Asher's Dilemma Page 3

  “At least they can be redone.”

  “That’s not the end of it. My house has been burgled several times, and despite my extra security measures I haven’t been able to catch the thief.”

  Minerva glanced at the costly furnishings around her. “You do have some beautiful things in your home.”

  Asher shook his head. “The criminal took none of the real valuables, but my clothes, some spare cash and even some of my correspondence.” His frown deepened. “Perhaps this bandit is the one who has been writing to you, masquerading as me. Is that possible?”

  She thought of some of the more ardent passages in the letters, and her cheeks warmed. “No thief could possibly know of certain, um, intimacies that only you could be aware of.”

  He said not a word, but the dubious expression he wore spoke volumes. Indignation surged in her. She had come here in good faith. Granted, society did not approve of an unwed woman visiting a single man on her own, but the bond between her and Asher was stronger than these artificial rules. At least, she used to think that. Now, she was unsure. The Asher who eyed her now with such wariness was almost a stranger to her.

  A distant clock in the hallway chimed the quarter hour. It seemed to galvanize Asher into action. He pulled out his fob-watch to consult the time, and his frown deepened as though he was all too aware of the time he was wasting because of her. Pocketing his watch, he approached her with a purposeful air.

  “We’ll get to the bottom of these mysterious letters, but in the meantime I must beg your pardon as I have another engagement very soon.”

  His politeness stung her even further, leaving her in little doubt he wanted to get rid of her with all possible haste. She reared to her feet, ignoring the sudden spinning of her head. “How rude of me to keep you waiting. Good day, Asher.” She swept out of the room, her only wish to quit his house with some dignity left intact.

  Asher followed her into the hallway as Cheeves materialized like the good butler he was to open the door for her. “Cheeves will hail you a coach.”

  “No need.” Minerva held her head high. “I’m quite capable of doing that myself.”

  Spine ramrod straight, she walked away from the house with all the composure she could muster, which was precious little. By the time she reached the corner of the street, her back was aching from the effort and the dizziness had not yet subsided. She held on to the iron railing of a garden fence as the disaster of her visit rolled over her in a bilious wave.

  Instead of being delighted and overjoyed, Asher had been cold, distant and even suspicious. She couldn’t understand it. Had the pressure of his work become too much for him? Could he possibly write letters to her and then subsequently have no memory of them? It didn’t seem feasible. Asher Quigley was many things but never forgetful.

  The rumble of a passing carriage caught her attention. Glancing up, she saw the carriage come to a halt directly outside Asher’s house. The smartly polished brougham, drawn by a pair of glossy chestnuts, piqued Minerva’s curiosity. Was this the prior engagement Asher had referred to?

  The driver opened the carriage door and a female figure stepped out. The elegance of the woman took Minerva’s breath away. Her fur-lined cloak flapped open in the wind to reveal an exquisite black-and-ivory silk ensemble. Her black full-brimmed hat and fine veil obscured her features from view, but everything about her hinted at her beauty. With a sinuous, almost Oriental grace the woman glided into Asher’s house, her feet barely seeming to touch the ground.

  The constriction around Minerva’s chest tightened. So this was why Asher had bundled her out of his house so unceremoniously. A burning sensation scorched her stomach. It took her a moment to realize she was jealous, furiously jealous of the mysterious woman in black and ivory. She’d never thought herself capable of such passion—she was English, for goodness sake—but the thought of Asher paying his attentions to this woman made her livid.

  The rough wind stung her eyes and tormented her clothes, but she squared her shoulders and brushed her eyes impatiently. Once upon a time she would have meekly skulked away, but not anymore. Now, she was ready to fight for Asher, whether he wanted her to or not.

  * * *

  Alone in the parlor, Asher leaned one hand against the mantelpiece and pressed the other to his abdomen, feeling as though he’d been gored. Easier to have faced a charging bull than to remain composed in front of Minerva. God’s teeth, why had she turned up so unexpectedly? And why did she have to look so damned ravishing? Hadn’t she tortured him enough these past weeks since she’d flung his marriage proposal back in his face? He gritted his teeth against the ache. He would not make himself vulnerable to her again.

  His thoughts were still in turmoil when Cheeves announced his second caller of the afternoon. With Minerva fresh in his mind, it came as an extra ordeal when his visitor lifted her veil to reveal her remarkable face.

  “Mrs. Nemo.” He bowed over her gloved and perfumed hand.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Quigley.” Her voice was husky smoke, deeper than most women’s.

  “Herr Schick could not come?”

  “Unfortunately, no. You know how reclusive my associate is. He sent me in his stead.”

  Asher nodded, hiding his disappointment.

  Mrs. Nemo tilted her head, a small dimple appearing in her flawless cheek. “You’re disappointed to see only me? I can assure you I’m more than capable of satisfying you.”

  He swallowed, the suggestive nature of her address clashing violently with his knowledge of who she really was. When he’d realized who she must be—her remarkable resemblance offered only one plausible explanation—his initial instinct had been to flee, but he needed her. Or, more precisely, he needed access to Klaus Schick’s analytical machine, the only one of its kind in all of England. And if Schick had deputed Mrs. Nemo, then Asher would have to deal with her. He suspected Mrs. Nemo was Schick’s mistress, though she was not like any mistress Asher had ever encountered. She lived openly with the German mathematician and appeared not the least bit embarrassed of the fact. With her bewitching looks and polished manners she could have attracted the protection of a wealthy aristocrat or prince, so it was a bit of a mystery to Asher why she’d chosen a brilliant but unprepossessing mathematician with a murky past.

  “I only hope I’m up to the task of conveying my requirements,” Asher said as diplomatically as possible.

  Mrs. Nemo eyed him boldly. “You look like a man up to any challenge.”

  For a second he was too nonplussed to answer. This was the first time he’d met the enigmatic lady in private. On previous occasions he’d been aware of her interest in him, but he’d not expected her to be so forward. He was not unaccustomed to female attention, but this woman’s flattery grated and disconcerted him.

  “I’m referring to the complexities of my algorithms,” he answered in a stiff enough manner to rebuff her.

  “Have no fear.” Mrs. Nemo took out notebook and pencil, all business-like now. “I’m well versed in mathematics, and I operate the analytical machine myself.”

  “You do?” He couldn’t stop his eyebrows from lifting.

  She slid him another arch half-smile. “You think women are incapable of anything more complicated than needlework?”

  “Not at all.” Immediately he thought of Minerva and her clever contraptions for replacing lost limbs. Minerva’s inventions were practical and useful, whereas his latest was the stuff of fantasy. “I merely assumed Herr Schick was particular about his analytical machine.”

  “He is most particular about Hedwig. Apart from him, I’m the only one allowed near her.”

  “Hedwig?”

  “He christened the machine after his mother.” Mrs. Nemo lifted her delicate shoulders as if to express her incomprehension at such Teutonic whimsy. “Now. Shall we get down to business? What calculations do you wish Hedwig to perform for you?”

  Asher sat his visitor down at a table and drew forward a wad of paper covered in mathematical algor
ithms. As he went through them with Mrs. Nemo, he found his enthusiasm quickening. The loss of his manual calculations in the workshop fire had been a serious blow to him, but Schick’s analytical machine promised a fast solution. After examining his equations for some time, Mrs. Nemo declared that Hedwig would take no more than a few days to compute the data.

  Asher could scarcely hide his excitement. All his weeks of laborious computations to be replicated in just a few days? It seemed too good to be true. “And you can guarantee the accuracy of the results?” he asked. “Down to the third decimal place? It’s very important. Any error could result in serious injury, even death.”

  Mrs. Nemo cast him a calculating look. “What are you building that requires such accuracy?”

  Instantly he was on his guard. “Oh, it’s just a variation on a Faraday generator. Nothing special.”

  “Such modesty, but I must warn you, Mr. Quigley, your reputation precedes you.” The lady graced him with a beguiling smile. “I’ve heard such tales about you and your marvelous inventions.” Leaning forward, she tapped his knee with her pencil. “I’ve even heard it mentioned that you’ve managed to unlock the power of the aethersphere. Now that would be incredible.”

  He stilled in shock, her cloying perfume befuddling his brain. Nothing could be kept secret, especially not in the rarefied world of scientific discovery. Money, power and self-aggrandizement would always win out. Besides, Minerva’s father had already defrauded investors with the promise of his perpetual motion machine. The concept was public knowledge. But surely no one but himself knew the real discovery he’d unlocked within his machine?

  He couldn’t be too careful. For all he knew Herr Schick and possibly even Mrs. Nemo were responsible for the fire in his workshop.

  Asher cleared his throat. “I have gone some way in demonstrating the potential of the aethersphere,” he prevaricated, “but nothing more.”

  “Ah, the fabled aethersphere.” Mrs. Nemo was still gazing at him, and now fervor shone in her wide eyes. “The stuff that binds the universe together. I’ve read so much about it. Tell me, Mr. Quigley, are you of the school of thought that believes absolute time exists in the aethersphere? That a person, once inside the aethersphere, is freed from relative time and can therefore travel through time? Can, in fact, travel back in time?”

  He couldn’t drag his gaze away from her. Her musky scent coiled around him like sickly sweet incense, her hypnotic eyes seemed to paralyze him, and it felt as if his will was being sucked out of him like a giant mosquito drawing out his blood.

  Light perspiration broke out beneath his collar as he pushed away from her. “Really, Mrs. Nemo. That speculation is better left to novelists, don’t you think?”

  Slowly her eyes narrowed, shrewdness replacing her fervor. “Perhaps you would show me this ‘variation on a Faraday generator’ you’re so keen to complete.”

  He couldn’t mistake the skepticism in her tone. “I’m afraid that’s impossible at the moment. My workshop is, er, disorganized at the moment.”

  “But all these calculations you require.” She gestured towards the papers strewn across the table. “I’m not sure Herr Schick would approve of Hedwig being used for a mere generator.”

  Asher hesitated. Her message was clear. If he thwarted Mrs. Nemo’s curiosity, he wouldn’t gain access to the analytical machine. But he couldn’t afford to spend several weeks re-doing his calculations. The suspicious fire and burglaries were warning enough that his discovery was in danger. The only safe thing to do was to finish it as quickly as possible.

  “Very well,” he said. “I shall arrange for you and Herr Schick to tour my workshop in a week’s time.” He paused, then added, “Once you have my results.”

  A satisfied smile sparkled across Mrs. Nemo’s face. She readjusted her veil over her features and swept up the papers into her arms. “Then I must away. Hedwig will be clanking away this evening.”

  Asher bid his visitor farewell, trying to squash the feeling that he’d just struck a deal with the devil herself.

  Chapter Three

  If landing unannounced on Asher’s doorstep had been foolhardy, then shadowing his visitor was, quite possibly, outright lunacy. But Minerva was not in her usual frame of mind. Mild spells of dizziness continued to haunt her as her hire carriage rattled in the wake of the handsome brougham. While Asher had entertained his female caller, Minerva had hailed down a cab and waited at the end of the street until the woman re-emerged some thirty minutes later. Now, the two carriages joined the bustling traffic on the high street for some miles, eventually turning off onto a quieter street. Here, the houses were well-kept and prosperous, though not as grand as Asher’s Kensington address.

  The brougham halted outside a white stucco-and-brick terrace. Minerva signaled to her driver to stop some distance away and watched as the passenger entered the house. She surveyed the environs, noting the shining windows and scrubbed steps of the terrace row. This was a respectable neighborhood. Most likely Asher’s visitor was a relative, and she was piling blunder upon blunder to imagine anything more disreputable. But the feeling that something was very amiss continued to nag at her like a toothache.

  Finally, after ten minutes of indecision, she exited the carriage and paid the driver. Her heart rate sped up as she approached the steps leading up to Number Four. She had no idea what she would say, but, determined to forge ahead, she pressed the bell with a firm hand. As she frantically hunted for a valid reason to explain her presence, nature took matters out of her hands. A wave of faintness washed over her, and she felt herself swaying just as the door opened. Through the grayness fogging her vision she heard a servant enquiring her business.

  “I beg your pardon,” she managed to whisper. “I’m not feeling well at all.”

  The maid exclaimed before drawing her inside and ushering her into a dim, quiet room where Minerva allowed herself to be seated in a comfortable armchair.

  “Thank you,” she said gratefully, but the maid had already dashed from the room, no doubt to alert her mistress. Minerva’s faintness slowly dissolved away. She lifted her head and glanced around her, curious as to the type of home the mysterious woman kept. The furnishings were decidedly Continental, from the French-style writing desk, to the German porcelain clock gracing the mantelpiece. Heavy damask curtains cut out most of the failing afternoon light, and the gas lamps flickered low.

  A soft step on the threshold and a rustle of silk was all the warning she had. Turning, she saw the woman who had visited Asher enter the room. It could only be her. There was no mistaking the dramatic black-and-ivory dress or the woman’s poise. This time, there was no obscuring hat or veil. Instead, the woman wore her abundant fair hair piled high upon her face, a face which became strikingly familiar as she glided forward.

  The room was dim, the light fickle. The woman’s face seemed to waver in the dusk. Minerva blinked several times, trying to clear her vision, and wondered if her near faint was playing tricks with her mind.

  “Madam, forgive me,” Minerva blurted out, “but you remind me so much of my mother that—” She gulped, sick with disbelief. “Could it be you are my mother?”

  The woman stilled. Minerva’s eyes ached as she stared into a face almost as familiar as her own. The similarities were striking and unmistakable. It was like staring into the depths of time and seeing a reflection of herself a few decades from now. Same hair, eyes, bone structure—uncannily the same—yet different in a way that sent needles crawling down Minerva’s back.

  “My goodness.” The woman rolled out a cool little laugh. “Do I look old enough to be your mother? How unflattering.”

  “I didn’t mean—” Minerva broke off in confusion as the stranger’s voice riffled through her memories. Was that not her mother’s voice? “I beg your pardon, I meant no insult, but you bear an uncanny resemblance to my late mother.” She hesitated, then added, “And to myself too.”

  The woman drew closer, her silk skirts rustling like money. �
��Do tell me about your late mother,” she said in a honeyed tone.

  “She died while on a trip to the Continent when I was still a child. Influenza.” Minerva quivered at the memory. She’d been eight when without warning her mother had decided to winter on the Riviera. Seeing her mother tossing her clothes into a trunk, Minerva had begged to be taken along, vowing she would be on her best behavior. But as always her mother had been too busy to listen, had merely shaken her head and continued with her hurried packing. After she’d left, Minerva had waited in vain for a letter from her. Three months later came the news that she was dead.

  “How tragic,” the woman said. “And what became of you?”

  “My father took care of me. Silas Lambkin.” Minerva eyed the other woman closely, hoping the mention of her father would trigger some response, but the woman remained impassive. “There must be some explanation to this,” Minerva hurriedly added. “When my parents eloped, my mother was disowned by her family. Her name was Charlotte. I—I don’t know her family name, she never revealed that to me, but you must be a cousin of hers, surely?”

  “Must I?” The woman lifted her shoulders a fraction. “It’s been so long since I had contact with my family, I hardly remember all my many cousins, but perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I am a cousin of this Charlotte. Who knows?”

  At her detached tone, suspicion wormed in Minerva’s stomach. Any normal person would be curious about the possible link between them, but this woman was so indifferent Minerva couldn’t help wondering—was this woman in fact her supposedly dead mother? In the months leading up to her mother’s trip she remembered a coldness growing between her parents, accompanied by sharp, bitter exchanges, her mother disappearing for hours, sometimes all day. Could it be that her mother had left for the Continent with no intention of returning? That her father had lied to her about her mother’s death? That this elegant, sphinx-like woman was indeed her mother, a mother who had willingly and deliberately abandoned her?