Chapter Sixteen

 

 

 

HIS WIFE GUZZLED WINE under the count’s appreciative and overly familiar gaze. As the count ogled, a smoldering sensation built deep in his chest, as if a sleeping dragon awakened to find a gold coin missing from his hoard. In a premeditated move, Katherine had loaned Olivia an exceptionally revealing gown. To distract her husband? To prick Ian’s ire? Both, he suspected.

He cleared his throat. Loudly. “It is British tradition for a woman to wait until she has produced both an heir and a spare before conducting an illicit liaison. You’ll need to wait a few years, Count Eberwin.”

All conversation stopped.

Had he a knife, Ian would have been tempted to aim for the count’s throat and put an end to this madness, but he’d only been provided a fork and a spoon. Every muscle in his body tensed. Eyes could be removed with a spoon.

But no. It would solve nothing. Too many in this room would stop him. Still, he saw no reason to act the gentleman. The food was inedible, the company unbearable, and he could no longer tolerate the count’s lustful glances at Olivia’s chest.

He dropped his fork with a clatter and tossed his napkin on the table and stood.

Several guardsmen about the room slid knives from sheaths.

Ignoring them all, he addressed the count. “What is the point of forcing us to share a meal together? We are not friends, not guests. Three of us are prisoners. Your guardsmen are dying. Yet you force us to cease working so that we may engage in pointless social charades.”

“Scientists.” Count Eberwin sighed. “Such little regard for manners. I’d hoped your status as an earl might restore some dignity to the profession, but alas.” With one last longing glance at Olivia’s bosom, the count leaned back in his chair. “If you could view my goals in a different light, we might be partners. Sit down and hear me out.”

The wobbly steam butler rolled back into the room, this time with a tray balanced upon metal fingers. It began slapping down a most disgusting, steaming pile of black hash upon their plates. He supposed this was the infamous black knödel.

“Partners,” Ian sneered, reluctantly taking his seat. “Germany is an enemy of Britain. How could we be partners?”

“Even now our two countries’ ambassadors meet.” Katherine spoke from the distant end of the table. “Allegiances change.”

“Do they, Countess? Which country is it that you support?” For the moment. With that stray thought, Ian realized that it needn’t be either Germany or England. With new awareness, he studied her face more closely and…‌ No, there were no telling features. She could be loyal to any number of countries.

“Why that of my husband, of course.” Her mouth drew into a knowing smile. “Though my heart will always hold England near and dear.”

The count set down his fork. “Zheng recognizes the value in aligning China’s interests with that of Germany. When this project succeeds, he will win both fortune and favor with emperors, both his and mine. Doktor Warrick’s own country dismissed him, but with my patronage, he continues his work here in Germany. Why not join us?”

“I have no cause to abandon my country,” Ian said.

The count’s eyebrows drew together. “Your queen has forced you from your laboratory, away from your passion, and by now she will suspect treason. Your estate is in shambles, in need of a great infusion of funds, but you chose to marry whom?” He barked a laugh. “A research assistant?”

Ian stared. Loathing rose like bile from his gut. “I am only suspected of treason because Warrick betrayed his country and you kidnapped my sister.”

“But of course.” His eyebrows lifted in haughty disdain. “Time is limited. Persuasion was necessary.” He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers across his chest. “Now that you are here, I hope you will allow me to make you happy, but if you refuse to cooperate, there are many avenues of enticement I intend to pursue,” the count’s gaze flickered again to Olivia’s bosom, this time with a pointed message, “many of which will make me a very happy man.”

Ian wanted to throttle him and Olivia who, sipping her third glass of wine, watched the exchange as if she were at a cricket match. No experienced agent would overindulge while in such a precarious position. With all the guards lining the room, the situation could easily turn ugly.

The count leaned forward and tapped a finger on the table. “Solve my problem. Build me an indestructible army, and I will see you established in Berlin—‌in a laboratory at the prestigious Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität—‌where you will be allowed to poke and prod at any anatomical curiosity your heart desires.”

“What assurances do I have that you, an egotistical, maniacal despot, can accomplish such a thing?” Ian sneered. “From the primitive, downright antediluvian appearance of your castle, your family has been out of political favor for generations. For all I know, you will squander any such army attempting to storm the Berliner Stadtschloss and die before you cross its threshold.”

The count slammed his hands down upon the table. The dinnerware and all its guests, who had grown silent and wary during their exchange, jumped. “This time and this time only, I will not kill you for your insults. However, should you address me in that manner again—‌”

Olivia screamed.

All eyes followed the point of her finger. Gleaming kitchen knives attached to the steam butler’s arms waved wildly in the air as it pitched across the great hall on a direct course for the count.

Chaos erupted.

Guardsmen drew their swords, but Zheng moved with blinding speed. With a loud cry, he leapt forward wielding his curved blade and lopped off the butler’s head with one blow.

Valve oil spurted from Hanover’s severed neck as some internal pump continued to churn away. Hot steam hissed from several damaged valves, one of which happened to be on level with the count’s face.

Howling in pain, the count shoved away from the table with such force that his chair toppled backward. Warrick, sycophant that he was, jumped to his feet and rushed to the count’s side, dragging Elizabeth with him in an attempt to press a napkin against the man’s cheek, all the while shouting at a guardsman to bring ice.

His sister screamed as blue electricity arced. The smell of burned flesh met his nose at the very moment Elizabeth’s eyes rolled backward. With surprising agility, Olivia flung herself between his sister and the floor, cushioning her fall.

“Warrick!” Ian yelled, running to his sister’s side. “Fix the damn dial, you bastard.”

Olivia had pried the wrist band free by the time he crouched beside Elizabeth, and her convulsions had stopped. He put a hand to her chest. Still breathing. Checked her pulse. Thready, but regular. He shoved aside the ruffled lace at her wrist and grimaced. First degree burns.

Elizabeth’s eyes flickered open. “I think it’s broken,” she whispered. “My wrist.”

He lifted her arm, but Warrick slapped away his hand. “She’s mine now.”

“Boys,” Olivia chided, helping Elizabeth to sit up. “Fighting over her will worsen her injury.”

They both ignored her.

“You take poor care of whom you claim to love,” Ian snapped, turning on Warrick. “That convulsion, that fall could have broken more than her wrist. What were you thinking? An axon thrall band?”

Ripping the master control band from his arm, Warrick slammed it down upon the table. “It would not have been necessary had you not poisoned her mind against me.”

“Necessary!” Ian yelled. “In the presence of twelve guardsmen and Zheng? You vastly overestimate my abilities.”

“Step aside, Lord Rathsburn.” Katherine crossed the room to stand beside the count. “Doktor Warrick will see Lady Elizabeth’s bones set.”

Ian growled. A vein pulsed at his temple. He’d not broken a dozen rules to reach his sister only to be brushed aside when she needed him.

“I’ll be fine,” Elizabeth whispered. “It’s but a minor break. Warrick is competent enough. You’ll cause more problems if you insist upon setting my wrist yourself. Look around, Ian. This is not the time to stir up trouble. Please.”

He glanced up. All eyes were upon him. Zheng adjusted the angle of his sword and his eyes flashed, daring him to contradict the countess’ words. Twelve guardsmen held knives at the ready.

Elizabeth was right. The situation had degenerated past repair. Though his body—‌his fists—‌shook with the need to lay Warrick flat on his back, doing so would only cause the count to tighten security. “Very well,” he conceded.

In deference to his sister’s wishes and the inevitable trouble that would ensue, he forced himself to rise slowly and hold his tongue. He caught Olivia by the elbow as she struggled to stand, steadying her as she tripped on the train of her dress.

“Thank you,” she slurred and fell against him, her body soft and warm.

“Guards,” the count bellowed. “Take the prisoners to their assorted cells.”

As four guardsmen bore his sister away—‌Warrick in their wake—‌Ian scooped Olivia into his arms and exited the room at the point of Zheng’s blade.

~~~

He deposited his drunk wife on her feet.

No.

His pretend wife.

But he was right about the drunk.

“What the hell were you thinking, drinking half a bottle of wine in the space of two courses?” he yelled. It was enough that he now had to worry about Elizabeth’s broken wrist in the care of Warrick.

“Nothing else to eat…‌” she slurred, wobbling as she turned about on her too-high heels to face him. “I’m not drunk.”

“You are. Drunk enough to smile at Count Eberwin.”

It had been a defining moment. Never before had he felt such an upwelling of insane jealousy, of irrational possessiveness. Acting the possessive husband had not taken the slightest effort. She was his. At least for the duration of their time in Germany.

“I wasn’t smiling,” she said. “I was trying not to laugh. At him.” She stepped forward and jabbed at his chest. “And I didn’t see you eating any poisonous, jellied kraken, taking the chance that a sharp barb might get caught in your throat.” Olivia spun away. She staggered to the bed, steadying herself by clutching the bedpost. “Two glasses of wine were a necessary coping measure.”

“Three.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Thud. He looked up. Her ruined bodice sparkled upon the floor. He stared as she unfastened the hooks of the skirt, the ties of the petticoat, and let it all slide to the floor. She kicked them away and bent over, reaching for her shoes…‌ and presenting him with a most enticing view of her rump.

Approving, his shaft rose to attention even as his brain vetoed the thought. What was wrong with him? He was angry. They faced a life and death situation. His sister was injured. Why was he lusting after this woman? This very beautiful, if frustrating and exasperating woman.

“I thought it added a certain verisimilitude to my role,” she said, her tongue tripping over the long word. Her shoes made an odd clang as she kicked them beneath the bed. “Bride in a snit when confronted by her husband’s former paramour.”

“She’s not…‌ I didn’t…‌ we were never romantically involved.” Not really. He might have proposed to Katherine, but they’d never shared so much as a kiss, thank the aether. Though if not for the attack upon their balloon…‌ How had Olivia managed to make this about him? Time for the voice of reason. “Something like this can’t happen again. You agreed to help. If it’s too much, play ill. Confine yourself to this bed for the duration.”

This task he’d undertaken was beginning to look impossible. He raked a hand through his hair. How was he—‌unassisted—‌to stop Warrick, free his sister, and return both Olivia to her father and the osforare apparatus to his laboratory?

Somehow he would manage. There was little choice.

Olivia swayed as she turned around. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Alcohol consumption in the presence of the enemy…‌” Her eyes met his. She clamped her mouth shut.

“You are a spy,” he accused. An incompetent spy, perhaps, but any help was preferable to none at all.

“No. I only want to be.” She flapped a hand in the air. “But I think one is about. A spy, that is.” Olivia giggled. “To be able to say the butler did it…‌” She shook her head. “Such a middling assassination attempt. A corroded tripod butler wielding kitchen knives…‌”

Ian tipped his head. “Could you have done better?”

“Of course!” Her eyes grew wide. “Not that I would. Kill someone. Or try to do so.”

“Who—‌if anyone—‌in the room do you think would want to attack the count?”

She fell silent as her face contorted in an effort to concentrate, trying to pluck a coherent thought from the alcoholic pickle she’d made of her brain. “I think…‌ What if Hanover wasn’t meant to succeed?” She reached deep into her bodice and dragged forth a metal cartridge. “Can you pry the lid free? My fingers aren’t quite so…‌ nimble.”

“How?” He gaped. She was intoxicated. “Is that from—‌?”

“Hanover.” She flapped her fingers at the cartridge. “Everyone was yelling. He just lay there on the floor, his chest cavity cracked. I thought…‌ I wondered…‌ who was trying to kill who. So I…‌ Just pass me the cards.”

“The steam butler was clearly after the count,” Ian said, handing her the stack of yellowed, dog-eared punch cards.

“Was he?” With the palm of her hand she spread them out upon the desk where a single tallow candle burned and bent over them, reading the pattern of holes. “Crude. Though no surprise here. He’s a Model 2A Grefenshaus. Some twelve years old. Daily commands: polishing silver, selecting wine, dinner at eight…‌ Wait. There it is.”

“What?” Ian asked, bending closer. “Can you truly determine who punched a card by looking at it?”

“Not without a sample identified as their work.” She studied the card, then held it out to him. “Look.”

“Same kind of paper,” he observed, turning it over in his hand. “Only in pristine condition.”

“Exactly. A series of commands instructing Hanover to kill ‘the Chinaman’. The butler wasn’t attempting to kill the count, but Zheng.”

“Katherine is no doubt behind this,” Ian said. “She’s the only one with unimpeded access to the steam staff and, married to the count, a simple knife to his throat while he slept would make her a widow.”

Her mouth fell open. “That’s a gruesome view of marriage.”

“A pragmatic one, steeped in historical tradition. But why kill Zheng? He provides the antimony. Without him, there can be no unbreakable army. Perhaps she was testing Zheng’s loyalty? That corroded, old steam butler was bound to fail.”

Nodding, she swayed forward and caught herself by grabbing the lapels of his coat. “I agree. But what if she deemed either outcome acceptable?” She lowered her forehead to rest against his chest. “I do not believe you. I think you were once lovers. Katherine clearly mourns the loss of your affections. I think she aspires to widowhood.”

He agreed. Just not with the countess’ motivations. Katherine was playing her own game, yes, but Ian sincerely doubted her motivations were amorous. “We weren’t lovers and never will be.”

“She is so beautiful.” Both of Olivia’s hands now gripped his coat. “So very tall and regal. And I’m…‌ not.” She sniffled.

Oh, no. No, no, no. Was his mock wife about to cry because she believed he lusted after another woman? The excessive wine had made her maudlin. “Stop,” he said. “You are far more beautiful than her.”

“Really?” She looked up. A stray tear ran down her cheek.

He sighed. Words. She wanted words. Romantic ones. Strangely, he felt an urge to provide them. “Were you not listening to my many compliments when we boarded the airship?”

“Silliness to pass the time.” She waved a hand.

“Not silliness.”

“But earlier, I offered you…‌” Her face flushed. “Everything. You turned me down.”

“And before that, I kissed you.”

“So you did.” She shifted closer and tipped her face upward. Her blue eyes caught his. “So which is it, husband? Attraction or revulsion?”

He brushed away the tear, then trailed a finger down the side of her face, tracing the edge of her jaw until his finger slid beneath the tip of her chin. “You captivate me, Olivia. With an allure beyond having curves in all the right places. I’ve yet to meet a woman with such complexity.”

She blinked. “Is that a good thing?”

“It is.” Except it wasn’t. It was going to take every ounce of his self-restraint not to respond to her unpracticed advances.

Her eyes fluttered closed. “Then might we try a kiss again now that I’m not terrified of plunging to my death?”

So tempting, those soft, full lips. But he was a gentleman, and she was drunk. His hands moved to press against the satin and steel of her narrow, corseted waist. Gently, he turned her around, directing her toward the bed. “Another time. The only thing you’re fit for at the moment is sleep.”