Illusion (Asylum for the Mechanically Insane Book 1) Read online

  “I know what she means to you, Doctor. Galatea is your creation. The embodiment of everything you desire in a woman.” Emily’s voice was low and edged with something heated.

  “We’ve not spoken of this, and yet you understand…” Matthew gazed at her, aroused and intrigued.

  She reached for his hand, took it in hers and pulled him toward her, letting his palm rest on her décolletage. “You are an amazing scientist, Dr. Henderson. Watching you work is like watching the magic of a sunrise. You turn everything into wonder, you take base metal and create so much more than gold. You will create life, I know it. How could I not understand? How could I not admire you with every fiber of my being?”

  She shifted and his palm drifted lower, cupping her now, feeling the hard bud of her nipple just over the top of the corset that pushed her into his grasp. “How could any woman not be attracted to such a man? Such a mind? I find it…so very appealing.” She moved, rubbing herself ever so slightly against him. “Forgive me. I’m being terribly forward…”

  Matthew breathed heavily, the figure before him forgotten for the moment. His hand convulsed reflexively around Emily’s breast and he caught her little moan of pleasure. “No—I mean yes, but go on—“

  “Take me, Doctor. Make me believe in the pleasure of your touch before I lose you to Galatea and the lure of the perfect woman. Please…”

  She reached for him and tumbled him on top of her, falling back onto the chaise longue, which rested conveniently against the far wall of the laboratory.

  Matthew was more than willing. His vest was unbuttoned and his shirt tugged from his belt before he realized it. The drawstring of her chemise loosened, freeing those magnificent breasts to his mouth and he was over her, his breeches open, her skirts pulled away from her body and his cock rooting for the slit in her pantaloons.

  It was fast, primitive and heated; he plundered her with all the speed and power of the generators beneath Harbury Hall.

  She cried out, tightening around him, lifting him upward as her hips sought fulfillment.

  He joined her, hammering his way to his own release, exploding inside her, grimacing as the spasms rocked him.

  “Oh my goodness, Doctor.” Emily panted happily beneath him. “I believe I shall have to ask you to design me a new and more durable pelvic girdle like Galatea’s.” She grinned. “I do believe I am going to need it.”

  Matthew did the only thing he could do.

  He laughed.

  *~~*~~*

  Later that day…

  The dining room at Harbury Hall must have looked like this when the Prince Regent arrived for the evening fifty years ago.

  Alwynne, Lady Harbury, let the thought flash through her mind as she surveyed her domain, noting the flawless positioning of the silverware, the perfection of the crystal and the gleam of the bone china place settings, each bearing the crest of the Harburys—a kingfisher on a buttercup.

  She had absolutely no clue why those two items were integral to the Harbury heritage and had a sneaking suspicion that colors might have had more bearing on the matter than actual historical occurrences.

  However, the result was both colorful and elegant, and this evening she was quite content to bask in the glory of representing the family by being hostess at one of the most sought-after events of the season.

  The Mechanical Ball, held at the massive Coralfield Conservatory less than a mile away, was the place to be on a summer’s night in June. Everyone who was anyone would be there, dancing, flirting, making assignations and examining the very latest in inventions by the finest minds in the country. In the world, even, since several award winning presentations were going to be shown by French, German and a couple of Arabic scientists.

  Prior to the event, the fortunate invitees dined at one of several estates within a mile or so of the Conservatory, and Harbury Hall was the closest, the most prestigious and the most talked-about afterward. She, Alwynne Harbury, would be the prime topic of conversation for months to come.

  She knew she was extraordinary this evening. She’d paid enough to achieve this level of magnificence.

  The crest of the Harburys had been reproduced not only on the china, but also on her tightly laced bodice. In diamonds. Her parure picked up the blues and yellows, but this time in sapphires, rare and exquisite. Her gown of Chinese silk was the green of the forest surrounding the Hall, her hair the palest blonde. In it she had fastened a corsage of metal roses, cleverly created from the thinnest sheets of beaten platinum. The leaves were bronze, and the stems fastened by an aigrette covered with tiny diamond baguettes.

  She glittered with gems, but there was no doubt that her skin would rival the silk of her gown. She was not modest, nor arrogant, just aware of her physical attributes and the importance attached to them.

  She was approaching fifty, but kept that to herself. Her youthfully exquisite appearance was maintained by a secret all her own. Well, hers and two scientists who toiled in the laboratories beneath the polished parquet flooring over which she now strolled.

  It was time for a quick refreshing dose of her favorite medicine. The regeneration vapor created just for her.

  Walking back into the impressive hall, Lady Harbury turned toward her private parlor. Once inside she closed the door and crossed the room to the large bookcase surrounding the fireplace. A quick touch of several volumes and the click of a panel signaled that a door to a concealed cabinet was now ajar. A small door, fronted with fake book spines. It was to the right of the fireplace and when she pushed it wide a coiled tube gleamed softly in the candlelight.

  Carefully, her long fingers uncoiled the rubber and she put the tip between her lips as she opened the valve at the back of the hidden closet.

  There. Aaaahhhh….

  Her eyes closed as the wonderful tang of the gas tickled the back of her tongue and her lungs filled with it. She knew the quick sharp edge of the chemicals would burn—yes there it was—a brilliant shard of pain that passed almost before it hit her.

  After that…nothing but pleasure. And a heightened beauty that would draw everyone’s eyes to her, only to her.

  She’d heard herself described variously as a goddess, an ethereal spirit, and a magical sprite. She rather fancied that one—it was whimsical. All of these delightful compliments were deserved, since her body radiated a subtle glow and she could almost feel the heightened responses of those around her. The two scientists she’d supported in this research spoke of things she did not understand, pheromones, auras, and psychical fields of attraction. Mysterious matters beyond her comprehension. And her interest. As long as they worked, she cared less than nothing for the process.

  A tiny light blinked next to the gas control valve. Lady Harbury pressed the switch next to it. “Yes?”

  “Are you all right, my lady? You’re over the usual consumption levels.” A voice reverberated from the tiny vent next to the light.

  She took a final lingering breath and then removed the tube from her lips. “I am well. Very well. And very pleased with your work, Doctor. There will be a little surprise for you later this evening.” She smiled as she imagined his excitement.

  Know their weaknesses. If you learn that you can control anyone.

  She knew it worked. She had learned her husband’s weakness before they wed, and used it to her advantage ever since.

  Randall, Lord Harbury, desired beauty.

  But beauty, she knew, was only an illusion.

  *~~*~~*

  Several miles away, the two young women chattering in one of the bedrooms of Chase Park could have looked out of their window and seen the stately towers of Harbury Hall.

  They didn’t, although they’d done so many times before. It had been part of their lives and tonight it was the subject under discussion.

  “Miranda. I’m not sure this is wise.”

  Miranda Fielding threw a quick glance at her sister, then turned back to the mirror over her vanity table, straightening the tiny locket hanging from
a thin silk ribbon around her neck. “Why on earth not? You know Harbury Hall is the peak of style, Portia. Lady Alwynne is everything that is charming and elegant. I’ve been quite bursting to see the interior and learn if it’s all that everyone says it is. And an invitation to this pre-ball dinner…well, it’s so utterly perfect. The event of the summer, you know that. And it’s quite proper for me to accompany Papa. Mama agrees, which is why she’s allowing me to go in her stead, now that she’s so close to her time.”

  Portia Fielding, curled haphazardly on an ottoman next to the gabled window, snorted.

  “And that, dear sister,” frowned Miranda, “…is the sort of noise that ensures you will not be receiving an invitation anywhere, let alone Harbury Hall. That and your deplorable fascination with machinery and mechanicals. Terribly bourgeois, sweetie.”

  “Oh don’t be a snob, ‘Randa.”

  “I’m not a snob.”

  “Yes you are. You want to mingle with the hoity-toity upper classes and find yourself a husband with pots of money you can waste on fripperies. And do pretty much nothing with the rest of your life except parade around in ‘em.” She waved in the general direction of her sister’s overfilled wardrobe.

  Miranda raised an eyebrow and stared at her sister’s reflection in the mirror. “And your point would be…?”

  “I give up.” Portia stretched her legs and stood, gazing from the window. “There’s something about that place that gives me the chills. That’s all. You know they say there’s a lunatic asylum in the cellars, don’t you?”

  “Oh good grief, Portia. Idle gossip. I do know that there are several scientific laboratories there. I met an airship engineer in London who mentioned some research he’d been allowed to view during a visit. Back when the previous Lord Harbury was alive.” She sighed. “Such a sad thing. A terrible accident claiming one life, followed by a tragic occurrence claiming the heir.”

  Portia nodded. “Well, they do say the father was a bit batty. And I’ve heard talk about laboratories, although that could be a clever method of disguising the presence of an asylum. But the son…” Her voice tapered off.

  She’d met the Honorable Devon Harbury. He’d caught the bridle of the horse she’d let get away from her. He’d possibly saved her life. But instead of the dressing-down she’d expected, he’d treated her so kindly, asking after her welfare, making sure she wasn’t too frightened to continue the ride back to her party. Quite unlike other young men who would have been more likely to laugh at her predicament.

  “Yes, such a shame. But you know, to go off exploring in Africa, when there’s such awful unrest everywhere…one must think sensibly about such things. Obviously young Harbury didn’t.”

  “Oh Miranda. Cold.”

  “Didn’t mean to be.” Miranda applied powder carefully to the tip of her nose with a large brush. “But one must be practical as well. Now there’s a new line of Harburys at the Hall. And they have family. I believe…” She casually closed the pot of powder, “I heard some talk of single male relations as well…”

  “Aha.” Portia spun on her heel. “Now we’re getting to the truth of it. You don’t give a fig for the interior. All you’re interested in is the possibility of a good match.”

  Miranda nodded. “Yes.”

  “To repeat. Cold, Miranda. Very cold.”

  “One has to be, dear. You’ll find out when it’s your turn. And goodness knows there are enough of us to marry off. If Mama is delivered of another girl…”

  Portia nodded. “Yes, that’s true. That would make five girls. Poor Papa. At least he has Richard and Oswin.” She watched her sister rise from her chair and shake out the skirts of her pretty blue gown. “Will you take the new steam carriage?”

  “No.” Miranda shook her head. “I think I’ll use the more traditional way for my first visit. Perhaps if any of the young gentlemen are interested in the mechanical developments made by our family, then I’ll be inspired to use more of them in their presence. But for now…”

  “You’ll play it smart and check the lie of the land.”

  Miranda nodded. “A bit militaristic, but in essence correct.” She flashed a last glance in the mirror and straightened her necklace. “Well. Will I do?”

  Portia sighed. “Of course. You don’t need me to tell you. You’re perfection, Miranda. Absolute bloody perfection.”

  Chapter 3

  Devon Harbury was exhausted.

  By his reckoning, and the vague comments of the staff around him, he’d been in his particular hell for almost eight hours.

  Even his eyebrows ached.

  He knew there would be bruises around his wrists and ankles where he’d strained against the leather straps, and there would be angry welts on his body where they’d attached their wires and clamps.

  It was torture, no two ways about it. But it wasn’t a quest for information or a desire to make him reveal secrets to an enemy army. Which was fortunate, since Devon hadn’t a secret buried in his brain anywhere at all. In fact at this point, he wasn’t at all sure he had much of a brain left.

  The thin blanket on the ancient pallet did little to cushion his bruised and aching flesh, but anything was better than the agony he’d just endured. However, it would seem he’d pleased the scientists because his food had just arrived, featuring a sizeable chunk of fresh bread.

  There’d been other trays going past his cell, telling him that he’d not been the only one on a table and not the only one receiving a decent meal this evening.

  Slowly, with excruciating care, he reached out and snagged the bread, lifting it to his mouth and sniffing the aroma, inhaling as if it were the finest perfume. To him, it was. A tiny mouthful stimulated his salivary glands, which stung harshly. But it was a good pain, a reminder that his abused body was still functioning, his need for sustenance real, and that he would survive to think, plan and work out a way to escape.

  Thus far, his ideas hadn’t proved fruitful, but as he managed to sit up and eat more of the bread, hope returned.

  There were fresh tomatoes as well, he noted. Truly they were offering him a feast tonight.

  Something clicked in his brain. Of course. It must be the height of summer, which would mean not only garden fresh vegetables from the Harbury greenhouses, but also the Mechanical Ball. His mind skittered over memories of machines, ball gowns, beautiful women with most of their bodies on display and the heat lightning that had turned the entire Conservatory into a sparkling wonderland one year.

  The food seemed to fill not just his empty stomach, but also his mental reservoir as his thoughts clicked into place. He’d been on the table to provide energies, energies used for something at that ball.

  That would explain the elongated session and the relatively rich reward at the end of it all.

  The question was, exactly what had he powered?

  And as always, he ran into that damn wall that always arose when he pursued this avenue of cogitation.

  How the hell did it all work?

  *~~*~~*

  He couldn’t know that the same question crossed Emily Warren’s mind as she strolled down past the giant snaking pipelines and the various control panels that operated the level below, where the inmates were housed.

  They were of no interest to her, but she did pass them from time to time. Most were quiescent, some staring absently into space. Occasionally one or two would shout or scream.

  She was used to it, viewing that level as the true asylum, feeling a modicum of pity for the poor souls, and a sense of righteousness that they were receiving some humane attention.

  There were other places, other Bedlams. And what she’d heard of them…well it didn’t bear thinking about.

  One of the patients looked relatively sane, his eyes dark, his hair long and brown. His unshaven face was oddly familiar, but she guessed that her occasional visits to that floor had created an image she recognized in her mind. She was pretty fast in picking up a lot of the theory behind the professional language use
d by the scientists.

  And even better in selecting candidates for Matthew’s work. She’d do anything for him. She had done, as a matter of fact. Disposing of bodies was relatively simple if one had access to the right equipment.

  Here at Harbury, that equipment was on the seventh level. All she needed to do was load up the remains into one of the service carts, wheel it onto a pallet in a recessed area, pull a lever, and watch as it cranked down through the large carved space to the appropriate floor. It was less of an elevator-type device and more of an oversized dumb waiter. The entire system was automated, she’d been told. No prying eyes were ever involved.

  The cart would connect with a small interior cog railway track, empty itself into the specially designed fuel feel shaft, pass through a decontaminating shower bath and reappear, spotlessly clean, at the cart assembly area on Level One. Shortly afterward, she’d hear the distant humming sound of the burners surging into full throttle, the generators would produce a little extra current, and any water she drew would be boiling hot.

  And she would smile.

  It had worked flawlessly for the corpses she’d requisitioned while assisting Dr. Henderson. More than a few experiments required human parts, she’d learned. The one assistant who handled supplies didn’t view her paperwork for the heads of young women as anything out of the ordinary.

  Of course, they couldn’t exactly be requisitioned from any regular scientific merchant and that problem must have been a real challenge a few generations before. But there was no lack of undertakers willing to compromise ethics and morality for a sizeable purse.

  The deceased would arrive discreetly, just after dark, and disappear beneath the surface of the earth, usually the same day their empty coffin had also vanished into the ground at their funeral.

  It was, when one thought about it, oddly symmetric. But Emily no longer thought about it at all.