VENOMOUS SECRETS

CHAPTER ONE

London, May 1885

Any minute now.

The steam orchestra played the opening bars of a Viennese waltz, turning all eyes away from the magnificence of the refreshments table.

All save his.

Jonathan “Jack” Tagert kept the ice sculpture of a phoenix rising from its ashes at the edge of his vision. An extravagant artistic display that presented an easily exploitable weakness. Odds were low that anyone would notice when hydrogen gas began to slowly drift upward from beneath the fragile icy feathers constituting its base.

“Isn’t Lady Mildred perfection?” Beside him, his mother’s lips curved into a smug smile as her oldest son led his bride-to-be and future viscountess onto the ballroom floor. “With her heart-shaped face and rosebud mouth, she could grace a postcard in a bookseller’s shop window.” Her chin lifted. “Their wedding will be the talk of the ton. It’s a shame your sister fell victim to temptations presented by the duchess. Angela would have done much better with one of Lady Mildred’s discarded admirers.”

He flattened his lips. On the first point, they agreed. His sister’s impulsive wedding was ill-conceived. Not that he could discuss Angela’s motivations. Or presumed whereabouts. As to Lady Mildred’s other suitors? Milk sops, all of them.

“An appealing visage,” he answered his mother. “But it’s her curves that won her a proposal. She appears fertile enough.”

Strip away her clothing, and a dank, dark hole of a shop on Holywell Street would sell you the same image at a considerably higher price point. A fact that explained a certain predatory gleam in his brother’s eyes.

Thwack. His mother snapped her fan down upon his wrist. Built with iron staves, it was rather more sturdy than it looked. When she was truly mad, hairline fractures of the wrist became a decided possibility. “We do not utter such words aloud!”

Unflinching, for he would not give her the satisfaction of a reaction, Jack stared out over the whirl of colorful ballgowns and black dress coats, irritated that the faulty peripheral vision of his left eye made tracking familiar faces more difficult. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and returned to needling his mother. “Is that not what precipitated his reform?” he asked. “The quest for an heir?”

His brother, Viscount Aubrey, was her favorite, absorbing all her love and devotion, no matter how often he tempted the grim reaper. He was the handsome one. The charming one. The amusing one.

Mother stiffened. “It is his duty.”

“One my brother has spent a lifetime avoiding. Why the sudden turnabout?”

Spoiled rotten, his mother’s beloved child had reached adulthood and embarked upon a life of self-absorption and debauchery. Until a few months past, his every action seemed aimed at accelerating his trajectory into a coffin.

Not even the death of their father a few years past—revealing the dismal state of the family finances—had slowed the pace of Aubrey’s revelry. He’d been content to let Jack wrestle with outstanding debts and mismanaged investments while their mother, dismissive of her spare’s efforts, worked to acquire a wealthy young American bride for her eldest. A well-established technique to buttress the deterioration of funds and smooth the cracking veneer of a family’s genteel façade.

When orders to depart for Austria arrived, an assignment that would occupy him for several months, Jack had dropped the account books on his brother’s lap, frustrated, irritated and expecting catastrophe.

“Perhaps it is because he is now free to choose his own bride,” Mother suggested on a huff.

“And how is that, exactly?” For Jack had returned to London to find the family coffers were once again full.

How else to explain this ball or his brother’s bride-to-be? English, possessed of an impeccable family tree and, to all appearances, raised in the countryside on milk and honey. Sweet. Young. Innocent. And in for a world of disappointment.

“It is none of your concern.” His mother’s gaze remained fixed upon the waltzing couple. “Suffice it to say Aubrey has come into his own.”

“Mmm.” Jack harbored serious doubts.

Outwardly, nothing seemed amiss. Aubrey behaved exactly as society expected of a lord. But taking a wife was merely a bit of novelty. A distraction. Once the shine wore off, tried and true patterns would reassert themselves. They always did.

Especially when his brother’s old school chums were about.

Dr. William Oakes might hold a medical degree and project maturity and dignity, but he was no stranger to the hedonistic. Though not ton, he moved among the self-important by virtue of the successful medical practice he’d built by catering to their every need and whim. Even now, he lurked about the edges of the room, ingratiating himself with mothers of unsuccessful debutants in hopes of plucking low-hanging fruit to secure himself a blue-blooded wife.

At the other end of the spectrum was Stephen Carruthers, son of Lord Saltwell. Married. Father. A second child on the way. Yet Jack could not recall a single time when the man was fully sober. Even now, he kept his feet beneath him by propping himself against a column, his only ambition in life to ensure the flask tucked in his pocket never ran dry.

Together, the three of them rarely found their beds before dawn.

Jack let his gaze drift back to his brother’s waltzing form.

Maintaining an outward guise of respectability was too much of a struggle. Any day now, Aubrey would lose the fight, reach for a brandy tumbler, another man’s wife, a morphine-filled hypodermic syringe—possibly all three at once—and the façade would come crashing down.

Such self-indulgent behavior would not only estrange his new wife, but Aubrey would ignore whatever hare-brained financial scheme propped up his current lifestyle and the estate’s coffers would suffer a sudden and precipitous decline. One which Jack would, yet again, be called upon to repair. Venting his simmering frustration was pointless as it would only be met by denial.

Naturally, he’d attempted to investigate the estate’s current condition. Forewarned was forearmed. Yet he’d arrived at the study’s door to find a new lock. Not something a simple set of lock picks would open, but a new, shiny, firkin cincture bolt.

Insulting, really, that his brother believed such a contraption could stop him. The corner of his mouth kicked up.

Still, uncovering family secrets was not a project to undertake with steambot staff monitoring his every move, ready to sound the alarm.

Hence the need for a disaster.

Had he over-coated the sodium pellet? By now, it ought to have reacted with the ice melt. Did he need to engineer another distraction to allow him to slip, unnoticed, down the hallway and into the study?

The couple spun, and Lady Mildred glanced in their direction. Briefly, but long enough for Jack to note vacant eyes and a fragile smile, one that threatened to crack at any moment. Had she pried back the edge of Aubrey’s veneer and glimpsed the shallow emptiness of his existence beneath?

His mother’s lips pursed. “Tell me you did not attempt to dissuade Lady Mildred from this engagement.”

“What if I did?” An advantageous match made so early in the Season cast a pall of disappointment over mothers and debutants—one less title on the market. With Aubrey unavailable, the question became: who to pursue now? Already, a few speculative glances had been cast in his direction. If not the heir, what about the spare?

He hated that term, value measured in increments of perceived societal status.

“She’s in his arms, is she not?” For all the usual reasons, he presumed, for Lady Mildred had been incapable of speech in his presence.

He had tried. But how did one explain the profligate life his brother led to a lady with delicate sensibilities? Or convince her, when she clung to the idea of a title like paste to the wallpaper she dreamt of installing in the townhouse, that it wasn’t worth the price she would pay?

The engagement had been announced. A date set.

Aether help her, Lady Mildred would need the yards of pink ruffles and lace in which she was wrapped to weather the crushing blow of inevitable humiliation.

Beginning with tonight’s small disaster.

There was a soft pop.

Finally.

A small, bright orange flame erupted at the base of the phoenix. A brief hiss accompanied each tiny spark of molten sodium that leapt away, all combining into a brief, hot flare that wrought irreversible damage to the ice sculpture.

Though the initial incendiary event went unremarked, there was a loud, audible crack as the ice sculpture broke free. For a moment, the bird teetered upon its pedestal, then dove—beak first—into the champagne fountain. Crystal shattered. Ladies screamed. And a torrent of golden liquid gushed over snowy white linen, flooding sugary delicacies before cascading to the gleaming marble floor beneath.

His mother threw him a brief, narrow-eyed glance before springing into action, clapping her hands and issuing orders. Damage control was her forte. With children like hers, how could it not be?

As steam footmen abandoned their posts to rush to the scene of the disaster, Jack backed away, sliding down a now unguarded and shadowy hallway off limits to guests.

Captain Jack’s Tension Torque popped the lock in a matter of minutes and a moment later, he’d located the ledgers. He shook a Lucifer lamp to life, noted the time on his pocket watch, then bent his head over the columns of numbers, not caring at all for what he found.

Expenditures were up, alarmingly so. Most of them upon luxuries. Not unexpected, but what income covered their costs?

There.

An impressive sum deposited on a monthly basis for—he flipped backward through the pages—the past three… four… five months.

At the sixth month mark, Jack swore under his breath. No income. Instead, expenditure. Upon the construction of a building. A retreat for the wealthy. In Yorkshire.

Had Aubrey lost his mind? He must have, to invest such a prodigious amount on the Grand Menwith Hotel and Spa. A Turkish bath? Massage therapy? Recouping the outlay alone would take ages.

Spa.

Jack growled. He would bet long odds that Dr. Oakes’ influence lay at the center of this madness. Who else could convince his brother to bankroll a luxurious hotel where he might offer—in addition to mineral waters—a variety of dubious medical treatments of the snake oil variety?

A glance at his pocket watch told him that the few minutes he’d allocated to his investigation had elapsed. Time to return to the festivities before his absence was noted. He slammed the ledgers closed and exited the room, re-engaging the lock.

Fuming, he stalked down the still-deserted hallway. Paused. He wasn’t the only one to have taken advantage of the phoenix’s plunge. The library’s door was ajar. Enough so that a faint moan emerged.

Rolling his eyes, he turned away. If one dragged a paramour into a deserted room for clandestine activities, the least one could do was close—

Gaahhh. A strange, strangled cry.

Jack hesitated. Not a sound he would associate with an enjoyable moment.

Bang. Crash. The sound of furniture toppling. Of a lamp shattering.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Heels drumming on the floor.

Such were the sounds of an assault.

Jack flung the door open.

A dark-haired woman in a white gown crouched upon Lord Saltwell, pinning his bucking and thrashing form to the floor. Long white fingers grasped his head, tilting the gentleman’s pale and shocked face away, her mouth latched upon his neck.

His breath froze in his lungs. Ice ran down his spine. Impossible. And yet, the evidence lay before him. The London Vampire in a scene straight from the gossip rags.

Had eyes finally betrayed him? He blinked.

No.

Sense returned.

“Stop!” he cried, rushing forward, ready to pry the woman from the lord’s throat.

But she sprang away, hissing, her face all but hidden.

He dropped to the floor beside her victim, not at all reassured by the man’s shallow breaths and twitching limbs.

“I didn’t know. I swear it.” Lord Saltwell’s words were the faintest of whispers. “She is evil. Her blood polluted.”

“Hang in there.” Jack pulled back the man’s collar. Two puncture wounds. Red and raw was to be expected from a so-called vampire. But the tissue surrounding the bite was rapidly swelling. That suggested poison. He shifted to keep the woman within his sights. “Help!” he yelled. “We need some help here!” He dropped his voice and spoke to the woman. “If he dies, you’ll hang.”

As he straightened, shifting his weight in the attacker’s direction, she leapt into an open window overlooking the garden. Moonlight cast her body’s curves into dark shadow against the thin, white material of her gown as a gentle breeze fluttered the ruffled lace about her wrists. A thin trickle of blood ran downward over her chin. Were those fangs?

Fine hairs upon the nape of his neck lifted involuntarily, and his heart pounded. Anyone with superstitious inclinations would think her a vampire fresh from the grave.

“It’s an end he deserves,” she hissed. Crouched upon the sill, her hands gripped its frame. With gold-rimmed gray eyes, she cast a long, seductive glance over her shoulder.

“Why?” He took a step toward her, hands upturned—a gesture offering an innocent, but false, chance at reasonable discourse. “What has he done?”

Footsteps thundered in the hall.

He lunged, grasping. But the silky hem of her dress slipped through his fingertips as she jumped.

The door slammed open. His brother barely glanced at the body upon the floor before hurling an accusation. “Jack! What have you done?”

Did his brother never tire of casting him in a bad light? “Not a damn thing and you well know it.” He made a decision in the space of a heartbeat. “Call Dr. Oakes. Lord Saltwell needs attention. I’ve a—” What exactly? “His attacker to catch.”

Turning, he jumped through the window, landing hard upon the ground. Less than fifty yards away, his quarry climbed the garden wall with surprising agility given her billowing skirts. He took off at a run, drawing his TTX pistol from its holster. He fired, but missed. Branches caught at his coat along the winding garden path, but he was gaining on her.

Until his traitorous vision concealed the uneven pavers beneath his feet. Cursing, he stumbled, just managing to stay upright.

Heart pounding, he flung himself at the stone wall and scrambled over its summit. A flash of white caught his eye as she turned a corner, dashing down a covered arcade.

Ha! There would be no escape from such a venue at this late hour. He would catch her. If not, the Beadle would. The uniformed patrolmen of the Burlington Arcade were forever present ensuring standards of propriety were met even when the stores were closed.

He rounded the corner, plunging into the arcade.

Arches overhead supported dark panes of glass that would flood the space with sunlight during the day. At night, globes of white-blue Lucifer lamps counteracted the London gloom, all reflected in the curved glass bent about the various store fronts to display the wares within.

Yet nowhere was there a fleeing female garbed in white.

Impossible. He spun, searching above and behind him. He pinched the bridge of his nose, cursing his vision. Slowly, carefully, he paced the length of the arcade, inspecting each doorway, every possible nook and cranny. Nothing.

Then he drew up short. A ventilation grille mounted between the pavement and a shop window was askew. Dammit. She’d dropped into the basement, a space where rooms led to a tunnel that shop boys might deliver parcels as no high-ranking customer was permitted to carry their own packages in this venue.

He pried the meshwork free and quickly followed, ignoring the irate Beadle’s shrieking whistle blasts and calls to “stop!”

Musty underground smells assaulted his nose as he tripped and careened around worktables, knocking shadowy contents to the floor as he raced into the tunnel. Alas, there were no fluttering white skirts to point his way. He ran its length, bursting onto the street. Gentlemen and their ladies stared, jaws agape.

“A woman,” he demanded, ignoring the insistent pounding of his head. “In white. Has anyone seen her?”

A question met by denial and apprehensive looks. No one had seen anything unusual. If the woman was loose upon the streets, she was long beyond his reach.

He punched the wall, cursing. Those few pointed words exchanged with his brother might have cost him the time needed to catch Lord Saltwell’s assailant. Grinding his teeth, he turned back into the tunnel. There was nothing else to do but rattle door handles in the hope she’d hidden somewhere within the basement rooms.

Alas, an hour later, he admitted defeat. Grim, he ducked out onto the street and pointed his scuffed shoes back toward his childhood home. Questions he couldn’t answer would await him. Rumors and gossip would fill the void. He would do what he could to mitigate the disaster for, if Lord Saltwell had met his end at his brother’s engagement ball, there would be hell to pay.

With all due haste, the Duke of Avesbury must be informed of tonight’s incident. And of his agent’s failure to secure the murderess.

CHAPTER TWO

The crank hack clattered to a stop.

Holywell Street.

Two long rows of crooked, timber-framed houses stood shoulder to shoulder, hunching over the narrow street. Secretive, furtive. Casting storefronts and pavement into half-shadow beneath the anemic light of a gray sky.

And enticing a small crowd despite the early hour and a persistent morning drizzle.

A knot of men gathered beneath black umbrellas upon the street. Didn’t most men pursue their vices under the cloak of full dark? What illicit amusement pried them from their warm beds? The promise of a new, risqué postcard? Did she dare sidle close enough to find out?

Cait mentally slapped at such ill-bred curiosity.

“No one must recognize you,” Janet had warned. Repeatedly and at length. A steam maid would fuss less. Neither, however, would a mechanical servant provide critical tips and hints as to the many shadowy secrets London hid in plain sight. “That’s no place for a lady of quality to be spotted. Indecent images propped up in the windows of those so-called bookstores. All those gaping men offering uncouth opinions about women’s unmentionables.” Janet’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And there’s worse, I hear tell, inside. Photographs of a pornographic nature.”

A detail that failed to deter Cait the slightest bit.

“I’m not a lady, and I won’t linger,” she’d promised Janet. Though if postcards were scattered across a nearby surface, she’d certainly satisfy her curiosity with a quick glance. Growing up with brothers who dabbled in the medical sciences and no supervision over her selection of reading materials, she doubted anything of an anatomical nature could shock her—much as she’d enjoy learning otherwise. “A few minutes to chill the snake, then back to the carriage, safe and sound.”

For Logan would kill her if he ever found out she’d ventured here, unaccompanied no less. Not because he believed her of naïve and virtuous character, but because such a street presented a physical threat, especially for a young woman with exotic features.

How she hated that term.

With such in mind, she’d chosen a dress of dull gray. There were ruffles and lace aplenty, but the cut was more severe than most of her gowns, displaying little more than her hands and face. Any remaining modest displays of flesh were addressed with gloves and a wide-brimmed hat complete with a veil. Like low-hanging fog, she planned to drift down the street, a sober, unremarkable matron.

Was there still risk? Certainly. But Cait’s actions were entirely justified. The study of bacterial exotoxins was all well and good. An excellent professional pursuit. But ever since Mother’s tipsy revelation a few months past, a corner of Cait’s mind would not stop turning over her unguarded words and the possibilities such a revelation suggested.

“You wish to know of your true father?”

“I do.” She’d pressed for years, only to be met with denial after denial.

Mustering resolve, her mother had splashed a generous amount of whiskey into her teacup, a vast deviation from the norm, for Mother frowned upon ladies who imbibed. But Cait’s announcement had ripped a ragged hole in her mother’s over-inflated plans to secure her daughter a respectable husband within Glaswegian society. Perhaps the indulgence could be understood.

“Very well, you are of age. I’ll tell you.”

And she had.

So much clarity from the briefest sentence. It explained much, especially her affinity for snakes.

But the final proof, the final test?

Cait had yet to manage that.

First she needed to procure a live cobra. Not the easiest of tasks. Not even in a city such as London.

The zoological gardens would possess one, certainly, but staring at a reptile through glass was not her aim, no matter how fascinating. And as her brother refused to accompany her to the Reptile House, let alone put in a word for her with the London Zoo’s research committee, she was on her own.

It hadn’t taken her long to locate a pub housing a suitable snake, but the owner was disinclined to part with his serpent. “Keeps me in business, it does. Nothing better than a live feeding on payday to keep the ale flowing. But if it’s a private viewing you’re after,” the man had leaned closer—his hot, fetid breath threatening to gag her, “I’ll arrange for an innocent white rabbit to be delivered.”

“No thank you.” She’d backed away. “I’ll find another.”

Her inquiries had finally borne fruit. A photographer thinking to boost sales with a racy depiction of Eve—an image involving a half-eaten apple and a snake twined about her neck—had found himself in possession of a venomous creature instead of the harmless grass snake he’d been promised. Understandably, his model had balked. For a price that smacked of extortion, he’d agreed to sell the serpent to Cait. She was to collect the cobra today.

Excitement skittered along her each and every nerve.

The crank hack’s door swung open and the driver held out a palm. She accepted the assistance, careful to keep a tight hold of her refrigerated carry case and its precious contents. This expedition would drain the last of her funds, but it would also accelerate her personal research program by leaps and bounds. That or land her in a coffin, six feet under.

Risks to which she was accustomed.

But first things first.

Cait hurried down the street under her own umbrella, hunting for the correct address. There. Number thirty-seven, a secondhand bookshop, lay just past an alley that reeked of urine and beneath the figure of a golden crescent moon with a long, sullen face.

Keeping her face turned away from the crowd that gathered next door, she ducked inside.

Dark and musty, the interior was mercifully devoid of occupants, save the lone shopkeeper who eyed her and her case with decided suspicion.

“I’m here about Mr. Dryer’s snake,” she stated. Direct and businesslike, yet the man sniggered.

“Whatever you say, miss. Stairs are in the back.”

Though she lacked the nerve to inquire about any titles secreted behind the counter, she slowed her steps as she passed a prominent bookshelf, scanning the titles. The Lustful Turk. Colonel Spanker’s Amatory Exploits. An Erotic Philosopher’s Lectures.

Goodness. Perhaps she could be shocked. If she dared lay as much as a finger upon a book’s spine. But not now, not here.

In and out.

She located the stairs and climbed upward. Beneath her feet the treads creaked and shifted in a manner that did not inspire confidence in the building’s timber-frame construction.

“Mr. Dryer?” Cait called, pulling back the annoyance of her veil as she stepped into a narrow hallway. Its walls were papered from floor to ceiling with photographs and drawings, including a number of charcoal sketches of a nude woman wearing a cobra about her neck. She traced a circle in the sand at her feet while a cauldron bubbled over a fire.

She squinted. Was that snake the one she intended to purchase? Could be.

“Up front!”

In a small room, two people stood with their noses pressed to the rain-streaked glass panes that overlooked Holywell Street. “It can’t be Molly,” argued a woman wearing little besides stockings, boots and a thin satin wrapper. “I spoke to her this morning at the tea shop.”

“Lucy, perhaps?” the man answered. This, presumably, was Mr. Dryer.

Long drapes hung from overhead rods, cascading into a pool upon the floor. A low sofa was positioned among their folds. A camera stood upon its tripod, waiting for its subject, for its photographer. Leaning against the walls and stacked upon simple shelving were numerous props. Feather boas. Silk flowers. Leather riding crops.

And one spectacled cobra, Naja naja, in a small, barren and miserable cage upon a wobbly table. A risky setup. Cait reached out and tapped a finger upon the glass. The snake spread its hood and lunged. No surprise to find the poor thing stressed by its current environment, what with no source of warmth and not so much as a branch upon which it might coil.

“I’m so sorry,” Cait whispered, leaning close. “You’ll not enjoy the trip home, but I’ll take far, far better care of you. Fat mice can be found around every corner in the Lister Institute.” Feeding the snake would be the easy task, not so preventing Mother from evicting such a creature from their rented townhome.

She set down her case and unfastened its latches. Sliding metal tongs from an inside groove, she grabbed a lump of dry ice and dropped it inside the snake’s cage. Once a mild torpor was induced, she would transfer the cobra into the carry case. Cold, the venomous snake would be safe to transport through the streets of London.

“Goodness, did you see how the bobbies all stand straight and tall now that new man’s here?” the woman exclaimed.

Time to announce her presence.

“Excuse me.” Cait cleared her throat. She opened the purse hooked to her belt, withdrew a pouch heavy with coin and held it out. “I’m here for the cobra.”

The man turned. “Well, now.” His eyes raked over her from hat to hem. “A young, slim beauty. You’ve gloomy taste in clothing, but if we peel it all away…” He ignored the bag of coins she held. “Exactly how handy are you with such a snake?”

“Very,” Cait answered, confused as to why her answer sparked a speculative light to flare in his eyes. “Else I wouldn’t take the risk.”

“You promised.” The woman stuck out her lower lip. “Only me today.”

“Hush, Louisa.” Mr. Dryer flapped a hand at her without breaking his intense appraisal of Cait’s form. “Keep an eye on events below. See what you can make out. We wouldn’t want to end up like the others, would we?”

“No,” Louisa pouted. “But…”

“Opportunity like this rarely presents itself. With those dark eyes and lashes…” Slowly, the photographer paced about Cait. Ought she be offended? It was difficult, given his open admiration. As a rule, people who looked closely ended up commenting upon her complexion, one that whispered of the Indian subcontinent, in a rather negative and suggestive manner. “One photograph. Nothing but you and the snake twined about your neck.” He tipped his head toward the waiting sofa. “What do you say? Will you pay for the snake with your image?”

Heat rushed across her skin. Her? He wanted to photograph her naked? Holding the cobra? Pass her likeness into the hands of men who would gawk, objectify and…

No need to explore that thought further. One did not grow up with three brothers without being peripherally aware of what lustful men did behind closed doors.

“Absolutely not.” Private romantic liaisons were one thing, but indecent exposure? Not a scandal in which she wished to feature. Easier to accomplish her goals by remaining out of the public eye. She set the coin pouch upon the low sofa. “But thank you for your generous offer.”

“Pity,” Mr. Dryer said.

Ignoring his disappointed sigh, Cait again tapped the glass cage. This time, the cobra barely blinked. Sufficiently cooled, the snake would be easier to manipulate. Less of a threat.

“If you’ll both remain quiet and calm,” she requested, “I’ll transfer the snake and be on my way.”

She positioned her case upon the ground, withdrew a collapsible snake hook and extended its telescoping handle, all oft-practiced wrist movements with her pet adder, Willy, had honed her skills. A bite would not be as much a threat as a disappointment. After all, one only encountered a new venom once. This time, she wished to document her every reaction in the laboratory where she could easily collect a multitude of samples.

She drew on thick, padded leather gloves and—slowly, calmly—set aside the top of the cage. With the hook, she gently lifted the cobra and guided its head to the gathered neck of the linen sack. Without protest, the snake slithered inside.

“Most impressive,” Mr. Dryer breathed.

She sealed the opening and slipped the bag into the cooled carry case.

Done.

“A steam wagon!” the woman exclaimed, turning away from the window. A hand flew to her mouth. “Oh. Sorry. Did I—?”

“I’m done,” Cait said simply, choosing to ignore the woman’s idiocy. She latched the case, collapsed her hook, and stood. Time to leave. In and out, just as she’d promised.

“Reggie?” Louisa beckoned the photographer toward the window. “They’re lifting out a stretcher. It is Lucy! The London Vampire’s killed one of our own! What if he comes back?”

A victim of the vampire? Here? The men Louisa watched upon the street were clustered about a dead woman? A frisson of fear mixed with excitement ran down her spine. Her brothers were forever getting mixed up in strange situations. Ones exactly like this.

She resisted the urge to join them at the window where the photographer and his model once again had their noses pressed to glass.

“Goodbye!” Cait called as she stepped into the hallway, picked her way down creaky stairs and strode past musty shelves. Even the shopkeeper now stared out his window, barely glancing in her direction as she exited.

She ought to lower her veil, open her umbrella and walk away. Hail a crank hack and direct the driver straight home.

Except.

Cait found her feet glued to the stoop, unable to turn away, adding her face to those others that gaped at the tragedy.

A litter had been slid beneath the dead woman, and they were lifting the body. Wet, muddy skirts clung to striped stockings and buttoned boots. Frayed cuffs wrapped about the wrists of pale, limp hands. A blood-stained cloth covered the victim’s head and shoulders.

Hiding what?

Stretching her neck, she leaned forward, trying to see more of the vampire’s latest victim.

“What are you doing here?” her brother Logan barked from beside her, nearly shocking her from her skin.

Cait turned, swearing. Heart in her throat, she glared into his eyes as she set her jaw. “I’m about Lister business, if you must know.” An equivocal answer tinged with the hint of a lie, but she’d learned the technique from the best.

Logan’s gaze dropped to her carry case. “Aether, Cait. You had to find one here?” Suspicion twisted his lips. “Did Dr. Whitby actually grant you permission?”

She shrugged one shoulder. What she did after hours in the laboratory was her own business.

“A woman at loose ends often finds herself forced to take certain steps…” She let that settle into his mind. A warning. After all, he had flat out refused to aid her when she announced an intention to hunt for poisonous snakes. And where had that led? To the simmering start of an argument on an infamous street before a dead body. Best to redirect his grousing. “Perhaps if you’d taken my request more seriously…”

“Cait.” His voice held a note of warning.

“I don’t know why you fight it. I’ve every intention of securing a meeting with the Duke of Avesbury.” She eyed the weapon holstered beneath his jacket. “Eventually, one of my letters will reach him. Or my work will draw his attention.” Covert poison experts couldn’t be thick upon the ground.

Logan closed his eyes and tipped his head back, inhaling deeply. “I’ve explained the requirements for a female agent time and again.”

“I must be married,” she said. “Either to another agent or to a man of the duchess’ choice.” As she’d no intention of playing the perfect wife to snag a man under suspicion of disloyalty, she would avoid the Duchess of Avesbury and her machinations at all costs. Quite simply, she needed to find herself an unmarried Queen’s agent. A task which, given that her brother refused to provide her with a convenient list of unwed agents, was proving difficult.

As if that would stop her.

Cait did her best not to smirk as Logan attempted to calculate how he might tuck her back into a laboratory where she could play safely with her various poisons.

Dismay, then resignation crossed his face.

She’d won. He only needed a moment to come to terms, to accept the inevitable.

“You’re determined to join the family business?”

She nodded.

“Then there’s no reason not to start your training now.” He waved a hand, an invitation to view the corpse before them.

“Don’t tease.” An offer to contact the Duke of Avesbury on her behalf would have sufficed. Unless… “Vampires aren’t venomous.”

Logan let out a long, beleaguered sigh. “And yet there’s something you might be able to explain.” He raised his voice. “Hold!”

What? She hurried after him. What about the murders had yet to reach reporters’ ears? Curiosity spiked her pulse.

Men parted, clearing a path without so much as a word from Logan, though their frowns carved deep lines into their faces as he led a woman to stand beside the chuffing and hissing steam wagon that would carry the dead body away.

“Are you certain you’re up to this?” Logan asked.

“Of course.” Never would she admit that her stomach gave a twist at the metallic scent of blood curling into the damp air, that she was glad her breakfast had consisted of only tea and toast.

“You’ll speak to no one of this without permission, or you’ll never work for the Queen’s agents. Understand?” At her nod, Logan peeled back the ragged cloth.

Cait found herself staring into the sightless eyes of a pretty young woman. Thin streams of blood trickled from her nose, marring the soft curves of her cheek.

Her brother directed the beam of his decilamp at the woman’s throat.

She gasped. Two puncture wounds were sunk deep into musculature and surrounded by inflamed and necrotic tissue, consistent with a venomous bite. Were the marks not approximately one and a half inches apart, she would have wondered what serpent had taken to the streets of London to find its prey. “It’s not the mark of a vampire,” she informed her brother. No such thing existed. “But what?”

Logan’s lips twisted. “A question I was hoping you might help answer.”

• Enemies to Allies to Lovers
• Forced Proximity
• Marriage of Convenience
• Secret Agents
• Murder Mystery
• Alternate Victorian London
• Women in STEM
• Vulnerable Hero
• Mad Science
• Cryptobiology
• Medical Intrigue
• Steampunk
• Gaslamp Fantasy
• Biotechnology
• Adventure Romance
• Romantasy

Perfect for readers who enjoy steamy historical Victorian romance with dual POV, steampunk and gaslamp adult high-spice fantasy romance, and a brilliant scientist heroine. This fast-paced romantasy features a damaged spy hero, dangerous biological secrets, gothic London intrigue, and slow-burn attraction sharpened by peril. Expect venomous mysteries, high-stakes investigation, forbidden desire, and a romance where science—and passion—can be deadly.

epub ISBN: 978-1-948359-31-3
ASIN: B091D2X35Y
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-948359-32-0
Hardcover: 978-1-948359-45-0
Audiobook ISBN: 978-1-948359-35-1
Audiobook Narrators: Moira Quick, Gary Furlong
Publication date: June 10, 2021
Book 4 of 5: Elemental Web Chronicles
99K words | 466 pages | 11 hrs and 22 mins