If that was the sort of behavior one could expect once married, then Alastair reckoned he’d do well to remain a bachelor.
He left Huntley House and climbed into his touring carriage parked in the drive. It was a damp night, and he was thankful for the oilskin canopy that kept the vehicle dry. The steam engine added more moisture to the air, but it also provided a little warmth, so that by the time he reached his own Mayfair address a few minutes later, he was only slightly chilled. He’d barely opened the door when one of his men from the stables ran up to take the carriage away, driving it behind the house to the building where it was kept.
Being a Warden made him cautious; hence the two security locks on his front door. One was a regular lock-and-key affair, while the other required the right combination of numbers to be selected on its dial. Only once those numbers had been entered would the locking mechanism disengage with a sharp clink, allowing the door to be opened. He alone knew the code for this particular door. The servants’ entrance had its own code, which only the housekeeper and butler were privy to. Any employee out after dark—or who had left the house for whatever reason—would have to ring for admittance or remain out.
Alastair stepped into the foyer of his family home, absently rubbing his right hand as he often did whenever a problem perplexed him. He would run his fingers over his own palm, over the back of his knuckles, squeezing each joint. It was the joints that reminded him that he was no longer an ordinary human. The metal “bones” in his hand behaved as they ought, but they were stronger than he could have ever imagined. The knuckles felt hard beneath his fingers; yet they were almost delicate by design. Because of them he could drive his fist through a brick wall and feel only surface pain.
Tonight’s problem was Claire Brooks. He couldn’t seem to quite shake the thought of her. She was there, in the back of his mind, even when he was engaged elsewhere.
He told himself that his reaction to her was normal, that she had been trained in the arts of subterfuge and seduction to the point of being an expert. She could probably seduce an archangel if she put her mind to it. No, being attracted to her—or rather, intrigued by her—was not a problem. It would become a problem only if he lost his damn mind as he had with Sascha.
He was not going to be that foolish ever again. He’d rather sleep with a viper than share his sheets with Claire Brooks.
Well, perhaps not a viper, but something nasty regardless.
When he re Kd">s nached his bedroom, he entered it to find the bed turned down and a glass of whiskey sitting on the bedside table. A little nip before retiring always helped him sleep. He took the glass with him to what looked like an ordinary armoire, and opened the doors. Inside was an aether engine—a large device with a typewriting machine keyboard for typing in commands and requests, and a specially crafted glass screen that allowed him to see images. This model was connected to the W.O.R. engine via a transmitter antenna on the roof of the house designed to intercept and interpret as well as send aetheric transmissions.
Alastair took a sip of the whiskey before sitting down in front of the contraption; then he turned the key on the front of the cherrywood housing. The guts of the machine came to life with a click of gears and a gentle chug. He waited until the engine fully engaged and the inquiry box appeared on the screen to type “Claire Brooks.” He struck the SEARCH key. Within moments, the Warden databank returned several images and articles for him to read.
Claire Brooks stared at him, a study in gray on the screen. He moved the handle on the machine so that it brought up the next page of evidence, only it brought up another photo—this one of Brooks dressed as a cancan dancer. “Sweet Jesus,” Alastair whispered, taking another drink. “That should not be allowed.”
Once he got beyond the photographs, he was able to begin reading all the information the Wardens had ever acquired about the attractive spy. She was skilled in combat, was known for her ruthlessness and determination, and had once killed a man with a pair of sugar tongs. Her main alias was Claire Clarke, and apparently she was well known under it as an American actress. It was a good cover, and judging from the photograph of her in the scanty dancer costume, a thoroughly distracting one.
It made for fascinating reading. And he was going to read it all, regardless of how long it took. Luke might trust Claire Brooks, but he did not. There was a glimmer of desperation in her eyes that unsettled him.
Luke said there wasn’t much difference between the Company and the W.O.R. Brooks had supposedly been a loyal agent—as loyal as Alastair himself was to the Wardens. So what would make someone such as himself turn against his agency? Nothing but the deepest of betrayals would sway him to forsake his vows of duty and obligation. Perhaps the Company had been responsible for her brother’s death after all.
Still, she was a little too eager and agreeable for his liking. She was planning something; he could feel it in his bones, so he would prepare as best he could. He would learn all he could about Claire Brooks, because she was as much his enemy as the Doctor and Stanton Howard.
He flexed his augmented hand and ran his thumb along the faint scars softened by a pinpoint ray of aetherically particalized light. He could easily crush a man’s throat with that hand—even a skull. He did not need Arden’s fancy weapons to get himself out of a bad situation. He was a weapon.
So when Claire Brooks eventually turned on him—and he knew she would—Alastair would be ready.
Chapter 5
It was nothing short of a miracle.
Claire rotated her tors Nd">s LT Std"o, stretched and bent. There was little to no discomfort, despite her having been torn open by an aether blast just days ago.
“You should sell that concoction,” she told Dr. Stone as she soaked in the bath the good woman had prepared for her. “You could make a fortune.”
The doctor smiled. “That’s not why I invented it. You’ve soaked long enough. The salts in the water are designed to reinvigorate. Too much and you’ll feel as though you have ants under your skin. To your feet now.”
Dutifully, Claire stood, not the least bit embarrassed about her own nudity. “Isn’t this a little beneath you? Helping a prisoner bathe?”
“It’s part of your recovery, which is my responsibility. One I take very seriously, thank you.” There was surprisingly little censure behind the words. She still couldn’t figure out why the doctor didn’t dislike her, no matter what was said. “Here, dry yourself.”
Claire accepted the towel and began rubbing at her wet skin. There was a fire in the grate, and hot steam circulating through the pipes warmed the room, but a chill caressed her naked shoulders regardless, reminding her of winters back home when the water would freeze in the washbasin.
She dried off quickly and stepped into the clean clothing Dr. Stone handed her item by item. Her eyelids fluttered as she pulled on the trousers. Having been heated over the pipes, they instantly infused her chilled flesh with warmth. She shivered in delight. “Thank you.”
“You seem so surprised whenever I show you kindness,” the doctor observed. “Not all of us here are like Ashford, the man who was the acting director when you were brought in.”