Scarlet Devices

by Delphine Dryden

  If Eliza had grown up with a big brother, Matthew would have given him a run for his money. He had never let her tag along when it came to working on the truly exciting projects. He found her interest in delicate clockwork devices charming and appropriate for a young lady, but not so her interest in things like locomotive engines and velocimobiles. And he always, always pointed out that she could lose a finger in the machinery, as if the mere prospect of such a hazard should be enough to dissuade any properly brought-up girl. As if he were not himself at the same risk. But if you didn’t take that risk, how could you find out what made the thing go?

  The early afternoon sun shone through the dark bronze of Matthew Pence’s hair, lending him a halo that Eliza couldn’t help but view as ironic.

  “I’ll put myself at your disposal,” he insisted. She didn’t remember him as being so obnoxiously chivalrous. “Consider me your minion. With two of us working, surely you’ll be able to repair your vehicle more quickly?”

  “It’s just overheated,” she explained. “Or nearly so. It ran close to dry but I caught it in time. There’s really nothing to do but wait for it to cool enough to add more water. My own fault, I’m afraid. I’ve been stopping frequently to take photographs and letting the engine idle too long. This one builds up steam quickly, which is convenient, but it needs close minding because it’s so small.”

  And it needed a thorough tune-up, something she hadn’t been able to accomplish often enough while attending college. Poughkeepsie hadn’t been much of a town for motoring, though had she needed to render a whale for blubber, she would have been in the perfect place.

  The young man leaned his weight onto one foot, settling into a pose common among fashionable toffs of the day. It irritated Eliza, who knew it was just an affectation he adopted out in public, for polite society. A pretense that he was still a son of privilege rather than a machinery-loving apostate. He had always been good at blending in, though, becoming part of the prevalent social scenery. In some ways she envied him that skill. “Photographs? Flora or fauna?”

  “Workers who claim their lost loved ones have ‘gone west,’ never to return again,” she told him, daring him with her eyes to take her up on this topic. “I photograph them holding portraits of the missing. I was also conducting interviews and gathering anecdotal data. I’ve noticed some interesting correlations.”

  Matthew raised an eyebrow but didn’t take the bait as he once might have. Back in the days when she had run into him frequently at Dexter Hardison’s factory, Pence would have been the first to chide Eliza for taking such a risk, haring off on her own and talking to strangers.

  Now it seemed he had lost some of that interest in her welfare, or perhaps simply developed more circumspection about stating it. In fact, Eliza thought, he seemed a bit distracted in general. Perhaps it was the problem of the engine. It was clear he still itched to get his fingers on it.

  He wore a metal flower on his chest, a sleek, stylized closed lily bud in some silver brushed metal. It was far more understated than her heckler’s had been, but it reminded her of the man all the same. She wondered if Pence knew him.

  “Hardison House is only twenty or so miles from here,” Matthew pointed out. “I’d be more than happy to give you a lift, so you can make the party sooner. It wouldn’t do to cross Charlotte by being late. She’s inclined to be touchy these days.”

  “I suspect she has good reason.”

  Eliza thought she’d be touchy too if she were as tiny as Charlotte, Lady Hardison, but carrying the undoubtedly huge child of a man the size of her cousin Dexter. Because she was nearly as small as Charlotte, the very idea daunted Eliza. She had recently vowed only to look at slight, slender men as spousal prospects should she ever decide to marry. Preferably men with smallish heads and narrow shoulders. Pence’s shoulders were rather broad, like most makesmiths’, despite his fashionable slimness. It made her even more irked at him, though she knew she was being unreasonable because of the incident at the lecture. She couldn’t help it; she resented those effortlessly capable-looking shoulders.

  “I’ll be fine,” Eliza said firmly. “I don’t require help, but I thank you for the offer.” She procured a large bottle of water from under the seat of the vehicle, then used a funnel to add a slow trickle of liquid to the cooling unit. “In fact, you should start off again now or I’ll beat you to the party.”

  In Pence’s smug chuckle, Eliza heard the first hint of the younger version she remembered. “Not likely. You never could have before.”

  “Really? A dare? Would you care to wager on that? I’m more than old enough to gamble now, lest you be concerned for my morals.” She was already tightening the fittings, closing up the boiler and securing the latch. A bet would make the last few miles to Dexter’s party fly by.

  Sadly, Pence declined to make it as interesting as he could have. “Certainly, Miss Hardison. If I win—and I don’t mind saying I intend to—I’ll claim the first waltz of the evening from you once the dancing starts.”

  “I . . . oh, fine then. Fair enough.” Eliza was not inclined to waltz with anyone, least of all with Matthew Pence. But she didn’t plan to lose, so it seemed a safe enough stake. No need to tell her competition about the Leyden jar battery cleverly concealed beneath the velocimobile’s seat, and the boost its charge would give to her starting speed until the boiler reached full steam. “If I win, I’ll claim fifty pounds and when my book is published you’ll put an endorsement in the Times. Quarter-page at least.”

  The terms took him aback, it was clear, but he covered nicely. “All right. May I ask what this book is about? A novel, perhaps? I didn’t know you had writing aspirations, those must be new.”

  With a final yank to the boiler cover’s handle, Eliza cranked the engine until it kicked into life, then stalked back to the velocimobile’s seat where she stowed the half-empty water jug and funnel before she strapped herself in. “It’s a monograph on worker-landowner negotiation inequities and the impact of subliminal psychological manipulation by authority figures on common laborers.”

  Grinning at Pence’s look of dismayed astonishment, she released the handbrake and engaged the gears simultaneously, triggering the start capacitor.

  “Ready, steady, go, Matthew!” she called back to him, as he belatedly ran for his steam car.

  TWO

  THE MINX HAD beaten him to Hardison House quite handily. Matthew allowed himself a brief sulk as he arrived in Hardison’s forecourt to see Eliza’s scruffy velocimobile already parked between a large steam coach and a venerable carriage.

  Waving off the footman who approached to take his driving coat and goggles, Pence instead dumped his things on his vehicle’s front seat before dusting off and heading in search of a drink to cool his parched throat. He found an underbutler with a tray of chilled champagne the moment he stepped through the parlor onto the terrace.

  “Bless you,” he murmured at the servant, knocking back one glass immediately, then taking another before the tray could be carried out of reach. Scanning the gardens, Matthew marveled at the changes the past few years had brought to the place, so much more noticeable here than in the house proper. Inside, the baroness had made some alterations, tidied things up, provided a woman’s touch here and there, but the decor still showed strong signs of the Hardison mens’ obsessions—the fantastical clockwork left visible through some of the wall panels, exposing the workings of the estate’s elaborate chronometric communication system, and also more mundane items like a half-disassembled engine on an oilcloth, spread over the floor of a library that was probably meant to be closed to public view. In niches along the walls, where one might expect statuettes or other bibelot, polished specimen machines and masterfully tooled components were highlighted by tiny, carefully positioned lamps. Each piece was artwork in its way.

  The perfect blend of elegance and industry: a house where one could entertain royalty or magnates of tr
ade but still not worry overly much about getting grease spots on the Aubusson. And the people . . . Matthew knew he ought to find it vulgar, the way the adults indulged the children laughing and playing in the midst of the garden gathering. His family would find it horrifying, particularly his father, who was always so conscious of propriety. But Matthew didn’t. They looked so happy, all of them. He wished he could have grown up one of those joyful, energetic children.

  “Where’s Hardison?” he asked the hovering underbutler, once sufficiently lubricated.

  The young man frowned. “The Baron is in the rose pavilion, sir.”

  Matthew nodded and strode off, restraining another sigh at the servant’s poorly hidden sneer. Another change wrought by the new Lady Hardison had been the addition of traditionally trained household staff to a manor that had done without them for years. None of the new servants had any truck with their master’s preference to forego his title; a baron they worked for, and a baron they would call him, even if he was flagrantly involved in trade. Nor were they particularly thrilled at the dubious proclivities displayed by Sir Paul Pence’s wayward son, who ought to know better than to dirty his hands tinkering about with the innards of motorcars and firearms and such.

  “Matthew!” a flutelike soprano called. “You’re here at last!”

  Entering the delicately outlined framework of the so-called “rose pavilion,” Matthew took the outstretched hands that Lady Hardison offered, placing a kiss on the back of each.

  “Enough of that,” stated her husband firmly.

  Matthew gave up the lady’s hands with a show of terror, then clasped Dexter Hardison’s in friendship.

  “Felicitations on your birthday, sir. Charlotte, you’re looking even more radiant than usual.”

  “I’m all a-dew,” Lady Hardison said wryly. She was noticeably pregnant, and this would likely be her last major social appearance before her confinement.

  “Has Smith-Grenville found you yet?” Dexter asked. “He says he has a bone to pick with you.”

  Matthew shook his head. “I just arrived. I came in shortly after Eliza. Actually I tried to come to her aid on the roadside, but it seems—”

  “She didn’t require any assistance,” the lady in question spoke up from behind him. “I’m so sorry to have thwarted your philanthropic effort, Matthew. Dexter, happy birthday!”

  Eliza stepped around Matthew as she spoke, and while she stretched up to give her cousin a hug, Matthew tried to gather his scattered wits. This couldn’t be the same girl. He’d just seen her, barely an hour ago. She’d looked the same as ever then, still the child he remembered, a skinny wisp of a thing in a ridiculously oversized driving coat, hair in a plait sticking out from the back of her helmet, bits of it escaping here and there, a light sweat on her brow from the steam of the engine and freckles all over the bridge of her nose. He’d been quite sure the freckles were still there an hour ago.

  Stunning, he thought, as she pulled away from Dexter and embraced Charlotte, the older woman’s rounded belly making it a bit awkward for them both.

  Eliza Hardison had swept her inky hair into a loose bun arrangement and changed into a white, floating, garden-party sort of dress with a jade green satin bow just below her modest but remarkably well-formed—when the hell did that happen?—bosom. The fabric flowed down, the drape broken only by the sweet curve—dear God, made for a man’s hands—of her hips. Her skin was almost as pale as the gauzy fabric, and nary a freckle in sight. Not that he managed to keep his gaze in the vicinity of her nose for long.

  He pressed a finger to his upper lip, surprised to feel perspiration breaking out there. He couldn’t decide whether to thank or curse the gods of fashion who had decided the bustle needed to make itself disappear again this season.

  “Eliza, is the velocimobile giving you trouble again?” Dexter twitted her. “You know if you would only agree to a test drive, I’d give you such a pretty steam car, you can’t imagine. And a wee airship to match.”

  “That’s more than just a test drive, cousin. I’m sorry, I realize I’m the smallest person you know after Charlotte, but you’ll simply have to find another replacement. Either that or convince the rally committee to postpone their race until Lady Hardison is out of confinement and back in flying form.”

  Dexter laughed, turning to bring Matthew back into the conversation. “While you were off in the city, I concocted a scheme to convince Eliza to take Charlotte’s place in the Sky and Steam Rally. But she insists she’s not the Hardison for the job. Her aspirations are too lofty, I think. Our little bluestocking social reformer, remember?”

  Matthew smiled dutifully, trying to remember. Had Eliza been a bluestocking back then, even before she went away to pursue her studies at Vassar? He supposed so, but mostly he remembered his constant fear that she would lose a limb to some whirring fan blade or get her hair caught in a flywheel, and the attendant concern that Dexter would then kill Matthew for letting his cousin be maimed on his watch. Or at the very least dismiss him from employment—with extreme prejudice and no character. He’d only been Dexter’s assistant a year or so at that time, and hadn’t known that he and the baron would become friends as well as colleagues.

  Perhaps it was that old training kicking in, but Matthew’s stomach clenched at the idea of Eliza haring off across the continent. Airships and steam cars still disappeared all the time going cross-country, particularly over the Sierra Nevada, and no gentleman in his right mind would encourage a vulnerable young woman to traverse such a hazardous route.

  Strangely, Hardison seemed to be quite serious in his efforts to cajole Eliza into the scheme. “The airship doesn’t have to match the steam car, you know. We can make it any color you like. Pence has an entire book of swatches now, he keeps it in the showroom for the ladies to choose from. And you’d get a healthy share of the prize money, of course.”

  “Dexter,” Lady Hardison warned him, “you’ll run her off. She’s said no, leave it for a bit. Come with me, Eliza, we’ll talk about things that would appall the men if we stayed.”

  “Feminine problems?” Eliza proposed sweetly.

  “Millinery,” Charlotte suggested.

  “God help us,” Dexter said, gesturing the ladies out of the pavilion before turning back to Matthew. “Ready to tell me about your mysterious errand in the city yet?”

  “Not just yet.” Matthew sipped at his champagne to cover his unease. That was a conversation for another time. “I trust you managed well enough in my absence? The place doesn’t seem to have exploded.”

  “It was a near thing at times. A whole three days, anything might have happened. But no matter, I’ve simply left the worst messes in your office for you to handle at your leisure. Might want to arrive a little early Monday morning.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, sir. So you’re actually hoping Eliza will take you up on this offer to replace Charlotte? Isn’t she a bit . . .” he considered and discarded some words and phrases like naïve, delicate and too young to be let off her leash before finally settling on, “inexperienced?”

  Dexter frowned. “I need her. Don’t you go discouraging her, Pence. While Eliza may not be as tiny as Charlotte, she’s not far off, and as far as I know, none of the other teams can sport anything like the range of our small dirigibles because of the weight and drag. The pilot of our entry must be petite or we lose that advantage. And Eliza drives as naturally as a fish swims. Sadly,” he admitted, “she seems adamant in her refusal thus far.”

  Shaking his head, Matthew returned the frown. “But the risk? Yes, she’s willowy, but surely there’s a better option. There’s always the possibility that portions of the Sierra Nevada truly are unnavigable, assuming she even made it to the airship leg without mishap. And never mind the physical dangers, think of the rough talk, the other racers and the crowds. Sending a gently born young woman like that into such company alone, unchaperoned, unprotec
ted—”

  “Oh, I wasn’t intending her to be entirely alone, Pence.”

  “But the weight?” Matthew scanned his employer’s frame and cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not a bad driver, I’ll give you that, but she’d leave you behind the first mile of the first airship leg.”

  “You misunderstand. I—”

  “Pence!”

  Matthew looked up and spotted his friend, Lord Barnabas Smith-Grenville, making his way down the garden path.

  Dexter greeted the new arrival with a nod. “Smith-Grenville. I was just explaining to Matthew why I thought Miss Eliza Hardison should serve as my lady’s replacement driver in the rally. He seems unreasonably resistant to the idea.”

  “Hardison, happiest of birthdays to you, and you already know I wish Hardison House the best of luck at the rally. Though I might wish you better company than this turncoat here.”

  “Sorry?” Matthew looked at Barnabas, who was shooting an ostentatious glare at him. “Did you just call me a turncoat?”

  Damn, he’s found me out already.

  “Indeed. It’s no wonder you’re opposed to Eliza driving and flying for Hardison House. She certainly has you beat for weight, Pence.”

  “What’s this?” Dexter asked. He’d been looking like he might head off and mingle elsewhere, but now his attention was drawn sharply back to Matthew, who squirmed under the scrutiny. “Something to tell me, Mr. Pence?”

  Matthew cleared his throat and squared his shoulders bravely. He might have to thrash Smith-Grenville for the whole business later, but for now it was time to come clean. “I’m participating in the Sky and Steam Rally myself, sir,” he confessed. “It will be the first official professional venture of Pence Clock and Steamworks.”

  A heavy silence blanketed the three men for several awkward moments, broken only by Smith-Grenville’s stifled throat clearing as he examined the nearest rosebush with sudden keen interest.