Saving the Scientist (The Restitution League #2)(2)

“What was I thinking?” Edison pushed away from the door jamb. “Wet cells were perfected several years ago, if I recall.” He pretended astonishment. “You’ve perfected a dry cell device?”

“I uh… Yes.” The words carried more certainty than the tone.

His sister, Briar, was seated at Templeton’s left. She snorted loudly.

At a sharp look from Meena, she masked her disbelief with a delicate fit of coughing. “Apologies.” She said patted her chest. “A touch of the ague.”

Briar leaned toward the poor man, causing him to shrink back into the deep chair. Even as she grinned at Templeton, Edison sensed her fingers tightened on the throwing knife always hidden in the pocket of her skirt.

A sharp jab to the side caught Edison’s attention. Their office girl, Nelly, had sidled up next to him. “No scars,” she whispered. “He’s got no scars. No scratches. No burns. Seems odd for someone who works with glass beakers and potions and the lot, don’t it?”

It did at that. “Excellent observation,” he murmured.

The girl’s cheeks pinked. Her thin shoulders rose in a small shrug as if to suggest his approval hardly mattered, but Edison could tell the compliment pleased her.

Now that he looked closer at their prevaricating client, he detected a certain cruelty. It was there in the eyes, in the thin lips, pressed into a hard line. He wondered who really designed the device. Even more to the point, what was the little bugger willing to do to steal it?

He imagined some elderly scientist, shoulders sloped from years spent hunched over laboratory benches. A frail, elderly soul who’d finally made the discovery of a lifetime. And now this half-penny sot thought he could convince them to grab it.

Not bloody likely.

His jaw tensed. The muscles in his forearms ached with the effort it took not to flatten the liar’s delicate nose. He glared down at the brass arm he’d been assembling. He itched to bash the man over the head with it.

A sharp movement caught his attention. Meena was glaring at him, reminding him to behave. He scooped up the arm, and pretended fascination with the wires dangling out the end.

She gave him a minute nod, then smiled at their guest. “Well, Mr. Templeton—”

“Archie,” he interrupted, far too eagerly. “Call me Archie.”

Meena’s chest rose as she took in a great breath.

Edison smirked down at the brass joints of his mechanical arm. Now who wanted to wanted to do the smacking?

“Archie then.” She reached for her husband’s hand, twining her fingers with his. A look of concern passed between them before she finished. “This sounds like exactly the sort of problem we solve. We’ll need to do some research, after which we—”

“Research?” Archie bolted forward in his seat, as if outrage might shoot him right to his feet. “But I need it now.”

Only the tightness in Meena’s jaw betrayed her irritation. She leaned forward, taking the man’s pale hands in her own. Unlike Archie, she was an exquisite liar. She stared him straight in the face, exuding sincerity. “Give us some time. No doubt the forces who have taken it are highly placed. I’m not sure we can—”

“—find it quickly.” Edison jumped in. He willed her to understand where he was taking the conversation. “We’ll need some time find your item.”

“I understand.” Templeton shot to his feet. “I only pray you’ll turn all of your resources to my problem. It really is a matter of life and death.”

Edison shared a knowing look with his brother-in-law. They’d find out whose life and death.

Crane stood, and held his hand out to his wife, helping her to her feet. “Understood. We are nothing if not resourceful. Expect to hear from us soon.”

The man nodded curtly and strode out of the offices. Irritation trailed behind him like a foul smoke.

He wasn’t going to wait on their answer. He’d hire the first set of cheap thugs he could find to seize the invention.

Edison couldn’t let it rest. A warm, willing, wickedly inventive woman awaited, but he couldn’t let Templeton endanger some innocent man. He thrust the mechanical arm at Nelly and raced across the room for his own jacket.

“I’m going to find the real Templeton. And his device.” He pulled up the collar of his coat. “Then we’ll teach that little nob not to toy with the Restitution League.”



*

By the time Edison located the laboratory three days later, the weather had slipped firmly from summer into autumn. As he hurried down the darkened street toward the back of the property, he buttoned his overcoat against the evening chill.

Nestled in the back corner of the yard, the laboratory looked like an ordinary hot house. Constructed entirely of glass plates, the front doorway was ringed by a cheerful arch of wild roses. He hadn’t dared examine the place during the daylight, but the property most certainly belonged to an Archibald Templeton. The family had owned it for generations. It was a fashionable home in a fashionable part of the city. Its owner would have enough wealth—enough leisure time—to pursue any interest he wished.

It all fit.

Except the perfume.

A light floral scent, it was clearly detectable through the slight opening in the window. Odd that. The metallic tang of chemicals, he’d expected. Even a sour note of old sweat. Such could be forgiven in the heat of scientific discovery. But perfume?