Demon in the Machine

by Lise MacTague

  “That does sound fascinating. I’m sure the Earl of Hardwicke would be very interested in viewing such a unique work. May I have him contact you?”

  A complicated expression passed over Selborne’s face. He seemed to be at war with himself. On the one hand, Briar could tell he was pleased that the earl might be interested in his manuscript, but on the other he seemed to have other concerns. If Briar had to guess, she would say he wasn’t keen to admit such an ungentlemanlike interest. Well-bred men did not deal with magic. It was one thing to admit such a propensity to her, but quite another to do so to a peer, especially one so connected to Parliament.

  “I can assure you, he will exercise the utmost discretion,” Briar said in what she hoped was a soothing tone.

  “For heaven’s sake, James,” Baroness Selborne patted her husband on the hand. “Earl Hardwicke won’t take your collection.”

  “Of course not.” Briar was shocked at the idea. While the earl might be interested in acquiring Selborne’s manuscript, he would never stoop to confiscating it.

  “Very well.” Selborne still seemed a tad anxious, but he nodded to his wife. “You may have him send ’round a card.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Briar inclined her head graciously. “How is your granddaughter enjoying her season?”

  The rest of the evening passed more quickly than she’d anticipated. Time and again, her eyes were drawn to the Sherard girl, often without realizing it. There was no sign of that other Miss Castel full of spirited fire; instead the vapid girl full of giggles and ill-conceived jokes was on full display. The Sherard girl caught her glance once, but Briar shifted her gaze quickly, not wanting to be caught staring. It wasn’t until after the Sherard girl had left for the night that Briar sent a footman for Johnson.

  The ride home was uneventful, though she was filled with the same malaise as she had been on the way to the party. The back of the carriage was spacious, to be sure, but there was no room to pace, no matter how much she wanted to. The trip took much too long, and yet Johnson was at the door, his hand out to help her down, in no time. As soon as she was out of the vehicle, her claustrophobia dissipated, pricked into nothingness like a soap bubble.

  “One moment, Johnson,” Briar said as he made to get back into the driver’s seat. “I left something inside.” Sure enough, when she clambered back in, the impatience and dread returned. That was fascinating. She would have to take a look at what made this machine run. Her mechanical skills were next to nonexistent—her talents tended in the opposite direction—but something was afoot. “Thank you, Johnson.” He nodded and winked before pulling away. She stared thoughtfully at the retreating carriage.

  A delicately cleared throat got her attention and she made her way through the door being held open for her by a bleary-eyed but patient footman. The night had been much more interesting than she’d anticipated. That should have been a good thing; nothing was worse than boredom. And yet…

  * * *

  The workshop was completely empty. It was late, so the echoing emptiness of the cavernous set of underground rooms wasn’t unusual. Her father must have come to a stopping point on his latest project, something that dealt with the storage of demoniac energy. His current obsession wasn’t one she shared; Isabella preferred tinkering with projects of a more mechanical nature.

  The existence of the series of underground rooms would be a surprise to many, not least of all their neighbors. The Sackvilles especially would be astounded to discover the rooms dug beneath the basement of their townhouse. Astounded and righteously offended most likely. The Sackvilles were new enough to their riches and position that they took decorum very seriously. To find out the viscount next door and his daughter were tinkering with mechanical devices under their very feet would offend them greatly, of that Isabella was certain.

  They’d be even more offended to discover what else the viscount’s daughter was up to and what she was wearing while doing so.

  Isabella dropped into a deep knee bend, bouncing on the balls of her feet and feeling the stretch of her hamstrings. Dancing was a decent warm-up, but it did little to limber her up, not when she had to wear that blasted corset the entire time. Of course well-born ladies acted with dignity and decorum; they couldn’t breathe deeply enough to get up to anything else. She’d long since changed out of the flowing gown and binding corset she’d been forced to don for that night’s ball.

  The ball… Isabella twisted her torso, willing the bones in her spine to pop. They finally did and she sighed with relief.

  The ball had not gone as planned. How could she have been stupid enough to drop the lens? And to have snooty Brionie Riley, of all people, pick it up? The woman had been much too interested in it. Why did she even bother to show up at the various balls and other glittering events that made up the season? She danced very little and spent most of her time socializing with the older set. Those people were deadly dull, but The Stick seemed to flourish with them.

  Energy still flowed through Isabella. She needed to do something about it before the end of the night or she would spend too much time staring at the ceiling of her darkened room rather than sleeping. But there was work to be done before she could indulge in her exercises.

  Isabella made her way over to a long workbench and placed the lens upon it. The broken hinge needed replacing before she lost the lens altogether. This one was quite important to her. It allowed her to tell which gems were real and which were glass or paste. Without it, she would have to pay someone to appraise each piece and that was money they simply didn’t have. Better by far that she fix it now, rather than leave it for later and lose it because she forgot.

  She pulled out a pair of spectacles on a ribbon. Neither of her parents required such help to see, and in truth she didn’t either. The spectacles were a handy excuse to peer at the jewelry of her peers with that lens. Isabella was proud of the lenses it carried. They were a modification of her own design. The hinges could be twisted off and a lens could be moved from these spectacles to her goggles. The versatility more than made up for the slight weakness in the hinges.

  Isabella peered at the hinge through a magnifying glass mounted on a movable arm to the edge of the workbench. As she suspected, there was a crack in the housing where a tiny screw held together the complicated hinge. It allowed the housing to flex the tiniest bit, which had allowed the arm holding the lens to slide free. She would have to replace the entire hinge. Fortunately, the arm wasn’t damaged, as it was part of the same piece as the metal rim around the lens itself.

  As she worked, Isabella hummed to herself. Her father was likely in bed at this hour, so she didn’t have to worry about disturbing him. The evening’s final waltz played itself over in her head, looping around and around. She and Millie, her best friend, had taken a turn on the floor at the same time. Millie had been ebullient from a night of dancing, and they’d paid scant attention to the gentlemen who danced with them. Instead, they’d been quite rude and had spoken with each other over their partners’ shoulders. The men hadn’t minded, both of them having been friends to her and Millie for a long time. She supposed she should have felt some guilt for not paying more attention to poor Simon, but that would only have encouraged his rather misplaced affections.

  She continued to hum as she tinkered, paying close attention to the pieces of hinge she reassembled. This wasn’t the first time she’d broken a hinge, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. There had to be a way to strengthen the attachment. Isabella’s mind wandered along those lines as she put the finishing touches on her repair and examined it with utmost care to make sure there were no other areas of weakness. To her relief, the new hinge was as sturdy as she could make it. She clipped it on to her spectacles, then popped it back off again. The action was smooth, but once on, it held fast. A warm glow of accomplishment filled her. It was one of the things she loved about working with her hands. When she made something, she used her own skills and it was hers alone. Beyond the knowledge she’d gained fro
m her father and tutors, there was nothing she owed to anyone. It was too bad she had to keep her skills to herself. Her set simply wouldn’t understand her affinity for an activity that was so unladylike.

  She could feel her eyebrows drawing down. Isabella smoothed her brow with careful consideration. There was no point in fighting this battle. It was one she couldn’t win. As the only daughter of Viscount Sherard, she had responsibilities to the family.

  The last thought echoed inside her head in her mother’s voice. Isabella rolled her eyes and stood up. It was time to indulge in something where her mother’s lectures couldn’t intrude. She tidied the workspace, putting her tools away but leaving the spectacles on the bench.

  The workshop’s far wall was festooned with rings, pipes, and bars at various places along its twenty-foot height. Isabella eyed the top bar. That was tonight’s goal. She needed to push herself a bit.

  She sprinted across the floor on light feet and leaped, grabbing a thick vertical bar. It was a reasonable approximation of a drainpipe, though attached more securely than those she’d encountered in her various excursions. She’d have to retool that and make it more in line with what she was likely to come up against.

  It was the work of a less than a second to brace her feet on the wall and scamper up the pseudo-drainpipe. From there, she reached over to a horizontal bar that jutted out of the wall a mere three inches. She swung her way onto its lip, toes crammed against the wall, giving her a little more grip as she reached for the bar barely within reach of her outstretched fingertips.

  What had been with the questions from Brionie Riley about where she’d gotten the lens? It looked enough like a monocle that no one should have known differently. Plenty of people wore them. Certainly, the lens had some demoniac enhancements to it, but most people would be none the wiser. The only reason Isabella knew the runes were there was because she’d asked her father’s partner to add them. She herself couldn’t see the runes; that wasn’t one of her talents. She could break down a steam engine in less than an hour and scale a twenty-foot wall in seconds, but she had no affinity for demoniac manipulation.

  Her hands slapped down on the bar that had been her goal and Isabella hung there for a moment, the weight of her body a pleasant pull on her shoulders. Had The Stick bought the excuse that the lens belonged to her brother? The stiff woman had eyed her quite queerly when she’d said that but had dropped the questioning. Not that continuing would have been easy as Isabella had quite rudely left the conversation. Still, she wouldn’t have put it past the inquisitive Miss Riley to follow her to ask more questions. She was constantly inquiring as to this or that, or so it seemed whenever Isabella overheard one of her deadly dull conversations.

  Something would have to be done about Brionie Riley. She could not be allowed to interfere in Isabella’s activities. She needed some…distraction.

  Isabella pushed off the wall, arching her back and tucking into a backward flip. She made one complete turn before she straightened up out of the roll and struck the floor. Somehow, she’d come out of the flip somewhat cockeyed. One foot hit before the other. Rather than trying to stick the landing outright, Isabella tucked again into a somersault, then popped up.

  “That was sloppier than normal,” a woman’s voice remarked behind her. “Perhaps you need more practice?”

  “Mama!” Isabella turned smartly, her cheeks warm. “I thought you’d be abed.”

  “I was.” Althea Castel walked slowly toward her. Even with hard-bottomed shoes and cane, her movements were almost soundless. Tall and beautiful, even in her middle years, Althea moved like a woman many years her senior. Isabella could still see the beautiful girl her father had first met in her face and hands, but it was hard to see her move so cautiously.

  “Was it your leg?”

  Her mother grimaced. “The older I get, the more it stiffens up. Make sure you never get shot, daughter of mine. It is mightily inconvenient long beyond the original injury.”

  “Thank you, Mother.” Isabella nodded gravely. “I shall make it my life’s work not to get shot.”

  “I expect nothing less.” Althea grinned at Isabella’s serious retort. “Speaking of work, how was it tonight?”

  Now was not the time to bring up her slip-up with the lens. “It went well. I have two possible targets. After I case the houses, I’ll know which one to move on next.”

  “Very good.” Althea paused for a moment, then sighed and continued. “The money from your last foray is almost gone and I must pay the servants. I want you to be as careful as possible, but we are in dire need of more funds.”

  “Very well.” Isabella would have to move more quickly then. If she was very careful, perhaps she could do each job in successive nights. “Millie Ornelas has an exquisite new ruby necklace given to her by her fiancé. He should be my next target.”

  “I shall invite them to tea. Millie will certainly reciprocate with an invitation for you.”

  “Mother, I don’t wish to steal from her. She’s my friend.”

  Althea shook her head in disappointed reproof. “When we are solvent once again, you’ll be able to make such distinctions. Until then, we shall do what we must to survive.”

  “But, Mother—” Althea’s hand cut off the rest of her protest.

  “I know this is difficult for you, Isabella. It’s hard for all of us, but we must make do. In a few years your brother will be back, and all will return to normal.” She withdrew an envelope from where she’d tucked it in her cleavage. “He’s sent another letter.” Althea laid it down on a nearby bench. “I’ll leave you to your exercises. From the look of that last dismount, you need the practice.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Althea made her way out through the gloom-shrouded workshop. Isabella watched her go, then looked down at the letter. She willed it to burst into flames. This was all Wellington’s fault. Without him, they wouldn’t be practically destitute, reduced to stealing from their friends. I’m not reading it. Of course she would; she wouldn’t be able to help herself. It had better not be like the last one, where he’d written to request money without any thought as to what it would mean for the family to provide it, not after what he’d done.

  No, not again. Isabella transferred her glare to the bar at the top of the wall. This time her dismount would be perfect.

  Chapter Three

  The first thing Briar did upon awakening the next morning was to make her way down to the carriage house. That horseless needed some attention. She couldn’t allow her fears to rule her, especially not one so ridiculous.

  The carriage house was shuttered and dark. It smelled slightly of hay and horse manure. There was one horse still stabled here, though the earl had relied almost exclusively on the horseless for a few years. From time to time, the servants needed some mode of transportation, and the conventional carriage was more than good enough for them. The horse eyed her incuriously over the wall of its stall, then went back to dozing or whatever it did when it wasn’t working.

  Briar closed the door behind her. The skin on the back of her arms prickled immediately, small hairs rising at attention as they had the previous evening. Briar rubbed them briskly to dismiss the gooseflesh and convince herself that there was nothing in the room that would harm her.

  She took a deep breath to settle her nerves and rein in her fancies. She threw the switch by the door and the carriage house was bathed in the light of uncovered bulbs high above. Shadows snapped into place and she jumped, convinced the horseless had moved.

  “Don’t be silly,” Briar told herself out loud, needing to fill the small building with something other than her paranoid fancies. “What could a carriage possibly want to do with you?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  The innocent question was delivered in a high voice and curious tone, Briar noted dimly as she leapt into the air. She somehow landed facing the questioner, who stared at her with wide eyes.

  “Imogene!” Briar gasped, trying to rega
in her breath and composure but accomplishing neither. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people!”

  The girl managed to look amused and bashful at the same time. She ducked under the bar at the back of the horse’s stall, then stood before her, picking pieces of detritus from her arms. Her dress was festooned with straw and hay.

  “Were you sleeping with the horse again?”

  “Of course not.” Imogene was all indignant refusal. She held up a small book. “I was reading. My tutor isn’t here until after breakfast, so I can do what I want.”

  “And if no one finds you when the tutor comes, all the better?”

  “Maybe.” She scuffed the toe of her shoe on the dirt floor. At fourteen, Imogene was getting too old for such tomfoolery.

  Briar suspected she knew as much, but there was something about the earl’s youngest daughter that reminded Briar a bit of herself. Briar knew what it was like not to fit in with one’s family. Imogene’s situation was quite different than hers had been, and she thanked all the gods for that, but it didn’t change the feelings of disconnectedness one had when those who were closest to you had no idea what to do with you. Her heart went out to Imogene, though her behavior was not in the least bit decorous. There would be time enough for her to conform to the expectations of her father and sister and Briar would not be party to it. Nor should she be.

  At least Imogene could be useful. Briar needed to know who manufactured the horseless, but she was neither wearing the appropriate clothes nor was she in the frame of mind to check herself.

  “I can forget I saw you in here if you do something for me,” Briar said.

  Imogene looked up at her, lively interest in her eyes. “What do you need?”

  “I need to know who made your father’s new carriage, but I’m not dressed to climb around looking for the manufacturer’s mark. If you’d do that for me, I will pretend I never saw you this morning.”

  Imogene disappeared beneath the carriage in a flash but not before putting her book safely to one side. It was an instinct Briar approved of.