced the air. Not one of horror, but of incredible anger.

  The frantic blowing of a whistle took its place. Was help on the way? She couldn’t turn her head to find out. All she could do was stare, limp and unblinking, into the blurry sky of London as cold water seeped into the fabric of her clothing.

  Survival wasn’t a given, even if it was a high probability. Luck wouldn’t factor into it. If her inborn immunity could carry her past the initial effects of the venom, her blood would answer many questions.

  So many questions.

  But darkness gathered in her vision and tied the drawstring tight.

  Where the hell had Cait disappeared?

  It had been all of five minutes.

  Jack pressed his hand against his jaw as he staggered out onto the street, gently opening and closing his mouth to assess the damage. A few passersby eyed him warily and steered clear, believing drink the cause of his unsteady steps.

  She’d wanted to see a fight. He’d given her one and come out victorious, even if soft food might be a requirement for the coming days.

  He’d knocked out Aubrey on his third swing. A punch that had been a long time coming. If Jack’s exit from the pub held a touch of a swagger, it was earned. By morning, the jackass that was his brother would be nursing a black eye. A most satisfying way to put an end to Aubrey’s ridiculous plans for a vampire hunt.

  Alas, Cait had not remained to witness his victory, his own rude wor
ds the cause. He owed her an apology.

  He glanced at the inky shadows of the alley that ran alongside The Hissing Cockatrice, but refused to believe Cait would be so stupid as to venture there alone. No, she would have made her way to the end of the street and hailed a hack.

  Compelled to ensure she safely reached her destination, be it home or Lister Laboratories, he followed. As he turned the corner onto Garrick Street, the sound of blasting whistles pierced the air.

  Shit.

  He broke into a sprint. Most wouldn’t worry. But this was Cait. Reckless and brave.

  In the distance, traffic flowed around a crumpled form in the street. A nearby streetlamp cast its soft glow over shimmering copper and blue fabric. Onlookers gathered, barely heeding the constable’s orders to step back.

  Lungs heaving, Jack pushed past them all, dropping to his knees at Cait’s side.

  “Sir!”

  “She’s my wife.” Once again, he staked claim for the sake of expediency. As the constable backed away, he ran his hands over her body, searching for broken bones and, thankfully, finding none.

  Her eyes flickered open, shut. “Bitten,” she whispered. Her head lolled away, exposing two red and angry puncture wounds.

  Hunted and brought down by the very creature they stalked this evening? The coincidence was too strong to dismiss, but one he was not interested in exploring at the moment. All but one victim had died.

  He gathered her limp form—wet and muddy—into his arms and stood. “A crank hack,” he ordered the constable. “Now. I’ll see her to the hospital posthaste.”

  “Yes, sir!” With a nod, the policeman set about flagging down a vehicle.

  “Not Lister.” Cait dragged in a shallow breath and wheezed her next words on an exhale. “Must stay secret. My bite.”

  “Not possible, Cait.” He gave the Lister Institute’s address to the wide-eyed driver with instructions to hurry, then heaved them both into the crank hack. “Lister provides the best care in all of London.”