I Thee Wed (22 page)

T
HE laboratory was blissfully silent and, better yet, entirely lacking in emotional turmoil. Orion preferred to pack his few things here before stepping back into the fraught environment of Blayne House.

Orion pulled his formal cravat loose and tossed the choking thing onto Francesca's worktable as he undid his collar studs. His fine coat followed the cravat. Now in his shirtsleeves, he stretched the tightness from his shoulders.

The presentation to the Fraternity was to be the following night—and Orion would not be there. The Fraternity had loomed so large in his hopes for so long. He'd thought he would do anything to win its acclaim, but it seemed even his most fiery ambition halted at pledging his life to someone he did not care for. He would have to get there another way. He faced the shelf of solvents, leaned his rear against the marble worktable, and willed himself to think of some alternative to returning to Worthington House.

He tried, he truly did, but he became distracted by the lingering scent of orange blossoms. Where was it coming
from? The laboratory had been thoroughly cleaned of all traces of the explosive chemical reaction the day before. Surely Francesca's perfume had not survived the scrubbing?

Then Orion realized that Francesca was on him, all over his hands and, yes, perfuming his waistcoat. With a growl, he pulled it off and tossed it away. It was just as well, because despite the night chill pervading the laboratory, his blood seemed to still be running rather hot.

He closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair.
Think about the future, damn it
.

When he opened his eyes, he could still see Francesca looking sweetly mussed in the moonlight, gazing at him with wonder and alarm in her beautiful eyes . . .

He blinked her away. He was in the laboratory, alone. He focused on the marble floor at his feet.
Clear. Your. Mind
.

Marble was perhaps not the best notion for the flooring of a laboratory. Orion could see where someone, probably a footman, had sanded valiantly at the lesions in the stone left by the splashes of hydrochloric acid.

His heart began to pound in remembered fear. If he'd been even a second later through the door . . .

Stop dwelling on a tragedy that never happened
. Attie and her little friend were fine. The damage had been limited to an insignificant coat and the laboratory floor.

The marble might have a grand flair and present a nice, sterile appearance, but in truth the stone was very vulnerable. The calcite in the marble had reacted with the acid. The floor would never be the same.

The materials in a laboratory ought to be durable, more resistant to solvents and acids, and, as he thought about his own afternoon of scrubbing under Francesca's watchful eyes, easier to clean.

His mind threatened to veer off to lose itself in the hills and valleys of Francesca's sumptuous body. No. He flexed his neck and shook his head. The future. Not about Francesca. Not about the almost-tragic acid spill.

He gazed at the shelves of chemicals before him. How had Attie even happened upon the precise mixture for hydrochloric acid?

“Indeed, the bonds of some partnerships are stronger than others,” Francesca had said.

They had been talking about dancing—or perhaps cooking. With Francesca's clever but outrageous mind, the words could have applied to either. Or both.

Bonds. Partnerships.

Orion's gaze focused suddenly and fiercely on the single shelf of viable solvents he'd classified. None of them were quite right, in themselves. Perhaps he should have tried stronger concentrations—

Or a combination.

Like basil and oregano.

Two thousand years before, Archimedes discovered immersion measurement and declared, “Eureka!”

In a British laboratory two millennia later, Orion Worthington widened his eyes, inhaled the scent of orange blossoms, and whispered,
“Favoloso!”

*   *   *

I
N HIS CHILDHOOD
at Worthington Manor, far away in the Shropshire countryside, Orion would often be awakened by a cock's crow.

In London, the trundling of the night-soil cart wheels on cobbles had the same result.

He blinked and lifted his head from his folded arms to realize that he was seated on a stool at the laboratory table.
Yes, that's right.
He'd processed another combination of solvents with the freshly crushed leaves of salad greens from the cook's garden.

The plant matter itself wasn't particularly important. Any fresh, dark green plant would do. The frustration was that although the solvents had dissolved the plant matter, none of
them had managed to separate the cellular bonds to release the compounds within.

Orion blinked wearily at the line of test tubes resting in the wooden rack before him. The first four were filled with even green fluid. These were his controls. Two of them contained greens dissolved in acetone, and two of them contained greens dissolved in an alkane solution.

The next five tubes were of varying combinations of the alkane and acetone solvents. Twenty-five percent to seventy-five percent, fifty percent to fifty percent, and so on.

There, sitting in the precise center of the rack, like a queen on her throne, was a single, beautiful test tube unlike all the others.

Layers of color, clearly distinct, ranged from nearly clear to deep green to a strange and mysterious orange.

Complete separation.

At last.

Orion bolted upright. The stool fell to the floor behind him as he leaned closer to the rack of test tubes. He had done it. He had actually done something that no scientist before him had ever managed to do. He had opened the door to an entirely new branch of scientific discovery.

I must tell Francesca!

No, it was Sir Geoffrey he must tell first. Although Orion meant to leave Blayne House behind, it had been his mentor's facility and his interest in this investigation that had prompted Orion's breakthrough in the first place. Sir Geoffrey should hear of this as soon as possible. Then Orion would leave.

In triumph!

Orion glanced through the high windows at the first tinge of dawn light. Sir Geoffrey would not wake for hours yet, and if he held true to form, Orion knew his benefactor would need to take his morning tea before he would be ready for any type of conversation. Orion checked the sky again. He could run the panel once more, just to be sure.

And this time he would stay awake. He smiled to himself. He could not wait to see the chemical reaction with his own eyes!

*   *   *

O
RION WAS WAITING
for Sir Geoffrey when the man descended the stairs to take his morning tea, this time in the private breakfast room in the back of the house instead of the front parlor. Pennysmith brought the tea tray, with only one teacup, as usual. Orion waited tensely for Sir Geoffrey to imbibe enough of his special tea to regain a bit of color in his cheeks and a glint in his eyes.

Finally, Sir Geoffrey set aside his empty cup—after his third serving!—and bestowed a disgruntled glare upon Orion.

“Out with it, Worthington.”

Orion drew in a breath. Part of him wanted to savor the moment. However, Sir Geoffrey was an impatient fellow.

“I've done it. I have found the combination of solvents that will separate the compounds.”

Sir Geoffrey blinked. “Theory or practice?”

Orion allowed himself a slight smile. “Practice. I have done it effectively three times in succession.”

“When?” Sir Geoffrey's voice was a commanding bark. “In my laboratory? Whom have you told?”

Orion drew back slightly. “Early this morning. Yes, here in your facility. I worked all night. You are the first I have told, out of courtesy for your support.”

Sir Geoffrey leapt to his feet and began to stride between the fireplace and the door, his step bouncing and energetic. “Excellent! I knew it!” He thrust out a finger, pointing at the ceiling. “Ha! Those mewling bastards in the Fraternity will have no standing now! Imagine, spreading the notion that I am past my prime! Wait until they hear what I have done!”

Orion blinked. “You mean, what
we
have done.” He had
no issue with sharing the credit, for Sir Geoffrey had provided the facility.

Sir Geoffrey turned on Orion viciously. “I wouldn't spread that about if I were you,” he snarled. “It is
my
laboratory.
My
supplies.
My
discovery.”

Orion drew back from Sir Geoffrey in distaste. “You cannot be serious. How can you expect me to remain silent about this?”

“You'll shut up and be grateful for it.” Sir Geoffrey narrowed his eyes to rabid slits. “I can ruin you with a single word, just as I did those other ungrateful assistants I hired. I am renowned the world over, and you are just one of
those
Worthingtons!” His chuckle was a feral growl.

Orion's gut turned to ice. It was all clear now. The wide range of Sir Geoffrey's “contributions” to science, from engineering to chemistry, made much more sense.

The well-timed opening for a new assistant, when such placements were so rare, that came just before Sir Geoffrey's annual presentation to the Royal Fraternity of Life Sciences.

Fresh meat. Sir Pilfery.

His mentor was volatile and unstable—and a thief of the worst kind, stealing a man's very mind from him. He stole his assistants' ideas.

Sir Geoffrey was not done. “If you show proper gratitude, then I think there's no reason to delay the announcement of your engagement to my daughter.” He smiled sweetly, his mood turning on a dime.

Orion lifted his chin, sure of his stance now. That particular bait no longer held sway. “No, thank you, sir. I withdraw my suit. I intend to leave Blayne House forthwith.”

Sir Geoffrey shook his head, chuckling. “Nonsense. You'll wed my dear Judith. You'll continue doing research for me. A mind like yours comes along rarely. I intend to keep that brilliance on tap, so to speak.” He leaned back in his chair, his fingertips steepled over his stout middle, and beamed at
Orion with malignant delight. “Just think of what I can do, my boy! Oh yes, the future is bright, indeed!”

Orion set his teeth. “My future is bright. Yours is finished when I report this malfeasance to the Fraternity.”

Sir Geoffrey merely shook his head pleasantly. “Worthington, you have no credibility whatsoever. Your family is well-known for its illicit tomfoolery.”

Orion tilted his head, as if examining a new specimen of creature now revealed to him. “My family is not without friends . . . some of them quite powerful.”

“And will your powerful friends stand with you when I reveal your crimes committed in my household?”

Crimes? Orion thought quickly back over the length of his stay at Blayne House. Other than a bit of playful breaking and entering by Attie, he hadn't been there long enough to commit any criminal acts.

What about Francesca?

That would look ill upon him, indeed, when viewed from the outside. Interfering with a respectable girl while under his mentor's roof? He had done just that. For the first time, Orion felt a sharp twinge of shame.

However, Francesca would never betray their night together to this man. Furthermore, Orion was certain they had concealed their activities completely from the busybody staff at Blayne House.

“I have nothing to defend. You are bluffing.”

Sir Geoffrey simply gazed at him pityingly. He did not seem to be bluffing. And a Worthington could read a man's tells before he could read a news sheet.

Orion felt alarm begin to ring within him.

“Blood will tell, Worthington,” Sir Geoffrey said with a sad sigh. “Not your fault, I suppose.”

Orion shook his head. “You cannot believe that I will continue to do your research!”

Sir Geoffrey laughed lightly, his eyes sparkling. “Silly boy. Of course you will! If you leave my service, who will take
you on? No one, after I tell them that you assaulted my daughter.”

“I did no such thing!” Yet—

Francesca. Orion could not help his visible flinch of guilt.

Sir Geoffrey's smile widened. “On the contrary, Pennysmith would be happy to testify to just such an event. And dear Judith will not gainsay me.”

Stunned, Orion could only stare at the man. He used to think
his
family was mad. Now, faced with true insanity, he finally saw the difference.

Sir Geoffrey went on in the face of Orion's continued silence. He leaned forward with a vicious glint in his eyes. “Oh yes. You'll be fortunate to avoid a prison sentence—but I wouldn't want to be too public. That would reflect badly on my judgment, of course. Just a few words in the right ears, that sort of thing.”

Orion's gut turned to ice. A smear of such magnitude from such a reputable source would indeed bring an end to Orion's future in the world of scientific research—and in Society in general. Such whisper campaigns were impossible to fight, or deny, or defend.

Worse yet, no one would even bother to doubt it. After all, he was one of
those
Worthingtons.

Sir Geoffrey settled into his chair once more and picked up the bell to ring for Pennysmith. “Now go. You look like hell, Worthington. You should get some rest before the presentation. Tonight is going to be very exciting, indeed!”

R
EELING inwardly, Orion turned and walked stiffly from the breakfast room and away from the man he'd believed to be his mentor.

What had just happened? How had his triumph so quickly turned to catastrophe?

Numb, he made his way to his room. After all, where else could he go? His choices were painfully clear: He could remain in servitude to Geoffrey Blayne, or he could return to Worthington House and spread his ruin to his family.

Indeed, it was not only his own future that was jeopardized. If Sir Geoffrey held fast to his threat to disgrace Orion—and Orion had no reason to believe the man would weaken!—then the Worthington family honor, already a little tattered at the edges with the scandalous exploits of the twins, the hurried marriages of his sisters, and the general lack of genteel aplomb—would crumble into dust forever. He could not do that to his parents. Archie and Iris had already been shaken nearly out of their minds by illness, the loss of the family fortune and the manor house in Shropshire, and
more lately Lysander's rumored death and still-broken state. They might never recover from the addition of Orion's failure.

It was all his fault. His arrogance had led him to accept without question his good fortune in securing such a plum position. He'd not bothered to thoroughly investigate Sir Geoffrey or speak to any of his previous apprentices. He'd ignored his own instincts when Sir Geoffrey never appeared in the laboratory and when his own notes went missing. The unpredictable temper and swings from weakness to manic energy should have made him realize that his supposed mentor was not entirely sane.

Yet if he left Blayne House now, and tried to brave the accusations, it would not matter if he was convicted of anything. The gossips would do more damage than prison ever could. Attie would never make a decent match, for who would want a rapist at the table during family holidays?

Stay away from Uncle Orion, children. He's a very bad man, indeed!

Orion walked across his bedchamber to stare out at the early-morning street in front of the house. He lifted his hand, pressing his palm to the window as he considered the view from his luxurious new prison.

*   *   *

S
IR
G
EOFFREY COULD
not be more satisfied with how perfectly his plan was progressing. Everything was falling into place. Fate had surely smiled on him the day Orion Worthington wandered into Blayne House.

“Pennysmith!”

Where was the man? What kind of butler was nowhere to be found when his master required his immediate assistance?

Sir Geoffrey slammed his fist down upon the fragile inlay of the side table, rattling the silver tea service. “Pennysmith!”

There was much to do today and no time to waste. He must prepare his presentation to the Fraternity. “Penny—!”

“Yes, Sir Geoffrey?”

Sir Geoffrey narrowed his eyes at the lean, narrow-faced man suddenly lurking in the doorway. Sometimes, he was certain he saw a smirk on his servant's face, a particularly ill-tempered and disrespectful smirk, at that. Indeed, it was entirely plausible that Pennysmith had been up to no good just a moment before. It would not shock him to discover that his allegedly loyal butler had already organized the entire household staff in an effort to vex the master of the house—just for sport!

“How can I help you, sir?”

“What?” Sir Geoffrey had lost his train of thought.

“Did you require my service, sir?”

“Yes!” He felt his hands begin to shake and glanced at the tea service. He remembered now. “I should like another pot of tea. I should like you to use the number six special blend.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” Pennysmith slithered his way into the breakfast room to fetch the tea tray. “But, if I may point out to you, sir, you have stated on many occasions that you do not wish to drink more than three cups of any of the special blends per day. Are you certain—”

Sir Geoffrey attempted to stand but thought better of it. “Tea! Now.”

“Yes, Sir Geoffrey.”

“And this time be certain the poppy pods are crushed to the finest powder. I felt grit in my teeth this morning. Do you have any idea what an unpleasant sensation that is?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Pennysmith!”

The butler turned back before he exited the breakfast room. “Yes, sir?”

Sir Geoffrey snapped his fingers. “Fetch Judith.”

“Of course, sir.”

*   *   *

I
T WAS A
new day. And despite the arrival of yet another dreary English morning, the difficulties of the prior evening
seemed far less dire. The rain could not dampen Francesca's renewed hope. She knew that all things were possible because she had a plan.

A plan that involved food,
naturalmente
.

Francesca hummed, retied the canvas apron around her waist, and scanned the larder. As luck would have it, it was market day for the cook, which meant his giant presence and poor hygiene would be absent from the kitchen for hours on end! It was all hers—the worktable, the wine cellar, the ovens, the stove, the pots and ladles! And thus far, everything was on schedule.

Two loaves of crusty bread were baking. With pride she noted the sweet and creamy
panna cotta
cooling on a larder shelf.

She had just returned from the rain-sprinkled garden, where she gathered the fresh ingredients needed for the sauce—tomatoes and herbs. All she needed now was the garlic and onion. “There you are,” she said, and skipped back to the worktable.

Francesca blew a strand of hair from her cheek as she worked, the sharp knife mincing the garlic, chopping the herbs, sliding through the ripe and fleshy
pomodori
. By the time she had finished dicing, her hands and forearms ran wet with tomato juices.

Today she would compose a sonnet with food. She would profess her love for Orion with her very best dish, her
lasagne al forno
. He would surrender before the magnificent layers of richly browned beef, the sensuous
ragù
, the al dente give of the
lasagne
noodles in his teeth. She would touch his heart and soul when the bread melted on his tongue. She would ease his worries with Chianti, coax the truth from hiding with the sweet and creamy
panna cotta
.

And she felt no shame about any of it. Yes, she was setting a trap for Orion, but she did it out of love. Today she would do more than tell him she loved him; she would show him.

Nonna Laura used to tell her to never hide her brains and
talent for the comfort of others. She used to say,
“Chessa,
mia cara, a tutto spiano”
—at full blast.

Francesca saw the table spread with ingredients and laughed out loud, the joyful sound filling the kitchen. She knew Nonna Laura would have been proud—no one would dare call the meal she was preparing insipid or bland! It would be a feast. A celebration. It would be the sum of who she was.

*   *   *

“Y
OU CALLED FOR
me, Papa?”

Sir Geoffrey tried to focus his vision on the form of his daughter, standing in the center of the breakfast room. She was seemly, tidy, and punctual, and fate had now ensured she would always be there to serve him.

There was no need to explain the details to her. Judith obeyed him. She had long acknowledged that he knew what was best for her. And now, due to the morning's fortuitous turn of events, Sir Geoffrey could continue to rely on Judith. As a bonus, he could drain Worthington like a maple tree.

“I shall be announcing your engagement at tonight's Fraternity presentation.”

She didn't flinch. Sir Geoffrey was not entirely sure she was breathing.

“Did you hear what I said, birdbrain? I shall be announcing your engagement to Worthington tonight.”

“I thought we had an agreement.” Her voice was soft and flat. Her eyes remained expressionless. “You promised I would never have to marry any of them. You said it was just a way to bribe them, make them stay on as your assistants. You told me I would always stay here.”

“And you will!” Sir Geoffrey clapped his hands together in merriment. “Worthington will retain his position as my assistant, and you will continue with your duties, as always.”

She said nothing.

“Indeed! Two birds in the hand!” He began to guffaw.

Her father was once a decent man, Judith remembered, but
over the years, he had become less honorable and more unfeeling.

As a child, Judith had adopted her mother's belief that beneath his arrogance and self-centeredness, her father truly cared about their well-being. When her mother had passed suddenly from a bout of influenza, Sir Geoffrey had been pale and silent in the face of Judith's heartbroken grief.

He had spent all his days in his laboratory then, leaving her to her governess. When she was old enough to restrain her curious hands, he had sometimes allowed her within. She recalled with a strange painful joy the first time he had permitted her to clean the beakers.

She had been proud to be the daughter of the great scientist. When he had been knighted, she had worn her first court gown to his ceremony and had been awed when he had kneeled before the Prince Regent himself.

But it seemed her father had only one moment of greatness in him. The next year, he had presented a wonderful new concept in the cross-pollination of fruit—and a clever, broken young man had fled the country.

Year after year, Sir Geoffrey had cozened, copied, and robbed his assistants of their genius. They were all poor but gifted, all ready to do whatever was asked of them in order to gain fame and fortune equal to that of their mentor. Some lasted one year. Some lasted longer, especially after Judith's hand in marriage had begun to be offered in roundabout bribery.

She had loathed some of these “suitors,” liked a rare few, but loved none of them. They had opened her eyes to the fact that she was nothing but nicely wrapped currency to men. Her worth was measured in her usefulness to them all, including her own father.

But Judith was not the only one to pay the price.

Sir Geoffrey's fears of inadequacy in the face of all that youthful zeal and talent had driven him to drink. Then, when overindulgence had threatened his public image, he'd turned
to the more subtle effects of the poppy. It gave him the godlike feeling of power that he craved and the manic energy that made him feel young and able again.

Judith had tried to limit his consumption for a while, but he had become more and more dependent upon the tea he made from the ground poppy pods, thanks to Pennysmith's loyal support.

It was only in the last six months, however, that he had tumbled into insanity. The man who sprawled in the breakfast room wing chair, clapping his hands in glee, was nothing more than an addict and a bully. His “special blends” had destroyed his humanity.

Though painful to admit, the only reason Judith remained at Blayne House was because she had nowhere else to go. Though her father saw her as just another piece of laboratory equipment, he was the only family she had.

Her father chortled. Then cackled. And in between, he spoke of manna from heaven and luck and the resurrection of his reputation. He had forgotten she was there.

Judith turned and walked out.