Eros Element

If love is the ivy, secrets are the poison.

Aether Psychics,
Book 1

After enduring heartbreak at the hands of a dishonest woman, Edward Bailey lives according to scientific principles of structure and predictability. Just the thought of stepping outside his strict routine raises his anxiety.

Adding to his discomfort is Iris McTavish, who appears at his school's faculty meeting in place of her world-famous archeologist father. Worse, the two of them are to pose as Grand Tourists while they search for an element that will help harness the power of aether.

Iris jumps at the opportunity to prove her worth as a scholar—and avoid an unwanted marriage proposal—while hiding the truth of her father's whereabouts. If her secret gets out, the house of McTavish will fall into ruin.

Quite unexpectedly, Edward and Iris discover a growing attraction as their journey takes them to Paris and Rome, where betrayal, blackmail and outright theft threaten to destroy what could be a revolutionary discovery—and break their hearts.

Warning: Allergen alert! This book was produced in a facility that handles copious amounts of wine, tea and baked goods. May contain one or more of the following: a spirited heroine, a quirky hero, clever banter, interesting facts both made-up and historical, and lots of secrets. It is, however, gluten free.

Eros Element

Cecilia Dominic

Dedication

As always, my gratitude goes to those who support me in my writing, specifically my editor and critique group who help to make my books better, and especially to the mentors I've had along the way. Thank you especially to Anna DeStefano, whose enthusiasm for writing is only surpassed by her own talent at it, and James Bassett, without whom I would never have tried to write steampunk.

I also cannot thank my fans enough, especially those who participated in the writing process for this book. Special mention goes to Gary P, who suggested the perfect name for the series villain. I won't spoil who it is here, but those who live in Atlanta and who are familiar with the controversy surrounding the baseball team's 2017 move will know who it is. Also huge thanks to Dawn P for her archaeology advice and direction.

Finally, there are unexpected perks to being an author. Just before I started writing this book, I lost my beloved fifteen-year-old tuxedo cat Bailey to lymphoma. I am happy for the opportunity to memorialize him in the character of Edward Bailey, who is actually more finicky than his namesake but who would look dashing in a tuxedo if given the opportunity.

Chapter One

Aetherics Department, Huntington University, England, 06 June 1870

Of all the things about the college Edward Bailey liked, the ivy was his favorite. It clung to the buildings, climbing up their stone faces, sending leafy tendrils along window edges as if peering in on lectures—“Let me see, let me know!” On foggy days, it served as a green veil over the facades and provided a sense of decorum and discretion. He much preferred its jaunty green leaves and steadfastness through all seasons to the flashy color and riot of spring flowers with their pretty lies and false promises.

On this Monday morning, Edward tipped his
hat to one particularly long tendril that hung over the door of his department building. He then ascended the cozy stairwell with its wooden rail smoothed to softness by generations of eager, curious students and gave a nod to the three discolored splotches that stood guard around the window in his office. He'd nicknamed them Hickory, Dickory and Doc due to their shapes. A fanciful notion, to be sure, but he considered them to be his guardians as he worked through the puzzles inherent in his profession.

They had not, however, prevented the department secretary, an eager young woman named Miss Ellis who eschewed sensible spectacles for a frivolously fashionable pince-nez, from putting a note on his desk about a meeting he'd neither scheduled nor desired. It was to happen in the department conference room at ten o'clock that morning, which would disrupt his routine abominably and abdominally because he timed his taking of tea such that it would provide a needed urge for a mid-morning break right around ten. Now he would have to make his tea a half hour earlier so he wouldn't end up squirming during the meeting with his chairman and his dean. They'd given him enough to squirm about in the eight years he'd been at the University.

“Well, this is most unacceptable,” he muttered before his door opened to reveal the tall blond figure of Johann Bledsoe.

“Usually people talk about my unacceptability after I leave, not before I arrive,” Johann said. He sat without being invited and crossed one ankle over his knee.

Politeness kept Edward from saying what he really thought about yet another interruption to his routine—goodness, what was next, a surprise visit from the queen?—but he did give his friend an exasperated look. It was quite rude of him to come in and sit without being invited.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” he asked, although his tone conveyed it was, indeed, not a pleasure.

“I got a note saying there would be a meeting here at ten that required my attendance. Knowing your habits, I took the liberty of coming early and having Miss Ellis make your morning tea so you wouldn't experience any awkward moments while speaking with your supervisors.”

Edward's gut simultaneously twisted at the thought of having to leave the meeting to attend to bodily needs and the horror that his friend knew his habits so intimately he could plot to interrupt and adjust them to the whims of others. Underneath, he had a premonition the meeting would be the start of a life-wide disruption, perhaps an upheaval. It was time to put a stop to this nonsense.

“While I appreciate your consideration, Johann, I will not allow a meeting I neither called nor desired to interrupt this morning's important work or make a shambles of my carefully orchestrated routine, which has been developed through years of study and experimentation for maximum productivity.”

“Too late, old boy. Here's Miss Ellis with your tea, twenty-three minutes early. That should give your stomach time to process it before the chair and dean arrive.”

Indeed, Miss Ellis walked in carrying a tray with Edward's favorite teapot, cup and saucer set along with a half cube of sugar—she had instructions as to how he liked them split—and two teaspoons of cream in a little pitcher that had been warmed to exactly one hundred and forty degrees. Alongside were two small lemon strawberry scones, their tart fragrance mingling with that of the strong black tea to make for a siren song of scent. Brilliant, now his mind was so confused it mixed up its analogies. He'd never get anything done now.

“Your tea, Professor Bailey.”

Edward put his head in his hands. Was everyone conspiring against him? His stomach growled at the aroma, and he glared toward his abdomen. He'd eaten breakfast at the normal time—why did these savage impulses betray him?

“Look at the poor gentleman,” Johann said. “He's overcome with sentiment at how well we care for him.”

“He's overcome with something all right, sir,” Miss Ellis said, a flirtatious edge to her tone. Johann tended to do that to the fairer sex. As for his insouciant secretary, Edward didn't have the heart to reprimand her. Indeed, its caged animal beating—tea twenty-one minutes early—warred with his growling stomach.

“It's okay to emerge from your shell. She's gone. I'll pour the tea.”

Edward peeked through his fingers. Johann poured two cups.

“You put the cream in first, right?”

“I've known you for how long? Yes, I fixed it the way you like it. Good thing I drink mine black.” He passed Edward the fixed tea, and Edward almost dropped the saucer on his desk, his fingers trembling.

“Thank you.” He would not allow this disruption to turn him into an impolite savage, after all. “What are you doing here? If the meeting is with my chair and dean, what use could a musician be to them?”

“A musician and artist,” Johann reminded him. “I saw Harry last weekend in the village at my gallery show, for which you were remarkably absent.”

“I had a chill.”

“You
had
an inkling of how many people would be there and a desire to avoid a crowd. Anyway, he seemed very interested in my painting Shades of Aether, said it showed talent, classical influences, and understanding of the scientific principles behind it. Perhaps they want to talk of a collaboration between our departments?”

Edward stared open-mouthed at his friend. “A collaboration? With artists and musicians? What is this University coming to? I'm a serious scientist.”

“Studying something no one seems to understand but you, and that barely.”

“I am an accomplished aetherist in my field.” Edward drew himself up and gestured to the stack of journals on his desk. “I have articles in all of these volumes.”

“As you remind me every time I visit,” Johann remarked. He set his teacup on top of the stack.

Edward drew in a gasp. “Move that at once! What if you spill?”

“Then you'll make another pile from among the dozens of spare journals you keep in your closet over there. Now tell me, how are the Duke, Duchess and ducklings? How many do they have now?”

Edward sighed. He knew Johann tried to educate him in social niceties like inquiring about family—his friend had two siblings and two parents, but Edward didn't see the point in asking about them since he never spoke with them outside of mandatory holiday gatherings—and bit his tongue so he wouldn't snap that they were irrelevant to the destruction of his morning. “My brother and sister-in-law now have four children,” he reported with all the emotionality of giving a paper at Oxford. “The duchess just gave birth to their second girl.”

“Ah, a pity, but he at least has a spare to his heir, so that's something. I'm sure little Mary will enjoy the evening of the numbers.”

“Yes, but unfortunately, she alone seems to have any kind of scientific bent. The boys mostly concern themselves with battles, horses and sport.”

“Give them time,” Johann said. “You never know what will emerge as a child gets older. Not everyone is a scientist from birth like you were. Perhaps they need to settle down.”

Edward wanted his day to “settle down,” but he knew when his chair had a chance to inflict an interdisciplinary project on him, trying to stop him would be like keeping an airship from lifting once the gases were heated—it would take more than his measly efforts. He hoped that, like an airship, this disruption would float away and disappear, preferably before lunch.

Department of Archaeology, Huntington University, 06 June 1870

“Perhaps it's time for you to settle down, Miss.”

Iris McTavish wrenched her mind into the present and away from the fascinating story the file in her hand told her, of frustration with academic strictures and lack of collaboration. “Not you too, Sophie.” She shook her right hand, which one of her dear departed father's files had graced with a paper cut, and stuck her newly lacerated thumb in her mouth.

“I know it's not my place, Miss, but without your father bringing home his salary, how are you going to keep up the household? Cook and I are worried.”

Iris rubbed her eyebrows before remembering the dust on her hands. Now she was sure she sported smudges to make her look like a stage actor or some sort of urchin. “I'm working on that.”

A knock on the door forestalled the rest of the conversation, thank goodness. In truth, Iris didn't know how she was going to continue to afford her household. Her father's savings would run out by the end of the year if they lived frugally, and she couldn't bring herself to sell the precious artifacts he'd left here and at the house. Being an archaeologist, in spite of its inherent excitement, didn't do much to build the family coffers, particularly when medical bills piled up.

Sophie opened the door to reveal a messenger boy.

“Cor,” he said and took off his hat with an admiring look at Sophie. “They din't tell me Professor McTavish were a ghel.”

Iris stood and drew the urchin's gaze to herself. “Professor McTavish isn't—” The words stung her throat with waspish ferocity, and all she could choke out was, “available.” She swallowed the sensation that tried to erupt through her chest and make her burst into tears like a schoolgirl with a broken heart. Yes, her heart was broken, but she couldn't afford silly displays of emotion.

“Oh, well, are you his secretary? Ent no one at the front desk.”

“That's because it's summer,” Iris's grief burst through as irritable words. “Most of the faculty are off on trips, and the department secretary's mother is ill, so she's gone to care for her.”
Which worked out well for me. Otherwise, she would have breathed down my neck while I cleaned out Father's office. She never had much use for me.

“So who're you, Miss? Meaning no disrespect, but I got this urgent message to deliver to Professor McTavish, and if I don't, I won't get paid and we won't eat.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and a tendril of tenderness curled in Iris's heart. The poor boy sounded as desperate and panicked as she felt.

“I'll take it,” she said.

“How do I know you'll get it to him? My instructions were to give it to him or his assistant.”

“Well, then you're in luck. I'm his assistant.” Iris ignored the look Sophie shot at her and put on her gloves before she took the message from the boy. “Here's a halfpence for your trouble.”

He didn't hide the disappointed look on his face, but he bobbed his head and disappeared.

“Miss…” Sophie said.

“Sometimes the universe drops things in your lap that you don't recognize as gifts at first,” Iris told her. “That's what Father always said.” She unfolded the slip of paper and read it, then looked at it again slowly, word by word. It was in English, and the words familiar, but the meaning didn't hit her brain until she read it out loud:

Dear Professor McTavish,

Word of your illness has reached us, and we are saddened to hear of your sudden incapacitation. However, we have a project which you will likely find interesting. If you are well enough, we have funding for you and an assistant to undertake a multidisciplinary summer expedition in search of a treasure, the likes of which has never been found. Please join us for a meeting in the Aetherics Department this Monday June 6 in the conference room on the fourth floor at ten o'clock a.m. You will be well-compensated for your time and trouble with bonus once the treasure is located and delivered.

Sincerely, Dean Hartford

College of Sciences

“It's for your father, Miss,” Sophie said. “Not for you. Too bad, it would have been a good opportunity.”

“It still might be. What if we tell them that my father is too ill to travel, but I'm his assistant and would be willing to undertake his duties instead?”

Sophie's mouth disappeared into a disapproving line. It reminded Iris of her mother, who would make the same expression whenever Iris would accost her father when he came home to ask about what he'd found on his expeditions, and had he brought anything for her. She later discovered the true reason for her mother's frown, but she pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind as irrelevant.

“But you're not a trained archaeologist, Miss.”

“I would be if the University recognized the apprentice system, which was good enough until administrators got hold of academia. Besides, if I acquit myself well on this journey, the University may accept me as an archeology student in the fall. Then I could get a scholarship, which would help support the household beyond the money we'd get for our duties. It sounds like we'll get paid even if we don't find this treasure.”

“And what if they find out your father has died?”

Iris patted her hidden skirt pocket, where she held the telegram from France. He'd gone there to see if the warmer climate would help his lungs and passed away at a sanitarium on the coast. She shared it with his chairman before he left for Bulgaria to research the symbolism of the bull in ancient European pottery, and from the department secretary's reaction when she'd shown up the previous week, she was sure the chair hadn't shared the sad news with anyone before he left, likely to keep the fallout from delaying his trip. Everyone knew he had a Bulgarian mistress. The note from the dean confirmed her secret was safe.