Clockwork Blue (The Lumière Chronicles)

by Gloria Harchar

  Clockwork Blue

  By Gloria Harchar

  Book 1

  The Lumière Chronicles

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2012 by Gloria Harchar

  http://gloriaharchar.com

  © Cover by Audrey Harchar

  http://moonmythos.deviantart.com

  © London Illustration| depositphotos.com

  Kindle Edition License Notes

  All Rights Reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This eBook is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidences are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only, and may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  To my mother, Wilda June Adams, who always supported my writing.

  To my husband who is my stalwart, my inspiration.

  To my daughter, Audrey, and her keen eye for detail.

  To Caron Smith who laughed at the pixies, cried at the big black moment, and who encouraged me every step of the way.

  Prelude

  "Callers, your mission is to make the Black Falcon fall in love with the tomboy of Nottingham."

  Allegro Soprano's wings drooped as he gaped at Maestro. Nobody knew where Maestro had come from, or how old he was—but his name was mentioned several times in the histories. And he seemed to always visit when bad times lie ahead.

  Maestro sat on the dais made of golden pink clouds, seemingly immune to Allegro's reaction to his announcement. That Maestro would allot him to such an assignment cut him to the bone. Allegro lowered his head and stared at his feet as he tried to wrap his mind around this new calling. England lay far below, appearing as fragile as a lady's stocking.

  Allegro didn't believe in romantic love. So how could he convince a human to fall in love, to allow those feelings to influence the rest of her life? He glanced at the other pixie Maestro had summoned, wondering how Glissando had taken the news.

  Glissando stood to the side of the cloud-studded room, flipping through the pages of a book on the origin of pixies. His green, kinky-spiked hair glistened in the morning light, the sharp gleam at odds with the misty wall of clouds behind him. Allegro wasn't well acquainted with the agent, but rumor had it Glissando lived up to his note-sliding name in that he slithered between sides, whatever benefited him. Why Maestro would trust a pixie suspected of being a double agent was a puzzle to Allegro, unless it was because the love mission wasn't important.

  "I know what you are thinking." Maestro ran a hand down the lapel of his waistcoat, straightening a wrinkle Allegro didn't see. "That you and Glissando are the last pixies I should approach on this matter. But you are wrong. Both of you are the perfect agents to see this mission through." He paused. "Unless you want to quit now, without even trying?" Maestro curved his lips into a smile of challenge.

  A dozen questions popped forward in Allegro's head. He latched on to a concern less personal, less painful. "Why meddle in the love lives of two humans when Great Britain is on the brink of another war? Shouldn't I be on a mission to keep another altercation from occurring?" He purposely left out Glissando. "France and Britain's Treaty of Amiens isn't going to last, which is a pity. The people celebrated with great fanfare. Dublin even named a street after the treaty. All for nothing."

  "True. Napoleon keeps changing the terms of the treaty."

  "Not to mention that the Mrasek have him in their pocket," Glissando piped in, startling Allegro.

  The Mrasek. At the name, Allegro shuddered. They were misled humans who followed Lord Sethos, the lord of the Underworld. Although Sethos and his hoard of evildoers had been trapped in their Underworld home, there was always danger he and his comrades would escape, which was the Mrasek's goal. Dissention among countries produced the dark magic Sethos needed to break out. Thus, the Mrasek whispered discontent and malice in others' ears to whip up war. Glissando continued to thumb through the book. "What is your source? Just last week I heard Napoleon beheaded his secretary of state, who was a Wrockle.

  "I have my ways of being in the know."

  Allegro drew his brows down. Glissando had been missing the past week. In fact, Maestro had searched for the slippery pixie. Allegro wouldn't be surprised if the Mrasek had Glissando in their pocket, too.

  "And Glissando is right," Maestro concurred. "The Mrasek now have the French in their stronghold, and there is nothing we can do. The wheels are already in motion. War is inevitable. And Allegro."

  "Yes, Maestro?"

  "Although you think this mission is miniscule, it's anything but. This union has to do with Britain's success in winning, and how the country will overcome the aftermath of war. Everything hinges on the Clockwork Blue."

  Maestro referred to the name of a particular shade of blue recently developed in England. Not only could Allegro see how two people felt for each other had anything to do with England's national well-being, but to say that a dye was just as important? "How can dye and love—things that are so trivial—have an effect on something so huge?"

  Maestro gave Allegro a mysterious smile. "Perhaps you will have your answers when the mission is over."

  Allegro threw up his hands, irritated over the whole assignment. Why not send him on a task where he could use his skill at reconciling rulers at loggerhead with each other? "How are we supposed to start this mission? Where do we begin?"

  "I'll tell you." Glissando gazed at him with an intent expression, the book cupped in his palm and dangling at his side.

  Maestro rose from his fluffy, royal-looking chair. "My cue to leave the pair of you to your planning." He took a step toward the Jetstream, then paused. "Oh, and Allegro."

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Always remember, if you succeed in this assignment, you just might get elected to be Mayor of Overture."

  Overture. Mayor. How did Maestro know he yearned to be in a position to lead the people of his beloved hometown? Maestro spread his brilliant wings and jumped off the dais, black coattails flapping as he flew away, riding on a wind current. With a sigh of resignation, he turned to his partner. "All right, tell me what you know."

  Glissando reached up to shelve the book away in the special cloud-enhanced bookcase, taking his time. "The girl is the crux of the whole mission."

  "And why is that?"

  "She is a Diderot."

  "Of course." Allegro remembered from his study of the histories that the Diderots had been the pixies' friends for generations. The union started when one of the Diderots from Medieval times married a Woodland Elf. The Elves were obliterated by evil shapeshifters from Northern England, which was when the pixies united with the Diderots. But if he remembered right, that connection was beginning to diminish.

  "Her father's mother was the most recent descendant who had the aura of a Diderot. The grandmother married a Moore, which makes the girl's father a Moore, thus the girl a Moore. What a shame Western culture drops female surnames." Glissando rubbed a finger along the cloud bank, gathering bits of sparkling pixie dust. "She has a knack for producing dyes of unusual shades. However, this particular Diderot has a peculiar trait."

  "Go on."

  Glissando rolled the dust between his fingers, generating even more dust, making a good-sized pebble. Then he looked up. "The girl shows abilities only the ancient Woodland Elves had."

 
"What do you mean?"

  "As you hopefully remember from the ancient studies, the Woodland Elves were experts in nurturing nature to make all vegetation flourish. They were close to the One who created all life. There is something surreal about the Clockwork Blue, the dye she concocted. The problem is, she isn't aware of the otherworldly. So she can't control the elements she infuses into the dye. In fact, she eschews her Diderot heritage, which means if the recipe to the Clockwork Blue ever gets into the wrong hands—"

  "We're doomed," Allegro finished. "This mission just gets better and better. And how do you propose we get this girl to listen to us?"

  "With a slight deception and by using her good-heartedness against her."

  Allegro's heart sank to his feet. The mission hadn't even begun and already he dreaded going to work.

  Chapter 1

  After weeks of planning, Malcolm McPherson, Earl of Falconwood, prepared to snare his prey. Nicola Moore and her reckless cousin were on the verge of stepping right into his trap.

  Malcolm pushed aside the accounts he'd been studying, and glanced once more at the invitation he'd received the other day. The foolscap had been perfumed with lavender, but he imagined the acrid scent of a discharged pistol as he wore a uniform dyed in Clockwork Blue.

  He fingered a swatch of fabric, and held the sample up to the late evening sun as it glowed through a window in his study. The cloth had been drenched in deep color, the pigment so rich his breath caught in his chest. A driving desire overwhelmed him. He must own the rights to the shade. Business ruled his craving for the dye, he decided. He wanted to be able to look down the street and see British soldiers wearing the unusual shade—a steel-blue and aquamarine combination—a shade belonging to him. Once he obtained the rights, he would approach the Duke of Clarence and offer to supply the King's army with uniforms dyed in Clockwork Blue.

  Why the yearning to own the dye? He didn't comprehend it, but the Clockwork Blue was his destiny, and anyone attached to it.

  Angry shouts, beeping horns, neighing horses, and the rumble of motorcars floated up from the street below, reminding him briefly of Bombay. The sounds were a caustic welcome to Malcolm after being away for ten years. Not that he'd expected a greeting from anyone in the two weeks since his return to Nottingham.

  What could they be arguing about at this late hour? All shops had closed by now.

  "My lord, are you certain you should go to a commoners' ball?" Gaspar, Malcolm's servant and right-hand man for seven years, eyed the invitation. He shifted nervously, his bulk causing the floor of the second-story office to creak.

  Reluctantly Malcolm laid the fabric on his desk and studied the invitation for Miss Nicola Moore's coming-out ball. "I'm in trade, a faux pas in itself, so what does it matter if I attend?"

  "You don't need the dye. You can make a foothold in the British textile market with your silken threads from India alone. The haute ton is—"

  "Where is this sudden reluctance coming from? You never balked during our private war with the corsairs, or the financial and political ruining of Sheik Abhidhar. Are you having second thoughts about serving me?"

  "No, sir. You know you can't rid yourself of me. God proclaimed you save me from the fires in Diu, and now His orders are to stay with you."

  The number of times Malcolm had heard this statement roughly equaled the pounds of cloth stored on Surrey Docks. "An act of kindness I'll regret for the rest of my days."

  Sounds of the altercation outside grew more heated as the shouting elevated a notch. "Never fear, my lord, I will never leave you. For I will serve you for life." Gaspar bowed so low Malcolm feared the huge man would topple over. "I only warn you to take care you don't use harsh methods in obtaining the dye—methods you will later regret. You are known for your ruthlessness."

  Stillness rose up from his dark side. "And am I known for remorse?"

  "No," Gaspar replied as he folded his hands beneath his robes. "But I know, too, you've never pursued a morally abiding young lady of this sort. You cannot use your normal methods of blackmail and duplicity to force such a maiden to your will."

  Horses whinnied and carriage wheels squeaked in the street below. Curious, Malcolm set aside the invitation along with the square of cotton weave and ventured to the window. A chaotic tangle of town carriages and motorcars had stalled in the street. Drivers beat their fists in the air, crying out retorts to each other. Ladies peeped out of cab windows, some with a monocle, their feathered, gaudy hats bobbing as they looked toward the commotion. Malcolm followed their gazes. A stocky merchant and a young dandy stood toe-to-toe yelling at each other in the middle of the street. The merchant waved a scrap of foolscap in the dandy's face. A girl scrambled out of a carriage. She wore a shiny gold ball gown adorned with forest-green lace. The skirts landed several inches above her ankles to expose deep-purple bloomers. The steam mobile caught his attention. A rusted engine—inside a wheel barrel—puffed between two shafts where horses normally were. The occupant's hair seemed to be coiffed, but several straight locks refused to be tamed. A hat with a conglomeration of blue feathers, netting and … starfish? … cocked to one side of her head. It was then that he recognized the particular shade.

  It was the Clockwork Blue.

  She rounded the cab just as the merchant hauled back a fist to hit the young dandy. Before the merchant could swing, Starfish Girl jumped on the merchant's back and grabbed the brim of his hat, pulling the headgear down over his eyes. The foolscap fluttered to the ground. The fact that a good portion of her bloomers were fully exposed seemed to not to attract undue attention.

  Except for Malcolm's. Unlike that cork-brained merchant, he knew exactly what he would do—and it wouldn't be to stagger blindly down the street with his cap crammed over his eyes.

  Starfish Girl jumped down, causing the beleaguered merchant to fall to his knees. Then she ran, grabbing the young dandy by the arm to make him flee, too. The pair vaulted into the carriage. The homemade, steam-powered carriage bolted down the road, leaving spectators leaning out of their carriages.

  "Who was the hoyden with the manners of a bohemian?" Malcolm asked, although he was certain he knew.

  "That, milord," said Gaspar, who was looking over Malcolm's shoulder and out the window, "is the heiress to the Clockwork Blue."

  A charge of electrons raced down his spine as Malcolm wondered what adventures lie ahead. "The young rake must be her cousin, Ramsey Diderot."

  "Yes, milord."

  Rumor proved correct—the cousin proved to be a hothead. The young rascal was up to his hairline in the stockinger-hosier dispute. Satisfaction spread through him. "Gaspar, have the carriage pulled around."

  "But you won't be fashionably late, sir."

  "Never mind. She might leave again on a wild adventure or get herself thrown out of the ball because of her uninhibited nature. One way or another, if I don't hurry I'll miss her, and all this planning will be for naught."

  "I will attend this commoners' ball with you, sir, for I have a feeling you'll need help. I'll aid the servants in the dining and card rooms."

  "Whatever makes you happy," Malcolm said to Gaspar's retreating back. Briefly, he wondered how anyone considered Gaspar a mere servant. The large man moved with a sense of power carefully contained and exuded a rare inner peace. Curiosity tinged with admiration. In contrast, Malcolm realized his soul was too corrupt to understand the deep serenity Gaspar exuded.

  Tucking the swatch of cloth inside his waistcoat pocket, Malcolm wandered down the steps Gaspar had taken and walked outside. The abandoned parchment lay forgotten in the street. Carefully he retrieved the foolscap and saw it was exactly what he'd predicted—a pamphlet protesting the plight of the stockingers.

  His research had proved fruitful. He'd made sure several of the guests at the ball knew of his new venture, that of a hosier. Talk among the stockingers would consist of the new looms Malcolm had recently purchased, and word of a new target would most assuredly reach Ramsey Diderot, Miss Mo
ore's cousin. The local magistrate suspected young Diderot of vandalizing other hosiers' looms and, after witnessing the young rebel's actions on the street, Malcolm was certain of it. A trap would be waiting. Diderot was easy to predict.

  The rumble of wheels upon cobblestone drew him to the here and now. He admired the shiny chrome and brass on his new steam runabout with the retractable bonnet. After Gaspar drew the vehicle to a halt, he alighted and walked around to the passenger's side, knowing Malcolm preferred to drive.

  As Malcolm shifted into gear, he wondered how long he would have to wait to get Nicola all to himself. She should jump at the chance to wed any aristocrat, but he sensed she wasn't just any female. His musings were inconsequential. Her actions proved how close she was to her cousin. A little blackmail was all it would take. He would merely have to wait. And if anything, he was a patient man.