Not bloody likely.
His jaw tensed. The muscles in his forearms ached with the effort it took not to flatten the liar’s delicate nose. He glared down at the brass arm he’d been assembling. He itched to bash the man over the head with it.
A sharp movement caught his attention. Meena was glaring at him, reminding him to behave. He scooped up the arm, and pretended fascination with the wires dangling out the end.
She gave him a minute nod, then smiled at their guest. “Well, Mr. Templeton—”
“Archie,” he interrupted, far too eagerly. “Call me Archie.”
Meena’s chest rose as she took in a great breath.
Edison smirked down at the brass joints of his mechanical arm. Now who wanted to wanted to do the smacking?
“Archie then.” She reached for her husband’s hand, twining her fingers with his. A look of concern passed between them before she finished. “This sounds like exactly the sort of problem we solve. We’ll need to do some research, after which we—”
“Research?” Archie bolted forward in his seat, as if outrage might shoot him right to his feet. “But I need it now.”
Only the tightness in Meena’s jaw betrayed her irritation. She leaned forward, taking the man’s pale hands in her own. Unlike Archie, she was an exquisite liar. She stared him straight in the face, exuding sincerity. “Give us some time. No doubt the forces who have taken it are highly placed. I’m not sure we can—”
“—find it quickly.” Edison jumped in. He willed her to understand where he was taking the conversation. “We’ll need some time find your item.”
“I understand.” Templeton shot to his feet. “I only pray you’ll turn all of your resources to my problem. It really is a matter of life and death.”
Edison shared a knowing look with his brother-in-law. They’d find out whose life and death.
Crane stood, and held his hand out to his wife, helping her to her feet. “Understood. We are nothing if not resourceful. Expect to hear from us soon.”
The man nodded curtly and strode out of the offices. Irritation trailed behind him like a foul smoke.
He wasn’t going to wait on their answer. He’d hire the first set of cheap thugs he could find to seize the invention.
Edison couldn’t let it rest. A warm, willing, wickedly inventive woman awaited, but he couldn’t let Templeton endanger some innocent man. He thrust the mechanical arm at Nelly and raced across the room for his own jacket.
“I’m going to find the real Templeton. And his device.” He pulled up the collar of his coat. “Then we’ll teach that little nob not to toy with the Restitution League.”
*
By the time Edison located the laboratory three days later, the weather had slipped firmly from summer into autumn. As he hurried down the darkened street toward the back of the property, he buttoned his overcoat against the evening chill.
Nestled in the back corner of the yard, the laboratory looked like an ordinary hot house. Constructed entirely of glass plates, the front doorway was ringed by a cheerful arch of wild roses. He hadn’t dared examine the place during the daylight, but the property most certainly belonged to an Archibald Templeton. The family had owned it for generations. It was a fashionable home in a fashionable part of the city. Its owner would have enough wealth—enough leisure time—to pursue any interest he wished.
It all fit.
Except the perfume.
A light floral scent, it was clearly detectable through the slight opening in the window. Odd that. The metallic tang of chemicals, he’d expected. Even a sour note of old sweat. Such could be forgiven in the heat of scientific discovery. But perfume?
Edison trotted along the lush hedge bordering the garden, careful to stay in the shadows. It was full dark now, the air sharp with coming cold.
He glanced at the house. Large windows faced the rear lawn. Though curtains were drawn against the night air, lamp light seeped through the seams at several windows. He detected no movement, no bustle of servants, no party guests. A fashionable home like this, the residents were likely off to a gala or a ball, maybe the theater. Left to themselves, the servants would have retired to their rooms to put up their feet.
A pocket knife made short work of the useless door lock. Edison shook his head. Perhaps this scientist had no idea the true value of his invention. Anyone who did would’ve hired guards. Well-armed guards.
Once inside, he pulled the door closed behind him. The small workshop was far enough from the house that using his police-issue lantern seemed an acceptable risk. He set aside the rucksack of smoke bombs and other distractions he’d brought in case he ran into unanticipated resistance, and lit the lantern, opening the shutter a sliver, risking just enough to discern shapes in the dark.
Two workbenches ran the length of the small building, each piled high with delicate laboratory equipment, much of it glass. Bottles and tubes and jars took up most of the available counter space. The air inside was cold, of course, but even so, he caught a whiff of that same perfume. It lingered around the benches, growing stronger near the stool where Templeton’s notes lay strewn across the only uncluttered surface.
It was delicate and feminine. Not strong, not designed to seize attention or inspire sensuality, like the languid, spicy aromas so many women favored. Especially women eager to seduce… or to be seduced.
He sniffed the still air again as if sampling a fine wine. Neither was it girlish or innocent. He had the fanciful notion that the woman who wore it knew what she was about.
Which had nothing whatsoever to do with his mission.
He snatched up a notebook and tilted it toward the meager light from his lantern. Feminine writing—bold and legible, but rounded enough to suggest a lady’s hand—filled the pages. Feeling foolish now, he set the book back down. Of course. The man’s wife assisted him. Nothing odd about that.
Edison scrunched his eyes shut. Never mind about the damned woman. He needed the notes and the battery device. Once he’d spirited those back to the league’s offices, they could decide how best to protect the scientist himself.
He rubbed a hand down the smooth page of the notebook. Even tracing his fingers over the sensuous writing stirred his blood. He gusted out a breath. Damnation, he’d need to see about a new paramour.
Sooner rather than later.
He tilted the journal back toward the sliver of light. Line after line of chemical symbols fill the page. He was no chemist, but he had picked up a passing knowledge of scientific notation. He recognized the symbols for chlorides and other substances necessary to create electrical power. He snapped the book shut.
The papers beneath it were a mix of more formulas, and some correspondence. All the letters were addressed to A. Templeton.