Refuge for Masterminds

by Kathleen Baldwin

  “By George! Capital idea.” Bernard smacks his hands against his thighs. “Well done, Janey. What do you say, Francis? Make some young thing your countess and bail us out of the River Tick all at the same time.”

  “What?” Francis turns a sickly shade of white. “Marry? Me?”

  “Yes, my darling brother.” I smile pleasantly, emulating my unflappable headmistress. “I suggest you find a rich merchant’s daughter, or a banker’s daughter. Well, anyone will do, really, so long as she has pots and pots of money and is willing to put you on a leash.”

  Francis turns decidedly sour. “You think this is funny, don’t you? I’d nearly forgotten what a wretchedly sharp tongue you have.” He stands and tugs down his waistcoat. “Well, my girl, I hope you enjoy being in service, because even if I do find a way out of this mess I have half a mind to leave you working as a maid. See if I don’t.”

  “My dear brother, I’ve no idea how you’ll acquire half a mind.”

  “Lady Jane!” Miss Stranje scolds me for being rude.

  Francis marches out of the drawing room and snatches his hat from Peterson. Bernard hops up from the divan and gives me a quick kiss goodbye. “He don’t mean it, Janey. Really. We’ve just had a run of bad luck, that’s all. Creditors buzzing around us like bees.”

  Suddenly, I’m truly sorry for my wretchedly sharp tongue. “Oh Bernard.” I grab my brother and hug him. “Be good, Bernie, my dear. Do try to stay away from the tables.”

  He grins broadly. “No need for that. Any day now our luck’s bound to turn around. You’ll see. Tell you what, if I marry a rich gel, I’ll come and get you. I promise.”

  He accepts his hat from Peterson and gives Miss Stranje a parting nod. “Be kind to our Janey, Miss Stranje. Never mind that wicked tongue of hers. She’s a good-hearted girl underneath.”

  I stand, watching Francis and Bernard bluster out of the door and feel every inch a wretched heel. And so sad, I feel like mopping the floor with my soul.

  “I do love them, you know. They’re…”

  Foolish.

  Ridiculous.

  And even though they’re completely useless,

  “They’re my brothers.”

  “Of course, you love them. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” She puts her arm around me. “But they’re grown men, Lady Jane. It is a difficult thing, but there comes a time when we must let those we love fend for themselves.”

  Twenty-six

  PUPPIES AND DREAMS

  Nighttime.

  Every time I turn in bed, I bump my leg and the pain jars me awake. I’m drifting in and out of sleep when a mournful howling awakens me. A second loud howl catapults me out of bed, but Maya and Sera are still sound asleep. I pull on my dressing gown and hear Tess scurrying down the hall. The yellow glint of a lantern flashes beneath our door as she goes past. I put on my shoes and quietly slip out after her. “Do you think Tromos is whelping?”

  “I don’t know.” She frowns at me. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

  “She howled.”

  “I heard. I don’t understand why she would howl even if she’s whelping. Usually they keep quiet when they’re giving birth.”

  We were wrong.

  Tromos had already whelped an hour ago, maybe longer. The mess was gone and her pups were licked clean. Two black puppies no bigger than my hand cling to her teats, suckling.

  “Oooh,” I gasp. “They’re so tiny.” I notice Phobos nudging a third pup toward Tromos, this one is a tiny silver ball of fur.

  “Oh no,” Tess laments softly. “It’s crippled.”

  Tromos lets out another plaintive howl, this one softer and obviously directed at Tess. Tess kneels down beside the makeshift den and utters a string of ancient Welsh I can’t begin to understand, but I hear the strains of comfort in the old words.

  And sadness.

  “How can you tell it’s crippled? What’s wrong with it?”

  Tess holds the lantern closer to the silver cub as it squirms helplessly.

  Phobos picks it up and dangles the third pup in his mouth. I see one of its little paws is shriveled and misshapen. Phobos drops it closer to its mother. The poor thing wriggles but then flops sideways, its little sides heaving.

  Tess explains, “Cubs are all born blind and deaf, but they can smell their mother. It should be crawling toward Tromos.”

  I scarcely listen. The helpless little waif sprawled in the dirt captures my heart. Except I do hear the next cruel words Tess says, “If the cub doesn’t latch on soon, Phobos will have to put it out of its misery.”

  “No!” My heart pounds in protest.

  Tromos lifts her head at my cry and bares her teeth.

  I don’t care if Tromos is angry at me. I kneel beside Tess. “Do something. Push it closer.”

  Tess sits back and stares at me as if I’ve run mad. “Won’t help. This is the way of things. It’s how they know which cubs will be able to fend for themselves in the wild.”

  I grab her shoulder. “Look around you. We aren’t in the wild.” I swing my arm out indicating the garden and walls around us.

  I see that silver lump of mewling fur and my heart refuses to let it go. I growl almost as threateningly as Tromos did. “Push that cub closer.”

  “I’m as sad as you are.” Tess frowns and comes at me with a heated whisper. “Why do you think Tromos is howling? It’s breaking her heart, too. After she lost her last litter, she grieved so hard she wouldn’t eat for days. Neither of them did. Wolves grieve whenever one of their pack dies. Even if it’s a lame cub. But this is how it is in nature. We can’t interfere.”

  “Nature,” I grumble, staring at the tired hungry helpless puppy. “I don’t care. This one is not going to die. I’m not going to let it.”

  I start to reach in and Tess grabs my arm. “Reach in and you’ll lose a hand, or worse. Tromos won’t let you touch one of her puppies.”

  We stare at one another, both of us breathing hard. Both of us sad. She’s probably right. Both of us have seen enough death to understand. Except, this is different. This tiny sliver of moonlight made flesh, this little lost girl cub, I simply can’t bear it.

  I can’t sit here and watch it die without doing something. I can’t.

  We are sisters, Tess and I. Not always friends, but always sisters. I know her heart. I know she aches for that baby wolf as much as I do. “She won’t let me.” I pause waiting for her to follow my meaning. “But Tromos would let you help her. You’re one of her pack.”

  Tess lets go of my arm, and she pulls the lantern back so the wolves’ den rests in dim shadows. “I’m not sure. She might. On the other hand, she might take a bite out of my throat if I dare do such a thing.”

  Tess does not accept closeness easily. Neither do I, for that matter. Nevertheless, there in the faint amber of the oil lamp, it seemed right to put my arm around her shoulders. There is a language every sister knows, a language tender beyond words and rarely spoken. It runs like a string between two hearts, and we only pluck that string in times of trouble. This night, even though I do not know ancient Welsh, we speak as sisters.

  “Tess, she called you here. Tromos howled for her pack, and we came. We’re here because she needs us. She needs you.” We stare at one another heart to heart. I hug her tight and let her go. “Now, either you must do something to save that little dog or I will. I don’t care whether Tromos bites my hand off, or not.”

  Tess’s shoulders heave. “All right, but you need to stay back. If either of them attacks me, don’t run. Don’t do anything except back slowly away. Do you understand?”

  I nod.

  “I mean it. Don’t do anything. They might bite me, but I don’t think they’d kill me. You, on the other hand…”

  “They would kill me. I understand.”

  Tess scoots closer to Tromos, murmuring. I’ve listened to her speak to them in ancient Welsh before, but never like this. The strange language is full of grief and empathy. With a plaintive whimper,
Phobos moans and lies down beside Tess’s knee. They are mourning, the three of them. Tess reaches for Tromos and softly strokes her fur.

  I watch from the shadows, in awe of the compassion in Tess’s voice, as she slowly lifts the dying cub to one of Tromos’s swollen nipples.

  I watch in amazement as Tromos lowers her head and closes her eyes. Hope floods the garden. Hope as palpable as a mist rising in the morning. A mother’s last desperate hope. And if wolves can pray, I swear, I hear the prayer of the wolf mother lifting around us.

  “Live,” I urge the baby wolf, and turn my plea to the stars above us.

  Tess edges back, and I ignore the pain in my leg and kneel up, to look over her shoulder. There in the moonlight I see the tiny silver cub has latched on to her mother, and is feeding.

  * * *

  We return to our beds, and sometime before morning, I fall into a fitful sleep. A scream startles me awake. I know that scream. I’ve awakened to the sound nearly a hundred times in the past few years.

  Tess!

  I bolt out of bed. Maya and Sera barely stir. I hurry barefoot down the hall and burst into the next room. Georgie stands beside Tess, trying to console her. Tess, wild-eyed and shuddering, pushes her away.

  “What is it?” I demand, half expecting the answer to be that Tess had a dream about Ghost or that beastly Jack. “What did you see?”

  Georgie shakes her head, warning me not to press the question.

  “Who cares what I saw?” Tess moans and tugs at her disheveled hair. “It’s the same thing I always see. Death. Mayhem. Meaningless destruction. None of it makes any sense.” She glares at me, her chest rising and falling in ragged heaves.

  “What happened?” Madame Cho and Miss Stranje rush in behind me. “Was it a dream?”

  I nod. Madame Cho closes the door and lights an oil lamp. Tess presses her hands against both sides of her head as if she might squeeze away the horrors of her nightmare. When that fails, her arms fall limp and she drops onto the bed.

  Defeated.

  “How can I run away from it, here in London?” Her voice shifts to a question for us. “Where can I go? I need to run.”

  I hate seeing Tess like this. She, who is the goddess of strength, slumped and reduced to beaten shivers.

  “Be brave,” Madame Cho orders.

  I lean against the bedpost, my leg aching. “Maybe it will help make sense of it, if you tell us what you dreamed.”

  She doesn’t look at me. Instead, she fidgets with her fingernail. “I’d rather not.”

  We don’t press her. We wait.

  Finally, she slams her fists against the bedding. “Very well. If you must know, it was an explosion. I saw half the Admiralty blown to bits, and…” She winces and glances hesitantly toward me. “… and Mr. Sinclair.”

  Blood rushes from my head. I clutch the bedpost. I must hold tight or my knees will collapse under me. “Not Alexander?” I say, hoping she misspoke. I must’ve said it too softly for anyone to hear.

  Not him.

  Miss Stranje presses a bolstering hand on my shoulder and we exchange glances. I shake my head subtly, indicating I hadn’t told Tess my suspicions about Ghost making a bomb.

  “It’s just a dream,” Georgie says, as much to me as to Tess. She sits on the bed and puts her arm around Tess’s shoulders. “Dreams are just dreams. You said so yourself.”

  “True.” Miss Stranje pulls her dressing gown tighter. “However, I think perhaps you had better tell us a bit more about this one.”

  “Yes. Speak it aloud, and it will not have as much power to hurt you.” Madame Cho says this, even though she is the most tight-lipped of any of us.

  “There’s nothing to tell. The whole thing is useless. One minute I see Mr. Sinclair on the Mary Isabella. Then…” She covers her ears. “My ears are still ringing. That sound—it was horrible. A thunderous crack. Deafening. As if the whole sky broke in two. The dock shook. Everything shook. A ball of fire swallowed us, and rushed everywhere. Smoke so thick it hurt to breathe.”

  I cough. She relates her nightmare so vividly I can almost feel the smoke burning my nostrils.

  “Splintered wood. Body parts.” Tess hides her face from us, burying it in her hands, shaking her head. “This isn’t helping. There’s no point in telling you.”

  “There is.” I urge her forward, desperate for more details, searching for anything we might use to keep this massacre from actually happening. “Where were you in the dream?”

  “Where was I?” Tess looks up, and her brows pinch together in puzzlement. “Oh, I see what you mean. I didn’t die in this one. How did you know?”

  “A guess.” I grip the bedpost still trying to steady myself. I don’t have horrifying dreams like she does, but there is that darned game board in my head. I can’t help but see the players moving into position, knocking key pieces off the board. Pieces we need to keep in play if we’re to win this war, people we must not lose. One player in particular, one man, one piece of my heart that I refuse to surrender. “Can you remember where you were standing? Anything?”

  Tess shuts her eyes. “In front of the blast. Heat from the explosion scorched my face. It knocked me down. I remember falling backward. Ugh. And the smell of burnt flesh.” She stands up, shaking her head. “No, no more. It’s too much. I don’t want to remember any more. I can’t. I need to run. Where can I run?”

  Georgie stands. “What about the garden, if you jog next to the stables and make a circuit—”

  “Too small.” Tess paces. “I can’t run hard enough there, or fast enough.”

  Georgie turns to Miss Stranje and me. “We have to think of somewhere she can run off the fright.”

  “I have an idea.” Miss Stranje rubs her chin. “Tess, what if you were to ride in the park? This early in the morning, you can even gallop. Would that be vigorous enough?”

  Tess stops pacing and blinks. “Might work. Except how can I? You only have carriage horses.”

  Miss Stranje heads for the hallway. “Lord Ravencross brought his mounts. Get dressed. I’ll send word to him right now.”

  Madame Cho follows Tess into the dressing room to help her change, and Georgie plops down hard on the bed. “If half the Admiralty gets blown up, you know what her dream means, don’t you? The explosion is probably at—”

  “The naval yards. Yes.” I sit beside her. “At the unveiling of the Mary Isabella.”

  “Exactly.” Georgie gnaws on her bottom lip for a moment. “Might not happen, though. Her dreams don’t always end up the way we expect. It could be symbolic.”

  True enough. Tess’s dreams are enigmatic at best, and often figurative. “I suppose.” But I saw Ghost with black powder and canisters. This time it’s real.

  “She said the sky cracked open. That might symbolize something.” Georgie takes a deep breath and purses her lips. “Maybe it’s a warning from beyond that the boiler isn’t stable.”

  “Maybe.” Except I see what a perfect move this is for the Iron Crown. Too perfect. “Tell me, Georgie, can a boiler like the one on Mr. Sinclair’s ship explode arbitrarily?”

  “Not arbitrarily, no. There’s always a reason.” Georgie rubs the soft flannel of her nightgown between her thumb and forefinger, thinking.

  “What reasons?”

  “Too much pressure builds up in the boiler. A blocked steam pipe. Impure coal. Any number of causes. Only…” She turns to me, her eyes wide with alarm. “None of those reasons explain a blast as large as the one Tess described.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.” I sigh, and lean forward, head in my hands.

  “A bomb.” Georgie barely says the word aloud.

  “I believe so.” I lace my fingers through the hair at my throbbing temple. “It’s a horrifyingly logical strategy. Lady Daneska and Ghost would rid themselves of key players in the war, important members of the Admiralty, and they’ll have their revenge on us all at the same time.”

  “Players?” she snaps. “They’re not players,
Jane. These are men. Yes, they’re soldiers and sailors, but they’re also fathers. Brothers. Husbands. And…” She says all this as if I’m not painfully aware of who they are. Her voice drops. “Our friends.”

  People we love.

  “They’ll be murdered.” She clutches my arm and gives it a rough shake. “We have to warn Lord Wyatt and Captain Grey. They must call off the unveiling.”

  “We will. We will warn them. But calling off the unveiling won’t keep it from happening.” I clamp my hand over hers, not just to stop her from squeezing my arm, but to reassure her. “First, we have to figure out where Ghost intends to hide that bomb.”

  She eases her grip.

  “Georgie, you know Mr. Sinclair’s steamship as well as anyone. If you wanted to place a bomb, where would you—”

  “That’s easy.” She sits straighter, and without realizing it, her hands describe the shape of the boiler. “If Ghost is clever, and we know he is, he’ll have his men lodge it into the boiler stack. A large metal cylinder the size of the stack, if packed with black powder … a bomb that size would create an explosion as devastating as the one Tess dreamed about.”

  The canisters on Ghost’s worktable would be the exact right shape.

  She tugs at the flannel of her nightdress again, working it furiously between her fingers. “That’s not the only advantage of hiding it there. If they put it in the smokestack it won’t explode until Mr. Sinclair fires up the boiler and the tank gets hot enough. All they have to do is hide it. The heat would ignite the fuse for them, and that would happen right about the same time he begins his demonstration of how the Mary Isabella operates.”

  I close my eyes for a moment, trying to banish the thought of Alexander grinning and talking excitedly to his guests on the dock, and seconds later, his innocent face blown to bits. I try not to think of it, but I can’t keep from seeing him swallowed up in a burst of flames. There is no escaping that cruel image, no stopping it from making my heart trip and fall, no way to keep it from suffocating me.

  No way, except by focusing on the strategy, the stakes, the game. I gasp for air, forcing myself to draw in enough to allow rational thought.