Saving the Scientist Page 4

  His jaw tightened. The angry retort on the tip of his tongue would do no good.

  He inhaled, then exhaled a long, slow breath before responding to her provocation. “In point of fact, it’s quite obvious that you do. Those men were good. Better than good." He didn’t scrub the anger from his tone, wanting her to realize he meant to be harsh, meant to make sure she took his point. “Only a handful of men in London—ruthless men—could hire their like. Your useless step brother isn’t one of them.”

  The tea in her mug sloshed from side to side as she shuddered. Edison cringed. He didn't want to frighten her. Well, he did actually, but he felt bad about it. It was for her own good. Meena was stubborn. Briar raised stubborn to an art form. This woman took it to entirely new heights.

  She blew on the steaming liquid, watching the surface bend into tiny waves. “How ruthless?”

  “How—?”

  "These men you’re describing. Just how ruthless are they?”

  Edison leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table, and stared her straight in the eye. She’d given him an opening, a chance to put the fear of God in her, convince her to let him help. "The men that hire toughs like these? They might be criminals, but they run with the best of Society. They have the money and the will to do whatever is needed to get what they want.”

  He paused to look her in the eye, willing her to understand. “Even from your brother’s pathetic description, your device must be something revolutionary. That puts you in the gravest of danger.”

  She acknowledged that truth with a small nod. “I had not wanted to believe that.” She turned her mug around and around. “But I’m to deliver it soon. Once that’s done…”

  He resisted the urge to pound on the table. “They’ll want you. You and your device. How do you not see that?”

  “Why me?”

  “There’ll be complications.” Edison waved a hand through the air as he considered the issue. “Or they’ll want more devices. Bigger devices. Devices that deliver more current.” He planted his forearms on the table and leaned closer, frustrated with explaining. “They’ll want more than just your invention. They’ll want every scrap of knowledge in that stunningly stubborn brain.”

  Her face blanched. She set her mug down with exquisite care, and folded her arms across her waist, as if giving herself a hug. “Well, Mr. Sweet, you’ve given me a great deal to consider.”

  “Consider?” He longed to slap a hand to his forehead. Consider? By his estimate, she had until about dawn to consider before another set of toughs descended on her quiet little world.

  She rose from her seat and set her mug in the sink. “You’ve had quite a whack to the head. The least I can do is offer you a bed for the night.”

  She didn’t mean hers. He knew that. Still, a surge of heat made his breath quicken.

  “Thank you.” Edison rose, and bit back a groan as the effects of a few lucky blows to the ribs gained his attention. “It would be much appreciated.”

  What he’d really appreciate was her cooperation.

  It would certainly make protecting her far less difficult. And less painful. Possibly for both of them.

  * * *

  “He looks like my Bertram."

  “Does he, Grandmama?" Ada sawed at the overdone slice of ham on her plate.

  Her stomach tightened. Though her grandmother spent much of her day in a fog of gentle confusion where the constraints of time and place didn’t apply, now and then it cleared and she joined the real world—which generally instigated some sort of social disaster.

  Grandmama gestured at Sweet with the business end of her fork. The bite of toast dipped in egg wobbled about, dripping yolk across the starched tablecloth. "You do, you know. Same manly form. My Bertram had a magnificent physique.”

  Grandmama’s companion, Miss Peabody, sent Ada a questioning look, clearly wondering if it was time to urge her charge back up to her rooms. Ada shook her head. Even at her worst, nothing the old dear could say was likely to give their guest the vapors.

  She glanced at Sweet. Burnt and curled up at the edges, his slice of ham appeared no closer to surrender than her own. He paused in his attack and smiled politely, obviously unfazed by Grandmama’s horrid manners.

  A disgusted sigh wafted out from the buffet behind her. Beecham, the butler Ada inherited along with the rest of Harrison's staff, was not. The elderly butler was nothing if not excruciatingly proper. Unfortunately, he was equally lazy and arrogant and blessed with an overabundance of self confidence.

  If it weren’t for Grandmama’s deteriorating mind she would have sacked him long ago. Fortunately for him, consistency in her daily life trumped a well-run household.

  Ada watched Sweet pick through his breakfast. Manners aside, she had to agree with Grandmama. Hair and clothes slightly rumpled from a night’s sleep, he looked even more virile—more dangerously male—in the bright light of morning. Larger, by far, than anyone else in the room, he dominated it, if only by virtue of his size and his overwhelmingly male energy.

  An energy she had no idea how to manage.

  Ada pushed aside her plate. It was like dining with a tame tiger. One could never fully trust it wouldn’t snap, wouldn’t unleash a wild strength far beyond her own.

  A strength she found oddly compelling.

  Hence the periwinkle silk.

  Much as she ignored fashion, even she couldn’t help noticing how that particular shade of blue complemented her complexion and enhanced the deep brown of her eyes.

  Tiny pearl buttons marched from collar to waist, set off by a delicate lace edging of. The bodice hugged her torso, draping the curves enhanced by her corset in a way only silk could do.

  It was her favorite gown. Nothing else in her scant wardrobe made her feel so delicate, or so feminine.

  Not that Edison Sweet noticed.

  Since joining them at the table, he’d shown her no more attention than he had the salt shaker. Why she found that particularly deflating, she preferred not to consider.

  What she had given a great deal of consideration was his warning. He was right. She could barely defend herself, let alone Grandmama and a house full of servants. Until the device was safely delivered, she would need assistance.

  To ignore that put them all in jeopardy.

  Beecham glided into her line of sight, his disapproving gaze fastened on Sweet’s brimming plate. "I'll have cook send an extra plate of bacon. Will there be anything else?"

  “No. Thank you.” How did he pack so much disdain into so few words?

  Across from her, Sweet gave Grandmama the full benefit of his rakish smile. “Tell me about Bertram, Mrs. Fogel.”

  Ada focussed on selecting a fresh piece of toast from the rack in front of her, but it was like playing naughts and crosses in a brewing storm, pretending to ignore the coming destruction.

  But disaster was averted.

  The fog had already enveloped the old dear in it’s familiar embrace. Grandmama blinked rapidly, her face slack, no animation, no comprehension visible. "Bertram?" Her frail voice quavered. “Silly name. Don’t know a Bertram. You must mean Bertie.” She swatted Edison on the arm. “He’s a scamp, that one. Always chasing the ladies. Doesn’t care a whit if they’re married or not.” Her faded blue eyes twinkled. “He chased me more than once, he did. Almost caught me out by the Grecian folly at Wendover’s estate, but I outfoxed him. Hid behind the pump house until I thought I’d freeze solid.”

  Sweet’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “Bertie, the crown prince?”

  “Of course the crown prince.” Grandmama’s eyes narrowed. She studied Sweet as if he were half a load shy, then turned her attention back to her toast and egg.

  A gentle smile curving his lips, Sweet turned toward Ada. His gaze swept over her, lingering on the lace that edged the pulse beating at the side of her neck. His smile faded, and his eyes seemed to darken, glittering with a heat she might have called desire, if she didn’t know better.

  As if
she didn’t know he’d have no interest in a woman like her.

  Still, her body responded as if he were touching her, as if she could actually feel the warmth from his hands as he caressed her waist, spreading his fingers over her ribcage, then moving them higher until…

  Cheeks flaming, breath coming harder, faster, Ada sat up straighter, pulling herself out of the spell. Perhaps seeking to entice the tiger had been a poor idea.

  Before the new feelings could overwhelm her, Ada stared down at the remains of her meal. "I've given your warning a great deal of thought."

  The intensity faded from his look. He relaxed back into his seat, neither urging her on, nor interrupting.

  She liked that, liked that he didn't try to run roughshod over her with his male logic.

  Ada pressed a hand to her chest, but the small buttons pressed into her palm, reminding her of his gaze sweeping over her, stoking a sensual fire. She dropped her hand to her lap and cleared her throat. “You made some excellent points, but I must ask about your fees. I'm sure it's something I can accommodate but—"

  “We don't charge for our services."

  "No fees? How do you manage?” Ada tilted her head. “Are you saying you simply help people, for no compensation?”

  “It's what I do."

  Sweet set down his fork, and rested his forearms on the table, leaning close. "I've seen what ruthless men can destroy. My family and I have the skills and the inclination to oppose them."

  “A knight in shining armor then?” Manners prevented her from shaking her head in disbelief. “I’ve yet to meet such a creature. Nothing comes without a price."

  “I relish the chance to change your mind about that."

  Ada shuddered. He was so confident, so sure of his own strength, so deliciously male. And apparently, civic-minded.

  The man grew more dangerous by the instant.

  Ada forked up a bite of dry ham. The morsel stuck in her throat. She really was tired. Tired of rattling about in Harrison's lavish home. Tired of seeing to servants who'd cared little for their jobs, and even less for her.

  Only Miss Peabody served with distinction. Ada would be forever grateful for her steadfast devotion to her grandmother. Except for Grandmama and her aging companion, her household was more a collection of strangers than a family, each going about their own business, most of them skating on the edge of sullen disrespect.

  A household a man like Sweet would never tolerate.

  "I've heard tell the king’s taken another mistress. A Frenchie this time." Grandmama threw up her gnarled hands. “That man’ll bring us to war, mind my words."

  Her tone rose, heavy with agitation. Miss Peabody fussed with the shawl over Grandmama's thin shoulders and murmured low, soothing words. She exchanged a look with Ada, and nudged Grandmama's chair back, urging her up. “We might have callers this afternoon. Let’s get you into that beautiful yellow gown.”

  Grandmama's wrinkled face brightened. "Oh yes, let's do. Can’t be underdressed. Those awful Willburmarle sisters could call. Can’t be outdone. They’ll crow about it for weeks.”

  "Exactly.” Peabody waited patiently for Grandmama to gain her feet, then followed closely as she shuffled her way toward the hall.

  Ada raised her serviette to her lips to hide a smile. The Willburmarle sisters had passed into the great beyond two decades past.

  At the doorway Grandmama stopped and turned back toward them. "You do resemble Bertram," she said to Sweet. "Handsome as the day was long. And what a stallion. That man—"

  Before she could utter something even more outrageous, Peabody ushered her out of the room.

  Ada’s cheeks flamed. Normally the old thing’s outbursts made her grin, but hearing her suggestive remarks in the company of a strange man seemed far more indecent.

  While she'd been watching Grandmama, Sweet had left his chair. He moved closer, his hands on the back of the chair next to her. "You may refuse my help, of course. But that would be exceedingly foolhardy." Sweet held her gaze. “And I have a guess you’re far from foolhardy."

  Ada leaned away from him, disconcerted by his tone. Disconcerted by the unfamiliar heat from his body. Disconcerted by her own reaction. “While I appreciate the compliment, you’re hardly in a position to judge my character.”

  Sweet smiled at her. It was a slow, wicked, devastating smile. A toe curling smile. “Your device is the Holy Grail of electrochemical engineering. You could hardly be a simpleton."

  "Of course." Ada dropped her gaze, hoping to hide the disappointment that stabbed her at his practical response. What had she expected? The man was attracted to her battery, to her scientific skills. As it should be. He was an adventurer, a risk taker. His taste in woman likely ran in quite a different direction, periwinkle silk not withstanding.

  Ada squared her shoulders. "I would very much appreciate your assistance, Mr. Sweet. And I do apologize for my earlier lack of gratitude. I'm to deliver the device in three days. If you and your league could help me stave off trouble until then, I would be grateful."

  Sweet nodded, his expression grave. "I do have one requirement."

  Ada swallowed hard and waited for him to explain. She tried not to concentrate on the way his thick hair fell across his forehead, the way the overlong locks begged to be tucked behind his ear.

  He thrust out a hand. "My name. It's Edison. No more Mr. Sweet. No more Mrs. Templeton."

  It was a moment before she could move, could form a response to his unexpected request. She slid her palm against his, shaking it politely. "Edison." His name tasted decadent—wicked—on her tongue.

  Living with him—with Edison—for the next few days would be like attempting to share her home with a Bengal tiger.

  She very much doubted she’d escape without a few deep scratches.

  Chapter 5

  In the daylight, her laboratory was nothing short of spectacular.

  It was everything his own workshop was not. Beakers, test tubes, and glass decanters, each in their proper place on mahogany workbenches, gleamed in the bright autumn light. All neat and tidy and pleasingly arranged, not unlike the scientist who worked there.

  If he hadn't been so close to strangling her, Edison would've enjoyed watching her work.

  She'd exchanged her pretty gown for a dark skirt and a crisp white blouse, all covered by a heavy laboratory apron that draped from the top of her chest down past her knees. Eminently practical and amazingly arousing, the very plainness of her dress allowed her sensual curves to command the attention. The dark, lustrous hair she had pinned tightly at the back of her head in a sensible bun, the lush breasts, the narrow waist, all hidden beneath a thick rubberized apron could not have been better designed to stir him. All the more so as he suspected the effect was completely accidental.

  And then there was her scent. That light swirl of violets. Even in the midst of the acrid, metallic odors emanating from every beaker and box in the crowded room, he sensed it.

  Delightful perfume aside, the woman's obstinance was beginning to grate. Badly.

  Edison rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I can't keep it safe if you don't tell me where it is."

  She raised a beaker to eye level, frowning as she measured dry plaster of Paris to her liking. "The battery is perfectly safe. Have no worry about that."

  "Have no worry? Are you mental?" Edison threw his hands up. “What do you think those men were looking for last night? What about the men before that? They weren’t after your excessive hoard of plaster.”

  She continued with her measuring. "You'll have to trust me, Mr. Sweet… Edison. The device is secure. What I do need your assistance with—and I am fully willing to admit it—is protection for my family."

  "Yes, yes. Of course we’ll keep you all safe. That’s the easy part." Edison jammed his hands onto his hips. "But I can't protect your device, unless—"

  “That is my responsibility."

  “You don't trust me."

  “Had I distrusted you, you wouldn’t have
remained in my home.” She set down the beaker, and turned around, meeting his eye with a strong, steady gaze of her own. “I trusted you in my house last night. I trusted you not to slay my entire household over burnt ham and toast this morning. Trust is not the issue.”

  “What is the issue?”

  She slammed the jar of powder down onto the counter. “You’re already taking a risk to protect us. I won’t add to that. The device is safe. Even if it were not, I won’t have you endanger yourself to save it.”

  Edison snorted. “Men like I ran off last night are no danger.”

  Graceful eyebrows arched high. “What makes you think the next lot will be equally inferior?”

  “I’m not fool enough to rely on that.” Edison flattened his palms on the workbench. “My family will arrive any moment. With all of us here, the next lot won’t stand a chance.”

  She shook her head, clearly impatient. “No one can anticipate all contingencies. I won’t have you injured defending an inanimate object.”

  Unlike most women, she didn’t resort to coquetry. She met him head to head. Any other time, he would have found that profoundly appealing. Under the current conditions, however, it was unduly aggravating.

  He closed his eyes, wishing he were contending with the sort of woman who liked to be cosseted and protected. He understood those women. Understood how they thought, what they desired.

  Understood how to get what he wanted in return.

  “All right. The device will be your responsibility.” For now. Edison prided himself on knowing when to make a strategic retreat—and find a new angle of attack.

  He picked up one of the jars. “For the battery?”

  She snatched it back and lined it up with the other two, each with a different level of the white powder. "It's the stabilizer. I'm not sure I have the ratios right."

  Edison studied the beakers. "Ingenious. That's damned ingenious. Your mix of chemicals is inherently unstable. That’s what generates the electrical charge,” he reasoned out loud. “What's needed is a substance to slow the reaction, spread it out over a longer time."