Sparkling red and gold veils filtered sunlight and shed an aura of fantasy across masses of soft furs and pillows. This had been her and Edward’s secret seraglio.
Slowly making her way across the soft sheepskin and llama hides, she touched the face of the court jester automaton Edward had designed for her. Polished music boxes lined a Chippendale bookcase. She lifted the lid on a mahogany and rosewood music box. The tinkling melody of Schubert’s ‘Near My Beloved’ began to play.
Humming along, she grasped the silver salver from the bedside table’s bottom shelf and set it on top, pulled back the red velvet and unveiled its contents. Special oils, redolent of lime, cedar and incense – still pungent after all this time – burst through the air and filled her senses.
Eddie, the Earl of Strathford, her second husband, hadn’t been what most considered physically attractive or possessed of a conventional personality, and in certain social situations he could be slightly awkward. None of these things mattered.
Though twice her age, she’d grown to treasure him for his good heart, his curiosity about the world and his sheer brilliance. How she had relished watching him create. Out of scraps of odds and ends he’d piece together the most miraculous inventions.
Sarah breathed in the fragrances and perused the salver of Edward’s toys like she would a tray of tasty treats. A smile worked its way across her lips. Oh, the wickedness of that man. Over the few short years of their marriage, dear Eddie had shown her what a creative inventor could do for a woman. Unfortunately, his inventions often took priority and his toys became her only bed partners. Perhaps she should see if they still worked?
Gliding a hand over a few of the devices, she paused above the ‘spine tickler.’ Then pressed her palm into its shiny ball bearings. Hmm. No. Maybe not.
This one, perhaps? Her fingers flexed over the ‘pony rocket.’ A particularly provocative memory locked her teeth, sending a zing through a molar. No. She didn’t trust herself with the ‘pony.’
Her hand grazed the slightly ribbed surface of the ‘Buzzy Bee,’ Edward’s redesigned version of le Tremoussoir. He’d painted it yellow and had given it to her for her twenty-fifth birthday. She picked it up, admiring its contoured design and perfect dimensions constructed just for her. The surface felt surprisingly warm, almost inviting.
Once more, for old time’s sake?
Sarah lay down on the bed’s soft fur, hiked up her skirts and, as she turned the key to wind up the device, read Edward’s inscription: THINK OF ME.
“Eddie. Dear Eddie, how I’ve missed you,” she whispered, as she pressed the button and smiled at the mechanism’s low zzzzzz.
The initial touch always startled. After a few moments, its buzzing vibration filled her nether regions with a tingling hum. She closed her eyes, concentrated on Edward’s sweet visage and let her imagination unfold.
Unbidden, instead of Edward, the handsome face and strapping physique of one extremely irritating dance partner surfaced.
Mr Cornelius Ravenhill.
She sank deeper into the furs and commanded his image to smile, only to realize she’d not seen him smile, merely glower disapprovingly. While they’d danced, she’d been agape at his good looks and manliness. He, on the other hand, barely said two words to her and kept his gaze pinned to the doorway. Rude lout. A little over a week had passed since, and she refused to give him even a second thought. How had that vexatious man snuck into her daydream?
The ‘Buzzy Bee’ bravely soldiered on, spurring her cleft into a delicious throb, making her hips quiver. Soon her sinews quickened, readying to find that sublime moment of bliss.
Tap, Tap, Tap.
Sarah grimaced and her eyes rolled back into her head. She barely heard the knock at the secret door as her inner muscles coiled and tightened toward that glorious peak.
Tap, Tap, Tap. “My lady. Are you in there?”
Her maid’s voice momentarily broke through the pleasurable sensation.
Sarah pressed the ‘Buzzy Bee’ harder against her – concentrating, clenching, feeling the deeper sensation drive tremors all the way down her legs.
Tap, Tap, Tap. “Please, my lady.”
Oh, for God’s sake. “What!”
Gracie called from the other side of the door. “One of the workmen found something in the laboratory’s ashes. The foreman thinks it highly important, something you must see.”
***
A few minutes later, Sarah limped through the curtain hung to block the dust and grime in Edward’s burned laboratory. A fine hum of frustration stiffened her spine. This day had been one interruption after another.
Several workers leaned on their shovels talking and laughing. In the corner, the burly carpenter swung a huge hammer into the wall, shattering the charred plaster. He bent over to inspect his work.
She stopped abruptly. Her eyes fastened on the two firm mounds of – Good Heavens! She spun around. Workmen stood about dawdling, inflaming her sensibilities to palpable aggravation. She pivoted again in search of the foreman. “I was told an item had been found, one I needed to inspect,” she announced to no one in particular.
“Yes, my lady,” a low rasp vibrated behind her.
She turned.
The carpenter mopped a sleeve over his forehead and slid a stub of pencil behind an ear. The movement drew attention to the flexed muscles outlined by his tight work smock. “It is over here, my lady.” In three long, languid steps he arrived at a worktable in the opposite corner.
Sarah followed, growing testier by the second.
Leaning forward, his broad shoulders crowded her against the table. His scent of soap and charred wood suffused the air. He pointed to what looked like a half-burned cord.
She clutched her high collar and sought to calm her clambering pulse. “What is this… thing?” The nearness of such an overtly virile male made her insides jumpy.
“A spent blasting fuse, my lady.” His voice lowered to a breathy scratch. “Fuses like this one are used in mines to blast out rock. Not the sort of thing generally found lying about stately mansions.”
“My husband was an inventor. He collected many unusual items for his contraptions.”
“Did his inventions include explosions?”
Not in the usual sense. She pulled at her collar. “I wouldn’t know.”
“This fuse was not totally destroyed in the blast.” He motioned to the charred walls.
The ominous sound in his voice made Sarah’s mouth go dry. “What are you saying?”
“It appears, my lady, your husband’s laboratory may have been purposely destroyed.”
“Is this what the foreman wanted me to see?”
“Yes, my lady. He has gone for the police.”
Not far away, Damen Aloysius Ravenhill, eldest son and heir to Viscount Falgate, trudged down the dim, rock-lined corridor of Falgate Hall. The cold fortress remained as forbidding as ever. With each step, dread clawed deeper, forcing him to hesitate in the bedchamber’s doorway at the prospect of what he would soon find.
He took a step into the dark-paneled room. A mammoth four-poster bed dressed in a green canopy and intricately carved ebony bedposts stood in its center. At the head of the bed, Damen could barely make out a large, bowl-shaped wrap of bandages.
Viscount Falgate, his father, sat in a wheelchair at the side of the bed, hunched forward, gently holding