Clockwork Blue (The Lumière Chronicles)

by Gloria Harchar

  "You wouldn't be my hero. You are more of a villain."

  "Perhaps you can reform me."

  "I have never trained a falcon to the hand." And she was discovering she didn't even want to try.

  He leaned close. "There is always the first time." His warm breath tickled her hairline. "Miss Moore, you are not going to convince your father that the Black Falcon is actually a shimmering white dove in disguise."

  For a moment, she thought she felt his lips against her temple. She leaned back to avoid the contact. "Then you are telling me you did cheat Thomas Hill?"

  "I'm telling you that we are now officially courting."

  Someone snickered. Nicola craned her neck to see the little boys scamper toward a copse of trees.

  They had been caught in the intimacy, and she knew the lads would be running straight to their mamas to tell what they saw—the tomboy sitting in the park next to the Falcon, allowing him to kiss her.

  The comers of his mouth turned up in a smug smile. She stared at him, realization hitting her like a spray of winter sleet. "You planned this whole situation."

  He shrugged.

  "Have you no decency? Is every action you make fraught with ulterior motives?" Her heart still raced. Her shortness of breath merely reminded her of her foolhardiness to allow him to fondle her hair, kiss her temple. She ground her teeth and then snatched up her hat. "I will not allow you to force me into matrimony."

  "You do not have much choice."

  She crammed the black bowler on her head, not caring what the thing looked like. "You are sly, but I'll survive any silly gossip you might try to stir." And she would. Already she began concocting reasons for their meeting. Perhaps she could say the wind had blown a tuft of dandelion in his eye. But she would deny any secret courtship.

  "And your father? Will he survive the gossip?" The Earl uncoiled to his full height and walked toward her barrelabout.

  As she followed, her stomach roiled. "Be patient, my lord. That supper invitation will occur within the next two days." She prevaricated, praying the event would never come to pass. Then she frowned. "But you never answered my question about Thomas Hill."

  "From what you've discovered about me, what do you think?" he asked as he lifted his hand to assist her inside her steamcar.

  She pushed her way past him, ignoring his offer, and clamored up to the driver's seat, knocking her knee against the control panel in her haste. Biting back a yelp, she said, "I know you're capable of blackmail and, by your familiarity with my person, you forced me into having to tell people we are courting. Actions you wouldn't partake in if you were honorable."

  "Miss Moore, surely you know by now that I'm not honorable, which should address any doubts you might have." He tipped his hat. "Until tomorrow."

  She didn't wait to see him walk to his horse, but instead primed the engine and pumped the gas before switching the location of her foot to push on the starter. The barrelabout choked to life with a cough of steam.

  As she drove toward home, she despaired. Because Falcon's grasp tightened on her neck as tight as a noose. And, no matter what she did, she feared she was as stuck as a treed fox.

  High, staccato notes pealed from Nicola's chamber. She'd stopped in the meadow to search for the elusive deep orange flower she'd seen a few days ago, but had been as unsuccessful as her meeting with Falcon. As she stepped inside, she saw the pixies dart above her bed in a show of fireworks.

  "Stealing... mouth of a babe!" Allegro cried. "A... saw you and... get us kicked...!" She stepped inside, wondering what the pesky Callers were doing. They had disappeared during her fiasco in the square. She stopped short when she caught sight of a toy replica of the hot-air balloon sitting in the middle of her bed, and green and gold lights flitting above. Indignation swept through her. "What have you done?"

  The green light around Glissando dimmed, allowing his more humanlike form to appear. He gave her a sheepish look and landed on the bed near the balloon. "It's just a loan. I'm going to give it back to the laddie."

  "I told you, Glissando and Allegro, leave me be! Get out of my life!"

  In an uncharacteristic gesture, Glissando fell to his knees on the bed and held up his hands in supplication. "But I want to make it up to you. I know I was wrong to pair up your grandmother and if I could wind the hands back on time, I would. Please just let me prove myself."

  Allegro took the same posture as Glissando. He lifted his face to her, his expression … sweet. Sincere. "And I want you to have faith in the Callers again. Even if I fail in this mission, I will consider the assignment to be a success if only you regain your faith and belief in us. In Maestro."

  A lump formed in her throat as she listened to Allegro. Glissando—she could take him or leave him. But Allegro seemed to be speaking from the heart. "All right, I will give you a chance. And Glissando, too, although I confess I have reservations."

  "Thank you, Miss Did—Miss Moore. You won't regret it."

  Already she was. But she held her tongue.

  "Now, back to you, Glissando," Allegro said, his wings and body once more a whirl of color.

  Glissando had flown to the balloon to run an admiring hand down the basket.

  "You allowed the human without a bond to see you!" Allegro's twirling slowed to where Nicola could see him standing with hands on hips.

  Glissando glanced up from his inspection and shook his head. "Now, now. I didn't let him actually see me."

  Allegro huffed, his face a reddish hue. "But he saw the balloon, an inanimate object, do the impossible and fly away. That's against our laws!"

  Glissando hopped inside the basket and bent down to look at the burner. "I keep telling you, Allegro. Everything is too black and white for you."

  Impatient with the bizarre argument and more intent on the contraband on her bed, Nicola cleared her throat. "Excuse me for interrupting, but I'm returning this toy to its owner."

  Glissando quit eyeing the burner and jumped out of the basket. He spread his arms out as if to protect the small replica. "Don't do that, lass! I need it for the errand you are about to send me on."

  Crossing her arms, Nicola frowned. "What errand?"

  "I'm going to assist in saving your cousin."

  "Why?" Nicola asked, confused by Glissando's sudden allegiance.

  "Because this is how I'm going to prove myself to you. I will get you out of this mess."

  "But, ah, Miss Did—I mean, Miss Moore, can I make an honest observation?" Various pastel lights emitted frenzied blinking from Allegro.

  "Why do I have the feeling I'm not going to like this?"

  "Because you probably won't. But my conscience won't allow me not to say it. But I saw your reaction to ah, the Earl's affections, and I could sense your attraction, which makes me think you could give him a cha—"

  "No, that is not possible."

  "You don't have to listen to him, lass," Glissando inserted, giving Allegro a frown, "because I happen to disagree. Coercion is no way to win a lass's heart. The Black Falcon needs to slow down, court our Nicola more. Of course that's what you will tell him. In the meantime, I will fly to London in this balloon and deliver your missive so that Ramsey can depart for the Continent."

  "In that?" She arched her brows as she untied and slipped off her bonnet. "I hate to dampen your enthusiasm, Glissando, but a toy won't work like the true hot-air balloon." She set her hat inside the wardrobe then turned to give the pixie a sympathetic smile.

  Glissando stroked the side of the woven gondola. "It will for me. When I touch a toy, it performs in the manner for which it was designed."

  Nicola frowned at the toy. It was a beautiful replica of the real balloon that had been designed for the Prince Regent the year before, but the narrow sticks that held the fragile basket in place looked as if they would snap in a puff of wind.

  Glissando drew in his breath and threw back his shoulders. The motion only emphasized his sagging belly, the bulk of it hanging over the waistband of his breeches.
"I will deliver your missive to Mr. Hamilton," he vowed.

  Nicola opened her mouth to protest.

  Glissando gestured to the balloon. "Behold the flying machine that will someday revolutionize the coach postal service as you know it today. I'll arrive at London in record time."

  She stared at the colorful toy. "I don't know about this, Glissando. Why not use your wings?"

  Allegro snorted. "He's too lazy."

  "And proud of it, too." Glissando smiled, seemingly not at all offended. "It takes a lot of work to be lazy. Besides, there is another benefit to my having stolen the balloon. I guarantee that when the child saw his toy as it sailed off through the trees, he forgot all about the Falcon's fawning over you." A chuckle rolled out of him, the sliding notes filling the room in beautiful harmony. "You should have seen the lad's eyes. They were as big as guineas." He gave her a reassuring pat on the nose. "Don't worry. Those boys won't say a word about that kiss on your temple. Or his fondling of your hair and hand."

  "That's a relief," Nicola said with a sigh. Perhaps the Callers were good for something after all. She must remember to keep up her guard whenever she was around the Falcon and not fall into any more of his traps.

  The air filled with a cacophony of notes, the sounds meshing together in an odd, but lovely melody. She realized the pixies were arguing again.

  "... don't trust... Fix..." She realized if she listened carefully she could pick out some of the words. Then Allegro's golden halo flickered, and disappeared completely, him with it.

  Glissando's green aura dimmed once more, allowing Nicola to see his features more clearly. "Now, lass. Let's begin. I'm at your service."

  Doubt rippled through Nicola. She didn't have much faith in the Caller, but what else could she do? "I've already written a missive to Mr. Hamilton. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to send it with you."

  "Indeed it won't hurt because I'm much faster. In fact, I'll wave to the mail coach as I sail by."

  She found her message, hoping she wasn't making a mistake. Folding the foolscap, she started to hand it to him and realized he was much too small.

  "You will have to fold it several times and place it in the balloon's basket."

  As she did his bidding, she decided she would write another missive just in case Glissando was up to his shenanigans.

  "I'm off." Glissando flapped his wings twice and landed inside with ease. He settled down on the foolscap and then screwed up his face.

  Tension suddenly surrounded her. Glissando's figure frayed around the edges, and then fizzled into vapor. Nicola rubbed her eyes, feeling as if she were living a dream. A billowy emerald miasma surrounded the balloon. It glittered, and then seemed to come to life. She watched in wonder as the sticks holding it upright metamorphosed into tiny ropes. The balloon floated above the basket on its own. The miniature flying machine lifted into the air.

  "Thunderation!" She gazed at the balloon, amazed. Glissando materialized once again, leaning his elbows on the edge of the basket. Her skin prickled with her astonishment. Despite her mistrust, she smiled. "You are truly amazing, Glissando."

  "Thank you." His cheeks glowed at her praise.

  "Good luck."

  "Fare thee well!" He screwed up his brows again and the balloon suddenly sailed across the room and through window as if the glass pane weren't there.

  Racing forward, Nicola ran her hand over the cool, smooth glass through which Glissando had just traversed. It was whole. She threw open the sash and gazed after the contraption. It hovered about a yard away, dipping toward the ground and almost crashing upon a grassy knoll.

  "Thunder and turf," she muttered, realizing it would be a miracle if the Caller made it to the end of her street. Perhaps she should consider other methods of saving her cousin. Smuggling him in a mail coach...

  Glissando and his hot-air balloon abruptly floated back to the window. "Don't worry, lass. I'll return with time to spare."

  "You can read my thoughts?" she asked, aghast.

  "Huh?" He wet his finger and held it up, then nodded at whatever conclusions the test had given him. Belatedly he fluttered his wings and glanced back at Nicola, as if remembering her question. "Oh. Of course I can't read your thoughts. Who do you think I am—God?"

  "Ha!" With sudden distrust, she eyed the pixie who rubbed his chin and avoided her gaze. He had answered too quickly. "Then how did you know what I was thinking?"

  "Hmmm. Westerly winds. What? Oh, you were frowning. But if you decide to smuggle Ramsey out of the country, I'd suggest you be very, very tricky."

  "Why?"

  "The Black Falcon is as treacherous as his name. He is usually three steps ahead of his adversary."

  Nicola gulped at the sudden dryness in her throat.

  A gust of air whipped Glissando's balloon away, in a magical, glittering mist. A rumbling reverberated through Nicola, and she wondered if a storm was brewing, although the sky was clear. Abruptly she realized it was Glissando stirring up the weather. She strained to make out his words. They sent a shiver through her. "Let me just say, if he catches you trying to help Ramsey, I wouldn't want to be in your petticoats!"

  Chapter 7

  "The hat is too tawdry, Miss Moore."

  Impatience bubbled inside Nicola over Lady Kensington's declaration. "But it's all the rage in London, I hear."

  The Baroness turned her head to view the bonnet from a different angle in the reflecting glass. Her lips curved downward as if she'd just tasted a lemon. Nicola glanced around the room crammed with crates setting on and under three tables in the back—crates that were full of fabric, netting, beads, buttons, pearls, and her discoveries from the dump. She wished she had a nicer shop than the back room of the only mercantile in town, designed for storage. Although the two windows lent some cheeriness by letting in the sunshine, the walls were a putrid mustard color, which surely must have an adverse effect on her customers.

  The table next to the doorway was only big enough for five hat stands. The other bonnets she had been forced to store under tables in boxes. Too bad her workroom was also in sight of her display, for she was none too neat. When she was in a creative mood, she tended to leave scraps of fabric, ribbon and wire piled up on the scarred but sturdy desk in the back, out of the way but an eyesore nonetheless.

  If only she could afford to rent the empty shop on Piccadilly Street. The building was slightly rundown, but with a little paint it would be nice and so much more spacious. She knew she could make that place inviting.

  Of course, if she'd been able to claim her dyes as her own, she might have forgone making these tedious hats. But she wanted an identity. She wanted to be appreciated for her creativity. Ignoring the pang near her heart, she concentrated on her customer.

  "I have never seen the style," the Baroness said. "Why, it's positively unbalanced. Whatever possessed you to put those gears together and all cock-eyed on one side like that? And who would want to wear all these flowers with the gears? Your sense of design needs developing, my dear."

  Nicola glanced at the Baroness's bright red bodice and clashing orange skirt and decided the woman didn't know much about designs, herself. "I assure you, pictures I've received from my friend, Mrs. Peabody, who not only travels throughout England but in Europe, too, she says mixing anything with mechanical parts is all the rage."

  The Baroness shook her head, her ringlets bouncing. "Well. It isn't what I'm accustomed to wearing."

  "I understand. However, I cannot help but say the close fit of the hat emphasizes your lovely neck. It makes you appear quite svelte." Pride swept Nicola. Although the Baroness had a double chin, in the hat, she could be considered svelte—if the one doing the considering was Goliath.

  Lady Kensington blinked and stared at her image in the reflecting glass framed with parts from an old cotton mill that had been demolished. "Do you think so? I thought you were going to dye the hat your father's fabulous Clockwork Blue."

  Nicola bit her lip, knowing she shouldn't resent the fact
that everyone thought the Clockwork Blue was her father's creation. But she did. "Father isn't prepared to market any more of the dye quite yet."

  "What? Surely he isn't waiting until you are wed. No offense, my dear, but that could take a while."

  "Oh no," Nicola replied, wishing for the thousandth time that her father hadn't impulsively announced her dowry. "If you wish, I could adorn the hat with some ribbon dyed the Clockwork Blue."

  "Not quite as grand as dying the cloth—"

  "You can wear it to the Garland Ball."