Venomous Secrets Page 10

  “The vials,” Janet said, accepting the inevitable, “of both blood and venom, are in the kitchen icebox.”

  “Beside the cobra venom we collected?”

  “Exactly so.” Swatting aside Cait’s unsteady hands, Janet swept her hair into a simple chignon. “Promise me you’ll be careful? This venomous creature is bound to learn you’ve survived and is certain to attack again.”

  Cait grinned. “I’d like to see her try.”

  If luck was with her, she might well prove immune.

  Still, fangs could rip and tear a person’s throat. Next time she encountered the creature, she wanted a TTX pistol pointed at the woman’s chest—even if it was a nearby agent who took aim.

  Chapter Nine

  “Miss McCullough,” Dr. Whitby greeted her with a tight smile, “while I appreciate that any tasks assigned to you by your brother, Mr. Black, must take precedence here at the Lister Institute, I do expect you to inform our technicians. Someone must feed and water the laboratory rats in your absence.”

  “My apologies, sir.” Cait struggled to keep her feet still. Every toe twitched with the need to be at her research bench, working with the samples tucked deep within the embroidered, tasseled reticule clipped to her belt. Impatient, she rubbed a finger over the black stone of her ring. “It won’t happen again.”

  Assuming she lasted through the day.

  “In the next two weeks, I expect you’ll wish to begin hematological analysis.”

  Sooner, really. But not on the rats. On herself. “Yes, of course.”

  “Before I can authorize your use of the Haimatos Separation Machine,” Dr. Whitby continued, “we’ll need to schedule a meeting to review your progress and the next steps you plan to take regarding your proposed TTX project. My office, tomorrow at ten?”

  “Certainly.” She gave a polite nod, took a step sideways. She would be there. If Logan hadn’t revoked her access to the laboratory altogether.

  Dr. Whitby’s frown followed her across the room and, even after he’d turned away, a guilty residue hovered over her as she lit her Bunsen burner. She ought to be preparing dilutions of tetrodotoxin for her neglected rats in preparation for a second round of exposure. Instead, she intended to pour biogel plates to analyze an unknown venom.

  She tugged at her collar, pulling it away from the bandage at her neck and told herself that subverting Lister resources without approval was for the greater good.

  Her brother was an efficient agent. She could not afford to delay.

  With that thought at the forefront of her mind, she donned a laboratory coat and focused on the task before her.

  While the liquid media she’d poured into two Petri dishes cooled and solidified, Cait turned her attention to extracting venom residue from the gauze Jack had passed her. Next, she loaded samples of both her blood and that of Mr. Acker into the centrifuge that she might collect serum samples from both.

  An hour later, Cait bent over the Petri dishes—one for each of the venomous creature’s victims. To set up the double immunodiffusion assays, she punched a cluster of three wells into the now-solid biogel, one set per plate. Then, with a steady hand, she lifted her pipette and filled the wells.

  Plate one received ten microliters of venom residue from the creature who had attacked her, ten microliters of cobra venom as a control, and ten microliters of her own serum. Plate two replicated the first, save she used Mr. Acker’s serum.

  After she sealed the plates with wax—to prevent both contamination and desiccation—there was nothing to do but wait. She lowered herself onto a stool and stared at the deceptively simple experiment before her.

  Results might take up to twenty-four hours, but if both serum samples reacted with that of the creature’s venom, she would have proof of her own immunity, proof that the same creature had attacked both her and Mr. Acker. Proof that the woman in the carriage was not a vampire, but some strange and poisonous human hybrid.

  Cait rolled her shoulders. While she waited, it was time to address her official research project. Developing an antitoxin to tetrodotoxin. She reached for a bottle of sterile saline—

  Only to have it snatched from her hand.

  Logan set the flask upon the countertop. “While your mother is much distressed to find you already out of bed, she is not surprised.” His eyes bored holes through her skull. “Nor am I.”

  Crumbling mummies and shrunken heads. She was officially out of time. The next few hours were bound to be pure misery. “I had samples to analyze. Besides, sneaking out of the house is a skill you helped hone. You ought to be proud.” A weak argument tossed out in a last-ditch effort to deflect Logan’s wrath.

  And a failure, judging from the disappointment that rippled across his face, an expression that now hardened into iron resignation.

  “Proud?” His eyebrows lifted. “You ignored direct orders, put lives at risk and compromised an investigation. I could go on, but why waste perfectly good air?” He handed her a paper-wrapped package. “From Janet. She implores you to change the bandage and reapply the ointment.”

  “I will. As soon as I—”

  “You know I’m not here to play delivery boy.” He jerked his head. “Let’s go. Your presence has been requested elsewhere.”

  “The duke?” She hated the faint tremble in her voice. For years she’d dreamed of meeting him, but now and under such circumstances? Cait’s stomach flipped and dove to her knees.

  “Did you really think to escape?”

  “No.” The admission escaped on an exhale. She tucked the Petri dishes into the depths of her reticule, added Janet’s packet and turned to a laboratory technician. “I’ll be away…” She looked at Logan.

  He glowered. “Indefinitely.”

  The technician sighed.

  Outside, the clouds were gray and somber, determined to add to her misery by blotting out the sun with a steady drizzle. Worse, she rode to her doom in a rickety gig driven by her brother and drawn by a clockwork horse—a vehicle that did not possess a hood.

  Pride compelled an attempt at preserving her appearance.

  Cait opened her parasol—a purple, ruffly affair that did little to keep the uppermost feathers of her hat dry, let alone the rest of her. Though a short cape fell to her elbows, the lace and velvet points of her skirts would never recover.

  Their route was scenic and took them through Hyde Park along West Carriage Drive and over the Serpentine. Alongside the road, spring flowers hung their heads, bowed over by the rain. But she refused to take her cue from the colorful blooms. There was every reason to hope that the duke would be amenable to reason.

  She lifted her chin. “Am I to return to Glasgow via train or dirigible?”

  Logan pushed a lever and the mechanical horse picked up its pace. “You could stay, evaluate the gentlemen who come calling. One or two might have central heating with a warm furnace.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Perfect for indulging a reptile collection in an underground lair.”

  It wasn’t the worst idea, save there were precious few potential husbands who would willingly allocate space for their wife to set up a laboratory, let alone permit her to gather a collection of venomous beauties within the walls of their home. Which was why she’d hoped to focus her courtship efforts elsewhere.

  She huffed. “If you’d provided me with a list of eligible agents as I asked—”

  “Reveal their identities? Their locations?” His narrow glance severed any hope of such an occurrence. “Always impatient. That’s why you’re in this mess. Not content to earn the trust of my men over time, you forcibly inserted yourself into an investigation against direct orders. How did that work out?”

  “Quite well,” Cait snapped. She missed the easy amiability they used to share. Once her brother would have championed her cause and laughed away her late-night antics. Annoying to find Logan’s new position had turned him staid and proper. “As you’ve no doubt been informed, I collected blood samples of the only man to survive the predator’s bi
te. Moreover, she was stalking us. Had that woman bitten Mr. Tagert on the neck, he’d be dead.” She smirked. “Instead, he’s alive and I’m immune.”

  “You can’t know that.” He slowed the clockwork horse, took a hard left and bumped the gig off the drive onto a gravel-strewn path.

  “Can’t I?” Her gaze slid to the lump made by the TTX weapon hidden beneath his coat.

  Logan’s jaw clenched. Referencing that incident never failed to find its mark. He drew the gig to a halt and jumped down. “The duke will meet you in the Italian Gardens. He wishes to speak with you privately.”

  The only structure in the gardens was the pump house. It did, however, possess a small terrace. She could see its roofline, a short, if muddy, distance away. Shelter from the unrelenting rain if not the chill that steadily crept its way through the various layers of her clothing to nip at her skin.

  “Aren’t you even the slightest bit interested in the experiment I set up this morning in the laboratory?” Cait asked as he handed her down.

  His lips twisted, but she caught a flash of uncertainty. “You’ve already claimed immunity.”

  “So I have. But you haven’t asked for proof.” She lifted her arm and let her gaze drift to her reticule. Soon, the two biogel plates inside might tell a curious tale to anyone with the patience to listen. “Perhaps this duke you worship will be more interested in what I might have to say about the predator who stalks upon London’s streets.”

  Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel with enough speed to smack him in the face with the fringe of her parasol.

  The wet slap might just turn out to be the most satisfying moment of her day.

  Apprehension curled in his gut. So much for a private audience with the duke. These past few months, life was determined to be difficult. Today, it conspired to include the very woman who refused to stay out of his thoughts regardless of the tasks to which he set himself.

  Against a backdrop of water lilies, glistening paving stones and the distant Tazza Fountain, none other than Cait—Miss McCullough, he reminded himself—climbed the stairs to stand beneath the stone arch of the portico.

  In retrospect, he ought to have known a meeting held in the Pump House at the Italian Gardens in the midst of a persistent drizzle would not proceed with anything resembling normalcy.

  “Good morning, Miss McCullough.” He doffed his top hat. “You look well.” Stunning, really. Especially for someone who had nearly died in his bed last night. Color had returned to her cheeks. Spark to her eyes. Spring to her step. How on Earth had she made such a rapid recovery? “No ill side effects?”

  “Ill?” She collapsed her ornamental parasol and gave it a brisk shake. “A touch of lingering muscle stiffness. A wound that promises to develop into an unsightly scar. But, as you see, I am quite well.” Glancing about the portico and finding them alone, she stepped closer to place a gloved hand upon his wrist. “I must thank you for your swift and decisive actions.” Her cheeks grew red. “It’s not everyone who can share the breath of life.”

  His gaze fell upon the bow of her lips. A jolt crackled down his spine and heated the air in his lungs. There it was again. That inexplicable attraction. But she was thanking him for medical services, not inviting his touch. Or his kiss. No, he’d had that opportunity and let it slip past, unanswered, in a mistaken bid for privacy and propriety.

  And it wasn’t one that could be corrected now. Not with the duke’s imminent arrival.

  “You’re very welcome. Your brother received a complete report of the attack and its effects, all save that particular detail. Self-preservation, really. The sight of your corset upon my floor nearly had him calling for pistols at dawn.”

  Her breath caught. Did she too imagine their evening with an altogether different outcome?

  Dark eyes flashed, and a laugh escaped her lips. “A wise choice. My brother is, as noted, overprotective of his sister.” Her hand fell away and he mourned its loss. “I do hope the newspaper headlines haven’t caused you much grief?”

  Jack forced out a slow, controlled exhalation. “They might yet,” he admitted. “The Duke of Avesbury is an efficient man. Given our summons, we’re likely to both lose our positions this morning.”

  “That remains to be seen,” the gentleman himself said, shattering their intimate tête-à-tête. They jumped away from each other. “A pleasure to finally meet you, Miss McCullough. I do apologize for the damp setting, but I judged it best to hold this conclave in a location the newspaper reporters would be unlikely to discover.” The duke set his briefcase upon the stone floor.

  Out in the gardens, a man and a woman strolled amidst the water gardens beneath black umbrellas. Waiting. Watching. He recognized them both. Mr. Black and the duke’s wife, Lady Avesbury. Nothing good could come of their combined presence. This was no mere dismissal. Something more was afoot.

  Suspicion planted itself beneath the portico and dug in its roots, fully prepared to burst into catastrophic bloom.

  The duke glanced from Jack to Cait, then cleared his throat. “I have been appraised of the eventful evening the two of you spent in each other’s company. Of the gossip that nips at Mr. Tagert’s heels, of the continued efforts by reporters to discover Miss McCullough’s identity. A most unfortunate situation. Abilities aside, I cannot have so much public attention directed at those who are in my employ. Mr. Black and I agree that the termination of both your positions is the logical decision.”

  “Even if I could produce new information shedding light upon the case?” Cait’s words tumbled forth in a rush while Jack drew breath, ready to lodge his own objection.

  The duke lifted a hand. “Let me finish.” Cait sagged. “I will hear you out momentarily, Miss McCullough.”

  Gritting his teeth, Jack held his tongue.

  “Fortunately for you both, my duchess has the honor and duty of leading her own team of informants, one of whom is Mr. Tagert’s sister. As such, she is sympathetic to your quandary and has proposed a solution that will permit you both to continue your work on behalf of the Queen and Lister Institute.”

  Wonderful. Meddling on the highest level. Blessing or curse?

  “With both of you now under extreme societal pressure to select a spouse,” the duke continued, “the problem can be reframed as an opportunity.”

  Jack’s heart stopped, fell to his feet, then jumped into his throat. Where it stuck, leaving him mute. The duke could not mean—

  “If the two of you agree to marry, confidentiality within the relationship will be assured, rendering most of our concerns moot. You’ll let it be known you are indeed man and wife. That a quiet ceremony was performed with only three individuals as witnesses, Mr. Logan Black and the Duke and Duchess of Avesbury.”

  The duke nodded toward the gardens where a third individual approached the Queen’s agent and former societal liaison. An officiant of the church, no doubt, bearing a special license upon which both their names would be inked.

  “Backdated, I presume?” Jack’s wry comment belied his pounding heart.

  “Of course.”

  Cait’s gaze jumped from the duke to Jack and back again. She took a step away. Turned and came back. Breathless, she asked, “A real marriage?”

  The prospect of a precipitous marriage had rendered her… excited?

  He frowned, uncertain.

  “Quite.” The duke cleared his throat. “You will both live and work together. Beyond that, I won’t presume to dictate the particulars of your arrangement. Take a few minutes to consider if we should proceed.” He snapped open an umbrella and joined the others beside the fountain.

  A wife. This was a bad idea, given the status of his health. Even before his diagnosis, he’d not thought to take one so soon, if ever. Did he even want one? Not particularly. Did he wish to continue his work as an agent? Yes. And that meant taking a wife. One in particular.

  At least the proposed bride appeared amenable.

  Miss Cait McCullough. A woman in possess
ion of a perplexing secret. A woman Mr. Black called his sister. A woman from a complicated and tangled family. She wouldn’t make life easy, that was certain.

  Not that his contributions to the marriage would be sunshine and roses.

  Cait herself was a curious contradiction. All that was fashionable and stylish, her attire called attention in the right ways to her slender figure, to its gentle curves. As did the feathered hat situated upon a mesmerizing twist of upswept hair.

  She could flash a disarming smile with those wide, full lips and throw him off balance. All while her dark eyes sparkled with mischief and plans and purpose and drive.

  Life with her would be anything but dull. Both a concern and a temptation.

  But when was the straightforward path ever interesting?

  “They’ll say I trapped you.” Cait met his gaze, daring him to disagree.

  “Yes.”

  “Though it was not my intention, it will be, in part, true.” She threw a hand in the air and began to pace, a swirl of purple silk and black velvet as she assessed their circumstances. “Had I not taken it upon myself to personally visit the coroner where—”

  “You took my name for expediency,” Jack finished. “You’ll also recall I allowed the claim to stand unchallenged. Then invoked the convenient lie yet again as the evening progressed before sweeping you away to my apartments.”

  She turned. “A mistake.”

  “Was it? I made what I believed to be the best possible decision in the moment.” He caught her wrist. Stopped her where she stood. “Regardless, let’s not make another.”

  “A hasty marriage, for example?”

  “I’m not so certain. Is it such a bad idea? Queen’s agents are often called upon to make snap decisions based upon the limited facts available to them.”

  She gaped. “You’re sincerely considering this?”