The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel

by Philippa Ballantine

  The woman stood in the Duke of Sussex’s parlour, taking in its opulence, the details of the artwork surrounding them, and trinkets from his travels abroad. A beautiful woman would hardly be unwelcome in his home, yet every instinct in his body screamed to get her out of there. It was the same woman who had so impertinently summoned him to an audience with the Maestro. She had dressed differently then, but just as wantonly, perhaps wishing to tempt him.

  As if she could.

  Her creamy long neck was in evidence as she had her dark hair pinned up, and a vast expanse of matching soft curves, since she was wearing a grey shirt over the top of her corset. Captivating as she was, the fashion for undergarments being on show with a certain set of society had never sat well with Sussex. Still, even unfaltering in his devotion to his family, the Duke was still a man. Her wicked, immodest dress undoubtedly made his pulse race and distracted him from important thoughts. Her slim legs encased in a pair of highly inappropriate riding breeches hardly calmed his nerves.

  He cleared his throat. “What did you say again?”

  Her voice was soft, traced with the exotic beauty of Tuscany, and yet with all her allure, she somehow still managed to warn him of what she was capable. The thunder from outside preluding her words should have been melodramatic, but Sussex found the moment rather ominous. “My master is here. He demands an audience with you about our plans for the celebration.”

  Adjusting his cravat, Sussex did not meet the beautiful intruder’s eyes. “How did he get in? This is my house, my sanctuary. I never—”

  “There is nowhere closed to my master,” she replied smoothly. “He goes where he wills, and today he wills that in your house you welcome him.”

  Sussex’s thoughts immediately turned to Ivy. Fenning had told him she was entertaining some of her lady friends downstairs. Certainly there was nothing to be done about the Maestro being here, but he could only hope that Ivy kept the tea flowing and the gossip along with it.

  It was most fortunate his sons were both away at boarding school.

  Sussex got to his feet and, though his stomach was rolling with fear, said to the woman, “Where is he?”

  “In the library.” She tilted her head and examined him with her bright eyes. “You look ill, my lord. Do you need a glass of fortification before this?”

  Last time she had shown no concern for his well-being—quite the contrary in fact. This change in attitude made him feel, rather strangely, better.

  “No, I am quite well. It was just the oysters I ate last night.”

  She nodded, though did not smile or make further comment. Instead, she turned and led him to his own library, as if somehow she was the footman to the Maestro, and now it was Sussex who was a stranger in his own house. She opened the door to the room that had once been a sanctuary, and following him in, shut it behind her.

  Sussex glanced around the library, and at first all he saw was familiar: the warm scarlet drapes, the polished wood, the rows of leather-bound books. Then a figure turned to face him, but it was an entirely human one. Henry Jekyll, his old friend and doctor, was here.

  Sussex felt his throat seize. Why was Henry here? Was he also bound in servitude to the masked and terrifying man in the brass suit? The doctor had the protection of the Queen of the British Empire now. What could the Maestro possibly hold over this brilliant man of science to make him betray his loyalties to the Crown?

  He opened his mouth to ask that very thing, when the hiss of steam venting caught his attention.

  Spinning around, the duke caught a glimpse in the flicker of lightning of the Maestro, standing within the thick shadows it supplied. He was frighteningly silent in his approach considering all the metal that was strapped on him. Or perhaps he’d been standing there the whole time watching Sussex enter the room? Either possibility was not worth contemplating.

  He glanced at the woman and Henry as if they could supply answers. The Italian whore crossed her arms in front of her chest, her face settling into a vaguely disappointed cast. The doctor’s expression however remained calm, in fact with a slight smile on it.

  “Peter,” he said, moving forwards to shake the duke’s hand, “wonderful to see you again. You look”—he peered into the woman’s eyes—“well enough.”

  “I am not,” Peter snapped, only to hold his breath again. As he slowly exhaled, he motioned with his head in the direction of the Maestro. “Not when such company calls upon my house like this.”

  Henry shared a strange glance at his female companion, but swivelled quickly back. “You remember the Maestro, though, don’t you? From the airship when you were on holiday?”

  Sussex frowned. Memories were tricky things, almost as elusive as eels. He pressed a hand to his head. “We were on the continent, doing the grand tour by airship . . . I remember that . . . and then . . . then there was an accident . . .”

  “I was there. You saw me.” The Maestro’s voice came out twisted by the brass and steam. “I saved your whole family, and on the return voyage to England, I began conversations with Henry here.”

  The recollection was fuzzy. Sussex recalled the airship well enough, with its delightful panorama. “I was sick,” he said slowly, his gaze never leaving the metallic monster’s brass helmet. “My valet had to care for me most of the time, but then . . . yes there was an accident . . .”

  He remembered the screaming, and the terrible sensation of the airship losing altitude. People had been running about and he’d been unable to find his wife or his valet. “Was . . . was there a shooting?” he asked, taking a seat while he struggled with his twisting memories.

  “There was.” The Maestro did not move from his spot near the dark window, but his glowing ocular seemed to brighten. It was blue this time, seeming to reflect his mood. Was there compassion in the Maestro’s words? “I took damage in your defence. I would at least hope you remember that.”

  Sussex looked towards Henry, but the doctor merely grinned at him as thunder rumbled softly outside.

  “Something amusing, Henry?” Sussex snapped.

  Henry’s face grew suddenly still. “I am merely observing two very good friends of mine finding common ground.”

  The question sounded choked. “Good friends?”

  The Italian shifted slightly at that, and Sussex was almost sure she had let out a very restrained gasp. The duke felt as though he were trapped in some terrible nightmare where everything familiar was suddenly not.

  “I don’t know why you are involved, Henry.” He put his head in his hands, just for a moment and closed his eyes. “We agree that change is needed, that the Empire is crumbling around us and we must treat that which slowly kills us from the inside. I know Victoria, under your care, is ready. She agrees a purge is needed.” His gaze switched to the Maestro. “But this . . . this monster . . . is he really necessary?”

  “Oh, I find monsters are usually very necessary in matters of violence—even if it is for the betterment of the world.” Jekyll took a step forwards and placed a hand on the duke’s arm. “You and I are men of reasoning, logic, and science, my dear fellow. The Maestro here is the instrument that is capable of the acts we both know are necessary, and he has, upon his call, resources that are key to success.” The doctor patted him as if he were a beloved pet. “We need you to sign the order placing the Maestro’s Grey Ghosts in charge of the Queen’s safety. Government bodies are so . . . particular about memorandums, following orders and all that bureaucracy.”

  Sussex swayed on his feet, his gaze darting around the room for an escape. If he ran fast enough, perhaps he could outdistance the assassin and the hulking brass monstrosity. Certainly, the rain outside would slow the Maestro down.

  But abandon Henry? His saviour?

  The duke’s hands clenched in and out on themselves. The doctor was everything to him—in truth possibly more so than Ivy and his boys. Without sanity he was not
hing at all, and Henry was his doorway to great things.

  The doctor was standing stock still, looking at him as calmly as he ever did. For his own part Sussex felt as though the carpet had been literally pulled out from under him. He’d trusted the doctor all this time, placed his sanity, his position in society, and his very dukedom in his hands. When there had been no one else that could help him, Henry had appeared from nowhere to offer him hope. Now that same champion was asking him to put pen to paper and place the Queen’s well-being under the care of the Maestro.

  “We have skilled men. Soldiers dedicated to our sovereign, ready to lay their lives selflessly for her.” Sussex wiped away a stream of sweat that was now coursing down his forehead. “I know nothing about these Grey Ghosts other than they answer to him.” As Sussex pointed to the Maestro, another flash of lightning caught the sheen of his armour.

  He had been bold to do so, but the Maestro remained motionless, the sapphire glow of his ocular steady and constant.

  “As a doctor I know there is a time and use for every instrument.” Jekyll tightened his hold on the duke’s arm. “The Maestro’s personal army is an instrument we will need during the celebration. Without the Grey Ghosts, the purge cannot occur.”

  “Perhaps you have simply lost your edge.” The angry words came out in a hiss of steam that made Sussex jump. “Typical.”

  Sussex refused to be put in his place by a creation that might or might not be human. Who knew if there was a man of any kind in that twisted brass façade, and if there was, if he was even an Englishman at all?

  Tugging down on his jacket, gathering the remaining tatters of his pride about himself, Sussex crossed the library and from a side table by his grand desk took out a cigarette from a silver case emblazoned with his family crest. The sight of it granted him a fresh courage.

  “Lost my edge, have I? Says the machine hiding in the shadows.” Sussex knew he was scrambling for ideas, some way to hold off the inevitable. He struck a match and lit the cigarette between his lips. “If you are the instrument Henry believes you to be, you appear to be a rather blunt one. I assume in your fashion you would be more useful as a hammer.”

  It was a rather lovely insult at his costume. Even the Italian strumpet seemed amused, catching a glimpse of her covering her bow-shaped mouth.

  He took a long deep puff of his cigarette, and blew the smoke in the Maestro’s direction. From his distance, it made no difference to the creation’s breathing, but Sussex hoped the symbolism was apparent.

  “How do I know you will follow our plan?” he sneered, daring to step closer to the Maestro. “How would I know your mind, your intentions, for the Empire? I am a gentleman of the House of Lords. You?” Closer still. He would have never dared to advance on the Maestro like this in the past. However, that was on his terms. Peter was still master of this manor. “You’re a beast trapped in brass. We share nothing in common.”

  He stared into the blue ocular that was presumably the brass man’s way of viewing the world, and tried to imagine the face that was buried in there behind the layers of technology. He was an abomination, but still mesmerising. He could see himself reflected in the grimy, battered surface, like a twisted distortion in a puddle of water. He observed the lines of bolts that held the man inside.

  A single flip of a latch, and he would unlock the Maestro’s mask just enough to see what hideous deformity lay beneath it.

  He heard the door open from behind him, but the velvet, familiar voice took his gaze away from the Maestro. “Peter, don’t.”

  The cigarette tumbled from his mouth as a clap of thunder sent a tremor through the library. Everything was falling apart around him. There was no stopping it now.

  Ivy did not look surprised. She stood there, her hand resting lightly on the door handle, while her gaze roamed over the rest of the people in the room. Words stuck in Sussex’s mouth as she gave a slight nod, entered the room, and shut the door behind her—all with no comment. She was wearing a tea gown to receive her innumerable ladies that she entertained for the betterment of London’s urchins. Ivy always had a cause. Her dark hair was pinned up, and she looked every inch the high society, respectable matron, yet when the words came out of her mouth, Sussex feared he might never let any out of his again.

  “So, Peter has found his courage, has he?” She shot a look at the Italian, a flicker of disdain passing over her face, before she took a seat in the chair between them.

  “Yes, Ivy.” Henry’s smile threatened to light up the library, outshining the gas lamps around them. “We thought you were occupied for the night.”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “The ladies have all been fed and watered, emptied of the contents of their pockets, and sent on their way.”

  The world dipped and swayed, so much so that Sussex thought he might pass out altogether. Ivy had no questions for him, no concerns for the thing in their house. And she knew the assassin. She knew her.

  “Ivy?” The pounding rain outside sounded stronger than his own voice, weak and trembling as it was.

  The brass mechanical man let out a dismissive snort of steam, causing Sussex to step back as he was acutely aware of how much within the Maestro’s reach he was.

  Ivy smoothed the lines of her beautiful dress, inclined her head and looked at him with the coolness she usually only reserved for servants. She had always been warmth and comfort to him, but now he saw none of that.

  “Yes, Peter?”

  “Did . . .” God, his throat was dry. He tried again. “Did you know about all this?” He waved his hand to encompass the massive joining of human and brass that threatened to take over his room, the still doctor, and the slightly smirking Italian woman.

  Ivy nodded, her eyes boring into Sussex. “I was one of the first people Henry here approached.” She leaned forwards a little, motioning to the chair before her. “Sit down, my love, before you fall down.”

  His hand gripped the seat’s high back, and he cast one final glance at the Maestro, who watched everything from the shadows. Turning his back on the Maestro, he found, did not fill him with as much dread as facing his wife.

  Once he had settled into the chair, his wife’s features softened as she took his hands into hers and confessed, “I was so worried for you, Peter. You were never the same after the war. You just became worse by the month, and it fell upon me to consider our family. I confided in Henry, and he seemed to think you would make an excellent subject for his trials.” Her bottom lip began to quiver as tears welled in her once-cold gaze. “Look at all the good he has done with you. You have come so far.”

  “I have?” he asked, a sob of his own escaping into the dimness of the room.

  “She loves you with such devotion . . .” hissed the brass man from the darkened corner, “though God knows why.”

  Now the foreign woman offered advice. “If you share this devotion, and trust her, you will listen to what she has to say.”

  His head pounded, threatening to split and spill his brains all over Ivy’s immaculate dress. Then, on Henry’s gentle nod to him, Sussex realised these were his only friends, his only loves in the entire world. Henry had kept him from madness while Ivy had been his steadfast supporter for many years. She was, after all, the mother of his children. And even the assassin. She had kept his secret.

  He licked his lips and asked Ivy, “What should I do?”

  “You need to sign the order, just as Henry has instructed.” Her voice was a low croon. “Give over control of the Queen’s protection to the Maestro, and let the Maestro do whatever monstrous deeds he needs to.”

  It sounded like such a simple thing to do. “The Queen. She relies on me. This is my sworn duty—”

  Ivy’s grip tightened suddenly on Sussex’s, causing him to cry out. If his hand had been trembling, the vice-like hold she had on him remedied that straightaway. He had no inkling Ivy possessed such str
ength.

  “Stuff duty,” she snapped, her tone so sharp he was afraid it would cut his throat. “You’ve had a butcher’s at the orders, now do wot the good doctor here done told ya to do! Sign the bleeding paper and be done wi’ it!”

  His wife’s voice had never sounded like that to him. If he wasn’t so certain of her breeding, Sussex might have believed Ivy was spawned from the East End or some other terrible district.

  “Ivy,” came Henry’s gentle, comforting voice, “no need to excite yourself.”

  Whatever horrifying humour had overcome her now slipped away from her, lifting as would a morning fog. The darkness disappeared from her eyes. Her touch was gentle again. She ran her fingertips along his cheek and tittered lightly.

  “My dear Peter, I love you and have never been more proud of you.”

  On her proclamation, Sussex slipped out of the chair to fall on his knees before her, allowing himself to collapse into her lap, sobbing in the folds of her dress. She smelled so sweet: warm roses, and exquisite tea. He felt secure there, and not even the aggravating hisses of the brass monster haunting him could destroy that peace.

  Her hand began to slowly stroke over his hair, as calming as his own mother’s—or rather the nurse who had raised him. Sussex felt a pen slip between his fingers. Raising his head, he saw Henry leaning down towards him with the instrument, his smile kindly and reassuring. With a silent acknowledgement, Peter Lawson, Duke of Sussex, understood. It was perfectly all right to sign orders charging the Maestro with the Queen’s protection. Perhaps the Maestro’s intentions remained a mystery, but Henry believed in Sussex’s vision of the Empire’s future. Henry was convinced the Grey Ghosts played an essential role in bringing this vision to a reality . . . and Sussex trusted Henry.

  With no other thought entering his brain, the duke scribbled the required signature onto the parchment. Then with a sigh of contentment, he let the pen drop from his fingers and roll away. As Sussex put his head once more in his wife’s lap, he felt so much lighter, both spiritually and emotionally, knowing that he had done the right thing.