Venomous Secrets

by Anne Renwick

  “Rats,” Cait scoffed. “Even if you drained one dry, you’d be lucky to collect thirty-five milliliters of blood.” She rolled onto her side to adjust a dial and peer through a small glass window. “Setting aside the complications of interspecies transfusions, one rat—or even ten—wouldn’t generate nearly enough antivenin from my plasma to save an adult human, even if I did have a vial of Helena’s venom with which I might inoculate the beady-eyed creatures.”

  A muscle jumped at Black’s jaw. “If CEAP was to catch wind of your unusual capabilities—”

  “Were you not listening?” She twisted a knob and the humming and whirling began to subside. “I neither encouraged the lamia to bite me, nor the mad scientist to set his morphophídia upon me. I will not, however, fail to take advantage of recent events, however traumatic. I can easily spare one hundred milliliters. We can’t afford to be caught in another situation where a supply of antivenin might mean the difference between life and death.”

  An artery throbbed at Black’s temple. “You expect a confrontation?”

  “No agent worth her salt would fail to prepare for one.” Cait swung her legs over the side of the table and pulled the needle from her arm. She held Jack’s gaze as she spoke her next words. “It’s the only hope of saving the next person she attacks.” Concern filled her eyes.

  His heart hammered against his ribs as he closed the space between them to brush his fingers over her face. A brief caress before he reached for cotton to press into the crook of her arm, flexing her elbow to stem the flow of blood.

  Was it too soon to have fallen in love?

  Traditions, after all, were not for them. There’d been flirtations, but no flowers. Instead, they’d moved straight to danger and drugs.

  “I’ve new information myself,” he told Cait.

  Her eyes sharpened. “About Aubrey?”

  “Not yet.” He ground the words out. “He managed to slither away during the aftermath.” Jack recounted the incident at Sharp’s and Mr. Garlock’s assertions. Cait gaped, wide-eyed as he shared the details about the wife’s tea party. “If the venom negatively impacts female lamia fertility—”

  “It circles us back to the question of Helena’s presumed infertility,” she said. “Her first goal is to conceive a child.” She closed her eyes. “It all keeps circling back to fertility. Explain the pituitary gland again?”

  “As an organ, it has a poorly-defined yet clear role in glandular diseases and a nebulous influence upon reproduction,” Jack said. “What if Helena—or the Lamian race, if you will—has a primitive understanding of its connection to the proper functioning of the female reproductive system?”

  “With very real, practical applications?” Cait tapped her lips. “You’re proposing that, as a consequence of constantly swallowing the venom produced by their modified salivary glands, lamiae suppress their reproductive abilities, such that their own pituitary glands’ excretions are not sufficient to overcome the inhibition. Thus, to reproduce—”

  “They must collect and administer a pituitary extract to stimulate their own reproductive cycle,” Jack finished.

  “Female pituitary glands to augment female fertility?” Black looked like he’d swallowed a live frog.

  “It’s known as organotherapy.” Cait grimaced. “The treatment of a disease state using an extract of the same organ procured from a healthy animal, in this case humans.”

  Jack lifted a finger. “Close. Organotherapy is an antiquated term. The focus now is upon the secretions that glands produce, then release into the blood stream. To date, isolated glandular extracts have been used to treat a number of diseases. For example, it’s established fact that extract of cock’s testicle can, not by consumption, but by injection into a man’s veins, elicit an extraordinary rejuvenating effect.”

  Still a bit green about the gills, Black snorted. “You’re proposing the lamia cultivates a chosen partner, then follows the extract with a nip from her venomous fangs to ensure enthusiastic consummation.”

  Jack’s face burned. “Yes.”

  “Whereas a woman can use the venom to suppress fertility.” Blood rose to Cait’s cheeks, and she moved the conversation along. “Delaying unwanted motherhood that she might enjoy relations, marital or otherwise, without worry.”

  She stood, opened a glass window set into the Haimatos Separation Machine, lifted out the flask within, then crossed to a workbench. Carefully, she pipetted a clear, yellowish fluid into amber glass vials.

  “To summarize,” Black began, “we believe this creature arrived upon our shores, established herself as an actress, providing her easy access to randy men. Failing to conceive with ease, she seeks out her fellow countryman, Dr. Thrakos, a mad scientist without moral compass who is known for his mechano-surgical creations. He devises a pituitary extractor, enabling her to collect the gland with relative ease.”

  Nodding, Jack took up the narrative. “In exchange, she allows him to culture cells from a biopsy of her venom glands. Together, they devise a scheme to enrich their coffers. They approach Dr. Oakes, a physician with many clients among the ton and friends such as my brother and Carruthers, who agree to invest in their scheme.”

  “Together, they enter into business,” Black said. “The Grand Menwith Hotel and Spa, complete with a manufactured venomous massage therapist.”

  “Whilst Dr. Thrakos constructs morphophídia, snakes who can be milked for their venom. A side venture peddled to women who no longer wish to bear children.”

  “A plausible scenario.” Cait opened a small, metal canister. Cold fog wafted forth from its interior as she inserted two now-sealed amber vials filled with antivenin beside a glass syringe. “Once Helena conceives, the murders may well stop. At least for some nine months.”

  “Making her impossible to trace,” Black grumbled.

  Cait snapped the container closed and clipped it to her belt. She gave Jack a confident nod. “Shall we hunt a lamia?”

  Jack caught her hand, drew her close and kissed her forehead, resisting the urge to fully embrace her in the company of her brother.

  His wife was immune. Not so him. Or any other.

  The kit she’d prepared might well save the life of the next person Helena attacked. His wife, always planning two steps ahead. His. Was it wrong to take such pride in her when he’d done nothing to win her hand? A thought to explore later, once this investigation was behind them.

  “By now my brother will have poured Carruthers from his carriage and, one hopes, returned home.” He tucked Cait’s hand into the crook of his arm.

  “Time to introduce your bride to your family?” Mischief danced in his wife’s eyes.

  He pulled a face. “It won’t be pleasant, but, with any luck, Aubrey will spill everything in an attempt to save his own hide.” Dipping his head, he caught Cait’s lips with his own.

  Black cleared his throat.

  The top agent had fingers and thumb pressed to closed eyes. Two days past, Jack would have delighted in the discomfort Black was forced to endure at their display of connubial bliss before him, however odd the context.

  Now, Jack was only mildly amused. One of many indications that he’d lost his heart to the man’s sister.

  “I’ll set agents on alert for Dr. Thrakos and his dirigible.” Black reached for the door handle. “They can also comb through Dr. Oakes’ finances. With luck, he’s left a paper trail.” He eyed Jack’s TTX pistol. “Cait, stay close to Tagert. If this lamia knows you’re immune to her venom… well, there are other, more direct ways to kill.”

  “If you’re so worried,” Cait leveled her brother a look, “there’s an easy solution. You know my aim is as good as yours.”

  With a great, put-upon sigh, the agent unstrapped his holster and weapon. “Welcome to the agency.” He held them out to his sister. “Try not to get yourself killed.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  While her husband stormed up the staircase in search of Lord Aubrey to ensure that “not at home” was
not a polite euphemism for “your brother wants nothing to do with you”, Cait followed Emsworth, the family’s steam butler—a particularly arrogant model—into his mother’s parlor, curious to gauge her reaction.

  “Your daughter,” her mother-in-law’s voice clipped as she poured tea, “is pliant and sweet. Which is all very well. But she must begin as she means to go on, by insisting that Aubrey attend to the time. Punctuality is of utmost importance. Particularly when there are a number of details that need to be settled before the wedding.”

  “Agreed. It’s entirely unacceptable that our children have yet to return from their afternoon drive.” The woman seated across from Lady Aubrey pinched her lips. “I will speak with her.”

  At the doorway, Cait cleared her throat.

  “You.” The soon-to-be dowager-viscountess glared.

  “Me,” she agreed, omitting even the politest of nods. “Mrs. Tagert will suffice as a form of address. No need to pretend to intimacy, even in a familial setting.”

  Icy eyes stared back at her. “I suppose I ought to be glad you favor your mother in looks, that your walking dress is of current fashion. However, all that gadgetry strung about your waist offers little hope for your behavior.”

  “I can assure you that I will disappoint,” Cait replied. The words, spoken aloud, chased away a certain lingering tension, leaving behind a lightness. She drew her next breath with ease. “I’m much less compliant than my mother ever aspired to be.” She paused while the implied threat registered. “But such is a topic for another day. We must speak with Lord Aubrey. Immediately. Is he often late when not browbeaten into obedience?”

  Lady Aubrey sniffed. “Already you overstep, making demands.”

  “All on behalf of the Crown, I assure you.”

  “Mother,” Jack stepped into the room. “Enough. Where is Aubrey?”

  “Out. Driving in the park with his fiancée as befits a gentleman, an example the two of you ought to follow.” Lady Aubrey’s lip curled. “Alas, my hopes for Jonathan are forever dashed. Do make an effort to ensure all future reports of your exploits find themselves buried in the newspapers beside the current price of kraken ink.”

  A smirk tugged at Cait’s lips. When news of her eldest’s business dealings with a seductive, snake-like woman broke, it would most certainly be headline material, deserving of a font two inches tall. The only thing that could save her mother-in-law was the discretion of the Queen’s agents.

  “Neither of you are welcome here,” Jack’s mother snapped. “Take yourselves elsewhere.”

  Cait laid a hand upon Jack’s arm. “They were both expected for tea, but are late.”

  “How late?” he asked the other woman, his voice tight.

  “By some thirty minutes.” Worry shifted Lady Mildred’s mother onto the edge of her chair. “Is something wrong?”

  “Very much so. My brother frequently tempts fate, and this time he has gone too far. I suggest you take steps to shield your daughter from the fire and brimstone that will soon rain down upon him.” Jack gave a short bow. “We’ll return later.”

  “Explain yourself, Jonathan!” His mother’s glare threatened to throw off sparks and set afire the hand-knotted silk rug beneath their feet.

  “Remember how I advised you to let me inspect Aubrey’s investments?” Jack’s eyebrows rose. “You ought to have agreed.”

  Their departure was hastened by an indignant steam butler who knew where his gears were greased. Rolling at top speed down the hallway, he threw open the front door.

  “You certainly know how to drop the temperature in a room.” An inappropriate delight buoyed her steps. “Steam from the teacups froze midair and crystalized into snowflakes.”

  Jack snorted. “I learned the technique at my mother’s knee.”

  “Are we to chase after Lord Aubrey?” She frowned. “Hyde Park is three-hundred or more acres in size.”

  “I suggest we pay a visit to my brother’s inebriated friend, Carruthers, the new Lord Saltwell.”

  “Who has, by now, sobered?”

  “If the death of Oakes hasn’t done the job, we’ll try a bucket of water. It’s time to revisit the question of what, exactly, his father was doing in my brother’s library.” Outside on the pavement, he offered his arm. “We’ll walk. His townhome isn’t far.”

  Afternoon was fading toward evening. Though quieter than most neighborhoods, Mayfair was not without its traffic—or overconfident young gentlemen steering steam-chaises with more power than control. As they were prone to take corners on two wheels and without warning, Cait accepted his escort as they crossed the street.

  “If he’s uncooperative, I’ve heard tell of a truth serum.” Cait nudged him with her elbow. She’d won a TTX pistol today, but knew the Queen’s agents carried many other toys up their sleeves, tucked in pockets and sewn into seams. “Veritasium, I believe it’s called?”

  He clicked his tongue. “Always tempting, but not sanctioned for use on a British citizen.”

  “Officially.”

  “You say that with entirely too much enthusiasm.” Jack slanted her a look. “We’ll start with a thorough dunking in cold water.”

  “I suppose it’ll have to do.” She gave an exaggerated sigh, then winked. “To review, Carruthers is the only son and heir of the deceased Lord Saltwell, over whose body Helena was crouched.”

  In the library during Lord Aubrey’s engagement ball. At which Jack had exploded an ice sculpture. Cait grinned, wishing she’d witnessed the event. Would she have noticed Jack’s sleight of hand, followed him down that hallway? She liked to think so.

  “Correct,” he said. “Bitten on the neck, with the surrounding tissue rapidly swelling.” He pressed his lips together. “A mistake, in retrospect, letting Dr. Oakes oversee his care while I chased after the lamia.”

  “With no antidote,” she pressed a hand to the case at her hip, “it would have changed nothing. Would you agree that, unlike the other murders, the attack upon Lord Saltwell was not only targeted, but personal? Was there any indication that she intended to remove his testicles?”

  Jack flinched.

  “No knife in hand?” Cait pressed.

  “None that I observed.” He glanced over his shoulder at his family’s now-distant townhome. “But…”

  “Your brother or Dr. Oakes or the steam staff might have removed anything Helena dropped.” She nudged at various possibilities, no stone left unturned and all that. Only son and heir did not rule out a multitude of bastards. “How many children did this Lord Saltwell produce?”

  “Via his mistresses, a dozen or more, all healthy.” Jack confirmed her suspicions. “But his wife was plagued by stillbirths. Only one child came into the world screaming.”

  “He sought no new marriage to redouble his efforts at producing an official and legally sanctioned spare?”

  “Not a possibility,” Jack answered. “His wife still lives, tucked away in the countryside. Otherwise, I’m sure he would have placed that on his agenda. The survival of his direct family line falls to Carruthers, who has, incidentally, produced a male child. Moreover, his wife is expecting.”

  “An older gentleman with a taste for the ladies could easily be lured into a library for a rendezvous with a young lady and the promise of restored, youthful virility.” Cait rolled her eyes at the recurring theme. “But instead of a therapeutic nip followed by a romp on settee, he dies gasping upon the floor.”

  “An ignoble death,” Jack said. “And one he did not expect. His final words were, ‘I didn’t know. I swear it. She is evil. Her blood polluted.’ All of which suggest he knew his attacker and, quite likely, what she was.”

  “His own son, along with Lord Aubrey and Dr. Oakes, had been in business with the lamia for over a year…” Cait tapped her lips. “Discovery of their deeds seems likely, but—”

  “Perhaps Lord Saltwell discovered his son’s business venture and demanded a percentage? A steady supply of venom? That, as a result, the triumvirate deci
ded Lord Saltwell was a liability?”

  “And condemned him to death by lamia?” Cait paused for thought. “It’s a possibility. But this Helena doesn’t strike me as a team player, a woman to follow orders.”

  I didn’t know.

  Cait mulled over the man’s final words. “Lord Saltwell arrived in the library, alone. You heard no shouts, no calls for help?”

  “None.”

  “And all members of the triumvirate were present in the ballroom, enjoying themselves, seemingly unconcerned.”

  “Yes.”

  “When, lured by promises of sexual favors and unburdened by moral scruples, Lord Saltwell slips away to the library.”

  “But it’s a trap.”

  “Sprung by your brother and his business partners—”

  “An unlikely scenario, given the venue,” Jack interrupted.

  “What if Helena acted on her own, went rogue, so to speak? What better way to sow chaos and scandal? Imagine the headlines!” Cait swiped her hand through the air before her. “The London Vampire strikes in the heart of Mayfair! Lord Saltwell murdered in the midst of frolicking ton!”

  “It certainly would send a message,” Jack agreed. “It would explain why my brother and his friends staged a vampire hunt through Covent Garden. Deadly serious business concealed as whimsical jest. Perhaps they found her, renegotiated terms.”

  Cait nodded. “Then arranged to complicate your life, leaking false news to the press.”

  “Aubrey was uncannily calm the next morning.” Jack narrowed his eyes. “But if he hoped to occupy my time with something other than chasing after the London Vampire, he failed miserably.” He stopped abruptly, swinging Cait about to catch both her hands in his. “Little did he realize his efforts would only redouble our own. Even his efforts to curtail my movements with matrimonial claims failed for I am utterly besotted with my talented and lovely new wife.”