The Golden Spider (The Elemental Web Chronicles Book 1) Page 7

  “I’ll start on the changes tomorrow.” Amanda looked up. “Thank you.” The words fell automatically from her lips, but came out as a whisper.

  For his expression was unreadable, his eyes different somehow. Darker. More liquid. Then he blinked and addressed his next words to a space over her left shoulder. “I’d like to apologize,” he said, straightening. “For the public set down I gave you that first day in class. A knee jerk reaction, I’m afraid, when one works too secretively for too long. To discover an untrained student’s work might very well hold the key to solving a long-standing problem…‌” He cleared his throat. “This neurachnid, along with the nerve agent, might very well improve the acousticocept surgical process and resultant outcome.” He waved his hand over the papers. “You’ve done impressive work here.”

  Amanda nodded, accepting both the apology and the compliment. She had a feeling he rarely delivered either. She swallowed, gathered her nerves and pressed her advantage. “Working together, we might well be able to speed the process.”

  He nodded. “I’ve not been much of a mentor, I’m aware.” He glanced at the door to his inner laboratory. “There’s been a pressing issue with other research…‌ but now, I find I have some time.”

  Her heart sank. He wasn’t here of his own accord. At best, her project was a way to fill his free time. At worst, Lady Huntley had badgered him into fulfilling his duty toward his student. Possibly both. Either way, she’d best set her girlish infatuations aside and focus on the task at hand. She directed her words to the sketches before her. “I’d quite welcome the assistance.”

  “There’s one more thing.” His voice held a note of warning.

  She held her breath.

  “Mr. Simon Sommersby appeared in my office yesterday, petitioning me for a place in my laboratory.”

  Amanda’s jaw tensed. Not only had she won a coveted laboratory position, she spent many long hours in here, out of Simon’s view, out of his reach. With so many laboratories to choose from, why this one? Classic male territorialism. Simon perceived Thornton as competition for her hand. Perhaps he would be right to worry, if only his perceived opponent demonstrated any interest. Both of them frustrated her to no end.

  Thornton gave her a significant look. “It seems he thinks I have need of a nerve calming agent. I realize that the two of you have something of a personal relationship‌—‌”

  “We’ve made no promises,” she objected, then, her face flushing, realized his true concern. With wide eyes, Amanda shook her head. “I’ve told him nothing.” Simon knew of her work. They’d discussed their respective research interests in vague terms over tea, but nothing specific. “He knows only of my interest in using clockwork devices to repair nerves, nothing more.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Really? Interesting.”

  Her stomach clenched into a tight knot. There she’d sat, wondering if such a man could be romantically interested in her, quite possibly jealous of Simon, and all the while he’d actually been wondering if she was betraying him, leaking laboratory secrets. Then a thought occurred to her. “Your…‌ your injury is common knowledge. Perhaps‌—‌”

  “Yes, perhaps.” Thornton rolled down his cuffs and lifted his coat from a nearby stool. “Now, the hour is late,” he said, once again all stiff formality. “I’ll escort you to your carriage.”

  They walked in uncomfortable silence down the stone-paved hallway, the only sound the rhythmic tap of his cane, his movements easy despite the small hitch in his step.

  Amanda had to ask. “Has there been any progress on the gypsy murders?” She waited as his lips twisted in consideration. Would he still tell her? Still include her in the investigations?

  “None,” he said. “Though I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time before another victim is found, Black works diligently to make it otherwise.” His steps paused and he turned a thoughtful stare upon her, then seemed to come to some kind of decision. “Black’s mother is gypsy. He was raised in a caravan, around campfires. He speaks Romani. If there is anything to be learned among them, Black is our best chance to ferret it out.”

  “Gypsy,” she repeated. That would explain his dark, swarthy looks and the distinct air that he was anything but a gentleman.

  “Do you have a problem with that?” Thornton’s eyes grew hard as they searched her face.

  “No! Not at all.” But this new knowledge left her no choice. She had to tell him, before Black discovered her family’s secret and told Thornton himself. She would not have him looking upon her with suspicion again. She desired his respect. “There’s something you need to know, something you must keep in the utmost of confidences.”

  With so many lives at stake, it was past time to break her promise by telling Thornton.

  His eyes narrowed, promising nothing. “Tell me.”

  “My sister, Emily, eloped some months ago. With a gypsy. A childhood friend named Luca.”

  The great country estates of the peerage relied heavily upon gypsy labor and their finesse with clockwork-driven machinery. Most ton children were forbidden to visit their camps, to befriend the gypsies, but Father had waved aside Mother’s concerns. Once merely a distant relative of the former duke with no expectation of inheriting the title, Father had not been raised as an indulged elite. He’d worked‌—‌at the docks, in the fields, in trade‌—‌and believed in personal industry. As such, Amanda, her brother, and two sisters had been actively encouraged to seek out knowledge wherever it resided, and the gypsies on their country estate had had much to offer.

  His permissiveness‌—‌resulting in Emily’s elopement‌—‌was now the source of a deep rift and a festering argument between her parents.

  Emily’s actions, were they to become publicly known, would have deep and lasting social ramifications for Amanda’s family. Mother had great marital aspirations for her remaining daughters, particularly Olivia. Even Ned needed to marry well, and the pool of acceptable brides was already greatly reduced due to his injuries. Father’s post was a political one, easily lost to social opinion. No, Emily’s marriage to a gypsy needed to remain a secret from society.

  “Emily does not wish me to visit,” Amanda said. “I don’t know her whereabouts. We communicate by letter, one gypsy after another passing along our messages, hand to hand. Sometimes days pass, sometimes weeks, before a letter returns. I’ve written her about the formula, but,” she shook her head, “I’ve had no response yet.”

  “So Lady Emily could be anywhere.” Thornton’s mouth was a grim line.

  “Yes. But Nicu Sindel, the gypsy who often sets up shop in Clockwork Corridor? He is my brother-in-law’s grandfather.”

  “And would likely know Lady Emily’s whereabouts,” Thornton concluded, his eyes lighting with interest. “Henri took you to his caravan for parts.”

  Amanda nodded. “He did.”

  Nicu had folded Amanda in his arms, welcoming her like family, inquiring about her own. Emily was fine, more than fine, he’d whispered in her ear. Yet when she’d discreetly inquired as to her sister’s whereabouts, Nicu shook his head. He’d make certain Emily knew of Amanda’s desire to visit, but a gypsy guarded privacy above all else. Emily herself would have to extend the invitation. Amanda might be family, but she was also gadji‌—‌an outsider.

  She told Thornton as much, then finished, “Every day I go to Clockwork Corridor, but Nicu has yet to return. Perhaps Black can help?”

  “Of course.” Thornton began to walk down the hallway once more. Faster, as if eager to be rid of her. “I’ll set him to it. Immediately.”

  At this speed, his limp was far more pronounced, the earlier ease of his steps, gone. The man’s leg hurt him far more than he was willing to admit. As a physician, he would be using medication in addition to the brace, but there was more to be done. She had studied traditional Oriental pressure points and thought they might provide him with some relief.

  She grew warm at the thought of wrapping her hands around the man’s leg and though
t better of extending the invitation.

  Together, they stepped out of Lister Laboratories onto pavement. A line of stately gas lamps attempted to cut through the gathering fog.

  She made one last attempt to ask. “Does it hurt?”

  “Hurt?” he asked.

  “Your leg.”

  He sighed. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

  She waited.

  “Yes, it hurts. With every step, a thousand tiny needles pierce my foot.” A one-shouldered shrug. “The drug keeps the damaged nerve from deteriorating further. It dulls the needles. The brace stabilizes the muscle damage already done. What is there to do but carry on?”

  Carry on, indeed. Build a better neurachnid and obtain the formula for her sister’s nerve agent. If that could be accomplished, many problems might be solved.

  They turned a corner and her waiting steam coach came into view.

  “Tomorrow, we will redouble our efforts,” he said. “I will set aside the entire afternoon to work with you on your project.”

  Amanda’s heart leapt. “That’s most generous of you.” Did that mean she was forgiven for her secrets, her suitor and her questions?

  “It’s the least a mentor should do.” Thornton handed her into the carriage. “Good night, Lady Amanda,” he said, and firmly closed the door, giving her no chance to reply.

  Thornton turned and strode back in the direction of the laboratory, leaning a bit more heavily on his cane. Did the man ever rest? For she had no doubt he would be summoning Black to his office in the small hours of the night to send him in pursuit of Nicu Sindel and his granddaughter-in-law, Lady Emily.

  ~~~

  It was nearly midnight when Wasp turned slowly around, eyeballing the warehouse. It would do for the interim. Moving was such an inconvenience, but what choice had there been? Wasp had known the lordling and his minion would not give up easily.

  So now only the essentials, easily carried, remained.

  A bioluminescent lamp hung from a pulley over an old door propped on two barrels. An assortment of ropes and straps rested on its surface. It would serve, though the easy adjustments provided by the mechanized operating table would be missed.

  A nearby crate held the required tools. A rust-stained enamel ewer and basin provided a place to scrub. A copper cauldron hung from a cast iron hook. Underneath, a gas jet burned, the water slowly coming to boil, though it almost seemed a waste of time, sterilizing the tools, when the patient was unlikely to survive the surgery.

  It was time to get back to business.

  Lifting the spider from a small, velvet-lined case, Wasp peered at the glass vial encased within the abdomen. Nearly all the numbing agent was gone. Certainly not enough for the next patient. Wasp couldn’t afford to have it chemically analyzed, but more was needed.

  Pain. Screaming. There were ways to deal with that.

  But the extreme delicacy of the weaving process made the formula a key part of the procedure. Most nerve agents paralyzed the nerve. This one only calmed the damaged root allowing the spider to test the efficacy of the newly woven nerve, making minute changes to the final structure before completing its task.

  Fortunately, the source of this nerve toxin had been located with relative ease and a delivery was due momentarily.

  There was a rapping at the door. That should be it now.

  Wasp crossed to the thick, wooden door, sliding it open a crack. A gypsy, one who looked to be about seventeen years of age, stood on the threshold. “You have it?”

  He pulled a small vial from his pocket. The liquid had a greenish cast, similar to that inside the spider. Excellent.

  “Come in,” Wasp pushed the door wider.

  Warily, the gypsy stepped just over the threshold, holding the vial tight. “Five pounds.”

  “Five! I only agreed to four.”

  “Five.” Dark brown eyes blazed back. Blue would have been better, but there was no need to be choosey.

  “Fine,” Wasp sighed, holding out a hand as if about to drop a pile of coins into the gypsy’s palm.

  As the young man handed over the vial, Wasp pressed a hand‌—‌and the device strapped to it‌—‌against the gypsy’s chest, directly over the heart. A bolt of electricity discharged, shock barely registering on the man’s face as he slid bonelessly to the floor.

  Chapter Ten

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON, Olivia lifted the calling card from the silver salver Burton presented. “Mr. Simon Sommersby,” she announced, casting a sly sidelong look at her.

  “Thank goodness,” Amanda muttered. Mother was indisposed and Ned had grown moody, sulky and uncommonly melancholy as negotiations for Georgina’s engagement progressed. Today, he’d refused to leave his room, leaving her alone to endure Olivia’s brainless chatter over tea. She raised her voice. “Please show him in, Burton.”

  The butler rolled away to retrieve her visitor.

  Olivia planted herself on a nearby chair. “This is the tenth time he’s come to call.”

  “You’re counting?” Amanda eyed her sister with suspicion. It had been a long time since her sister had taken any interest in her life.

  “Of course. His intentions are quite clear, and he is a gentleman, if untitled. Tell me, dearest sister, has he proposed yet? When he does, will you accept?”

  “That is yet to be determined,” Amanda replied. But it wasn’t. Not really. Simon was her only suitor. Unless another gentleman took an interest, and soon. She tried hard to envision Thornton in that role and failed.

  Thornton had made it quite clear he wouldn’t be pursuing her. Nevertheless, Simon was jealous, and if she wished to advance in medical school, she needed to encourage his affections before they were diverted elsewhere.

  Married within the year.

  One of two conditions Father had placed upon his agreement to allow her to attend medical school. She’d already broken the second, by telling Thornton about Emily, but perhaps that wouldn’t count, provided Black was able to locate her with utmost discretion.

  “Carlton believes a husband such as Mr. Sommersby would provide you with respectability. An unmarried woman acting as a physician is a breech of propriety.”

  Amanda gaped at her sister. Carlton approved? Words failed her. And then it was too late to reply.

  Simon crossed the parlor and bent, kissing the air above her glove. “Lady Amanda.” He turned and bowed again. “Lady Olivia.”

  Olivia flashed him a smile, then rose in a graceful rustle of ruffles. Crossing to the speaking tube, she pushed a button. “Fresh tea, Steam Mary, and an abundance of cream cakes.”

  Carlton approved? Well, that certainly explained Olivia’s reformed attitude, and Amanda’s sudden urge to toss Simon out the front door. But that would be cutting off the nose to spite the face. No. Better to rid herself of a problematic sister.

  Observation of patterns was a strength any scientist possessed. Given that Olivia had remained for tea the past nine times Simon visited, Amanda employed her not-so-secret weapon. She lifted her copy of Gray’s Anatomy from the settee beside her and smiled invitingly at Simon. “Shall we begin with the muscles of the upper or lower extremity?”

  “Oh, dear.” Olivia snapped open her fan and waved it at her now bloodless face. Scarlet feathers struggled to keep pace with the speed of her flapping wrist.

  Perhaps the words muscle and extremity were too much. Amanda certainly hoped so.

  Simon caught Olivia’s elbow as she swayed. “Are you quite all right, Lady Olivia? Shall I call for a footman?”

  She simpered. “I’m afraid I’ve a most delicate constitution, and topics such as….” There went the feathers again. “I must go.”

  Enough with the theatrics. “If you will excuse us then, Olivia,” Amanda said, “we’ve much to study for the upcoming exam. There are more than twenty muscles in the human arm and numerous blood vessels.”

  Olivia swallowed hard, yet clung to protocol. “A chaperone?”

  “We’ll leave the d
oor open,” Amanda said.

  “Very well,” Olivia said, then fled.

  “Not the nicest way of dismissing a sibling, but effective.” Simon’s knowing smile showed off his perfect teeth as he settled onto the settee beside Amanda, his leg brushing against her skirts.

  She allowed it. It was, after all, the point of choosing a seat built for two.

  “Shall we begin with the rotator cuff?” Simon asked, leaning closer yet to view the book on her lap. The warmth that rolled off of him smelled of soap and starch. All perfectly pleasant. What other man was willing to court her by reviewing the origins and insertions of various muscles?

  Not a one.

  Why, then, could she not push away thoughts of another man?

  Simon dropped a finger on the page, his arm pressing against hers. “The supraspinatus abducts the arm and is innervated by the suprascapular nerve. Its origin is the‌—‌”

  A clanging at the door announced the arrival of the roving table. RT rolled to a stop before them emitting a soft hiss as he powered down. The tea tray, laden with cream cakes, scones and cucumber sandwiches, beckoned.

  “Perhaps we should continue after tea?” Amanda asked, marking their place in the book.

  “Very well,” Simon agreed, moving not an inch from her side.

  As she poured, a topic nagging at the back of her mind demanded to be broached. “Lord Thornton informs me that you wish to work in his laboratory. I’d no idea you were interested in developing novel nerve agents. What happened to your interest in vitreous humor?”

  Though she could think of many practical uses for developing an artificial vitreous humor‌—‌the colorless gel that filled the back part of the eye‌—‌she wasn’t convinced there was a reason to determine the specific chemical reaction that led the gel to liquefy under certain pathological conditions.

  “Professor Stonington declined to support my project.” He shrugged. “So I thought, given the long hours you now spend in Lord Thornton’s laboratory, it might be nice to work together.”