Passionate Secrets (The Secrets Trilogy Book 2) (5 page)

He stared across the street as though pondering her question. “How long has she been coughing up the blood?”

“It started yesterday.”

“You do realize it’s common for the symptoms of consumption to grow progressively worse.”

“No! No, it’s not worsening.” Emma refused to consider that possibility. “This is just a temporary setback. There has to be something I can give her to help.”

Still he hesitated. Emma wanted to grab his arm and shake him, to somehow force him to aid them. Instead, she tried to think, to use her intellect—the one skill she had—to solve this problem as she had so many others.

“Perhaps you need help with your files. Or some research? I’m excellent at research. You might remember that my uncle was a professor at Cambridge, and I often assisted him in organizing his notes and documents and helped him write up his findings.”

Dr. Barnes tilted his head to the side and she drew a hopeful breath, wondering if she’d somehow caught his interest.

“Organize them? How so?”

A few minutes later a deal had been struck, and Emma hurried away, a tin of pastilles in her hand. Dr. Barnes said they contained compressed herbs that would release as they dissolved in Tessa’s mouth almost like candy. Emma was certain they wouldn’t taste like a sweet, but if they helped, she knew Tessa would gladly take them. Emma planned to return on the morrow to assist Dr. Barnes with compiling some research and noting various sources for a paper he was writing for publication. She was thrilled to have found something to offer in trade. Though her services would only be temporary, Dr. Barnes had agreed to pay Tessa another visit in addition to giving her the pastilles.

She slowed her pace, suddenly aware that someone watched her. Dusk was falling and though this was a quiet neighborhood, a woman walking alone was never wise. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed only a street urchin kicking a rock in the road behind her. He glanced up and studied her under the bill of his cap. Not much older than Patrick, he looked out of place in this neighborhood. With a cheeky grin, he ran past her and on down the street.

She frowned, trying to think of where she’d seen him before. A memory niggled at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t place him. With another look over her shoulder, she quickened her pace, anxious to reach home before dark fell.

Professor Joseph Grisby slowly made his way toward the gate of Pentonville Prison, a walking stick in one hand, a doctor’s bag in the other. He hid his limp as best he could, but the pain on his left side made walking difficult even with the aid of a cane. Though no longer recognizable to family or friends, he wore a dark brown wig with matching mutton chops to hide his scarred face in addition to his hat. The glue that adhered the whiskers to his face itched terribly. The shaded spectacles he wore hid the damage to his eye from the casual observer.

A physician visiting the prison wasn’t an unusual occurrence. The contents of his bag, if searched, would look quite normal. The small bottles with mysterious, foul-smelling liquids along with some basic tools were what a doctor would carry. Plus they might be needed to ensure Vincent Simmons’ cooperation.

The fool had gotten himself caught. Again. Quite annoying and terribly inconvenient. His nephew had proven useful ten years ago but of late, Joseph was having doubts. Yet Vincent’s resourcefulness and willingness to justify the means with the end result was difficult to find in an employee. The fact that he was family held little weight with Joseph. But, until he found a more suitable replacement, he had to make do with Vincent.

Joseph admitted he’d underestimated both Abigail Bradford and Stephen, Lord Ashbury. They still had what he needed—the lunar meteorite—but he could only deal with one problem at a time. Besides, he held high hopes he could soon persuade them to bring the stone to him.

It took patience on his part to convince the warder to let him in, but he finally approached the cell where Vincent was being held.

“Simmons, the doctor’s here to visit you.” The guard who escorted him rattled the cell door.

Vincent turned and stared for a long moment before recognizing Joseph and drawing near. “Good day to you,
Doctor
. Didn’t expect to see ye here.”

“I came to inquire how you’re faring,” Joseph said.

Vincent scowled as he watched the guard walk away. “I’m in prison. How well do ye think?”

He’d been there only two weeks but already the affects could be seen. His frame appeared thinner. A bruise discolored his cheek.

“Yer limpin’ worse than usual. Is the pain bad today?” Vincent asked.

“It is always dreadful.” Joseph’s left side had taken the brunt of the electromagnetic blast. Between the broken bones from the debris and the burns, his body had never truly healed. It was a miracle he’d survived. In fact, the men who’d been assisting him—Stephen, Michael and Lucas—hadn’t found a pulse and presumed him dead. But they were wrong. His heart had slowed significantly for a time, a side effect of the electromagnetic jolt he supposed.

Now he found relief from the endless pain where he could. His preference was absinthe, an anise-flavored spirit that contained alcohol and medicinal herbs, which colored it green. Vincent disliked the drink, but Joseph found it quite palatable.

“Them two blokes, the viscounts, have already been here askin’ about ye.” The slyness of Vincent’s tone set Joseph’s teeth on edge. While he’d admired the trait previously, he found he didn’t care for it when it was directed at him.

“Oh?” He’d known Stephen and Michael would try to obtain information from Vincent. He would’ve done the same in their shoes. “What did you tell them?”

“Nothin’,” he said with a smirk, “despite their offer of money.”

The greed in Vincent’s tone concerned Joseph. That was always the problem with hired help, even if they were related. Keeping their loyalty required constant payment. Yet Vincent had been with him a long time. Joseph hated for their association to end.

“’Tis most unfortunate that you’re in prison again. How am I to continue my work with you in here?”

“I’m sure ye can fix that just like ye did last time,” Vincent said. “Mayhap this time, it won’t take so bloody long.”

Joseph sighed, still undecided if he should bother.

Vincent drew closer and lowered his voice. “Were ye able to save the devices from the warehouse?”

“Two of the three.” He cleared his throat, noting how the raspy sound made Vincent flinch. “I had some men dressed in police uniforms remove them.”

“Snuck them out right under their noses! Damn me, but that was clever of ye. I look forward to hearin’ yer plan to free me.”

“I’m in the midst of forming one.” He set the case down and retrieved a small silver flask from the dark interior. “Care for a drink?”

Vincent eyed the flask warily. “Is it that green stuff you’re so fond of?”

“No. This is something much more special. Have a sip while I advise you of my plan.”

Vincent took the flask and sniffed the contents. Joseph had made sure he’d only smell the faint apple scent of fine brandy. With a smack of his lips, Vincent took a long sip, then another. “Nothing like that heat slidin’ down yer throat into yer belly.” He sighed with satisfaction as he passed the flask back to Joseph through the cell bars. “Now then, how are ye goin’ to free me?”

“In a coffin.”

“How’s that?” Vincent’s eyes shifted, losing focus, a sign of the drug’s quick affect. Fear etched his face. He blinked rapidly but was unable to prevent his eyes from closing as his knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground.

Joseph lifted the case, adjusted his cane and walked away, pleased the problem had been solved so easily.

~*~

Michael paced his grandmother’s drawing room, awaiting her arrival. The room, decorated in a warm, golden yellow, was at odds with his dark thoughts. He was very uncomfortable about broaching the idea of giving Emma a season with his grandmother. It seemed too much to ask of her when she’d never even met Emma.

If she approved, which he doubted, then he’d have the task of speaking to Emma about it. Somehow he was certain that would not go well. She wouldn’t even consent to a ride in his carriage. How could he possibly convince her to accept help to attract a husband?

He still hadn’t determined how he’d gotten talked into this whole scheme. Passing Emma off as an eligible lady seemed an impossible task. While she was intelligent, her drab appearance would make it a challenge to catch a man’s eye. The addition of a small dowry was unlikely to be enough to lure in a husband.

The entire scheme made him question why he’d decided to rekindle his friendship with Ashbury. Blast the man for his crazed notions.

“Good afternoon, Michael.” Viscountess Weston glided into the room, still attractive in her seventy plus years.

Her solid support and understanding during his parents’ tumultuous relationship had kept him sane. He’d felt jerked to and fro when his parents alternately used him and ignored him, depending on the status of their own relationship. His grandmother’s steady love had been the rudder on his ship, keeping him on course through his childhood.

With a smile, he stepped forward to clasp her outstretched hands and press a kiss upon her soft, papery cheek. Her lilac scent engulfed him in warm memories.

“You look beautiful,” he told her, still holding her hands as he admired her appearance.

Her sparkling blue eyes, so like his own, lit at his compliment. “You are a scoundrel, but I’ll accept your kind words anyway.”

“You should know I only speak with sincerity.”

She laughed. “What brings you by to visit an old woman?”

With a wave of her hand befitting the queen, she directed him to a pair of chairs. A maid appeared with a tea tray and Michael’s stomach grumbled at the clever sandwiches and biscuits she set before them, his favorites among them.

“First of all, you are not old, and second, do I need an excuse to visit my grandmother?” Guilt pecked at him as he took a seat. He dropped by to see her on a regular basis but still not as often as he’d like.

“No, but I can tell by your expression that something is on your mind.” With elegant, efficient movements she served the tea and plated an assortment of delicacies for him.

“You know me too well. Before we discuss that, how are you?” he asked.

She lived alone in a townhouse he’d acquired for her, one of his first purchases after he’d paid off his parents’ debts. She’d moved in with a distant cousin when his father—her son—had gambled away her home. Head held high, she’d never grumbled at the awkward situation in which she’d found herself, all due to his father’s recklessness.

Michael had insisted she decorate her new home as she wished, not according to a budget. But practical woman that she was, the bills he’d paid had been quite modest. He’d been concerned that her home would be less than comfortable because of it. He needn’t have worried. Her taste was impeccable. This room in particular was warm yet elegant, modern yet traditional. The chairs were comfortable enough for a man. He felt quite at home here and for that reason alone, he could’ve hugged her.

“I’m doing very well,” she answered as she sipped her tea. “I’m attending a musical this evening. Would you care to join me?”

“Perhaps. I shall see if Catherine is interested.”

“That would be lovely.” Did he imagine it or was her smile forced? Surely not.

“As you so cleverly guessed, there is something I want to discuss,” Michael said, deciding he wanted it over with.

She looked up from her tea. “Does it have anything to do with Miss Vandimer?”

“Not at all.” For a brief moment, he thought he detected disappointment but when he looked closer at her expression, he saw only her usual serenity. He must’ve been mistaken. He hoped she approved of his engagement to Catherine, although in truth, he’d never asked.

His grandmother was the reason he’d offered marriage to Catherine—to gain back the five hundred year-old sprawling country estate that had been in the Weston family since the first Viscount Weston had built it. It was his grandmother’s birth place, and Catherine’s father now owned it. He knew it had appalled his grandmother when Michael’s father had gambled it away along with most of their possessions.

But that conversation was for another day. He needed to resolve this issue first.

“This involves an old acquaintance of mine. Do you remember my professor at Cambridge? The one who was killed?” He bit into a smoked salmon sandwich, one of his favorites, as he awaited her answer.

“Yes, of course. That was terrible. You still bear scars from that night, do you not?”

He nodded and forced himself to keep from rubbing his stomach where a scar left a jagged reminder of that night. He’d told no one of the full events that had occurred, nor had he ever spoken of the auras he saw as a result of it except to Ashbury. In the beginning, he’d held hope the ability would go away. Now, he didn’t see how he could explain it without sounding like a blundering fool. Or worse, insane.

“Professor Grisby’s niece stopped by to see me.”

“Oh?” Her eyes lit with curiosity.

How much did he tell her? Surely less was better until he knew if there was any chance of something coming of the situation.

“She’s twenty-six, I believe. Of marriageable age at any rate.” He thought of her dark brown eyes looking up at him and felt his chest tighten.

“You’ve decided to offer marriage to her instead of Miss Vandimer?” The hopeful note of her voice took him by surprise.

“No. No, of course not.” He shifted in his chair at the very idea, almost spilling his tea in the process. “It seems she’s in a rather desperate situation financially, or rather her family is, and I thought perhaps we could assist her in finding a husband.”

“You’re playing matchmaker?” She looked astounded at the idea.

“Nothing of the sort. I merely thought we could introduce her to a few men at one or two balls and see if anything comes of it.” When he said it like that, it didn’t sound very difficult. In fact, it sounded rather easy.

“Is she attractive?”

He thought again of those brown eyes, her tilted nose and flushed cheeks. “In her own way, I suppose. If you can convince her to remove her spectacles.” He tried to picture her without them. Her eyes held gold in their depths, her lashes were long and dark, and without her glasses, he thought she’d look quite...different.

“Michael?”

“I’m sorry.” He berated himself to keep his mind on the task before him. “You were saying?”

“I suppose I could meet the girl to see whether I’m able to help her.” Her frown revealed her doubt.

“I can arrange that.” At least he hoped he could. In truth, he would be surprised if Emma agreed to it or anything else he suggested.

“You want to find this girl a husband out of the goodness of your heart?”

He scowled, feeling much like a schoolboy caught with a frog in his pocket. “Is that so difficult to believe?”

She raised a brow. “Let’s just say it’s rather out of character.”

He held his ground, unwilling to tell her more despite her suspicions. Not yet. Whether or not Professor Grisby had somehow survived the accident was something he didn’t want to discuss until proof had surfaced.

“Her family has not fared well since the professor’s death. They live in a tiny flat on Trenary Lane. Miss Grisby appears to be the main supporter of her family, but she is currently without a governess position and has no prospects for one.”