Ivy remained silent as the implications sank in. “Are you suggesting that we are descendants of this line?”
“We don’t yet know. There’s more. In questioning the local residents, we heard tales of a bloody feud that ended in a fire that destroyed an estate and a family.”
“Good Lord.” She stared unseeing at the darkening sky beyond the window, aware only of the cold air that penetrated the panes. With a shiver, she asked, “Who was this family?”
“I’m afraid we couldn’t accurately identify them. It happened in those awful days at the close of the wars, when France was in turmoil. Those who are living in the surrounding villages were not those who lived there then. We think the original inhabitants were either forced off their land or killed.”
“To prevent the truth from getting out,” she said to the frigid glass.
“We believe so, yes.”
She turned to him. “This man who attacked Laurel. Can you tell me anything about him? Was he that de Vere person whom Holly mentioned in her letter?”
“No. Henri de Vere was a double agent who worked for the British during the wars and who now lives here, in England. We believe he is involved, but we don’t yet know for good or ill.” Aidan’s wide shoulders bunched as he leaned closer to her. “Laurel never got a good look at her assailant, but the villain spoke to her, or rather shouted at her, in French. He seemed to recognize her, or at least to confuse her with someone who apparently resembles her. He called her Simone de Valentin. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Simone ...” An unsettling familiarity tugged at Ivy’s thoughts. She felt as though a memory sat poised on a precipice, waiting to shatter into a thousand pieces. But nothing came, only a nagging sensation she couldn’t shake. “My mother’s name was Cecily. My father was Roderick. I know of no one named Simone.” She shivered again.
“Don’t worry.” Aidan put an arm across her tweed-clad shoulders. “I’ve got a trusted and quite discreet friend at the Foreign Office continuing to make inquiries. We will get to the bottom of this. But do you see now why you should be home?”
She surprised herself with how quickly the answer came. “No. All our lives, Uncle Edward kept us tucked away at Thorn Grove, but the moment Laurel ventured out on her own, this happened.”
“Yes, my point exactly. And since I know all about the stone you are trying to recover for the queen—yes, Holly and Willow explained—you may leave the task to me.”
She raised her chin to him. “You are missing
my
point. Seclusion never made us any safer. It didn’t make the problem disappear. My sisters and I cannot live the rest of our lives in hiding. I will not. Laurel had a mission to accomplish for the queen. Now it is my turn. The information you have just shared with me will ensure that I proceed with the utmost caution.” She held up her hand when his chest swelled and his mouth opened to retort. “But I
will
proceed, Aidan. I am of age, and I am bound by the queen’s authority.”
He scowled at her for a long moment. Then his mouth quirked. “Damn, but you are Laurel’s sister, aren’t you?”
Chapter 21
T
he next evening, Ivy hurried to the chambers she and Simon shared to retrieve a spool of wire needed for a demonstration to take place shortly. Benjamin Rivers was to present the project for which Simon had agreed to lend him his generator.
The spool in hand, she left the room and locked the door. When a shadow fell across her path, she expected it to be Aidan and braced for another round of warnings and admonitions. Instead, beefy fingers seized her shoulder and sent shoots of pain down her arm.
Before she could shout for help, the hand spun her about. A familiar grin and pockmarked features sent relief rollicking through her. Ivy shoved at the young man, who immediately released his grip. “Preston!” she exclaimed. “It’s about time you showed up. I’d feared you’d changed your mind about coming.”
The diplomat’s son seemed to possess no finesse of his own, but his garrulous, oafish mannerisms nonetheless endeared him to his friends, and to Ivy. Regarding her, he let out a guffaw. “I wouldn’t miss this consortium for the world, Ivers. No, I stayed behind to ...” His grin faded. “Hell, to see to Spencer’s unfinished tasks for Mr. Quincy.”
“Oh. Yes, I see.” Ivy clapped his shoulder with considerably less force than he had used with her. “Good of you to do that.” She brightened, remembering the pact she and Jasper had made to try to enjoy the consortium in Spencer’s memory. “But now you’re here, just in time to witness something truly extraordinary. Come. Lord Harrow is waiting for me in the ballroom.”
Preston hesitated in following her down the hall. He appeared genuinely distressed. “You won’t tell him how I just greeted you, will you?”
At the memory of Simon’s reaction to Preston’s playful assault in St. John’s Second Court, she smiled broadly. “I think that is something Lord Harrow never needs to know.”
“Are you ready to make history, my friends?” Alistair Granville stood in front of the closed ballroom doors. Although he spoke to the two men standing closest to him, his voice carried through the crowd of scientists, assistants, and Royal Society representatives crowding the entrance hall.
Simon regarded Ben, who fidgeted nervously at his side. “My generator may cause a stir, but it’s this man’s invention that will one day revolutionize life in our cities.”
Ben darted a glance at the expectant faces surrounding them. “Nothing like setting unreasonably high expectations.”
The demonstrations had begun earlier that afternoon, with a Scotsman named Kirkpatrick Macmillan delighting the assembly by whizzing past on a velocipede he had constructed in his blacksmith’s shop. No longer propelled by pushing one’s feet along the ground, this velocipede improved on the old design by means of cranks and drive rods attached to foot pedals.
“Ingenious,” Simon had agreed with the general consensus. “Now if only someone would invent smoother roads on which to ride the thing.”
“Ah, the man who achieves that,” Alistair had declared heartily, “will certainly win himself a Copley Medal.”
Following Macmillan’s velocipede, they had been treated to other inventions that made use of human rather than electrical power, but which put the principles of mechanical physics to innovative use.
Tonight, Simon would unveil his generator for the first time, and Ben would be the first to demonstrate its potential. Alistair threw the ballroom doors wide and led the way inside, followed by Simon and Ben, and then Jasper Lowbry and Ivy. Her brother-in-law shadowed her, and even without turning around, Simon could sense the man’s hostility burning at his back. In many ways Aidan Phillips reminded Simon of himself, and of his reaction upon discovering the furtive affection between Colin and Gwendolyn.
For the time being, however, the earl had agreed to let Ivy stay, but with the condition that he remain as well to keep an eye on her. If Simon had needed a reason to keep his distance from Ivy, he had certainly found one in the formidable and disapproving Earl of Barensforth. Something in the man’s very bearing convinced Simon he could swiftly resort to tactics of a violent sort, should he decide the situation warranted it.
The remainder of the consortium, including the two representatives of the Royal Society who had arrived that morning, shuffled en masse into the ballroom. Colin and Errol stood together at the front of the crowd. Alistair played host by moving through the assembly and ensuring that everyone would have a proper view. A buzz of conversation filled the air, the murmurs rising in volume as Simon, Ivy, and Jasper released the cords and rolled back the black canvas that had concealed the generator from view.
At Ben’s request, the room’s illumination had been kept to a minimum, only a few of the sconces along the walls having been lit but not the overhead chandeliers. Dollops of candlelight reflected on the apparatus. Words of admiration and surprise rippled through the assemblage.
Yet more than once, Simon detected the word
insane
whispered along with the praise. Ignoring both positive and negative comments, he continued with the preparations. The vat had been filled and the coal furnace lit, the copper chimney angled out an open window to prevent the exhaust from filling the room. Simon stoked the flames higher. With minutes, the water began to boil.
“Mr. Ivers,” he said succinctly.
She took up the cork-lined gloves stashed near the generator’s conducting coils, passed a pair to Simon, and one each to Ben and Lowbry. The last pair she donned herself. Then she went to stand where the ductwork met the generator’s coils and placed a hand lightly on the lever.
“Mr. Rivers,” Simon announced to Ben, and to the spectators as well, “my generator is yours, sir.”
While Simon stood beside the furnace waiting to release the steam, Ben and Lowbry unpacked their equipment. A table was dragged in front of the generator, and upon it young Lowbry set up several globelike structures each about the size of a man’s head. The glass spheres sat on copper bases, each one wired to the next in a closed circuit.
Prior to tonight, Ivy had not been privy to the project. Now she followed Ben’s and Lowbry’s every move, her eyes widening at the sight of the connected globes. Without leaving her position, she leaned forward and craned her neck, no doubt attempting to make out the gossamer web of carbonized silk threads that filled the interiors of the vacuum-sealed vessels.
At Ben’s signal, Simon grasped the release valve for the steam and jerked the wheel into motion. Beneath his hands he felt the burst of steam enter the duct. He lessened the pressure, then continued turning the wheel slowly, with meticulous attention to the velocity of the vapor traveling through the duct. There must be no flying sparks or wafting energy in tonight’s demonstration, nothing like the power needed in his electroportation process, but rather a controlled flow of the electrical currents. His and Ivy’s calculations had made that possible.
When he deemed the pressure sufficient, he signaled to Ivy with a nod. She drew a breath and, with the same care he had used, flipped the lever to its open position. Within seconds the generator’s coils began to glow, and soon tiny bolts of light flickered between them. The gears began to turn, the pistons to pump, the center beam to dip and rise, the wheels to rotate. Even at this power level, a tingling sensation traveled up Simon’s arms. He locked the valve in place and joined Ben and Lowbry at their demonstration table.
“All is ready,” he told them.
Ben dipped a bow toward their mystified audience. His hands insulated with the cork-lined gloves, he took up the longest and thickest of the wires. He paused to gesture to the footmen ranged along the walls, one at each sconce. “May we have darkness, please?”
As Ben had arranged beforehand, the sconces were extinguished all at once. But for the incandescent glow of the generator’s coils, a dramatic blackness draped the room. The drone of voices added a suspenseful note to the generator’s hums, ticks, and whirs. Ben raised his gloved hands. “Gentlemen, please direct your attention to the globes on the table.”
With that, he moved to the generator and hooked the wire he held to the energy output terminal. Dimly, the first of the globes began to glow. Then the carbonized threads began to sparkle and brighten. A glimmer blossomed in the second globe, and so on until all five burned so brightly they lit up that end of the ballroom as if daylight poured through the darkened windows.
The effect was startling. An uproar of excitement went up, echoing against the ballroom’s lofty ceiling. The audience pressed closer to view Ben’s small miracle, and Simon’s instincts sprang to the alert.
Seeing the potential for a regrettable accident, he hurried around the table and attempted to hold the crowd at a safe distance. He briefly glimpsed Alistair’s, Colin’s, and the Earl of Barensforth’s alarmed faces as they, too, attempted to restore order. In the next instant, a thunderous crack rent the air and a burst of energy shoved Simon into the crush.
Glass shattered; darkness fell. An eruption of panic ensued. Simon took elbow jabs to the ribs, shoves from behind. From near him came a sharp grunt. A man fell against his chest and they both went down, knocking into others who had the misfortune to be pressed too closely. Simon hit the floor. When he attempted to roll to his feet, he discovered his chest pinned by a considerable weight. Shouts of “Candles, please!” echoed above his head. The acrid scent of smoke burned his throat and started him coughing.
Finally, a wavering pool of light angled across the ballroom, emanating from a single sconce. Soon another and another added their glow, restoring visibility and a semblance of order. As the clamor subsided, Simon realized he could no longer hear the hum of the generator. Ivy must have rushed to close the steam valves, then tossed the insulated canvas over the apparatus to cut the power. Again Simon attempted to sit up but found himself held fast by the individual who had fallen facedown across his torso.
“Sir?” He gave a nudge but received no response. The fellow’s arm slid limply, his hand hitting the floor with a thump. Simon’s own hand came in contact with something wet . . . warm. . . . “I say, sir, are you hurt?” He raised his voice to a shout. “Will someone help us, please?”
A moment later several pairs of hands lifted the unconscious man from Simon’s chest and laid him gently faceup on the floor. Someone offered a bundled coat to place beneath his head. Sir Alistair crouched at his side.
Dazed and winded, Simon sat up. He craned his neck to see around Alistair’s shoulder. “Who is that?” Alistair shifted, and the youthfulness of the fallen man’s insensible features struck Simon a blow of surprise. Pockmarked skin stretched taut and ashen across a bull-shaped face—a face he knew.
The student who had playfully tackled Ivy that day in Second Court.
Though he was aware of Colin kneeling beside him and asking if he was all right, the wetness dripping from Simon’s hand drew the whole of his attention, as did the stain spreading like a rose across his coat.