Destruction (Asylum for the Mechanically Insane Book 2)

by Sahara Kelly

  But he would take advantage of the man’s obvious desire to display his wealth. A weakness that made a person vulnerable. The demonstration would be held. And it would be up to Sahib to provide the test subject.

  Let this one be on his turban. After all, he was paying for it. And if all went according to plan, Ringwood would end up with his money and his Shock Wave system. He could then cast about for a new buyer. Perhaps his very own government. They might be able to match or even beat this paltry half a million pounds he was holding in his hand.

  Nobody would ever know of the funding from—or the fate of—Thakur Sahib.

  Chapter 7

  Vivienne sat stiffly in the carriage as it traversed the gravel driveway to Harbury Hall.

  This was not due to any inclination toward propriety and correct posture. It was more to avoid putting pressure on the ache flowering at the base of her spine.

  She hoped there weren’t too many bruises on her buttocks, and her upper thighs, although she knew the ones there would betray the imprint of a sharp bite or the purpling shape of a man’s hand.

  Kerala liked to play rough games.

  Thankfully, he’d not used his whip. Perhaps he feared someone at Coralfield would hear her screams and come to inquire. That, he would not appreciate.

  He was all about appearances, and although she’d tried to gently intimate that a true British gentleman was restrained in his demonstration of his wealth, her comments had been brushed aside.

  When a man had earned his fortune, the world should know it. That was Kerala’s philosophy and none could sway him from it. He relied on her for many things, but advice in this area was not one of them.

  He was a quick study and had learned manners of address, the ranks of the hierarchy and what behavior was acceptable. He had eschewed modesty, however, and after a few months, she’d quietly conceded defeat.

  The man was extremely intelligent, oddly generous at times—the house he’d purchased in London was in her name—and beneath it all beat the heart of a fierce savage.

  His name and his lineage owed everything to the tribe of warlords that had spawned him. He neither knew nor cared about his mother’s name or her person. He honored his father and his heritage.

  He took what he wanted and killed anyone who stood in his way.

  Vivienne had a suspicion that the British had funded his early endeavors to enlarge his fiefdom. After all, “owning” one powerful warlord was much easier than trying to assume ownership of the state he controlled.

  However, she also believed her countrymen had seriously underestimated the sheer cleverness of this man. He’d managed to amass more money than most of London could dream of, and also become a persona grata of the very government which had put his feet on this road. Instead of being their supplicant, Thakur Sahib Kerala had become someone they wooed as a valuable asset in the region. The several airship moorings and bases that flourished there did so at his pleasure.

  Lose that pleasure and those vital installations would be gone, something the government couldn’t afford at this point in the ongoing conflict.

  So here he was, enjoying the leisurely ride with his companion, their luggage and his manservant. And she bore the bruises stoically, knowing he or his man would snap her neck without a second thought should the mood take them.

  Right now she was valuable to him. But for how much longer, she didn’t know. And it scared her.

  The horses whinnied and drew to a halt, bringing her thoughts back to the present.

  Carefully Vivienne rose and gathered her skirts, accepting the footman’s hand as she dismounted. She’d missed the steam-powered conveyance, but had found comfort in the familiarity of the horses’ hooves clopping their way through the countryside. The others from Coralfield would be along shortly—for now, theirs was the only vehicle at the bottom of the Harbury stairs.

  As a group they ascended, to be met by Malcolm, the terribly efficient butler, and several house servants who rapidly disposed of the luggage.

  “Would you care to join Lord and Lady Harbury for tea, Sir? Madam?” Malcolm indicated an open door off the foyer in which they stood.

  “I think I would like to freshen up first, if that’s acceptable? Will the Harburys allow me a few moments?”

  Malcolm managed not to look down his nose at her. “Of course, Madam. Please follow Susan. She will be attending to you, unless you’ve brought your own maid?”

  The question was a deliberate slight, but Vivienne ignored it. “Thank you. You are very kind.”

  She was pleased to see a slight color rise in the man’s cheeks as she turned toward a young girl and followed her up the broad staircase and along the corridor to her rooms.

  They were, she realized, quite lovely. And she heaved a sigh of relief when she was told that Kerala would be some distance away at the very end of the hallway. He’d been given the Royal Suite.

  He’d like that. It would appeal to the barely-repressed flamboyance and self-importance she knew lurked beneath the gaudy jeweled robes of his rank.

  She also liked the arrangement. It made it much more difficult for him to summon her at night. In fact, he was unlikely to do so, given the number of guests and the situation of his rooms.

  She straightened her toilette, freshened her hair and left her travel duster on the bed for the maid to brush and hang away. A simple lace shawl would be adequate, given the long sleeves of her lightweight lawn day dress. She liked this particular shade of lavender blue and felt comfortable with the modest cut. The last addition? A brief moment with eyes closed, while she pulled her mask of protective tranquility around her.

  Thus armored and secure that nothing could perturb her, she opened the door—and walked straight into Del Moreton.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  *~~*~~*

  “And then he asked me about family. Whether I knew anyone or not.” Portia was whispering through the door of a certain cell on Level Four.

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Neither did I. I made a big point of telling him about James. Inspector Burke. Not that he was an Inspector of course, but that he knew me and looked out for me in a fatherly sort of way. I must remember to tell James himself to be fatherly if we’re ever seen together.”

  A tired chuckle came from the other side of the door. “Portia, you are a treasure.”

  “Thank you, Devon.” Portia smiled. “But you sound awfully tired.”

  “They took us down to Level Seven last night.”

  She was silent for a few moments. “It’s working again?”

  “Enough of it.”

  “God, Devon.” She shuddered. “I felt the most terrible pain for a second or two. It was you, wasn’t it? Late last night?”

  “It might have been. I don’t know what time they took us. I’m sorry Portia. I would spare you that.”

  “Don’t be silly.” She touched the glass, aching for the chance to touch him. “It lets me know where you are. And that you’re still alive.” She leaned her head against the cool wood and closed her eyes. “I’m so scared for you, Devon. So very scared.”

  His thoughts were a warm caress. “Don’t be. I have you now. I’m stronger for it, dear.”

  She fought against the sting of tears beneath her eyelids and forced cheerfulness into her mind and her words. “Well in that case I should probably go and try and make a plan to get you out of here. I’m not much use whining around all the time.”

  “You will never know how much I love your whining. To touch another mind, to be able to communicate like this—it’s the most wonderful thing that’s happened since I was imprisoned here.”

  She heard the ring of truth in his words. Their psychical connection was unexpected and unusual, but she valued it every bit as much as he did. There was a greater intimacy in sharing whispered thoughts and ideas. They were colored, in a way, happiness was warm reds and oranges, while fear and pain were deeper hues of purple and grey.

  So their exchanges, thei
r half-heard and half-understood conversation, was richer than any Portia had experienced before with anyone. It was no wonder that Devon was starting to occupy a major portion of her thoughts during her waking hours.

  And invading some of her dreams at night, as well.

  Thankful he couldn’t see her blush, and anxious to make sure he didn’t catch those thoughts, she quickly returned to the more mundane matters before them.

  “Anyway, I managed to avoid Ringwood, I think. But if he’s looking for somebody unattached, I can only assume it’s for some nefarious purpose.”

  “I agree.”

  There was a slight touch of amusement in his tone and for a moment Portia blushed. Dammit. She had to keep better control of her silly girl’s brain.

  “However, none of that helps us right now.” She gamely carried on. “The schedule is still all messed up, and I never know when I can get moments like this.”

  “I know.” The frustration was back. “And I haven’t been able to learn whether there are any working alarms here. There are no power sources inside this room, certainly. And I’m unable to see any obvious wires or cables connected to the door itself.”

  “I am going to do a little exploring later.” Portia frowned at nothing in particular.

  “Where? Why? You be careful now.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Devon.”

  “Brat.”

  She laughed. “Only on the second level. There’s a storage room there that needs a good cleaning. It has a lot of old papers and stuff. I might, if I’m really lucky, find something like a drawing of the floors. Diagrams from the construction engineers or an early architect’s notes. Anything that might help us…”

  He sighed. “I hate that you have to do this.”

  “I’m not terribly fond of cleaning, myself. The chemicals are really harsh on my hands.”

  She definitely heard his teeth grinding together.

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  “I do, Devon. And I’m very careful, truly. I have permission to be in that room today, so I intend to avail myself of whatever opportunity arises. I won’t take any chances, but if there’s anything there worth finding, I shall find it. Never doubt that.”

  “I don’t. Believe me, I don’t. I can tell from your voice how determined you are. Nothing is going to stand in your way, is it?”

  She opened her mouth to answer, but a sound from the distance distracted her. “Shhh.” She stilled.

  Then breathed again. “Someone was using the stairs above. They’re not coming down this far, but I must go before someone misses me.”

  “Then go, my dear. I am exhausted, I’ll confess. So I will try and sleep and wish you good luck with your explorations.”

  “Thank you Devon. I…I’ll be back with any news as soon as I can.”

  “Goodbye.”

  She caught his farewell as she scurried away, her heart paining a little more each time she had to leave his door. It hurt, this caring about a man. If it was love, then it was a dratted nuisance sometimes.

  And yet at others…

  Confused, Portia silently walked up the dusty stairs to the floor above. And once more became Mary Jones, the maid.

  *~~*~~*

  “May I escort you, Mrs. Stanton-Foley?” Del offered his arm politely. “I’m assuming you’re on your way to the salon to join the others?”

  “I am indeed.” She slipped her arm through his and strolled down the hallway at his side.

  “You had a comfortable trip from Coralfield?”

  “Indeed, thank you. It’s a lovely drive.”

  “I still want you, you know. I think I always will.”

  There was absolutely no change in his tone or his behavior. If observed from below, they were two guests exchanging pleasantries as they walked through the lovely mansion.

  But Vivienne’s heart was pounding like a drum, so fiercely that she wondered why the mullioned windows weren’t rattling. “I told you last night what I am now, Del.”

  “I don’t care.” His arm tightened a little around hers. “I can only guess at the circumstances that have occurred since last we met. I can’t imagine how bad they must have been to force you into your current situation. But do I now hold you in disgust because of them? Of course not.”

  She sighed then, the tension draining from her as if someone had opened the floodgates within her heart. Tears lurked close, but she forced them away, grasping desperately for a tiny piece of her customary control. “Thank you for saying that.” She swallowed down a choked sob. “I cannot begin to tell you how much it means to hear it.” She allowed her fingers to gently press his arm through his sleeve. “Especially from you.”

  He paused, pulling her to a stop next to him, beneath a massive portrait of some unpleasant-looking Harbury ancestor.

  Under the pretext of examining the picture, he leaned toward her. “Tonight. Spend some time with me, Vivienne. Just time, that’s all. I’m not—not the young man you used to know, but my heart has always been in your keeping. Please, if possible, let’s talk?”

  She took a breath and stared in front of her, not even seeing the really appalling brushwork or dull and unimpressive colors of the art. All she could see was Del, above her, his hair wild and mussed, his cheeks flushed with desire and his body—his body thrusting into hers, driving her to the peak of madness.

  Closing her eyes, she turned her head slightly.

  “Yes.”

  He said nothing, just gently shifted her arm and led her down the staircase toward the sound of voices.

  He kept silent until they entered the salon. “And I see that Carstairs is here as well. Airships are fascinating to me, but probably very boring to you, Mrs. Stanton-Foley.”

  “Not at all.” She smiled up at him, cool and collected as always. “I’ve always admired their peaceful passage across the skies. Thank you for telling me more about them.”

  Del steered her toward Kerala. “My pleasure, Ma’am.” He bowed correctly. “I must bid Lady Harbury good morning. With your permission, Sir.” He inclined his head to the Indian and moved away.

  “Very charming person, yes?” Kerala barely glanced at Vivienne.

  “Quite nice. I met him many years ago in London. It is good to see how well he has done in his career.”

  She kept her voice level and casual, hoping it was enough.

  “I see.” Kerala sounded thoughtful. “Such an acquaintance might be useful. What is his current rank, again?”

  She took her time answering. “I believe he is now a Fleet Commander. But I’m not quite sure what that means in terms of seniority. I am unfamiliar with the current military hierarchy.” She accepted a cup of tea from a passing servant, thanking him with a nod. “You must have heard Carstairs speaking of some airship design meetings? I would assume that Commander Moreton is here to participate in them, along with Professor Pembroke.”

  “You would be correct.” Kerala nodded. “I also will be involved and not as much at your side. You will find something to occupy yourself and any information you learn you will, of course, report to me. Or to Abu.”

  As if she’d speak with that cruelly savage servant Kerala insisted accompany them. “Of course.” She sipped her tea, refusing to let any expression cross her face. She couldn’t afford to let anyone see the turmoil inside her, or the pain she carried every day, not only physically but also emotionally.

  The façade was perfect, her outward elegance unruffled, her behavior the epitome of the perfect guest, the ideal woman.

  But hidden deep within was the girl who had given herself to Del Moreton for a short period of sensual bliss the likes of which she could never have imagined.

  And there were still remnants of that girl left, enough to make her shiver when he touched her, and to want to dance when his voice grew husky with the desire she could feel radiating from him.

  It was dangerous, very dangerous.

  But she would go to him this evening if it we
re at all possible. And she would seduce him if it seemed likely he would respond. This she would do for herself. She deserved that much pleasure.

  Because she knew if she stayed with Kerala, he would surely kill her before the year was out.

  Just as he had killed her predecessor.

  At that moment, silence fell and Vivienne turned to see a strange figure at the door. “Alwynne. Who are these people?”

  The voice was rough, edgy, yet pitched sufficiently high to set her teeth on edge.

  “Randall. How lovely that you are well enough to join us.” Lady Harbury moved quickly to the side of the man who was, apparently, the mysterious Lord of Harbury Hall.

  He was masked, one side of his face completely hidden by a grotesque representation of some kind of devilish gargoyle. At the edges of the mask were patches of puckered and angry skin, and here and there droplets of moisture stained the white collar and poorly tied cravat encircling the man’s neck.

  He was not pleasant to observe, but his manner seemed to make his entire presence more menacing.

  The one eye clearly revealed on the undamaged side was darting from face to face, the dark pupil surrounded by a complete ring of white. It was unsettling, as was the dramatic pose he affected, one arm high above him on the door jamb.

  Lady Harbury turned, her hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Everyone, may I present Randall, Lord Harbury. Your host.”

  There were murmurs of greeting, hesitant and definitely unenthusiastic.

  “Randall, my love, these are our guests. They are here to look over some new designs for an airship.” She managed to move him from the door, although he looked somewhat sullen at being reduced to a more usual stance. Briefly she introduced everyone, and occasionally he responded, but mostly he just nodded.

  Vivienne added arrogance to the list of peculiarities possessed by this strange and damaged man.

  When he arrived in front of her, his good eye fastened on her face and then obviously traveled down over the rest of her.

  “Mrs. Stanton-Foley, my husband.” Lady Alwynne’s voice held a note that could well have been exasperation.