The Golden Spider (The Elemental Web Chronicles Book 1) Page 6

  “A mother, a father, several brothers and sisters and not one of them can think of a single thing that would have made him a target of our murderer,” Black said.

  Gypsies moved about the edges of society, performing essential, menial everyday jobs‌—‌farm work, scrap metal hauling, horse trading. Only their clockwork skills attracted notice, their mechanical contraptions‌—‌available to all for the right price‌—‌were highly prized. For this, they were tolerated.

  On the surface, gypsy life seemed unconnected to direct government concerns. But gypsies were known to go to great lengths to avoid the law and had the habit of slipping past borders unnoticed, habits that caused the government great concern as any number of unwanted foreigners might‌—‌for the right price‌—‌cross with them. Black was often tasked with looking into their movements.

  Black sighed heavily. “In any case, we’ve nothing else to go on from that end. Best to focus on the…‌” He snapped his fingers. “Neuro spider contraption.”

  “Neurachnid,” Lady Huntley offered.

  “Exactly,” Black said. “Where is she? Any progress?”

  “Lady Amanda will be in later. It’s been all of two days.” Lady Huntley stood to shift her patient onto his cotton bedding where the rat would recover comfortably from general anesthesia. She latched the cage. “We can only claim her spare time after lectures and dissections.”

  “So that’s a no?” Black asked.

  “She’s made progress,” Thornton snapped.

  The irritation in his voice surprised him, but Lady Amanda had been weighing on his mind. He felt guilty for not mentoring her directly, but with thoughts of her disturbing his dreams with activities that had nothing to do with research, he needed to keep his distance. Even in the lecture hall‌—‌especially in the lecture hall‌—‌he avoided eye contact. The pull he felt toward her might lead him to cross a line, and then what? He didn’t want a woman in his life. At least, not one that would expect an offer of marriage. The life he led was incompatible with matrimony.

  He continued, “Henri examined her plans and helped her assemble all the necessary parts and tools. It took her six months to build her last neurachnid. Let’s give her the better part of a week, shall we?”

  Black held up his hands. “You’re the one running out of time with that leg of yours.”

  Thornton ground his teeth together. “Rushing the project will only result in an inferior device.”

  “The nerve calming solution might prove a problem,” Lady Huntley added hesitantly. “The Duke of Avesbury has indicated that his daughter, Lady Emily, cannot be contacted.”

  “Ran off with a man, did she? And now they don’t know where she is?” Black looked from her face to Thornton’s. “What? I cracked that code among the ton long ago.”

  Thornton narrowed his eyes. Though Black was likely correct, it was not his place to speculate, but to solve the problem. “While we pursue that avenue, we’ll try alternatives. Somnic may work.” He named the very drug that kept his injured leg functioning.

  “Is that wise?” Misgiving laced Black’s voice.

  “You doubt my ability to control my dosages?” he asked, his voice hard. He hated that Black felt the need to watch for addiction.

  “What if I do?” Black countered, refusing to back down. “At some point, your condition will cause problems in the field. Pardon me if I watch for signs of imminent disaster.”

  “It won’t come to that,” Thornton bit out. He was a physician. He could manage his own care.

  “How can you be certain?”

  “Gentlemen,” Lady Huntley snapped.

  They glared at each other for a moment.

  “Moving on,” Black ground out. “None of the technicians have been able to figure out if, or when, the security for this inner laboratory was breached.”

  “So the murderer may be using his own eye technology?” Lady Huntley asked.

  “Perhaps,” Black answered. “Unless he leaves behind evidence either way, which would be unaccountably sloppy, we can’t know for sure.”

  “Then we can do nothing but press forward on this project,” Thornton said. “Continue to refine the acoustico work.”

  “Both of which are progressing quite nicely,” Lady Huntley added. “Despite a number of small setbacks.”

  Thornton wouldn’t quite classify the recent death of their agent as small, but he said nothing. “Another agent has volunteered. He’s waiting now in the outer laboratory.” The acousticotransmitter trials were too valuable to discontinue.

  The device required surgery to connect it to branches of the eighth cranial nerve. Minor surgery, to be certain, but surgery nonetheless. As this nerve controlled both the vestibular system and the auditory system, there were occasional side effects. Tinnitus. Vertigo. Nystagmus. And no one escaped the three-day period of adjustment.

  As such, most agents balked at the suggestion at first. But with German hostilities on the rise, the idea of having several agents listening in and ready to provide assistance at a moment’s notice was appealing to all the Queen’s agents.

  Not only did the artificial ear provide superior hearing and the ability to send a signal to a nearby acousticocept‌—‌provided the needle issue remained resolved‌—‌it also provided an amazing sense of balance. The last agent had described it as providing the ability to stand on the edge of a wooden fence, like an alley cat. The enhanced hearing, Smith had insisted with a grin, would likewise provide him with an additional eight lives.

  If only.

  “Henri’s prepping the agent volunteer in the other room as we speak,” Lady Huntley said, bringing him back to the moment.

  “We’re done speaking.” Thornton rose and crossed to the door. He slid his hand into the receptacle. Not only did you need clearance to enter, you needed it to exit.

  “The Queen thinks it’s best if you sit out the next mission,” Black said, pitching his voice at a low level as he followed Thornton.

  Thornton stiffened. He’d been expecting this. “I agree. I’ll work the field only as necessary to wrap up the gyspy murders.”

  “Won’t you miss it?” Black asked.

  Working in the field? Terribly. “Does it matter?” Thornton answered. “I belong in the laboratory for now.”

  Black snorted. “Never thought I’d see you caged.”

  “It won’t be forever.” As if willing it could make it so. Thornton didn’t look behind to see if Black agreed.

  ~~~

  When the crank hackney arrived, Mother and Olivia were paying calls, and Amanda was at school. Father had left hours ago and was likely closeted in some windowless room with officials, protecting Queen and country.

  This meant no one left behind dared voice objection to Ned’s odd departure in a public form of conveyance not used by future earls. With a twist of his wrist, he increased the torque on his mechanical leg braces.

  He hated them, these artificial legs. Hated the clunkiness of his movements, the steam that billowed forth, his dependence on a fuel source. As much as he loved his automatons, he did not wish to be one. And these damned legs kept him from his greatest desire: Georgina.

  His heavy, metallic footsteps rang out as he clanged down the broad steps to the street. The driver, hearing his approach, leapt down from his seat. With great bulky arms, he began to wind the spring tight.

  Crank hackneys had sprung up all over London. With no horse to feed or water, a driver strong enough to use his own muscles to power such a conveyance‌—‌hour after hour, day after day‌—‌soon felt the effects of pure profit. So much so that they’d become quite the dandies. Sleeveless shirts under double-breasted leather vests to show off their bulging arms. Form-fitting, black pants to advertise thick, strong thighs built by the constant work of shoving home the hackney’s breaking mechanism.

  Ned tore envious eyes away and glanced up at the gray sky. Crank vehicles and clockwork horses had decreased the quantity of horse droppings in London.
Now, if only something could be done about the coal soot and the ever-thickening sulfurous fogs.

  A pea-souper was in the making. Tonight or tomorrow, dirigibles would be grounded. He pulled up his muffler to keep from inhaling the particles that hung in the air. Soon the smog would become unbearable, and the ton would retreat to their country estates. As soon as harvest was complete and the great hulking farm machines were heaved into stone barns for winter storage.

  The hackney door swung open, and Tony leaned forward to call a greeting, making no offer to help Ned climb aboard. Despite the mechanical legs, his body was in top-notch form. Thanks to Tony.

  Tony had been at Ned’s side for five long years now, the closest thing Ned had to a friend. His therapist, the man in charge of keeping his leg muscles from atrophying, knew him far, far better than any nurse, nanny or tutor. How could he not, given that every intimate, minute detail of his health and hygiene had once required Tony’s assistance?

  But not today.

  Ned hauled himself into the hackney and dialed down his legs.

  “Any problems?” Tony tipped his head at the townhouse as the hackney jerked forward.

  “None.”

  From the way Tony’s foot shook, the man was fighting a bad case of nerves, but not Ned. The nerves that brought him forth this day were long past calming. They were all but dead.

  He’d spent yesterday putting his affairs in order, leaving one note for his family, another for Amanda. If the doctor offered, Ned would proceed with the surgery immediately.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes, forcing himself into a model of genteel repose. After some time, an assault on his nose snapped him from his trance. Scents of boiling tripe, melting tallow and slaughterhouse cast offs announced the East End. Twisting through crooked streets, they came to an abrupt stop at a Georgian-terraced house, one which had long since left its good days behind. Soot covered the brick surface. Drunken shutters hung from lower windows. The front door stood ajar.

  A hollow-eyed man stared at them from the street corner as a weary, hunch-backed woman carried a basket of wilted flowers. Others moved about, in and out of uneasy shadows cast by buildings that only managed to remain standing by propping each other up.

  A sinking feeling tugged at Ned’s stomach, but he twisted the knob of his artificial cage legs. He climbed awkwardly from the hackney and clomped across the road, its surface slick with slime.

  Tony pushed the door wide. “It’s empty!”

  “He’s gone?” Ned shoved past him and stepped into the foyer.

  “I was here. Four days ago.” Tony waved his arms about, gesticulating wildly as only an Italian could. “This room was filled when I dropped off the spider.”

  Dr. Millhouse had been called away, but left a note instructing Tony where to secure the neurachnid. The doctor had later sent a note praising the device, expressing his complete confidence in a good surgical outcome and designating the day and time Lord Ned was to arrive.

  They’d been hoodwinked.

  “It was filled with bottles and steel instruments. Medical equipment.” Tony raged on. “An operating table right there. I swear it.”

  Ned laid a hand on Tony’s shoulder, quieting him. “We’ll find him,” Ned said, turning back.

  He made every effort to project the quiet assurance of a gentleman, when, in fact, he felt anything but. Frustration. Anger. A need for revenge. All swirled around together. Guilt and regret followed swiftly.

  A woman with sunken, black-rimmed eyes and tattered, soot-stained clothes passed.

  “You…‌ missus,” he called, uncertain how to address such a creature.

  Her pallid face turned upward.

  “There was a doctor here,” he began. “Dr. Millhouse. Any chance you know where the good doctor went?”

  She stared back, unresponsive.

  Ned dug in his pocket and produced a silver coin.

  A smile‌—‌one with but a scattering of rotted teeth‌—‌formed on her face as the coin disappeared into the folds of her skirts. “Weren’t good. Nor a doctor. Never fixed no one. Broke ‘em’s more like. Packed up ‘n left. No idea where. Three days past?”

  Three days.

  “Broke?” Tony repeated. His eyes all but bulged as he glanced at Ned.

  She nodded. “People went in. Din’t come out.”

  Ned frowned, wanting to press for more, but interested faces were eyeing his legs, trying to decide if they were a weakness or a strength. Some shifted out of the shadows, oozing in their direction. “Let’s go,” he said, climbing quickly into the crank hackney. Once seated, Ned rapped on the roof, jerking them into motion. “We’ll need to track Dr. Millhouse,” he stated. He wanted‌—‌needed‌—‌that spider back. Amanda had counseled patience. He should have listened. “I’ll hire a private investigator.”

  “I’ll find my original contacts. See what they know.” Tony hung his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “It was a risk,” Ned said. “I knew that when I asked you to find a doctor. I take all responsibility.” The only thing that kept him from howling like a caged beast was the knowledge that Lord Thornton had invaded his sister’s life and dragged her into his laboratory, demanding she build a new and better neurachnid.

  Amanda would have killed him. Still would if she found out he was the one who’d cracked the combination of her laboratory door to hand her precious spider over to a man he didn’t know on a mere promise.

  But if there was no surgery‌—‌and soon‌—‌Georgina would be married, and life would no longer be worth living.

  Chapter Nine

  WITH A SUDDEN start Amanda sat upright, horrified to realize she’d fallen asleep on top of her notes in the laboratory‌—‌Thornton’s laboratory. She’d been so very tired. After too many late nights studying into the early morning hours, frustration finally gave way to exhaustion. She’d been simply too tired to identify the problem with the neurachnid. Only a moment’s rest, she’d promised herself, a moment to close her eyes and rest her mind. Instead, she’d ended up napping.

  Leaning closely to the side of the polished incubator, she checked her reflection. Her cheek was red and imprinted with the lace pattern of her sleeve. Several strands of hair had pulled free, and the scooped neck of her bodice had shifted.

  She clapped a hand to her chest, adjusting her neckline and tucking the escaped locks behind her ears, then, her face burning with embarrassment, glanced discreetly across the room, praying none but the nearby rats had been provided with an interesting view.

  Henri’s coat was gone. She’d chastise him later about leaving her to sleep the evening away on a workbench.

  In the far corner, Thornton’s human volunteer, now with advanced hearing, slept on a cot. Earlier she’d seen the man clutch a bed pan to his chest, moaning as his eyes rolled backward. Now he slept the sleep of the heavily sedated. Samuel, one of the laboratory technicians, sat in a nearby chair, head bent in slumber over a loosely clutched book.

  She pulled out her pocket watch and gasped. Quite some time had passed since she’d closed her eyes. It was nearly midnight.

  Rats moved about their cages with a soft rustle, going about their nocturnal business, gnawing on seeds. Her own stomach complained in sympathy, but she couldn’t leave the laboratory yet. Already, mental clarity was returning, and she felt the sharp edge of a breakthrough scraping her mind.

  She spun on the laboratory stool to face her research notes and grabbed a fresh sheet of paper. Her hand moved as if of its own accord, sketching out the image forming in her mind. She added lines and notes and details as to which pins, gears, springs and guards to use. Several minutes passed before she set down her pencil and sat back to stare at the plans for a new‌—‌and better‌—‌neurachnid before her.

  It just might work. Satisfaction tugged her lips into a small smile. Wait. She tipped her head and sighed. In that position, the reaper guard might fail to catch. Unless she‌—‌

  “No. That won’t work.
” Thornton’s voice wrapped around her, deep and dark. More than just the thought forming in her mind melted.

  She froze. She’d been so lost in thought that she’d failed to note his approach. Despite his limp, the man moved as quietly as a panther on the hunt.

  For all the long hours she’d spent in his laboratory over the past few days, she’d seen precious little of the renowned Thornton outside the lecture hall. Now, here he was, standing so close she could feel his body heat. So close that as he reached past her to place a finger to her sketch, his arm brushed hers and a thrill ran through her, settling low inside.

  She risked a glance, then found herself staring. The shadow of a beard darkened his jaw. Wild dark curls fell across his forehead. Wide, soft lips pursed in thought. Her heart tripped before picking up its pace, disregarding her mind’s insistence that theirs was a purely professional relationship. Would that it was her right to reach out, to run her fingers over his rough beard and into the tangle of that hair, to pull those lips to her own.

  Her breath caught, and she dragged her gaze away. “What won’t?” she asked. They were colleagues, that was all.

  Focusing on the benchtop didn’t help. Thornton’s shirtsleeves were rolled back, exposing a scattering of dark hairs across strong forearms. As his large hand snatched up her abandoned pencil and began to modify her design, joints and tendons and muscles flexed and shifted in a strangely alluring manner.

  She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, forcing much needed air past the struts of her corset and into her lungs. Then, with a large quantity of willpower, she opened her eyes and began to objectively evaluate his alterations and his comments.

  “If you move this spring and connect it to this gear instead…‌” He went on at length, pinpointing every issue before solving it with ease.

  The small, simple adjustments would allow the thoracic gears to turn unimpeded and increase the angle to which the spinnerets could bend as they wove. The hardest to reach parts of the central nervous system would now be reachable. The man was breathtakingly brilliant, his mind an intricate seduction. She wanted…‌ what she could not have. Time to leave. Flee.