The Earl of Westmorland had everything Evie's husband ever wanted: fame, fortune, and a noble title to go with it. The straw that broke the camel's back was that the earl didn't give a damn. He disdained society and never attended ton functions—at least none to which the Remmingtons were invited. To Bernard, who aspired to reach the highest society circles, the earl's indifference to his position was the height of arrogance.

Evie had only ever met the earl once before, but he was the sort of man that left an impression. Bernard had introduced them at a Royal Society event, some three years past. The event was a grand fete held in the North Wing at Somerset House, the magnificent Neoclassical building in central London where the society made its headquarters. As was tradition, the society affair commenced with a guest lecturer—in this instance, Bernard. Evie had spent weeks on his speech, an account of her preliminary research on the practical applications of aether. Aether, she contended, had the potential to supplant steam-powered engines, boasting more horsepower for less fuel.

Everyone wanted to speak to Bernard and compliment him on his (Evie's) brilliant lecture—except for one man, who stood at the outer perimeter of the expansive hall, quietly observing. Westmorland.

At the time, Evie recognized the earl only by reputation. In spite of his efforts to avoid the haute ton – or perhaps because of them – society was fascinated by him. He was titled, rich and by all accounts, devilishly handsome. The scandal sheets lovingly described his chiseled features—faultless but for the fact they were too stern—"midnight" black hair and eyes "like cloudless skies." And of course, they had to remark on his scar, a deep slash across his left cheekbone that gleamed silver-gray, not white. Why he'd chosen to graft metal to his skin was a great mystery, as was the source of the scar itself.

None of those details were what captured Evie's attention; what interested her was his genius. Westmorland was Bernard's only true rival for the unofficial title of England's greatest inventor. The ton loved a good rivalry and did all they could to fan the flames of competition. Evie thought the whole nonsense was ridiculous. Though they were both scientists and inventors, their areas of focus were completely different. Evie made machines and gadgets, fascinated by motorized engines and innovative ways to fuel mechanical power. Westmorland specialized in bionics and nanotechnology, the human body his primary source material.

Bernard neither understood nor cared about the distinction, leaping eagerly into a one-sided rivalry with Westmorland. Emboldened by the positive response to his lecture, he'd marched right up to the reclusive earl, dragging Evie with him. "Westmorland," he'd said importantly, with a stiff little bow. "May I introduce my wife, Mrs. Evelyn Remmington."

Curtsying, Evie said in all honesty, "It is an honor, my lord."

As she spoke, the earl's gaze skimmed over Bernard and locked intently on her. His blue eyes were cold and intelligent, studying her like one of his nanomolecules under a microscope. She nearly jumped when his gloved hands wrapped around her fingers, bringing them to just below his mouth. He kissed the air just above her knuckles, as propriety dictated, but Evie felt it as though he'd put his mouth to her bare skin. For a moment, the cold bled from his eyes, and then it returned just as quickly. He dropped her hand as though scalded.

"Interesting speech," he said to Bernard, his voice a low rumble. Pleased, Bernard puffed up his chest and started to thank him. Westmorland held up his hand. "But your conclusion is wrong."

"It is not!" Evie blurted out before she could think better of it.

The earl spared her a thin smile. "It is good of you to support your husband, Mrs. Remmington. But he made a critical error nonetheless."

With a red face, Bernard stammered, "I'm-I'm sure I did not." Then he shot Evie a dark look that meant she'd hear from him later.

"I'd be happy to point out the error to you," the earl offered, eyes glinting with amusement.

Please do, Evie wanted to say back to him with the same false graciousness. But as always, Bernard spoke for her: "I don't need your help, Westmorland," he snapped.

The earl shrugged. "It's your funeral." Without waiting for Bernard's reply or bidding them a proper farewell, he simply walked away. Bernard went from embarrassed to enraged. Westmorland had given him the cut direct in front of the most important lords and ladies in England.

Evie was less bothered by the earl's rudeness than she was his parting comment. What did he mean by "it's your funeral"? Was whatever error she'd made so grave that lives were potentially at stake? Maybe there was no error; perhaps the earl just wanted to needle her husband or shake his confidence.

Unfortunately, aether was highly explosive, so she couldn't ignore his claim, real or not. She couldn't ask him about it either. So she spent the next few weeks going back through her notes, re-running her tests and conducting small experiments. And eventually figured out that the earl hadn't been bluffing. She'd somehow forgotten to calculate the thermal runaway. Which meant, if anyone had ever used one of her aether-powered machines, there was a fifty-fifty chance they'd have been blown to smithereens.

And because she couldn't help herself, Evie stole Bernard's formal stationary from his office and dashed off a quick note to the earl:

Westmorland—

I figured it out.

-Kindest regards, Bernard Remmington

P.S. Your exosuit will never work unless you tether it to a larger power source.

A week later, she received a note in return with his reply. Or rather, Bernard received the note, stamped with the official heraldic badge of the Earldom of Westmorland. "What the hell does this mean?" he'd asked her, showing her the letter. Touche, it read.

"Why are you smiling?" Bernard had asked suspiciously.

"It's nothing," she'd said, forcing her smile into submission. "Nothing at all."

Such was the extent of Evie's relationship with the earl. Which is to say, she didn't have one. Yet here she was, standing on the doorstep of his London residence, ten hours after official calling hours ended.

There was improper, and then there was scandalous. Showing up uninvited to the Earl of Westmorland's house in the dead of night went beyond both. But when one was a murder suspect, there really wasn't all that much more damage that could be done to one's reputation.

Over the last year, Westmorland had become even more the recluse. It was rumored he was ill, so seldom was he seen leaving his house. Still, the earl remained a powerful man, and could have her arrested with a word. Or he might assume she was here to warm his bed. If she protested, no jury in the world would convict him for her assault. Simply by being here alone, she gave him her tacit consent to do with her as he pleased. And for all society's speculation, she knew nothing of the man he was—whether he was kind or cruel, ill or even tempered, serious or silly. She remembered the cold, calculated way he looked at her and feared the worst. And she remembered his touché, and hoped for the best.

Gathering her courage, she lifted the brass knocker and let it fall twice against the paneled door. Then she wrapped her arms around herself, bracing against the cool night wind. These days she could never stay warm, no matter how many layers she wore. She'd dropped more weight since Bernard's death, losing what little insulation she had left. Whether her lack of appetite was a result of her husband's murder or her absence from her laboratory, she didn't know, and didn't dare speculate.

After five minutes of waiting that felt like forever, the heavy door swung open. In the doorway stood a young man dressed in all black with the exception of his low-cut white waistcoat. His spectacles were askew and his sandy hair disheveled, as though he'd just woken up, but he did his best to appear the stern, foreboding butler.

"Oh," said Evie stupidly. Unlike her Jeeves, the earl's butler appeared entirely human. She hadn't expected that from a fellow scientist. She fought to regain her composure, lifting her chin proudly as though she had every right to be here. "Mrs. Evelyn Remmington to see Lord Westmorland."

"Is His Lordship expecting you?"

Evie shook her head.

The butler straightened his spectacles to better look down his nose at her. "Madam, this is highly irregular. It's nearly midnight. If you need to speak with the earl, please return tomorrow morning during regular calling hours."

"Please," she said quickly as he began to shut the door. "I wouldn't have come here at this hour unless it were urgent. Could you at least let him know Bernard Remmington's widow came to see him?" She knew she wouldn't have the courage to return here on her own again.

"Madam," the butler began, but he was interrupted by the sound of heavy footfall and creaking floorboards.

"Who in the bloody hell is here at this hour?" came a low, roughened voice.

Evie stiffened, her instincts telling her to bolt before it was too late.

The butler turned inward. "My lord, I tried to get her to leave—"

"Her?" More loud steps and creaks.

The young man cleared his throat. "She says she is the widow of Bernard Remmington."

A long pause. "Let Mrs. Remmington in, Thomas. I will meet her in the library."

Evie couldn't see the butler's face, but she could hear his shock. "But sir—"

"Now, Thomas." The footsteps retreated until Evie could no longer hear them.

The butler, Thomas, wearing a resigned expression, ushered her inside the townhouse. He offered to take her coat, but she declined. "I won't be here long," she promised him.

He cast her a skeptical look, sighed, and then straightened his shoulders, every inch the proper English butler. "Allow me to show you to the library."

Up a stairwell and down a winding corridor, the library was cast in shadow, the primary source of light the flickering flames in the white marble fireplace. An old-fashioned gaslight burned overhead, but it obscured visibility more than it helped. Smoke curled around the glass globe and settled into a thick fog. In the semi-darkness, Evie could make out the bookshelves that covered the walls from floor to ceiling. An upholstered sofa with a mahogany frame and a carved openwork back was positioned in front of the fireplace. A smaller armchair faced the three-seater couch, and in between the two was a was a matching mahogany writing table that, judging by the lack of ink stains, had never been used for actual writing. Currently, it served as a shelf for several glasses and a crystal decanter filled with a dark liquor.

"Mrs. Remmington."

Evie whirled around, her hand over her heart. A man stood in the shadows between the bookshelves. Though she couldn't make out his face in the darkness, Evie knew it was the earl. "My lord," she said, heart still pounding, "you startled me."

"I could say the same of you."

Evie smoothed her skirts nervously. "I apologize for the intrusion. I hope I did not wake you."

"I'm a scientist, madam. As I'm sure you know firsthand, we mad inventors keep our own hours."

How did she respond to that? Bernard kept the hours of a London gentleman—late to bed, late to rise. Evie worked around his schedule, not the other way around. She didn't have the luxury of disappearing into her lab whenever inspiration struck. The servants would have put two-and-two together if she were in the lab while her husband was out. "Nonetheless, you did not expect a late visitor. It is unforgivably rude of me to drop in on you unannounced."

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. "You must be wondering why I'm here," she ventured.

"Indeed," Westmorland said tonelessly.

Evie wished she could see his face. He had her at a distinct advantage. "Can you keep a secret, my lord?"

The earl barked a laugh. "Now I'm intrigued."

Good. That had been her intention. She took a deep breath. "And can I trust you with mine?"

Westmorland took a step closer to the blazing fire, angling his right profile toward her. "Mrs. Remmington, you hardly know me. Why on earth would you entrust me with anything?"

She had no other alternatives, but she wasn't foolish enough to say such a thing aloud. What she needed was leverage. And though she hardly knew the earl, she knew scientists and their catnip: curiosity. "Because of what I can give you in return."

His jaw clenched. "You would prostitute yourself so easily? I don't take whores to my bed."

She gasped at his crude remark. If there wasn't so much distance between them, she'd have slapped him for it. "How dare you," she seethed. "I am no man's whore. And how like a man to assume the only thing of value a woman can offer is what's between her legs."

He arched an eyebrow in response. Arrogant ass.

She continued, "I know what Bernard was working on right before he died." What she was working on, anyway.

Westmorland was nonplussed. "Your husband's research is of little interest to me. Our fields of study are unrelated."

"My mistake," she said with a careless shrug of her shoulders. "I don't suppose you ever figured out a way to power your exosuit."

His entire body twitched. "How do you know about that?"

Aaaand got him! She smiled at him, all teeth. "Appearances aren't always what they seem, my lord."

That earned her a snort. "Is that so," he rumbled, and then stepped fully into the light.

Despite the social etiquette drilled into her since birth, Evie failed to hide her shock. "Oh," was all she managed to say as he walked toward her. "Oh." She wasn't conscious of backing away until her calves made contact with the edge of the sofa.

The earl reached for the crystal decanter atop the writing table and poured them each a drink. He raised his glass in a mock salute, his blue eyes as cold as she remembered. Apart from his eye, the left side of his face was completely changed.

"To secrets," he said, and downed his liquor in one swallow.

A/N: This story is so much fun to write! I hope you're having as much fun reading it as I'm writing it. Fantasy/sci fi fans, fear not...the more fantastical stuff is coming. As always, I look forward to your comments, and let me know what you think!

Image is how I envision the Earl of Westmorland :)