The Sins of Lord Lockwood (Rules for the Reckless #6)(16)

“Not pretty in the least,” she said cheerfully. “We get very dirty in our experiments. Once or twice, somebody has blown something up.”

“How fearsome.”

“Oh, we’ve only lost one eye and two fingers to date.”

Her delivery was so deadpan that it took him a moment to realize she was joking. She laughed at him again.

“And the manuscript,” he said, smiling back. “Is it a memoir of these misadventures?”

“Who would want to read that? No, it’s a book in the style of Mrs. Marcet and Mrs. Lowry. They were the great heroes of my youth, writing tales of science that even a little girl could understand.”

“Not only little girls.” He had adored Mrs. Marcet’s volumes as a boy. He could still recall their exact placement on the little bookshelf, which he’d insisted on keeping directly next to his bed. “I found those primers tremendously interesting.”

The countess nodded. “Chemistry and geology, the animal kingdom and the wonders of plant life . . . Mrs. Marcet and Mrs. Lowry retired, of course, but science has kept marching onward. For my cousins’ sake, I decided to take up their banner.”

“I think that’s marvelous,” he said sincerely. How lucky that she had not taken a liking to him—he would not have known what to do with such a talented wife. He would have ruined her.

The vegetation was thinning now, and as the path twisted around a scree-covered slope, one side abruptly dropped away, the rocky bank sloping at a deadly angle into a gully far below. The sun slipped behind clouds, the temperature beginning to drop. They walked in silence for several long minutes until a thin layer of mist began to rise around them.

“Oh dear,” said the countess.

Was there some cause for concern? He opened his mouth to inquire, and the chill abruptly became icy. In the space of a moment, the mist reached them and solidified, rising to form a freezing and impenetrable wall.

The countess came to a stop, and he nearly bumped into her.

“Ah, Ben Nevis,” she said, an affectionate scolding note in her voice. “This is its greatest trick, you know—blind the walker, so he plummets to his death off a cliff.”

“How cheerful,” he said dryly. “Shall we take shelter until the mist clears?”

“No need. I’ve done this walk a hundred times.”

But he hadn’t. “Very well,” he said, unwilling to be outdone by her.

She adopted a slower pace, but not slow enough for his liking; his brain remained acutely aware of the sudden drop to his right and shrieked at his stupidity as he blundered forward, regardless. He had never seen mist so thick, save in the worst London pea soupers, which certainly concealed runaway carriages and open sewers, but no cliffs, a fact for which he now realized he should be grateful.

A voice floated down to them. “Anna!” it cried. “Anna, can you . . .”

“That’s Moira,” exclaimed his regrettably plucky guide. “Moira!” she bellowed—directly beside his ear, causing him to wince. She had missed her calling as an opera singer. “Moira, are you at the summit?”

They waited silently in a milky white haze for a reply that never came. “Did she sound distressed?” asked the countess, her former blitheness nowhere in evidence. “I hope somebody hasn’t twisted an ankle.”

He bit his tongue lest he remind her that she had mentioned darker possibilities not minutes ago. “If they’re coming down, surely the wisest thing is to wait.”

“She needs help,” the countess snapped. “Otherwise, why would she have called for me?”

“To check on your welfare?”

The notion appeared to surprise her. “No,” she said. “Moira wouldn’t—she knows I’m fine.”

A peculiar insight: Lady Forth’s assurance came with a price. Nobody ever checked on her.

“You wait here,” she said. “I’ll go on up, quickly, and I—”

“To hell with that.” He regretted the curse a second too late, but she did not seem to notice it. “Splitting up is a very poor idea. If we but wait—”

She ripped free of his grip—only then did he realize he’d grabbed hold of her. “Stay here,” she said, and in the next second, she had moved into the mist and disappeared.

Now he did curse deliberately. He didn’t know the trail. But to wait here meant leaving her alone on the path, with a deadly fall looming on one side. Following was unwise, but not following was unchivalrous.

He listened hard, and caught the sound of her footsteps crunching on small rocks ahead. He slowly walked toward the sound—realizing, with each deep and steady breath, that there was a reason he’d forgone that excursion into the Alps last year. Heights were not his strength.

“Moira!” She was calling out, her voice still nearby. “Moira, can you—”

Her gasp did not sound intentional.

“Countess.” He called out sharply—even smacked at the mist like an idiot, as though it would somehow dissolve beneath the wave of his lordly hand. “Countess!”

Silence.

Damn it to hell. He shuffled forward faster, and called out again. “My lady—Anna! Can you—”

“Here,” came a strained whisper.

He stopped. That whisper came from very close. He squinted into the field of consuming white. “Where? Speak again.”