by Anne Renwick
“The scientist is mad,” Lord Aldridge stated. “His whereabouts do not concern me.”
“And yet he might be the only hope of my sister surviving her third decade. Would you decline to answer my questions knowing that you might deprive an infant of her mother?”
“You’d let a mad man experiment upon your own sister?” Lord Aldridge growled back through clenched teeth. “Like as not, he’d kill her.”
“Genius is often mistaken for insanity,” Nick countered. “I am a trained physician and scientist, capable of evaluating any treatment he’s developed. He was in custody not two hours ago. I’d prefer not to cause a scene at the local station house, but if he’s my only lead…”
Not for the first time, Lord Aldridge’s gaze darted to Colleen who sat still and silent beside him. “Is it?”
Telling, that glance. Had it to do with the reason she’d been in his study, a fact he didn’t care to hear spoken aloud? Or was there yet more?
“I’m not here on behalf of Witherspoon and Associates, my lord. Blackmail is not a service he provides.”
Nick snorted. He’d beg to disagree.
But Colleen’s voice continued, eerily calm and professional. “I would, however, consider it a personal favor were you to provide us with information about Dr. Farquhar. A favor you might call upon should your—shall we say—willful daughter fall prey to any further indiscretions.”
Oh? Was Lady Sophia not quite the demure debutant she appeared? Had she been caught with a man? Impressed with the currency Colleen offered, Nick watched the exchange, pride swelling in his chest.
“Done.” The lord snapped up the bait all too quickly. Was anyone in the ton as they seemed? Certainly not Lady Sophia’s father, for intensity darkened his gaze. “A few years past, the board offered Dr. Farquhar a research position despite my concerns about his mental stability.” His gaze shifted to Nick. “Documents were drawn up. Laboratory space was assigned. But he declined in favor of private funding.” Lord Aldridge narrowed his eyes. “He threw away a promising career to chase after feral cats.”
Colleen stiffened, then carefully framed her question. “What have feral cats to do with studies of the heart?”
“An excellent question, Lady Stewart.” Sarcasm laced his voice. “Some are rumored to have nine lives. Perhaps that makes them a more robust experimental subject?”
All vestiges of good humor burned away as Nick scowled. “You knew of his connection to a shadow board and said nothing? Knowing my role as a Queen’s agent, knowing the smallest of connections sometimes matter most?”
“Your questions were of a personal bent. It was time you set aside your futile pursuits to focus on your career. And how dare you bring her into this,” Lord Aldridge hissed. “Such information is only for the ears of—”
“I’ve also informed her about the existence of CEAP.” Nick leaned forward. “Her involvement is directly relevant. My personal concerns and the Crown’s interests are one and the same. Tell me—us—what you know.” Had Lord Aldridge seen fit to share, Dr. Farquhar’s activities might have been unearthed months ago.
Lord Aldridge turned his glare upon Colleen. “I always wondered if your uncle’s ostensible acceptance of you in his household possessed a mercenary bent.”
Unhooking the wire of her spectacles from behind one ear, she tugged them free and tipped her chin upward in challenge. Her eyes caught the light of the Lucifer lamp affixed to the carriage wall and flashed a brilliant green-gold.
“Impressive, my dear,” he commented, his voice bland, for after five years in London Colleen’s unusual eyes surprised no one in the ton. “But I’m not prey to such superstitions. Animals shape-shifting to take human form is a ridiculous proposition. As is the reverse. Stuff and nonsense. Now, concerning your eyes, were one to propose a hypothesis involving descent with modification as an adaptation to a more nocturnal environment, we might be able to apply scientific reasoning to discuss the possibilities by which such an unusual feature might arise.”
His words—highbrow and clipped—were betrayed by a white-knuckled grip upon his cane, as if he feared the docile Lady Stewart might lunge without warning. A claw to the cravat? A bite to the neck? Yes, she was entirely capable of such actions, but as her fiancé, he would have to insist she confine such activities to one man.
“Don’t dodge the question,” Nick said. “Did Dr. Farquhar’s interests catch the attention of anyone suspected to be a member of CEAP?”
The gentleman’s gaze did not waver, but stayed locked upon Colleen. “Despite efforts to uncover these reputed shadow committees, no such organizations have yet been found to exist. As to rogue scientists managing something resembling loose organization?” Lord Aldridge offered Colleen a smile brimming with pity. “When your uncle became your guardian, the trappings of his lifestyle improved. Tell me, how much do you know about the goings-on at your estate?”
“It’s been some five years since I have set foot upon Scottish soil. I do, however, exchange frequent correspondence with my estate manager who—” Colleen’s mouth snapped shut. Anger vibrated off her in waves.
Eyebrows lifted, Lord Aldridge finished. “Makes frequent requests for funds? My dear, it appears Lord Maynard has fashioned himself a villain while ostensibly acting as a guardian.” He turned his attention back to Nick. “If you’re looking to connect Dr. Farquhar, feral cats, and Lady Stewart to a purported shadow committee, may I offer advice as old as dirt? Follow the money.” He raised his cane and thumped upon the roof, indicating their interview had reached an end. The steam carriage came to a stop. “Be careful not to misstep, Torrington. Lord Maynard has extensive connections.”
Nick refused to be dismissed. “One last question.”
Lord Aldridge sighed heavily. “One.”
“We need to speak with one Cornelius Pierpont. Can you provide an introduction?”
“No. I’ve never heard of the man.” The carriage door swung open. From the tone of his voice, Lord Aldridge was clearly at the end of his rope. “Out. Both of you.”
Chapter Fifteen
Reeling from Lord Aldridge’s revelations, Colleen gripped Nick’s arm as they approached his family’s townhome. Though she wished to storm her uncle’s study and demand answers, unsubstantiated accusations and ravings about fairy cats would see her delivered to the mad house.
Had her uncle been abusing his position as her trustee to turn a profit? If so, then her estate manager, Watts, was corrupt. He’d been sending her reports for years, and it made her ill to think how many thousands of pounds she had transferred into his care. Had he pocketed the money? Funneled it back to her uncle? What was the true state of Craigieburn and its lands? Was the roof truly damaged, or was it a ruse designed to keep her dashing about the shadows of London, turning a profit with her skills? Gah! If so, then all these years he’d known she was a sneak thief.
Worse still, had he used those earnings to fund a mad man’s research? Had her uncle himself placed Sorcha in Dr. Farquhar’s hands? She recalled the charred bodies in the burned-out basement laboratory. Exactly how many other cat sìth had been sacrificed to this lunacy? Did cryptid hunters roam her land, unchallenged, collecting the cats to sell to others who believed them capable of magic? And what of those men, women and children who possessed golden eyes? Might such attention incite a modern witch hunt?
Bilious twistings escaped the pit of her stomach and spread upward, constricting her throat.
Not that the repercussions ended there. Though the imprisonment and torment of cat sìth made her blood boil, any good that might have come of it—a possible treatment for heart block—had slipped through her own fingers.
“I’m of a mind to gather a few supplies and head directly to your uncle’s door,” Nick said.
“As am I.” Colleen entertained a brief fantasy of doing exactly that. With Nick at her side, they could— She shook her head. “But he won’t tell you anything, and he certainly won’t admit to any underhanded dealings.�
�� Her feet slowed. “There is, however, a dinner party he’s attending this evening.”
“You think he’s involved.”
“I do. In so many ways.”
“And you want to break into his home, his study, and rifle through his papers for answers and evidence. Before we confront him about Dr. Farquhar’s whereabouts. Properly, over tea and whisky. And perhaps the sights of my TTX pistol.”
“You know me so well.” She managed a faint smile. The brilliant orange sun hung low over London, casting the jagged line of rooftops into a dark profile and setting the low-hanging clouds aglow. Chimney pots spouted smoke, warming homes as the city quieted, hunkering down for the night. “I’ll contact Isabella, make certain she and my uncle still plan to attend the dinner party. I’m certain they do. He’ll want to keep up appearances.”
His face was all business, yet she knew revenge and justice lurked beneath the surface. “A few hours from now, then, we’ll go. Together.”
“Agreed.” They stopped upon the pavement before the entrance of his family townhome. A few feet behind them, Sorcha brushed against a scrolled iron railing, watching. Lights blazed in every window. Not once had Colleen left by roof to return by door, lest she find herself floundering for an explanation before her uncle. Not, apparently, that it had mattered.
She pulled free her dark spectacles and perched them upon her nose.
“No worries.” Nick led her up the stairs. “They’re accustomed to my odd comings and goings. They’ll adjust to the cat.”
The door swung open. Hopsworth lifted haughty wire eyebrows, but said nothing as they entered the foyer, an overlarge black cat trailing in their wake.
“Where have the two of you been?” Lady Stafford cried as she rushed down the staircase and past Hopsworth, the train of her shimmering gold tea gown rustling as it swept behind her. Ruffles edged in daring black lace framed her face, circled her wrists, and cascaded to the floor. “No—” She lifted a hand, palm outward. “I’ve changed my mind. Do not tell me what you’ve been about. It will only color my nightmares. Nicholas, you look a fright. Please change into more appropriate attire. Lady Stewart,” the viscountess held out her arm, waggling her fingers, “do come with me. I managed to persuade the modiste with the loosest tongue in all of London to abandon her other clients and transport her wares to our parlor, but we must make haste if we’re to have a gown ready in four days’ time.”
Colleen blinked at the rush of words.
“Mother—” Nick objected.
“I’m aware of the terms and conditions of your fiancée’s presence, Nicholas,” the viscountess said. “Wedding or not, maintaining appearances means providing society with the finer details of Lady Stewart’s wedding preparations, down to the beads upon her bodice and the embroidery upon her sleeves. Invitations must be engraved. A wedding breakfast planned. And so on and so forth.”
“Your mother is correct.” Colleen found her voice. “A closely chaperoned young woman in the throes of frantic wedding plans is unlikely to have time for other pursuits.” She cast him a significant glance. There were several hours before her uncle’s house would grow quiet. “While we coo over silk and lace, you might best use the time to investigate the positions of other players upon the board.”
Nick hesitated. Furrows of worry lined his brow. “There are individuals I must contact. You’ve no objections if I leave you in my mother’s care?”
“None.” On the contrary. Lady Stafford presented a curious mix of co-conspirator and managing mother, and Colleen was curious about which direction the balance tipped.
Within minutes, she stood upon a stool in her undergarments while a seamstress affecting a French accent poked, prodded and measured, calling orders to her two young assistants while eyeing Sorcha—who crouched before the fireplace, front paws tucked beneath the flare of white upon her chest—with deep mistrust. When cats and rustling cloth mixed, the fabric was always trounced.
“Is it possible to remove le chat noir?”
“Entirely possible,” Colleen answered, stepping down. En route to the cat sìth, she snatched up a stray bit of string, tied three knots—a code—then looped it about Sorcha’s neck as she carried the feline to the window. “Tae Isabella,” Colleen whispered. To Isabella. Then cracked the window. “A sasser o cream fin ye return.” A saucer of cream when you return.
With a twitch of her whiskers, the cat sìth leapt free.
She turned to find two partially finished gowns held up for her approval. “Perhaps the silk moiré?” It rippled and flowed beautifully beneath the flickering gaslight.
“An excellent choice, my lady,” the seamstress agreed. Pins and needles flew, securing swaths of heavy silk about her hips, slipping sleeves with raw edges over her arms while her assistant’s needle flashed as she basted panels together. Moments later, a mirror was placed before her, and the modiste gathered her assistants and moved to the far end of the room, giving their patron and her future daughter-in-law a moment’s privacy.
Lifting a shaking hand to her chest, Colleen touched a row of filigree-set amber buttons hastily tacked in place to embellish the simple, unfinished bodice. Sparks of light flashed off the stone inclusions embedded in the ancient resin.
“They match the ring.” First an heirloom of sentimental value, now this. The thought and consideration Nick and his mother had showered upon her was almost too much. She blinked back the tears that threatened.
“And your eyes.” Anna’s voice was breathy. Waif-thin and pale, she made her way across the room. Behind her, an attendant wheeled the bulky, quietly-humming, yet truly terrifying machine into the room, doing her best to be unobtrusive. The name of the device, P.C. Hutchinson’s Magneto-Shock Machine, was embossed across its side. Did Anna go nowhere without it? Anna and her mother shared a conspiratorial look. “What are the odds you’ll stand with my brother before clergy?”
Colleen’s mouth opened. Then closed. This was no hastily arranged fitting. It was a planned ambush.
“From the look upon her face?” Lady Stafford’s smile was rather smug. “Higher than I’d hoped. Nicholas brought her home dusty and rumpled, but smiling. Given those boots laced to her knees and the knife they almost conceal, I think my son might finally have found his match.”
“Agreed,” Anna said. “Only a wife predisposed to similar clandestine activities will ever truly understand him.”
Colleen’s heart constricted. Never could she have predicted such a warm welcome. She’d reconciled herself to abandoning her career and returning alone to Craigieburn, but with Nick waving temptation before her in all its forms, she was reassessing her decision. Thoughts of becoming his wife, of becoming a member of his family filled her with warmth and happiness. “How long ago did he ask for his grandmother’s ring?”
“Months ago, before his most recent, unexpected disappearance.” Nick’s mother clasped her hands to her chest. “I do hope you’ll forgive our attempts to convince you to become a more permanent member of our family.”
The modiste cleared her throat, impatient.
“Ah, we mustn’t keep her waiting.” The viscountess winked. “She’s a gown to finish and rumors to spread.”
Released from the heavy fabric and handed a robe, Colleen pulled Anna aside while the seamstress consulted with the Lady Stafford about details such as seed pearls and knife pleats and the necessity of trim. Choices she was happy to cede to another.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Colleen murmured. It was a struggle to follow the various strings knotted together in her mind. A welcome marriage proposal. A quest to improve Anna’s declining health. The discovery of a mad scientist with designs upon cat sìth. The manipulations and involvement of her uncle.
“And why not?” Anna pressed a hand to Colleen’s arm. “Admittedly, I do not often attend ton events, but did you think I never noticed the dances you and my brother shared?”
“It could have been no more than pity for a dull wallflower in a plain vas
e set high upon a dusty shelf.” Their first dance had been one shared for mutual convenience, an exercise in moving from one point to another in a manner least likely to draw comment.
“Perhaps at first.” Anna tipped her head. “But I’ve long suspected you might share more than dances.”
As they had. But only out of the public eye and well-hidden in the shadows. A blush crept across her cheeks.
“Ever since that first waltz, every woman we’ve pushed, shoved or dragged into his path has been summarily rejected. So if you think we’ll let you escape without a fight—”
“There are, of course, complications,” Colleen interrupted even as she fought back a smile. “I’ve my own responsibilities—and desires—that lay in Scotland. And your brother has his. To the Crown, to—”
“Me,” Anna finished on a sigh. “He can be a fool, my brother. He drives himself too hard and neglects his own interests. I know very well he’s on a quest to heal my heart, to fix what he did not break. I appreciate his efforts. I truly do, but he should not put the entirety of his life on hold.”
“Listen,” Colleen caught up Anna’s cool, gaunt hands, unwilling to admit aloud that Nick’s devotion to his sister might well drive a wedge between them no matter how hard they worked to find middle ground. Until they located Dr. Farquhar, Cornelius Pierpont and the contents of a certain rosewood box, deciding upon their future would have to wait.
“I can’t and won’t make you promises about the likelihood that the device we seek—one I’ve yet to lay eyes upon—will offer you any solutions. But we will find it.” She thought of Sorcha locked in a cage. Of the morbid contents within the other wire cages of Dr. Farquhar’s charred laboratory. Was it possible another cat sìth had undergone some kind of testing and survived? “If there’s any hope of its success, we’ll do our best to— Anna?”
Anna crumpled to the floor, and Colleen lunged, managing to catch her about the waist, softening an otherwise hard landing. “Help!” she cried.
“Anna!” The viscountess dropped a length of fabric as both she and the attendant nurse rushed forward to drop to their knees besides Anna’s convulsing form.