Cold Stone & Ivy Book 2: The Crown Prince (The Empire of Steam)

by H. Leighton Dickson

  And here he was, sitting in a library, waiting for horses.

  On the table between the chairs, there was an old Bible with gold-edged pages and parchment as thin as an eyelash. He reached for it, flipped it open to browse through the illustrations. They were very colourful and he was certain that they would have had some meaning if only he knew the stories. He had never read the Bible. It was not a thing his French family had ever encouraged, even with a church on the property. Religion was Sebastien’s obsession, not his father’s, not Rupert’s and certainly not his. Rules and regulations, clean and unclean. So foreign to the world of science. Although he had to admit that in a forensics lab, rules and regulations had to be followed and ‘clean or unclean’ might mean a world of difference in the integrity of evidence chain.

  He didn’t believe any of it, however. Life was life, death was simply the end of it. There was no God to pronounce judgment, only a jury of twelve and a hanging at the Ol’ Bailey. But then again, what the deuce did Sebastien see? What were ghosts anyway but spirits of the dead? And if there were spirits, did that mean there was a heaven? Was there a hell? Who determined entry, one way or the other and why?

  He flipped through the pages, trying to find cherubs like the ones in the paintings at Melk. He couldn’t imagine a heaven where flying babies were a part and wondered if God had a sense of humour. Not likely, but then again, God had created Sebastien.

  He paused in his flipping to study his clockwork hand, a hand given him by Ivy and the London Ripper. If there was a God, what he might think of a man who had killed so many, so viciously, now sitting here reading his book? Would it matter that he had no recollection, or that it was the spirit of his father or a cataclysmic, world-ending locket? Would he still be held responsible for the sins committed by his missing hand?

  He flipped to the very end. The illustrations were bizarre – dragons and lambs, lampstands and plagues. There had to be something in the pages of this dusty old book but the truth was, he didn’t know what he was searching for. There was a mystery but no evidence. Or perhaps, so much that it boggled the mind. If we are denied forensic evidence, Ivy had said, we must move on to circumstantial. He raised his clockwork arm and pressed a hex-nut key on his wrist. A fountain pen popped out, replacing a finger.

  At the end of the book, there was a page with an illustration on one side and blank on the other. He glanced around before quietly tearing it from the spine. There was no hellfire, there was no brimstone. Not even a valet to reprimand him. He was entirely alone with only his mind for a tool. Given the current circumstances, she had said, we can do quite a lot of sleuthing from this very place.

  “By God, Ivy,” he muttered. “Perhaps you were right. Old buffer, indeed.”

  And he poured himself a glass of Sebastien’s wine, settled back into the chair and began to write.

  ***

  A private steam carriage awaited them as they snuck out a side door onto an empty lane. The air was cold, her clothes damp and Ivy shivered, seeing her breath in the dark cab. She was grateful to be leaving the Hofburg and she stared out the icy window, trying to rein in her racing thoughts. Outside, the sky was black save for a moon that ducked in and out of clouds like the Mad Lord with a blanket.

  She missed him.

  There was simply no way he could do what they were asking. It was impossible but knowing him, in order to save their lives he would do the impossible. She had been set on a path of madness and destruction, with Sebastien as the target. Perhaps better to lead them away from him, give him a chance to escape the tightening noose that was currently around all of their necks.

  She should have gone with him to Istanbul. She should have gone with him to Corfu. Anywhere would have been better than this.

  There is nowhere you can run that the Gilded arm cannot reach.

  “Remy spoke very highly of you.”

  She looked up, blinking.

  “He did?” She frowned. “When?”

  “During your engagement,” said Valerie. “He would write letters telling me all about your adventures in the morgues and mortuaries of London. He was quite fascinated.”

  “Didn’t last,” she said. “Fascination turned to expectation, once there was a ring.”

  “It always does.”

  The Archduchess looked away and Ivy watched the streetlamps flash across her elegant face. Wondered who she might be had life been different, had she not been born Habsburg.

  “So why did you write him?” she asked. “You had princes. You had a purpose. Why bother with someone like him? What could he possibly mean to you?”

  The steely eyes lingered a moment on the streets.

  “As you said, expectation comes with the ring. With Remy, there could never be a ring. Fascination lived.” She blinked slowly. “It still does.”

  You marry whom you are told to marry and you produce an heir.

  The Habsburgs of Vienna wore despair like a crown.

  Time dragged as the wheels slid and bumped through slush on the streets. The cityscape was changing from monumental to residential, with rows of fine white houses and wide boulevards reminiscent of Pall Mall. Ivy wondered if they were heading back to Franz’s city palais when finally the carriage pulled up in front of a large home with many doors and even more windows, all drawn and dark.

  “The Vetsera mansion,” said Valerie after a moment. “The house will be empty. It is a good time. Helene is not in Vienna. She would have been removed from the city along with her other children and most of their personal staff.”

  Through the carriage window, they stared at the building, its wrought-iron fence and skeletal cherry trees, bare branches covered in icicles. There were no lights from inside and Ivy swallowed, remembering once again the night at Easterton Frederick Crumb’s. She prayed there would be no singing lockets, no ghostly frost nor shooting. Most of all, no shooting. Death, she was beginning to realize, was a very persistent suitor.

  Valerie stepped from the carriage and Ivy fell in like a hound at the heels of a hunter as they pushed through the gate and up to the front door. The Archduchess rapped the knocker once, twice and drew herself to stand tall and regal. Ivy watched how easily she slipped into the role, how easily the mantle fell across her shoulders. She was every bit a monarch as her mother, thought Ivy. And just as deadly.

  There was no answer, no movement from within the house, and swiftly, the Archduchess slipped a set of pins from her hair. Ivy watched with wide eyes as Valerie bent to the lock. Aristocrats, she thought. Crackerjacks and screwsmen, the lot of ‘em.

  Together, they slipped into the empty house, a crime witnessed only by the sleepy, hide-and-seek gaze of the moon.

  ***

  The HMAS Royal Carolina rolled like thunder over the Hofburg, her fleet covering all points to protect her flanks. She was a grand airship with a canvas of black and gold, scalloped brass fins and copper rudders, rings of aluminium and girders of polished steel. Beneath it, the cabin was as ornate as a royal frigate, her hull painted a gleaming white with alternating ebony and gold fittings. The bowsprit was a woman of solid gold and on her stern, silver mer-people frolicked in ivory waves.

  She was flying the colours of the House Saxe-Cobourg and Gotha.

  “Prepare for docking,” called a tinny voice through the pipe and the airship shuddered as cables were dropped.

  Inside the saloon, Albert Edward Prince of Wales lifted the scotch to his mustachioed lips and stared out the window at the moon rising over the dome of the Hofburg. He hated the Hofburg. Bloody labyrinth, all rococo and red. He hated the Habsburgs too, the lot of ‘em. Pompous Franz Joseph, sylphlike Sisi, spooky Sophie and terrifying Gisela. Hated the Germans too, if he was honest. Wilhelm was a boor, as undeserving of a kingdom as a pauper or scullery maid. Bonaparte and the Frenchies were sworn enemies but marginally more tolerable than the entire eastern block. The Russians were another story, and another allegiance, entirely.

  The only Habsburg he’d even remotely fancied w
as Rudolf and dashitall if the bugger hadn’t just shot his damned head off with a pistol.

  A shudder as docking ports were engaged and he reached into his waistcoat pocket, held the locket up to the moonlight.

  “Do you do anything?” he asked her. “Anything at all? If I was to believe Bookie or Jackie or any of the Clubbers, you’ve a regular host of angels inside but dashitall if you don’t do a bloody tip for me.”

  The locket gleamed innocently.

  “Well, don’t tell ‘em that I had you nicked,” he said. “Or there’ll be hell t’pay! And I’m not giving you to Willie, that’s damned straight! All he wants is another British trophy and wouldn’t you be just the trinket? We may just start a war over you yet! Ah hah! Ah hah!”

  As he guffawed at his own joke, he slipped the locket back into his pocket and prepared to descend the gangplank for the symposium at the Grand, the funeral and then the meeting of the French Anarchist Summit. He never thought of it as destiny. Just another carefully-scripted step in an illustrious career of carefully-scripted steps, all over the globe, all over the map. Step, step, step. Such was the life of a monarch-in-waiting.

  Impossible to believe that something like an innocuous little locket could ever orchestrate such steps.

  Chapter 18

  Of Romeo and Juliet, a Holy Roman Bible and Stories Steeped in Blood

  With all the automatons in the city of Vienna, Ivy was shocked at the lack of them in such fine, fancy homes. Once again, it proved to be a blessing.

  As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she gazed over the grand foyer of the Vetsera mansion. With wallpaper and lace, portraits and potted palms, and a winding staircase that led to the bedroom suites the next floor up, the house had a distinctly bourgeois décor. New money, Ivy reckoned, trying to make its mark in an old city. It did fit, however, with the concept of a bold young girl stealing the heart of a disillusioned prince.

  The house was dark and quiet as the women moved up the stairs. There was a corridor with many doors and without hesitation, Valerie entered the very first one. Ivy followed and the Archduchess closed the door, turning the key in the lock behind her.

  “The room of Mary Vetsera,” she said, not bothering to whisper.

  “Have you been here before?”

  “Never.”

  “Then how do you know this is the one?”

  “Austrian protocol,” she said. “Youngest to oldest to the parents down the hall. Mary was the youngest.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Stability, Strength, Holiness, Order. Welcome to Vienna.”

  And she reached up for the gaslamp, twisted the brass screw but there was no customary hiss or catch.

  “The gas has been turned off,” she growled. “I expected this.”

  And she slipped a hand to her thigh, pulled a device that Ivy recognized immediately.

  “A pocket torch,” she said. “Do all Swans carry them?”

  “Only the clever ones.”

  Beams of light swept across the room and Ivy spied her third desk of the night.

  She crossed the floor towards it, relieved to see matches and a candle on a brass stand. She lit it and immediately the room was bathed in warm light.

  “Oh my,” she said and her heart sank inside her chest.

  It was the room of a young girl, no more than a child. Rose-painted walls, large iron bed with pink coverlet. A locket on a wardrobe, ribbons on a mirror, dried flowers in the large window. Dolls propped against pillows, their eyes empty and black.

  And just like the room of the Crown Prince, it was sad.

  “I’m surprised Taaffe hasn’t had it cleaned out,” said Valerie. “He will have her erased from public record as well. He is already censoring the papers and the broadsheets.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Seventeen perhaps.”

  “Seventeen,” said Ivy. “And already seducing a prince.”

  “As I said, welcome to Vienna.”

  Ivy gazed around, taking it all in and wondering where to start.

  “Sebastien said she was stealing the locket, but why? For whom? This place is a palace. Certainly they couldn’t have had a lack of money.”

  “You know nothing of the ways of the second society.”

  “Second society?”

  “Bourgeois, Neu Monde. New money.” The Archduchess began moving around the room slowly, methodically, the beam from her pocket torch flashing from bed to wardrobe to the embroidery on the walls. “First society is that of well-born, aristocratic families. Long histories, noble ties, well-established at court. Those in the Second Society live their lives trying to become First.”

  “And how would they do that?”

  “The Gilded way.” Valerie turned back, arched a brow. “By marrying into it.”

  Ivy grinned.

  “It was impossible of course, for Mary to marry Rudolf. We are Catholics. The pope would never permit a divorce and my father would never allow it. She knew this.”

  “You can know something,” said Ivy. “And still not know something. The heart is always at war with the head.”

  “The head should win.” Valerie snorted. “She wanted his money.”

  “You don’t think she loved him?”

  “Mary Vetsera loved Mary Vetsera. No one else.”

  “And Rudolf?”

  The Archduchess returned to the desk, slid open a narrow drawer.

  “I think my brother loved the idea of her. He was trapped in a Habsburg marriage, remember? Stifled by my father and the Gilded court. He loved her freedom, her frivolity. She was wicked and young and daring and free and she was his last, best attempt at independence.”

  “So,” said Ivy. “No Romeo and Juliet, then?”

  “There is no such thing. Love always dies.”

  On the desk, there was a document framed in gold. Ivy picked up and held it to the candlelight.

  “Institute for Daughters of the Nobility, Highest Standing. What is this?”

  “A Finishing School for the Second Society, ” said Valerie, reaching instead for a stack of letters.

  “What did they learn?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Habsburgs are born finished.” She flipped them in her hands, studying the addresses, the names. “My cousin Marie… Maureen Allen from America… the Freudenau Racing Club...”

  “Racing?” asked Ivy. “She enjoyed racing?”

  “Her uncles breed race horses. Successfully, I might add. The papers called her the ‘Turf Angel’, for she was always at the tracks. In fact, I believe it was at a racetrack where she met your Crown Prince Edward. Epsom Downs, I believe, in Surrey.”

  Ivy gaped at her.

  “She knew the Prince of Wales?”

  “I said she met him,” she said as she continued to rifle the envelopes. “I did not say she knew him. They did not move in the same circles.”

  Ivy bit her lip. Edward, Prince of Wales, had been a player in the affair of the London Ripper. To have him shew up again, connected to both Rudolf and Mary, was suspicious. She remembered the intelligence in his eyes, the subtle threat of his hand over hers in the eight-wheeled steamcar. She still had his cane at Lasingstoke.

  She looked back at the desk. There was a wooden letterbox near the candle and she took it in her hands. It was heavy but locked with a tiny latch and gear set. She held it up to Valerie.

  The Archduchess snorted. “You learn nothing in your English schools.”

  “Reading, Writing and ‘Rithmetic. For lock-smithery, you must go to Oxford.”

  Valerie took the letterbox and placed it back on the desk, slipping the pins from her coif. Ivy watched as she worked her picks, cursed the fact that she had not mastered the art. Sebastien had promised to teach her but she’d put it off in favour of shooting.

  Her heart tightened in her chest at the thought of him. She missed him. Desperately.

  Three twists and a press. The lock clicked, the gear whirred and slowly, the wooden lid began to rise.<
br />
  Inside were letters, some in envelopes, others tied with ribbons, but the one thing Ivy noticed above all else was the fact that without exception, each one bore the imprint of a Swan stamped in black wax.

  ***

  Christien’s eyes were growing heavy, due in part to the Austrian red on top of the Austrian white. He was sure it had to be morning but through the window, the sky was still black as pitch. He glanced over at Sebastien, unmoving on the bed, lost to the effects of the laudanum. He wondered if his brother dreamed and if so, of what? The dead or the living? Of the two, he didn’t know which was more frightening.

  The Bible lay open on the table. It was a strange book, all poetry and prophecy, promises and blood. Adam and Eve, Abraham, Isaac and Moses. Cain and Abel, brothers with different sacrifices, set against each other from the beginning of time. Before he’d gotten fully into the wine, he’d reached a peculiar chapter called Ezekiel. There had been a very odd part with a valley of bones that had miraculously come to life. It had reminded him of Sebastien and the skeletons of Melk and he couldn’t shake the sight of them from his mind. It was something he had never expected, could not explain using any vein of scientific or rational thought. But then again, he was a de Lacey. ‘Rational’ was not in the family vocabulary.

  He sighed, feeling the melancholy begin to weigh on him once again. He raised his clockwork hand and with only a fleeting thought, the dagger sprang up instead of a finger. The edge of the blade was fascinating, beautiful and clean and gleaming in the gaslight. He wondered if he should indeed kill himself, as he had contemplated that night after the debacle in the Hofburg. There would be nothing to return to in England. Rupert was moving on with Mary Jane, a shrewd and beautiful woman who had promised she’d be his forever. Even an East End whore had found a better prospect than Christien de Lacey.

  His brother moaned and Christien turned his eyes toward the bed. Perhaps he should do the world a favour and kill Bastien before he turned the blade upon himself. He wondered how to do it, if he would sever the carotid artery or slide the shiv into his heart. The shiv, most certainly. It would minimize the cleanup afterward. Franz would have enough on his plate with providing harbour for two ‘French Anarchists’, without the bother of so many bloody sheets.