Rust and Steam

by Anne Renwick

  “Very well.” With a frown that spoke of regret, Alice trailed her fingers over the buttons of his waistcoat, then turned to retrieve her oversized reticule. Sitting once more upon the chair, she drew it onto her lap. “It would be easier simply to show you.” Her nimble fingers unknotted the drawstring, much like they’d once deftly relieved him of his cravat.

  Shrugging off his coat and tossing it aside, Ben dropped onto the edge of the bed. A necessary maneuver to conceal his body’s rampant interest in anything but her device. Soon. The moment he had a comprehensive grasp of her skills—and Krause’s motivations—he would draw her once more into his arms, picking up where they’d left off. He expected the rocking motion of the train would lend itself nicely to mattress exercises. And—were she favorably inclined—they might explore a few standing positions as well.

  Loosening his cravat, he forced himself to focus upon the object she cradled in her hands. It was a round, silver sphere comprised of several curved, articulated segments. He lifted his eyebrows, wondering at what was concealed within. “It unfolds?”

  “It does.” She handed him the ball, then pointed. “That small prong? Give it a twitch, then run your hand over its surface.”

  He followed instructions and gave a low whistle when a metal creature uncurled and leapt onto four silver feet. Metal spines—spikes—jutted from the many perforations in its surface. Two green eyes that glowed from within blinked up at him, as if awaiting instruction.

  “Meet Watson.” Pride danced in her eyes. “My zoetomatic hedgehog.”

  “You built this yourself?” Of course she had. She concealed an impressive talent beneath the façade of a proper, young lady. The corners of his mouth lifted and an unusual warmth spread through his chest. No, not so proper. Alice was a woman he’d be proud to call his wife. If he could only convince her…

  “I did.”

  “The craftsmanship is equal to—or perhaps even exceeds—the work of many talented Roma of my acquaintance.” The highest compliment he could give her work. But like her, he suspected the contraption hid much beneath its charming surface. “Will you show me its many features? Or is that to be reserved only for the eyes of the Queen’s agents?”

  Alice chewed on her lip, a certain sign that the creature possessed hidden attributes. A moment of truth. How much did she trust him?

  Chapter Four

  Her heart hopped and skipped inside her chest, then all but skidded to a halt. She’d underestimated Ben. Instead of disgust, his eyes gleamed with pride. If anything, her admission that she had worked for—and intended to pursue a career with—the Queen’s agents had piqued his interest. Her presentation of the zoetomatic had sealed it.

  There was only one way to find out. Drawing in a deep breath, she opened her mouth.

  But the loud ticking had started again. Ben’s gaze dropped to the floor.

  “Don’t move.” The sudden ice in his voice froze her to the core as he set Watson aside and knelt upon the floor. “There’s some kind of beetle crawling up the hem of your skirt.”

  An insect? A shudder ran across her skin as she fought to hold still while the train rattled and rocked. Beetles were horrid things with too many legs that allowed them to move entirely too fast. Kicking would only entangle the tulle netting of her skirt or, worse, startle the creeping creature into skittering across her gown faster in a mad dash to take cover.

  “Get it off!” she gasped, a desperate plea. If it dove behind her bodice, she would scream.

  What was taking so long?

  She made the mistake of allowing her gaze to drop. Ben knelt at her feet. In one hand he held a shoe, while he reached with his other hand for an overlarge beetle that glinted a dull copper. A long, slender proboscis extended from its head. This was no ordinary beetle.

  “It’s mechanical,” Ben said, his voice entirely too calm. “And no doubt malevolent. I’ve heard rumors about Krause and the nasty little clockwork creatures he’s thought to possess.”

  What was this creature about? “Watson. Assess.” A few feet away, the zoetomatic’s spines retracted, then were replaced by the environmental probes.

  The train bumped over a poorly laid section of track, and the clockwork beetle dove into a fold of her skirts. Ben cursed under his breath.

  “Poisonous?” she squeaked. She wrapped her shaking hand around the neck of the champagne bottle, ready to smash the beetle to smithereens should the opportunity arise.

  “Most likely.” Ever so carefully, he pulled at the tulle and silk of her skirt, searching. “There it is.” His hand darted forward and, catching the beetle between thumb and forefinger, he attempted to pluck it from her gown—but its barbed legs had caught upon the tulle. “A moment longer.” He dropped the shoe, then set about freeing the insect from the delicate netting, before holding it aloft, triumphant.

  Watson began to ding an insistent alarm, confirming their worries. The insect did indeed harbor a dangerous chemical. She pressed her lips together. Though the zoetomatic’s response time needed improvement.

  “That does it,” Alice muttered. “This is a declaration of war.” She loosed a few choice curses, all of them directed at one Hugh Krause.

  Ben’s laughter rumbled, sending a thrill buzzing across her skin, reminding her how very much she wanted his touch to follow. She turned, setting aside the bottle to dig into her valise, hunting for a container large enough to imprison the clockwork beetle.

  “Watson. Desist.” Her order quieted the hedgehog, returning him to standby status.

  A hiss of pain met her ears, and she glanced over her shoulder to find a grimace upon Ben’s face.

  “Hurry,” he urged her. “The bastard installed a second needle with retrograde action. From the rapidly spreading numbness in my fingers, I’m not going to be able to hang on to this contraption much longer.”

  Aether. She yanked her container of face cream from her valise and unscrewed its lid. “Shove it in this. The oils should gum up the mechanisms enough to immobilize it.” And wouldn’t destroy the beetle. They could study it later. Use it as evidence.

  With clumsy fingers, Ben pushed the critter into the thick white ointment, and she slapped the lid back in place, screwing it tightly closed. She shoved the entire container into her reticule. This was something the duke ought to know about. He himself had commissioned the construction of Watson—based on the blueprints she’d presented—and would wish to know that a man such as Krause presented a decided threat.

  “I think… perhaps I’ll stay on the floor for the time being.” Ben’s face was too pale.

  Another woman might run for help, but—though panic tightened her throat—Alice had taken note of every single passenger. Not one physician numbered among them. There was no assistance to be had. Bursting into the restaurant car and yelling for help would only cause a kerfuffle. She needed to stay calm, to carefully assess Ben’s condition.

  “How bad is it?” She dropped to the floor beside him, lifting his hand and frowning at the droplet of blood that welled upon the pad of his thumb. Though the beetle had not touched her skin, tiny ice-cold feet skittered down her spine. Poison. But what kind? Societal liaisons were taught to recognize the symptoms of only the most basic of poisons, but their training in that arena was sadly lacking. Which was why—while working on Watson’s chemical analysis systems—she’d borrowed a certain book from Mr. Black, insisting that ballrooms could be just as dangerous as was any form of fieldwork. With grudging reluctance, he’d leant her the text for a few precious nights, warning her that the owner—Miss Cait McCullough, from the name inscribed in its cover—expected it back soon. Curiosity burned, but she’d been too intimidated by him to ask who Miss McCullough was. She’d burned the midnight oil, devouring its words and taking copious notes, but could she now recall them? Panic nipped at her calm. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

  “The numbness is spreading rapidly,” he said. “It’s reached my elbow.”

  “Any internal sensations
?” She placed a palm against his forehead. A touch clammy, as would expected by mild shock. Fingertips touched to the inside of his wrist told her his pulse was only slightly elevated. “Lightness of breath? Change in heart rate?”

  He shook his head. “None.” A smile curved his lips. “But press your face to my chest, my lady, to be certain.”

  With a huff of exasperation at his flippancy, her mind paged through Miss McCullough’s book of poisons, alighting on a few possibilities, few of them good. Ice crystalized in her veins. “If the toxin is crinlozyme, then—”

  A knock sounded at the door. “Lady Alice?”

  Her eyes caught Ben’s. “Herr Krause,” she whispered.

  “Don’t answer,” he said, his voice hushed. He pushed himself onto his knees and dragged his discarded coat close. “If he thinks you’ve succumbed to the poison, he’ll try to enter, and we’ll have him caught, red-handed.”

  “Caught?” Alarm crept into her whisper. “You want to take him prisoner?” She had no weapons, no skill at hand-to-hand combat, and Ben’s right arm now hung limply from his shoulder.

  “It stands to reason that a man prepared to employ such a toxin would carry the antidote upon his person.”

  Ah. They needed to take him prisoner. The coiled tension in her gut unwound by the slightest degree. She could do this. They had the advantage. Two against one. And their attacker no doubt expected her to have succumbed to his assault beetle. He would enter unprepared for resistance.

  “Lady Alice, I’m afraid we must speak.” Herr Krause’s words might be polite ones, but that was for the benefit of anyone in adjacent compartments who might overhear him. Given the harsh words he’d spat at her across the dining table and the clockwork beetle he’d sent to subdue—kill?—her, he wasn’t about to let the matter drop.

  “Best to take him alive, but...” Ben slid his left hand into his coat and withdrew a pistol. With a click, he cocked the gun and pushed it into her hand. “You have two shots. Don’t fire unless you must, and please don’t shoot at all if I’m in the way.”

  “What are you going to do?” Anxiety edged her voice. But she tamped it down and took the heavy weight of the weapon into her shaking hand. Aim. Pull the trigger. How hard could it be? Very. Difficult enough that Mr. Black had refused her lessons. This was a bad idea.

  A furtive metallic scratching caught her ear. Herr Krause was picking the lock!

  At their feet, Watson began to ding softly.

  “Trip him. Punch him. Whatever I can manage.” Ben picked up the ringing zoetomatic and regarded him with interest. “You programmed Watson to sound an imminent breach alarm?”

  “I did.” Despite the threat, pride still swelled in her voice.

  “I don’t suppose he has any useful attack features?”

  “I’m afraid not.” She made a mental note to add one, praying that there would be such an opportunity. “Watson. Quiet.” The dinging ceased.

  “A shame.” He tucked the hedgehog beneath the bed, then struggled to gain his feet. Half-falling against the far wall, he waited. “We subdue Krause, then—as I don’t know how much longer I’m going to have use of my limbs—you’ll search his person for the antidote. A vial of liquid matched with a syringe. Perhaps a packet of powder.”

  Her hand tightened on the pistol. “Then force him to tell me how to administer the cure.”

  Click. The lock upon her door popped free.

  “If he resists, don’t hesitate to take your best guess.” Ben’s right eye twitched and his lungs heaved as he struggled to raise his left arm above his head. “I’d very much like to continue our early discussion. About a future. Together.”

  The door swung open, and Ben flung himself onto Herr Krause’s back, wrapping his arm about the man’s throat in an attempt to cut off his airflow. They fell to the floor in a tussle, locked against each other inside the small, confined space.

  Alice lifted the pistol, hoping for an opportunity to shoot Herr Krause in the foot. The leg. The arm. Someplace not too vital. Later, she would want answers.

  Red-faced, Herr Krause clawed at Ben’s arm, kicked at his shin, and jammed elbows into his stomach. Through it all, Ben never released his hold, though she could see him weakening as the poison flooded his system. At full strength, he would already have emerged the victor.

  She had to do something!

  Pointing the barrel of the weapon at the German’s leg, she pulled the trigger. Bang! But this was the first time she’d ever fired a weapon. And she’d flinched and missed. Dammit.

  She had, however, drawn the man’s attention.

  Herr Krause’s leg swung in her direction, sweeping her feet from beneath her. With a cry she crashed to the floor in a heap of petticoats and ruffles. Worse, the pistol slid across the floor and beneath the bed. Not that it was any use in her hands. Better to hit the horrible man over the head with something.

  Heart in her throat, she frantically searched the compartment.

  Ben’s shoe?

  No, the champagne! Staggering to her feet she lunged toward the table, grabbing the bottle by the neck and hefting it into the air. With a single step she loomed over them. Ben caught her eye, gave her a nod, then rolled—pushing Herr Krause onto his side and laying his head at her feet. With a cascade of frothing wine, she brought the base of the bottle down upon the side of man’s head.

  He fell limp.

  But for how long?

  She dropped onto her knees, landing in the foaming puddle, and began to search Herr Krause’s coat with shaking hands. A pocket watch. Lock picks. A handful of coins. A key. A pen knife. Papers. But no vials, no packets. She thought the drug might be crinlozyme—a paralytic that did not stop the heart or the lungs, but merely paralyzed its victim, leaving them helpless and conscious for up to twenty-three hours.

  But Herr Krause—predatory industrialist thief—ought not have access to such a substance. And that was cause for extreme concern. He’d been seen conversing with her in the restaurant car, but the man had no scruples. He might prefer not to be linked to the death of a young lady, but he was a German citizen and could easily abscond with her Markoid battery to distant shores without fear of repercussions.

  And that—combined with Ben’s lethargic movements, shallow breaths and pale skin—had her worried. No, not worried. She was sliding down the razor’s edge of fear. If it wasn’t crinlozyme, it was likely deadly. Whatever the toxin, it had been calculated for her weight—a good two to three stones less than Ben. The only reason he’d managed to put up any kind of fight at all. And time was running out.

  Panic wouldn’t help. Alice closed her eyes, forced herself to draw in a long, deep breath. Pockets were too obvious. Items too easily lost from them. A prepared assassin would keep the antidote in a secure location. And concealed. Perhaps it was sewn into the very fabric of a garment?

  Her eyes snapped open, and she grabbed fistfuls of Herr Krause’s coat, using her hands to hunt for inconsistencies. Nothing. Closer to the chest? She searched his waistcoat. There. A rectangular patch. With the man’s own pen knife, she slashed through the fabric. Tacked to the fabric with a few loose stitches was a packet of powder.

  “I have it!” she cried, lifting her gaze to Ben’s. “But it’s unlabeled!” What had she expected? A detailed protocol? Given she’d not found a syringe, the antidote was probably meant to be dissolved in water. All she had were the few tablespoons of champagne that remained in the bottle. But— “What if it’s not the remedy, but something worse?”

  “Try,” Ben gasped, all but immobile. “Please.”

  Not at all encouraged that he now fought to draw breath, Alice planted a knee upon Herr Krause’s chest as she climbed across the villain to reach Ben. Ever so carefully, she emptied the white powder—every last ounce—into his mouth. Mucous membrane absorption was a start, but what if he needed to swallow it?

  She tipped the edge of the champagne bottle to his lips, dribbling the remaining liquid into his mouth. Ben struggled to
swallow.

  Only then did Alice notice more than her hands were shaking. That beneath her knees, Herr Krause stirred.

  “Tie,” Ben breathed, his words still slurred. “Hands. Feet.”

  Yes, of course. But first—to be on the safe side—she walloped the German once more with the champagne bottle.

  With trembling fingers, she untied Ben’s cravat and slid it free. Dragging Herr Krause’s hands behind his back, she tied them together, yanking the knot tight. She pulled the man’s own cravat from his neck and repeated the procedure at his ankles.

  Heaving and shoving at the horrid man, Alice managed to push him aside so that she could kneel beside Ben, draw his head into her lap, and brush her trembling fingers through his thick hair. Her heart pounded. Her stomach hurt. And every breath was an effort. Any moment, the antidote—if, in fact, it was one—ought to take effect. She kept the champagne bottle close, just in case Herr Krause again became a problem.

  “Any better?” He had to be. Her mistake to have turned away the one man she loved, a man who—as it turned out—would not only support but encourage her interests. Would he still wish to marry her, now that he’d had a small taste of the dangers that might pursue her?

  Beneath her, the train rattled and shook, speeding toward London. Its other passengers oblivious to the drama unfolding a carriage away. She brushed her hand over Ben’s face, over the rough stubble that edged his jaw, all while watching the rise and fall of his chest. It was steadier now.

  “Ben?”

  His arm lifted, and he caught her hand in his. “Better.” He pressed a soft kiss to her palm.

  Tears of relief welled in her eyes. She brushed them away. “Thank aether, for a few minutes…” No, she’d not finish that thought aloud.

  Ben rolled onto his knees and pushed into a seated position before wrapping an arm about her to draw her close. “If you’re intent upon pursuing this,” he glanced at the seemingly unconscious German and chose his word carefully, “career of yours, perhaps you won’t object to a proposal over a prone body.”