Alexander Fane, 11th Earl of Westmorland, had not felt a woman's touch in longer than he could remember. Alex did not trust women, nor did he much like them, but he didn't care for most men either.  There were few people of either gender who could hold his interest. The late Baron de Clifford had been an exception, a deceptively clever man with a sharp wit and quick mind.

By gads, how he missed the man.

Alex wasn't blind to his own faults. He was ornery, impatient and often distracted, with little tolerance for the inanities of polite conversation. But though he was neither charming nor particularly kind, whenever he'd wanted a woman, he'd had one. He was self-aware enough to know women thought him handsome—or had, anyway. If any of his previous lovers saw him now, they'd run away screaming.

Perhaps because it had been so long, the chaste touch of Evelyn Remmington's palm against his ruined skin felt unbearably intimate. He closed his eyes for the briefest of seconds and let himself enjoy the skin-to-skin contact before she dropped her hand in disgust.

Yet Mrs. Evelyn Remmington did not flinch at the strange texture of his metal flesh. Instead, her fingers traced over his skin in an exploratory dance, her large brown eyes wide with curiosity. He registered a flicker of surprise at the light calluses on the pads of her fingers – a rarity for a woman of her means and station – but it was quickly forgotten, lost in prickling sensation. 

"Can you feel my hand?" she asked as her fingers wandered from his cheekbone to his jawline.

A strange woman, Mrs. Remmington. He couldn't decide if she was brave or foolish. "Yes. The sensory nerves are still working, though everything's a bit muted."

"Fascinating," she said, continuing to stroke his face in an almost clinical fashion. "It somehow manages to feel like steel and skin at once. Cool and smooth yet still soft and supple."

He couldn't bear a moment more of her touching him there, on his blighted skin. "Enough," he growled, stepping back out of her reach. The warmth of her hand still lingered.

Mrs. Remmington's cheeks grew rosy in the glow of the firelight. He'd embarrassed her. "I'm sorry, my lord. I didn't mean to manhandle you."

That surprised a snort out of him. Manhandling indeed. "Never fear, madam. I've survived worse."

Her flush deepened, spreading down her neck and disappearing into her décolletage. Idly, he wondered how far the blush extended, then ruthlessly suppressed the thought. Why had it even entered his mind? He remembered feeling an unwanted jolt of attraction the first evening they met, when she'd been accompanied by her toad of a husband. She hadn't been beautiful, exactly, but she was striking in a way that stole a man's attention and held it. When her eyes met his, there was no mistaking the sharp glint of intelligence there. It was that spark that made him want her in his bed.

But the years had not been kind to her. She must have lost a stone or more, and the weight loss didn't flatter her. Her face was pinched, all angles and sharp edges. Her dress hung off her like a sack, the modest neckline revealing a jutting clavicle and the delicate bones of her sternum. She looked brittle, like she'd break beneath his touch. What little remained of the man he used to be felt a tinge of remorse.

The man he was now was as cold as the steel slowly encasing his body.

"Why come to me?" he asked her abruptly. "Surely there are others you could have gone to for help."

She gave him a flat look. "None that I trust."

"So you would rather put your trust in a virtual stranger?" he asked, incredulous.

"I don't trust you," she said with a frankness that continued to surprise him. "But I understand what makes a man like you tick."

He raised an eyebrow at that. "A man like me?"

She met his gaze steadily, that same flare of intelligence in her eyes. "A man driven by a frenzy for knowledge."

And look where such a frenzy had gotten him—his body turning against him and his friend dead. He should have left well enough alone. Rage, irrational and unbidden, surged through him. "Like your husband?" he sneered. "Don't mistake me for him."

She returned his sneer in kind. "My husband didn't give a fig about knowledge. What do you say to that?"

"I say you're full of crock. Bernard was an inventor."

"Ha!" She jabbed her finger into his sternum. "My point exactly. You, my lord, are an inventor too. It isn't something you can give up, though lord knows I've tried."

He blinked once, twice. He must have misheard her. "You tried?"

She visibly drew air into her lungs, puffing up her chest, and then deflated, her shoulders sagging. "I suppose it doesn't matter if I tell you, now that I'm an alleged murderer. Yes. I tried. The world is much easier for a woman who follows convention." She let out another frustrated huff, and squeezed her eyes shut, as though the next few words were painful to get out. "My husband was a fraud, my lord. Remmington Inventions bears his name, but none of his work. He never invented a thing in his life."

Alex stared at her. And then he began to laugh, loud guffaws that had him bending over at the waist. Bernard Remmington, the most famous inventor of their time—besides himself, of course—a fraud? Hell, he didn't like the man, but he'd attended several of his lectures and knew firsthand the man was brilliant. "A fine joke, Mrs. Remmington," he said in between chuckles.

Mrs. Remmington didn't join in his laughter. "It is no joke, my lord. Bernard is—was—the face of Remmington Inventions, but the inventions weren't his." She raised her chin, the glint in her eyes mutinous. "They're mine."

Her words took a few moments to penetrate his skull—which was, admittedly, a tad fuzzy from the brandy he'd guzzled. "You're serious." He shook his head. "Impossible."

That stubborn little chin went up even higher. "Because I'm a woman?"

"Because I've met the man," Alex snapped. "He's a smug bastard, but he's a genius. Genius can't be faked."

She had the gall to roll her eyes at him. "Of course it can, when you have a genius to help you fake it."

He snorted. "You, Mrs. Remmington?"

Alex could almost hear her grinding her teeth. "Yes," she said. "Me. Every lecture he ever orated, I wrote for him. Every question he ever entertained, I whispered the answer into his ear. And every invention he sold under his name, I made in my laboratory."

It was a ridiculous claim, and he had no cause to believe it. But thinking back, the one time Alex had criticized his research, Bernard had been too flustered to offer any sort of intelligent response. It was Evelyn Remmington who had argued in his defense—quite passionately. It was still quite a leap to believe it was her work she was defending. "Forgive me, Mrs. Remmington, but I'm a scientist. I can't simply take your word for it. I need proof."

"I expected no less," she said, her mouth tilting up into the slightest of smiles. "Which is why I brought you this." She reached into the opening in her petticoat and retrieved something from a pocket, her hand closed around it in a tight fist. "Perhaps this will explain my tardiness this evening. It took me some time to find all the right parts without access to my laboratory."

She opened her fist, revealing a small metal replica of a ladybird. "It's just a toy," she explained hastily. Biting her lower lip, she flipped the metal bug onto its back, exposing a complex network of gears and springs. A longer torsion spring and key protruded from its middle. She twisted the key a quarter turn, and the ladybird's forewings lifted up. Another quarter turn unfolded longer underlying wings, quadruple the length of its body. She wound the key two more full turns, flipped the toy back over onto its tiny segmented legs, and released the key.  The little metal ladybird zoomed up a good foot and flew around in a neat circle before landing back on her palm.

"It's brilliant," he said, quite honestly. Flight was a mode of transport no scientist had yet fully mastered. There were hot air balloons, but those were unwieldy beasts, unsuited for long distances or poor weather. And de Clifford had been working on designing some sort of airship before he died, but he'd had Alex's help, which was arguably cheating. Mrs. Remmington's ladybird was just a toy, but the practical implications were vast, as he suspected she knew. "Is it anatomically correct?"

"In some ways. The hindwings are four times the length of the body and fold along the ridges, like veins." She gave him a sheepish grin. "I read your paper on the natural history of beetles. The illustrations were helpful."

He had to admire her shrewdness. Another man would have been flattered that she'd not just read his work, but been inspired by it. Alex remained skeptical. "How does it work?" he asked her.

Her entire face brightened as she launched into an explanation. "It's fairly simple, actually. I essentially combined the law of energy conservation with the physics behind the boomerang. The work I put in when I wind the key is converted into potential energy in the mainspring. When it's released, it's converted into kinetic energy." She lifted the toy up higher to give him a better look. "See how the upper surfaces of the wings are curved? They're designed to push air downward. The downward flow of air creates lift. And the wings are welded on at slightly different levels so that they move at different speeds—hence, the roundtrip."

His skepticism was fading. After all, his secrets required more than a little suspension of disbelief. Knowing what he did, why shouldn't he believe her? Maybe it was because he'd never known the Keepers to make a mistake. And murdering Bernard—if his wife was the true genius behind Remmington Inventions—would have been a colossal screw-up. One the Keepers would want to correct immediately, if they ever learned the truth. Mrs. Remmington was in far more danger than she knew.

"Mrs. Remmington, who else knows this alleged secret of yours?"

"Only my sister. I suppose the servants may have guessed."

Alex swore, stalking towards the fire. It would appear he still had a conscience, damn the rusty old thing. Or maybe he just couldn't bear the idea of the Keepers taking away something he once coveted. They would realize their mistake soon, even without anyone squawking.

The chivalrous thing to do would be to offer her his protection, for whatever it was worth. He'd given de Clifford his protection, and look how that turned out: the baron dead and Alex's body corroding from the outside in. The first scar had been a warning; its malignant growth a deadly threat. If he tried to obstruct the Keepers a third time, there was a very good chance he'd wind up dead.

And if he did nothing, Evelyn Remmington would definitely die, whether by the hangman's noose or the Keepers' ritual knife.

Damn, damn, double damn. His conscience was making one last stand. "I believe you, Mrs. Remmington," he said. "Now is your turn to believe me."

A/N: Sorry for the hold up on this! Back in the states for part 4 of my honeymoon (in Florida) and now have access to WiFi! Look forward to your thoughts on this switchup in POV.