Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE Mirrors and Gilding
CHAPTER TWO Silk Stockings
CHAPTER THREE Through the Skylight
CHAPTER FOUR Domestic Bliss
CHAPTER FIVE Glittering Splendor
CHAPTER SIX Billiards to Cards
CHAPTER SEVEN Parisian
CHAPTER EIGHT Knowledge of Clockworks
CHAPTER NINE In the Mirror
CHAPTER TEN The Painting Lady
CHAPTER ELEVEN Mechanical Arm
CHAPTER TWELVE The Silver Swan
CHAPTER THIRTEEN Sly Dog
CHAPTER FOURTEEN Awkward and Unsociable
CHAPTER FIFTEEN Delicate Mechanism
CHAPTER SIXTEEN The Playful Pup
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Melted Wax
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Acknowledgments
The Escapement of Blackledge
Mary Robinette Kowal
CHAPTER ONE
Mirrors and Gilding
If Weatherby Kendall, the Duke of Blackledge, had been allowed to work in his laboratory, or perhaps sit in the library with a quarto of friends and conversation, he might have enjoyed coming-of-age. His mother, the Dowager Duchess, could not let that stand and had insisted that he have a fête. Not simply a dinner, of course, but a ball in which every eligible young woman in England, and quite probably the entire Empire, had been invited.
Weatherby supposed he should count his blessings that she had not already arranged a marriage for him. Though, perhaps she had but was simply too savvy to admit it. She was a cunning old dame, that was for certain. And the list of young ladies he had to invite to dance seemed unending.
He was currently dancing with Miss… Blue Gown. She was cousin so-and-so’s youngest niece from the county seat of some place or the other.. Weatherby rather hoped that this was simply her first time to London, because it would be quite an unfortunate defect if her eyes always bulged so.
“La! I have never seen such a ballroom!” She gasped as they turned two in time to the music.
“In many ways, neither have I.” As they separated for a long balance, he glanced around the once familiar room. It was usually a large white space with mirrors and gilding, but his mother had hired the Prince Regent’s glamourists for the evening. They had shrouded the ballroom with layers of illusion, until it seemed to be a woodland from the north country.
When they came together again to lead up the center, Miss Blue Dress said, “But I thought this was your ballroom.”
“It is. It is only that…” What was he to say? That his mother had over-ruled him on every aspect of the event? “It is decorated for the ball.”
“Surely you have many balls.”
“No.” They reached the top of the set and Weatherby ground his teeth in frustration. Now they had to stand and chat while the progression continued on to the point that they could rejoin the dance. His friend George called this “flirtation time” and loved it better than dancing itself.
“You have no balls?”
He could only blink and stammer for a moment.
Fortunately, Miss Blue Gown seemed not to notice and continued on. “And with a ballroom such as this? La! You are teasing me, surely you are.”
“I am not.” He tucked his hands behind his back and surveyed the dancing couples. And then, praise Jove, the music came to an end. He and Miss Blue Gown both sighed though the sounds had vastly different characters.
Hers was sorrow that she was no longer able to claim the sole attention of the heir to a fortune.
His was relief that he could escape now. Weatherby bowed, as he had been taught, to pay his dance partner a courtesy for the dance. As soon as they had both straightened, he attempted a smile. “If you will pardon me, I must...” He gestured vaguely at the room.
“Oh! Of course. You must have other obligations. Thank you ever so much for the dance. I shall remember it always.”
He could not find words to respond to that and only bowed again. Turning on his heel, before he had even straightened again, Weatherby bolted for the nearest door--
—which was masked from view by the glamoured forest. Only the terrace doors and the main ballroom doors were visible to the naked eye. He turned then toward the main doors, where his mother stood. She lifted her head as if she felt his intention and he only just managed to avoid meeting her gaze. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her leave her station by the door.
By Jove, she was determined to introduce him to another eligible lady. Weatherby's cravat strangled him. He dodged through the crowd, unable for another moment to tolerate the press, and escaped onto the terrace where he took a deep breath of marginally cooler air. Even here, there were people. Gentlemen engaged in conversation. Ladies, fanning themselves to relieve the heat of the ballroom. Couples--
"George!"
His old friend stepped hastily away from a young woman that Weatherby thought he had danced with earlier, though her face had not then been quite so red. George cleared his throat. "There you are, my dear. I've got your necklace refastened." He tugged at the edges of his waistcoat, which somehow had become unbuttoned. "Well, Lord Blackledge, how is your birthday fête treating you?"
“Much as you might think.”
“That poorly, eh?”
Weatherby snorted. “My mother is headed this way. Would you mind…?”
“By all means, old chap.” George gave a bow and turned his attention back to the young lady. “If we could relocate closer to the door…”
“But then someone might see us.”
“Exactly, my dear.”
Weatherby did not wait to see exactly what George had in mind. There were steps that lead down to the shrubbery, but if he wanted to get out of sight, he needed to get off the terrace before his mother came outside. He vaulted over the low parapet to the pleasure ground below. Being in London, the grounds were not large enough to truly hide in, but a servants’ door lay under the terrace. It was intended for the use by the kitchen staff so they could harvest the herbs growing there but it also sufficed to allow the Duke of Blackledge to escape his mother.
He dodged down the narrow hall, with his head ducked slightly to avoid eye contact with any of the servants. He had hoped to avoid disrupting their work, but it did no good. They stopped in their tracks, bowing and curtsying as he went past.
As he took the narrow winding stair up, a scullery maid openly gawked at him. He gave her a pained nod and continued up to the third floor and there, stepped into the mercifully quiet hall. The music from the party was still audible, but the distance muted it to something almost pleasant. He would rather have had silence.
Weatherby unlocked the heavy door to his laboratory and pushed it open. His slippers echoed off the stone walls as he stepped onto the marble floor. He shut the door behind him, latching it out of habit. Silence.
He heaved a sigh. “Thank God.”
Rubbing the back of his head, he reveled for a moment in being alone and leaned against the wood to stare up at the skylight. It was propped open to let a breeze in, and a single taper burned in a lantern on his workbench. He would have to thank Bartlett for leaving it for him. The advantages of being predictable to one’s valet, he supposed.
And predictability meant it would not take his mother long to figure out where he had gone, but the relief from the press of the crowds was well worth her pique. Best make use of the time then.
Weatherby pulled his laboratory robe from the hanger by the door and shrugged it on over his evening clothes. Grease stains and small scorch marks pocked the simple banyan robe. It had been part of his pajamas, but now it served to keep his clothes
from becoming too mussed. It was a compromise he had made with his mother, years ago, so she would allow him funds to carry on with his work.
But he no longer had to worry about such things. Weatherby straighted, a smile coming to his lips. He had reached his majority. In fact… he did not need to go back to the party, unless he wished it. Though, in truth, it would no doubt be easier in the long run to not antagonize Mother.
Weatherby walked to his workbench and used the taper to light the five arm candelabra there. The light caught on the gears of his latest automaton. The neck of the stork kept jamming as it was returning upright. He’d modeled it on the Silver Swan, but it needed to swing through a wider range of motion. Staring at it, he rested his hands on his workbench.
Under the fingers of his right hand, leather softened the bench. Odd. He had not been working with leather on this project.
A slender black kid glove lay on his bench. His brows contracted as he picked it up. It was too narrow to belong to anyone save the smallest of ladies, but no one at the ball would have been here. And besides, black was a mourning colour. No one with black kid gloves would even attend the ball, let alone invade his sanctum sanctorum.
The door had been locked and only he and Bartlett had the key. Weatherby spun and looked up again at the skylight. A block of wood held the glass panel up, rather than the chain that raised it from the interior. And the lantern… Weatherby inhaled sharply, clenching the glove in his fist.
“Who is here?” He lifted the candelabra and stepped away from the bench. “I demand that you show yourself.”
CHAPTER TWO
Silk Stockings
Helena Troyes pushed back further into the corner below the workbench. It was a damn sight lucky that she was a contortionist, or he’d have caught her for certain, he would have. Helena peeked past her drawn-up knees at a pair of well-turned calves. Polished shoes. Silk stockings. Gold buttons at the knees of his breeches… this was definitely not the Duke’s manservant. In some ways, that was better. She might be able to play the damsel role and take advantage of the Duke to make a break for it.
What was he even doing here? The Duke was supposed to be out of his chambers at his coming-of-age ball. Tonight had been the one night he was certain to be gone.
How was Helena to get the mechanical arm she needed if he was here? For that matter, how was she to get out if he didn’t leave? Stupid. Intolerably stupid to leave her glove on the workbench like that. To say nothing of leaving the lantern there like some idiot on her first heist. It wasn’t as if she had never been in a room when someone returned to it before.
She’d simply never been in one that was proof against sound. She had not heard anyone approach, just suddenly, the door was opening and she had dived out of sight.
“Who is there?” He turned and walked away from the workbench, carrying the candelabra with him. “I demand that you show yourself.”
Thank God he was an idiot. Without the immediate proximity of the candelabra, the pool of shadow around the workbench got deeper. If he turned back to look at it, he would be blinded by the very light he was carrying. Helena relaxed her knees ever so slightly and lifted her gloved left hand hand to shield her own sight from the flames. She scanned the floor under the work bench for something to throw. A length of metal rod not more than five inches long fit the bill nicely. She took it up in her bare right hand. This was just like Fancy Pierre’s knife-throwing act. Except, of course, that it wasn’t a knife and she was trapped under a workbench. Still…no one would die if she missed.
She drew back her arm and flung the piece of metal toward the door. The moment it left her hand she rolled to the side. It thumped against the wood door, and clattered to the marble floor. Helena slid across the floor as the Duke turned toward the noise.
“Bartlett? Who is there?” He lifted the candelabra above his head, and light spilled across the room.
She winced, and tucked herself behind an easy chair. With the light over his head, he wouldn’t be blinded by the flames. Only a few steps stood between her and the skylight and escape. The candelabrum was a problem though. He would see her the moment she stood to make the move. If she were a better glamourist, she might be able to draw a breeze out of the ether to blow out the candles.
Well… Papa Fred always said that if something went wrong on stage and you could not fix it, then you should feature it. She could not fix the fact that she was a thief in the Duke of Blackledge’s private laboratory but… maybe she could feature it. It was his coming-of-age party after all.
Swallowing, Helena reached up and pulled off the black kerchief that held her hair in place. Her golden ringlets were a benefit when she was at the circus but normally made her too visible for thieving. She untied the black cravat that held the neck of her shirt closed and slid the collar open to display her neck. After a moment of thought, she shoved both into the top of her short stays to make her “shelf” more prominent.
This was madness. Helena peeled off her remaining glove and unfolded herself, slowly and seductively. It was a wasted effort. The Duke stood with his back to her, scanning the wall nearest the door. She looked up at the skylight and weighed her options.
With his back to her, the Duke wouldn’t see her while she got on the large library table under the skylight. While she could reach it easily enough, launching herself from the table would make noise and he would see her dangling there. Helena chewed her lower lip. So… the skylight was a way out but, then they would lock it up and be on guard. If she had a chance of getting her hands on the mechanical arm tonight, she should take it.
Helena tiptoed around the chair and slowly sank into its plush embrace. She arranged herself gracefully there, making sure her bosom was well represented in the pose. Then she cleared her throat.
Spinning so quickly that the candles nearly guttered out, the Duke stared at her. His eyes were as wide as if he’d never seen a woman, as if he hadn’t been downstairs dancing with the cream of London society.
Helena smiled at him and lowered her voice. “Looking for me?”
“I… You… You aren’t supposed to be in here.” He took a step closer and then he stopped.
“Neither are you. But here we are.” She swung her legs off the chair and for a moment she thought he was going to step back again. “I believe it is your birthday.”
“How did you get in?”
“Shall we just say that you have friends who wish to make you happy.” Helena walked toward him, letting her hips sway. The trousers she wore were less revealing than her acrobatics costume and yet she felt infinitely more exposed simply by being alone in the room with a handsome man. And he was strikingly attractive. The candlelight caught in his auburn hair as if it lived there. Shadows caught under his chin and outlined the firm line of his jaw. More charming than any of that, though, was the bewilderment that in his vivid blue eyes.
“George?” His voice cracked.
“Mmm…” She would have to remember that name. Helena sauntered over to the work bench. “Now…what shall we do with all these tools?”
As though she had dropped a curtain over his expression, his manner changed in an instant. “Touch nothing!”
Helena stumbled back as he lunged forward to thrust an arm between her and the bench. His banyan robe fell open to reveal a black coat and well-fit trousers. The Duke set down the candelabra on the workbench and his hand trembled as he released it.
Holding up her hands, Helena gave a little smile. “I won’t. Honest. Not unless you ask me to.”
“What are you even doing in here?”
“It is your birthday, is it not?”
He stared at her with his mouth slightly agape. The light of the candelabra caressed his strong chin and brought out the highlights in his ruddy hair. The Duke shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am afraid, madam, that one of my friends is pranking me. I do not require your services.”
At his weary tone, Helena raised her brows. She had not expec
ted him to turn down her apparent advances. Noblemen never did.
And he was here, rather than at his party, which meant that perhaps he was less interested in dancing than in his toys. She could work with that. She glanced over at the work bench. The mechanical grasping arm that she needed was in a cubby just behind the Duke. “Now, now, my lord. You are making certain assumptions about my…services.” Helena ran her finger along the workbench and took a step closer to him. “Do you truly think your friends know so little of you that they would send someone who did not know the difference between an escapement and a watch cock?”
He swallowed audibly and stepped back a little. “I— That is to say…”
“Please be assured that I know how to tighten a regulating nut.” She kept her gaze on his, though his blue eyes darted around the room as if he were the one trapped and not she. Helena took another step forward.
The Duke shifted his weight back, pulling at the folds of his cravat. He cleared his throat. “Um.”
“Shall I demonstrate that I know how to balance your pendulum rod?” Just a little farther and she would be able to snatch it and go. If he saw her steal it, it was of little matter. He rarely left the house and the chances of him attending the circus and seeing her there were laughably small. Even if he attended, he had yet to make eye contact with her for more than a few moments. Helena took another step forward. “Or would you rather that I handle your spanner?”
Coughing, he stumbled against his work stool. With his balance off, Helena leapt. Pushing the Duke with one hand, she snatched the mechanical arm with the other. She pirouetted to face the window and tucked the arm close to her body.
“No!” The Duke’s hand closed on her shoulder, checking her flight.
Helena tried to wriggle free, but he spun her back to face him and grabbed the wrist that held the mechanical arm. Her heart thundered in her chest. She tried to twist free as Mama Agnes had taught her but his grip was stronger than she would have expected from a nobleman. His callused fingers dug into her wrist. It hurt no more than a catch from a trapeze, but it startled her enough that she gave a soft cry. “Ah!”
The Escapement of Blackledge: a novella Page 1
