A Snowflake at Midnight Page 2

  “Mistletoe isn’t well-suited to a vase.” He fought back a smirk.

  Reading intent in Ash’s eyes, Bracken’s fingers curled into fists. Was he planning to present her with an overpriced trinket tomorrow in an attempt to upstage his rival? The man’s glare drilled into Ash’s forehead. “Good. Be certain it stays in the greenhouse.”

  Confirmation that the man did intend to pursue Miss Brown’s hand.

  “Have you observed any mistletoe growing while attending to your oleander bushes?” It was impossible to keep the disdain from his voice. The chemist had visited the rooftop greenhouse but once. Believing himself above the other employees in his laboratory, he’d sent a technician to collect branches, leaves and flowers. “No. For mistletoe requires a tree with substantial roots. It’s parasitic in nature.” Not unlike yourself. “And our container-grown trees would suffer were we to attempt to cultivate Viscum album indoors.”

  “Gentlemen,” she hissed. “This is not the place. You grow loud and are attracting attention. If we might attend to library business.” Turning her back on Ash, she addressed Bracken. “Ginger spice?”

  “And all that’s nice?” The odious man had the gall to wink. “Indeed. I look forward to reading your recommended text and greatly anticipate all associated materials.”

  “Excellent.” She lowered her voice. “Now keep in mind, this particular book has yet to be accessioned. Most patrons are not afforded such privileges.” Bracken lapped up the indulgence, and Ash frowned. “Take great care of it. I’m sure we’ll have much to discuss once you’ve read the passage and—”

  BOOM!

  The floor beneath their feet heaved, then settled with a shudder.

  Miss Brown’s hands flew outward, bracing her arms atop the desk, eyes wide. “Crack a teacup!” Shock drove the decorum from her voice and turned it salty. “What was that?”

  Ash choked back a snort as Bracken’s mouth dropped in horror. Not in response to the blast—for an odd light had sparked in his eyes at the sound—but to the proper librarian’s reaction. Curious, to see a man so disturbed by a woman’s choice of words in the wake of an explosion. Still, this was not the time for comment. “Come!” He held out a hand to Miss Brown. “Aether forbid the building has caught fire.”

  Already other library patrons abandoned books to rush from the reading room. Fire and smoke and toxic fumes were significant and real dangers in a research facility.

  Snatching up a familiar dog-eared brown paper notebook and clutching it to her chest like the treasure it was, Miss Brown allowed him to steady her as, amidst others, they raced down a wide staircase. A pungent chemical smell met their noses, hurrying them ever faster.

  The stairs took a bend, dumping them into the building’s foyer and a nightmare. Beside him, Miss Brown jerked to a stop. His own stomach churned, but it was impossible to look away. Scorched pits marred the walls, the ceiling and the floor. The large Lucifer lamp that graced the entryway had shattered, its luminous contents dripping onto the black-and-white checkered tiles of the floor to mix with blood and shattered glass. Ash counted three victims. First aid was already being given to two men who were dazed and wheezing yet largely unscathed. A third victim—missing a leg—lay motionless and beyond help in a pool of his own blood.

  “Enemy attack!”

  “Breach of the facility!”

  “Attempted sabotage!”

  His eyebrows furrowed. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a laboratory accident.

  Behind them, Bracken let out a strangled cry. He elbowed his way through the crowd gathered upon the stairs, surged across the floor, and dropped onto his knees beside the dead man. “No!”

  Ash wouldn’t have thought the chemist capable of such strong feelings. Well, not ones that would move him to disregard the damage to his trousers.

  “Aether, that’s Dr. Wilson!” Miss Brown gasped. “Only yesterday we met to discuss revisions to our paper.” Her hand flew to her mouth, and wide eyes met his gaze. Her next words emerged as a whisper. “He never so much as hinted at his involvement, but I’ve heard rumors that he’s a Queen’s agent.”

  Information that cast this disaster in an entirely new light. He wrapped an arm about her shoulders and pulled her shaking form tight against his side. Was it awful of him to enjoy the soft press of her body in the wake of such a disaster, when there might well be intentional malice afoot? Guilt threatened to raise its head.

  “Excuse me. Pardon.” Two men pushed through the crowds. “Step aside.”

  One was a uniformed Lister guard. The other a man of average height and build, one averse to drawing attention. His very presence escalated suspicion of the disaster spread before them.

  “Isn’t that Mr. Black?” Miss Brown breathed. “He’s the—”

  “Queen’s agent who brought the amatiflora to the greenhouse.” Such was the name given to the new medicinal plant recently discovered growing upon the banks of the Thames. The mystery of its bloom had brought him into the library to comb the scientific literature for prior references. Within its walls he’d also found a woman who would captivate his mind and steal his heart.

  A hushed murmur arose as the two men examined the scene.

  The guard conferred with Mr. Black, then turned to wave his arms. “Please, if everyone will turn back, clear the premises, and go about your business. We have a fatality and must focus upon a thorough investigation as to the cause of the explosion.”

  The crowd heaved. Shuffled. Churned. Some began to exit, no doubt to carry away news of the disaster as far and as fast as they could possibly manage. Many continued to stare with blatant disregard for orders.

  “Miss Brown,” Mr. Davies snapped.

  Ash dropped his arm from her shoulders, irritated that the man made him feel guilty for offering a simple comfort. “Sir.” He inclined his head in greeting.

  Mr. Davies ignored him.

  “The feminine inclination to gossip, or so you assured me when hired, was not something to which you would succumb.” The head librarian’s expression was pinched, as if his shoes were too tight. “Was such a statement fiction? If not, cease your whispers and return to duty as instructed. The library doors have been left wide open. There is no lingering or immediate threat, save to the books that have been placed under our protection.”

  “Yes, sir.” She straightened. Only the slightest quiver of her chin hinted at the effort it took to set aside her distress at the sudden and horrible death of a colleague.

  Ash climbed the stairs beside her, hoping his presence offered her at least a little comfort.

  Miss Brown swallowed and glanced at him. “Did Dr. Bracken’s behavior strike you as odd?” Her eyebrows drew together. “Such melodrama. Certainly, they’re colleagues, but I always had the impression that they didn’t much care for each other. Perhaps that was only because they are—were—both candidates for the Hatton Chair of Chemistry.”

  “It does.” For a tendril of suspicion wound its way through his gut, though there was no identifying the seed from which it sprouted. A colleague dead upon the floor and still the chemist needed the limelight to shine upon him. “I have every confidence Mr. Black’s investigations will unearth whatever is amiss, be it foul play or otherwise. The Queen’s agents won’t be distracted by any histrionics.”

  They reached the library, and Miss Brown slid back behind her desk. Only a handful of patrons had returned. “Nonetheless,” she pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers, “it is an event that Dr. Bracken will exploit. Soon, he’ll once again lean upon my desk, seeking sympathy for the death of a colleague.”

  A low growl slipped unchecked from his throat. “I’ll not have it.”

  “And what claim have you?” A teasing light ignited in her eyes. An invitation to lighten the grim atmosphere that threatened the few remaining hours until the holiday officially began.

  “None.” Her words illuminated the inadequacy of his slow-paced courtship. “Yet. But my feelings for a certain librarian
have become rather deep-rooted of late.” He let the corner of his mouth kick up. “Unless you feel it crosses professional lines, might I offer you a private tour of a certain rooftop garden?”

  Her green eyes softened. Would that he could sweep her off her feet and carry her to the greenhouse this very minute.

  A moment later starch snapped into her spine and her voice sobered. “I’m afraid it does, Mr. Lockwood.”

  His heart began to sink—but was tossed a life jacket by the arrival of her superior.

  “Mr. Lockwood.” Mr. Davies pressed his palms flat against the desk’s surface and slid his gaze down his long nose to fix upon the evergreen arrangement in the vase. “While we are on the topic of gardens, I must ask that you refrain from bringing further vegetation into the reading room.” His lips twisted. “Water poses a hazard to our collection.”

  “Apologies, sir.” Miss Brown’s ears burned red. “I didn’t think a little decor—”

  “Clearly.” Mr. Davies scowled. “See it removed at closing, Miss Brown.” He glanced at the stack of books awaiting her attention, then turned to peer at Ash over the top of his spectacles. “Have you everything you require, sir?”

  “No, actually.”

  Miss Brown slid the brown notebook across the desk to him. Though a joint project, they’d agreed he would frame it as his own.

  Ash kept the request formal. “I’ve a promising project that might be something of an imposition and wished to direct my request to you.”

  The older librarian nodded. “Go on.”

  “With the new Lister building at Kew Gardens complete and ready to house the larger specimen plants, the original greenhouse above the east wing is now empty. As it is a relatively small enclosure, the committee has decided it will house a specialized collection of plants. I have been asked to submit a proposal.” If chosen, he would also receive a promotion and a raise. But he was not the only botanist vying for the honor.

  “And this involves the library how?” Doubt drew Mr. Davies’s eyebrows together.

  Ash leaned closer and lowered his voice. “This must remain confidential.”

  Mr. Davies sniffed. “We who serve Lister scientists are not in the habit of chattering about our clients’ work.”

  So much for the enticement of secrecy. Lifting the notebook, he tried a new tactic. “With Miss Brown’s assistance, I’ve begun studying the library’s collection of pharmacopeia—from the Roman through the medieval period—cross-referencing the patterns of ingredients and associated conditions between books—mining the data, so to speak, that we might determine which plants are most likely to contain bioactive substances. Those plants deemed of the most medicinal, chemical or industrial value would then be cultivated, permitting them to easily embark upon new scientific inquiries.”

  “An ambitious project, Mr. Lockwood. Though interesting, our staff already has significant duties. I’m not certain I wish to impose upon them further.”

  Miss Brown cleared her throat. “If I may, Mr. Davies.”

  The head librarian sighed. “Yes?”

  “Though an extensive proposition, to my knowledge such a compilation has never been undertaken. Given our substantial collection of such texts, we are uniquely positioned to assist. Not only might such a project prove invaluable, if chosen the library’s status would rise in the eyes of the Lister Institute. No longer would we merely be a resource, we would be a research partner. With such a designation, you, Mr. Davies, would be appointed a position upon the Oversight Committee.”

  The head librarian’s eyes flew open. “Well. That would be… most impressive.” As a hunger for status tightened its grip, Ash could almost hear the librarian’s brittle bones crackle and snap as his scrawny frame straightened. “When is this proposal due?”

  “The review committee convenes in mid-January to evaluate all plans,” Ash replied. “I intend to present a cross section of the data we have compiled and detail its potential use.”

  “For example,” Miss Brown said, “a list of plants with known or suspected antibacterial properties correlated to the ingredients of specific infections to which they have been traditionally applied. Easily tested against microbes grown in a Petri dish.”

  “Or,” Ash held her gaze a moment, “given the limited success our surgeons have treating various cancers, a list of plants which have been used to formulate wen-salves, topical treatments for tumors. A more complicated project, but one our scientists are more than capable of addressing.”

  Tears welled in Miss Brown’s eyes, and sympathy tightened his throat. Aiding her search was the least he could do.

  She had a vested interest in this project, for her father was afflicted with a skin carcinoma, one—the physicians believed—precipitated by his many years upon an airship’s deck beneath the intense rays of the sun. Together they’d teased out a number of odd cures, none of which had yet proven successful. Granted more time, he hoped to delve into more obscure references, scouring ancient texts for any long-forgotten treatments.

  “I suppose you wish to continue working with Miss Brown?” Mr. Davies’ words betrayed a certain reluctance.

  Did he suspect a budding romance? Wish to squash such an undignified emotion within the library’s hallowed walls?

  Ash refused to give him the chance. He kept his words carefully formal. “Two months of Miss Brown’s assistance has revealed her to have an exceptional knowledge base from her time at Girton College. Going forward, particularly as we examine original texts, her knowledge of Old English will provide us with a distinct advantage.”

  Case presented, Ash held his breath while Mr. Davies weighed the costs and benefits of such a project. Would the lure of greater glory win over his concerns?

  Miss Brown’s hands shook as she stamped a book returned and set it aside.

  “Mmm.” The head librarian tapped his lips. “I suppose I can spare Miss Brown for an hour in the evenings. Two, if she’s willing to forgo her lunch hour.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Davies,” she said.

  Ash let out an exhale.

  The head librarian pinned them both with a cautionary stare. “This is a professional arrangement. Do not make me regret my decision.” Mr. Davies scanned the reading room before him, noted the paucity of patrons due to the impending holiday and gave a great sigh. Little more than an hour remained until closing. “You might as well start now.”

  Chapter Three

  A sanctioned excuse to spend more time with Mr. Lockwood. A declaration of his interest after two months of flirting. Two!

  With the near-empty library, Evie intended to make the most of this rare opportunity. Pages flipped inside her stomach. A private tour of the greenhouse? She wouldn’t turn down that offer. Not that she was willing to wait for him to lead her down a garden path. Winning permission to work upon their project during work hours required a celebration. And while the leafy concealment of arbors held their appeal, libraries too had their own semi-private passageways lined with the tall magnificence of books.

  As they passed their usual study nook, Evie glanced over her shoulder and threw Ash a cheeky smile, pleased to find a sparkle of appreciation in his eyes as his gaze followed the sway of her hips. Her new green walking dress, though a serviceable wool—as befitted a librarian—was carefully tailored to set off her figure and entice the eyes of a certain botanist, not a chemist. It was no accident that the collar and lapels of the jacket were embroidered with a trailing vine, that they parted beneath her chin to expose a white blouse with tiny, pearl buttons, a blouse nipped in at the waist by a darker green cincher, before the pleats and folds of her bustled skirts flared, falling gently to ankle length.

  A sharp turn between a long run of bookshelves drew them into shadows, away from the eyes of any lingering patrons. She stopped and hooked a finger atop the spine of a book. “Ought we include Culpeper’s unauthorized work, the Complete Herbal and English Physician? Completed in 1653, it would take us beyond the medieval period, but I admire how
he was a radical thinker for his time, unafraid of a hint of scandal.” A long, bold glance from beneath her eyelashes encouraged Mr. Lockwood to take advantage of their momentary seclusion.

  As he reached for the book, she didn’t move—a bold act that brought him so close that she was certain he could hear her heart pounding. Excitement and desire heightened by the possibility of discovery left her breathless.

  He dropped a warm hand atop hers. “Is this an invitation, Miss Brown?” The rough pad of his thumb stroked over her skin. Ripples of heat spread outward.

  “It’s an opportunity,” her voice was a hushed whisper, “to uncover any chemistry between us.” Would he kiss her? Ought she tug on his cravat? It always hung loose about his throat in defense against the heat and humidity of the greenhouse, a welcome habit that provided her with a tantalizing glimpse of the hollow of his throat. She settled for dropping the flat of her palm upon his chest, gratified to feel his own heart hammering against his rib cage. “One you seem determined to waste.”

  With a huff of soft laughter, he tipped her chin up with his fingers and closed the distance between them.

  Evie rocked forward onto her toes, inhaling his woodsy scent, one that had driven her to distraction these long few weeks. She was more than halfway in love with the man.

  His mouth caught hers, soft at first, as his lips explored the shape of hers, then grew bolder, inching toward a demand. More, her body begged. Fire raced across her skin, stealing her breath. But she felt him hesitate, begin to retreat. Too soon! She wanted more. Darting her tongue against his lips, Evie reminded him she was no shy, delicate hothouse flower. No, she was an aviator’s daughter, a hearty bloom with no reputation to protect.

  A stifled groan escaped his throat a moment before he sealed his lips to hers, delving his tongue inside her mouth with bold strokes. He tasted of rainwater and peppermint, an intoxicating combination that failed to quench a burning need inside her. Pure oxygen fed a bed of coals. Feverish and weak-kneed, her hand fisted upon his waistcoat.