remains?” Ivy shuddered.
Lowbry cast a grave, and in Ivy’s opinion dramatic, glance around the table. “They say he hopes one day to . . . resurrect her. Like in that book. You all know the one I mean.”
“You know, it’s not that far-fetched,” said Spencer Yates. He blew a smoke ring into the air. “Luigi Galvani’s experiments on the nervous systems of frogs proved that movement is achieved by the flow of electrical charges between the nerves and the muscles.”
“Meaning what?” Ivy demanded. “Surely you’re not suggesting that the stuff of fiction can be intertwined with legitimate scientific—”
“Meaning,” the youth interrupted with an exaggerated pull of his mouth, “the heart is a muscle, and the Mad Marquess could very well be pumping electricity into his wife’s heart in an attempt to make it beat again.”
A chill slithered up Ivy’s spine.
Mr. Ascot broke the heavy fall of silence. “Bloody hell.”
“This would explain the flames and sparks people have seen shooting out over the house at night,” another of them said.
Nods circulated around the table.
Ivy brought her glass to her lips and drank deeply, remembering too late that the vessel contained foul-tasting brandy instead of a more reviving brew. Another fit of coughing erupted, but this time with the odd result of clearing her head and restoring her to rational thought.
“What you’re suggesting is pure insanity,” she said. She snapped a hand to her hip. “Surely so many students wouldn’t be vying for the opportunity to work with the man if they truly believed him mad.”
“Mad does not necessarily a murderer make,” Lowbry pointed out mildly. “As I said, he didn’t kill his wife. She died as a result of an accident, some sort of fall. Lord Harrow was away from home at the time.”
“How awful ...” A fist closed around Ivy’s heart.
She herself was no stranger to the sudden loss of loved ones. Her parents had died in the fire that claimed her childhood home many years ago. She had no precise memories of that day, only vague images of running, shouting, escaping the house with the flames at her heels. She and her sisters had been saved by the servants . . . but her parents . . . no one had ever been able to explain why only her parents had been trapped by the conflagration. . . .
“As to why so many are vying for the position,” Lowbry went on, “the man is a genius. His contributions to the field of electromagnetism are said to be inestimable. Besides, who wouldn’t seize the chance to work with a bona fide mad scientist?” Grinning broadly, he splashed more whiskey into his glass and raised it in a toast. “To the Mad Marquess of Harrow.”
“The Mad Marquess,” the others chimed in, all except Ivy. She felt ill again, and as though the walls were closing in on her.
University nonsense indeed. Had Victoria sent her to deal with a lunatic?
A pounding at the door made them all jump. With a quizzical look, Lowbry went to answer it.
“Lord Harrow!” he exclaimed, then quickly recovered his composure and stood aside. “Welcome, sir. To what do we owe the—”
“Sorry to barge in on you like this.” In a bound, the marquess crossed the threshold. Ivy’s pulse thudded at the sight of him, speeding to a frantic pace when he scanned their stunned faces and demanded, “Which one of you is Ivers?”
Chapter 4
F or several resounding ticks of the mantel clock, no one moved, no one spoke, no one dared to breathe. Then, one by one, the gazes of the others settled on Ivy as though she had just been accused of some shocking crime.
She glared an appeal to each of them. Hadn’t they taken her under their wing, made her part of their tight little group? Hadn’t she accepted their ribald jesting and vile-tasting spirits with good grace? Yet with hardly a blink they abandoned her, or so it seemed to Ivy, who now felt as conspicuous as a peacock in a snowdrift.
Her mind raced with questions.
Lowbry cast a grave, and in Ivy’s opinion dramatic, glance around the table. “They say he hopes one day to . . . resurrect her. Like in that book. You all know the one I mean.”
“You know, it’s not that far-fetched,” said Spencer Yates. He blew a smoke ring into the air. “Luigi Galvani’s experiments on the nervous systems of frogs proved that movement is achieved by the flow of electrical charges between the nerves and the muscles.”
“Meaning what?” Ivy demanded. “Surely you’re not suggesting that the stuff of fiction can be intertwined with legitimate scientific—”
“Meaning,” the youth interrupted with an exaggerated pull of his mouth, “the heart is a muscle, and the Mad Marquess could very well be pumping electricity into his wife’s heart in an attempt to make it beat again.”
A chill slithered up Ivy’s spine.
Mr. Ascot broke the heavy fall of silence. “Bloody hell.”
“This would explain the flames and sparks people have seen shooting out over the house at night,” another of them said.
Nods circulated around the table.
Ivy brought her glass to her lips and drank deeply, remembering too late that the vessel contained foul-tasting brandy instead of a more reviving brew. Another fit of coughing erupted, but this time with the odd result of clearing her head and restoring her to rational thought.
“What you’re suggesting is pure insanity,” she said. She snapped a hand to her hip. “Surely so many students wouldn’t be vying for the opportunity to work with the man if they truly believed him mad.”
“Mad does not necessarily a murderer make,” Lowbry pointed out mildly. “As I said, he didn’t kill his wife. She died as a result of an accident, some sort of fall. Lord Harrow was away from home at the time.”
“How awful ...” A fist closed around Ivy’s heart.
She herself was no stranger to the sudden loss of loved ones. Her parents had died in the fire that claimed her childhood home many years ago. She had no precise memories of that day, only vague images of running, shouting, escaping the house with the flames at her heels. She and her sisters had been saved by the servants . . . but her parents . . . no one had ever been able to explain why only her parents had been trapped by the conflagration. . . .
“As to why so many are vying for the position,” Lowbry went on, “the man is a genius. His contributions to the field of electromagnetism are said to be inestimable. Besides, who wouldn’t seize the chance to work with a bona fide mad scientist?” Grinning broadly, he splashed more whiskey into his glass and raised it in a toast. “To the Mad Marquess of Harrow.”
“The Mad Marquess,” the others chimed in, all except Ivy. She felt ill again, and as though the walls were closing in on her.
University nonsense indeed. Had Victoria sent her to deal with a lunatic?
A pounding at the door made them all jump. With a quizzical look, Lowbry went to answer it.
“Lord Harrow!” he exclaimed, then quickly recovered his composure and stood aside. “Welcome, sir. To what do we owe the—”
“Sorry to barge in on you like this.” In a bound, the marquess crossed the threshold. Ivy’s pulse thudded at the sight of him, speeding to a frantic pace when he scanned their stunned faces and demanded, “Which one of you is Ivers?”
Chapter 4
F or several resounding ticks of the mantel clock, no one moved, no one spoke, no one dared to breathe. Then, one by one, the gazes of the others settled on Ivy as though she had just been accused of some shocking crime.
She glared an appeal to each of them. Hadn’t they taken her under their wing, made her part of their tight little group? Hadn’t she accepted their ribald jesting and vile-tasting spirits with good grace? Yet with hardly a blink they abandoned her, or so it seemed to Ivy, who now felt as conspicuous as a peacock in a snowdrift.
Her mind raced with questions.
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