Eros Element (3 page)

Ugh, females.
Edward didn't want that kind of complication, but he also desired to keep his job and his department.

“What say you, Professor Bailey?” the dean asked.

“Very well,” Edward told them, making sure to sound very unhappy about it.

“Excellent, gentlemen and ladies,” Cobb told them. “I'll have my people make the travel arrangements so we can keep as much of this out of the university gossip circle as possible. You'll be hearing from them soon. Be sure to pack and set your affairs in order. You'll depart for Europe on Friday.”

Chairman Kluge looked at Edward with a huge smile. “I'll have Miss Ellis circulate a note that you're taking a research sabbatical on the continent for the summer.”

“And how much do you propose to compensate us for our time and trouble?” asked Johann.

“I trust you will find my terms to be most reasonable,” Cobb said.

Edward rose, trusting his friend to take care of the boring financial bits. He supposed he should go back to his office and pack a trunk of the journals and books he would need so he wouldn't get too far behind while gallivanting about Europe.

“Oh, and Professor Bailey?” Kluge asked.

“Yes, Chairman?”

“Pack light. Once you leave the main Continent, your transportation will become quite limited with regard to luggage space.”

Edward didn't miss the glee with which Kluge said the words.
Is that true, or is he saying it to torture me?

When he returned to his office, he found the ivy had been stripped from his window as well, and buckets of paint outside his door indicated his friends Hickory, Dickory and Dock would share a similar fate.

Chapter Three

Aetherics Department, Huntington University, England, 06 June 1870

“Well, that was a strange meeting,” Sophie said once the gentlemen had departed, leaving the women alone in the conference room.

Iris looked around at the soiled teacups and crumb-filled plates.
I'd pick them up, but I don't want to set the expectation that I'm going to clean after them.
She laid a fingertip on the spoon the American Parnaby Cobb used and focused on its held impressions. Relief and the sensation that his hidden aims had been satisfied beyond what he had dared to hope, like a just-scratched itch but more triumphant.
Very strange.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the soreness at the base of her skull that often followed her readings, as she thought of them.

“Yes,” she said, blinking her eyes and rubbing her fingertip against her thumb to clear the impressions. “But the important thing is that they have no suspicions about us, and we will be able to go on the journey.” She patted her pocket where the telegram about her father's death usually nestled and, with a shock of terror, found it to be empty.

“Sophie, did you take the telegram?”

“What? No, Miss Iris. Last I saw it, you had it.”

“Oh no, oh no, oh no.” Iris bent and looked under the table, hoping the paper had fallen, but it was nowhere to be found.

“Quickly, we must retrace our steps. If someone else finds it and tells Dean Hartford, we're ruined!”

They rushed into the hall, where the musician Johann Bledsoe stood. He studied his nails with a casual air, but something about him made Iris draw up short. It wasn't her usual talent to determine what a person was thinking, but if she'd been a cat, her hackles would have raised. All she could do was straighten her shoulders to alleviate the squeezing sensation that swept up her spine and made her throat muscles clench.

“Mister Bledsoe,” she squeaked with a nod.

“Miss McTavish, Miss Smythe.” He gave them a lazy smile, but Iris didn't miss his shrewd glance. “It's a lovely day, and I was pondering stopping by the campus commissary for a spot of tea. Would you care to join me?”

Iris did not, but his next words confirmed her foreboding: “I suspect our conversation may yield some surprising discoveries.”

Sophie went pale under her mad yellow curls, and Iris was sure bright pink spots appeared in her own cheeks. “We would be delighted.”

Bledsoe offered his arm. “Then allow me to escort you.”

Iris didn't want to take it, and she made him wait with his elbow at an awkward angle while she pulled on her gloves, taking extra care the seams sat just right. As they walked through the halls and down the stairs, she looked for the folded piece of paper that would save her reputation and financial state, but it was nowhere to be found.

They exited the building, which had been denuded of its ivy facade.

“A pity about the ivy,” Iris said. “The little green leaves waving in the breeze gave the department such a sage air.”

“Ah, yes, but it's destructive.” Bledsoe gestured with his free hand. “The roots eat their way through the rocks and produce small cracks, which turn into big cracks, which can bring down an entire structure more quickly than one would expect.”

“You sound like you speak from experience.”

“I've seen it happen in many circumstances. Whether it's a building requiring its mortar or a musical ensemble needing a certain amount of trust and understanding, it only takes a few tendrils to bring everything crashing down.”

Iris listened to his subtext and responded. “And what are these tendrils of which you speak, good sir?”

“Distrust and deception regarding motive and circumstance.” They'd reached the squat stone building that housed the student dining hall with its faculty attachment. Iris stopped herself before heading into the faculty area. Yes, it was summer, but what if one of her father's colleagues happened to be in there for a mid-morning cuppa or an early lunch? She'd had her fill of lying for the day.

“Thank you for accompanying me this far,” she said. “But I'm afraid I must say goodbye. I have a lot to prepare for this journey.”

The musician tugged her along into the faculty wing. “We haven't finished our conversation yet, Miss McTavish. I think you'll be interested in what I have to say.”

“In that case, I would be more comfortable on the student side.”
Perhaps one of Father's students will see me and rescue me.

“Oh no. The tea is much better in the faculty hall, as I'm sure your father told you.”

“He would bring me here sometimes.” Now Iris had to suppress the tears that wanted to fall. Crying would let on she hid information from him, although she suspected he knew or had found the telegram.

Sophie had disappeared somewhere between the Aetherics Department and the dining hall. Iris couldn't blame her—she'd agreed with Sophie that if she got caught, she would take the sole responsibility. However, until she knew with certainty Bledsoe had the telegram, she wasn't going to let anything slip.

A pot of tea and plate of scones with little bowls of clotted cream and plum jam appeared on the table, courtesy of the students who worked in the faculty dining hall over the summer.
They're barely older than I am.
Would she have to take such a position if this scheme fell through? She couldn't imagine slinging scones for a living.

Bledsoe poured the tea for them and took a long sip. “Excellent, as always.”

Iris thought it tasted bitter, and she added some sugar. When she looked up, she found him studying her.

“Sir, your gaze is very forward.”

“I cannot help but notice you haven't removed your gloves. Are you planning on leaving so soon?”

Iris swallowed and pulled the corners of her mouth back into a patient little smile. “You are quite right. I forgot myself.” She pulled them off slowly and hoped the teacup hadn't gained too many impressions since being washed.

“Tell me, Miss McTavish,” he said and took the sugar tongs from her plate with surprising gentleness before helping himself to a cube. “Do women's skirts often have hidden pockets, and when they do, do those pockets always have holes in them?”

Warm spots flared like two brands had been pressed to her cheeks. “I don't know what you're talking about.” But she couldn't look him in the eye.

“I'm trying to figure out if you lied about your father so you could be included on the trip and gain fame and fortune for yourself or if your air of desperation indicates more dire circumstances.”

“Now you're speaking nonsense.”
Put down the sugar tongs. Put them down so I can see what you're up to.

“As you can imagine, the task we're about to undertake is going to be quite difficult. My primary concern isn't for you, as non-chivalrous as that makes me. It's for Edward Bailey.”

Now Iris looked at him. “The aetherist?”

“Yes, him. As you could tell, he can be difficult.”

“What in the world could be the problem? He seemed quirky, but I didn't think he would be any trouble.”

“Quirky doesn't begin to describe him. He's one of those gentlemen who likes things just so.”

Iris kept her hands folded in her lap. Would he never put those tongs down? “What does that have to do with me?”

Bledsoe gestured with the tongs. “He values honesty in others above all else. You noticed the animosity between him and Chairman Kluge?”

Iris nodded. “They seem not to like each other very much.”

“Well, that's because Harry lied to Edward when he was hired. I forget about what, some small thing, but it was enough. Edward never trusted him again, and it has led to some friction in the department.”

There was the mention of trust again. Iris took a scone, thankful her talent didn't extend to foodstuffs, and hoped her hand didn't tremble in an obvious way. “And so you're concerned about the expedition? What happened to him to make him that way?”

“As with most problems, his started when a woman caught his eye.”

Iris straightened. “There's no need to insult me.”

“There is if it makes you listen to me.” Bledsoe put the tongs back in the sugar cube bowl and ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up. “He got his heart broken by a girl named Lily. He's a simple chap in some ways—brilliant with science, but dumb when it comes to dealing with other humans, especially women.”

“Then I shall be certain to give him a wide berth. He will have his job, and I will have mine. I'll make my father proud.” Iris tilted her head at him like she'd seen her mother do for years when challenged. “Is there anything else?”
And do you have any proof for your allegations?

“Is there another name you could go by?”

Iris almost dropped her scone. “Excuse me?”

“If you were Ivy, that would be fine, but Edward doesn't like flowers.”

“Again, it shouldn't be any concern of his. What is your motivation in all this? Why are
you
going?”

“You heard Parnaby Cobb. You'll need help getting the artistic elite and their wealthy patrons to allow you into their salons, studios, and parlors to see their artifacts and paintings if you have any hope of tracking down whatever this quest is after. Do you need more sugar? You already put a cube in your tea. It will be unbearably sweet.”

“Right.” Iris drew her hand back from the sugar tongs.
I give up.
“But what is your motivation? You're a musician and artist with plenty of patrons here.”

Bledsoe returned her gaze with a startled expression. “Can't a young man go on an adventure without being questioned?”

“Apparently the chances of that are the same as a young woman agreeing to help with one without being accused of deception.”

He popped the end of a scone in his mouth and finished the dregs of his tea. “Remember, Miss McTavish,” he said after he finished chewing, “I'll be watching you. And I'll be holding on to this.” He fished the telegram from his waistcoat pocket and held it up. She clenched her fist so she wouldn't make an unladylike grab for it, as badly as she wanted to. But to do so would draw more attention to herself and her predicament; academics were such hopeless gossips. The sugar from the top of one of the scones crunched in her back teeth when she bit back a scream of frustration.

“Why not expose me now?” she asked. “Since you so obviously needed to make the point.”

“Because I suspect having this information will be useful later.” He stood and bowed. He disappeared before Iris could retort.

She counted backward from twenty—
no, better make that thirty—
to still her thrumming heart, or at least get the darn thing to stop sending clogging sensations to her throat and jolts of panic to her stomach. She slid a hand into her hidden pocket and found it, indeed, had a hole in it. When had that happened? Sophie should have been maintaining her clothes better.

Or I should have been more careful.
She took a sip of the now cold tea, ignoring the invitation to see what the student who'd last handled the cup felt at the time. She picked up the tongs, but all she sensed was concern with an undercurrent of true fear.

If she didn't need the money so badly, Iris would bow out of the whole affair, but as it was, she would now have to be more careful. But about what? Not to charm the strange Edward Bailey too much? Granted, he was nice-enough looking with his chestnut hair and large blue eyes, but she'd detected his nervousness without having to read any of his possessions. Traveling with him would likely be a nightmare, but would it be more so than she anticipated?

Is Professor Bailey that unstable? Or worse, is he brilliant but truly mad?

Chapter Four

Waltham Manor, 07 June 1870

“This is going to be a nightmare.” Edward sat in his brother's parlor and put his head in his hands. “They want me to go traipsing about Europe and god knows where else and look at art, all in the name of searching for something that doesn't exist.
Art
, Christopher.”

“That, indeed, sounds terrible.” Christopher Bailey—or the Duke of Waltham depending on one's degree of intimacy with him and his household—poured two fingers of brandy into a cut crystal glass with the family seal etched on the side. He had his back to Edward, but the shake of his shoulders made Edward wonder if the duke used the opportunity to chuckle at him. Perhaps visiting the family estate on the small chance his brother would suggest a solution hadn't been such a good idea.

“You know I don't drink alcohol,” Edward told him, and he had to admit to himself how peevish he sounded.

“No, but I do.” Christopher turned around and raised his glass. “Cheers.”

Edward had declined all offers of tea or other beverages since he wasn't scheduled to use the privy for another two hours, but his dry tongue told him he might have to make an exception.

So it begins, the deterioration of order and sanity, and we haven't left yet.

“Are you sure you don't want anything?” Christopher asked. “I have some coffee from our holdings in Jakarta.”

“
Your
holdings,” Edward said. “You're the duke, I'm the younger brother. You inherit everything, I'm content to spend my life drawing a decent, livable salary at the University. You make heirs. I write papers. We do what we're good at, and for me, that does not include traipsing to goodness knows where and searching for goodness knows what.”

“But there is no harm in challenging yourself.”

Edward drew himself up. “I have all the challenge I need in my work, which is now going to be hopelessly delayed. I have papers I was going to finish this summer.”

“Speaking of which, Mary has written her first article and was hoping her Uncle Edward would peer review it for her.”

Edward groaned, but he had to smile when his niece, accompanied by her mother, entered the parlor and gravely presented a set of papers folded in half, the edge bound with string. On the front, printed in neat child's scrawl, was “On the Habits of Earthworms”.

“I put it in a journal for you, Uncle,” she said. “It'th on worms.”

He took it with a serious expression. “And did you follow the experimental protocol we discussed the last time I was here, of careful observation at regular intervals?”

“Yeth, Uncle,” she said.

She's the only scientist I know with a lisp.
Yet she's more intelligent than Harry Kluge.

“She did very well,” her mother, the Duchess said. “And she hopes you will give her work the serious consideration it deserves.”

He heard the note of warning. The Duchess, formerly Miss Pauline Danahue, had been Miss Ellis's predecessor and had charmed the Duke on one of his infrequent visits to the department. While Edward was happy for his brother, he never forgave him for stealing away the best secretary they'd had. Not to mention his setting a dangerous precedent. Edward was sure Miss Ellis now hoped to marry into a title after hearing of what happened to Miss Danahue.

“I will read it with the utmost seriousness,” he said and set it beside him. Mary climbed on the couch and leaned her head on his arm. The weight of her head barely disturbed him, but what did one do with a seven-year-old child?

“Thank you, Uncle.”

“You're welcome, Mary. Isn't it your nap time? It's two o'clock.”

She laughed, and he cringed at the thought of her drool on his sleeve. All children drooled, didn't they?

“No, Uncle. I don't take napth anymore. That's for babies like Emma and Charlie.”

“Emma, whom you still haven't met,” the duchess said. Edward couldn't think of her by her given name Pauline. She would always be Miss Danahue to him, so he consciously substituted Duchess.

“Oh, right. How old is she?”

“Four weeks,” Mary said. Her sigh moved Edward's arm into an uncomfortable angle, and he shifted, which made her cling further. He was certain his hand had fallen asleep.

“Mary has been a tremendous help,” the duchess said. “Even if she thinks her little sister is a lot of noise and bother.”

“She screams in the middle of the night more than Charlie did,” Mary said. “I'm writing a paper on it.”

“Well, that is one of the problems with babies,” Edward said to her. “They're very noisy at times.” He tried to shift again—the child was making him uncomfortably warm.

“Mary, come sit beside me,” the duchess said. “You're baking your uncle.”

With another sigh of long-suffering, the little girl complied. Edward, ignoring the glare from his sister-in-law, rotated his shoulder and flexed his hand so the feeling would return.

“Well, your uncle is about to embark on a grand adventure,” Christopher said.

“An adventure?” Mary jumped up from the ottoman where her mother tried to settle her and ran back to Edward. She put both hands on his knees and looked at him with the big blue Bailey family eyes. “What kind of adventure?”

“Yes, Edward, what will this trip entail?” Now the duchess folded her hands in her lap and leaned forward with a look of absolute delight. “Do you have to travel far?”

“I don't know. It depends.”
How is the child, who hasn't been farther than five miles from home, more excited about this than I am?

“It's all rather a secret, Pauline,” said Christopher. “All he can say is that there's a rich American backer for the trip, and he and Johann Bledsoe are going on the Grand Tour.”

“Why would a wealthy American want to send the two of you on a tour of Europe and the Mediterranean?”

“Can I go?” Mary asked. “Mummy says I'm a good traveler. I never get sick in our coach.”

“Oh, motion sickness. I hadn't thought of that.” Edward's stomach swayed at the mere thought of being on a ship. “This gets worse and worse.”

“Mary, come sit here. Of course you can't go. Your uncle and his friend don't want a little girl tagging along ruining all their fun.”

“No, but a big one will be,” Edward said before he could stop the words from coming out. Seasickness with the possibility of female witnesses—worse yet.

“Who?” everyone in the room asked.

Edward looked around, aware of the two pairs of blue eyes and one brown fixed on him.
What concern is this of theirs? They seem almost giddy at the idea of me being in close quarters with a female for an extended amount of time.

“Her name is Iris McTavish,” he said, choosing his words as carefully as he would a combination of electrodes for one of his aether experiments, but he feared it was too late—he'd already incited an explosion of interest. “She's an antiquarian, or seems to hope to be. Her father, an archaeologist, was to have come on the journey, but he's ill.”

“Ah, yes, Irvin McTavish. A good Scotsman.” Christopher drummed his fingers on his knee as he tended to do when pulling up facts and figures from his mental ledger. “He's been at the university forever. Wife died a few years ago of consumption. Rumor has it he's dying from it too, but he's been very close-lipped about what exactly is wrong with him.”

“What cause do you have to know of him?” Edward asked. “You're of the business, not university, world.”

“My interest in the university didn't end when I snatched Pauline away,” Christopher told him. “I'm in the habit of making a gift each year to support a scholarship for a promising student in the sciences. Last year it went to a young man in the new geology/archaeology department. McTavish was on the selection committee. I met him at the banquet. Remarkable fellow.”

Hope replaced resentment, and Edward sat straight. “Of course! You could endow a position in my department and keep me from having to go on this blasted trip.”

“Doesn't the term
conflict of interest
mean anything to you?” the duchess asked. “If we endowed a position, you wouldn't be under consideration due to your relationship to the duke.”

“Oh right. That hardly seems fair.”

“Less fair than the position being endowed for you because you're Christopher's brother?” The duchess took a sip of her tea, her eyes gleaming with joy at calling Edward out.

Or at least that was what he surmised, but before he could challenge her, his brother said, “Drop it, Edward. You'll have to go on the journey. Perhaps you will meet Irvin McTavish at some point, and you'll see what I meant.”

“What's so extraordinary about him?” Edward sat back and crossed his arms. “He's not a real scientist.”

“Regardless, he has been able to illuminate the mysteries behind many ancient artifacts. They say his intuition is uncanny. Of course he uses his extensive knowledge to piece objects and facts together, but somehow he knows better where to start than anyone else.”

“But how, Papa?” Mary asked.

“Others have been trying to determine his secret methods for years, but none have had success. Rumor has it that he's not ill at all but is recovering from a poisoning attempt from a jealous colleague.”

“Christopher!” The duchess inclined her head toward their daughter, but it was too late.

“Is someone going to poison Uncle Edward?” Mary asked, her voice rising to an ear-splitting pitch.

“Of course not.” The duchess stood and held out her hand. “Now I believe it is time for you to have your tea with your siblings. Cook has made your favorite cream puffs. Say goodbye to your uncle.”

“Goodbye, Uncle Edward. Will you bring me something?”

“I will try to remember to do so,” he said. He patted her “journal”. “And I shall bring this with me to read.”

The girl's gap-toothed grin made a curious warmth bloom in his chest, and she hugged him. “Thank you, Uncle Edward! God speed.”

Christopher and Edward stood when the duchess did, and she pecked Edward on the cheek. “Take good care of yourself and your rakish friend, Mister Bledsoe. His violin will be missed at the summer concerts.” She swept out with Mary in tow, leaving Edward to his brother.

“Cream puffs?” asked Edward.

“Of all that just transpired, you would remember the pastries. Your sweet tooth hasn't changed, brother.” Christopher rang the bell for the maid. “But as much trouble as I'm in with Pauline over what I told you in front of Mary, it's good you know the rumors. You had best be on your guard on your travels.” He paused and gave Edward a look that mixed affection, tolerance and concern. “More than you normally would be.”

Grange House, 07 June 1870

Iris stuck the spade into the black soil and relished both the sound as it sliced through the dirt and the feel of it as the grains gave way. Her father's voice came to memory:
If you were on a dig, you'd have to be more careful than that, but pay attention to the dirt. It will tell you if it hides something valuable.
She'd never been able to communicate with the ground like he had, but she was pretty sure there wasn't anything valuable hiding in the tomato plot. In fact, she relished the lack of images, sensations, and thought fragments in the plain old garden soil. Sometimes moving through the world gave her a sensation of constantly being called to, the inanimate objects like beggars on street corners who wanted to take her time and mental energy with their stories.

She reached for a baby tomato plant, which her father had started from seed a few months before, and which had been growing in a patch of sunlight in his study.

“Don't you have servants for that?”

The male voice startled Iris, and she looked up to see Lord Jeremy Scott, one of her father's students, leaning on the fence between the street and the garden.
Oh, lovely.
Of all the students they'd had to the house, he was her least favorite. He'd always studied her with the air of a collector looking at a beautiful thing to add to his glass cases, and she recalled her father complaining how the young nobleman had a sharp mind, which he more often turned to how to get others to do mundane, hands-on tasks for him rather than what he was supposed to learn.

“Some of us aren't afraid to get our hands dirty,” she said. “I find the garden to be relaxing.” She lifted her eyebrows and cocked her head, hoping he would get the hint she wanted to be left alone.

“I was curious whether Professor McTavish is in,” he said. “I'd like to speak to him.”

Iris stood and brushed her hands on the duster she wore over her oldest day dress. Some relief came with being able to look Jeremy in the eye rather than be literally looked down on by him. She sensed he viewed her with an air of superiority, particularly since it was difficult to have a lot of dignity in her current attire, complete with old straw bonnet. At least now she could disappoint him face-on and with relish.

“Doctor McTavish is not available,” she said, and before he could ask when he would be, “He's still out of the country.”

“Oh.”

Iris could almost hear Jeremy's brain ticking along like the steameograph her father used to copy tests for his students, so she interrupted his scheming with a polite, “Is there a message you'd like me to give him for you, should he return earlier than expected?”

“That I've been invited to join a dig in Italy, and I was hoping he could give me the benefit of his expertise before I go.”

No doubt so you can position yourself as the expert and figure out how not to do any real work.
But she nodded with as much seriousness as she could muster around her uncharitable thoughts.