Saving the Scientist (The Restitution League #2)(3)
Edison trotted along the lush hedge bordering the garden, careful to stay in the shadows. It was full dark now, the air sharp with coming cold.
He glanced at the house. Large windows faced the rear lawn. Though curtains were drawn against the night air, lamp light seeped through the seams at several windows. He detected no movement, no bustle of servants, no party guests. A fashionable home like this, the residents were likely off to a gala or a ball, maybe the theater. Left to themselves, the servants would have retired to their rooms to put up their feet.
A pocket knife made short work of the useless door lock. Edison shook his head. Perhaps this scientist had no idea the true value of his invention. Anyone who did would’ve hired guards. Well-armed guards.
Once inside, he pulled the door closed behind him. The small workshop was far enough from the house that using his police-issue lantern seemed an acceptable risk. He set aside the rucksack of smoke bombs and other distractions he’d brought in case he ran into unanticipated resistance, and lit the lantern, opening the shutter a sliver, risking just enough to discern shapes in the dark.
Two workbenches ran the length of the small building, each piled high with delicate laboratory equipment, much of it glass. Bottles and tubes and jars took up most of the available counter space. The air inside was cold, of course, but even so, he caught a whiff of that same perfume. It lingered around the benches, growing stronger near the stool where Templeton’s notes lay strewn across the only uncluttered surface.
It was delicate and feminine. Not strong, not designed to seize attention or inspire sensuality, like the languid, spicy aromas so many women favored. Especially women eager to seduce… or to be seduced.
He sniffed the still air again as if sampling a fine wine. Neither was it girlish or innocent. He had the fanciful notion that the woman who wore it knew what she was about.
Which had nothing whatsoever to do with his mission.
He snatched up a notebook and tilted it toward the meager light from his lantern. Feminine writing—bold and legible, but rounded enough to suggest a lady’s hand—filled the pages. Feeling foolish now, he set the book back down. Of course. The man’s wife assisted him. Nothing odd about that.
Edison scrunched his eyes shut. Never mind about the damned woman. He needed the notes and the battery device. Once he’d spirited those back to the league’s offices, they could decide how best to protect the scientist himself.
He rubbed a hand down the smooth page of the notebook. Even tracing his fingers over the sensuous writing stirred his blood. He gusted out a breath. Damnation, he’d need to see about a new paramour.
Sooner rather than later.
He tilted the journal back toward the sliver of light. Line after line of chemical symbols fill the page. He was no chemist, but he had picked up a passing knowledge of scientific notation. He recognized the symbols for chlorides and other substances necessary to create electrical power. He snapped the book shut.
The papers beneath it were a mix of more formulas, and some correspondence. All the letters were addressed to A. Templeton.
He rubbed a hand over his eyes. The little weasel had told the truth about that at least. He was indeed searching for a Mr. A. Templeton.
He tapped the papers into a tidy pile and picked them up, along with the notebook. There was no desk in the workshop, nor any other boxes of books or papers he could see.
So now the device.
He hurried to the back of the room. It would be cylindrical, and there’d been no need for the fake Templeton to lie about the size. He had, after all, wanted them to find it. Quietly as he could, Edison opened the crates and boxes piled against the back wall. Several packages held empty cylinders, others coil upon coil of copper wire. The last three boxes contained nothing but plaster of Paris. Quite an excessive supply.
But no completed battery cells.
It wasn’t a sound that got his attention, so much as it was a feeling. And a scent. The same perfume, but stronger. More alive.
He had no interest in flowers, but if he had to guess, he would’ve guessed violets.
Not that the woman filling the doorway would care about his opinion. The revolver aimed at his chest spoke for itself.
Chapter 2
His body blocked much of the light from his lamp, leaving her features shadowed, allowing him little beyond a general impression. Tall, lithe and self-possessed, even without the gun she commanded respect.
“Good evening.” Edison smiled, letting his lips curve up until he could feel the muscles around his eyes relax. More than a few women had sworn that smile made their hearts beat faster. Might give him an advantage now.
“What are you after?” The steel in her voice suggested his effort was wasted.
It took but an instant to assess the situation. She held the gun tightly—too tightly to aim accurately. Her familiarity with firearms probably equalled his mastery of embroidery.
Slowly, calmly, as if facing a skittish deer, he set the papers down and raised his hands, palms up, fingers spread to show he was unarmed. “I’m here to meet with Mr. Templeton.”
“Mr. Templeton died five years ago.” A dark ringlet escaped her upswept hair and swung gently by her ear. “Stop wasting my time.”
Her gaze swept over him, cataloging everything, from his simple boots to his unfashionable clothing. “Tell whoever sent you that I have no interest in negotiating.”