by Tee Morris
“That will do, Miss Eliza.”
She looked up into the gaze of Christopher. Wellington could read in the lad’s face a deep regret and in his eyes a silent plea of forgiveness. “You have been nothing but kind to us. You’ve taken us in. You’ve fed us. You didn’t turn your back on us when the rest out there considered us coopered.” He looked at the other children, all their eyes on Christopher, and then he turned back to Eliza. “Diamond Dottie’s a bludger, to be sure. She and her gang tried a caper on you though. That’s a caper against the lot of us.
“Doesn’t matter the job, Miss Braun. With the Ministry Seven, you have an accord.”
The boy was from the darkest parts of London’s back streets, and here he stood with the other urchins, speaking with their voices, pledging their lives in service to Eliza. Wellington felt the smile on his face widen. She did test his limits and try his patience, but she also inspired all kinds of people.
He looked to Eliza, her own hands up to her mouth, her eyes sparkling brightly. She too was moved by the gesture. After that, anything seemed possible.
Chapter Ten
In Which Agents of Derring-do Dare a Lioness in Her Den, and Wellington Books Is Slightly Distracted by a Jewel of India
“Show me the note again,” Wellington insisted.
He could feel his usual calm wearing completely away. He did not like being dragged out of bed—especially after so much excitement at Eliza’s apartments the previous night, or being pulled awake by a rather grubby street urchin. Wellington made a quiet note to himself to begin work on better locks. The fact that the boy had been able to locate his home, and gain access to it with such ease, was terrifying.
It was not as disturbing, though, as what they were about to do.
The note that had been delivered to Eliza’s apartments earlier that morning, now in Wellington’s possession thanks to one of the Ministry Seven, had been penned by the Protectors’ captain, Charlotte Lawrence. She was requesting an audience.
Perhaps that would have been stunning enough, but that shock paled in comparison to where the meeting was to be, where Wellington found himself. His mind could do nothing but process what he witnessed.
Before Wellington and Eliza were a cluster of women wearing nothing more than a hodgepodge of bloomers, corsets, underthings, and even outfits similar to men’s boxing leotards, as they sparred in a small dojo located above a perfumery in the heart of London. When he and Eliza had stepped into the confines of this threadbare training facility, he’d immediately felt awkward. As their physical activity grew more ferocious, Wellington felt in desperate need of a bath. A very cold one.
“Welly,” his partner cooed, “are you blushing?”
“I could be,” he responded, his voice cracking lightly.
Eliza tilted her head and watched the women for a moment. “I suppose that in a real sense they are sparring in their underwear. Surely that isn’t causing you distress—I mean you must have seen women in the altogether before?”
Now the Archivist could feel his face flush scarlet. How on earth had their conversation drifted this way?
She snapped her fingers. “Of course you have. At the Phoenix Society on First Night.”
He paused, cleared his throat, took in a quick breath and spoke. “My experiences are neither here nor there, Miss Braun, and hardly relevant to present manners from Miss Lawrence’s Protectors.”
“You claim to be open-minded, but when it comes to the matter of the female form you’re quite prudish. Aren’t you?”
“Not prudish,” he protested. “Old-fashioned. While the Protectors’ present dress and demeanour I find—” He watched as one woman gave a sharp cry, picked up her opponent, and dropped her to the ground. Both ladies’ corsets were performing well beyond any expectations. “—rather immodest, the training is necessary. But even this much immodesty is a bit much for a gentlemen to take.”
“The Sultan didn’t complain,” she muttered under her breath, though which escapade she was referring to had to remain a mystery, because just then they were interrupted.
“Mr. Books? Miss Braun?” came a smooth voice beside them.
They both turned to see the striking Chandi Culpepper. Wellington felt his breath catch in his chest as her dark gaze jumped between them both. He hoped his appreciation for the beauty she engendered did not show outwardly. He swallowed, trying not to flinch at the dryness in his throat, and cast a glance back at the women practicing Bartitsu.
The lady, or a small den of tigers. Wonderful.
“Miss Culpepper.” Eliza, thankfully, oblivious to his awkward admiration, accepted the suffragist’s hand and shook it. “A surprise to find you here.”
Miss Culpepper motioned to where Lady Francis Pethick stood with another pair of young ladies intently watching the Protectors’ training session. “I am merely taking care of our president—it’s part of my duties.”
“Indeed,” Wellington said.
“And you? What brings you to our training session?”
“Not really sure, if you must know.” Eliza’s mouth tightened for a moment. “Chaz called us here.”
“Really?” Chandi nodded as she turned back to the women training in the studio. “With no offence intended, I’m a bit surprised that Charlotte would reach out to you.”
“None taken, Miss Culpepper,” Wellington said, his mouth twisting into a wry grin. “I think we are just as flummoxed.”
The Protectors all let out a collective yell that caused the Archivist to jump. Just as quickly a silence fell over them. Their instructor, the formidable Miss Lawrence, inspected their ranks like a military leader reviewing the troops before a push. It was an intensity Wellington was familiar with, but he’d never seen it coming from a lady.
Chandi gently placed a hand on Wellington’s shoulder and said to them both, “Good luck on this unexpected collaboration.” Then she joined Lady Pethick and her seconds, reviewing their notes.
Charlotte Lawrence turned about and caught sight of Eliza and Wellington. Her expression hardened as she strode over to them.
“Come for a rematch, have you?” she asked, looking down at the diminutive Eliza.
“Is that what your invitation to us was? A reason to get me back on your mats?” She glared back. “If you feel the need to be reminded of it, no need to stand on ceremony with me.”
“I crave a pardon,” Wellington interjected, making both their heads snap in his direction, “but the lingering feud between you ladies can wait. I will assume the invitation was more concerned on the present: protecting the suffrage movement?”
Charlotte and Eliza stared at him for a moment, before taking a step back.
“I did send that invitation, didn’t I?” Miss Lawrence asked aloud, considering them both. “Mr. Books, would you care to know more of the Protectors’ initiatives concerning these disappearances?”
“Rather,” he replied emphatically. “I believe if we can assist one another, maybe combine resources—”
Charlotte threw a towel over her shoulder, and motioned for Wellington to follow as she walked to an isolated corner of the studio. Water ran from the corners of her mouth as she gulped from a tankard, her quenching ending with a long, deep sigh. She turned back to the two agents, using the towel as a napkin as she said, “Sorry, but I tend to get a bit thirsty after working up a sweat.”
“No bother, Miss Lawrence,” Wellington said, attempting to loosen his collar. “We are at your disposal at present.”
“Excellent.” She bent down to where she had picked up her tankard, and handed him a narrow, round tin. “There you are. The abduction of Hester Langston.”
Eliza looked at the tin, then back to Charlotte. “You recorded the abduction on film?”
“Yes,” she hissed, her eyes warning Eliza. Wellington followed Charlotte’s nervous glances over to Chandi and her fellow officers present. “The disappearance of committee members is not new to us, as you can well imagine. The Protectors began filmi
ng meetings, both public and private committee-only ones. We’ve been doing so for some time now.”
“How bloody long have you daft bints been sitting on these rather crucial pieces of evidence?” Eliza still managed to snap at Charlotte, even though her volume was barely above a whisper. “It would have been ducky if you had shared this little detail with us earlier.”
Wellington sighed as he considered the tin in his hands. “Rare as it may be, I agree with my partner here.”
Charlotte folded her arms. “We couldn’t.”
“Why ever not?” he asked.
The Protector’s head tipped down, as a deep shade of scarlet appeared on her cheeks.
A slow, lingering dawn of understanding crept across Eliza’s face. “You didn’t tell anyone they were being filmed.” Both Charlotte and Wellington turned to her. She merely shook her head. “Isn’t that some cheek?”
Charlotte pinched the bridge of her nose and rubbed her eyes for a moment. Finally, she looked to Eliza. “Miss Braun, my charge is to protect the committee and their guests, guests like your countrywoman, Kate Sheppard. And my orders are most clear: by any and all means.” Eliza’s snort made the imposing woman flinch, but she continued. “It is not as if we recorded anything that was said. Merely . . .”
“Merely meetings of the highest in power of the suffrage movement, and the other women supporting them.” Eliza’s lips pursed tightly together as she closed the distance between them. “You didn’t have a care for any of those women who may have wished to remain anonymous, who would—and still could—pull their support from the movement knowing that you have preserved their involvement with us.”
Charlotte peered down the length of her nose at the colonial. “I did what I felt was necessary for the good of the cause.”
“Is that what you’re calling placing people in harm’s way these days?” Eliza bit.
“I believe the ethics of what Miss Lawrence has done is of little consequence, Miss Braun,” Wellington chimed in.
Charlotte pushed the last of her sweaty hair out of her eyes. “As long as this investigation is all you use the reels for, and your eyes are the only ones who see them. Braun does have a point—there are influential people at our meetings.”
“I assure you,” Wellington gave her what he hoped was a trustworthy smile, “we will be most discreet.”
With a slight nod, Charlotte turned away and disappeared with Chandi and the executive assistants behind a door labeled CHANGING ROOM. What they would be doing once there was something Wellington could not linger on. It was the subject of far too many scandalous kinetoscopes.
Instead he looked down at the canister in his grasp. The most powerful women of Old Blighty’s suffrage movement had no idea they were being filmed. He turned that over and over in his head for a moment. He held in his hands something the authorities would love to have in their possession.
“Charming bitch, isn’t she?”
With a start Wellington turned to Eliza. “I beg your pardon?”
“We’ve been running like chickens with our heads lopped off,” Eliza said, pointing at the door, “and Lady Pethick’s lead watchdog here enjoys the show until one of the brass boaters suddenly disappears.”
Close on her heels, Wellington regarded the tin. “Can’t we just be grateful that we have what could be the key to this mystery?”
“And ignore that fact?” Eliza asked, turning to face him. “The reality that she is doing it to make up for failing to protect Hester and the rest?”
He tilted his head. “Does it really matter why she is doing it?”
She glared at him for a moment, and then down at her shoes. “Perhaps not.”
Her admission would have been impressive, perhaps monumental in their personal history together, but something else had caught Wellington’s attention at that very moment. Was it happenstance that a delicate lace curtain draped in the window across the street suddenly fluttered, catching his eye? In that instance, he could make out suggestions of movement. Then a glimpse of sunlight struck the glass curve of a telescopic device of some kind, and Wellington could make out a pale hand working the lens into focus.
The window he stared at was in line of sight of the studio’s other window, to his left. Whoever was over there was not interested in them, but rather in someone else in the dojo.
“Welly?”
Wellington blinked and looked at Eliza, surprised that she was standing so close to him.
“Did you—” Wellington glanced at the window, to Eliza, and then back across the street. “No, I suppose you didn’t. You weren’t facing the right way.”
She frowned. “Everything shipshape?”
Wellington tapped on the pane of glass as he stared at the lace curtain now drawn completely. Someone was definitely moving behind it though. He was certain of that. “We are being watched.”
“Oh?” Eliza asked, “You mean the telescope across the street?”
“You saw it?” He exclaimed, somewhat disappointed he’d not caught her off guard.
She was fighting the urge to smile. “While you were enjoying the Protectors, I was taking stock of our neighbours across the street. Third floor, two windows from the right?”
“Yes, but—” Wellington looked out again.
Eliza’s fingertips gently took hold of the Archivist’s chin and turned him back to her glacier-blue gaze. “A bit of training you didn’t receive being in the Archives.”
Wellington nodded slowly. “We’re not the ones being watched?”
“No, but we should not act hastily.”
“Did you catch a glimpse of anyone behind the telescope?”
“Afraid not. Not quite close enough.” Eliza pressed her lips together. “That lace curtain must have been a reaction to you at the window.” Her eyes narrowed as she considered Wellington. “Did you see anything?”
“I thought I saw—” Wellington swore inwardly. He wasn’t really certain enough to share with Eliza. “It was only a glimpse.”
“Welly, anything you see, even fleeting, could be useful—if not now, then later.” She stepped closer to him. “What did you see?”
How he hated when Eliza did this. When she kept her distance from him, it was far easier to remain focused on the facts, the investigation, and the puzzle itself. At present, all he could see was how very blue her eyes were. He could now enjoy the curve of her mouth as well as the curve of her figure. And filling his nostrils was her scent, a lovely medley of tea, rosewater, and copper.
“Copper?” he whispered.
Eliza’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“Do you—” but the question stopped abruptly as they both felt it crawl across their skin. Simultaneously.
Above their heads, a soft crackle echoed in their ears.
“Chandi!” Both agents raced for the door.
Over their footfalls, pops and cracks of electricity could be heard coming from behind it, along with the cries and shrieks of remaining Protectors. Wellington’s hand had just touched the doorknob when the final flash blew the hatch outwards. The wood pushed Wellington and Eliza back with a great force that left them gasping. They gathered themselves up and stood stock-still as the door now swung back and forth idly—beckoning them both to enter. At their own risk.
Wellington and Eliza decided the risk was worth taking.
Stepping into the small public bath, they both expected the smell of perspiration rather than perfume as this was a changing room for athletic women. What assailed them instead was the scent of warm copper, blood, and charred flesh. The moans of those still alive were soft, but their volume did not necessarily reflect the amount of agony they were experiencing. Wellington’s stomach roiled at the carnage. Even the ones who had been shielded by other sisters were trapped under blackened and blistered corpses.
Both he and Eliza searched for the suffragists’ sergeant at arms. He felt his hope slip, until a repeating whimper of “They took her,” made them both turn.
Eliza knelt by the fallen Protector and felt her forehead.
“They took her,” she sobbed again.
Eliza shook her head.
“She means Charlotte,” Chandi Culpepper murmured, her own voice quivering lightly as she pulled herself back to her feet. “Charlotte Lawrence is gone.”
Chapter Eleven
In Which Mr. Douglas Sheppard Springs a Surprise
After the shock of Chaz’s disappearance, a spot of tea was definitely called for, as well as a marshalling of the troops. Wellington suggested they regroup at Eliza’s apartments—since they were close.
“But how will we get word to the Ministry Seven?” asked Wellington.
Eliza pulled out from her breast pocket what looked like a modest compact, but his eyes went wide when she flipped it open.
“Isn’t that—”
“Yes, it is,” Eliza said, pressing a large red button within the small interface where makeup would normally be found. A small red light blinked rapidly. “I had Axelrod make me one on a private frequency. Originally it was for Harry. Now it’s for the Ministry Seven.”
“They are creatures of the back alleys and the streets, Eliza,” Wellington said assuringly. “I’m sure they will be perfectly fine.”
“I just need to know where they are,” she murmured.
Wellington chose not to chastise Miss Braun for her unauthorised use of the Ministry’s wireless ETS. The concern in her voice was authorisation enough. It was a maternal instinct that he rarely saw and, he hoped, was not wasted on street urchins. For reason that eluded him presently, this compassion touched something deep in him.
