“According to his brother, some rooms you could only sidestep through. He was numb with grief and sorrow, and wasted away.”
Anthony knew that agony of living. He awoke each morning with the need to accomplish, to exist, as effortless as it appeared and as unmanageable as it truly was, contented. In the course of each day, his heart would drop from his chest into his belly. Before the sun left the day, he was overcome with nothingness, nothing but the desire to be alone, to be contented with the magnitude of his pointless guilt. To be alone in his loneliness?I am not miserable.To convince himself of this had become an art. To convince others had become a masterpiece.
Rachel’s lavender and lemon balm scent trailed over him, snaring him in its tentacles. He didn’t believe the ray of sunshine that sat beside him was fooled for one second.
* * *
From the shadows of a cracked window, Cuthbert Noot clenched his fists watching a carriage withdraw from the sea captain’s home he had commandeered since his escape.
“To the last, I will destroy Lord Anthony. From Hell’s bowels, I will make him pay until I spit my last breath. Meant to kill him in his lab. Surprised his assistant. Couldn’t keep a witness around,” Cuthbert cackled.
Playing cards behind him, his brutal companions grunted.
Cuthbert had chosen well. The worst inhabitants of St. Giles, criminals from the Rookery underworld of London who found pleasure in slitting a man’s throat for a farthing. The man named Scar the foulest among them.
“So many events to hate him for…my wife lives in splendor, as a lady’s maid…would have died in prison if it wasn’t’ for that rich bloke. How good to kill Anthony’s, wife. Easy to knock her off her horse. While she gasped for breath, I spread her milky white thighs and pounded my quid into her, savoring the screams of that whore of a wife of his…would have liked to extend my time, but that rich bloke got tired of watching…ordered me to break her neck to look like a fall from a horse. Crack. How easy to snap. That rich bastard didn’t want any Rutland seed to flourish.”
His companions laughed.
Cuthbert stroked his chin. “I see his lordship has an attachment to the Colonial? My quid throbs with a million things to do to her. Damn. Why do I have to follow that rich bloke’s rules?”
Scar joined him at the window. “I’d like a turn with her. What the boss don’t know, won’t hurt him.”
The rich bloke was a scary bastard and it took a lot for Cuthbert Noot to be scared of anyone. “I like playing games with Lord Anthony. Sent him a warning with the urn. Loved seein’ his face when he found his dead assistant.”
Cuthbert pressed his face against the glass to catch a final glimpse of the object of his hatred. “Feel safe with your Yank, Lord Anthony. Joy will turn to ashes in your mouth, and you’ll know the debt is paid.”
Chapter Eight
Anthony raked his fingers through his hair. Weeks had melded into two months and nothing. Stimulants madly indulged his mind…electricity…and Rachel Thorne.
“Our errors are a result of simple bad luck.” She placed glass tubes in a rack, running her fingers down their glistening length.
His mouth went dry. How erotic. What would she taste like? Cinnamon? Spice? Lemon? “I do not believe in luck. Everything I do is designed to eliminate randomness and eradicate chance. To deduce every possibility, predict every response, and mold experimentation toward a desired outcome.”
“I want to know your thoughts on the Leyden jar.” He watched her walk across the lab to retrieve another flask, her hips swung with the practiced ease of a courtesan, except she was no courtesan. She was tall, inches shorter than his six foot two frame with padding in all the right places, undeniably the right places.
Anthony said nothing. He was good at saying nothing. He could say nothing for the rest of his life and be content. He should waltz her out of his lab, lock the door and stay inside for the rest of his life. Yes, he could do it. And he could hurl the Thames River back to its source.
While Aunt Margaret snored in the corner, Rachel turned to him, with concentration. After a long silence elapsed, her brow furrowed, expectant of him to fill the void with what he was thinking.
Anthony scrubbed a hand over his jaw. Why he was no different than a useless dog, panting outside the butcher’s shop?
“The Leyden jar has an alternating current that flows and bangs, pumping and thrusting, sliding and straining violently along a course.” Had he just said that?
Thank the higher powers she was immersed in pouring a saline solution over the brass and nickel discs that she did not hear him.
Anthony held his breath and attached the wires. A small burst of electrical fire, and then nothing. He cursed beneath his breath.
Rachel knitted her brow in a way that gave Anthony the sense she was trying to figure out how best to say,I told you so.
“My miscalculations have brought a tempest of unforeseen challenges. We will use your sulfuric acid suggestion tomorrow.”
She beamed her approval. Why did her happiness mean so much to him?
Aunt Margaret quit snoring, sat up and blinked at the clock. “Heavens, it is well past the time to leave, Miss Thorne.”
Anthony scowled. “Where are you going? I cannot work without you.”
