The Silver Skull (The Elemental Web Chronicles Book 2) Page 4

  “You’ve heard worse.” He waved at the box. “Open it.”

  She did. A glass vial filled with a clear viscous fluid lay beside four flat metallic discs the size of a half-pence on a bed of blue velvet. She lifted one and flipped a small switch on its edge. A tiny light flickered on, glowing a steady green. She glanced up, eyebrows raised.

  “Acousticotransmitters. Listening devices. Powered by the energy emitted by degrading internal crystals. They have a three-mile radius and enough power to run for up to two weeks apiece. Lord Rathsburn will be traveling on the same airship as you and the duchess, en route to Rome. Your task is to enter his cabin and hide the acousticotransmitters inside his luggage.”

  “And the vial?”

  “An adhesive. Designed to glue the acousticotransmitter in place and restore the lining of his valise.”

  “What then?” In her mind, Olivia was dressed entirely in black, her golden hair tucked beneath a watchman’s cap as she slipped unseen down a dark hallway.

  “Return to your rooms.”

  “That’s all?” She frowned. “Aren’t you going to tell me what Lord Rathsburn is suspected of?”

  “Irrelevant.” The tone of his voice told her there’d be no argument.

  She snapped the case closed. “So I’m to conceal the devices and walk away.”

  “Most spy work is not exciting.”

  “No. Apparently it can also be insulting.” Olivia slumped back on the seat. “I thought I was to be trusted with an important task.”

  “It is.” Mr. Black leaned forward and tapped the case. “It may not be the thrill you seek, but following Lord Rathsburn, listening to his conversations when he meets with foreigners, is critical. Lives depend upon what we will hear once he reaches his destination.” He moved past her, pausing with a hand on the door handle. “Don’t muck it up.”

  Chapter Five

  THE STEAM TRAIN wheezed and coughed, belching one final black cloud into the dingy sky before jerking to a stop at the Dover station. Midst a sea of other passengers, Ian stepped from his private compartment onto the platform. A seething mass of rumpled voyagers swam past him, all calling for trolley services to collect their heaps of boxes, bags and trunks and drag them to various airships. Steambot porters rolled hither and yon, hissing and clanging as they attempted to meet travelers’ demands.

  He had no such need of assistance. Each hand held what appeared to be a simple valise. One was exactly that. The other, however, was a lead-lined, insulated and refrigerated case containing essential equipment and precious biochemicals. Materials he’d covertly appropriated from his laboratory before leaving Lister Laboratories.

  Ian was good, but not that good. Not when the Queen’s agents were well aware of SV140 and his connection to his research. Yet not a single soul had stood guard at his laboratory. Or at any of the other exits. He’d been allowed to walk free.

  Allowed to walk down Clockwork Corridor to purchase the mechanical parts he required. But not unobserved. Black had been there, wrapped around a woman in the shadows. He’d ignored them. It was all part of the ridiculous game they played.

  They would not stop him, but neither would they assist him. Forbidden by the Queen to interfere with all things on German soil, her agents—Thornton and Black in particular—would simply turn a blind eye.

  That was why Black had made but a token effort to reinstate him as an agent. He’d known Ian would refuse, that he would take it upon himself to hunt down Warrick and any other men responsible for creating the tumor-ridden monster with the dense, silver bones. Black wished to retain deniability.

  He might not be an agent, but transporting experimental materials from Lister Laboratories across international borders without written permission constituted treason. Something he was certain both Britain and Germany would hold against him should it prove convenient. Particularly when they discovered he’d also made off with a certain as-yet unfinished piece of equipment designed by an engineer from the Rankine Institute.

  Thinking of it falling into the hands of the Germans made his stomach churn, but thinking of his sister in their hands made him want to roll up his sleeves and raise his fists. He would do whatever was necessary to free her.

  Everything short of handing over the new formula for the transforming reagent.

  Ian scanned the crowds, looking for a familiar face. Or one that took far too much interest in his movements. Like a second skin, old habits slipped back in place without effort. Despite the dangers that awaited, this clear sense of direction was invigorating.

  He’d told no one about this voyage, wiring ahead himself to arrange for his passage. Lady Katherine would not miss him, and there was no one else to take note of his absence beyond his colleagues who believed him to be on an indefinite leave of absence. Until today, he’d barely noticed how constricted his world had become.

  Though there were now a number of Germans keen to spend time with him, ones desperate enough to kidnap his sister in order to hasten his arrival.

  As soon as this was behind him, he needed to pay more attention to life outside the laboratory. He would begin by re-examining and revising his list of suitable brides. Domestic life would be more gratifying if he chose a wife whose company he enjoyed. One he wanted in his bed.

  “Lord Rathsburn! Is that you?”

  Ian closed his eyes a moment. Not missed, perhaps, but it seemed there was no escaping recognition. He took a deep breath and, forcing what he hoped was a pleasant expression upon his face, turned toward the source of the overly cheerful voice.

  A young lady with a heart-shaped face beneath a tumble of golden ringlets smiled up at him. Dressed in a blindingly yellow gown embroidered with an array of bright flowers, she was nothing like the ladies he’d met of late. He would have remembered a woman who paired sunshine with seduction, wrapping the warmth of a sun-filled garden about a figure that promised a different kind of heat. Interest stirred. If he touched her, who would combust?

  She looked familiar, but only vaguely. The gears in his mind turned furiously trying to place her.

  “It is you,” she said with shining eyes as she stepped close to place a hand on his arm.

  “I’m sorry…” he began. He glanced about for a chaperone, but none hovered. Odd.

  “We met at my sister’s wedding?” The sparkle in her eyes dimmed. “To Lord Thornton?”

  And then it came to him. A number of profane words rushed to mind, but he stopped them at his lips. “Ah, yes, of course, Lady Olivia.”

  Daughter of the Duke of Avesbury, of the man who was once his superior. Maintaining every outward appearance of a gentleman, Ian set down a valise to catch up her hand and brush his lips over the surface of her soft kid glove.

  A coincidence? Unlikely. Alarm bells rang in his mind. In this case there was one possible explanation. He prayed it was so. “You must be embarking upon your honeymoon,” he said. “I ought to address you as Lady Snyder. Allow me to wish you happy on your marriage.”

  Cheeks flushed, she glanced away. “I’m afraid not. Lord Snyder and I have parted ways.”

  Did one console or congratulate a woman for avoiding matrimony to a snake? He settled for a polite, “I’m sorry.”

  “Fear not. The experience has earned me a winter in Rome.” She glanced at him from beneath a fringe of long eyelashes. A coy smile tipped up the corners of her mouth. “And one never knows where one might meet interesting people such as yourself.”

  Her gloved palm slid around his arm in a possessive move designed to warn other young women away. Lady Olivia Ravensdale was on the hunt for a husband. A failed engagement was considered a situation to be remedied at once. From the brilliant white smile she now wore, he surmised he had just become her latest target. To call the situation inconvenient was an understatement.

  “Rome,” he repeated flatly. “What a coincidence. That is also my destination.”

  Her smile widened.

  “Olivia!” a woman with the voice of a harpy sc
reeched.

  The situation worsened. The Duchess of Avesbury. He was to be watched even aboard the airship, Lady Olivia no more than a convenient tool. Somehow, the duke knew, for he’d sprung the perfect trap. Ian could almost feel the steel teeth clamp down.

  Lady Olivia winced. “Apologies in advance. My mother approaches, and I see you wear a sword upon your hip. Do say you will be my knight in shining armor and escort me aboard the airship.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Please.”

  A knight? Though dueling remained illegal, in recent years a handful of gentlemen had taken to wearing swords, though few possessed the skills to wield the weapon. Most gentry considered it a boorish practice, one that ruined the lines of their clothing. Practicality governed Ian’s attire for he was no knight-errant.

  “Olivia!” the duchess bellowed, waving an orange parasol above her head as she bore down upon her daughter. Behind her a personal steambot pushed a cart piled high with no less than ten trunks and a dozen hatboxes. “Lord Rathsburn?” Chest heaving, the duchess pulled up short, her eyebrows soaring in a poor approximation of surprise. “Leaving behind London’s young ladies?”

  Ian bowed. “A visit to my sister, Your Grace. An attempt to lure her home to serve as my hostess. It seems my social graces require polishing if I’m to attract a bride.”

  “I’m not certain I approve of you using my daughter for practice.” The duchess’ eyes narrowed. “I heard about your ill-fated trip aloft.”

  “On the contrary,” Lady Olivia objected. “We make the perfect pair. Both of us must hone our skills if we are to attract an acceptable spouse.” He lifted his valise, and she yanked on his arm, dragging him toward the station’s exit and away from her mother. “Go ahead, then. Compliment me.”

  Flirting. A skill he’d never cultivated, nor one that had yet been required of him in medical espionage. He preferred directness, but as there was no escape, it was time to change tactics.

  Ian glanced at Lady Olivia, searching for something—anything—to comment upon. He swallowed. Hard. For his eyes caught upon a line of tiny pearl buttons that ran upward over the front of her form-fitting bodice, detouring quite some distance forward to accommodate the generous swell of her breasts, before continuing their march to her chin. Demure, yet so very tempting.

  Yet even he was socially agile enough to know better than to comment upon her sumptuous bosom, especially in the presence of her mother. Instead, he fixed upon something safer: the decor of her voyaging bonnet. “The bird on your hat is quite…”

  Bright? Fluffy? Large? He was hopeless. The right word escaped him.

  “Dead?” She giggled. “Never mind. Scientists. Not a romantic notion in your minds.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “Though my sister insists a man of medicine knows his anatomy.”

  He suppressed a grin and filed the comment away to hold over Thornton. “I do prefer directness.”

  Her head inclined. “Then you should employ that to your advantage. What is my most attractive feature?”

  Another trap. He kept his gaze above her neck. “Your lips.” He let his focus fall upon them. “They are a beautiful vermillion. And the peaks of your philtrum form an unusually lovely Cupid’s bow.”

  “Philtrum,” she repeated. Her smile grew wider. “Good, Lord Stanton. Very good. I’ve no idea what that is, but you make it sound elegant.” She winked. “Perhaps I shall reconsider my stance on physicians after all.”

  Ian tried to imagine himself standing before the duke, asking for his daughter’s hand, and failed. He barked a laugh at the very absurdity and impossibility of such an event. Marrying the daughter of a powerful gentleman he’d once accused of aiding and abetting a criminal? It didn’t bear consideration.

  Lady Olivia came to a sudden halt outside the railroad station. Her enormous, ruffled reticule slammed against his patella, but before he could ask what she carted about, her face tipped upward to reveal a long, smooth neck. “Exquisite,” she proclaimed.

  He couldn’t agree more. Trailing kisses, moving ever downward…

  “Their sheer size.” Her voice held a note of awe. “And number. All floating above us. Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  “No.” Neither her neck nor the airships.

  A year ago, following the demise of Elizabeth’s disastrous engagement, he’d escorted his sister here, to the ship that had carried her to far-away Italy. At the time, Captain Oglethorpe’s Luxury Airways possessed but one airship, and they’d only just begun construction of the very first boarding tower.

  Now there were five airship boarding towers, the last still under construction. Each tower reached some four stories into the sky. A sky darkened not only by the quantity of exhaust churned out by idling engines, but by the long shadows cast by the enormous, cigar-shaped, silver balloons of the luxury airliners that were currently docked, welcoming their passengers.

  Prior to Captain Oglethorpe’s enterprising investment, boarding towers were unheard of. Crews had climbed rope ladders. Gentry had stepped onto a ten-foot square platform, held tightly onto iron railings, and endured the unsettling sensation of being yanked in a series of jerks from the ground into the sky. On windy days, a lurching platform had caused many to lose their most recent meal over the railings.

  But passengers of this luxury airline were no longer treated like cargo. Ladies and gentlemen now ascended the tower by way of a series of ramps, stopping along the way to take in the various spectacles presented for their amusement. Gentry were forever bored, and that was the attraction of this airline. It advertised glitz, glamor and gold plate, promising endless entertainment in the form of theater, banquets and masked balls from the moment a patron stepped inside the Oglethorpe gates. Though the gaudy, ostentatious, over-the-top decadence came at a hefty price, only one particular dirigible would pass near Germany’s borders within the next week.

  “Move along,” the duchess commanded, swatting at his ankles with her parasol as the crowd surged around them. “I’m told one needs at least two hours to take in the sights on the way up.”

  Ian’s heart sank. As much as he found himself enjoying Lady Olivia’s proximity, in the back of his mind a loud clock ticked. There was much he needed to accomplish in preparation for his arrival in Germany. A thick bundle of papers filled half his valise. He had less than two days to learn everything he could about programming the device he’d appropriated. There were maps to study as well. He needed to plot a path to cross into Germany undetected, to slip past border control leaving no record of either his entry or his exit.

  “Perhaps we ought take the loading platform?” he suggested. “It offers an unobstructed view of the cliffs and the ocean.”

  “I couldn’t possibly.” Lady Olivia blanched. “No. I’m so sorry, Lord Rathsburn. I’m terrified of heights.”

  Her mother sighed heavily. “It seems we must endure puppets, dancing monkeys, sword swallowers and whatever other nonsense awaits us.”

  Ian agreed with the sentiment. He glanced at the duchess and noted that her intense stare was focused not upon him, but the case he held. There would be no excusing himself for he was indeed being watched. Who had sent her. Black? Or the duke himself? Either way, the best thing to do was to cooperate. For now.

  Glancing again at Lady Olivia’s figure, his gaze traced the trail of vines as they twined over her hips and twisted across her bodice, highlighting one delightful convex curve after another. Curves he longed to take the measure of using the palms of his hands. There were worse ways to spend his time than gazing upon such splendor. Lord Snyder—who might have won the right to touch as well—was a fool. “Very well, Lady Olivia. Lead the way.”

  Two hours later, they at last reached the grand entrance hall of the airship’s gondola. It dripped with decadence. Coffered ceilings painted with cherubs, dark wood-paneled walls hung with gold-framed mirrors, and a marble-tiled floor covered with thick-pile Oriental rugs.

  But Lady Olivia refused to relinquish his arm. �
��I’ll see you tonight at dinner?” Her bright, hopeful face suggested only his presence could keep the clouds away. “At the opening of ceremonies? It’s supposed to be spectacular.”

  “I’m afraid I have a prior commitment,” Ian begged off. His head pounded. There had indeed been dancing primates. Ones that accompanied an organ grinder with cymbals and bells. He had work, work which required a clear head, solitude and quiet. Elizabeth’s life depended upon him arriving suitably prepared.

  “Then you can’t possibly miss tomorrow night’s banquet.” The duchess frowned.

  “Mother’s right.” Lady Olivia fluttered her eyelashes. “Please say you’ll come.”

  His hesitation caused her face to fall as if he’d kicked a puppy. Resistance began to crumble.

  “I’ll see to seating arrangements,” the duchess threatened with a toothy smile. “Don’t make me drag you from your rooms.”

  “I look forward to it,” he capitulated. Since they were to play at courting, he held Lady Olivia’s gaze a touch too long. The scowl on her mother’s face was well worth the effort. Some new tricks were worth learning.

  “I’ll miss you,” she whispered into his ear before disentangling herself from his arm.

  “I will count the hours,” he murmured in return, then bowed deeply and took his leave, surprised to realize he rather regretted that Lady Olivia was beyond his reach.

  Chapter Six

  OLIVIA PRESSED THE OPEN end of the drinking glass to the wall and her ear to its base. Silence. She even tried holding her breath but heard only the low thrum of the airship’s engines that vibrated through the walls of the gondola.

  Not a single noise.

  “What is he doing in there?” she asked Steam Clara. “How can anyone bear to stay inside the same four walls hour after hour?”

  Like a hydra, frustration of all kinds reared its heads. The voyage had begun with such promise. Lord Rathsburn’s flirtations had sent even her hardened heart skittering sideways. He ought to be knocking on her door, begging entrance to her parlor and pleading with Mother to be allowed to escort her on a promenade about the high deck. Flirtation was not at the core of her assignment. It was merely a tool, a way to draw him out of his suite and away from his luggage. A tool that had failed her. But why? She shook her head. The man was a mystery.