“No doubt. I’m certain there’s a duke in your future. Three days, Catherine.”
“What if I don’t?” she asked, brow raised.
“Then I’ll call it off. I’m doing everything in my power to protect you—”
“If that were true, you’d have kept your word.”
“I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”
“I intend to hurt you. You will pay for this, Michael. You will pay dearly.”
Though he’d expected her to threaten retaliation, he hadn’t expected her aura to glow with the promise of success. He would have to watch her closely.
~*~
Next, Michael sought out Adolphus Vandimer at his club. The sooner all of this was over, the better. He found him visiting with another man, a drink sitting on the table at his elbow.
“Weston,” he said as Michael approached.
Michael greeted both men. “Might I have a word with you?” he asked Vandimer after pleasantries were exchanged.
“Of course.” He bid the other man goodbye and gestured to the vacated seat. “I’m glad you sought me out.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed. I have news of the shipping venture of mine in which you invested.”
The aura around the man’s head dimmed, telling Michael it was not good news. “What is it?”
“Things have not gone according to plan. The shipment will be delayed by at least a fortnight. Maybe more.”
Why did he feel he wasn’t being told the truth? He waited a long moment, but Vandimer said nothing more. “A delay is inconvenient, but not disastrous, wouldn’t you say?”
“Difficult to say at this point.” The man stared across the room, making Michael wonder what more there was to the story. But the investment was the least of his worries today.
“I’m afraid I have some unfortunate news of my own. My circumstances have changed.” Michael cleared his throat, uncertain how to word his news. “I’ve asked Catherine to call off our engagement.”
“What?” The anger in Vandimer’s expression didn’t surprise Michael. Anything that could potentially harm his daughter was not allowed.
“I’m no longer able to marry her.”
Vandimer rose to his feet, leaving Michael no choice but to stand as well. “You bastard.”
“I’m sorry.” Michael waited, knowing there would be more.
“I will sue you for breach of promise. I’ll drag your name through the dirt.”
“I hope you won’t. That would not help you or your daughter.” Michael had recently read in the newssheet of a case won for breach of promise. Suing for broken engagements appeared to be quite the rage these days.
“What in hell is wrong with you?” Vandimer demanded, fists clenched at his sides.
“I’ve realized we wouldn’t suit. I would spare her from spending her life with me as I do not have the power to make her happy.” That was as kindly as he could put it and still speak the truth. God knew she certainly couldn’t make him happy. He had no doubt he would’ve made her miserable by marrying her when he didn’t even respect her. Without respect, what was there?
“Do you realize what this means? You will never again own Langford Hall.”
That fact still bothered Michael despite what his grandmother had said. He didn’t care to be the one to break centuries of family tradition. But he’d finally realized it wasn’t worth tying himself to Catherine or her father. “If you ever decide to sell it—”
“You’d be the last person to whom I’d sell. I’d rather burn the place to the ground than see it in your hands.” Vandimer took two steps forward to grab Michael’s shirtfront and shove him into the wall. “I’m going to bury you.”
“Release me.” Already Michael could feel the stares of several men who entered the room to watch.
The glittering look in Vandimer’s eyes spoke of rage. Michael braced himself, unwilling to allow the older man to strike him. A public disagreement would only provide tinder for the gossip mill, something Michael preferred to avoid. The dimming light of Vandimer’s aura gave Michael the confidence to push away his hands.
“Weston? Is all well here?”
Michael glanced out of the corner of his eye to see Ashbury approaching. “Fine, thank you.” He looked back at Vandimer. “As I told Catherine, she has three days to publicly call it off. I will take full blame for the broken engagement.” Michael straightened his clothing, doing his best to ignore their audience.
“You’d better.” Vandimer glanced at Ashbury then back at Michael. “If my daughter’s reputation suffers because of your actions, have no doubt. You will pay.”
Ashbury drew closer as Vandimer grabbed his drink from the table and left the room. “What was that all about?”
“I requested that Catherine break our engagement.”
Ashbury’s gaze caught on the corner of Michael’s mouth. “Did he strike you?”
“No, but his daughter did.” He touched the tender spot with a grimace.
“It will be unfortunate to have her angry with you. But not as unfortunate as it would be to have married her.” He grinned. “I for one applaud you for coming to your senses.”
Michael raised his brow, surprised at Ashbury’s comment. “Truly?”
“Indeed. She’s not the most pleasant person.”
“We’ll see how truly unpleasant she is over the coming weeks. What brings you here?”
“Looking for you. I have news.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Hold him still.”
“Can’t ye see I’m tryin’?” Vincent glared at his uncle. “These straps won’t tighten any further.”
The thin man wrenched against the leather bands, his brown eyes rolling with fear. The buckles loosened a bit with each movement. His muffled moans caused by the rag tied over his mouth grated on Vincent’s nerves but were preferable to his screams. Blood trickled down the man’s wrist where the leather cut into his skin as he jerked to and fro.
Vincent sighed. While using the street urchins for these experiments had been much easier, it had stirred up too much trouble. Luring adults from the workhouse with the promise of good pay had been fairly easy. It was strapping them into place that was a bit more difficult. The chloroform drugged them but lifting them into place made Vincent’s back complain.
“Vincent, he cannot move so much.” His uncle limped from behind the electromagnetic device that stood on one side of the large room. “I have enough trouble aiming this without him squirming.”
“What would ye have me do? If we use more chloroform, ye won’t be able to see the affects.”
The man strapped to the table whimpered and fought harder against the restraints.
Vincent turned to see how the woman fared. She was also strapped to a table but appeared dazed. He must’ve used too much chloroform on her. “Mayhap ye should try the woman first.”
“Very well.” His uncle seemed quite put out by the change in plans. “Though she hardly appears coherent.”
Vincent grumbled under his breath, trying not to look at the struggling man. He missed the early days when they’d used objects to test rather than people. It’d been so much easier.
His uncle’s pursuit of the ability to animate bodies using electromagnetism seemed impossible. Yet last time, he’d managed to make a man’s arm move, so there appeared to be something to it. Of course, that had been before the man had caught on fire. No one had said this wasn’t without risks. Vincent shuddered at the memory of the smell, not to mention the sight.
“Step back, Vincent.”
With one last glance at the woman, Vincent joined his uncle by the power source. The three devices stood taller than Vincent and equal distances apart with the tables in the center.
“Watch her carefully to see if her limbs move.”
“How can I tell when she’s strapped down like that?”
“Watch her fingers. If they shift, we’ll remove her bindings and measure the full extent of movement.”<
br />
Uncle Grisby powered on the device, and the machine whirred to life with a high-pitched hum. He allowed the currents to build then aimed the gun at the woman. Electrical current filled the air, making the hair on the back of Vincent’s neck stand on end. He squinted at the blue-white light that shot between the devices, then out of the gun. The woman’s body jerked, her back arched, her hands twitched.
“Yes!” His uncle shouted. What must’ve been a smile twisted his scarred lips. “That’s it!”
A sudden pounding on the door of the building halted their progress.
“Who could that be?” Vincent asked.
“I have no idea.” Uncle Grisby glared at him as though it was his fault. “Rid us of whoever it is. We cannot be interrupted now.”
The knocking started again. Vincent hurried toward the door, his stomach lurching at the image of the police banging on their door. Heaven forbid if they found the two strapped to the table.
Vincent rubbed his sweaty palms against his trousers, heart racing. He cleared his throat. “Who is it?”
“Open up,” a gravelly voice demanded. Vincent paused, trying to determine if the voice was familiar. “Open up, Simmons. I know yer in there.”
Vincent swallowed hard, still unable to place that voice. He didn’t have much choice but to open the door, not with whoever was on the other side yelling like that. Lord knew who might be walking past and come to investigate the noise.
He unlocked the door, eased it open a crack and peeked out. The sight was not a welcome one. “Mikey?”
The man’s appearance had changed little since Vincent had last seen him a few weeks past. The same battered hat was pulled low on his brow. His dark, greasy hair was longer and shaggier than before. It was his flat, black eyes and short, stocky form that worried Vincent. Mikey had assisted Vincent in gathering some of the boys from the workhouse when Uncle Grisby had first started his experiments but had soon proved too difficult to manage.
“Yeah, ’tis me. Surprised?” Mikey asked.
“Ye might say that. What brings ye here?” Whatever it was, Vincent knew it couldn’t be good.
“I heard a rumor and came to see if it be true.”
“Oh?”
“Seems someone offed a lord a few nights past.” Mikey leaned against the doorframe, a smirk on his full lips.
Bile rose in the back of Vincent’s throat. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure his uncle wasn’t listening to any of this conversation. He turned back to Mikey, trying to play dumb. “Haven’t heard anything about it.”
“Yeah, right.” Mikey stepped closer, and it was all Vincent could do not to slam the door in his face so he could run and hide. The man made him nervous on a normal day let alone when guilt weighed on him. “Funny, but the description of the killer reminded me of ye.”
“Yeah, that’s funny all right.”
Mikey leaned forward and looked him up and down. “’Tis the spittin’ image of ye, in fact.”
“Who’s startin’ these rumors?” If Mikey would give him the name, Vincent could be rid of him quickly.
“I bet it wouldn’t surprise ye to learn it was a lad who swears he saw ye.”
Vincent’s stomach sunk. Bloody hell. Just as he’d feared. How could the lad have seen anything on that dark street?
“Says he had a pretty good look at the man’s face when the street light hit it for a moment.”
“I don’t know what yer talkin’ about.”
“Vincent!” His uncle’s impatient voice called from the other room.
“Comin’.” He looked back at Mikey. “Sorry. I don’t know anything about it.” He made to close the door, but Mikey’s boot stopped him.
“I’m sayin’ ye do. And I think ’tis worth a few shillings for me to keep my mouth shut.”
Vincent pondered his options. Mikey was like a dog with a bone. Giving up on his attempt to play dumb, Vincent tried another tactic. “It would be worth even more if ye shared the name of that lad.”
Mikey nodded in satisfaction. “How much ye offerin’?”
“Six bob.”
“That’s not nearly enough. ’Twould cost ye at least twenty.”
“I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Ye better look for it. The price fer my silence goes up each day.”
Vincent sputtered in protest.
“If ye can’t find it, I’ll have to take advantage of the reward the police offered fer information.” Mikey grabbed the brim of his hat as he stepped back, those flat black eyes on Vincent. “I’ll be back in two days’ time. By then, I should have the information yer lookin’ fer. And you’d better have the money.”
“Vincent!”
Not bothering to watch Mikey walk away, Vincent closed the door and leaned against it. Now he had an even bigger problem on his hands. The good news was that the police thought him dead. The bad news was they’d soon learn otherwise if Mikey had his way. Even if he managed to find the money to pay Mikey, how much more would it take to buy the man’s silence forever?
~*~
Emma settled into a chair in the drawing room to do some mending while Viscountess Weston rested upstairs. Michael had just left, but Emma chose to remain in her room during his call. She told herself it was because she wanted to give them a chance to speak in private without her being there. In truth, she was avoiding him. She no longer knew how to act around him.
Her attraction for Michael grew each day. Even now, she admitted she’d selected this chair as it was the one in which he always sat during his visits. With a sigh, she smoothed the arms where Michael might have done the same.
Heaven forbid he realized how much she cared for him. Her face heated at the very idea of it. She could imagine the look of pity he’d give her as he reminded her that he was engaged. Just because he’d kissed her—touched her even—didn’t mean he felt anything for her. He’d been trying to make a point, not express his feelings.
With a shake of her head, she admonished herself. She could never allow him to know the depth of her feelings. Somehow she had to find the strength to control her reaction to his presence.
She reached for the basket of thread on the floor to find the proper shade to mend the viscountess’s gloves when a folded piece of paper near the basket caught her eye. She opened the stiff paper to see if she could determine to whom it belonged.
Words penned in strong, powerful strokes lined the page. Michael’s perhaps? She hadn’t seen enough of his writing to be certain. She started to fold it up to give to the viscountess, only to have her surname catch her eye. Only it wasn’t in reference to her.
Professor Grisby alive? How?
Her breath caught. Why would Michael think her uncle might be alive? He’d been gone for over ten years. Unable to help herself, she read the rest of the words, her stomach tightening with each one as bile rose in her throat.
Electromagnetic devices.
Leon Smith—alternate name for Grisby.
Charles Nulty—chief warder at prison.
Experiments on people—what is purpose?
Emma involved?
Meteorite stolen at museum—murder there.
Vincent Simmons dead—did Grisby kill him?
Burnt bodies found in Thames—killed in experiment?
Berkmond murdered—to force Lucas to return?
Her heart squeezed as her gaze returned to the line with her name. Was that what he thought? Had he only offered to help her because he thought her somehow involved with her uncle? She couldn’t wrap her mind around the idea that Uncle Grisby had somehow survived that terrible accident. Why wouldn’t he have contacted them?
Her heart ached on every level as her mind reeled. Lies! Everything she’d believed, everything she’d been told, had been a lie. She felt betrayed. Devastated. Hot tears filled her eyes.
What a fool she’d been. How could she have thought for even a moment that she belonged in this world? That anyone would want her in their lives? How many times did
she need to be taught that she was not worthy of love? From her father to Uncle Grisby and now Michael. He’d only pretended friendship to provide him with the opportunity to see if she was involved with whatever her uncle was doing.
Could it be true? Could he have survived? None of it made any sense. A thousand questions ran through her mind, but there was no one she could ask. Certainly not Michael. Nothing he said could be trusted. Where did that leave her?
Alone again.
With a sob, she rose, leaving the paper on the chair with the gloves as she fled to her room. She couldn’t possibly stay here. Not after all she’d learned.
Tears clouding her vision, she wrote a brief message of gratitude to the viscountess, a part of her wondering if the older woman had known Michael’s true intent. She would miss the viscountess terribly, but she couldn’t face her now. She donned her old grey gown, packed the few things she could call her own, and left the rest behind.
She glanced around the room that had begun to feel like her own despite its splendor. The future seemed bleaker than ever, yet she had no choice except to leave. She’d been here under false circumstances. The helpless, angry feeling that filled her was far from pleasant and all too familiar.
She shut the bedroom door behind her, her tattered bag in hand as she hurried down the stairs to let herself quietly out the front door. The walk ahead of her was a long one, but she welcomed it. She needed to calm herself, to determine what, if anything, she would tell her mother about her uncle’s possible survival.
The rain started to fall as she turned the corner, following the same path down her face as her tears.
~*~
“Good morning, Grandmother. I came as soon as I received your message.”
The look of concern on her face had Michael’s stomach dropping. It took a serious matter to upset her. “What is it?” He glanced about the room. “Where’s Emma?”
“Gone.”
“Where?”
“I can only assume she’s returned home.” She held up a piece of paper that looked quite familiar. “I believe she found this. Perhaps you’d care to explain.”
Passionate Secrets (The Secrets Trilogy Book 2) Page 20