by Tee Morris
“Armed men?”
“No.” She smirked a little. Even this son of a leading suffragist leapt to the default position—when he had so much experience of how things could be. “Think more of the movement’s own protection.”
“Ah.” He was perhaps imagining the sticks, the yelling, and the rather fearsome results those ladies were known for. “I can see that might be a problem for you. Does that mean you’ll need to call in people from the Ministry to assist?”
Eliza raised her finger. “I still have some mysteries, Douglas, and though you may know a tiny bit about my employer, I think it best I not share all of its secrets. They tend to frown on that sort of thing.” She thanked the waiter for the topping off her wine and smiled at Douglas, taking the glass up. “Let’s say that I have a plan or two that should do the trick. I imagine within the week we will have an answer as to what has happened to the women.”
Douglas smiled. “You always were so very sure of yourself, Eliza.”
As the sip of wine settled in her stomach, she began to wonder about how true that was. “Not all the time . . . not when it came to you.”
Once the waiter had done his work and retreated to the sideboard to stack the dishes, Douglas leaned forward in his chair and held out his hand to her. “We all have regrets in life, Eliza. What is important is that we don’t look back, but keep moving forward.”
Moving forward. A quaint notion, Eliza thought, taking his hand, but I want so very much to go back.
This time, they both turned their attention to the grand window, and she felt his hand tighten over hers. She cleared her throat, staring out at the lights, but not really seeing them. Her heartbeat was erratic, her thoughts in chaos.
She shot a glance over her shoulder and observed Brandon promenading with Ihita on the other side of the deck. What had meant to be a jolly dinner party had somehow turned into an intimate evening for two couples. Her best attempts to scupper Douglas’ plans had certainly not worked out. This would not do at all.
“In order to move forward I must solve this case, and I must make arrangements between myself and Miss Bassnight. Can we land please?” She knew she was snapping and really didn’t care.
A dark look washed over Douglas’ handsome features but he nodded. It was a simple enough thing to do; one quick conversation with the pilot through the brass mouthpiece attached to an articulated hose, and the Bird’s Eye View tipped her nose down.
“All good things must end,” Eliza spoke as brightly as she could while walking towards her fellow agents. “Perhaps for the better. Some urgent Ministry business . . .”
A slight frown crossed Brandon’s face—surely he was wondering what sort of “urgent business” could originate from the Archives—but he did not comment.
“I should be going too,” Ihita broke in, her face slightly flushed. “My landlady is quite the dragon about me arriving in late.”
The four of them watched in an awkward silence as the airship began its circling descent.
“Can I see you again, Eliza?” Douglas finally whispered into her ear, and by his tone she could tell he was feeling the same stream of odd emotions. The feeling of his breath on her naked skin sent chills scampering down her spine.
She bit her lip, and thought about replying, What would be the point? but something stopped that answer. Instead she nodded. “Once I have Diamond Dottie’s story, that would be lovely.”
“It’s a strange world,” he said, his hand tightening on her waist, “that brings us back together under such dire circumstances.”
She shot a glance at Ihita and Brandon, but they were sharing a few intimate words themselves. “You always were the optimist, Douglas.”
The Bird’s Eye View released her ropes; and its patrons watched as underneath them, ground crew scurried about as dancers in a ballet and tied her off. Powerful winches then began to pull the airship into her dock. Together the four of them walked down the gangplank and back towards a rank of hansoms, settling into slightly uncomfortable pairs.
“Let me at least see you to your apartments.” Douglas’ dark eyes sparkled from beneath the brim of his top hat. Eliza was remembering other things about Douglas. His passion. His strength. Pleasant as it might have been to dive into that pool once more, she knew from experience that there were plenty of rocks lurking in those depths.
“That’s very sweet of you.” She patted his arm. “But I have some work to do tonight. I will get my own hansom, thank you.”
“And what about you Miss Pujari—would you like me to accompany you to your redoubtable landlady?” Brandon’s voice held none of the seductive lilt that Douglas’ did, but Ihita still stumbled over her next words.
“No, no . . . there’s no need for that. I found my way from India to London well enough. I can make it home by myself.” She went to hail herself another hansom, but her hand froze just as it reached eye level. She then turned to Brandon and smiled, “But I do know of a place where we can, perhaps, enjoy a lovely nightcap. Would you care to join me?”
“Oh, that sounds delightful!”
“And Eliza,” she began, holding a stern finger at Eliza that was tempered by a delighted smile, “Thank you for a lovely evening.”
“My thanks too.” Brandon tipped his hat, offering Ihita his arm. “A fine night of dining and”—he winked—“opportunity.” Then they both strode off into the night, apparently intending their evening to continue until they were done with it.
A corner of Douglas’ delightful lips lifted, but he knew better than to argue. He tipped his hat and gave her a little bow before hopping into the closest hansom. “Then I shall see you soon. As always, it has been a delight.”
As she watched him drive away she smiled herself. She did not want this evening to end.
Sadly, she had to remember where she was. Not Auckland or Wellington. But London. “You can come out now, Christopher.”
There was a moment of silence, and then the oldest member of the Ministry Seven appeared from behind a stack of barrels, looking deeply unhappy about being spotted. Eliza’s network of street urchins might be unkempt and living rough, but they also saw and penetrated a side of the city that even she could not. Christopher was perhaps fourteen years old, but he was a fine pick-pocket and knife fighter—if it came to that. He was not the best at concealment.
“And where’s Eric?” She tried now to hide her smile. “I know you two partner up most times, and he is a bit better at making himself invisible than you are.”
The younger boy popped up from under a stack of tarpaulins. Just how he had managed to wriggle in there without her noticing was the great unknown. His gap-toothed grin said he wouldn’t be revealing any secrets today.
“Blimey, miss—how long have you known?” Christopher grumbled.
She touched his shoulder. “I saw you slip on the back of a cart as we turned the corner in our carriage. But don’t feel ashamed . . . I was looking specifically for you.”
Eric darted up pulling off his cap. “But you didn’t see me, did you, miss? I was on the same cart, but underneath.”
His older colleague scowled even deeper and stuffed his hands into his pockets.
“Now tell me.” Eliza’s voice grew sterner. “What are you doing following me?”
The boys shared a glance before Eric blurted out, “It was that bloke you was with, mum. We wanted to keep an eye on you—in case you got into trouble.”
“What? Douglas?”
“He comes in the middle of our meeting, giving out lollies and such.” Christopher then looked around and unsheathed the imposing hunting knife Douglas had bestowed upon him. “And do you have any idea what the bloody crushers would do if they found this on me?”
Eliza shook her head. “Lads, that is hardly a reason to distrust Mr. Sheppard.”
“What about his invitation after you agreed to work with Mr. Books tonight?” Eric asked. “We was thinking he had some sort of, you know, one of those peculiar devices what tinkers w
ith your head.”
From the mouths of babes. She had promised Wellington to work with him this evening on the case.
“I tell you what, lads,” she said, dipping into her purse and pulling out a few shiny pennies. “I will make my apologies with Mr. Books first thing tomorrow, but this is for your trouble and assurance that you will not follow me in such a manner again. Agreed?”
The boys’ smiles were wide, and the coins were whisked away so quickly it was as if they had never been. “You’re the governor, Miss Eliza.” Christopher tipped his hat, in the same way Douglas had. Then the two members of the Ministry Seven disappeared into the darkness.
Eliza sighed. She had tried many times to get the urchins to move in with her, like Alice—but they loved the freedom of the street and were fiercely proud of their independence. She could understand that, but hated to imagine them enduring the daily dangers that London streets offered.
Still, that was where she was going; down into the dark after Diamond Dottie, Queen of the Thieves.
Interlude IV
Wherein Sussex Is Called Before the Maestro
By the time the second note arrived to remind him of his appointment, Sussex had almost convinced himself that his tormentor was in fact ready to leave him alone. He had taken luncheon with Her Majesty on Saturday, driven his boys to the ice skating in Regents Park immediately afterward, and even accompanied his wife to a totally dire dinner party at Lord Childs’ City apartments that evening.
That was until he was getting ready to retire for the day. Ivy had already retreated to her own rooms, complaining of her usual headache brought on by far too much exertion. His valet was unfastening a fine pair of silver cufflinks when Fenning knocked at the bedroom door. Valet and master shared a shocked look. Disturbing Sussex’s evening ritual was something that the redoubtable butler had never done before. A moment after that realisation, the Duke of Sussex immediately remembered the dreadful note.
Even before Fenning entered, Sussex had turned to his valet and demanded the return of his jacket. When the butler finally held out the silver tray with another little note sitting on it like a drop of poison, the Duke was so numb that he snatched it up without even a word to the butler.
Fenning was trying to explain, mumbling, stuttering. Something had terrified the old, experienced butler beyond his usual iron discipline. Sussex could see he was shaking.
“I am so sorry, m’lord”—Fenning’s eyes were wide—“this strumpet just came in the front door. James the footman tried to stop her, but . . .” He paused, and looked around the room as if he could find the right words lurking in the corner. “I have excused poor James for the rest of the evening. He’s not used to being manhandled by anyone—let alone a woman.”
Fenning kept talking, but Sussex was no longer listening. If the Maestro had sent her, then there was at least a chance for redemption.
Quickly he flicked open the note written on the most expensive embossed paper.
Best hurry. I don’t like waiting.
“Is she still downstairs?” he managed to croak out, as his valet slipped his jacket over the Duke’s shoulders.
“Yes, m’lord,” the butler rocked back on his heels. “But you cannot go down there. We can call for the other footmen, or the constabulary or both!”
“Go to hell, you doddering old fool,” Sussex growled, spittle flying between his clenched teeth and lips. “Long before that she will come up here and then we will all be dead. I’ll go down, and you won’t tell a soul what happened.” He then whirled on his valet, directing his building rage at the innocent. “If either of you do, I can assure neither of you will ever find another place in service.”
Both men dropped their gazes to their feet, their countenance like statues as Sussex strode from the room. Somewhere between passing Ivy’s chambers and the boys’ bedroom, he paused. The world seemed to teeter slowly. A buzzing sound rose in his ears. Sussex, recognising the attack, stopped and recalled his doctor’s commands: closed eyes, deep breaths, and images of serenity. The pounding in his head threatened to bring on the migraines that usually accompanied his fits, but the image of walking with his wife last spring through Hyde Park filled his mind’s eye. That was the serene moment he always counted on. Tonight, with the vivid memory of his darling Ivy looking at him, her smile simply perfect in the brilliant noonday sun, the memory restored his demeanour. His mind was still numb with this dreaded appointment before him, yet he managed to descend the stairs with his composure once more intact.
Then he felt it crumble slightly on seeing his unscheduled caller.
“There you are,” the woman standing in the entrance hall cooed. She was a pretty little thing with a sweet Italian accent. She should have, by rights, made him think of taking her to bed; but he knew what she was, and all she engendered in the breast of Lord Sussex was a deep and deadly fear. Taking a snake into his arms would have been the safer option.
For a start, her outfit was most outrageous. Her hair was tucked under a leather cap that a boy selling newspapers on the street might have owned, and every inch of her womanly curves was bundled up in a thick worsted jacket that was the twin for the one Sussex’s coachman wore. Around her neck was a pair of goggles that could have been stolen from an aviatrix and made no sense to the Duke at all. On her small hands was a pair of bright red gloves—not silk as a lady would have, but chunky leather. The whole affair was finished with a pair of stout workman boots and a pair of thick woollen trousers—only confirming her common nature. Though there was a little part of him that realised her delightful female form was thrown into stark relief by the very masculine nature of her attire.
For a moment he was struck dumb. The woman laughed, throwing back her head as if it were the greatest joke. When she stopped she fixed him with a sharp look, one that really should never have been seen on a woman’s face. “You didn’t think he had forgotten, did you? Or perhaps you believed if you pushed it out of your mind it wouldn’t happen?”
Sussex cleared his throat. He was most certainly not used to be talked to in such a common manner by a woman, in his own house. The trouble was, it was not the first time it had happened. Luckily his wife had never found this pert, attractive, yet completely unsuitable woman berating him thus. “Perhaps I hoped that,” he muttered, his voice hoarse from the anger that had torn at it earlier. “But it seems I am proven wrong.”
“Then we can go,” she gestured to the door, and followed up behind him as he made for it. “You know,” she commented in an offhand tone, “I do believe your footmen’s tooth ruined the knuckle of one of my gloves. I shall have to send you the bill for a new pair.”
Outside a dark carriage waited. It had no distinguishing features at all, and looked like a dozen other ones already on the street. However, there were two things that marked the scene as different. One was the hook-nosed imposing bulk of Pearson standing by its door, doing his usual glower that seemed to threaten violence at any moment. Sussex knew his name all too well from previous encounters. The other item was something of a mystery, it had two wheels, one in front of the other like a bicycle—but it was far bulkier than that. In between the wheels was a collection of valves, pistons, and flywheels. They were spinning and chuffing away, causing quite a racket on the elegant street. It was leaning to one side with a small iron bar acting as a third leg. More disturbing of all was a narrow tray at the bottom, tucked deep in the machine, that flickered with blue flame. It looked like something the devil himself might have invented.
Despite Pearson’s disapproving look, the Duke spared a moment to examine the contraption. He knew his lip was curling. He was all too happy with advances in modern life, as long as they stayed out of his. He’d flown on airships to the Continent, but that was about the sum of his use of what his father had always called “infernal contraptions.” They seemed so noisy, so insistent, and so damn inelegant to his eyes.
“Like my lococycle?” the woman’s voice purred with the kind of avarice he u
sually only heard from the fairer sex when diamonds were in the offing. She ran one finger over the bars at the front of the device, that resembled nothing as much as a pair of bull horns. Then the Italian wrapped her hands around them tightly. “Our employer is most generous with his gifts.” Her expression took on a touch of whimsy as she added, “And he can be just as generous with his punishments.” She let go of the bars long enough to apply a pair of bicycle clips around her trouser legs and pull her goggles up over her eyes. Then while the Duke watched in horror, she swung one leg over the device and sat upon it.
For a moment he was unable to move. He had seen ladies on push-bikes before, but they were genteel pursuits compared to this vision. She looked terrifying and arousing, clad in men’s attire, atop a hissing, chugging machine. “I’ll see you there, Your Grace,” she shouted over the roar of the machine, while examining the row of dials which now sat between her knees. “Don’t be tardy.”
Sussex, despite everything he knew about the woman and the machine, felt an embarrassing twitch within his evening trousers. A wave of guilt swept over him. Was he really so weak?
As a consequence he stood stock-still, while the Italian pumped the levers, kicked back the third leg, and sped away. She had to be going at least twenty miles an hour, considering how quickly she sped out of sight. Sussex and Pearson were left in a cloud of steam watching her. The manservant said nothing, but his gaze, like every man’s on the street, followed after her.
“She has her ways,” was the only comment Pearson made as he gestured Sussex into the carriage. He sounded almost admiring.
The Duke took his seat in the carriage without a reply. He was fighting to regain control of certain parts of his anatomy, but luckily, Pearson sat with the driver rather than in the carriage. For the second time this evening, Peter Lawson had to pull himself together and focus on the more pressing concerns of the Maestro.
