The Escapement of Blackledge: a novella (6 page)

“Is that how you came to — ah…” His brain stopped functioning for a moment as her other hand found its way to his breeches. “I—”

She stood on her toes and found his lips.

Weatherby had been about to say something compelling, but all of the muscles involved in speech became invested in exploring the warmth of Miss Troyes’s lips. The pressure changed like an endlessly variable cog — no, not a cog. Those were all angles and edges and she was…she was pliable and strong, molding against him the way wax melted around a form. He tried to match the rhythm of her movements.

And then her hand wrapped around his arbor vitae. Weatherby tightened his hands on her shoulders to keep from falling. When had she undone his breeches? “Miss—”

Miss Troyes kissed him on the cheek. “You are very sweet.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes.” She kissed his other cheek. “You are. And I’m very sorry.”

And then she stepped back, leaving a chill down his front where her warmth had been. She took her frock from the shrubbery, blew him a kiss, and slipped away.

“Wait!” Weatherby took a step after her and his breeches fell down.

He yanked them up, stumbling through the shrubbery as he fumbled for the buttons. He found only soft wool. Looking down, Weatherby stared at the tufts of loose thread at the corners of his fall front breeches and then started to laugh.

Miss Troyes had stolen his buttons.

CHAPTER NINE

In the Mirror

In the small backstage space of Astley’s Circus, Helena leaned against the wall with her right foot raised above her head. She pointed her toes and bent forward to touch her head against the wall as she warmed up for the evening performance. “Am I correct in remembering that we are not in the show on Thursday?”

Papa Fred paused in his preparations and looked at her in the mirror, with a kohl pencil in his hand. “Yes. Why?”

“At the Sanderson ball I overheard that there would be a card party at the Corke residence.” She left her leg elevated and bent backwards to rest her hands on the ground. “I thought there might be an opportunity there.”

At that, Mama Agnes turned, with a tortoiseshell pin in her hand. “Have we any reason to think there is something worthwhile there?”

“Well, his home is on Belgrave Square. It seems likely, does it not?”

“Likely is not the same as a sure thing.” Mama Agnes pinned another curl into place.

“True.” And the Duke of Blackledge would be there, which was reason enough to avoid the place. Although it had been terribly fun to make him blush. Helena pushed off the floor to stand upright again and lowered her leg. “It was just a thought.”

“Mm… We do need to consider another ‘patron’ to visit, since the window at the Sanderson’s was locked. Pity that. I thought it didn’t have a lock.”

“Maybe it was only jammed.” Helena rested her palms against the wall and raised her left foot above her head. She was not entirely easy with lying to Mama Agnes, but neither did to explain the real reason she had not made the attempt. It would worry Mama Agnes and Papa Fred no end if they knew that the Duke of Blackledge had not only recognized her but followed her. “I could try again.”

“I suppose it would not hurt to make some inquiries about the Corke establishment.”

Weatherby stared out the window of George’s drawing room, while the reflections of the revelers swayed in the glass. He rubbed his forehead and the growing ache at the laughter. He should have stayed home.

In the glass, George’s reflection grew larger and then the man himself was by Weatherby’s side. He held out a snifter of brandy. “How did you meet her?”

“Who?” He took the brandy and swallowed without tasting it.

George snorted and nudged Weatherby with his elbow. “Please. Do me the courtesy of not pretending to be an idiot. You have come to a party. Voluntarily.”

“Well, you are my friend.” He sipped the brandy again, tempted to swallow the whole thing down.

“Yes.” George rested a hand on his shoulder. “Which is why I never push you to come, because I know how you dislike crowds. Now. If I were to need advice about a broken clock, I should be a fool to attempt to repair it on my own rather than coming to you.”

Weatherby stared down into the glass. Oh, the hell with it. He finished the brandy with a gulp. “My heart is not broken.”

“But…?”

“But we met by chance and… and it would not be a good match.”

“That.” George produced a decanter from somewhere and refilled Weatherby’s glass. “That, sounds like your mother.”

“Truly, I think mother would not object to anyone I chose to marry so long as I did.” He took another drink of the brandy, feeling his cheeks redden. “She…She rather thinks I have no interest in women. At all.”

George coughed, and then busied himself with his own glass. “So if your mother would not object to the match—”

“Leave it, George.” Weatherby downed the contents of his glass and handed it back. “Thank you for the evening.”

“Weathe—” He trailed off with a sigh as Weatherby walked away from him.

He threaded his way through the card tables and made it to the blissfully quiet foyer. It was not fair to George to take his disappointment out on him. What had he expected? That the lovely thief would actually come to play cards tonight? With his luck, she was taking advantage of his absence to burglar his own home. And why— That was the part he did not understand. Going after money or jewels, that made sense. But why would she want his mechanical arm?

His head was spinning from the brandy. As the footman went to fetch his coat, Weatherby rested his hand on the newel post of the stairs. George would probably have bedded her right then. No telling how many maidens he had taken upstairs and… Weatherby stopped and turned to look into the drawing room. Upstairs. The entire household was currently downstairs.

That was why she always chose a night with a party.

Weatherby charged up the stairs two at a time, only slowing when he reached the last few steps. George had a wall safe in his bedroom. Weatherby had never seen it, but George had mentioned something about needing a discreet glamourist when he had his bedroom redone. Apparently it was themed like a Roman palace, or rather, like one of the pleasure houses found in Pompeii.

This was foolish. He had drunk too much brandy and was besotted with a young woman who was a thief.

He had to try several doors, sweating with each that he opened, before he found George’s room. Only the moon and the gas lamps outside the home gave it any illumination. The walls had been done to look like elaborate mosaics set amid fluted columns. The fireplace had a broad mantel and the columns repeated there. Even the furniture had been carefully chosen to match the theme, with low backless chairs, a chaise lounge, and rich swathes of fabric draping the bed.

A bank of double-hung windows looked out over the street. One of them had been pushed open from the top. Weatherby closed the door behind him and stepped farther into the room. She might already be gone. He frowned at the window. No… if the reports were correct, she always closed her entry after departing.

“Miss Troyes?”

His only answers were the distant sound of a carriage and the cries of merriment from the revelers downstairs. If she were here, if she were hiding, then he could look for her or wait for her to reveal herself. She must have considered the possibility that he would be here tonight. Weatherby laughed under his breath, suddenly convinced that this was a test. Or he was drunk.

Whichever it was, rather than searching for her, Weatherby crossed the room to the chaise lounge and sat down. He rested his hands upon his knees and proceeded to wait.

CHAPTER TEN

The Painting Lady

She was a fool, and more than a fool. But there he was, sitting, and waiting for her. Helena watched the Duke of Blackledge from the shadows behind one of the bed curtains. Mama Agnes would be furious if she knew the risk that Helena was taking.

And yet… he had come himself and not raised an alarm. He was sweet and naive and, at the end of the day, he had something that she very much needed. If she had any hope of getting into the vault at the Worthen estate, she needed the extra reach of the mechanical arm. They had tried other means and nothing else would do.

Helena clenched her jaw and stepped out of the shadows. “We mustn’t make a habit of meeting like this, Lord Blackledge.”

At her voice, he jumped to his feet and he— he smiled. The expression cleared quickly to be replaced by a studied calm. “I was hoping that you would come.”

“Truly?” She walked to the foot of the bed and leaned against the pillar that served as bedpost. “You were hoping that I would rob your friend?”

“Ah…no.” He raised a hand and rubbed the back of his neck. “Foolishly, I thought you might come play cards.”

“I considered it.”

“But?”

Truly the concern was more that Mr. Corke had found her familiar at the ball. If he been given more time in her company it seemed too likely that he would have eventually recalled seeing her perform at Astley’s Circus. Instead of saying that, she affected a girlish giggle and rolled her eyes. “I had nothing to wear.”

Lord Blackledge gave a little snort. “Well… I am glad that I thought to look for you here.”

“I am as well.” Her voice came out softer than she had intended. She lifted her chin and focused on the matter at hand. “I should like to commission you for a project.”

His mouth dropped open. “I— That is to say… This is unexpected. Or no… no, it is not, is it? That is why you were interested in my mechanical arm, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does, I am afraid.” He knit his brow and bent his head to study the floor.

She rubbed her hands together, feeling the calluses catch on each other. Helena gestured to the chaise lounge. “Will you sit?”

“If you will join me.” Even in the dim light, she could see his cheeks darken with a blush as if this were a daring proposition.

Helena crossed the room and sat on the lounge next to him. Now that she was here, at this point, the information between them sat like a box that she needed to push through. She rested her hands on the knees of her buckskin trousers and took a breath. She swallowed and took another. “Lord Blackledge—”

“My name is Weatherby.”

She tilted her head, wishing she could see him a little more clearly.

He cleared his throat. “I have been intimate enough with you that my title seems rather foolish. And… And I suspect that you are about to tell me something that is difficult for you.”

Helena’s eyes stung at his unexpected kindness. She bent her head, swallowing the grief. She had to convince him to help her. “If I told you that I needed it to prove my birthright?”

“I should still need particulars.” He reached out his hand and stopped just short of touching her. “Miss Troyes—”

“Helena.” Her name sprang from her mouth without any volition from her.

He tilted his head. “Helena. Helena…Troyes? May I take it that your parents are classical scholars?”

“No. It is a stage name. I mean…” She rubbed her forehead. Though she could almost see Mama Agnes standing in the shadows, with her hands on her hips, but Helena plowed ahead. She had already given up too much as he could find her more easily with her stage name than with her real one anyway. “My name is Helena Worthen, daughter of James, Baron Worthen.”

“Lord Worthen? Who built the Painting Lady?”

It had been so long since her father had been anything other than an invalid that it took her a moment to realize that he was speaking of one of her father’s automatons. The recognition broke from her in a laugh. “I’m sorry. It’s been… I should have known that you would recognize his name.”

Weatherby sat back against the lounge. “And… I suppose that might explain why you know about clockwork.”

Might. She sighed and picked at one of the rough spots on her hands. “If I could easily prove to you who I was, then I would not need your assistance.”

“Fair point.”

“So. What would you charge to rent or sell your mechanical arm?”

“May I assume that you would pay me with stolen funds?”

Helena’s cheeks burned. The answer was yes. Of course it was yes. “You have not seemed to object to my activities thus far.”

“Oh… but I have.” Weatherby opened his palms and turned them up. “For reasons that I cannot explain to myself, I have not reported you. But I have stopped you. Thrice now.”

This was not the direction she wanted his thoughts to turn. She had to make him understand why she had made the choices she had. “When I was eight, we were on holiday in Wales. There was a fire at the coaching inn where we had stopped for the night. My mother died. My father— he was badly burnt. News was sent back to England that we had all died. My uncle inherited and then passed away a short time after and the title passed to his son. My aunt… I have— I have been trying for the last ten years to prove that my father is still alive.”