The Escapement of Blackledge: a novella

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE Mirrors and Gilding

CHAPTER TWO Silk Stockings

CHAPTER THREE Through the Skylight

CHAPTER FOUR Domestic Bliss

CHAPTER FIVE Glittering Splendor

CHAPTER SIX Billiards to Cards

CHAPTER SEVEN Parisian

CHAPTER EIGHT Knowledge of Clockworks

CHAPTER NINE In the Mirror

CHAPTER TEN The Painting Lady

CHAPTER ELEVEN Mechanical Arm

CHAPTER TWELVE The Silver Swan

CHAPTER THIRTEEN Sly Dog

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Awkward and Unsociable

CHAPTER FIFTEEN Delicate Mechanism

CHAPTER SIXTEEN The Playful Pup

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Melted Wax

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Acknowledgments

The Escapement of Blackledge

Mary Robinette Kowal

CHAPTER ONE

Mirrors and Gilding

If Weatherby Kendall, the Duke of Blackledge, had been allowed to work in his laboratory, or perhaps sit in the library with a quarto of friends and conversation, he might have enjoyed coming-of-age. His mother, the Dowager Duchess, could not let that stand and had insisted that he have a fête. Not simply a dinner, of course, but a ball in which every eligible young woman in England, and quite probably the entire Empire, had been invited.

Weatherby supposed he should count his blessings that she had not already arranged a marriage for him. Though, perhaps she had but was simply too savvy to admit it. She was a cunning old dame, that was for certain. And the list of young ladies he had to invite to dance seemed unending.

He was currently dancing with Miss… Blue Gown. She was cousin so-and-so’s youngest niece from the county seat of some place or the other.. Weatherby rather hoped that this was simply her first time to London, because it would be quite an unfortunate defect if her eyes always bulged so.

“La! I have never seen such a ballroom!” She gasped as they turned two in time to the music.

“In many ways, neither have I.” As they separated for a long balance, he glanced around the once familiar room. It was usually a large white space with mirrors and gilding, but his mother had hired the Prince Regent’s glamourists for the evening. They had shrouded the ballroom with layers of illusion, until it seemed to be a woodland from the north country.

When they came together again to lead up the center, Miss Blue Dress said, “But I thought this was
your
ballroom.”

“
It is. It is only that…” What was he to say? That his mother had over-ruled him on every aspect of the event? “It is decorated for the ball.”

“Surely you have many balls.”

“No.” They reached the top of the set and Weatherby ground his teeth in frustration. Now they had to stand and chat while the progression continued on to the point that they could rejoin the dance. His friend George called this “flirtation time” and loved it better than dancing itself.

“You have no balls?”

He could only blink and stammer for a moment.

Fortunately, Miss Blue Gown seemed not to notice and continued on. “And with a ballroom such as this? La! You are teasing me, surely you are.”

“I am not.” He tucked his hands behind his back and surveyed the dancing couples. And then, praise Jove, the music came to an end. He and Miss Blue Gown both sighed though the sounds had vastly different characters.

Hers was sorrow that she was no longer able to claim the sole attention of the heir to a fortune.

His was relief that he could escape now. Weatherby bowed, as he had been taught, to pay his dance partner a courtesy for the dance. As soon as they had both straightened, he attempted a smile. “If you will pardon me, I must...” He gestured vaguely at the room.

“Oh! Of course. You must have other obligations. Thank you ever so much for the dance. I shall remember it always.”

He could not find words to respond to that and only bowed again. Turning on his heel, before he had even straightened again, Weatherby bolted for the nearest door--

—which was masked from view by the glamoured forest. Only the terrace doors and the main ballroom doors were visible to the naked eye. He turned then toward the main doors, where his mother stood. She lifted her head as if she felt his intention and he only just managed to avoid meeting her gaze. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her leave her station by the door.

By Jove, she was determined to introduce him to another eligible lady. Weatherby's cravat strangled him. He dodged through the crowd, unable for another moment to tolerate the press, and escaped onto the terrace where he took a deep breath of marginally cooler air. Even here, there were people. Gentlemen engaged in conversation. Ladies, fanning themselves to relieve the heat of the ballroom. Couples--

"George!"

His old friend stepped hastily away from a young woman that Weatherby thought he had danced with earlier, though her face had not then been quite so red. George cleared his throat. "There you are, my dear. I've got your necklace refastened." He tugged at the edges of his waistcoat, which somehow had become unbuttoned. "Well, Lord Blackledge, how is your birthday fête treating you?"

“Much as you might think.”

“That poorly, eh?”

Weatherby snorted. “My mother is headed this way. Would you mind…?”

“By all means, old chap.” George gave a bow and turned his attention back to the young lady. “If we could relocate closer to the door…”

“But then someone might see us.”

“Exactly, my dear.”

Weatherby did not wait to see exactly what George had in mind. There were steps that lead down to the shrubbery, but if he wanted to get out of sight, he needed to get off the terrace before his mother came outside. He vaulted over the low parapet to the pleasure ground below. Being in London, the grounds were not large enough to truly hide in, but a servants’ door lay under the terrace. It was intended for the use by the kitchen staff so they could harvest the herbs growing there but it also sufficed to allow the Duke of Blackledge to escape his mother.

He dodged down the narrow hall, with his head ducked slightly to avoid eye contact with any of the servants. He had hoped to avoid disrupting their work, but it did no good. They stopped in their tracks, bowing and curtsying as he went past.

As he took the narrow winding stair up, a scullery maid openly gawked at him. He gave her a pained nod and continued up to the third floor and there, stepped into the mercifully quiet hall. The music from the party was still audible, but the distance muted it to something almost pleasant. He would rather have had silence.

Weatherby unlocked the heavy door to his laboratory and pushed it open. His slippers echoed off the stone walls as he stepped onto the marble floor. He shut the door behind him, latching it out of habit. Silence.

He heaved a sigh. “Thank God.”

Rubbing the back of his head, he reveled for a moment in being alone and leaned against the wood to stare up at the skylight. It was propped open to let a breeze in, and a single taper burned in a lantern on his workbench. He would have to thank Bartlett for leaving it for him. The advantages of being predictable to one’s valet, he supposed.

And predictability meant it would not take his mother long to figure out where he had gone, but the relief from the press of the crowds was well worth her pique. Best make use of the time then.

Weatherby pulled his laboratory robe from the hanger by the door and shrugged it on over his evening clothes. Grease stains and small scorch marks pocked the simple banyan robe. It had been part of his pajamas, but now it served to keep his clothes from becoming too mussed. It was a compromise he had made with his mother, years ago, so she would allow him funds to carry on with his work.

But he no longer had to worry about such things. Weatherby straighted, a smile coming to his lips. He had reached his majority. In fact… he did not need to go back to the party, unless he wished it. Though, in truth, it would no doubt be easier in the long run to
not
antagonize Mother.

Weatherby walked to his workbench and used the taper to light the five arm candelabra there. The light caught on the gears of his latest automaton. The neck of the stork kept jamming as it was returning upright. He’d modeled it on the Silver Swan, but it needed to swing through a wider range of motion. Staring at it, he rested his hands on his workbench.

Under the fingers of his right hand, leather softened the bench. Odd. He had not been working with leather on this project.

A slender black kid glove lay on his bench. His brows contracted as he picked it up. It was too narrow to belong to anyone save the smallest of ladies, but no one at the ball would have been here. And besides, black was a mourning colour. No one with black kid gloves would even attend the ball, let alone invade his sanctum sanctorum.

The door had been locked and only he and Bartlett had the key. Weatherby spun and looked up again at the skylight. A block of wood held the glass panel up, rather than the chain that raised it from the interior. And the lantern… Weatherby inhaled sharply, clenching the glove in his fist.

“Who is here?” He lifted the candelabra and stepped away from the bench. “I demand that you show yourself.”

CHAPTER TWO

Silk Stockings

Helena Troyes pushed back further into the corner below the workbench. It was a damn sight lucky that she was a contortionist, or he’d have caught her for certain, he would have. Helena peeked past her drawn-up knees at a pair of well-turned calves. Polished shoes. Silk stockings. Gold buttons at the knees of his breeches… this was definitely not the Duke’s manservant. In some ways, that was better. She might be able to play the damsel role and take advantage of the Duke to make a break for it.

What was he even doing here? The Duke was supposed to be out of his chambers at his coming-of-age ball. Tonight had been the one night he was certain to be gone.

How was Helena to get the mechanical arm she needed if he was here? For that matter, how was she to get out if he didn’t leave? Stupid. Intolerably stupid to leave her glove on the workbench like that. To say nothing of leaving the lantern there like some idiot on her first heist. It wasn’t as if she had never been in a room when someone returned to it before.

She’d simply never been in one that was proof against sound. She had not heard anyone approach, just suddenly, the door was opening and she had dived out of sight.

“Who is there?” He turned and walked away from the workbench, carrying the candelabra with him. “I demand that you show yourself.”

Thank God he was an idiot. Without the immediate proximity of the candelabra, the pool of shadow around the workbench got deeper. If he turned back to look at it, he would be blinded by the very light he was carrying. Helena relaxed her knees ever so slightly and lifted her gloved left hand hand to shield her own sight from the flames. She scanned the floor under the work bench for something to throw. A length of metal rod not more than five inches long fit the bill nicely. She took it up in her bare right hand. This was just like Fancy Pierre’s knife-throwing act. Except, of course, that it wasn’t a knife and she was trapped under a workbench. Still…no one would die if she missed.

She drew back her arm and flung the piece of metal toward the door. The moment it left her hand she rolled to the side. It thumped against the wood door, and clattered to the marble floor. Helena slid across the floor as the Duke turned toward the noise.

“Bartlett? Who is there?” He lifted the candelabra above his head, and light spilled across the room.

She winced, and tucked herself behind an easy chair. With the light over his head, he wouldn’t be blinded by the flames. Only a few steps stood between her and the skylight and escape. The candelabrum was a problem though. He would see her the moment she stood to make the move. If she were a better glamourist, she might be able to draw a breeze out of the ether to blow out the candles.