The Escapement of Blackledge: a novella (8 page)

“I can get my entire arm through up to the shoulder, with room to spare.”

“It isn’t the width.” He laid his finger on the edge of the fireplace. “The angle is wrong. The arm extends your reach from the elbow down so you would wind up with the hand grasping in the middle of the air.”

“Oh.” She rested her hand next to his on the paper and her shoulders sagged. “Yes, I see.”

Weatherby pulled another piece of paper toward him. He hooked his stool with his foot and drew it closer. “So. We’ll just have to build something that will do that job.”

It would need to be compact so she could take it down the chimney. Fortunately, it would not need to bear a great deal of weight if all she had to do was pick up a set of keys. Dexterity though… that would be an issue. Weatherby drummed his pencil on the edge of the paper. This was going to be fun.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Silver Swan

A soft weight covered Helena. She opened her eyes and caught Weatherby standing up from draping a blanket over her. “I’m not asleep.”

“Oh!” He jumped back from the chair, running his hand through his rumpled hair. “Sorry to disturb you.”

“Not asleep.” This was not wholly accurate, but she saw no reason to quibble. Helena sat up, stretching to work the kink out of her back. She might be able to fit into a small box, but a chair was still not the most comfortable place to sleep. “How is it going?”

“Um…” Weatherby had abandoned his coat at some point in favor of a battered banyan robe with frayed cuffs and grease stains. He turned back to the workbench and wrinkled his nose. “Since you are awake, might I borrow you for a moment?”

“Only for a moment?” Helena pushed the blanket aside. “I might be losing my touch.”

Weatherby rewarded her with a bright flush across his cheeks. He fished a piece of knotted cord out of the pocket of his robe. “May I have your arm?”

“Are you going to tie me up?”

“I— Um. No— That is…” He waved the cord in a vague circle. “It’s for taking your measure. Your arm’s measure. I don’t want the harness to chafe.”

“Oh, I do so hate chafing.”

“It will be lined so that— Oh.” He cleared his throat. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?” Helena put all the innocence she could manage into her voice and widened her eyes.

“Make everything sound… salacious.”

“Are you certain that is me and not simply how you are hearing them?” At her reply, the red in his cheeks rose to the tips of his ears. Helena laughed and then covered her mouth. The poor thing had not the experience with flirtation to survive even something as mild as this. “I am sorry. Should I not tease you?”

“Well...” And then his face took on something of the aspect of a small child about to embark on something naughty. “At least, not until I finish the arm. It does…ah…make it somewhat hard to think.”

“Hard?”

Weatherby snorted, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Very.”

Wetting her lips, Helena took a step closer to him and held out her arm. “Then please do as you will.”

He closed the remaining distance between them and the entire room seemed to heat. When he regarded her, he seemed to see all of her, not simply her hair or her eyes, or any single feature. A warm current ran through Helena from bosom to toes, eddying in her most private places. She swallowed and tilted her head back to look up at him.

With the flush still on his cheeks, Weatherby lifted the cord and wrapped it around her upper arm. His hands trembled as he tied a knot to represent the circumference.

Then he frowned and tilted his head to the side. “Is this what you’ll be wearing?”

Tempting though the coy response was, Helena shook her head. “The shirt would catch on the mortar in the chimney. I wear light stays and we wrap my arms with strips of buckskin to guard against the sharp edges.”

“Hm.” Weatherby tugged on the cord between his hands. “Well. I am afraid I need to ask you to take your shirt off.”

“Afraid?”

He smiled, lowering his eyes. “Delighted seemed a little too forward.” With a shrug, he held up the cord. “But in all seriousness, I need to make sure the arm fits snugly or it will not function well.”

“Do you have leather we can wrap around my arm to simulate that thickness?” Helena untucked her shirt from her breeches. While she performed in a short chiton in front of London society, disrobing had always been awkward. It was not the near nudity that troubled her but the transition between the states. Gripping the bottom of the shirt, she drew it up and over her head.

“Not necessary, I am… I…” When she lowered the shirt, Weatherby was staring frankly at her with his mouth a little open. He shook himself and lowered his gaze to the cord in his hands. These were held at his waist, where his banyan robe had acquired a distinctive tented shape. “Damn. Sorry! For cursing and— Oh God.”

Helena pressed her shirt to her mouth to muffle her laughter as he turned his back on her. He was so adorable when flustered that she wanted to pinch his cheeks. Actually… Helena lowered her gaze from the back of his neck to his lower region. She dropped the shirt, put both hands on his buttocks and squeezed.

With a squeak, Weatherby rose onto his toes.

Helena giggled. She slid her arms around his waist and found the tie of his robe. Weatherby grabbed her wrists. His chest heaved with his rapid breathing. She stood, with her bosom pressed against his back and the warmth of him radiating through his robe and against her bare skin. Squeezing her wrists, Weatherby made a growl low in his throat and then he released her. He turned in the circle of her arms and bent his head to kiss her.

His lips were feverish and insistent. Helena put her hands on the small of his back and pulled him closer as answering heat surged through her.

Weatherby cupped her face in his hands and pulled back, panting. “You make it deucedly h— difficult to concentrate.”

“Then maybe…” Helena traced the line of his waist till her hand rested again on the knot of his robe. “We should explore what is distracting you?”

“I am trying to be respectful.”

She reached up to take his right hand and drew it down between her breasts to rest upon the tie for her stays. “I am not.”

His hand tightened upon the cord, as she released the knot holding his robe. Under it, his shirt was undone to reveal a fine brush of red-gold hair. He tugged the cord, undoing the bow, and then a line appeared between his brows as he tried to puzzle out what to do next. He really had not been with a woman before.

Giggling, Helena guided his hands down to her breeches. “You know how buttons work, I trust?”

“That much, yes.” He undid one button.

“Then watch and learn.” Helena drew the cord through its spiral of eyelets. The front of the stays spread, releasing her bosom into the relative cool of his laboratory. She shrugged the stout fabric from her shoulders and let it drop to the floor.

Weatherby stopped moving. To remind him of his task, she reached forward and undid the buttons at the corners of his fall-front so the flap dropped free. Weatherby fumbled with the buttons on her trousers, his shirt gaping farther open with each rapid inhalation. As her own breeches loosened, Helena pushed the robe from his shoulders. He let it drop to the ground and fairly tore his shirt off over his head.

Helena slid out of her breeches and faced him clad only in her stockings. With his hands caught in the waistband of his breeches, he stared and his attention was clearly engrossed. Stretching her arms over her head, Helena lowered her gaze as she slid into one of the simpler poses from the show, which was designed to be both demure and seductive at the same time.

Weatherby’s breeches hit the floor.

Helena brought her hands down to run them down the length of his bare torso. He was lean, as if he often forgot to take meals, and his work with automatons had left him finely muscled with truly magnificent arms. Those arms hung at his sides, fingers flexing. Helena leaned into him, warming herself against his fever-hot skin. She rose on her toes, sliding against him, and kissed his neck. He trembled. Tilting her head back, she found his earlobe and took it between her teeth.

Groaning, he gripped her waist and lowered his head to find her lips. He tasted of salt and lingering brandy. Helena pulled his hips against hers. Keeping him trapped against her, Helena forced him back until his buttocks rested against the edge of the library table. She whispered against his lips, “Pendulum rod.”

His hips bucked forward. She slid her free hand between them to grip his arbor vitae. Running her hand up the length of his shaft, she gave a gentle twist.

“God.” Weatherby rested his forehead against hers, his breath ragged. “I might faint.”

“Not yet.” Wrapping an arm around his neck, Helena drew one leg up to rest her foot on the table behind him. As if she were climbing a wall, she lifted herself up so his lips were between her breasts. The heat of his breath sent waves of yearning through her. She brought her other leg up to grip him between her thighs and then lowered herself, guiding the length of him into her.

Weatherby’s head flew back, his spine arching. She leaned forward with his motion, following him down until he lay on the table, pinned beneath her. Between her legs, he quivered and bucked. Helena rode each piston thrust, as Weatherby called out to the Heavens.

With only his head and buttocks touching the table, he gave a final surge and collapsed back onto the table.

It was over too soon, which was unsurprising, but a delicious ache filled the space they shared within Helena and her muscles tightened with longing. Weatherby twitched beneath her, grunting. Sweat slicked his skin as she ran her hands over his chest, drawing circles.

“That…” He wiped his hand down his face. “You… God.”

“I think the usual term is Goddess.” She leaned down and kissed his neck.

“Goddess.” Weatherby ran his hands up her thighs and found the place where they joined.

The pleasure kicked Helena’s hips back and she closed her eyes. “Mm.”

“Am I…” His thumb found a delightful spot. Weatherby cleared his throat. “Did my escapement fail?”

Helena threw back her head and laughed. She bent forward, smiling at him, and kissed the frown line between his brows. “It only needed priming. Now… think of a gear train with large, deep cogs and let us see what we can do about our rotational frequency.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sly Dog

As Helena slid down the drainpipe outside her apartment, the morning sun reflected off the windows and turned the dirt-streaked glass into a confection of pink and gold. She slipped over the sill with the still pleasant ache between her thighs.

“Oh, thank God.” Mama Agnes stood up from the chair, hand pressed against her bosom. “Where the devil have you been!”

“I was…” Helena took a step back. “You knew I’d gone to the Corke party.”

“Last night! It’s going on eight in the morning and we had no idea where you were.”

“I’m sorry.” Helena swallowed and turned toward the bed. It was empty and they never rose much before noon. “I thought you would be asleep.”

Mama Agnes threw her hands out. “When have we ever gone to bed before you came home?”

Helena rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.” She bit her lower lip. “Where’s Papa Fred?”

“Where do you think? We thought you had been caught.” Mama Agnes spun away and grabbed her bonnet from the peg by the door.

“He went to the constabulary?” Helena sank into a chair. Papa Fred was respected in the circus world, but beyond that his skin stood as a barrier to civil reception. She undid the laces on her shoes, yanking them off.

Mama Agnes scowled over her shoulder. “As if they would answer him. He went to the servants door at the Corke house to pick up gossip. Once we knew what had happened to you… Then we would figure things out.”

“Give me a moment to change and I’ll come with you.”

“No!” Mama Agnes spun and advanced across the room, seeming to grow in stature with every step. “You are staying here, young lady, and you are not going
anywhere
except the circus until I say otherwise. Am I clear?”

“What? Why?” She had an appointment to keep with Weatherby that afternoon. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You terrified us! Do you understand.” Mama Agnes leaned over the chair and put her hands on Helena’s shoulders. Her eyes were red, and had clearly been so for some time. “We were so worried. I need you to stay here, exactly here, so that I know where you are. And then I need to bring Fred back and then, and only then, can we talk about what happened. Do not go anywhere. Not anywhere.”

Helena opened her mouth to protest again and the resolve in Mama Agnes’s eyes stopped her. She settled back against her chair. “All right. I’ll wait here.”

“Good.” Mama Agnes finished tying her bonnet and stalked toward the door. “And when I come back, I want to know who kept you out all night.”