Evie stared at the earl, vacillating between shock and scientific intrigue. The infamous metal scar that the gossip papers described as dashing appeared to have spread like an infection. Silver blossomed across his skin, bisecting his face into two halves—one human, the other hewn from steel. Flesh and metal melded together seamlessly, the underlying bone structure and musculature unaffected. It was almost as though the skin had been peeled back to reveal he'd been made of metal all along. The effect was more unsettling than gruesome.

The earl met her stare defiantly. "Ask," he said.

Curiosity killed the scientist as easily as it did the cat. True to form, Evie couldn't stop herself from asking. "The metal – what purpose does it serve?"

His right eyebrow raised. "That wasn't the question I expected."

"The answer seemed the most interesting." She paused. "What should I have asked instead?"

Westmorland touched his silver skin, the movement self-conscious. "What's wrong with your face? What happened to you? Are you ill?"

She tilted her, observing him unabashedly. "Are you? Ill, that is?"

He shook his head, his too-long hair rippling. The midnight black locks were now streaked with gleaming silver, like the strands were made of metal too. "Not in the traditional sense, no."

"Is it contagious?"

His lips twisted. "No. I do not pretend to be a good man, Mrs. Remmington, but even I'm not cruel enough to infect my enemies."

So he was not as blind to Bernard's animosity towards him as she'd once thought. "Are we enemies, my lord?"

His blue eyes met hers, chilly. "Not yet," he said.

Though she knew it wasn't his intention, his words gave her hope. "I am not my husband," she said quietly. "Nor am I his murderer."

The earl threw back his head and laughed. She glared at him, her hands on her hips. He only laughed harder. Even as she fumed at his audacity, her inner scientist noted his affliction didn't inhibit the mobility of his face. "What on earth is so funny?" she asked.

"One, that I would ever mistake you for a man. Two, that any man with a brain between his ears would think you killed anyone."

Evie couldn't decide whether to be pleased or offended. "Why? Because I'm a woman?"

"I'm a biologist, madam. I have studied several species where the female eats her mate. Humans are only animals, no better and no worse. But I know a Black Widow when I see one."

"You hardly know me well enough to judge."

He chuckled, a low sound that reverberated through her. "Are you trying to convince me otherwise?"

She sniffed. "It's the principle of the matter."

"A woman with principles. They do exist."

"A man who underestimates a woman. Oh wait, that's all of you," she shot back. Evie took a sniff from the glass he'd poured her. Brandy. She hated brandy. She lifted it to her lips and drained it. The liquor scorched down her throat and threatened to come back up.

The earl watched her, amused. "Are you alright, Mrs. Remmington?"

"I'm fine," she snapped. "My husband is dead, all of London thinks I killed him, and the only man who doesn't is you." She slammed her drinking glass down on the writing table. "Also, your brandy is vile."

He wiped the smirk from his face. "Who is all of London?"

Evie plopped onto the couch and leaned back against the pillows, her eyes squeezed shut. "Scotland Yard. The newspapers. My own sister isn't convinced I'm innocent."

An indiscernible emotion flitted across the earl's expression. "It couldn't have been you."

She gave a hollow laugh. "How do you know that?"

He turned his back to her, facing the fire. "Because your husband's death isn't the first."

She blanched, staring at his broad back. "I beg your pardon?"

He tensed, lifting his shoulders almost to his ears. "Depsite appearances, I've not entirely cut myself off from the outside world. The details of your husband's murder were...unusual. But not entirely unique." He paused. "Did you ever meet Baron de Clifford, Mrs. Remmington?"

"Once," she replied. "He is a member of the Royal Society too, is he not?"

Westmorland turned halfway toward her so that she could only see his unblemished skin, the left side of his face in shadow. "Was a member of the Royal Society. He died six months ago, in his country home at Herefordshire. There are only a few who know his death was a homicide."

Her brow furrowed. "Why keep it a secret?"

"It was the family's wishes. His niece is supposed to make her debut later this year. De Clifford's brother was afraid the scandal would harm her chances of making a good match."

The sad reality was that he was right. The ton was fickle and cruel—which was why Evie never had any real interest in being part of it. She'd never understood why Bernard was so desperate to be liked by people who smiled while they stabbed you in the back. "How do you know about it, then?"

He turned to fully face her now, his expression grim. "Because De Clifford was one of the few people I counted as a friend."

She wasn't sure what surprised her more—that Westmorland exhibited real grief at his friend's death, or that he had a friend to begin with. He struck her as the sort of man who preferred his inventions to people. "I'm sorry for your loss, my lord," she said. "But what is the connection to Bernard? It seems a stretch to assume the deaths are related just because they were both Royal Society members."

"Tell me, Mrs. Remmington. Did the murderer take anything of value from your husband?"

Her cheeks heated. Thank goodness the library was so dim. "Nothing of any monetary value. But something...of personal value...was removed from his person."

"How missish you are, Mrs. Remmington," the earl said with a quirk of his lips. "De Clifford's left hand was similarly removed. A clean cut, straight through the wrist bone, and nowhere to be found at the scene of the murder."

"There are parallels," she said. "But I'm not sure—"

"Then there was Robert Brownhill," Westmorland interrupted. "His murder made the papers some year-and-a-half ago."

She remembered the name. "His left foot was amputated," she recalled. "But the Royal Society denied his application for membership earlier that year." Mr. Brownhill claimed to have discovered a new energy source more powerful than aether, creating quite a stir in the scientific community. But in the end, Mr. Brownhill proved to be a fraud: he'd falsified his research results. "Besides, the police found the culprit."

"The police found some poor sap to pin the blame on. The wretched man's still in Newgate Prison awaiting his trial. The Yard knows they don't have enough evidence to convict him. But they had to appease the public somehow."

A lump formed in her throat as she considered the implications for herself. "That's just conjecture."

He gave her a hard look. "Mrs. Remmington, I supply Scotland Yard with more than half of their augmentation implants at a hefty discount. Commissioner Mayne is in my pocket. What I tell you isn't conjecture; it's straight from the horse's mouth."

"Commissioner Mayne told you the man they convicted was innocent?" The lump in her throat turned to bile. "Then they'll do the same to me, won't they? When they can't find Bernard's real murderer, they'll hang me instead."

The earl's forehead creased with what appeared to be genuine concern. "I hadn't thought of that," he admitted.

"Oh God," she said, burying her face in her hands. The hopelessness of her situation finally hit home. It didn't matter that her hands were clean; to the police, she was the most convenient—and believable--scapegoat. Who better to take the fall for Bernard Remmington's death than she? The only person who truly cared whether she lived or died was her sister, and Dru was in no position to help her. "They're going to arrest me, aren't they?" Hysteria burbled up inside her. She'd heard enough tales about the women's prison at Newgate to know she wouldn't survive long. Her body might survive, but her mind would crumble.

"It's a distinct possibility," Westmorland allowed, a muscle in his jaw ticking beneath the silver-gray skin. "Unless the real murderer is found."

She dropped her hands from her face and peered up at him. "Are they even looking?"

"Yes, but in the wrong places."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why do I get the sense you know more than you're letting on?"

Westmorland sighed, raking his fingers through his unruly mane of hair. "You're an observant woman, Mrs. Remmington. But some secrets are better left unsaid."

Her temper flared. "Your secrets, my Lord Westmorland, are going to get me killed."

The corners of his mouth curled into a sardonic smile. "Knowing them will kill you twice as quickly."

She rose from the couch, lifting her chin. "You won't scare me, Westmorland."

Surprise flitted across his features, replaced by stark anger. "Then you're a blind fool," he said harshly. His hand shot across the table, wrapping around her wrist. Ignoring her gasp, he tore the glove from her fingers and lay her palm against his left cheek. "Feel what I've become."

A/N: Woohoo another chapter in a week! I'm on a roll. Hopefully you're enjoying this story so far while I take a mental break from Uriel. Look forward to your feedback in the comments!