Gossamer Wing 1

by Delphine Dryden

  “I’ll come back for it,” he said when she pointed over his shoulder. He was halfway to the window that would lead them back inside, back to their suite, where he could bathe and feed and cosset her until she was in the right frame of mind to hear his declarations of devotion.

  “Somebody could find it,” she murmured, sounding half asleep already.

  “I don’t give a rat’s arse.”

  “Hmm. That’s sweet.” Her head settled onto his shoulder, and Dexter’s heart soared as his mind churned out a simple refrain.

  She’s alive. She’s alive. My Charlotte is alive.

  * * *

  MARTIN COULDN’T KILL Philippe, although the thought did cross his mind. He was out of the business of indiscriminate killing now, the Dominion rat had been his last. Now he took only the lives Dubois ordered taken; he would only take a life to save his own.

  Martin sent orders for Claude and Jean-Louis to beat Philippe thoroughly, put the fear of death into him and advise him to leave the country and make a life for himself elsewhere.

  “Perhaps he should consider apprenticing with a locksmith,” Claude retorted.

  Martin chuckled, keeping the transmission switched off so Claude wouldn’t hear his mirth; he had a reputation to uphold. He had recovered fully by the time he thumbed the switch back to the open position.

  “Advise him as you see fit, my amusing friend. As long as you advise him to be gone before I return to Paris.”

  Get to the rooftop. Had that been such an unreasonable request? The others had managed it at their respective locations, but hours after Martin gave the order, Philippe had only just made it to the roof of the Palais Garnier. He was right on time to see the quarry escape with the documents, and the fool had only attempted a shot at the balloon after it lifted off and was nearly out of range. Philippe’s had been the only rooftop that mattered, and if anger and frustration were sufficient justification for murder then Martin would be halfway to Paris by now.

  Instead he was still alone in Nancy, entering the glamorous old hotel through the service entrance. He hoped to strike it lucky rifling through the Hardisons’ suite for the bundle of documents while they dallied over brunch in a café down the street. For once, he might be able to use Dubois’s pathetically outdated perspective to his own advantage; if he brought the documents to Dubois—even after all these years—the industrialist might finally grant Martin the freedom he’d all but given up hope of attaining.

  Depending on luck, rummaging through rooms like a two-bit burglar looking for a poor man’s life savings under a mattress. Sickening. Next, Martin supposed, he would be flipping coins to decide which mark to follow. He, who had been one of the finest agents in France during the war. Who prided himself on leaving nothing to chance.

  Martin was dressed as a courier, carrying a large package and a clipboard and wearing the most apathetic expression in his repertoire. Nobody stopped him, though he passed a kitchen full of chefs, a room-service waiter and at least three chambermaids on his way in.

  The rooms were fairly small and the Hardisons were tidy, so Martin thought he could do the job quickly and perhaps leave things looking as he’d found them, always his preference.

  As it happened, however, not even that much effort was required. Two things happened at once. Martin spotted his long-lost leather pouch, in plain view on the console table in the sitting room. He also heard the squeaky wheel of the housekeeping cart in the hallway, not directly outside the suite he stood in but perhaps only a few doors away.

  He could find a way to hide from the maid—a difficult prospect in rooms so small—and complete his search afterward, or he could snatch what he’d come for and walk away without risk of being spotted in the suite.

  With a moue of distaste at the moldy patina on the leather, Martin slipped the pouch into his shirt. He hoisted his box again and set his false ear to the door. Even with the prosthetic on, his implant gave him more acute hearing than any unenhanced ear. He could mark the progress of the cart by the squeaks, and the progress of the maid by the soft knock and the sound of an opening door.

  When he was sure she was safely in the next room and the corridor was clear, Martin moved. It was out, down and away with his prize, his only concern that it had been too easy.

  * * *

  THE PACKET OF loose papers Charlotte had retrieved crawled with scribbled notes and hasty sketches. There were also a panoply of scattered letters, numerals and mathematical symbols, but Charlotte insisted it wasn’t actually a cypher and Dexter was not inclined to argue. His attention was torn at best anyway—between the paper scattered across the broad table in the restaurant’s private dining room, Charlotte and Murcheson’s discussion of what was on those documents and his own vivid memories of the previous night.

  He had run a bath and mustered up what food he could for Charlotte, assuming she would fall asleep immediately afterward. After a few bites of a sandwich and two cups of tea, however, she astonished him by dragging him into bed for a bout of fierce, celebratory lovemaking. Sated, exhausted, she finally collapsed into a deep slumber with her head still snuggled against his shoulder.

  Dexter’s body still tingled from the manic intensity of the interlude, but what kept his mind returning to it was the memory of Charlotte’s weight against his chest and the utter trust and relief on her face as she drifted off. He knew her expression had mirrored his own. Relief and humble gratitude, because having her back in his arms was nothing short of miraculous.

  With Herculean effort Dexter focused on the present, on the task at hand. He’d expected that finding the plans intact would be the end of Charlotte’s mission, and Murcheson confirmed that her work in France was officially done, but it seemed the documents had only raised a host of new questions. Or rather, old questions that Reginald’s truncated tour of duty had left unanswered. While it wasn’t Charlotte’s job to answer them, Murcheson was willing to listen to her perspective on the possible chain of custody of the packet she’d recovered. Even with the notes recovered, the question of how the documents wound up in Dubois’s hands to begin with was still critical. Only by knowing who’d held the notes, and when, could Murcheson be certain none of the parties had obtained a copy at any point along that chain.

  “You’ve said the French claimed that Martin went rogue after the treaty, so you assumed he was really still working for the Égalité, retrieving the documents from Dubois, when he tangled with Reginald,” Dexter said, breaking several minutes’ silence. “But I wonder, what if he was really working for Dubois and the post-royalists all along? Perhaps Martin was just then bringing the documents to Dubois’s office, when Reginald encountered him. That would still leave the question of where Martin obtained the packet, of course.”

  Murcheson’s usually implacable demeanor slipped as Dexter’s suggestion registered. Dexter could almost see the thoughts working themselves out on the man’s face, as a spark of possibility caught, took hold, lit him with excitement. “We never put it together that way before, but then I don’t think anyone really considered the importance of Couer de Fer’s history in all this until Charlotte saw him in the Palais Garnier. The fellows who identified Jacques Martin, Dubois’s security expert, as a former Égalité agent, only saw the connection Martin once had with the French and knew he’d left their service under something of a cloud. They still assumed he was aligned with the Agency in some way in his new capacity, and lumped him together with the other known agents in Dubois’s employ.”

  Charlotte sat up straighter. “But if Martin was a post-royalist all along, wouldn’t that mean Dubois still is as well? The French would have to have known that. What if the agents at his company aren’t there to liaise with the government, but to keep an eye on Dubois and possibly on Martin as well?”

  Murcheson tapped his nose. “But at the time, seven years ago, they didn’t suspect Martin was working for the other side. It all falls into place then. He could have taken those documents directly from Égalité’s HQ.
From his colleague Simone Vernier, the French agent who acquired them from the laboratory in Cambridge.”

  “Simone Vernier? The same agent who pretended to be Dubois’s mistress?” Charlotte asked.

  Murcheson nodded. “The same. It was hardly a pretense, however. The French take a much more liberal line with these things than we do, and he wouldn’t have kept her as a mistress if she hadn’t, well . . . played the part with conviction. She died in his bed, after all. Vernier made many a noble sacrifice for her country.”

  “Like his current secretary,” Dexter offered, stifling a grin when Charlotte glared at him. “Another woman who positively drips with nobility and patriotism.”

  “Here now,” Murcheson huffed.

  “Apologies. Especially as this new information suggests the young woman in question may indeed be using her wiles to spy on Dubois for her country, just as Vernier did, rather than using them to ensure she keeps an easy job as liaison between Dubois and the Égalité. It seems they still trust him about as well as we do. Charlotte, may I see those notes?” Dexter gestured, and Charlotte shuffled together the sheaf of papers, handing the stack to him as Murcheson cleared his throat ostentatiously and continued talking.

  “This could narrow things down considerably. If Martin acquired the notes directly from Vernier, and hadn’t yet delivered them to Dubois when Reginald intercepted them, that means Dubois couldn’t have made a copy. And we’re already fairly certain the French government never had time to do so. By the time Reginald was sent to Paris, the French were already beginning to panic and the government here was in turmoil. They’d got wind of the invention that this team at Cambridge were allegedly perfecting—not an invention, really, but a formula for an explosive. One so powerful that a lump no larger than your fist could have wiped a city the size of Paris off the map.”

  Dexter’s mouth dropped open. “It really is a doomsday device! See, I told you, Charlotte.”

  “I’m sure that’s an overstatement.”

  “Not much of one,” Dexter said quietly, staring at the pages in front of him in disbelief now that he had enough context to know what he was seeing. Even though chemistry wasn’t his area of expertise, Dexter knew enough to tell that if the substance described in the notes were actually concocted, and one could keep it stable enough to transport it, it might indeed flatten a city with a single explosion. He could feel the blood drain from his face as he envisioned the scenario. A fist-sized lump wouldn’t do it, but a steam car full of the stuff most certainly could. “It’s one of those formulas that’s frighteningly simple. I have no idea why this hasn’t been done already. You’re right to worry that the French might have a copy of these papers. It’s a terrifying prospect.”

  “It was a lucky bluff, in the end. As far as I know, our chaps never could stabilize the substance in large enough quantities to use it in any meaningful way,” Murcheson explained. “We assumed that the French had been working with these notes for years but had experienced the same difficulty, hence their continued willingness to abide by the treaty. It seemed as though they thought we’d deduced the secret of how to use the stuff without blowing ourselves to kingdom come, but they still hadn’t. That was a source of great relief, of course, as after these notes were stolen we’d feared the worst. And once we heard that Gendreau was being courted by a former arms manufacturer who was once a prominent post-royalist sympathizer, well . . . it seemed certain there was a plan to revive this research. That, my friend, would have been a terrifying prospect indeed. With help from Dubois’s network of factories and freight transport, the post-royalists could have blown us all to smithereens with that information, French and English alike.

  “But if these notes truly went straight from a French agent’s hands up to the top of the Opéra and stayed there for seven years, this can’t have been what Gendreau was called in to work on. Begs the question of what he and Dubois are really up to, if it isn’t this. Good heavens, and I suppose the French still think we really do have a dooms . . . well, an ultimate weapon.”

  Charlotte rested her chin on her clasped hands, staring across the table at the far wall, for long enough that Dexter grew uncomfortable waiting for her to say something.

  “Doomsday substance doesn’t have quite the same ring to it,” he remarked.

  “My chemistry knowledge is sketchy,” Charlotte admitted, “but from the looks of those notes it’s more a sort of doomsday putty. If they’re not working on that, though, perhaps Dubois and Gendreau haven’t been writing in code at all.”

  Murcheson frowned. “Either way, you’ve done your part well, Lady Hardison. And if Martin isn’t reporting to the French, he hasn’t told them about Gossamer Wing. So perhaps the dirigible program has a future in the Agency after all. Something for you to look forward to working on, after you return to the Dominions.”

  * * *

  CHARLOTTE TRAILED HER fingers over the demilune console that stood by the door of their suite, tapping the gilded wood with a sense of unease.

  “Dexter, did you move the pouch the documents were in?”

  He peeked around the frame of the bedroom door. “I don’t even want to touch the pouch the documents were in, my sweet. Perhaps the maid moved it. Or took it to the incinerator, if we’re lucky. Are you sure you left it there?”

  Charlotte was struck by the cheerful domesticity of Dexter’s response, of the whole moment: the fretful wife who knows she wasn’t the one to move a thing, the indulgent husband who knows the odds are he’ll have to apologize later when it transpires the wife was correct after all about whatever it was. For some reason she didn’t want to examine too closely, a surge of joyful tears pricked at her eyes and clenched her throat.

  The happiness faded as Charlotte cast her mind back to that morning, when they had left the suite not planning to return until after the debriefing with Murcheson.

  “That’s right, you wouldn’t touch it. Remember, I asked if we should bring it, or just take the papers? We were standing right here by the door, you had just picked up your room key from this table.”

  “I said if you brought that thing you could sit at a separate table with it.” Dexter crossed the room to stand next to her, rolling his shirtsleeves up to his elbows as he walked. “You’re right, it was right there when we left.”

  Charlotte struggled to focus on the problem of the missing pouch. Dexter had shed his cravat, jacket and waistcoat in the bedroom, and his white linen shirt clung to his chest and shoulders in a highly flattering way.

  “If we don’t find it this afternoon,” she suggested, “we can ask the concierge about it when we go to dinner.”

  “We should let Murcheson know. I’ll also rig something at the door to let us know from now on if anyone’s been into the room.” He headed for the bedroom again, doubtless to begin creating a device for that purpose from spare parts in his trunk.

  Charlotte sighed and decided to put the issue aside. She thought it more urgent to loosen her corset, put her feet up and enjoy a cup of tea while she read the Paris newspaper she’d picked up in the lobby downstairs. She was still recovering from the strain of her long flight, and her body demanded more rest than she’d given it.

  The newspaper, sadly, had other plans for her.

  “Bloody hell!”

  Dexter dashed in from the other room. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  “Yes! No. Damn. Look at this!” She held up the paper to let him see the headline below the fold on the front page. Not a top story, but not exactly buried either.

  “I only know about half those words,” Dexter admitted. His French had never been strong, and he’d been sticking to the English papers.

  “Mysterious floating black object in the night sky,” Charlotte explained, skimming down the column then flipping a few pages into the paper to read the continuation. “Seen in multiple places by ‘anonymous witnesses.’ In Nancy, Paris and three villages in between, only one of which I think I actually flew over. This is a plant. Someb
ody wanted to ground the Gossamer Wing for good. Oh, that’s just spiteful!”

  “Do you think Murcheson will really call the whole dirigible program off?”

  “In a heartbeat,” Charlotte confirmed. “Not worth the risk. Damn!” She threw the paper down on the floor and sat on the divan, frustrated that her corset kept her from flinging herself down in a more dramatic way. “Can you get this bloody straightjacket off me? I can’t rail and moan properly with it on.”

  “Language, darling.” Dexter smirked as he slid into place next to her and turned her shoulders so he could get at the fastenings to her gown. “If you wanted me to undress you, you had only to ask.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she assured him, heaving a sigh of relief as Dexter finished with the dress and began loosening her corset strings.

  “You don’t need these things.”

  “I like pretty clothes,” Charlotte said with a shrug. “Corsets are part of the price one pays for that. It’s not nearly as bad as it used to be. My mother used to require two maids every morning to help her tight-lace. At least I can dress myself.”

  “Not in this dress,” he pointed out. “I had to fasten it for you.”

  “I ordered it without thinking,” she admitted. “I just liked the style. Usually I’m more careful about my choices, but this time I was blinded by fashion.”

  “Lucky for you I was here to serve as ladies’ maid. Otherwise you’d have had to roam the streets of Paris in your undergarments. Not that I’d have objected, as long as nobody else looked at you.”

  Charlotte shivered as Dexter tugged her chemise up past her shoulders then ran his fingers down her back, one on each long muscle framing her spine. “Most of my corsets are designed in the new style, they fasten in the front. I have other dresses. You’re hardly indispensable to my toilette.”