Edison set the delicate bell jar on the countertop before he gave in to the urge to smash it, and tried to unclench his teeth. Insisting Ada accompany him to shop for chemicals was proving to be one of his poorer decisions.

If she contradicted him one more time, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop himself from hurling something satisfyingly heavy through the center of Mr. Grimstout’s front window.

Not that the poor shopkeeper shouldered any of the blame for his sour mood.

He hefted a jar of boric acid. Tilting it this way and that, watching the white powder pile up along one wall of the canister before sliding, sandlike, to the other, he considered the best way to construct a flash grenade.

A pocket-sized object that could be lobbed quickly and quietly would have great value as a distraction.

Given what they’d soon be up against, success could hinge on the slightest advantage.

More importantly, he wanted to keep Ada’s mind off of her friend, which was why he’d insisted she join him at the chemical works despite how clear she’d made it that his company was unwelcome.

He watched her frowning over a selection of blown glass beakers. The strain showed in her face, in the downturn of her lips, in the slump of her normally straight, strong shoulders. Strain was eating at him, too, and he’d had his whole life to get used to carrying the burden.

They didn’t really need any more supplies. He had more flash grenades and whistles and smoke-spewing disodorizers than the lot of them could carry. He’d simply thought a distraction might do her good.

Might do him good, if he were honest.

No sense knocking about the league offices with nothing to do but watch Meena and Briar duel with their parasols while trying to pretend he didn’t ache to forget his gentlemanly intentions and sweep Ada into his arms.

Edison set the jar down and stole a glance in her direction. She seemed transfixed by a row of powdered dyes on the shelves behind the counter. Her arms were folded across her chest, her expression grim.

He cleared his throat so loudly he startled the aging shopkeeper who almost dropped the vial in his hands. “I’m thinking about trying potassium nitrate in my flash grenades,” he announced.

“Potassium perchlorate will be more stable,” Ada insisted.

Edison pinched the bridge of his nose. “The nitrate will create higher flames.”

“Fine.” Ada shrugged. “That’s more suited to your style.”

“I have a style?”

Gaze still firmly on the shelf, she snorted.

He narrowed his eyes. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything.”

“You most certainly are.”

“If you say so.” Ada turned to the shopkeeper. “The potassium nitrate will do, thank you. Three grams should suffice.”

The man nodded and started pouring powder onto the scale.

Edson waved off her order. “Never mind that. We’ll take the perchlorate. Five grams.”

The shopkeeper sighed and set the first canister down, pouring back the portion he’d already measured. His movements swift and precise, he set the scale to measure out the requested amount. Then he paused, graying eyebrows rising toward his receding hairline, and held the jar up in a silent question.

“The perchlorate. Definitely.” Edison answered the unasked query.

“The nitrate,” Ada said firmly, talking over him.

Grimstout set both canisters on the countertop, crossed his arms over his chest… and waited.

“We’ll have both.” Ada glared at Edison as she spoke, daring him to contradict her.

“Fine.” Edison acquiesced. The whole point of the errand had been to get her mind off the trap they were setting. From that point of view, his strategy was working quite well… if not pleasantly.

The shopkeeper hadn’t moved from his spot.

“Both will do,” Edison confirmed.

Before touching the canisters, the man gave Ada an assessing look. His display of small scales had caught her attention, suggesting there’d be no more argument.

“We can’t forget the sulphur. For the stink bombs,” he answered her silent question.

Ada set down the tiny weights she’d been examining, lining up each finger-sized cylinder of brass in a precise line before she spoke. “What are you preparing for, a siege?”

Maybe. Edison’s shoulders stiffened. The idea hadn’t sounded so silly until she gave it voice. “Over-preparation won’t hurt.”

“It’s your workshop.” Ada shrugged. “I don’t know why I’d have an opinion.”

Because you have an opinion on everything? Edison rubbed the back of his hand back and forth across his lips, ensuring the words remained unspoken.

The look on her face suggested he might as well have said the words out loud. Her gaze dipped. Her lips pressed together so tightly they turned white. But it was the hurt in her eyes that stabbed him. Stabbed him straight in the heart.

Lust, he could handle. Witty byplay, by all means. Tears even… on occasion.

But not hurt.

Seeing her curl into herself like a wounded hedgehog kicked him straight in the gut.

Which was why he steered well clear of women who cared.

Women who cared were women he could hurt.

And that only made him want to run. Run like he’d run instead of helping Robbie.

Edison drummed his fingers on the countertop, silently urging the shopkeeper to pick up the pace. Finally their chemicals were sealed away in their jars and nestled in a box, each one cushioned with old newsprint.

Edison had to restrain himself from grabbing the box straight out of Grimstout’s hands and running out the door. As eager as he to get on with it, Ada preceded him through the doorway and back out onto the street.

Not that the carriage offered any relief.

The boy, Henry, jumped down from the driver’s box and held the door open. Edison was pleased to note the sharp look in the lad’s eye as he checked the surrounding area. Good instincts. The boy continued to impress. Might be a good addition to the league. A pair of strong shoulders and a quick mind for Mr. Hapgood to shape.

Once the boy shut them inside the dark space, the awkwardness between them swelled again until it threatened to choke off the very air. They needed light. Light and noise and a great gathering of others between them.

They needed Meena and Briar. Nelly, too would be quick to dispel the brittle silence.

Anything but the bleak emptiness that had drifted down like one of the city’s noxious brown fogs.

Henry urged the horses out onto the street, and the carriage filled with the clatter of steel wheels over cobblestones.

Still, the silence between them persisted, gnawing at him until it hit a nerve. Edison threw his legs up on the empty bench and crossed his ankles, reclining against the side of the coach and wishing he were as relaxed as he appeared. “That Henry’s a mystery. Accent comes and goes too quickly to place.”

Ada continued to stare out at the night as if he hadn’t spoken. “It’s been hours. Why hasn’t the kidnapper contacted us?”

“It’ll be soon. They won’t contact us until they’ve readied a trap.”

She started, as if poked with a pin. “I hadn’t considered that.”

Edison shrugged, trying to infuse her with some of his own confidence. “No sense grabbing Grenville if they’re not after something else. Much easier to kill him straight off.”

Ada’s mouth dropped open and her eyes widened.

He winced. Perhaps his attempt to shore up her confidence had fallen rather short of the mark.

“You’re right.” She nodded, almost to herself. “They have no reason to hurt him until they get what they want.”

Edison wasn’t so certain that was the case, but he held his own counsel. He might not be the smartest of the lot, but he could learn.

Given that the chemical works wasn’t much more than a league from the offices, the trip back seemed quick enough, given that they weren’t speaking.

Edison picked up the box of powders and climbed down first. He held out a hand to Ada, who ignored it and swept past him into the offices.

“You can take the horses around back and water them,” he said to Henry, “but keep them hitched. We’ll be leaving soon, I imagine.”

Once inside, he saw that Burke had arrived. The lanky man perched on the edge of Nelly’s desk, haunches well clear of her prized typing machine.

The rest of the crew was scattered about the room, all of them facing the detective.

“I’ve got men stationed at your home, in case the bastard tries to contact you there.” Burke was saying to Ada.

She nodded as she paced back and forth across the office, her movements so quick, so short and sharp, Edison’s head spun.

He set the box of chemicals down on a countertop. Waiting was the worst part. He wanted to move, to scale a wall, break down a door, punch a villain in the face.

He wanted to make Ada feel better, to erase the worry and hurt in her eyes.

Mostly, he wanted to gather her in his arms and assure her they could spend the rest of their lives wrapped in each other's arms.

Which was nothing but a great, fat lie.

He slammed a fist down on the tabletop so hard one of Nelly’s ink pads bounced and clattered to the floor. Black ink splattered across the something tile, spreading out from the ink-soaked felt.

Her face white, arms wrapped tightly around her, Ada glared at him as if he’d smashed a priceless figurine.

He should leave.

It was obvious his presence was feeding Ada’s frustration.

He grabbed his coat from the rack next to the door, all too eager to breathe some air unadulterated by emotions.

“Forgot the aluminum powder,” he muttered, and yanked the door open.

Henry bolted after him. “I’ll drive you.”

“No need.” Edison held up a hand to halt the boy.

He sympathized. Henry only wished to escape the tension, too. But he needed quiet. “I’ll walk.”

Edison jutted his chin at Crane. “Devices are packed and ready. Ada knows where they are. Bring the coach if anything changes.”

Edison slipped out the door before anyone else asked to join him. Only his inbred sense of decorum kept him from slamming the door.

A few more hours now, and they’d have this business done. Ada would be free to return to her laboratory, to her life. Whether she looked back on their liaison with fondness or regret, he had no doubt she’d forge ahead, making new discoveries. And meeting new men.

Men comfortable in her social circle.

Men comfortable with love.

Things weren’t going to be so easy for him. Much as he wished he could deny it, he feared it would be a long, long time before he stopped wishing were a different man. A man who deserved her.

A freshening wind gusted down the dark street, sending a scrap of newsprint tumbling past his feet. Edison kicked it, but the paper was too light, too insubstantial to offer any satisfaction, which, given the way things were going, was no surprise.

* * *

Head bent to shield his face from the chill wind, Edison stalked down the pavement, brooding over the great hash he’d made of his time with Ada.

His preoccupation was so complete, the collision with the overstuffed matron took him by surprise. Like two steamers rounding a rock on the same course, they slammed straight into each other.

“Oof!” The woman exclaimed as Edison smashed into her corseted side.

She spun about, like a top twirling on its point. Edison just managed to right her before she could tumble to the pavement.

“I say there!” Her red-faced husband complained. “Have you no manners?”

His own face now hot with embarrassment, Edison apologized profusely.

“No harm done.” The slight titter in the woman’s voice let him know she was unhurt.

“I do beg your pardon,” he repeated, including her angry husband in his statement. “Mind wasn’t on where I was walking. Stupid, that.”

Now that life had been restored to its normal order, the woman smiled up at him. “It’s a woman, isn’t it? Nothing like love to take a man’s mind off business.”

Edison coughed. The denial on the tip of his tongue stuck there, choking him.

The woman patted his hand. “A handsome lug like you?” She clucked at him as if he were a prize chicken. “There’ll be another beauty along quicker than the omnibuses around here.”

Edison gave her what he hoped passed for an encouraging smile. Not too encouraging though. He had no wish to discuss his dreary romantic life. Still, it wouldn’t do to be rude to a motherly stranger. A motherly stranger he’d almost knocked ass over tea kettle.

“Come along, dear,” her husband prodded, “We still have three blocks to go. I don’t want to miss the opening aria.”

“Ah!” Edison beamed at the couple, as if the opera were the most enjoyable thing ever. “Don’t let me delay you.”

He practically pushed them down the street.

When he turned back in the direction of the chemical works, he noticed a knot of street urchins had formed at the far end of the block. Tall, short, thin—and painfully thinner—the lot milled about, each of them, down to the smallest tyke, trying desperately to pretend they had good reason to be lurking around.

Picking off opera goers, was his guess. Not that he begrudged the small souls a penny here or there. Had his own father not been a decent con artist, he would have ended up the same.

One of the taller lads touched the brim of a moth-eaten silk hat as Edison drew near. “Evenin’, guv.”

Edison nodded, and kept moving straight through the knot of children, intent on crossing at the corner.

A bird chirped behind him. It was a quick, sharp sound, more like a robin’s tweet than an owl’s deep call.

Entirely out of place so late at night.

Damnable hell. The back of his neck prickled. He’d missed something. His hands balled into fists. Whatever it was, he’d pay for it now.

Hopefully he wouldn’t have to hurt any of them.

He stilled, reaching out with all of his senses, listening, smelling, even tasting the wind for a hint of what was to come.

“We just wanna chat, guv,” the tall one assured him as the entire group closed in.

Edison didn’t like the laughter in the boy’s tone.

He turned to assess the threat, but kept his body facing forward, hips and shoulders aligned with the clearest path to safety. Might have to bowl over a few of the smaller ones, but they were tough little blokes.

“Meet my friend, Sleepy. ‘E’s the one what wants a conversation.” The boy’s voice was now curiously muffled.

Edison blinked at the boy’s greasy head, but something was amiss. The boy—all the boys—had pulled kerchiefs up over their noses.

But he’d already seen their features. It made no sense.

Until he saw the canister in the leader’s hand. The shrill hiss of propellant hit his ears at the same instant a swirl of condensed gas blew straight at his face.

The sickly sweet smell made his stomach heave.

Chloroform.

He clamped his mouth shut and covered his nose, scattering small bodies behind him as he scrambled backwards.

But it was too late.

Even as he sensed the gas taking hold in his lungs, his consciousness faded.

He tried to shout, but his brain was no longer able to command his mouth. As his vision narrowed, he caught sight of a familiar figure standing back behind the crowd, just outside the ring of light from the street lamp.

Him.

Even as consciousness faded, a jolt of fear pierced the darkness.

Ada would never be safe.