Authors: Kate Cross
Heart of Brass
Praise for
Heart of Brass
“Fabulously entertaining—a great romance in an inventive, believable steampunk world!”
—Stephanie Laurens, New York Times bestselling
author of The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae
“
Heart of Brass
is riveting! I couldn’t put it down. I can’t wait for the next book. Kate Cross is fabulous!”
—Victoria Alexander, #1
New York Times
bestselling author of
My Wicked Little Lies
OUT OF THE VAPORS
Five paused in the stairwell of his lodgings and pressed the heel of one palm to his forehead. It felt as though there was something worrying at his brain—like a cat pawing at a closed door.
Luke.
He clung to the rail with one hand, trying to keep himself from falling down the narrow stairs as
her
voice rang in his head. He hadn’t been able to get it out. Every time he thought of her, pain followed.
Luke
. It was what she had said to him in her bedroom. She had said it like he should recognize it, and just now it had sounded almost plaintive—regretful.
She knew him, and though he knew everything about her he didn’t know the connection. She had the upper hand—had him at a disadvantage. That she made him feel that way was simply one more reason to kill her. And he would….
HEART
of
BRASS
A N
OVEL OF THE
C
LOCKWORK
A
GENTS
KATE CROSS
SIGNET ECLIPSE
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, May 2012
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN: 978-1-101-58526-9
Copyright © Kathryn Smith, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
This book is for Joey and Allison, who started out as steampunk acquaintances and quickly became two of my favorite people. I’m so glad my research led me to you!
It is also for my husband, Steve, who will gladly put on a top hat and frock coat and venture to a convention with me. Sweetie, you’re the best.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
London, the Age of Steam
“You shouldn’t go in there, ma’am. ’Tis no place for a lady.”
Arden Grey, known in polite circles as Lady Huntley, and in less polite as “that poor woman,” carried a small carpetbag in her gloved hand as she approached the factory door, pewter-colored skirts swishing around her matching pumps. Overhead the lights of a police dirigible swept across the scene, illuminating the night in a wash of glaring silver.
The veil attached to her tiny black top hat did nothing to shield her eyes, and Arden squinted against the intrusive brightness. “You will soon learn, sir, that I am not the usual sort of lady.” She’d been born and bred to be one, even married an earl to maintain the illusion, but during her unusual life she’d seen and heard—
and done
—too many dark things to own such a gentle, ignorant title.
The Scotland Yard man tugged the brim of his hat at her in reply, and stepped back so she might pass. It was obvious from the tight set of his lips that he opposed her presence most vehemently, but knew his place well enough not to voice his disapproval again. In this thoroughly modern world there were still those who believed a woman ought to keep to home, rather than engage in any manner of business.
Tell that to Queen Victoria
.
Sagging floorboards creaked under her boots as she entered B. E. Hammond & Sons, the varnish long since worn off this particular section of wood. The foyer was well lit and unassuming, and smelled vaguely of oil and metal. It was quiet now, but during the day this entire building would hum and vibrate with the sounds of working machines. The air would be humid and thick, tasting of steam and the sharp tang of industry.
She fancied she could smell blood, but it was most likely copper. When people used to oppose her father’s support of the Automatization Movement, he would reply that it could not be a coincidence that the very life in a man’s veins smelled like the same metal used to construct early automatons. He died in the middle of building what would have been his finest work, a piece that now sat hunched, gears gummed up, in the corner of his W.O.R. laboratory. Four years it had sat there, and despite all the brilliant minds the Wardens of the Realm—the mysterious government agency to which Arden herself belonged—set to work in that room, the project had yet to be completed. Arden had even provided them with the schematics of the machine, but to no avail. The automaton remained elusive, an example of her father’s genius that would never come to fruition, though the Wardens would continue to try.
Then again, she was a fine one to throw stones, she who clung to a hopeless dream.
Another Scotland Yard man came through a set of double doors and paused there, holding one of them open. “This way, Lady Huntley—if you please.”
No, she didn’t please, but she walked past the man and through the doorway all the same. She’d rather be at home with a glass—or several—of fine Scotch whiskey, but she’d been summoned here instead. Granted, it had been a welcome rescue from insipid conversation and weak sherry with a group of females who would inevitably take her aside one by one and ask her if she might construct one of her “special devices” for them.
Few people knew the extent of her talents. To most of the world she was simply Lady Huntley, a woman who refused to accept that her husband was most likely dead. She wasn’t the mechanical genius that her father was, but she had made a bit of a reputation amongst her sex for an invention she stumbled upon quite by accident. A device very similar—but far superior—to one sold by B. E. Hammond & Sons. It could have been quite scandalous, but since one of the Princesses Royal privately declared it a “miracle of modern medical science” in the field of feminine health, scandal became discreet acclaim. A treatment for “hysteria” that did not require the indiscretion of a trip to a sanitorium, but could be used in the privacy of a lady’s boudoir.
The delicate silver chains that hung from the piercing on the side of Arden’s nose across her cheek to her right ear quivered under the ceiling fans as she entered the large open room of the factory’s assembly department. Recently she’d increased the number of chains from six to seven. One for every year her husband had been missing.
Missing
. Not dead.
Two more Scotland Yard men—peelers as they were often called—stood with another man she assumed to be the senior Mr. Hammond, based on the distressed look on his face.
The policemen removed their hats when they spotted her. One of them was Inspector Grant, with whom she’d worked on several prior cases. Mr. Hammond held his fine, but worn, beaver top hat in his shaking hands. His graying hair stuck up in tufts around his head, as though he’d had his hands tugging at it. He had the countenance of a man who had seen—or done—something he should dearly like to forget.
As she approached, Arden withdrew what looked like a small lady’s compact from her bag. She pointed the device in the direction of the factory owner and watched the tiny hand beneath the glass swing around like the needle of a compass, finally coming to land on the word
REMORSE
. The sentimentometer was one of her favorites of all her father’s work, even though he’d developed it when she was but a child to determine whether or not she had done something naughty.
She snapped the lid shut and slipped the brass mechanism back into her bag. “Gentlemen.”
“Lady Huntley.” Inspector Grant greeted her with a curt nod—his only deference to her station. “Thank you for leaving your evening’s entertainments to aid us in this grim affair.”
“No thanks required, Inspector,” Arden replied in her usual crisp tones that often sounded far too severe for her liking. Lucas used to tell her she had the voice of a governess. “What has happened?”
The inspector pointed his pencil at the pale gentleman to his left. “Mr. Hammond was working late this evening in his office above stairs. When he came down to check everything was as it should be for the night, he found the body of a young woman.” He gestured for her to follow him and she did. The factory owner stayed behind, working the brim of his hat until it threatened to lose all shape.