Dawn's Early Light (22 page)

E
liza remembered a long and painful hypersteam trip from York to London. It had been an excruciating journey, bouncing between the window and the shoulder of her then-senior partner, Wellington Books. The innovations of steam power had lessened the time it took to go anywhere, but it added this uncomfortable shimmy to the carriages that always left her feeling dreadfully shaken.

Now here she was in America, waking up to another bright morning on the
Excelsior
, this nation's first hypersteam train. However, it unfortunately still had all the same bumping and jostling of the one back in Britain.

Travelling with Felicity Lovelace in tow was certainly not improving her mood, and because Eliza knew why she was so miffed with the American librarian, it made it even worse. She hated being jealous, because it was not her natural state. Yet, every time Wellington so much as glanced at Felicity she could feel the serpent chew on her insides.

Is that why she let Bill kiss her? Was it because she wanted him to do so, or because it would make Wellington equally jealous? Maybe it was retribution for how she was feeling?

Perhaps they would finally find an opportunity to talk about what was happening between them, as Felicity had pushed Eliza and Wellington together, thanks to a favour the OSM had unintentionally done. Due to their mad dash for the hypersteam, the American agency had purchased for its agents the only remaining tickets on the
Excelsior
—first-class tickets. Additionally, as their luggage had been left behind at the Hotel Ste. Claire, OSM had opened an account with the
Excelsior's
on-board establishment. Eliza knew full well that the Ministry would not spring for such luxury.

Accommodations on the train far exceeded her expectations; with a separate washroom on board, including tiny rose-scented soaps, and their very own waiter who came round whenever they fancied a little something to nibble on. Then there was coffee on tap, and most blessedly of all, tea.
Proper
tea. It was bliss!

This bliss was short-lived, however, as Wellington also took his place in the
adjoining
cabin.

She could still recall the previous night, both of them lacking sleep on account of their wild escape from Detroit, watching him wrestle with the cabin door, probably having trouble managing the key. After muttering,
“Good night, Miss Braun . . .”
he had left her then as she was now—alone in the room, her delight over such treatment deflated like a balloon pricked by a pin.

Falling back into her bunk, nearly wide enough to be considered a bed, Eliza suddenly felt like she was twelve years old again. The boy she liked didn't like her . . . even if he had kissed her first.

And to complicate matters all the more, the new bloke recently moved into town had kissed her, and it was hard to tell who was the better at it.

Eliza picked at the pretty pink quilt with one fingernail. Well, she wasn't twelve anymore, and she was damned if she was going sit around waiting for either Welly or Bill. She just needed to get a clear idea on where each of them stood.

She slipped out of her bunk, crossed to the adjoining door, and finally after a few tries—Eliza needed to have the Porter service this lock—opened the door to stick her head into Wellington's room.

He jumped on seeing her head poking into his room. On recovering himself, Welly frowned. “Miss Braun, is there any reason you are appearing in my room like a big game trophy mounted on my wall? Is everything all right?”

Eliza opened her mouth twice without success, trying to decide if she should have it out with him then and there, but the knock at his door and Felicity's voice from outside announcing,
“Ten minutes, Wellington . . .”
kept her silent. Everything, words and otherwise, dried up immediately.

“Quite fine, Welly,” Eliza muttered.

“Well, do get a move on then. We're expected for breakfast in the dining car.” And with that, he gave her a gentle push with two fingers back into her own cabin, and then shut the adjoining door firmly between them.

Eliza rubbed the spot where his fingers had placed a feather touch. He could not have hurt her more if he'd punched her in the face.

Eliza then clenched her teeth together so hard, she believed they might crack.
Get a move on? Oh, I promise you, Welly,
she thought to herself as she took a seat in front of the vanity,
I will do just that this morning!
After all, if they were about to have breakfast, perhaps Eliza could look her best for someone who would appreciate it. Namely, “Wild Bill” Wheatley. She certainly understood his advances better than Wellington's. When the man she wanted was making absolutely no effort, it was tempting to have a very attractive one that was nearby.

Eliza flipped the switch that retracted the bed into an overhead compartment.
Now that's an ingenious contraption; Southern Pacific and White Star lines should take a page from them,
she thought idly as she slipped into her morning wear. She decided that trousers would be appropriate this morning. Something about long pants always made her feel more comfortable and ready to face danger and disaster.

And she knew, as she was displaying her assets, Bill would notice.

Turning back and forth in front of the mirror, Eliza took a measure of pride in her figure and how she enjoyed using it to her advantage.

“A dash of makeup perhaps,” she whispered to herself, and pulled out her mother-of-pearl lady's case. After a moment's consideration, she picked out a little rouge, and a touch of deep red lipstick.

A thought came to her as she began. Her hand paused in applying blush on her cheeks. He was her partner-of-many-secrets, for he'd never spoken of his family nor much of his past. She knew he'd been in the army, but apart from that how well did she truly know Wellington Thornhill Books?

“Things need to change in Arizona,” Eliza told her reflection sternly. “If they do not . . .”

Eliza shut the compact with a snap and spent the next few minutes wrestling her hair into a neat French twist. The final touch was her strapping into the Ministry-issue Mark II corset. Once the hooks running down the front were secured in place, Eliza commenced with “proper adjustments.” When she was satisfied, particularly as to having a “good corset day,” she exited her cabin, ran her palms along her tight trousers, and strode confidently towards the dining car.

The smell of eggs and bacon did make her stomach rumble with thunder, but it tightened when she laid eyes on Felicity. Eliza thought she had taken plenty of trouble with her attire this morning, but she was suddenly seized by the urge to run back to her cabin. The American agent was dressed in a lovely deep green dress, topped off by a perfectly sized hat with a flourish of feathers pinned to the side. Quite the polished, refined lady she made.

She looked like a damned Parisian courtesan, complete with wares on display.

Bill was sitting next to Felicity, seemingly watching the countryside race by, a rather pensive look on his face. His plain attire only served to enhance his partner's.

This scene of fashion and elegance irritated her so badly, Eliza had to stand still for a moment in order to gain control of her own expression. That was her style. Conservative. Reserved.
Dull.
It was ridiculous to think about turning around and going back to change—this was her style. Bold. Expressive. Independent.

Damn it all if her mind did wander longingly to the stunning red satin evening dress that she had packed in her luggage.

Eliza placed a single hand across her corset, and hoped that her new trousers didn't have a hole in them somewhere.

While she was doing so, Felicity caught Eliza's eye and waved cheerily to her. The agent knew why the woman annoyed her so much—she wasn't that foolish. It was that she did make such an effort to be pleasant. Felicity Lovelace was like a veritable splinter trapped under Eliza's skin, one that she'd need a hot needle to get out.

She loathed this pettiness getting the better of her, and had never thought of herself as a nasty person, so she would try her very best to keep her thoughts from showing. Forcing a smile onto her lips, Eliza waved back and joined them at the breakfast table.

“Good morning . . .” And Felicity stared blankly at Eliza, biting her bottom lip while her eyes darted around the car. Was she picking up
any
subtleties of fieldwork on this mission?

“Eliza,” the agent said, her reply a bit too sharp. “We're not travelling incognito for the moment so we can use our real names.”

“Right,” the librarian said, laughing in relief as she picked up her cup of coffee. “The pot is still fresh. Would you care for a cup?”

“Yes,” Eliza said with a nod. “Maybe that is what I need.” She would much rather have had tea, but she wasn't going to yield the advantage to the librarian.

In truth, Eliza did find the aroma of fresh coffee appealing, and after applying the appropriate amount of cream and sugar cubes, the morning drink did begin to soothe her tensions.

She was just about to relax when Bill turned to look at her. “Whoa!” he exclaimed. He then settled into his chair, his grin reminding her of when they met at the beginning of this mission. “Didn't realise I'd ordered eggs sunny-side up this morning.”

With all the maturity of a schoolboy,
Eliza seethed. “They are called breasts. I have no doubt you've seen them before.”

She glanced over at Wellington. He was consulting his journal, making notations concerning . . .

That.

Bloody.

Car.

“Many thanks to OSM for the accommodations,” Eliza said, toasting the two of them as if it were a champagne flute rather than a plain white coffee cup. “It's been a while since I have travelled so comfortably.”

“This isn't the way to see the States,” grumbled Bill.

Felicity rolled her eyes and leaned into Eliza, as a dear friend would do when wanting to engage in some scandalous gossip. “Don't mind Mr. Grumpy-Chaps over there. He's not one for progress. His idea of transcontinental travel is on horseback, with baked beans, sausages, coffee for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, then arriving at your destination with a sore behind.”

Did she really call “Wild Bill” Wheatley
Mr. Grumpy-Chaps
?! And had she really talked about his rump in such a fashion, before breakfast?

Perhaps that was another reason she did not care for Miss Felicity Lovelace. The two of them were very much two peas in a pod.

Eliza looked over at Wellington, still jotting down notations in his journal.

“Yes, Wellington, I slept spectacularly. And you?” Eliza took a sip of her coffee, and then added, “Oh, I am famished as well.”

Wellington looked up and gave a start at seeing Eliza's provocative fashion. “Oh, I say!”

“No, you didn't,” Eliza stated flatly.

“It's just that you are . . .” And he seemed to launch on an epic quest for just the right words. “. . . quite the picture.”

“But not quite eye-catching enough to tear you out of your beloved journal.”

Wellington looked to his fellow agents and awkwardly cleared his throat. “My apologies, everyone. Last night, I had an idea what is causing that damnable backfire in the motorcar. I'm just making a few notations to myself so that I can remedy it.”

A loud snort came from across the table. “And when you finish with that,” Bill said, still talking to Wellington as he topped off his coffee, “maybe you could do something about that annoying noise it's making.” He tilted his head as he mimicked the sound. “
Chittity-chittity-chittity-chittity.
Does wonders for workin' your last nerve.”

Wellington fixed a hard gaze on Bill that Bill did not bother to return. The cowboy's gaze was, once again, directed to the countryside speeding by them.

Their waiter, in immaculate black and white, stood at a fair distance from his new diner, greeted the table with a warm smile . . .until his eyes fell on Eliza. The arched eyebrow suggested that, obviously, her rugged attire was not meeting the
Excelsior
dining car's dress code.

Eliza returned an arched brow of her own. “If there's a problem, mate, then out with it.”

“Tea, if you please,” Wellington interjected, disregarding the sniff from the waiter. “And if you would just bring us all your standard breakfast menu?”

With a nod and a polite smile, the waiter disappeared.

“Are you sure you wish to go on with this meeting?” Eliza asked, motioning to his journal. “We really cannot afford distractions . . .”

“Says the woman in the Mark II corset,” Bill jabbed. “Two targets clearly out in the open.”

“And if I were a lesser man, I would be distracted by such a fashion, but alas, I am not,” Wellington retorted.