2
How Iris got home she would never know. During that whole block of missing time, from the moment she had turned away from the gentlemen at the Chelsea Physic Garden to when she let herself into the Wimpole Street house, her mind had been preoccupied with one stunning, unbelievable fact: Lord Durand was denouncing her mother and claiming her work for his own.
Which quite possibly meant he was the one responsible for the theft of her mother’s papers.
No, it wasn’t just possible; it was truth.
Such a realization should have been a relief.
They had searched for so long for the perpetrator, and he was finally showing himself.
Yet overshadowing the relief was hopelessness and fear; there were few as powerful as him.
This was surely a nightmare. One good pinch, and she would wake up and find this whole thing had been a product of her imagination.
Though as she stood in the front hall and did indeed pinch herself viciously on the arm, she quickly learned that she was, in fact, quite awake.
Awake and now in pain. Wincing, she rubbed at the abused spot, even as her mind spun with the ramifications of what she had learned.
She had believed all her mother’s research, her carefully compiled notes, her specimens, her hard-fought results were gone forever, stolen during the fire that had destroyed their home.
Now here was news that Lord Durand, a man her mother had publicly declared a charlatan and a fraud, was claiming the very same experiments as his own. And not only that, but he was condemning her mother as a thief, painting himself as her victim.
If the man had not brought her mother into it, had come out and simply stated the work was his, she might have believed he had managed to do it himself.
Or at least she wouldn’t have so firmly realized he was the larcenist. While five years was a stunningly short time to accomplish what it had taken her mother a decade to do, she supposed with modern advancements—and Lord Durand’s impressive fortune and connections—it was a possibility.
Yet his public flaying of her mother’s reputation was proof that he was guilty, that the work he was claiming as his own was in fact her mother’s stolen work.
A nearby voice scattered her agitated thoughts like wildflower petals in a spring breeze. “Iris, you’re back late. Did everything go well?”
Still dazed, Iris turned to find Sylvia Lutton, Lady Vastkern, at her side. She blinked, trying to clear her head. But no matter how hard she tried, she could not understand what the viscountess had asked her. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
“I asked if everything went well at the Physic Garden.” The other woman frowned, peering closely at Iris. “But what’s wrong? You look even paler than usual. And that’s truly saying something.”
Iris could only stare at her, her brain unable to form the necessary words.
The concern in Sylvia’s face quickly transformed to alarm as the silence stretched on.
And then Iris, quite without meaning to, swayed.
Was she truly as bad off as that, then? Apparently so, for Sylvia’s arm wound about her, holding Iris upright as she called out in ringing tones, “Strachan! I need you.”
Within moments the stout—and frankly frightening—housekeeper stormed into view, sturdy boots making their staccato way across the polished wood-inlay floor. “You dinnae need to shout,” she grumbled. “I was just around the corner, for God’s sake.”
Sylvia, used to the Scotswoman’s blunt ways, ignored her, saying instead, “Iris is in distress. Fetch the others to the drawing room immediately. And please send up a tea tray. I’ve a feeling we shall need it.”
In the next moment Iris found herself hustled up the stairs, into the drawing room, and deposited on a low settee. And then a cool glass was pressed into her hands and guided to her lips.
“Drink,” Sylvia ordered. An order that Iris obeyed without question. But this was no tea. The moment the harsh liquid hit her tongue and began to burn its way down her throat she regained her senses, her brain shocked back to the moment.
“Blargh!” Iris protested—if a sound of disgust could be considered a proper protest—pushing the drink away.
“Thank goodness that worked,” Sylvia said, finishing the whisky off herself before placing the glass down on a low table. “I wasn’t certain I was up to dunking you in a tub of ice water to bring you back to yourself.”
There was no question in Iris’s mind that the viscountess would have done it if necessary.
Sylvia, owner of the Wimpole Street house that Iris and several other widows called home, was almost frighteningly capable.
A woman of indefinite age—though Iris knew her to be in her fifties—with steel gray curls always in the most fashionable style and a face smooth save for the lines that radiated from the corners of her eyes, she ruled over the Wimpole Street Widows Society with a firm yet kind hand.
Brilliant in all manner of scientific subjects, as well as the inner workings of the human psyche, she never failed to do what needed to be done.
Even if that meant dunking Iris in a tub of ice water to bring her back to the world of the living.
“I’m sorry,” Iris mumbled. She reached up to remove her straw hat, only to find it gone.
She frowned in confusion. The offending cravat, too, was gone, as well as the useless spectacles, seemingly lost somewhere along the way.
Shaken at the lapse in her memory, she began the meticulous removal of the pins that gave her blond curls the appearance of shortly cropped hair.
As each lock fell free, her scalp tingled with relief, and she breathed a small sigh as her body eased some.
But Sylvia was still watching her closely. “You’ve nothing to be sorry about,” she said. Her mouth kicked up at one corner. “Though I do hope the others get here soon. My curiosity will not hold out for long.”
As if she had summoned them from the ether, footsteps and the low murmur of voices sounded in the hall a moment before three women hurried into the drawing room.
“You called, my love?” Mrs. Laney Finch asked, sitting beside Sylvia. Her arm came about the viscountess, a small smile lighting her features as she dropped a kiss on the other woman’s lips.
“I did, indeed,” Sylvia replied with a smile for her before she turned to the group as a whole. “Iris has had a shock this morning, and I thought it prudent to gather us all here so we might get to the bottom of it.”
“A shock?” Mrs. Euphemia Blount sat forward, gaze worriedly skimming over Iris’s disheveled disguise, that same disguise she had worked on so diligently. “What happened? Were you found out?”
Iris worried at the skin of her wrist as she gathered her thoughts. “No. That is, I wasn’t found out. But I did hear some rather distressing news.”
“Distressing? Distressing how?” This from Mrs. Heloise Marlow. Or, rather, Mrs. Heloise Sinclaire. Iris was forever forgetting her recent marriage.
“I’m afraid it’s a rather long story,” she said.
Just then the tea tray arrived. “Right on time,” Sylvia murmured, thanking the maid with a nod before turning back to Iris with a grin.
“We have tea and refreshments and all the time in the world—not to mention more whisky should we need it.” She chuckled before, with a wave of her hand that Iris should begin, she started work on preparing their beverages.
Taking a deep breath, Iris did as she was bid?.? .? .
“.? .? .? And so you must see that it is nearly impossible for Lord Durand to have accomplished what it took my mother close to a decade to perfect. But more importantly, his denouncing her as a thief and he as the origin of the experiments proves he is the one to have filched my mother’s papers and set the fire,” she finished grimly.
But wasn’t her mouth incredibly dry? Taking up her waiting tea, she carefully sipped at it—only to find it ice cold.
Frowning, she looked down into the opaque beverage before glancing about at the group of women.
Sylvia had her head on Laney’s shoulder and looked about ready to doze off, Heloise was hiding a yawn behind her hand, and Euphemia’s eyes appeared particularly dazed.
But they all roused when she looked their way.
Sylvia was the first to speak. “While I do find the detailed information you provided us on the cross between a daisy and ragwurt—”
“Rag wort ,” Iris corrected automatically. “Or Senecio jacobaea if you’re so inclined.”
Sylvia gave her a sickly smile. “Yes.” She cleared her throat and continued.
“While I appreciate your vast knowledge on the subject, I am much more interested in Lord Durand slandering your mother and claiming her work as his own. For I completely agree with you that it proves his guilt in the theft of her papers.” Her features turned stark, the lines bracketing her eyes and mouth deepening.
“Your mother was my dearest friend, and the thought of someone dishonoring her in such a way?.? .? .” She paused, closing her eyes, taking a deep breath to calm herself.
Iris bit her lip, guilt blooming like a poisonous flower in her chest. There was no doubt that Sylvia had cared for her mother, that they had loved one another deeply, that her mother had often referred to the viscountess as more of a sister than a friend.
But Iris had forgotten to consider how her information would grieve Sylvia.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Sylvia, however, quickly rallied, giving her a bracing smile.
“What have you to be sorry for? Truly, it’s serendipitous that you overheard such information.
” Suddenly her expression shifted, hardening.
“I cannot believe the bastard eluded our efforts to identify him. But then again, Durand is extremely powerful, and rich as Croesus, and must have paid his hired hands generously. Even if we had managed to capture the culprits, they would have no doubt kept their mouths shut.”
There was a moment of silence, the memories of their frustrating five-year search for the thieves almost tangible in the air.
Sylvia, however, quickly rallied, her voice determined as she cast her bright gaze about the circle of women.
“But we will not focus on that now. No, we will focus on the fact that Lord Durand’s paper has not yet been released to the public.
Because if it isn’t released yet?.? .? . ”
She trailed off, looking at Iris in expectation.
Dawning realization filled her as the implications in that unfinished sentence became clear.
“If it isn’t released yet, we can stop it,” she finished excitedly, looking about at the other women.
Where before they had appeared tired, exhausted even, there was a new light to their features, a light of hope she felt deep within herself.
Not for the first time in the past five years, since coming to the Wimpole Street house after her mother’s death, she felt incredibly lucky to have such a strange mix of women in her life.
If there was anyone who could stop Lord Durand from destroying her mother’s legacy, it was the Widows.