Destruction (Asylum for the Mechanically Insane Book 2) Page 4

  Silence fell for a few moments as Del poured Vivienne a glass of sherry and offered it. “You’ve changed.”

  “As have you.” She took the sherry.

  “But I’d still like to have you, naked, right now. Right this minute.”

  She sipped her sherry and then lifted her chin, a drop of the liquor glistening on that full lower lip that always drove him mad.

  “For the right price, you can, Del.” She sipped again, her gaze sliding away from his.

  “I hate this.” His fingers tightened on his glass. “I need to talk to you. I have so many questions…”

  At that inopportune moment, the dinner bell rang and Thakur Sahib broke off his conversation to join them.

  “Fleet Commander. A pleasure, sir.”

  “For me too, sir.” Del bowed.

  The Indian held out his arm, angling it toward Vivienne. “Shall we go in?”

  She put her barely touched sherry down on the tray. “Of course.”

  Walking behind them, Del found his gaze following her curves down over the elegantly gathered bustle of her gown. She’d not changed much from this angle, still as sleek as a racehorse, tall with a graceful stride that always reminded him of a self-confident Arabian mare pacing the fields.

  Her soft brown hair was in a simple but suitable style, a few tendrils loose and touching the high ruffle at the back of her neck.

  Her arm, linked with her companion’s, was quite proper, not too familiar or too distant.

  And yet Del knew she was the Indian’s mistress.

  The knowledge pained him but came as no surprise. He’d heard rumors two years after they’d parted. A lovely woman, they said. An ex-society beauty left destitute with nowhere to turn.

  So sad, they said, but what else can a woman do but find a rich protector?

  It had been no more than gossip at some party or other in Paris, but Del had known a moment of unease, then a certainty in his gut that they were talking of Vivienne. He confirmed it within the month.

  Part of his heart had cracked at that moment, because he realized he’d always hoped to see her again. To make her his own, and permanently this time. To recapture those moments they’d stolen from their respective lives to be together, to laugh, to love…

  He’d always hoped she’d be free when they met once more, but a few further inquiries revealed the sad story. She’d wed Lord Foley, a dissolute and, some said, slightly mad roué. He’d shot himself over his gambling losses and left her penniless, but in a vicious twist of fate, had included her name amongst the list of his possessions. The lawyers were outraged but could do nothing when her late husband had willed his wife to a neighbor to settle one of his debts. Vivienne’s family was gone and there was no one to contest the will - it was a matter of honor.

  Sadly, not hers.

  From that moment on it was an inevitable path…to here, Del supposed. To the bedroom of an Indian nabob.

  To the seat across the table from him at a dinner which seemed endless.

  He barely noticed that the host, Lord Harbury, hadn’t put in an appearance, but given the mystery of his “disfigurement” and consequent ill health, Del wasn’t really surprised.

  Nor did he care one whit. Lady Alwynne carried the evening admirably on the force of her personality and her looks, both of which triumphed in spades. But his attention was all on the quietly graceful woman opposite, and her every move registered on his brain with a little shock of recognition.

  The years vanished and it seemed like yesterday when they’d stolen away from some afternoon gathering and found themselves naked in paradise.

  She had been enjoying a season—her second—and her family was pushing her into considering marriage to one of several candidates. She was, after all, getting on in years. Twenty was considered on the shelf and a single woman was viewed as nearing social failure status.

  Vivienne had never cared. She’d forged a path through the parties and the façade of mannered silliness, preferring a laugh that was genuine and people who were interesting rather than appropriate.

  He was interesting. And the interest was returned. Especially when they were both naked on a chaise in a secluded boudoir, lost in each other, sweating and moaning as he took everything she offered and gave back more than he knew he should.

  He could still remember the scent of her, the taste of her, the feel of her body and her sex, slick with passion. He’d learned the meaning of desire with this woman, only to wake a few weeks into their association and learn she’d gone.

  Without a word. She had left London, nobody knew where, and his orders had arrived the following day, depriving him of the chance to pursue her.

  He’d made the choice to put her behind him and had devoted himself to his career until the accident. Even then he’d not thought of her. He’d become very adept at picking and choosing the memories he allowed into his head.

  Most men who had served on the front lines and seen active duty understood that talent.

  But now he was hard, his cock remembering so much more without permission. Perhaps it was the way her hair glowed with little touches of fire in the candlelight, or the way her eyes smiled every now and again when something amused her. She was flawless in her manner and her behavior, an oasis of calm control when compared to the others.

  Only Alwynne Harbury outshone her, but then again she had the resources to make that possible. Mrs. Stanton-Foley could be no more than a weak second if put up against her Ladyship.

  It was quite clear that Vivienne was there at Thakur Sahib’s side, a convenience of course, and a loose association that did her no good whatsoever. He loathed that thought, but the tiny bits and pieces of information that had found their way to him over the years left him unsurprised.

  Sad and disappointed in many ways, but unsurprised.

  Her relationship with the Indian was thinly veiled, and Del silently applauded Lady Harbury for her tolerance. Of course, given the eccentricity of their host, he should’ve expected it.

  He’d learned they’d be returning the next day for a prolonged weekend visit. Being part of a few of the meetings, he was looking forward to some productive conversations with the engineers. He wasn’t that sure about Ringwood, since he knew next to nothing about thonirium.

  But Del knew a lot about Mrs. Stanton-Foley. And it was a given that there was quite a bit more he didn’t know, such as what she’d been doing for the last seven years.

  He would make it a priority to find out.

  But for now, he had to join the gentlemen for that after-dinner ritual of brandy and cigars.

  Since Lord Harbury was nowhere to be seen, it might well fall to him, as a temporary resident, to lead the conversation.

  He sighed.

  Sometimes warfare was a hell of a lot easier than this social stuff.

  Chapter 5

  Portia watched the mechanical carriage puff its way up the driveway toward the entrance to Harbury Hall.

  Her duties finished and her evening meal concluded, she’d taken advantage of her free hour to stroll in the setting sun. The others chuckled, ready to sit back with a cuppa, some pudding, and gossip.

  Not Mary Jones. No, Mary liked to get her exercise—because obviously she didn’t get enough runnin’ up and down them stairs with buckets and brooms all day.

  Mary Jones simply giggled and said she liked a bit of fresh air since she was out of it all day long.

  They shrugged and “Mary” took her leave with a cheery wave.

  Portia gave the same cheery wave to “Mary” as she closed the door to the Harbury Laboratories behind her and took a deep breath of cleansing air. She was indeed going for a walk, a brisk walk of less than half a mile to a small clearing she’d discovered shortly after becoming Mary and taking up residence in a small community of laboratory servants.

  The walk took her quite near the front drive so she had an excellent view of the guests arriving, for some kind of dinner party, most probably.

  No
impact on her, of course. The staff of the Hall was quite deliberately kept separate from those who worked in the laboratories. Different kinds of cleaning, and maintenance.

  Very different.

  Portia’s pace accelerated as soon as she knew she was out of sight of anyone at Harbury, and within a few minutes she’d reached the clearing and the man seated on a log, enjoying what looked like an evening pipe.

  “’Allo, James.” She crossed the bit of grass and sat down beside him. “Luverly evenin’, ain’t it?”

  “Cheeky girl. That’s Inspector Burke to you.” He grinned around his pipe.

  “Oh come on.” She elbowed him none too gently, making him grunt. “I’m your spy, remember? I’m keeping in character and I’m allowed to take liberties.”

  Burke sighed. “That is a complete fallacy. You are assisting my investigation in a small way by observing. Not spying. I thought we were clear on that.”

  “Oh we are,” she answered breezily. “Quite clear. I decided to ignore it.”

  He shook his head and then laughed. “I can see I won’t win this discussion so let’s move on.” He glanced down at her. “Firstly, is everything all right with you? No problems?”

  “Only a growing case of maid’s hands.” She held hers out and studied the backs. “I will have to resort to something horrid, soon, I’m sure. Borrow one of the maid’s homemade creams, maybe.” She sighed dramatically.

  “Right. Are you done yet?”

  She grinned. “I think so.”

  “Then tell me about those explosions.”

  Her expression immediately turned somber. “I know very little, and I did try, Mr. Burke. Really. All I could learn was that they came from the fifth level down.”

  “Who works there, do you know?”

  She frowned. “We never hear names, or at least not very often. They’re a damned secretive lot. But I did catch a reference to Ringwood.”

  “Ringwood? Down by Southampton?”

  “Or a person perhaps? I am sorry, I don’t know.”

  “It’s all right.” He patted her arm. “Every little thing helps, you know that.”

  “Well, here’s something else that I’m sure I probably got wrong—I heard one of the assistants the other night. He’d had a bit of brandy or something and he and his friend were coming in, past my room.”

  “They don’t give you any trouble, do they?” He sat up and looked at her intently. “You must leave if they do, Portia. I’d never forgive myself—“

  “No, no. Nobody bothers with me. I’m too skinny to be of interest.” She shrugged. “But never mind that. What I wanted to tell you was a word I heard. The drunk man was babbling about something so hot.” She felt her cheeks color. “He used a word that I really shouldn’t say.” She waved a hand. “You probably don’t need to know it anyway, but that’s how drunk he was. He kept saying ‘hot stuff, that…blankety-blank’…” She took a breath. “…theminium? Something like that? He was babbling and slurring his words. It made no sense.”

  Silence fell for a few moments, the light rustle of the forest preparing for the night the only sounds around them.

  “Could it have been thonirium?”

  She blinked. “Yes, it definitely could have been. What on earth is that?”

  “That, my dear, is one of our government’s worst nightmares and greatest hopes.”

  She thought for a moment. “I thought that was the Prime Minister.”

  A surprised guffaw erupted from his throat. “You are the funniest girl.” He continued to laugh for a minute or two, and then took a breath. “All right. Thonirium is a brand new explosive.”

  “Like gunpowder?”

  “Not at all.” He stared into the distance. “This stuff is so very different to anything I’ve heard about before. And I know little enough. It’s all top secret, but there’s not much privacy in the privvies of Whitehall. Men talk. Anyway,” he shrugged, “this stuff is incredibly powerful and it only takes a tiny amount to do a lot of damage. Detonation was a big problem, so perhaps the Harbury Laboratories have someone working on that.”

  She swallowed. “A tiny amount?”

  “Yes. It can be controlled, I understand. You can pretty much decide exactly what you want to blow up without going much further.”

  “So if you wanted to destroy a laboratory but not the whole facility…?”

  “Thonirium would do the trick, I believe.”

  “Damn.” Portia leaned forward, her forearms on her thighs as she turned it all over in her mind. “It fits. I wondered how an explosion that big didn’t do more damage. The floor below was wrecked, and there was a lot of dust and grit everywhere for a while, but overall? No, the only damage was to the Henderson laboratory. He and his assistant were killed, as you know.”

  “It’s a very frightening thing, Portia. If you have any suspicions at all that you’re anywhere near this, you get out as fast as you can.” He put his hand over hers. “You must promise me this, or I’ll take you right back home to Chase Park this minute. Over my shoulder if I have to.”

  Portia knew this was no idle threat. She’d had to do some fast and fancy talking to get Inspector Burke to agree to this arrangement, and he’d done so unwillingly. Thus far, he’d cooperated in her little charade, helping to keep her family unaware of her situation, and meeting her like this on a regular basis for his own satisfaction as to her welfare, and for her informative observations of Harbury Hall.

  Both felt there was something wrong there.

  Portia’s sister was gone, and she knew somewhere deep inside that this facility had played a role. From the strangely frightening Lord Harbury himself to the oddly silent and menacing staff members she’d seen now and again, the whole place just screamed wrong to her.

  She knew Inspector Burke shared her sentiments, since otherwise he’d never have agreed to this harebrained plan. But possibly it was paying off.

  “I must go.” She realized dusk was upon them. It would be dark soon and she wanted to be indoors by then.

  “Yes.” He stood and gave her a fatherly hug. “Be careful, Portia. I mean it.”

  “I will.”

  “I’m going to be around a little more, I think. You won’t see much of me, but I’ll be here.”

  “That’s good to know.” She smiled at him. “Thank you for trusting me.”

  “Imp.” He hugged her again. “Go now. I’ll see you next week if not before.”

  “Yes sir.” She dropped him a cheeky curtsey and darted off, knowing she’d have to keep up a solid run to make it back to the Hall.

  She was panting when she got there, but her ruddy cheeks got little more than a teasing comment about more than enough fresh air from one of the other maids.

  She merely smiled and headed off to her room.

  She still hadn’t mentioned Devon Harbury to Inspector Burke.

  One thing at a time, Portia my girl. One thing at a time.

  *~~*~~*

  It was late. Very late.

  At least it seemed so to Devon, whose awareness of night and day was rather limited by his incarceration on Level Four.

  But the schedule had become a bit more predictable, so he knew that something was going on when his “keeper” arrived, armed with the jab-stick. It had been a while since he’d felt that rapid and agonizing sting, since it was damned unpleasant and he’d finally learned that acquiescence was the best course of action.

  For now.

  So he didn’t resist as he was urged to his feet, out the door and down the hallway to the staircase. He guessed the lift was still being repaired, which made sense given the rubble that was only slowly being cleared away.

  Unfortunately it seemed that Level Seven was on the way to being restored. At least the lab portion was semi-usable.

  Six of them were being shepherded in, six inmates, prisoners of a strange and unpleasant taskmaster. As to who was running this program, Devon had no clue. He and his unfortunate fellows were strapped to tables, naked, a
nd their genitals were encased in large devices that proceeded to arouse each man to his full capacity.

  Devon had finally realized that it was an energy-harvesting system; he was possessed of a gift, a strong psychic gift, and just before Level Seven had suffered severe damage from an explosion, he had managed to put the pieces together and understand the overall setup. The function, or the science requiring such energies—well, that was beyond him.

  Portia had hazarded a guess that perhaps that sort of psychic energy possessed a strong psychic component of its own, something that would uniquely affect the processes for which it was used.

  It was a damn good supposition, and Devon had devoted quite a bit of thought to that premise since she’d mentioned it. But even so, he was at a loss to conclude anything logically useful.

  He was frustrated, as he had been for so long. A captive in the underground facility beneath the home he should have been enjoying. Caught like a rat, helpless and deprived of anything resembling humanity, it wasn’t until Portia arrived on the scene that a tiny light of hope began to flicker in his heart.

  He’d tried to escape of course.

  He’d paid the price several times, both in pain and in injuries. Most had healed. His finger would never grow back, though.

  That one had pretty much killed his desperate need to flee, although he never truly stopped looking for a chance.

  Now, thanks to one courageous young woman with a fascinating mind and a spirit that all but glowed in the dark, he was rediscovering his own brain, planning, wondering, observing and waiting for another chance to brush her mind with his.

  As he was led into the torture chamber that masqueraded as a scientific laboratory, he thought of her puckish smile.

  As they stripped him and fastened the clamps to his wrists and ankles, he thought of the way her eyes lit up when she had an interesting idea to share.

  And as they clamped the jar-like device to his cock, he thought of perhaps one day lying with her, teaching her the good things about men’s bodies and the pleasure they could bring.