by Tilda Booth
“So not an interrogation so much as a sermon then.” Robert shook his head and gave a half-laugh. “Very well, bring the man his tea. I’m sure that not even his transgressions have earned him the torture he is about to receive.”
Jane gave a quick rap on the door with her knuckles before opening it and entering the drawing room, followed by two members of Easton’s organization. She introduced them as Jack and Mary. Jack was sinisterly masked by a black scarf tied around his face, and Mary, playing the role of upstairs maid, was veiled and carried a silver tray laden with the components of a proper tea.
The room had been stripped nearly bare in preparation for its occupant and contained only a few pieces of heavy furniture, including an overstuffed settee and a low mahogany table. All items that could be lifted had been removed, so there were no vases, no pictures, no items of décor at all. Even the books had been removed from the bookcases. Gaslight illuminated the room in a murky, yellowish gloom. The usually charming salon had taken on an altogether grim aura, to match the prisoner within.
Jane examined the man in the low light. Grim was certainly one way to describe him, given the dark expression on his face, his clothes dirtied and in disarray, his hands clenched into fists in his lap, his spectacles askew. A study in contrasts would be another. He was lean but sturdy, his bushy mustache and the premature lines of worry etched into his forehead and the corners of his mouth at odds with the still-youthful roundness of his face. Wells was only thirty-one years old, and yet had achieved so much fame and influence since bursting onto the scientific and literary scene less than a decade earlier. During their encounter in his garden, he had topped her by half a head even though she had never been fashionably dainty. At this moment, even seated, he seemed to take up more than his fair share of the room, thanks to the anger that emanated from him.
“Mr. Wells,” Jane said, “I’ve brought you some tea.”
His eyes took in the presence of Jack, and it wasn’t hard to read the expression of disappointment on his face. Mary set down the tray and went to stand by the door next to Jack. Jane perched herself on the edge of one of the chairs and reached for the china teapot. “Do you take milk?”
“I’ll take nothing, thank you very much. You must consider me a fool if you think I’m going to ingest anything that you might give me.”
Jane poured tea into two cups, deliberately mixed a teaspoon of sugar and a dollop of milk from the jug into her cup, gave a stir and took a delicate sip. “I assure you, it is nothing more than tea. Quite excellent tea at that. Darjeeling.” At his continued reluctance she sighed. “Come, Mr. Wells. You may have my cup if you are still suspicious. There is no reason why we can’t be civilized about this.” She placed her cup and saucer in front of him and took the other cup, mixing sugar and milk into the second as well.
“Civilized? You’ve kidnapped me, Madame—”
“Mademoiselle. Or Miss, if you prefer. Although feel free to simply call me Jane. And I assure you-”
“Your assurances be damned, Jane, if that’s even your real name.”
It wasn’t. Her real name was Amy Catherine, but none of her present associates knew that, and she preferred to keep it that way. She smiled. “I assure you, Mr. Wells, we mean you no harm. We are merely trying to get the attention of the Prime Minister, to convince him of the folly of pouring our national resources into this arms race of scientific advancement.”
The look Wells gave her was chilly. “Aren’t you a little behind the times? The Luddites were dealt with over eighty years ago.”
“I’m not against all mechanical advances, Mr. Wells. Far from it. I recognize the value that they bring to our lives. For instance, your associate, Mr. Tesla, has made amazing advances in the field of etheric force.”
“I’m impressed you are aware of such things.”
“Why? Because I am a female and therefore uninterested in anything but fashion?”
“Because Nicky’s work is largely top secret.”
“Not that top secret.” Jane arched an eyebrow. “With etheric force transmitting stations being built in every neighborhood in London and every borough in England, it’s not a very well-kept secret. Nor are the experiments of Doctors Nissl and Alzheimer. Rumor has it that they are close to developing drugs that will directly enhance the functions of the brain.”
“Rumor is an unreliable storyteller at best.”
“So you deny that it is true?”
Wells shrugged. “I neither confirm nor deny, but I will admit that you seem to be up on the latest scientific gossip. Which still doesn’t explain what makes you think that kidnapping me will have any effect on the PM’s course of action.”
Jane picked up a scone and split it, using a knife to spread it liberally with butter. She waved it enticingly before him. “Scone? No? You really should try them, they’re Cook’s specialty.” She took a bite, licking the butter from her lips. “We know that it’s you who’s been primarily responsible for convincing PM Huxley to build the new Academy of Science complex.”
“You credit me with far too much influence. Huxley is mad for the new laboratory complex. And in any case, why are you so opposed?”
Dropping her flirtatious air, Jane stared at him in astonishment. “Are you really so naive? Huxley’s mad all right, power-mad; he always has been. He’ll use the discoveries that come out of that academy of yours to bend the world to his way of thinking. And while he throws money at death rays and brain benders, children starve in the streets of Whitechapel.”
Wells jumped to his feet, causing Jack to take a step away from the door, but Wells ignored him and began pacing in front of the settee. “Oh please. What a ridiculous argument. Surely even you can see that the advancements we make today go to feed people tomorrow. If you care anything about true social justice, you would embrace our research. From each according to his ability—soon we will be able to measure each man’s ability and direct his life accordingly.”
Jane stood and blocked his path, glaring at him. “That’s your idea of social justice? What of free will? Self-determination?”
Arrested, Wells goggled at her. “How can one have free will and self-determination without knowledge? It is only with knowledge of one’s capabilities that one can make an informed decision for one’s future. Frankly, it doesn’t surprise me that someone so illogical would be attracted to a criminal life.”
“How dare you?” Jane’s face was hot, and wisps of dark hair had come loose, falling into her eyes. “If that’s how you approach every argument, Mr. Wells, with ad hominem attacks, it’s a wonder you’ve managed to rise at all.”
“I’ll have you know I was admired for my debating skills in school.”
“Were you equally admired for your arrogance and narrow-mindedness?”
“I am not arrogant.”
“So then you admit to the narrow-mindedness?”
“Really, Miss…Jane. You attack me without knowing me.”
“I attack your ideas, sir. I attack the concept that people, men and women…” she added the last with a curl of her lip, “…should be categorized at birth and sent on predetermined paths to their destiny like cattle at a slaughterhouse. Or that this Utopia is one for which we should sacrifice the poor and needy of today.” She spun around and headed to the door, opening it. “Enjoy your tea, Mr. Wells, secure in the knowledge that so many go without theirs in the pursuit of your Utopia.”
Jane slammed the door behind her, knowing that Jack and Mary would remain to ensure that the tea things were cleared away and nothing left to Mr. Wells that could be used to his advantage. She forced herself to remain quiet until she’d reached the downstairs where she would not be heard before she allowed herself a tiny shriek of rage. “The gall of the man.”
“I take it the conversation did not go as planned?”
Easton’s voice made her start. She put a hand to her head. “No, I’m afraid it did not. I lost my temper and now I have a headache.” She dropped her hand and gl
ared at Easton. “And don’t you dare suggest that it is the result of my delicate feminine constitution.”
Easton held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “It never crossed my mind. I might suggest that you go to bed, though. Sleep is a good cure-all for the headache.”
She glanced up the staircase. “What about Wells?”
“His bedchamber is ready. I was just going up to let Jack know. So, bed?”
“Yes, I suppose I’ll go to my room as well.” She smiled at him. “Thank you. And you were right. I was foolish to think that I could gain anything from conversing with the man.”
George stood, nonplussed, as the door banged shut. Still standing on either side of the door were the masked thug and the veiled servant girl, both apparently impassive, but George swore he saw a twinkle in the servant girl’s eyes.
“Is she always so…volatile?” he asked.
The servant girl glanced at the thug, but when the thug remained statue-like, she barked a laugh and said, “Not always, sir. But you did seem to bring out the worst in her.”
“The effect appears to have been mutual.” Wells ran his fingers through his already-disheveled hair, then incongruously smoothed down his mustache. He was embarrassed by his words. Alone among his colleagues, he advocated forcefully for the advancement of women. This Jane woman, however, unsettled him, and he had taken refuge in all the public-school attitudes of his youth when in her presence.
For one thing, she was quite unexpectedly lovely. When she hijacked him out of his own garden he’d only had the briefest look at her face before she blindfolded him, and that was in shadowed moonlight. His overall impression had consisted of an elaborately feathered hat and the silver muzzle of a Derringer aimed unwaveringly at his heart. Who could have guessed that she would have glossy chocolate hair with hints of carmine fire, as if lithium chloride flames burned within it? Or that her too sharp nose, too lush mouth and eyebrows that arched too angularly over wide brown eyes would somehow come together harmoniously in a face that immediately struck the observer as fiercely intelligent and alive? When she stood toe-to-toe with him, she came up to nearly his nose and only had to tilt her head slightly to challenge him, a refreshing change from the doll-like women he normally met who made a habit of conversing with his necktie.
For another, she accused him of the very attitudes he so abhorred in privileged society, as if he were one of those upper-class snobs who disdained all achievements except birth, instead of the middle-class son of a shopkeeper and a servant girl. It infuriated him that she couldn’t see that his work on the scientific council was aimed at making sure that others like him, those with talent and drive, received the opportunities that were normally out of their reach. She called him arrogant and narrow-minded, when he considered himself exactly the opposite.
The more he thought of this Jane, the more incensed he became, until there was nothing to do but sit down and drink his tea and calm himself or he would be ranting at the guard and the maid like a madman.
A knock at the door nearly made him spill the tea, and he looked up, ready to do verbal battle with the vixen again. This time, however, a gentleman, if he was to be judged by his clothes, entered the room. Like the guard, he was masked in black.
“Who the bloody devil are you?” George’s belligerence arose from a combination of relief and disappointment that it wasn’t the person he’d expected.
“Your host.” The man bowed. “You may call me Mr. Smith if you like.”
“Smith?” George snorted. “Why not Jones?”
“If you prefer.”
“Why are you here? To try to further convince me that I am the oppressor of the proletariat? To convince me of the error of my life’s work?”
The man chuckled. “Jane warned me that your conversation had become a bit heated. No, I have no need of your conversion to our point of view. Your presence here is all the aid to the cause that we require.”
“I still don’t understand exactly what your cause is.”
“Some other time, perhaps. It’s late and I’ve come to show you to your room.” The man nodded at the guard, who opened the door and waited. George put his cup on the tray and stood, following the two men out of the room while the servant girl stayed behind to clear the tea things. They were halfway down the hall before the girl came running out and put a hand on Mr. Smith’s arm and whispered in his ear.
“Mr. Wells,” he said. “Please give me the knife that you so cleverly took from the tray.”
George, resigned, reached into his trouser pocket and handed the blunt silver butter knife to the man. “You can’t blame a man for trying.”
The man took the knife and gave it to the girl. “A nice bit of sleight of hand, but Mary here has a particular fondness for knives and would never have overlooked its absence. Obviously we shall have to keep a more watchful eye on you.”
He led George to another door down the hall, which opened onto a plain, windowless bedroom. “I’m afraid that the amenities are rather spare, but hopefully you won’t be inconvenienced too long in our care. Jack here will be outside the door all night, so if you have want of anything, you need only call out.” With that thinly veiled warning, Mr. Smith gave a little bow and closed the door.
George looked about in resignation. A bed of the same heavy mahogany as the furniture in the room he’d been in before, made up in the meanest of linens with a thin cotton blanket, and next to the bed a stand with a china bowl and pitcher. Not even a fireplace to interrupt the square shape of the room. It would be a cold night for him. Someone had left a set of nightclothes laid out on the bed, so he changed into them and climbed in under the sheets.
It was even colder than he’d feared, and after twenty minutes or so of shivering under the single blanket, he decided to test his host’s assertion that there would be a man constantly outside his door.
“Excuse me.”
Immediately the door opened. “Yes, sir?” said the masked guard from earlier, his voice gruff.
“It’s a little bit chilly in here. May I have another blanket or two?”
“Certainly, sir.”
George thought that the man sounded less like a hooligan than a well-trained valet. The door closed, the lock clicked, and he could hear the heavy footsteps as they led away from the door. Roughly ten minutes later, Jack returned, this time bearing two thick woolen blankets. He deposited these at the foot of the bed, bowed slightly and left. Definitely something more than a common thug.
George pulled the blankets up over his head and let the overwhelming exhaustion take him.
Chapter Three
Was it possible to go mad from boredom in less than a day? George was bleary-eyed after a night of tossing and turning, haunted by dreams of a dark-haired virago who alternately berated him and forced him to the ground and kissed him. Waking up to the cheerful presence of the veiled maid only added insult to injury, even if she did bring a breakfast tray and a freshly pressed change of clothing. At least he thought it was the same maid, but he couldn’t be sure. The Jack of this morning seemed to be shorter and a little broader than he had the previous evening. Additionally, he didn’t exhibit any signs of fatigue from standing on guard all night.
After the maid removed the breakfast tray, she and the guard left George alone for several hours. That is, he presumed it was several hours, as his pocket watch had been removed and the lack of windows gave him no indication of the passage of the day. He went over every inch of the room, looking for any means of escape or even a peephole that might let him know if he was being spied upon, but he found nothing. The room was as bare and secure as a bank vault. Even the nails on which pictures had formerly hung had been removed, leaving only tiny indentations in the wall to indicate they were ever there.
By teatime, or what he thought was teatime, he had long given up hope of finding a weakness in the room and sat in gloomy despondence, unused to either the helplessness or the inactivity. At one point he’d even stripped the mattress
and yanked it off the bed, but the feather tick was as useless of a weapon as the pillows, and the bedframe was a solid piece of wood with no loose joints or pieces that he could pull apart. When the maid entered with the midday meal, her reaction to the mess he’d made was less than positive.
“Mr. Wells, what have you done?” If there was an edict against talking, it was promptly forgotten in her chagrin. “Look at this mess, and me having to clean it up, and my hands full already. And where are you going to have your tea? I was going to put it on the bed, but now there’s no place but the floor. I swear I should let you eat off the floor, like a dog.”
“I…I’m sorry,” said George, surprised at how abashed he felt in the face of the maid’s wrath.
“Sorry isn’t going to make this all cleaned up now, is it?”
“I can clean it up.”
“As if I would let a guest clean this up, even if he was the one who did it,” sniffed the maid. “Jack, you stay here and watch Mr. Wells and make sure he doesn’t touch anything else. I’ll be back in a tick.” She swept out, carrying the tray with her. George watched the tray leave with regret. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he’d smelled the aromas coming from the covered dishes.
“I say,” he said to Jack, “how about you give me a hand and we can put this right before she gets back? I’ll make it worth your while.”
Jack’s chest rumbled with laughter. “There’s nowt you can give me that’d be worth crossing her temper. Nah, you stay put like she said, and we’ll both get out of it alive.” The touch of Cockney definitely hadn’t been there the night before.
George sat on the edge of the bedframe and waited until the maid returned, but when the door opened it was Jane, looking put out.
“Mary tells me you’ve made a bit of trouble for her.”
