Lady Doctor Wyre (7 page)

“Circumstances have changed. I’m sorry, but I have my orders.”

The man did seem to be sincere, which Masters was smart enough to play upon. “I had orders too, Smith. What’s going on? If the director has a problem with me…”

Smith jerked his head and the other agents backed off slightly. Masters moved closer, obligingly angling his body so that the watching men couldn’t see Sig. For once, he was grateful the sheriff dwarfed him. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the cold metal caging his wrists.

The mechanical creatures Lady Wyre had used to save his life could do other things. He’d learned accidentally through trial and error since he couldn’t communicate with them directly, not with language, but they’d worked out a sort of tacit cooperation over the years.

His little saviors especially loved to devour metal.

He thought about that metal, cold bands dark with age and rusted corrosion. How those microscopic bits of metal must be barely held together by tiny, fragile strands too small for his human eyes to see, but extremely easy for his small friends to dissolve.

“The director had a visitor today,” Smith whispered, keeping his face angled between his men and their prisoners. “Orders changed afterward. You’re out of time, Masters. This whole jaunt to York was deliberate.”

“To get me out of Queenstown. Son of a bitch.” Masters slammed his fist into a crate and splintered wood exploded. “They’re going to tell her I’m working for them—”

“Which is true,” Sig added helpfully, earning a scowl.

“And she’ll cooperate with them. Damn it all to hell, they’re going to take her into custody, aren’t they? Who?” He grabbed a handful of Smith’s black coat and jerked him up on his toes. “Who changed the orders?”

“It’s for her own good, Masters.” Smith waved a hand at his men to keep them at bay. “She’ll have our protection against Britannia.”

“Bullshit,” Sig said in his most pleasant voice. “Do you honestly think your troops armed with six-barrel pistols, scythes and sheep shears are going to be able to stand against the might of Britannia? How many lazors do you have altogether? Maybe one hundred? I bet you don’t know that all it takes is a single signal from a cruiser in orbit around your planet to totally disable every weapon in your arsenal. They’ll be as useful as a fire poker.”

“Who changed the order?” Masters roared, giving the man a shake.

This time, Smith slammed Masters back into the wall and slapped handcuffs on his wrists, but he leaned close enough to whisper, “President Jaxson. Give it up, man. I’ll do my best to protect her for you.”

Masters met Sig’s gaze and he was reminded of a massive tiger he’d once seen in Kali Kata. Eyes burning with hatred, the sheriff was going to tear people apart with his bare hands once he had the chance.

Sig pushed away from the wall and shook his hair back out of his eyes. Walking with a delicate, mincing step, he followed the guards demurely, thus saving himself from the marshals’ attention. The last thing he wanted was a hard shove to send him sprawling. They might notice that the bands on his wrists were thinning and misshapen.

Yes, my friends, feast on the tasty metal. Lord Regret has work to do.

Chapter Six

Charlotte rubbed her eyes and stood to stretch, arching her back and rolling her shoulders. She had most definitely missed her research, but a few hours hunched over her ancient datapad had taken a toll on her, despite all the muscles she’d gained fighting to survive on this colony.

The first thing I’m obtaining in York is a brand-new datapad.

After refusing the temptation of her work all these years, it was pure bliss to pore over the vast figures she’d downloaded in Sig’s energy exchange last night. If Queen Majel truly suspected she hid on Americus, then, she reasoned, there was absolutely no reason to hide her research any longer. In fact, her research might prove to be the only possible way she could preserve her freedom. To that end, she had to understand what she’d accomplished with Sig, so she could build upon it.

If her suppositions were correct, her assemblers had become entirely self-sufficient. They would work indefinitely in their host’s body, perfecting its performance and shielding him from harm to the best of their programming, while finding new and exciting ways to fuel themselves without any noticeable side effects.

Had Queen Majel’s treatment evolved similarly? If so, she could be nigh impossible to assassinate, even if Charlotte sent her own unstoppable assassin.

Even more curious, her nanobots had managed to replicate themselves, and some of them had remained in the locket instead of returning to their host. She needed time to confirm her suspicions, but she was sure they weren’t her original assemblers, because their programming had immediately sent them back to their job.

So what job do these little ones believe themselves to possess?

A buzz at her door shot her heart rate to the moon. She’d programmed the door for Gil, and Sig would have just waltzed right in as though he owned the place. She didn’t have any other friends in town.

Scooping up her datapad and journal, she locked them in the tea chest and pushed it back beneath her bed. The locket and several tubes remained on her table, but she didn’t have enough time to hide them. Instead, she dumped several cosmetics to disguise the items.

She checked her reflection in the mirror. Her drab wool made her frown, despite the creases to her forehead, and her hair was loose, tumbled about her shoulders because she hadn’t bothered to even brush it out this morning in her excitement to get to work. She couldn’t pull off sleepy doe-eyed innocence, so she settled for sultry and tugged the bodice of her gown lower. Lifting her chin, she marched over to answer the door, every inch a Duchess despite the lack of good help to handle such trivial household duties.

“Hello?”

Without her approval, the door whooshed open, confirming her fear that this was no social visit. A team of black-suited men stood on her porch wearing long, sweeping dusters and black toppers. “Forgive the intrusion, ma’am, but—”

“Indeed, I shan’t,” she broke in, taking another step forward to block her door. “This might be Americus, free and independent colony of Britannia, but a lady still has her rights. Who are you and what do you want?”

“My name is Gatlin, and this is my associate, Colt.” The man who’d first spoken inclined his head. “Forgive my impertinence, Your Grace.”

Her stomach churned like she’d swallowed an entire pot of bitter coffee. That suddenly, all her plans and contingencies crashed, leaving a glowing tail of debris like a comet. Seven years of hiding had been destroyed in a heartbeat.

I refuse to run again.

She took a deep breath and forced her voice to the calm, deliberate accent of one of the highest ladies of Britannia. “On whose behalf do you call upon me, Mr. Gatlin?”

“President Jaxson of Americus. We’re marshals, Your Grace, sworn to uphold the laws of Americus and protect our citizens from harm.”

“And you believe me to intend harm to your colonists?” She let out a trilling laugh and waved her hand dismissively. “I’ve had seven years to harm, sir. I assure you that harm is the last thing on my itinerary.”

The other man stepped forward. “You misunderstand our purpose, Your Grace. President Jaxson extends the warmest of invitations for the Solstice celebration in the Capital.”

If they want to lure me with a party, then let me prepare for a full celebration.
Charlotte let a warm smile brighten her face and she clapped her hands with delight. “Oh, excellent! I haven’t enjoyed a decent soiree in
ages
. Do come in, gentlemen, while I pack for the trip.”

The marshals exchanged glances and conferred briefly to decide which of their party should come inside with her, while the rest, she presumed, encircled her cabin to make sure she didn’t attempt escape. As though she’d managed to turn her entire brain into an army of lightning quick assemblers, her mind blazed from plan to plan, thought to thought. Someone had figured out who she was. It didn’t take a nanobot to figure out who that might have been.

Worry made her drum her fingers on her crossed arms. Gil might have secrets he hadn’t shared yet, but she knew that man’s heart. He would be devastated that his confidence had been compromised. Had these men injured or arrested him? Tortured him for information? Or simply misled him in some way? Perhaps some interrogation of her own was in order. If nothing else, an aggressive stance would keep them off balance.

“Forgive my lack of hospitality, gentlemen. After your little demonstration at the Bostonia port, you know how pricy tea has become.” She watched their faces for any flicker that might betray them as they glanced about her sparse living quarters. She knew they must be second-guessing their supposition, for no aristocrat of a royal House would surely live in such conditions willingly for seven years. “Will Mr. Masters be a part of my escort?”

Mr. Gatlin’s eyes widened and his rose-bud mouth fell open into an O.

Mr. Colt was slightly more in control of his emotions, but he slipped his right hand beneath his coat. She detected none of the usual bulge of the antique six-barrel pistol, so she had to assume it was a slim stick of the lazor. “Pardon me, Your Grace?”

“Mr. Masters,” she said slowly and loudly as though the man had gone deaf or lost his wits. “The sheriff of this provincial town and obviously a marshal in his own right.”

“How…” Mr. Colt swallowed. “There’s no way you could know that Masters is…was…a Marshal.”

She arched a brow at the man, peering down her nose at him despite their height difference. “An imbecile would have figured it out, sir, considering my only contact this past year has been Masters. If you’d known where I was last Solstice then I’m sure President Jaxson would have extended her polite invitation then. Masters is not the sort of man to sell information to the highest bidder; he’s too honorable for that. So he must have trusted you in some way to give you any information at all, which implies he must also be a marshal. Now please follow me, sirs. I have need of your assistance.”

She swept into her bedroom as though she wore the finest ballgown and jewels to dazzle the highest Court in the universe. From the dusty depths of the wardrobe, she dragged out a hefty traveling trunk, threw open the lid like a child opening her Solstice gifts, and began rifling through the last few gowns she’d been unable to bring herself to destroy, not even to make her bedroom more habitable.

“We don’t have much time…” Mr. Colt began.

She waved him off. “Nonsense. There’s always time to look one’s best and I simply cannot be introduced to the equivalent of the Americus queen if I’m not properly clothed. Mr. Gatlin, could you please fetch that hatbox on top of the wardrobe? I’m afraid I can’t reach it without a chair. And, Mr. Colt, if you would be so kind as to drag out my tea chest from beneath my bed. I daren’t leave it behind for someone to throw out into deepest space in order to make a political statement.”

From the depths of the trunk, she dragged out a deep red gown that made her fingers twitch with excitement and her stomach clench with remembered foreboding.
This is the gown I wore when I died to Britannia.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, while I change into something more presentable for Madame President.”

She stepped behind the screen and hummed beneath her breath as she stripped off the ugly gown. She deliberately tossed it over the top as evidence of her nudity. Peeking through a small hole, she verified her tactic of distraction had been effective. Scattered and off balance by her commands, they whispered among themselves couldn’t even bring themselves to glance at the screen. Satisfied, she slipped the scarlet silk over her head and realized she had a problem. This gown had been crafted by the finest modeste in Londonium at the height of her social status. As such, it had a much tighter, slimmer silhouette than she was used to wearing on Americus.

She tugged the gown back off. Her feminine finery had certainly made an impression on Gil, and she’d use whatever weapon at her disposal to make sure she came out of this alive. Fluffing her bosom and shaking her head so her hair hung disheveled and tumbled about her, she stepped out from behind the screen.

Mr. Gatlin snapped to attention like Madame President had just bellowed an order at him. Mr. Colt had been snooping through some papers on her desk. Blushing at her notice, he turned an alarming shade of puce when he noticed her dishabille.

She marched toward him and presented her bodice like a prize. “Do make yourself useful, Mr. Colt, and tighten my corset for me.”

He made a choked sound as though he’d swallowed his own tongue. “Ma’am, I mean, Your Grace, I can’t possibly…”

“If you do not tighten my corset for me,” she said in a cold, measured voice, “then I cannot wear my best gown. And if I cannot wear my best gown, I shan’t go with you at all.” She gave him a tight, glittering smile. “I would regret your dismissal from the service at Madame President’s disapproval because of your failure to bring me to her soiree simply because you were too modest to assist a lady’s toilette.”

“For heaven’s sake, man, it’s not that difficult.” Mr. Gatlin surprised her by stepping over and grabbing the laces at her waist, although his hands were trembling. He tugged firmly, while Charlotte used her hands to shape her waist and bosom to her satisfaction. “There. Will that satisfy, Your Grace?”

She slipped the red silk gown back over her head, slimming and smoothing the dress over her hips. “Not bad, sir. Do you have a lady wife whom you assist at home?”

Mr. Gatlin blushed and gave her a small bow. “A sister, Your Grace. She had a modest season in York and would sacrifice her first-born child to go to Londonium and be presented to the Queen.”

“Indeed, that might be required nowadays,” she muttered beneath her breath. She took note of Mr. Colt swaying slightly and sharpened her voice. “Breathe, Marshal, before you pass out in my house and your associates are forced to drag you out by your boots.”

Chapter Seven

Prowling his cell like a cage, Masters was practically frothing at the mouth.