“Indeed not.” His voice softened with a pensive note that raised a now familiar flutter inside her. More briskly, he said, “Come. We’ve work to do.”
The entire conversation had left her out of sorts. She didn’t like the idea of being looked after, not in the way he meant, and she didn’t like that he and Laurel expected her to always jump to obey orders.
Was she not capable of rational thought? Were her opinions of no value?
“One oughtn’t to work on Sunday,” she murmured.
He studied her with a perplexed frown. “Very well, I shan’t force you. If you change your mind, I’ll be up in the laboratory.”
He left her discontented and secretly wishing he hadn’t accepted her objections to working so readily. Perhaps with a little coaxing she would have changed her mind. Then presently she would be working at his side, instead of wondering how to spend the remainder of the day.
She strolled down into the gardens, but found nothing cheerful in the autumn blossoms, not when she might have been helping Simon in the next step of his experimentation. They had started his generator, but she had yet to discover what the powerful current would activate. Like Laurel, Simon insisted on being enigmatic. He trusted her well enough, she supposed, but apparently believed her incapable of absorbing more than small bits of information at a time.
“Mystery, caution, deliberation,” she whispered to the rustling foliage. “Is he always like this, Aurelia? Is he ever carefree or spontaneous?”
As if in reply, an explosion from Harrowood’s highest tower sent her racing to the house.
Simon had vowed not to experiment alone with his electromagnets, not after the last time when he nearly blew up his laboratory . . . and himself.
When he had suggested that he and Ned adjourn to the laboratory to work, he hadn’t intended engaging in anything so volatile. Rather, he had merely planned to continue the calculations and adjustments that would render his generator’s output of power steadier and more predictable.
Ever since Ned had joined him, safety had become his greatest priority. But in the time it took him to climb the tower stairs, he had dismissed his vows and cautionary measures as irrelevant.
Despite Ned’s presence here, Simon remained very much alone. Aurelia was gone. His sister and his erstwhile best friend were also lost to him, not like Aurelia, but in some ways worse, for theirs was a deliberate abandonment of the heart.
As for Ned, her place in his life and in his laboratory would be short-lived enough. As soon as they discovered Gwendolyn’s whereabouts and recovered the queen’s property, Ned would shed her trousers and return to her sisters in London as Miss Ivy Sutherland.
Harrowood was no proper place for her, however much he understood her love of science. His experiments posed too great a risk. When he had initiated his challenge for an assistant, he had done so under the assumption that a young scholar would be willing to hazard life and limb in the pursuit of knowledge. As a younger man, he had faced the risks with a careless shrug.
But he’d been wrong—wrong to ever believe endangering another human life could be justified. Ned—no, not Ned, but beautiful, brilliant
Ivy
—believed he had built his generator to replace steam power and run machinery. His aspirations
had
once leaned in those directions, until the accident last winter had sent all his notions about matter and molecules colliding.
He crossed the laboratory and opened the armoire. Did he know what he was doing? The question elicited an audible chuckle. Of course he didn’t. What scientific pioneer ever truly did? One formed hypotheses based on careful research, laid out a course of experimentation, held one’s breath, and jumped.
It was time, he decided, to get on with it. And he would do so alone, risking only his own life to learn once and for all if matter could be manipulated, or if he had hallucinated the entire incident that nearly killed him last winter.
Or perhaps, as Errol had once accused, he had a strange penchant for flirting with death. If so, he was damned determined not to share that penchant with Ivy.
Reaching in, he lifted out the six electromagnets one by one, straining a little under the weight of each. Next he assembled the stands and set the apparatus into position.
Before lighting the fire that would heat the vat of water, he double-checked the configuration of his magnets. He had set up the first three close to the generator. Two faced each other, while the third sat perpendicular to them, facing away from the generator but attached by wires to the power source.
When the current began to flow, the confluence of these three magnets would create an energy stream powerful enough to thrust what he called a particle beam—matter broken down into its most basic elements—across an open space, to be collected and reassembled by the second arrangement of electromagnets some fifteen feet away. Or so he hoped.
He lit the furnace. Minutes later, the water began to bubble. He turned the wheel, opening the preliminary valve at the top of the vat. Steam shot through the copper duct. Stepping down, he went to the second valve and placed his hand on the duct to monitor the vibrations of the mounting energy. Another minute . . . several more seconds . . . three, two, one—he flipped the lever.
Current sparked through the generator’s coils. The pistons began to bob. The center beam tipped from side to side, first slowly, then building in speed. The bellowslike compressor pumped and the wheel rotated, spilling the charge onto the wires coiled about the first of the magnetic disks. It, too, began to rotate, and all three octagons began to hum. Moments later, the sound echoed from the magnets across the room. Waves of energy pulsated from the apparatus until the floor and walls wavered like a heat-baked road.
Straightening, Simon released his hold on the lever. The currents stirred his hair and clothing like a storm-charged breeze. His skin crawled as if with an army of ants. He took three deep breaths meant to fortify his stamina and bolster his courage. Holding the last of those breaths, he crossed to the space between the magnetic disks, and stepped into the energy stream.
Blinding light flashed. Like a closing fist, the current engulfed him. The floor beneath him shifted violently and fell away, leaving him to the mercy of the flow. Voltage ripped through his nerves and ligaments, searching out each particle of his essence and fusing with it. Pain such as he had known only once before in his life became the entirety of his world.
Then his physical self gave way, dissolving, merging with his equally intangible surroundings. The pain drained away like a dissipating storm. All sensation ebbed.
Darkness. Silence. Nothingness. Like death.
Then another burst of light and a brutal slam to his body let Simon know he was still very much alive. But as agony seeped through every part of him, he wondered for how much longer.
Reaching the gallery at the top of the main staircase, Ivy found Mrs. Walsh surrounded by a gaggle of nervous footmen. They stood with their ears tilted toward the ceiling, brows raised in alarm. From the tower room high above them another thunderous bang sounded, followed by a succession of sizzling bursts.
“Why are you all standing here? Did you not hear that? Don’t you realize Lord Harrow could be hurt?”
The servants traded worried glances, uncertain shrugs. The tallest footman, Daniel, shook his head. “We’re strictly forbidden from ever entering Lord Harrow’s laboratory, sir.”
“Are you daft? Something exploded up there.” Ivy gripped the man’s liveried coat sleeve. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to prevent you from entering in the event he lay dying.”
Mrs. Walsh’s formidable bulk wedged between Ivy and the befuddled footman; she removed Ivy’s hand from his arm. “Lord Harrow was most explicit in his instructions. It is not for us to interpret his orders. Besides, this is not the first time we have heard such racket from the tower. I assure you, sir, his lordship has always emerged unscathed.”
Ivy backed away from them. “You’re all mad. I’m going up.”
No one moved to stop her. She was halfway up the spiraling stairs when a painful stitch in her side forced her to slow her pace. Nearly doubled over, she kept going, gripping the railing to tug herself along. With a final burst of energy she rushed to the top and all but collapsed against the closed door. A curious vibration shook the wood beneath her fingertips. A spark snapped her hand as she clutched the knob. Gasping, she pushed her way inside.
A waft of energy struck her physically. Gauzy billows of smoke drifted through the room, while small flames danced around the generator. Sparks crackled within the conducting coils before fizzling out. The generator’s wheel turned lazily before winding to a stop. A deadly quiet blanketed the room.
Coughing from the smoke, Ivy hopped about to stamp out the flames. “Simon? Simon, where are you?”
Near the generator and several yards beyond it, the familiar black shapes of the electromagnets, along with the poles and brackets that had formed their stands, littered the floor. Then she spotted Simon. On the floor beneath the north window, he lay facedown, his arms and legs sprawled.
“Simon!” Ivy went down on her knees beside him. She clasped his shoulders, refusing to let go even when electricity prickled up her arms. As she lifted him an inch or two, his arms moved limply against the floor. With a heave she rolled him over onto his back. His face was white, his lips ashen. His hair stood wildly on end. “Simon? Oh, good Lord . . .”
She pressed her ear to his chest and perceived a faint, unsteady beat. Straightening, she held her hand in front of his nose . . . and felt nothing against her fingers.
Fearful panic pounded through her. With both hands flat to his chest she pushed, once, twice, thrice, each time with a forceful command to his heart to beat, his lungs to fill. A sudden notion prompted her to press her mouth to his. She breathed into him, hoping to coax his lungs back to life. She did that several times, then scooted on her bottom to resume pushing on his chest.
“Simon, come back.” She slapped his cheeks. “Come back, damn you!”
His features contorted. The breath he attempted to drag in tangled in his throat and erupted in a fit of coughing. His hands flew to his neckcloth. Gasping, he sputtered as he attempted to wrestle the knot free.
Ivy pushed his hands away. “Let me.”
Furiously she dug her fingers into the knot. At the same time, Simon gripped the edges of his waistcoat and yanked the buttons open. With little pings several bounced along the floor. His cravat came loose. Ivy slid the linen from around his collar and dropped it beside her.
Simon reached to tug his collar open. Then his arm fell across his eyes.
“Oh, God . . . better.” His voice was a painful rasp. “Either . . . I’m dead . . . and you are an angel . . . or ...” One eye flickered open. “Ned?”
“Yes. Yes, it’s Ned.” Flooding relief brimmed hotly from her eyes and squeezed her throat. “And you are very much alive, thank heaven.”
“Where . . . am I?” He struggled to sit up, only to fall prone again.
Ivy pressed her hands to his shoulders. “Don’t try to move. Not yet.”
He gripped her wrist. “Tell me where I am.”
“You’re in your laboratory, of course.” A sob accompanied her impatient reply.
“No . . . where . . . where in the lab?” Brows tightly knit, he turned his head from side to side. He wasn’t making sense; the explosion had left him dazed. Wiping her eyes, Ivy pushed to her feet.
“Wait here.” She hurried to the shelf where Simon kept glasses and a decanter of brandy. When she returned to him, she slipped an arm beneath his head and held the snifter to his lips. “Drink some of this. Oh, Simon, what on earth did you do to yourself?”
He sputtered, but quickly regained control. The spirits brought a flood of color to his face. Blinking, he leaned back against her. “Galileo’s teeth, did it work?”
“Did
what
work?”
“Am I whole?” He ran a hand over his chest.
“Of course you’re whole, but I fear you must be delirious.” She held up three fingers in front of his face. “How many do you see?”
Ignoring the question, he pushed unsteadily upright. Her heart flip-flopped when he twisted round and flashed her a devastating grin. He grasped her hand. “My experiment, Ivy. It worked. It wasn’t an accident this time.”
“
This
time? What happened to you when it
was
an accident?”
“Trust me, you don’t wish to know. Ah, Ivy ...” His expression suddenly rueful, he squeezed her hand. “However much you wish me to continue calling you Ned, I find I cannot. Not anymore. As extraordinary an assistant as you are, you are no less a woman, and it would be wrong and highly dangerous for me to lose sight of that fact. You do understand, don’t you?”
She did not, nor did she see the connection between his brush with death and his sudden insistence on recognizing her gender. And what dangers, specifically, did he mean, those of his laboratory or those of their mutual passion?
“I should have been here with you,” she insisted. “But I suppose it was my fault. Had I agreed to accompany you, you might not have been hurt.”
“Yes, but with you here I would not have tested the process.”
In frustration she tossed her hands in the air. “If I am so extraordinary an assistant, stop treating me as though I’m a delicate flower that needs protecting.”
He regarded her with no small amount of bewilderment. “Do you think I’d have subjected a male assistant to the untested dangers of my experiment?”
Her anger receded a fraction. “Wouldn’t you have?”
“Of course not. Or, perhaps at one time I might have, but I’ve learned much this week. I’m not quite the curmudgeon I was at the outset.”
“You
were
rather curmudgeonly the day you set your challenge.”