It was impossible to determine whether the other occupant was male or female. Its entire length was wrapped like an Egyptian mummy she’d once seen on display. Carrying fluids in and out, tubes and wires ran out of the body, stimulating the muscles with a low aetheric pulse so that they moved and twitched beneath the bandages. Metal braces kept the body still, and a large bellows above the bed kept the person breathing.
It was a terrifying sight. Surely death would be preferable.
Obviously neither of these patients was the reason for the heavily armed guard at the door. There was no chance of either of them escaping any time soon. And if the guard was there for their protection, he would be watching the door, not the patients.
Damn. The weapon in his hands—a Baker scatter rifle—was used to kill rather than simply injure or maim. It was very effective as well, the casings of the bullets designed to fragment and burrow once inside the body like little metal predators.
That gun was meant for her.
“Who are you?” she asked the woman.
“I’m Dr. Evelyn Stone.” The doctor took the cup and set it on the bedside table. The automaton had shuffled off to assist a nurse tending to the “mummy.” “You are a very fortunate woman. If that carriage hadn’t broken your fall, you might have ended up in far worse shape than you are now.”
Yes, like the person four beds away. “Where am I?” And where the hell was her gun?
It was the man who answered. “You’re in Warden custody, Miss Brooks.”
The Wardens. Hell’s bells. She wished Howard had killed her. Claire kept her face blank—it wasn’t difficult, given the heaviness of her muscles. Opiates were the very devil as far as she was concerned. She’d rather have pain than helpless oblivion. “Is that supposed to frighten me?”
The man stared down his imperious nose at her. He embodied everything pretentious and controlling the Wardens of the Realm stood for with their empire and monarchy. “If you are not afraid, you are clearly less inim.arly letelligent than most Company agents. I wouldn’t aspire to such a claim.”
Arrogant British bastard. What did he know of fear? He probably spent his days behind a desk; the most worrisome thing he ever had to face was his undoubtedly bitter wife.
“If you wanted me dead, I’d be dead,” she responded, words slurring around her lazy tongue. “That means you’ve actually deluded yourself into thinking you’ll get information out of me. Which one of us is lacking in intelligence now, Mr. Idiot?”
A dull flush flooded his muttonchop-covered cheeks. He looked as though he had scrub brushes bolted to the side of his face, the things were so bushy. “I would be happy to put you in an interrogation chair.” Yes, he looked as though the idea of putting her in what was essentially a torture device pleased him greatly. “Whether or not you cooperate is entirely up to you, Miss Brooks, just as whether or not you live or die is up to me.”
Dr. Stone shot him a dark look, her striking features downright intimidating. “You mean it’s up to the director, Ashford.”
“Yes, well . . .” He sniffed. “She’s not here right now, is she? And during her absence and Wolfred’s leave, I am acting director.”
Aw, hell. She had to go and piss on the boots of a man filled to the brim with his own importance. Being locked up or killed was not going to help her find Howard. Time was already against her. He was undoubtedly on his way north by now. Every moment put more distance between them. At least she knew where he was headed.
She had not come this far to let him slip away. She could not let Robert’s death go unanswered. He was all the family she had left, and now she was alone in the world. She had no one to lean on. No one to tell her when she was wrong or when she had gone too far—when she was too reckless for sense. Not that Robert had been around when she could have benefited from any of those things. Still, just knowing he’d been out there, that she wasn’t alone in the world, had been enough most times.
“What do you want from me?” she asked, lifting her gaze past that beak of a nose. There was no use in wallowing in self-pity. This vulture would use it against her if he thought he could. He’d probably peck out her liver while he was at it.
Cold eyes brightened with a malicious gleam. If she had full control of her limbs, she’d stab him in the neck with his own cravat pin. “I want to know why you’re in London. I want to know whatever Company secrets you have in that pretty little head of yours. I want the names of every enemy agent here on British soil.”
And she wanted her brother back. “I can’t give you all of that.”
“You’ll give me something or I’ll see you hang.”
Dr. Stone grabbed him by the arm. “I’ll report you.”
He shook her off. “What will it be, Miss Brooks?”
She had to get out of there and soon. This bastard wasn’t about to let her go. She needed an ally—someone who knew her, who could provide a little protection until she could figure out how to escape. Her luck hadn’t quite forsaken her, not yet.
“I want something in return.”
He made a scoffing noise. “You’re not in any position to bargain, girlie.”
Claire clenched her jaw. “Then you may as well hang me, laddie.” She affected a bad British accent on the word. “Then you can explain to your director how the Wardens missed out on capturing Stanton Howard.”
What color the man had in his pasty cheeks drained. “Stanton Howard?”
She grinned. “Prepared to bargain now?”
He cleared his throat, glaring at her as though she were a bug he’d dearly like to grind beneath his heel. “What do you want?”
There was only one person she could trust in all of London. “Lucas Grey,” she replied. “I want to talk to Lucas Grey.”
“You look like shite.”
Alastair Payne, Earl of Wolfred, wiped the dirt from his hands with the remains of an old shirt. Smears of oil and dirt stained the once-pristine linen. He’d been working on the Velocycle for a good three-quarters of an hour before his oldest friend, Lucas Grey, showed up, and now the machine was in top condition.
“I’ve been back in the country for a fortnight, and already you’re trying to woo me with your considerable charm.” A sardonic smile curved his lips. “Really, Luke. People will talk.”
Many men would bristle at the affront to their masculinity, but Luke merely chuckled. “What I lack in tact I have an abundance of in sincerity. Arden’s worried about you.”
It was a cheap shot, and they both knew it. Alastair no longer considered himself in love with Arden, but she was still a dear friend. In fact, she and Luke were possibly his only true friends. Because of that bond, he knew that Arden wasn’t the only one of the two of them who was worried.
“I’m fine.”
“No pain?”
As though on cue, his left leg twinged—a bone-deep ache, though there wasn’t any bone left to cause discomfort, just metal beneath the flesh. “None. Evie says I simply need to regain a stone or two and I’ll be right as rain.” He’d been putting his body through its paces in an attempt to regain the strength he’d lost after being left for dead in Spain. He would be strong again. Stronger.
And he would be more careful as to whom he offered his heart.
“Good.” Luke’s pale gaze was sharp as it met his. “And mentally? Are you recovered there as well?”
Had it been anyone else, Alastair would have told him to bugger off, but Luke was no stranger to the effects a life of intrigue and deceit could have on a man’s mind. “Better than I ought to be, I’m told.”