The Transference Engine (9 page)

I'd been betrayed by men. Starting with my father, followed shortly thereafter by Percy Shelley. But I'd learned to control my life and take pleasure from men, but never allow them to take more than that from me.

She tried to sidle toward the private stair, leading to the Royal Box and nowhere else.

Drew stepped in her way.

“As you would have done,” I accused the duchess. I could say such things. I had no place in her society, and therefore nothing to lose by insulting a royal.

She gasped and her posture stiffened. “I must see my daughter. I must warn her . . .”

“She is well protected, Your Grace,” Drew said.

“By such immoral riffraff as you two?” She tried to sound outraged, but I suspected much of her energy dissipated in the face of opposition.

“Yes,” I replied, as if proud of being immoral riffraff. “And others who are loyal to the crown. Now may we escort you to your carriage?”

She stalked toward the theater front, shaking off the supporting hand on her elbow that Drew offered.

“Speaking of carriages, should I summon mine as well?” he asked with an arched eyebrow.

“Not yet. I wish to see the end of the performance.” And observe Ruthven's obsession.

The second act lived up to the expectations of the first. Vivid sets, gorgeous costumes, and voices so well-tuned to the orchestra as to make my heart ache and my lungs tremble. Each exquisite note that lingered and faded to nothing kept the audience on the edges of their seats. Ruthven pushed himself so far forward as to lean over the rail, still crouched as if sitting but with no chair beneath him.

Not a single sound wafted from the audience, not a whisper or rustle. More than one jaw gaped. Her Majesty's eyes grew wide and round above the lace fan she held before her face.

Then the horrific and yet mesmerizing climax when death and hell consumed Don Giovanni in dark flames.

I could smell the brimstone. The actor's screams lingered in my ear long after his “death.”

I shivered in fear.

Finally, the audience gasped as one when the fire ceased abruptly to reveal a pile of ashes where the actor had writhed moments before.

“I have to know how they do that,” Ruthven whispered.

I wondered if he meant anyone to hear his utterance.

When the actor reappeared to take his bow, the audience applauded with extra enthusiasm—for his performance or the fact that he survived, I couldn't tell.

“That was dramatic. And exhausting,” Drew said as he slumped in his seat, gaze still fixed upon the closed curtains after the cast, director, and conductor had all taken their bows. Flowers still littered the stage apron, far too many bouquets for the performers to gather.

I nodded agreement, too drained to speak.

The others of our party prepared to leave, many of the ladies still fanning flushed faces. Then they had all departed with thank yous for sharing the box and reassurances they would reciprocate, etc. etc. etc.

I heard little of the ritual phrases; my attention lingered on the breathtaking opera, and Lord Ruthven leaning over the railing, a puzzled frown on his face.

“Ruthven, there are ladies present.” Drew looked pointedly at me. Then he relaxed into his chair as if he had made his point and no longer needed to reinforce it. “And if you must learn the secrets of stage effects, I suggest you become a patron of the arts and thus gain a detailed tour of the entire theater.” Drew affected a lazy drawl. His clenched hands belied his lack of interest. “All tricks and sleight of hand. Distraction and misdirection.”

“That I may do. I may have to forgo a few little luxuries to afford a large donation, but the knowledge gained should be worth it.” He bowed abruptly to us and strode out of the box with new purpose and energy. His bodyguard lingered a moment, briefly scanning the box and the theater beyond before he clicked his heels, bowed shortly and abruptly, and left. I hadn't seen his gloved hands leave their clasped position behind his back.

Drew and I stared at each other. “What was that about?” I finally asked.

“I do not want to know. Ruthven's esoteric hobbies range widely.” Drew dismissed my question with a flip of his fingers. But he broke eye contact and turned his gaze toward the stage and the emptying theater.

“Is he a necromancer, enthralled with death and its imitations?”

“Leave it, madam. Do not ask questions if the answers will frighten you.” Abruptly he stood and offered his hand to assist me.

I wouldn't learn anything by angering him. So I placed my hand in his open palm. But I stood on my own power, not leaning into him, or taxing the strength of his arm.

Chapter Eight

A
RIPPLE OF CONTENTMENT sent languid warmth through my arms as I tried to finger comb the mass of tangles in my hip-length hair. Drew had tousled it lovingly, and I could not regret that. But the rats' nest of the aftermath defied every brush stroke. Static electricity only made it worse.

The sounds of gentle splashing in my dressing room alerted me that Drew had almost finished cleaning up. I hated that he'd see the mess of my hair.

“Let me do that,” he said softly, padding up behind me on bare feet, wearing only his silk undergarment. He took the boar's hair bristle brush from my hands and began applying it judiciously at the tips of my hair where the tresses curled around his fingers.

I swiveled on the low stool before my dressing table to give him better access.

“Such a luxury to have someone else deal with this,” I said. “I could get used to having you around.”

“Nonsense.” He kissed the top of my head. “Neither of us wishes to give up a mote of independence. You will not let me set you up in a home of my choosing and I will not give up the freedom to come and go as I please without requesting permission from anyone.”

Like his wife.

The argument was an old one, rehashed at regular intervals. He wanted me in an establishment of his choosing. I wanted to build a life for myself to have a living when he left me. As I knew he would eventually.

Men always left.

For now, however, I'd enjoy his company.

I handed him my comb as he worked his way upward with the brush.

“I will be gone for a few days,” he said hesitantly, tugging gently and therefore ineffectively at the mat of hair near my crown.

“Oh?” He often left to deal with business at his country home, or to visit relatives. He never sought out political allies on these ramblings. He hadn't a political bone in his body.

Other bones, yes. Very lovely bones.

“Ruthven has invited me to his estate to consult on some of his inventions.”

His eyes would not meet mine in the mirror.

“Is that wise?”

“He's a friend. We have much in common.” He set the comb and brush on the table and turned me to face him. “Why don't you trust him?” he asked kissing my nose.

“I . . . I'm not certain why.” I
would
not
bring up his fascination with death, so similar to Drew's. They both frightened me as they licked their lips in anticipation when they talked about death, almost as if the biological function was a person. A person they wished to know intimately.

“To make up for my absence, I made you something special,” he said, almost without pause. He rummaged through his clothes for a midnight-blue velvet box. Too big for a ring, too small for a necklace. He had, upon occasion, fashioned lovely jewelry for me. Usually he gave it to me before we left for a social engagement so that I might wear it for others to admire and envy.

“What's this?” I stroked the soft covering, sleeker than a kitten's fur.

“A memento, to remember me by. Fondly I hope.”

“Just how long do you expect to be gone?”

“Long enough for you to count the hours of missing me.” Impatiently, he flicked up the hinged box top.

Nestled into a froth of emerald-green silk sat a clockwork hummingbird; the bejeweled and enameled feathers looked real. I touched the long beak. A tiny prick of blood appeared on my fingertip. “Oh!” I jerked my hand away, finally feeling the tiny bit of pain after the fact.

“Let me show you,” Drew laughed as he touched a long bit of green enamel at the base of the tail. A spring whirred, the bird chirped, and the back opened to reveal a tiny clock face and a compass.

And beneath the compass, a little well for . . . a small thimbleful of poison?

“I can always tell the time and know where I'm going, even without your guidance,” I said amazed at the delicate detail.

I could also use it as a weapon to ward off pickpockets and unwanted admirers.

Or to draw blood for arcane magic rituals.

Drew was gone when I awoke at dawn. The little hummingbird sat on my dressing table, bright and cheerful, a lovely reminder of the previous evening. I tucked it into my pocket, mindful of the sharp beak, and let its slight weight remind me of the man who had crafted it.

Helen worked in the kitchen, preparing the first batch of pastries. Mickey swept the front stoop diligently, with determination if not expertise. I patted his shoulder, then indulged in a brief hug. He flung both arms around my waist. His fingers clutched at my skirt fiercely. Certainly, I'd have to find him an apprenticeship soon if he'd tamed enough to return affection.

Maybe I'd keep him close and teach him the fine art of brewing coffee. He was brighter than most of my boys, and I liked him.

Decision made, I set about filling crumpets and scones with fresh strawberry preserves. Some of my customers liked brandied raisins. Others liked caramelized walnuts. In companionable silence, we worked side by side, filling the building with the fragrance of baking treats.

At half seven I fed Mickey a cheese roll and showed him how to grind roasted coffee beans into a coarse powder. He sniffed the grounds appreciatively.

“We'll need more before we open, and then several times during the day,” I said around a grin. “Try it on your own while I brew the first pot.”

He climbed up on a stool to reach the counter that had been designed for my height. Tongue peeking between his lips and eyes narrowed in deep concentration, he followed my instructions slowly and carefully until the beans reached a good imitation of the perfect texture. While he worked, I forced steam through the earlier batch and then whipped milk into a lovely froth to top the brew. The first cup went to Mickey as a reward. He took one tentative sip, mindful of the heat. His eyes grew wide and a smile nearly split his face in two. “'Cor that's loverly,” he said on a long exhale. “Better'n tea any day.”

I'd make a domesticated cat of him yet. Maybe a baker as well. Though he'd have to accept a full soaking bath to scrub away all the ingrained dirt on his hands and neck before I'd let him near fine white flour and sugar.

Inspector Witherspoon rapped upon the front door. I checked the clock over the coffee bar. Still five minutes to opening. Normally, I held fast to the posted times of opening and closing, not making exceptions for even a belted earl. Well, maybe for William King, Earl Lovelace and husband of my Lady Ada. I couldn't remember ever having a duke in the place—just the illegitimate son of one at my salon.

I unlatched the door and then relocked it the moment the policeman stepped through. No sense giving anyone else ideas about me loosening my rules. The inspector thrust the two tomes on exotic beliefs in India into my hands.

“Did you find anything useful?” I asked, placing them carefully into the bin that would reshelve the books.

“Partly. I know how to set my men to watch for the illusive shadows. But I have dismissed the possibility that Thuggees from the subcontinent have reason to assassinate Her Majesty at the coronation. No. We must look closer to home for the disaffected.”

“May I be of assistance?” I led him to a small table at the center of the open café, then hurried to fetch him coffee without waiting for him to order. I knew how he liked it, two lumps of sugar, thick cream fresh from the dairy. No steam whipping or expressing for him. “Fetch two of the cream cheese and puff pastries and two savory scones with cheddar,” I whispered to Mickey.

“I ain't no serving wench.” He scrunched his face in his offended rebellion expression.

“And you will not be a serving lad until you learn to speak properly. If you do as I say, you may have one sugar bun.” I flipped my hand to shoo him down the stairs to the kitchen.

He slumped off, trying to tell me how insulted he felt, but there was just enough lightness in his step that I knew he considered the sugar bun an almost adequate bribe.

“What brought you to the conclusion that any danger will not come from India?” I asked, placing the pastries and coffee in front of the Inspector.

He jerked his chin toward the chair across the table from him, and I sat there, leaning forward to catch every nuance of his voice and posture.

“These Thuggees are extremely loyal to their cult. Will only take orders from one they know, respect, and revere. William Sleeman is doing a good job of rooting out this pervasive cult. It is everywhere in India, hidden among respectable merchants and professionals, even the nobility. There are religious prohibitions against spilling blood, so they strangle with a ritual yellow kerchief, or poison if they have no other means. But he says they have strict rules against attacking women, fakirs, musicians, lepers, and Europeans. No telling what they may think next week.”

“They will not spill blood, so they will not shoot or use explosives,” I mused. “Would a cannon that shoots light spill blood?” My own veins felt icy at the thought. “It might burn through flesh, cauterizing as it goes and kill the heart.” The black balloon hovered over the West End for a reason.

“No such weapon exits. No. I believe we can dismiss the Thuggees for now.” Inspector Witherspoon settled back in his chair to sip his coffee and chew his pastry.

“Her Majesty is young.” My thoughts took a different turn. “She hasn't been out in public enough to offend anyone. And there are precious few legitimate heirs left. Remove Victoria, and quite likely England would dissolve into chaos and civil war. Only a dedicated anarchist would want . . .”

“Got most of those rounded up and held in Newgate,” Witherspoon said around a mouth full of cream cheese. “As well as a few foreign spies who'd like to weaken our resolve to resist invasion. If a plot still exists, and rumors say it does, I have to look farther afield.”

“Perhaps the whispers of danger at the coronation targets someone else,” I thought aloud, remembering the black dragon of a balloon and its shafts of searing light.

“Who else is important enough?”

“Nearly all our nobility and lords of the Church, Members of Parliament, ambassadors, and foreign dignitaries will all be gathered in one building.”

“A single explosion could eliminate our entire government and . . . and likely bring down the Church as well,” he gasped. He finished his coffee in one gulp, scooped up the remaining pastry, and tossed three crowns on the table on his way out the door. “Gunpowder. Damme, everyone has stores of gunpowder for hunting and discouraging outlaws and miscreants.” The door slammed behind him, but three customers slipped in for their morning coffee.

“'Cor, are all them coins just for treats and coffee?” Mickey asked, sticking his head out from around the coffee bar.

I nodded without really thinking about the words.

“If you make that much money, how come you only pay me a penny to sweep?” He came closer, fingers inching toward the table, making little grasping movements. He had yet to learn all the fine nuances of becoming an adept pickpocket. Others of my tribe of urchins did it better when I asked them to steal letters and notes. Another reason to keep him close and let him be tamed.

I slapped my hand flat atop the coins. “Sweeping is only worth a penny. Serving, brewing, baking, and keeping the library require better manners, cleaner hands, and an education. Therefore, those tasks are worth more.”

“Oh.” His mouth made a near perfect O and he retreated toward the kitchen. I hoped I'd given him something to think about.

I opened the front door and welcomed the rest of my customers, wishing Drew were here to discuss Inspector Witherspoon's ideas.

Lacking Drew, I had access to someone else with knowledge of machines that performed near impossible tasks.

“Mickey, I need you to take a note to Lovelace House! After you've scrubbed your hands and face.”