by Anne Renwick
The beginnings of a headache nagged, helped along by renewed problems with his vision. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. Tormenting his younger brother was a pastime of which Aubrey never tired. It was, however, the first time he had taken personal grievances into the public arena.
“None of this would have seen print if your cherished viscount hadn’t given my name to the press.” Jack addressed the comment to his mother, but locked eyes with his brother—who bared his teeth in the mockery of a smile, pleased to have thrown a wrench into spokes.
There would be no escaping the newspapermen now. With their stubby pencils and dingy notebooks, they would hound Jack’s every step during this investigation, all in an attempt to learn the name of the “dark-haired mysterious woman that brought brothers to blows”.
“There is no secret marriage.” Bitterness seethed beneath the surface of his words. Nor could there be a secret partnership. Not now. Any contact between them within the walls of the Lister Institute might be remarked upon, passed along, or otherwise spoken of within range of the sharp ears of newspapermen. It was too much of a risk. If Cait was identified, her reputation would be shredded in black and white for all of London to read.
His brother’s interference had compromised plans to catch this venomous creature and put an end to the ghastly murders. Hell, the duke would be wise to assign another agent to this investigation, though Jack would do anything he could to remain in charge.
Which might prove an impossibility, what with Black’s wrath fully unleashed.
In the small hours of the night, well past the hour when Jack had most feared for Cait’s life, Black had slammed into his apartments. “Where is she? What happened?”
Holding his hands in the air, Jack opened with, “Your sister was attacked by the London Vampire. But she’s going to be fine.”
A minor miracle, that. The fine satin jacket she’d worn was a flimsy barrier, easily peeled aside to expose the smooth column of her neck. And, given the deep puncture wounds and the rapid onset of paralysis, the creature had delivered a deadly dose of venom into Cait’s bloodstream. Yet—against the odds—she’d survived.
Jack’s contribution to that was, in the scheme of things, minimal. A few moments of rescue breathing when her chest had ceased to rise and fall. She’d rallied, heart and lungs returning quickly to normal function. Not so his own. A full hour had passed before his own racing heart had settled from the scare.
Bedside, Jack had issued a detailed report while Black peeled back the covers, staring at the irrefutable proof of said attack.
“It was necessary to remove her corset to allow her to breathe,” Jack had hastened to point out, choosing to omit any mention of assisted respiration.
“I’ll allow that, but why is she here?” Black had asked, his eyes steely. “In the Albany, in your bed. She ought to be in her own.”
Wary, Jack had chosen his words carefully. “She refused transport to Lister Hospital, insisting they could not be allowed to learn her secret.”
Of an extreme tolerance for poisons.
Would the top agent elaborate?
No. Black’s impenetrable stare had volunteered nothing, save a promise of extreme pain should he find the slightest impropriety in her treatment.
“She indicated you were aware of her… condition, then lost consciousness.” Jack had tossed his hands in the air and given an exasperated huff. “Without knowing her address—”
“You sent for me. And brought her,” Black’s lips had twisted, “here.”
“The Albany is known for its discretion,” Jack had stated. “I feared for her life. By rights, your sister ought to be dead.”
“A thousand times over,” Black had groused.
Regardless of how or why the creature had come to be outside The Hissing Cockatrice, to put a final end to Mr. Acker or by stalking Jack, she’d found Cait to be a convenient target, and laid hands and teeth upon a woman who was supposed to be under his protection.
Memories of a moonlit chase through a garden flooded back. The poisonous female had outmaneuvered him. Easily. She was not some mindless monster, but cunning, clever and quick. A predator undeterred by pursuit.
Jack had opened his mouth. Shut it. His suggestion would be unwelcome. If Black wanted his sister properly trained for fieldwork, he would have seen it done.
“The reports of castration are fascinating—and likely relevant.” The agent had thrown him a dark glance that promised Jack the same, should Cait—upon awakening—claim he had taken any liberties. “But we have a new and more pressing issue. This not-a-vampire will be angry and vindictive when she learns her latest victim has survived.”
All of London would know, for the great printing presses had been hard at work, churning out news of the attack, of Jack’s secret marriage.
Nothing good would come of this. Personally or professionally.
Scowling, Black had given him orders through a clenched jaw. “You’ll take no further actions until I’ve discussed the situation with the duke.”
Confronting his family didn’t count, for it resolved not a single thing. Antagonism. Opposition. Outright conflict. All normal family relations. Once, his father and Angela would have stood in his corner, but his father’s fondness for the opium pipe had landed him in an early grave and his sister was trapped by the North Sea.
He glowered at the paper his mother had slapped against his chest, wondering if Black had managed to bundle his sister onto a steam train bound for Glasgow.
“Really, Mother, this is the perfect opportunity.” Aubrey stood, circling around the desk.
Jack didn’t like the unholy gleam in his brother’s eyes. “No.”
Nothing good ever came from one of Aubrey’s offhand suggestions. Such as the time he and Angela had been caught smoking cigars. The blame had landed squarely on him—and Aubrey had suggested the punishment.
Weeks, near to an entire summer, locked inside with a tutor learning Greek that he might read Plato’s work in the original. Torture, even if it was a skill that later served him well upon his application to the Lister School of Medicine.
Mother brightened. “A swift marriage,” she eyed her spare son sideways, “has always been the preferred solution to a sullied reputation.”
Aubrey grinned. “How many dark-haired, young eligible ladies do you know, Mother?”
She sniffed. “Precious few who would be caught at a notorious pub. But we only need find a single lady willing to claim she is ready to accept the consequences of her actions.”
“Wonderful.” The word tore from between his gritted teeth. “What man does not wish to be painted in such dark shades for his wedding portrait?”
His mother sent him an arched look. “Like oil on canvas, if the hue fits… And it’s time you were wed. You’re far past your prime.”
“I’m three years younger than Aubrey!” Though he might well be dead—or worse—inside a month. But that was a weakness he refused to touch upon. Of late, he’d pushed the idea of taking a wife from his mind—until he’d caught sight of Cait sprawled across his bed.
Mother snorted. “As I said, aging. Any day now, your hair might recede and damage your physical appeal.” She pulled Debrett’s from the shelf and carried it to a writing table, where she began flipping through its pages. “This will require some thought.”
“Stop right there.” He refused to allow them to provoke him further.
His mother scratched a name upon the paper before her.
Aubrey sniggered.
“You’re wasting your time.” Jack tossed the newspaper aside. “I will not be forced into an arranged marriage.”
“Married to your work, are you?” His brother called as Jack stalked from the library.
He was indeed. Unless—or until—the Duke of Avesbury issued an official decree of divorce.
Muscles whimpered in gratitude and joints moaned in relief as Cait lowered herself into the warm, welcoming water of
a deep, porcelain tub. Gravity ceded its grip and moist heat worked its magic, all aided and abetted by the handfuls of magnesium salt crystals Janet tossed into the bath. Sighing, she closed her eyes.
Not that there was to be any rest and relaxation for the newly bitten. She was in a pickle and could not see her way out of the barrel.
Slap! A soggy mass landed upon her shoulder at the crook of her neck.
Cait dragged a sharp breath in through her teeth as the contents of a poultice wrapped in damp cheesecloth seeped out over the still raw skin surrounding the puncture wounds. “Ouch! What’s in this one, stinging nettle?” She sniffed. “Do I smell garlic? She’s not a vampire, no matter what that horrible woman wishes people to believe.”
“A little faith,” Janet scolded. “Keeps the scarring to a minimum, does it not? Spiders, vipers, jellyfish and snails were too prosaic? You thought to add a venomous human to the list of creatures who’ve left their mark, yet not managed to kill you?” The maid poured warm water over Cait’s hair, rinsing away the dirt and grime of last night’s mud puddle before applying a generous amount of soap. “Secure I am in my employment, for I know I’ll be following you to your new home.”
Cait had gasped when she’d caught a glimpse of her neck in the mirror. Though the swelling had already subsided, it had left behind angry, ulcerated tissue an inch in diameter. Poultice or not, there was certain to be an ugly scar.
She cracked an eye open. “If I’m going anywhere, it’s back to Glasgow.”
“Not if your mother has her way. While you slept, she penned a dozen missives and sent them winging across London.” More water poured over Cait’s head. “Given Cook’s mutterings as she fired up the pastry automaton, I expect you are to be auctioned off to the highest bidder at tomorrow afternoon’s tea.”
“Determined to push, pull or drag me to the altar to see me safely shackled to a gentleman before the press uncovers my name?”
“Indeed, miss.”
Her mother’s various plots and schemes to marry off a troublesome daughter were old hat, easily foiled and unworthy of concern. Who and when and if Cait wed was not something she would let one or both of her parents direct.
Such was not the cause of her mind’s mad scramble.
Cait had read the newspapers and gossip rags over tea and dry toast. It was all she’d been able to force down her throat, dropping into the pit of her stomach like a lump of wet cement.
One particular reporter had traced “Mrs. Tagert’s” every step—from the moment she’d arrived at the coroner’s office until her “husband” had scooped her from the London streets and whisked her away. As yet, the newspaperman hadn’t been able to locate the crank hack driver who had conveyed her to the coroner’s office. Her identity was safe. For now.
Did it matter anymore?
An unnatural heaviness settled upon her despite the buoyancy of the warm water. Years of intense study, hard work, and exertion to move against society’s unrelenting current, one that sought to keep women out of academia and the Queen’s service—yet her progress? Barely measurable.
It was only a matter of time before she received a summons to appear before the Duke of Avesbury. Logan had promised her as much. Rather than advancing in her desired profession by showing initiative, Cait feared she’d damaged it beyond repair.
Jack, however, might survive her blunder by throwing his hands in the air and recounting her obstinate insistence that she visit the pub. Only a foolish woman would exit such an establishment—alone—storming off into the dark of night in a fit of temper where any number of dangers lurked, including a venomous creature.
Already a Queen’s agent, she predicted he would suffer no career-ending sanctions.
Unfair, really. Had she not convinced a reluctant victim to part with several vials of blood? Flung herself from a moving carriage? Suffered through the horrible effects of a deadly venom to awake with thoughts of how she might study the anomaly that was her own plasma for the benefit of others?
Had Alec or Quinn disobeyed orders yet pulled off such antics, there would have been a slap on the wrist, grudging praise, and a casual “carry on” dismissal whereupon they would return to duties as usual. All while their superior contemplated how to better employ such bright, new stars.
Not so for a woman. Instead, everyone pretended their greatest concern was for her so-called reputation. Such double standards.
Pfft. As if her character mattered in the eyes of London society.
The daughter of a baron, her mother had debuted in ton society and made her curtsy to the queen but, to date, all her mother’s attempts to ingratiate her daughter among the city’s elite were for naught. There was, of course, the nature of Cait’s questionable heritage—always a topic for speculation. Nor did it help that her legal father, the wealthy Mr. McCullough, was chronically absent. But she suspected that, here in the Big Smoke, it was the whispers about her mother’s past that caused the lords and ladies to distance themselves. Something to do with a footman and a linen closet.
Cait shuddered. She didn’t wish to know anything more about that incident.
“I’ve a conundrum, Janet.” She flexed her joints, working to stretch and massage stiff muscles back into compliance. Discouraged as she was, laying about the townhome accomplished nothing. Time to take action. “If there’s to be any hope of remaining in London, of continuing my work at Lister, I need to return to the laboratories.”
Before someone revoked her access to the Ichor Machine. Only there could she test both her blood and the tavern keeper’s against the creature’s venom. Thank aether the vials had not shattered during the attack.
Jack, as brilliant as he was handsome, had swabbed the bite wound at her neck before rinsing it clean. Eyes filled with burning questions, he’d slipped her a note along with a corked vial holding a ball of absorbent cotton—all while Mother and Logan bickered over the merits of exiting via the front of the Albany versus slipping out the back via the ropewalk.
A Queen’s agent and trained physician, he’d been quick to take decisive action. The man would have made a wonderful partner. Husband. She ran a hand over a dull ache that lodged itself beneath her ribcage and sighed. There was no hope for it. He was beyond her reach. Not only was she not his social equal, but her attempt to arouse him with a kiss had been a miserable failure.
Still, he’d honored her wish to avoid a hospital, even if he had summoned Logan. There was no choice but to forgive him for that decision. With her stuttering breath and near-paralysis, the venomous woman had brought her to the perilous edge of death and given her a push.
Janet lifted the edge of the poultice and frowned. “The tissue surrounding the wound is red and angry. You need to rest. Let it heal, or you risk infection.”
“I’ll be fine.” She set aside the poultice and stood, letting water stream down her body.
“You were unconscious and at the mercy of others.” Janet handed her a linen towel as she climbed from the tub, then followed Cait back into her bedroom. “If Mr. Tagert hadn’t come to his senses and followed you—”
“But he did.”
For her maid’s sanity, for her mother’s and Logan’s and—quite frankly—her own, she refused to recount a blurry memory of Jack bent over her prone body, lips sealed to hers as he forced air into her lungs. Of her lurching upright only to vomit over the edge of his bed before sinking back into unconsciousness.
Humiliation burned. But Janet was right. He’d saved her life, earning her undying gratitude and respect, however grudgingly she might bestow it.
Disconcerting to realize there was a limit to her tolerance of biotoxins, but lesson learned. Next time—should there ever be one—she’d proceed with more caution.
Never before had she been reliant upon another for survival. Under normal, experimental conditions, Cait increased her dose of poison by small increments. This was the first time she’d experienced a complete envenomation by a predator intent upon killing its prey.
While he’d slept, she’d shot herself twice in the leg. Three darts would kill a man and, therefore, most certainly a woman.
Stopwatch in hand, she’d spent the night flat on her back, cold and alone. Staring at the pipes and cobwebs that hung from the ceiling of her basement laboratory for hours, waiting for her body to clear the toxin, for her limbs to work once more. By dawn, she’d recovered.
Six hours from inoculation until recovery.
She’d recorded the time in her notes. Then shot herself with the remaining dart.
Much to her delight, she’d experienced not even the slightest of effects, and now counted herself immune to the effects of her brother’s favorite weapon.
Logan hadn’t been as pleased with the results. There had been much yelling.
She smiled at the memory.
Then sobered. Last night’s experience had been terrifying.
Yet she’d survived. And there was every reason to believe that she was now immune to the creature’s bite, even if the act of slipping on a clean chemise made the muscles of her arms groan in protest.
“A corded corset will suffice today,” Cait said. “No boning.”
“I should think so.” Janet slapped lint and sticking plaster onto the dressing table, her disapproval clear. “The purple gown with the high neck and the simple bodice.”
“A few hours in the laboratory is not overly taxing.”
“As you say.” Janet might not stop her, but neither would she condone such an imprudent decision.
But if Cait wished to retain her position at the Lister Institute, to remain—however peripherally—on the case, she would need to generate compelling data. Prove her value. Demonstrate that she was irreplaceable. A shrinking window of opportunity existed that would close the minute the duke issued his summons.