By half-past two, the house was perfectly silent, and Colleen slid from her bed. No cat stretched upon the covers or performed brief ablutions before leaping to the ground to twine about her ankles. Instead, the tin of tuna sat untouched upon the windowsill. Each day Colleen’s concern grew.
Despite the white patch upon Sorcha’s chest, her otherwise black fur always set superstitious individuals on edge, leaving Colleen forever worried that the cat might become a target. But how did one hunt—especially in London—for a wildcat that did not wish to be found? Not that it would stop her. If she wasn’t back by morning, Colleen would try.
Stretching, she turned her mind to tonight’s activities. The only specifics she’d been given were device, basement and laboratory. Never had she taken on a job so woefully under informed, with little to no control as to its execution. Still, with the funds to repair her roof secured, she could afford this slight indulgence. For once, pay was not a pivotal factor. Adventure—and a handsome, exciting man—called. For the first time, she would roam London’s streets for the thrill, rather than the necessity.
A current of excitement shot through her as she lifted the lid of her trunk and contemplated her wardrobe with a smile. What did one wear to both explore the laboratory of a—presumably—mad scientist and seduce one’s partner?
French silk. Blood-red silk bloomers and a matching silk camisole. But that was all the indulgence she could spare. Priorities, as always, involved avoiding discovery and the ability to affect a quick escape. To that end she chose a lightly boned corset, a high-necked blouse and linen breeches that tucked into boots that laced to the knees. All black.
She wound her dark hair into a tight knot, fastening it in place with pins sharp enough to draw blood. A belt followed, one adorned with loops from which she suspended a number of useful items such as lock picks, a coiled Rapunzel rope, and a purse filled with smoke bombs—a useful distraction when one needed to make a hasty exit. She slid a long, thin blade into the sheathe within her boot and swung a hooded cape about her shoulders. While warm, its fabric provided the added advantage of hiding her features and her eyes from anyone who might later recall a flash of unusual brilliance.
And to that end, the amber ring upon her finger must remain behind. A perfect fit and the exact color of her eyes, it was evidence that Nick’s proposal, albeit unconventional, was far more than a passing whim. Though she remained wary at the thought of a lifetime commitment, a certain warmth spread through her at the idea of calling him her husband. Placing the ring upon her dressing table, Colleen stepped to her window and searched the misty shadows. Confident her uncle’s minion was not about, she climbed out and leapt free, sliding down the drainpipe and into the murky gloom as she made her way to the mews.
At exactly five minutes to three, her ride appeared.
Beneath a lamppost that struggled to cast a dim pool of light through the fog, Nick sat upon a tarnished brass clockwork horse that had seen better days. Soot darkened its leather mane, muck crusted its hooves, and its eyes stared in two different directions, suggesting its winding springs might be wild and unmanageable. Much like its rider’s appearance.
He wore brown-striped trousers tucked into tall boots and a long leather coat, one that bore a number of disturbing stains—all unidentifiable in origin—and was fastened closed by a row of brass buckles that marched down his chest. A highwayman of old. Rough and tumble to her sleek and sophisticated. A thrill coursed through her.
With two steps and a leap, she landed behind him on the saddle and wrapped her arms about his waist. He threw an amused glance over his shoulder, then flipped a lever, setting them off at a sedate, non-attention-gathering pace. She pressed her face against his shoulder, inhaling the pleasant scent of gear oil and saddle soap. A far cry from the earlier over-perfumed and sweaty ballroom crowd. “Whom do we hope to rob?”
He huffed a laugh. “Dr. Gregory Farquhar of 28 Bloomsbury Street. He’s avoiding me. Our visit will be more exploratory in nature than acquisitive. I’ve no idea if the device even exists.”
They had a bit of a ride ahead of them. Time, then, to admire the taut stomach beneath her arms, the broad back crushed against her chest, and the way her hips slid forward on the poorly sprung saddle with each awkward step the clockwork creature took until they were pressed against his firm rear, their thighs tightly aligned. She had the sneaking suspicion that Nick had chosen this beast for more reasons than its off-putting appearance.
“Why the device?” It was easy to forget that her arms encircled more than a Queen’s agent. Mr. Nicholas Torrington was also a scientist. His entire career was spurred by a hunt for a cure—or a treatment—for his sister, Anna, whose heart struggled to beat. On the rare occasions his sister ventured into society, she always appeared vaguely blue. “Have the drugs failed?”
“For Anna, yes.” The clockwork horse clopped forward a few steps before he continued. “For years, I’ve attempted to strengthen her heart, hunting for novel drugs, but finding few. Atropine. Digitalis. Hawthorn. None have the desired effects. Her only hope now is locating a rumored device that will restart a stalled heart.”
Her breath caught as images of cadavers jolted with bolts of electricity sprang to mind. “Is this Dr. Farquhar a galvanist?” Such quacks were little better than the spiritualists a few decades past who had hinted at the possibility of life after death. Under the guise of medicine, some slightly less insane men sold elaborate devices while expounding upon the benefits of electricity to restore health and vigor. She’d seen men with paste-pots and handbills gluing advertisements for electrotherapy clinics to walls.
“He once trained as a cardiac electrophysiologist,” Nick said, focusing her mental ramblings. “Today? The exact direction of his work is unclear, but he might well be a galvanist focusing upon cardiac tissue. I should warn you that there’s a strong likelihood he’s experimenting upon animals.”
Animals. Most likely stray ones. But not necessarily. A hired man with a catch pole would snag any convenient animal that had the misfortune to wander past. One such as a roaming cat sìth. Worry twisted her stomach even though her mind insisted Sorcha was far too wild and resourceful to ever find herself trapped. Besides, Dr. Farquhar’s house was near The British Museum, far outside her established territory. Still…
“What do you know of heart anatomy and physiology?” Nick asked. His voice broke the grip of her concerns.
“Next to nothing.” Save he always made hers beat faster. “What—exactly—is wrong?”
“Are you aware that the heart is composed of a unique kind of muscle tissue that will spontaneously contract?”
“I am now.”
“A heartbeat initiates at the top of the heart. First two chambers known as the atria contract, then a signal spreads downward via a net of connecting fibers. When the stimulus reaches the lower two chambers, the ventricles, they contract, pumping blood into the lungs and throughout the body.”
She slid her palm upward, until she could feel the beat of his heart. “Thump-thump, thump-thump.” At her words, it leapt beneath her hand. Warmed by gratification, she smiled against his back.
“Exactly. Normally, such an electrical impulse travels through the heart at a rate of sixty to seventy times per minute.”
Nick tugged on the reins, turning the clockwork horse onto Oxford Street. The street lamps did their best, but the night was moonless and thick with fog. Those out and about moved as if anonymity was assured, as if they were no more than flitting shadows. For them it might be dark, but for Colleen’s eyes the gaslight was enough to cast everything in a faint gray light. On their left, a passing figure in leather and wool flicked a cigar stump into the street. A ruffian wearing ragged trousers slept in a doorway beside a mangy dog. A crank hack passed on their right carrying home a man wearing a top hat.
She tugged her hood forward. Better safe than sorry. “And Anna?”
“As low as forty beats per minute.” Nick paid no mind to the skulking shapes in the streets. “When we were children, it wasn’t as bad. Her heart’s rhythm was slow—only fifty beats per minute—and occasionally skipped a beat. From time to time, she might grow lightheaded or a touch dizzy but, for the most part, she was fine. After much fussing, the doctors concluded that her heart was damaged, that something blocked the rhythm from propagating to the lower chambers. But there was nothing to be done.” He took a deep breath. “Of late, it has grown much worse.”
Sympathy tugged at her chest. “How so?”
“Shortness of breath. Heart palpitations. Her hands are always cold, her fingernails blue. From time to time, she collapses without warning, twitching. To the touch, her slow pulse is seemingly absent. There’s nothing to be done save limit her exertions.”
“That’s awful! What changed?”
For a long moment, Nick fell silent, seeming to struggle with her question. “Anna was advised never to marry.”
“But she did.” Colleen remembered the announcement. And what often followed some nine months later? Love might pain the heart, though it would do no direct damage. But… “There’s a child.” One did not require a medical degree to know that childbearing—childbirth—could place a strain on the heart.
“Yes. Though the infant is fine, Anna’s condition grew worse following delivery, and she began having fainting attacks.” He blew out a sudden breath. “There’s a fifty percent chance of mortality within a year of such a seizure.”
Meaning each time she collapsed, her family could do nothing but watch and hope that this time her heart would restart. And, when it did, brace themselves for the next episode. She tightened her arms about Nick’s waist. “If we locate this device, you propose to…?” She trailed off, praying there was hope.
“Evaluate its potential,” he finished. “It’s time I set aside medications to pay more attention to the work of the electrophysiologists. Anna lives on the sharp edge of fear, preparing daily for the eventuality that the next seizure might well take her life. Imagine if there’s a way to guard against that possibility?”
Colleen attempted to digest the enormity of the situation facing his sister. She opened her mouth to ask another question, but a glow of light clouded by dense smoke caught her eye. In the distance, a rattle grew nearer and nearer. And louder and louder.
The dreadful cry of “Fire!” reached her ears at the same moment a great steam pumper fire engine roared onto the street, taking the corner on two wheels and followed closely by a fire wagon carrying coils of hose. People poured from buildings, half-dressed—some in their nightclothes—all shouting and clamoring as they thronged through the streets following the engine like a pack of hounds.
“Hold tight!” Nick shoved the lever forward, sending their clockwork horse into a gallop, weaving expertly through the swelling mob—then reining back to a sudden stop at Bloomsbury Street. In the face of the dull roar of the fire, the fire brigade worked quickly, sending arcs of water onto a blazing townhome while pickpockets threaded through the crowd taking full advantage of the commotion.
Though quiet shadows were preferable, a burning house would be a convenient distraction while they searched the laboratory. She slid from the clockwork horse, but Nick made no move to dismount. Instead, a curse fell from his lips.
No. Could it be— “Is that… 28 Bloomsbury Street?”
“It is.” Nick’s jaw tightened.
The timing was curiously suspicious. Yet they hunted a life-saving medical device, not some secret government technology pursued by biotechnological spies. Or so she’d been led to believe. Her gaze slid sideways. “Then you should interview its mistress.” She pointed to a woman who stood beside the fire wagon—conspicuously alone—with a blanket wrapped about her nightdress. No neighbors rushed to her side to offer comfort. No tears streaked down her soot-blackened face. Odd.
Lips pressed into a grim line, Nick dismounted and paid a boy to watch the clockwork horse, promising far more if they were both still present when he returned. He elbowed his way to the woman’s side. “Mrs. Farquhar?”
“Yes?” Suspicion tinged her voice, and she clutched the blanket tighter.
Columns of smoke and steam rose from the burning heap as the firemen doused the fire. Colleen stood to the side, keeping her face well-hidden in the shadows—a challenge beside this blaze—yet with her ear finely tuned to the nuances of their every word.
“I need to speak with your husband,” Nick said. “Now. Is he nearby?”
“No,” Mrs. Farquhar’s eyes sidled away. “So if you’re here to collect his findings…”
Nick stiffened. Colleen’s ears pricked.
“Don’t deny it,” the woman grumbled. “That outlandish dress of yours doesn’t fool me. You work for him. I warned the likes of you that Gregory was a bad gamble. The bastard did a runner.”
“And took his invention with him?”
The fire was nearly out, and the crowds began to disperse. The firemen, exhausted, worked quietly to stow their equipment. She squinted. Broken glass. Charred wood. Dripping, soot-blackened water. The house was now uninhabitable, but the gaps in the structure made by flames and collapsing wood made the lowest floor, sunken beneath street level, accessible. Easy enough to pass through the kitchen and reach those rooms behind it where the laboratory would be located.
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” Mrs. Farquhar groused. “Nasty business, all of this. Why else would he run? Either way, that rosewood box you’re after? It’s not here.”
Ice crystalized in her blood, and a shiver ran across her skin. A rosewood box. She’d bet her entire bank account that she’d had her hands on that very box just a few hours past. Dammit. A sick twist of nausea swirled in her stomach. She had lowered her standards to accept a gray assignment and look where it had led. Anna’s life dangled in peril all because—
No. This was not her fault. Colleen took a deep breath and concentrated upon the conversation.
Nick was pressing Mrs. Farquhar for more information. “Did he give you any details about the men he worked for?”
“No.” She backed away, shaking her head, all but snarling at Nick. “I’ll not fall for any tricks. This is a test, and I’ll not fail. You’ll not get anything more from me. Go away.”
It didn’t matter. She knew that the buyer—whomever he was—had arranged for one of Mr. Witherspoon’s other associates to meet with Dr. Farquhar, initiating the process by which his invention had been passed along an obfuscation chain. Which meant, quite simply, that it was—or would be—in the hands of another unscrupulous soul. Why, then, this burning of his house? Something felt wrong. Either it was part of the cover up, or someone had secrets to hide. The obvious choice, to question Mr. Witherspoon, was pointless. He would tell her nothing.
That meant they had a laboratory to investigate. Then a scientist to locate.