Betina Krahn (5 page)

Green eyes, she realized, with mild surprise. Blue-green, really. The color of sunlight streaming into the sea on a midsummer day. His skin was firm and lightly tanned …
stretched taut over a broad forehead, high cheekbones, and a prominent, slightly aquiline nose. Her gaze drifted downward to his mouth … full, velvety looking, with a prominent dip in the center of his upper lip that made his mouth into an intriguing bow. There were crinkle lines at the corners of his eyes and a beard shadow was forming along the edge of his cheek.

She found herself licking her lip … lost in the bold angles and intriguing textures of his very male face … straining for control and oblivious to the fact that half of the audience was on its feet and moving toward the stage. She had never observed a man this close for this long—well, besides her grandfather and the brigadier. A man. A handsome man. His hair was a dark brown, not black, she thought desperately. And as her chest began to hurt, she fastened her gaze on his eyes and held on with everything in her. This was for science. This was for her dolphins. This was to teach those sea-green eyes a lesson …

The ache in her chest gradually crowded everything but him and his eyes from her consciousness. Finally, when she felt the dimming at the edges of her vision, which spelled real danger, she blew out that breath and then gasped wildly. The fresh air was so intoxicating that she staggered.

A wave of astonishment greeted the news that she had held her breath for a full three minutes. All she could think was that it seemed an eternity. Waving off an offer of smelling salts and the suggestion that she “have a lie-down,” she collected her composure and turned again to her inquisitor.

“Are you now satisfied that I am capable of holding my breath during underwater activity?” she demanded, still breathing hard.

“Very well. We must give you that.” He stepped back, his countenance dark. “But there is still the matter of swimming.” His gaze slid over her in blunt assessment. “How could a young woman of such delicate frame and constitution possibly keep up with such large creatures in their own element?”

“I swim exceedingly well,” she declared hotly. “And when I must dive or cover distance quickly, I grab onto a dorsal fin and ride along. Dolphins are quite accommodating in that regard.”

Argument broke out throughout the hall on the plausibility of “riding along” on a dolphin. But the intensity of the debate meant that at least some of her audience were ready to give her words credence. The faces of those clustered around the stage and those standing on chairs to see over them were flushed, animated, eager. Somewhere between answering questions and holding her breath, she had made some of them believe her observations were possible.

“Very well.” Her inquisitor tugged down his vest. “Given that you could actually perform such observations in the sea … we must turn to the substance of these ‘investigations.’ You maintain that these dolphins come to your signal … like dogs to their master.”

“I am hardly their master, sir, but they do come. Sound carries well under water, and they are very swift.”

“As quick as you are with your answers?” His smile owed nothing to good humor. “You have studied this particular group of dolphins for some time now and have even given them names. How is it, Miss Ashton, that you can tell one dolphin from another under-water?”

“Each dolphin has its own identifying characteristics. Some are darker, some lighter; some are thinner, some fatter”—she gestured to their audience—“just as humans come in varying sizes and shapes. In addition, some bear rake marks from other dolphins or scars from encounters with predators. And, of course, each dolphin has its own individual character. Some are bold and curious, some are too shy to approach humans, some are mischievous, some are annoying … just like
certain
humans.” Her scowl left no doubt as to just which human she had in mind.

“Ah-ha!” He stepped closer, towering over her, forcing her to bend her head back in order to continue meeting his gaze. “Therein lies one of the prime flaws in your work
… this annoying tendency to attribute human qualities to these creatures. You would have us believe that these creatures are little more than humans in costume … thinking, playing, helping each other,
courting
one another—” He straightened with a look so smug her palm itched to smack it. “You present your work in such cloying, anthropomorphic prose that it is impossible to separate reality from your romantic imaginings.”

“My romantic—” The words stuck halfway out, burning her throat.

“Although calling it ‘romantic’ might be putting too polite a face on it,” he muttered, then once again raised his voice so all could hear. “Science is the collection of facts in the revelation of truth, Miss Ashton. Repeatable, verifiable facts. Your work reads more like daydreams. And daydreams—especially a
mermaid’s
daydreams—are not subject to scientific verification.”

Mermaid’s daydreams
. His words echoed about the hall like the sound of a gavel falling … as if she had just been found guilty and sentenced to a life outside the hallowed halls of science.

Snatches of the news writers’ questions as they arrived and Edgar Cherrybottom’s declaration that she was the Lady Mermaid came rushing back to her. Her grand inquisitor knew about the unfortunate title that had been bestowed on her in the common press. She looked at the troubled and expectant faces around her. They all did, and it fed their outrage that a young woman aspired to some sort of intellectual accomplishment, to a scientific endeavor. The connection went beyond just a sketch in a penny newspaper; it had gone so far as to prejudice them against her work and even now was threatening everything she hoped to do with her life.

For a moment she wavered, feeling beset and uncertain. How did she fight something as amorphous as an idea of what a young woman should or shouldn’t do, or a crude, ridiculous image printed in a newspaper?

As she shrank from the horror and humiliation of it, she again ran headlong into the core of her grandfather’s determined teachings. “Fear is a coward,” he had always said. “Take it by the tail and it will flee for its life, every time.” Slowly, she squared her shoulders. There might not be much she could do about the wretched newspapers, but she was not about to go meekly into scholarly exile because of their lies. She seized the outer layers of her fashionable skirts and yanked them aside as she advanced on him.

“Who are you to dismiss my work because of the scratching of news writers and the dribbles from cartoonists’ pens?” She was virtually nose to nose with him before he finally yielded and backed a step. “My observations
can
be verified.” She poked his chest furiously with one finger. “And I challenge you, sir, to be the one to verify them!”

Without time to consider fully the idea forming in her head, she was at the mercy of her instincts. And just now her instincts were telling her that there was only one way to repair the damage to her scholarly reputation: she had to prove to the royal societies’ leading skeptic that her work was genuine and make him publicly confirm her findings.

“What? Me?” He gave a twist of a smile that said what he thought of her challenge. “Don’t be absurd. It is impossible to verify
anecdotal
evidence.”

“Ahhh!” She inched closer and he backed another step. “But you can see the dolphins with your own eyes … watch me interact with them … swim with them yourself. As you said, the ability of another researcher to repeat results is the keystone of good science.
You
can repeat my experiences with the dolphins yourself and write about them. That will be all the verification I need.”

A storm of controversy broke around them. Arguments pitched back and forth, some vehemently for and some furiously against her proposal. But the gentlemen scientists soon came to see that there was no other way to settle the matter. Gradually they registered support for the idea; advising, urging, and then insisting that he accept the challenge of
ferreting out the truth about the “mermaid” and her dolphins, once and for all. Celeste noted with rising spirits that the more they insisted, the more unsettled her inquisitor looked.

“I cannot possibly take the time, not with the new term mere weeks away.” He glanced around at the sea of faces ringing the stage and clogging the nearby steps. “Someone else will surely have to—”

“Nonsense!” a voice called from the rear. He looked genuinely startled, pivoted, and faced a genteel, bespectacled gentleman making his way to the edge of the stage. “You needn’t worry about the coming term, my boy. Sir Mercer can take your lectures and I shall be pleased to meet your tutorials.”

Titus Thorne stared in ill-cloaked dismay as the head of his college paused at the apron of the stage, beaming cooperation and largesse. He had no idea that Sir Parthenay had intended to come to London for this meeting. And what was the old boy doing—insisting that he get involved even deeper in this mermaid nonsense? Before he could think of a rebuttal—

“Excellent,” she said with a vengeful glint in her eye. “Then there are no impediments to your spending time at my home, learning about dolphins and confirming my findings. A fortnight should do.”

He was caught. Like a flounder in a dragnet.

“Furthermore, I think it should be agreed that when you have verified my work,” she continued, “you will publish a detailed confirmation in the Oceanographic Society’s quarterly journal.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Sir Hillary declared, nodding eagerly.

“Absolutely
not!”
Titus erupted, then had to scramble for a plausible reason for his objection. “The society’s journal is for the publication of original research, not verification of results already announced elsewhere.”

“I could publish them as an addendum to Miss Ashton’s book!” When they turned to see who had spoken, a ruddy-faced
faced Edgar Cherrybottom was pushing his way through the crowd on the steps. “I am Miss Ashton’s publisher—I would welcome the chance to present the public with a scholarly review and endorsement of her work.”

“Capital!” Sir Parthenay put his stamp of approval on the scheme.

“That assumes there is anything to review and verify.” Titus turned a scathing look on Sir Parthenay, who merely rocked up and down on his toes, looking rather pleased at the turn of events.

“Oh, I can promise, you’ll have plenty to write about, Professor … You have the advantage of me, sir,” Miss Ashton declared, with a look in her eyes that warned it would be the last time such a thing would happen. “My credibility as a researcher has just been placed in your hands, and I do not even know your name, much less your qualifications for judging my work.”

“Oh—Thorne.” Sir Hillary hurriedly stepped in to make the introduction. “Professor Titus Thorne. The chair in ichthyology at Cardinal College, Oxford.”

Her eyes glinted briefly, then she turned aside and began to collect her equipment. “Then you must be well acquainted with the sea. Do bring something to swim in, Professor Thorne.”

S
HE MANAGED TO WAIT
until they were outside the hall, waiting for the carriage in the warmth of the early afternoon sun, before turning on Mr. Cherrybottom with fire in her eye.

“The Lady Mermaid? Where on earth did they get such a ridiculous notion about me?” But her pointed glare said she had already guessed where the blame should lie. Cherrybottom’s fleshy face reddened and he fumbled with his watch.

“I haven’t the faintest … except … there was some talk of using a mermaid instead of a dolphin on the cover of the book.” He pocketed his timepiece and resettled his hat
on his head. “Well, however it came about, it has generated a great deal of interest in your book.” His trademark grin reappeared. “I say, Miss Ashton, outstanding performance in there. Went toe to toe with that professor chap, and not even a blink. Most impressive. Bound to get a full column in the
Times.”

Celeste was stunned, totally at a loss for words.

“Now we have a marvelous excuse for another whole edition,” he rattled on as he waved to a cab waiting down the street. “People who bought and read the first book will want to see what the controversy is about—and to read the professor’s confirmation of your work.” His eyes glowed as they darted over unseen vistas of profitability. “Excellent. Just excellent.”

The clearing of a throat behind Cherrybottom caused the publisher to turn abruptly. There stood a man of moderate height, dressed in an exquisite charcoal coat and pinstripe trousers and a silk top hat that glinted in the sun. He spoke to the publisher but his gaze was fastened on Celeste. And such a gaze … blue as the Aegean and quite as warm, set in a face that was as handsome as it was manly.

“I do not wish to intrude,” the man said with a decided drawl. “But I was hoping, Mr. Cherrybottom, that I might persuade you to make good on your promise to introduce me to the celebrated Miss Ashton.”

“Ah, Mr. Bentley.” Cherrybottom beamed and offered his hand to the fellow. “Miss Ashton, may I present a new acquaintance, a gentleman I met while waiting for your lecture to begin. An American, from Virginia, and a gentleman of great scientific curiosity. Mr. P. T. Bentley.”

“At your service, miss.” He bowed with a hint of extravagance. “And may I say, my admiration of your work is now fully equaled by my admiration for your beauty and courage. I am enthralled by the thought of a living mermaid, swimming with those noble and fascinating creatures of the sea.”

She scarcely knew how to respond. Total strangers now accosted her on the street expecting to see her garbed in fins
and scales! “Th-thank you.” Unsettled by the way everything seemed to be spiraling out of her control, she retreated to the familiar support of the brigadier’s arm and turned a narrow look on her publisher. “I would greatly appreciate it if you would change our tickets so that we may return home on tomorrow’s train, Mr. Cherrybottom. Now, if you don’t mind, we really must get back to the hotel … before my
fins
dry out.”

“ ’A
TA BOY
, T
HORNY
!”

“Good work! Got her right where we want her, eh?”