Lips pursed in concentration, she examined him for further bruising. While she worked, he studied her. He'd known she was tall, and obviously slender, but he hadn't fully appreciated her graceful curves. The rounded breasts, now at eye level, as she tended to his wound, had much to say for themselves. As did her trim hips. Nor was her face lacking in beauty. Lively, intelligent eyes, and surprisingly lush lips that curled in a most pleasing, most kissable manner.
Edison flexed his bruised knuckles. He shouldn't want to kiss her. The woman had made it clear his presence was an imposition. Still, a man couldn’t help but imagine. Her perfume alone would be a potent secret weapon. It must render every man she crossed all but useless. It certainly scrambled his own brain.
She straightened and tossed the pink-stained cloth down on the tabletop. “That incendiary device was quite well done. Magnesium? With a touch of potassium nitrate?”
Her question shocked him, blowing away the lazy tendrils of desire coiling in his belly. “Exactly.”
Her delicate nose wrinkled. “How do you keep the magnesium stable? It has a poor shelf life.”
“Linseed oil.” Edison blinked slowly. Could he be in a dream? He’d never met a woman so knowledgeable—or so interested—in his work.
She smiled. “Of course. The oil stabilizes the burn, prolongs the flash.”
“Quite well.” He sat up, fascinated by her pensive expression. “Adds at least twenty percent to the burn time.”
When she smiled, her dark eyes twinkled delightfully. "A lovely color as well. How did you achieve that deep lilac?”
Edison allowed a satisfied grin to curve his lips. “Saltpeter. And a touch of strontium. Deepens the color.”
“Right. It would do, wouldn’t it?”
For a heartbeat, he felt as if they truly connected, one science-minded soul to another. And then her expression darkened.
She grabbed up the dirty cloth and backed away from him, as if she’d gotten a whiff of sewer gas. "I'll get the kettle on, shall I?"
The pump squeaked as she filled the kettle. The stove clanked sharply as she set it down. Two mugs thunked down on the table in front of him.
Then silence. Eyelids lowered to disguise his interest, Edison watched her flit about the kitchen. For a woman with an investigative mind, her moods were more changeable than he would have expected. He folded his arms over his chest, content to appreciate the graceful sway of her hips beneath the thin wrapper.
Whatever the cause, the energy in the room had shifted. Living with two driven women himself, he knew a thing or two about the sensibility of silence. Edison stretched his legs out toward the warmth of the stove and waited.
“I didn't ask you to stay,” she said, as she poured the tea. “In point of fact, I made myself quite clear. I don't need your assistance."
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.