by Tilda Booth
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
About the Author
The plan: Kidnap H.G. Wells. Definitely not part of the plan: Falling in love.
A Silk, Steel and Steam Story
The year is 1897, the place, a Britain that could have been, but never was. H. George Wells is helping lead Britain into a new Golden Age, driven by technological advances and discoveries of the human brain. Then one night a beautiful woman abducts him at gunpoint, and she seems to despise everything he’s worked for. Despite his outrage, he can’t help but be intrigued by this adventuress and her passion for her cause.
Jane Robbins, agent provocateur, has reason to fear her country’s march towards a new world order. Using her wits and her arsenal of spy gadgets to infiltrate Wells’ house, she delivers him to her employer, who plans to use him as leverage to halt the coming Utopia. But when Wells’ life is threatened, she must choose between saving him or sacrificing him to the cause.
Scientist and spy, they are irresistibly drawn to each other even as the future pushes them apart.
Warning: This book contains gadgets, guns, death rays, dirigibles, sexy scientists and a smoking hot Victorian spy who’s as much steam as she is punk. Don’t blame us if it makes you want to slip a pistol into your garter and abduct the man of your dreams.
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Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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Stealing Utopia
Copyright © 2010 by Tilda Booth
ISBN: 978-1-60928-255-4
Edited by Sasha Knight
Cover by Kanaxa
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: November 2010
www.samhainpublishing.com
Stealing Utopia
Tilda Booth
Dedication
To my mother, who set the bar high.
Chapter One
London, 1897
Jane Robbins let her reticule swing casually from her wrist, the weight of the silver two-shot Derringer inside it making it move a little more pendulously than the standard set of ladies’ cosmetics. None of the Scotland Yard operatives currently posing as hack drivers noticed. Those who didn’t dismiss her at first glance were too busy admiring the slim line of her waist and the graceful swell of her bosom above the lace of her neckline. She gave the oglers a flirtatious smile as she strolled between them and the townhouse that they were surreptitiously guarding.
Looking at the townhouse’s modest facade, one would never have guessed that it was the home of the eleventh most influential man in England at the present. Or that the steam carriages waiting at the curb belonged to the ninth, tenth and twelfth, respectively. It was next to these carriages that the incognito Yard men lounged. Jane pulled out a dainty lace handkerchief and pretended to accidentally drop it. A few of the men started forward, but as they came near, she bent down to retrieve it, allowing them a more revealing view of her décolletage. She straightened up and made her way to the end of the street and turned the corner, inviting the eyes of the men to follow her as she swayed her hips.
Once out of their line of sight, she lifted a finger to pull the feather that trailed from her elaborate hat toward her face, letting it brush her cheek. “I counted five Yard men,” she whispered into the tip of the feather. She added with a cheeky grin, “Three of them are easily distracted.”
A static crackle answered her and she frowned, glancing around to make sure she was alone before giving her rear a little knock, jarring the etheric force transmitter hidden in her bustle. The speaker woven into her elegant coiffure made an audible pop, followed by, “…problem then.”
“Sorry, Robert, the blasted machine failed again. Repeat?”
“Creating a distraction while we go in won’t be a problem then.”
“Did you miss the part where I said there were five of them?”
“It can’t be helped. Security was always going to be tight with all of them together. Five is practically a May dance.”
“I still say we should wait and snatch them individually.”
“Your objection has been noted. Now get on with your mission.”
“Fine.” She tucked the feather back into the elaborate brim of her hat and unpinned a mass of ringlets, pulling them around her face while taking care not to disturb the wires and metal plates threaded through her chocolate-brown hair. A shove sent the hat precariously listing over one ear. A vicious tug at her bodice ripped the cloth, exposing the top and side of her deep-pink corset. Taking a vial of liquid rouge from her reticule, she daubed blood-red smears on her face, shoulders and arms. Also from her reticule came a portion of Ballistite. This she hid in the bushes behind a gate post before setting the pocket-watch timer attached to it.
Jane took a deep breath and screamed at the top of her lungs, staggering back around the corner into view of the Yard men. “Help! Oh please help me!”
The three men whom she’d termed easily distractible rushed to her aid. They surrounded her and held her up as she collapsed to her knees. “What is it, Miss? What happened?” they asked nearly in unison.
“Two men…they had knives. Oh, I’m so frightened! Please, you must stop them!” She waved in the direction from whence she’d come. Two of her rescuers rushed off, searching for the armed madmen she’d described, while one remained. She noticed with chagrin that the two older men who’d stayed by their posts hadn’t budged. Her eyelids fluttered and she moaned before going completely limp.
“Oy! A little help here?” called the man as he grunted to his knees with the full weight of her. One of the other two came over to give him a hand. As he reached them, the Ballistite charge exploded, and the final man came running. He and his companion took off around the corner at a run, leaving her original rescuer alone with her again. She reached into her reticule one last time and pulled out another little vial.
“My sal volatile…please.” Her slender fingers struggled with the cap as it slipped out of her grasp.
The man took the vial from her and opened it just as she seemed to reach for it. She knocked the vial’s contents into his face.
He had enough time to say, “What’s that smell?” before his eyes rolled up in his head and he fell backwards, unconscious. Jane snatched the vial and recapped it while holding her breath. The concentrated chloroform was wickedly powerful but fortunately it dissipated almost immediately.
She pulled the feather back down from her hat. “All clear. Hurry up.”
“You’re a wonder, Jane.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
George Wells was bored. He disliked being the dummy, especially in this company. Nicky Tesla played a cutthroat hand of bridge but he was a sore loser, and George had tried his best to avoid being paired with the hotheaded Serbian. Unfortunately Franz N
issl and Alois Alzheimer had outmaneuvered him, the two physicians having obviously arranged beforehand to team up.
“Physics against Physicks, eh my friend?” Nissl had said in his heavily accented English, and Alzheimer, who sided with Nissl in any matter, had followed up the quip with another in German. George had scowled at the two, but they only laughed. Well, at least he didn’t have to argue with Nicky over points or random made-up rules, like being able to take back a trick if it was made within five seconds or other such nonsense.
Now, deep into the fourth hand, George regretted his acquiescence as Nicky glowered more and more darkly. Deciding his best course of action was to ignore his partner, George sought conversation in more friendly territory.
“So, Alois, how goes the research?”
Nicky snorted. His opinion of the biological sciences, specifically Nissl and Alzheimer’s research, was well known. Alzheimer smirked at him. Needling Nicky was his favorite pastime. “Ach, it goes stupendously. We are well ahead of schedule. The Prime Minister is quite pleased with our success.”
“I heard Binet has been tasked by the French government with developing a test to measure intelligence,” countered Nicky.
It was Alzheimer’s turn to snort. “A written test. He might as well use dice and a crystal ball. No, the Prime Minister knows we are on to something much more. With all the new funding he’s given us, we’ve been able to hire nine new neuropathologists.”
“Nine?” Nicky slammed down his cards. “That’s outrageous. Prime Minister Huxley promised me that my lab would get adequate funding to build my teleforce machine, and we’ve yet to see even a tenth of the monies required.”
“Huxley is rightly more interested in the ability to unleash the full potential of the human brain than unleashing a death ray on our enemies.” Alzheimer turned his back on Nicky and faced George, putting his elbow on the table and scattering his cards, annoying Nicky even further. “I tell you, George, we are so close to being able to empirically measure the capacity of a human brain. Ten years from now we will be able to mold it according to society’s needs.”
“Ha, my overeager friend has big dreams, eh?” said Nissl. “But he…how do you say? Jumps the gun? We are nowhere near such feats.”
“Franz is too modest. Once we crack the neurochemical code, it is the path to Utopia, I tell you.” Fervor shone in Alzheimer’s eyes.
“Utopia? Madness is what it is. Foolish insanity.” Nicky jabbed a finger at Alzheimer. “No good has ever come from tinkering with the human condition in such a way.”
Nissl chewed on the edge of his pipe, a sly look on his face. “Ah, Nikola, how I would love to get your brain into my pathology lab and put it under a microscope.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Yes, my friend, that is a prerequisite.”
There was a heartbeat of silence before all four burst into laughter.
The level of potential homicide having fallen to manageable levels once again, George attended to his host duties. “More wine?”
Nissl and Alzheimer both nodded and held out their glasses, but Nicky grumbled. “Are we going to play or are we going to drink?”
“If it’s a choice between the two, I choose drink,” said Alzheimer.
George laughed again. “Don’t worry, we have time to do both, no matter what Nicky says. I’ll just pop down to the cellar and get another bottle.”
“More of that fine Spätburgunder, eh?” called Nissl after him. George chuckled. After so many of their monthly card nights, he didn’t need to be reminded that his friends preferred the German reds. He picked up the candle on the table next to the cellar door, lit it, and let himself into the cellar with his key. The stairs creaked under his shoes as he made his way downward, gingerly placing his foot on each step. Normally the cellar was lit with gas lamps in sconces set along the walls, but George had allowed Nicky to remove them in order to make way for a series of rotating gears, pulleys and belts that would automatically retrieve the wine and bring it to the top of the stairs by setting the appropriate switches and pulling a lever.
Unfortunately, this mechanical wine steward was still of the weekend hobby stage and had left his cellar in a state of disarray, and no amount of nagging from George had inspired Nicky to return his cellar to functionality. It was easy enough for Nicky to dismiss the inconvenience. It wasn’t his house and he didn’t have to live with the mess.
That was always the way it was between him and Nicky. Even though George was the writer and loved to think up the fantastical, it was Nicky who let his imagination run wild in the laboratory. George stayed grounded, keeping his colleague’s temperament in check and his direction focused. It was George’s job to present their experiments to Prime Minister Huxley, whose support of Britain’s scientific community bordered on the fanatical. But not even Huxley could be expected to listen to the ravings of Nikola Tesla during one of his manic moods.
George lifted the lantern high, holding it in front of the racks of bottles suspended in their proper positions. The Spätburgunder was kept in the far corner, and the machinery and tools strewn across the floor meant extreme care was required in the dark. Through the cellar window above him he could see the sturdy legs of a man, most likely Mr. James, his shadow assigned from the Home Office. All the members of Huxley’s scientific advisory council had been given security details after the recent labor riots. Huxley had spared no expense luring some of the greatest young scientific minds of Europe and America to serve on his council, and he wasn’t going to skimp on keeping them safe. George made a mental note to ask his housekeeper to make sure Mr. James was getting a substantial hot lunch every day.
As this happy thought occurred to him, George’s foot caught on a bit of Nicky’s contraption and he sprawled across the floor, candle snuffed out as it flew from his hand.
“Devil take it.” He pushed himself up from hands and knees to standing. Aided only by the moonlight that came in from the window, he brushed off his trousers as best he could in the dark. George felt around the floor for his candle, bending low and sweeping his hands in wide arcs. He was so annoyed at Nicky for the mess and himself for tripping over it that it took a moment for him to realize that the shadows cast by the moonlight were changing. He glanced up at the window to see another set of legs in a complicated dance with Mr. James. There was a kick and some scuffling steps, and Mr. James tumbled to the ground, unmoving.
George ran to the window. The other set of legs had disappeared around the corner of the house and the back garden was now empty. George strained his ears and caught the muffled sounds of men’s voices followed by the distinct report of a pistol upstairs. The sound made him jump. A second later someone ran down the hallway outside the cellar door, and George decided that the wisest course of action would be to escape into the back garden, revive Mr. James if possible and make his way to the nearest police call box.
He climbed up to the window and opened it, pulling himself out of the cellar and onto the cobbled walk that ran next to the house along the garden. Mr. James lay only a few feet from him on the grass. He crawled over to the man and checked for pulse and breathing, relieved to find both. “James. James, old man, wake up,” he whispered.
The click of a pistol halted him. “I don’t think so, Mr. Wells,” said a cool female voice at his back. “Please stand up and exit the garden in front of me. I would very much dislike shooting one of the premier scientific minds in England.”
Chapter Two
“Tea, Jane?” Robert Easton held up the china pot as Jane removed her traveling gloves to reveal the dainty fingerless lace mitts beneath. She tucked them into her reticule and tossed it casually onto the overstuffed armchair next to Robert’s.
“After an evening like tonight, tea sounds ambrosial.” She perched on the edge of the chair and took the cup and saucer from Robert. “Any news of the others?”
“Four of our six agents managed to escape, but one of them was injured, and the other two, Carson
and Flewellyn, were lost in the river when they jumped to escape the constables. We can only hope that they check in safely.”
“And not another member of the council taken?”
“Only Wells. That was brilliant of you, by the by.” Easton raised his teacup to her.
Jane inclined her head modestly. “That was luck, nothing more. I almost had the vapors when he appeared very nearly in front of me.” She chuckled. “I swear I was more frightened than he was.”
“You were marvelous.” His eyes roved Jane’s figure a bit too warmly, but she chose to ignore it. He continued, “I only wish we’d had more success. As highly placed as Wells is, I’m afraid this isn’t quite the bold statement we wished to make.”
“Surely the government will deal with us now? They can’t just abandon H.G. Wells, respected and prominent member of the Scientific Council, can they?”
Easton frowned. “Oh they will certainly sit up and take notice, but Wells is just one man. If only we’d nabbed the two Germans, Nissl and Alzheimer. It’s their work in brain neuropathy that is most threatening to the cause, I believe. Huxley’s benevolent revolution will depend more on those two and their Utopia drugs than any death ray of Tesla’s.”
Jane’s thoughts dwelt darkly on what Nissl’s research might mean for someone like her sister Lizzie. Suppressing a shiver, she looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Is Mr. Wells still being held in the upstairs drawing room?”
Easton nodded. “Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity, really. It’s rare that one has the opportunity to interrogate one of the leading scientists of the realm.”
“What do you even hope to gain by conversing with him?”
Jane shrugged. “Probably nothing, but I want to ask him how he can justify the government’s outlay on the new hydro-force laboratory—a laboratory he helped design at the cost of nearly twenty million pounds—when there are children begging the streets of Whitechapel.”
