“You’re just in time, sir.” Francis greeted him. “Maud is about to serve afternoon tea.”
“Huh.” Jed stripped off his gloves and dropped them beside his hat on the hall table before shrugging out of his wet coat.
Francis whistled under his breath, a short commentary on Jed’s mood. One which Jed easily ignored as he strode on to the library.
“Jed.” Esme glanced up, startled.
“I’ll fetch another cup.” Maud bustled about. “Thank goodness you’re alive, sir. I never had such a fright as when…” Belatedly, a sense of his mood seemed to reach her. She shot a shrewd look between his scowl and Esme’s too-intent focus on her plate. “There we are. Thank goodness I made extra. Cooking always settles my nerves. Bon appétit, as the French say.” Maud abandoned them to miniature bacon-and-egg pies, sandwiches, tea cakes and whatever storm was brewing.
“Your chief of police is a fool,” Jed said.
“Munroe? He’s not the most imaginative of men.” Esme served him two tiny pies and a ham-and-pickle sandwich.
“He’s an idiot.” Jed was in no mood to dance around matters. He adopted an exceedingly bad upper-class British accent. “‘Ishaan Prasad is a gentleman, Indian I know, but a good fellow. Went to Oxford. I’m a Cambridge man, myself, but still… No, no, you’re stirred up about nothing. Anarchists—bah. Dirty, uneducated scum. Ishaan Prasad is a gentleman.’”
“I gather you took our suspicions to Colonel Munroe and he wouldn’t have a bar of it?”
“He laughed me out of his office.” Jed bit savagely into a bacon-and-egg pie. Pastry crumbled. “And the remains of the workshop are still too hot to be studied for evidence of arson. Plus, as Munroe pointed out, I couldn’t actually produce the thief who asserted Nazim’s guilt.”
“Did you mention Lajli’s name?”
“No. By that point, I’d realized Munroe was a fool. I’m going to build that darned prototype of a sonic destroyer and prove to him that the plot is real, that Nazim is dangerous.”
“Speaking of Nazim…” she began.
He put down the second pie, uneaten. “What have you done?”
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t take up the challenge of his condemnatory tone. “I telephoned Ayesha about another matter and she had a message from Nazim to pass on to us. He invites us to attend his socialist lecture, tonight.”
“Hell’s teeth!” Jed exploded.
Esme watched in fascination as his face flushed and his expression grew thunderous. Jed was always so in control. Most people didn’t notice, but he had a habit of command that he generally cloaked in good humor. But now he was frankly furious and his power came through.
She tingled a little with the impact of it.
No, no, she didn’t. Hurriedly, she concentrated on crumbling a tea cake. Only that morning she’d told him their courtship was at an end. She couldn’t allow him to affect her this way. She most definitely did not tingle.
He banged a fist on the table. “To burn down my workshop was threat enough. If he tries anything else, I’ll strangle the worm.”
“Yes, well, perhaps he merely wishes to communicate a message to us and realizes he can’t come up to the house.”
“If he comes anywhere near you, I will strangle him.”
The Bible advised that a soft answer turneth away wrath. “According to Ayesha, Nazim’s invitation was to both of us. I did try to find you to tell you, but you’d gone. I didn’t know if you were coming back.”
“Because you’d given me my marching orders?” He scowled at her.
That quickly, the conversation switched to the personal.
She floundered. “I didn’t…that is, I just said…I thought…our courtship…”
“Sweetheart, I heard what you said.”
Ridiculous how her heart revived at the endearment. Her heart—wretched, disobedient organ that it was—refused to behave sensibly.
“But I also felt how you held me and trembled after you thought you’d lost me. You’re a terrible coward, Esme Smith.” He smiled with the taunt. “But you were half-right. Your being a suffragette does make a difference.” He paused, but she was too wary to comment. “So far I’ve been the one risking everything in this courtship.”
“Hardly.”
“Indisputably. I’ve courted you the old-fashioned way. I’ve escorted you to everything, asked you everywhere, danced attendance on you. Enough. If you want me—and you do, little coward with cold feet—you’ll have to court me.” He wiped his mouth with the serviette and stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be down in the workroom till our appointment with Nazim.” He left.
She transferred her astonished stare to the empty doorway. Then, deliberately, she pinched herself. “Ouch.”
Which meant she wasn’t dreaming and Jed had just dared her to court him.
Part of her admired his clever strategy. He’d abandoned pleasing and reassuring her for a flat-out challenge. The greater part of her wondered if she could resist the challenge.
How would it feel to court Jed?
Chapter Eleven
“Who knew there were so many dratted socialists in Swan River.” Jed ushered Esme into the hall of the Mechanics Institute and saw the row of chairs occupied by men from the working and middle classes and by a surprising number of beribboned and flirtatious women.
They hadn’t exchanged any conversation on the short ride to the meeting, and he wondered how she’d respond to his challenge.
At least she hasn’t hit me over the head with her umbrella. It was a calculated risk, turning the reins of their courtship over to Esme. But then, it wasn’t as though he’d been doing such a great job of steering it.
For a supposedly intelligent man, it had taken him a disgraceful length of time to understand Esme’s fear that his courtship threatened her independence. That was why she’d been so determined to run into trouble, flying dirigibles and heaven knew what else. She needed to prove to the world and to herself that loving him didn’t make her less, didn’t make her weak. He had to respect her suffragette pride.
Jed sat beside Esme and folded his arms. Her hand on his knee stopped the irritated tapping of his foot. She smiled and withdrew her gloved hand.
He’d been a fool, but he had a second chance.
Nazim strode to the podium, and a sighing ripple came from the ladies in the room. Jed scowled. So what if the man was handsome. He was a menace. After a few minutes, though, he had to admit the man could talk.
“The rich own gold, land, houses, jewels and more. Ah, so much more. They own our newspapers and our thoughts, the plays staged in our theaters and the songs sung in our music halls. They own our hearts and our minds—and that is what we must change because it is we who keep them rich and ourselves poor.” Nazim seemed to feel no embarrassment at his own wealthy, fashionable attire. “The poor must be taught to believe in their most secret hearts that they are as good as a duke, as important as an archbishop. And the important men must learn that the earth is not theirs to rule over and exploit.”
He segued into the standard socialist spiel: “…an eight-hour day…access to public libraries and healthy outdoor activities…social welfare on the Prussian model, but more advanced…recognition of women’s rights…”
Jed glanced at Esme. This was the sort of equality she fought for, the principles of respect for all humanity that she believed in wholeheartedly.
After flinging his dare at her, he’d descended to the hidden workroom to study the blueprints with an eye to building the prototype. It appeared remarkably easy, a matter of following the intricate design of the blueprints with scrupulous accuracy. He was an inventor—he could do that. Indeed, it would be a relief to have concrete work, not tangled emotions or devious opponents to deal with.
Esme’s father’s workroom was well stocked, but he would have to buy a few items. The list of what he needed resided in his jacket pocket. The slip of paper made no impression on the set of his jacket. His pistol, on the oth
er hand, created an odd outline, even if most of the civilized audience wouldn’t realize what the bulge of his shoulder holster indicated.
And the crowd at Nazim’s socialist lecture was most definitely civilized.
This wasn’t a meeting of radicals, but of grumbling malcontents and frivolous people in search of entertainment. Jed had been in Swan River long enough to recognize faces and learn something of their histories. Mr. Gilbertson, slouched in a corner, had never worked in his life, but mooched off his father-in-law. Miss Pudding ostensibly kept house for her widowed schoolmaster brother, but in fact filled her days with social criticism and writing bitter, confused letters to the newspapers. A small group of young Indian men sat together, watching Nazim earnestly, looking for a role model.
“Any final questions? My friends, I thank you.” Nazim wound up the evening with aplomb, bowed to enthusiastic applause and stepped down from the podium.
Was this what Nazim had intended to prove to them, his unassailable social position? Who would believe that this dandy was a dangerous anarchist? They would laugh at the notion, as Munroe had. Nazim’s camouflage, like that of the best of predators, was too perfect.
Acquaintances caught Jed and Esme, holding them up with an exchange of courtesies and genial gossip while the young men and women mobbed Nazim.
“I’m glad your burn is healing. Every garden should have aloe vera,” Esme said to elderly Miss Dalrymple. “Irons are so dangerous. Do you have a ride home? Jed and I can give you a seat.”
But Miss Dalrymple had arrived with Mr. and Mrs. Helmsworth and “wouldn’t dream of intruding.”
The gig was an open carriage, so there was no impropriety in their being together.
No privacy, either.
“Miss Smith, Mr. Reeve.” Taking in their evident intention to depart, Nazim shook off his admirers and descended. “May I claim a moment of your time? I shall walk you to your carriage.” His manner discouraged any other company.
Outside the hall, the stars were bright overhead. A boobook called, quietly melancholic. The small owl was seldom visible in town. Down at the harbor, a steamboat whistled, departing with the tide.
“Say what you have to say, Nazim.” Jed contemplated how satisfying it would be to punch him in his smirking face. There was the outstanding matter of all he’d lost in the workshop fire. A knockout punch to the jaw would go some way to leveling the score.
“The affairs of India are none of your business. Believe what you will, but this girl you protect, Lajli, is a thief. What she stole from me, she must return. When she does so, she will be safe.”
“That sounds like a threat. How can she—we—trust you?” He looked at Esme, who was studying Nazim through narrowed eyes. So she, too, noticed that he answered to Nazim, abandoning the pretense of the false identity.
“I have no intention of staying in this dreary town a moment longer than I must. Do not think yourselves of such great interest to me that I would waste an instant’s thought on you, did you not stand between me and my rightful property. We are practical men, you and I. Return to me what is mine and we go our separate paths. Your little thief shall be safe.”
Esme nodded fractionally and Jed agreed. Time to confirm that he, not Lajli, possessed the blueprints for Kali’s Scream. Then the girl would be safe. “I have your papers.”
The Indian opened his hands and waved them in a generous, graceful gesture. “You have studied them?” His mouth tightened at Jed’s nod. “Such a beautiful design. My felicitations to you, sir, on this wondrous opportunity you have to study its principles. You conceive of its brilliance. My friend was very talented. Thanks to his sonic amplifier, deaf shall hear—”
“It’s a weapon,” Esme corrected him flatly.
Jed grinned. Challenging Nazim was dangerous, but he liked hearing her tell the man off.
“What it is, is none of your business.” When he abandoned his flowery language, Nazim sounded ugly. “I want what is mine returned.”
Jed moved forward, judging that the smaller man wouldn’t dare use a knife or gun so near a watching crowd. “You don’t like Swan River. Fair enough. I suggest you leave. Now. Without your papers. You see, Nazim, far from returning the blueprints for Kali’s Scream to you, I intend to demonstrate to the authorities the extent of the fatal treachery you plan to enact against your own people.”
Satisfied by the shock that flickered across Nazim’s face—he was more accustomed to threatening than being threatened—Jed went to the horse’s head and unclipped the nosebag.
“Miss Esme, you should be afraid for yourself and all you hold dear.”
Jed turned swiftly.
But Nazim had already retreated toward the light and audience of the hall. His final words drifted back. “Give me Lajli.”
“Why would we do that?” Esme frowned. “Why would he want her?”
Jed craved action not speculation. “I should pound him.”
“Prove that Kali’s Scream is a weapon of devastation, and we can hand him over to the authorities. As it stands, he has shown tonight that he is very convincing. Who here would believe him capable of plotting conscienceless murder?”
“No one.” He sighed sharply. The young ladies greeted Nazim with flutterings and coos of delight. A male hand slapped him jovially on the back as he joined the group. “At least you see his evil.”
She ignored the comment as Jed helped her into the gig. “What makes a man so careless of people’s lives?”
He climbed in and shook the reins. The horse started off. “I’m an inventor, not a philosopher. I cannot explain why some men love and others hate.”
In the narrow bench seat, their shoulders brushed.
Nazim had dared to threaten her.
His hands tightened on the reins. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper with Munroe. We might have been able to convince him to have someone watch Nazim, even if the snake can’t be arrested till we have proof the sonic amplifier works.”
“I suspect Nazim could have given any watcher the slip.”
“True.”
The tinny sound of a cheap phonograph floated on the air from a nearby cottage. Someone had set Robbie Burns’s poem to music. Oh my love is a red, red rose…
“Esme.” Private thoughts and vulnerabilities were easier to share under the veil of evening shadows. A man could even ask for reassurance. “I’m waiting for you to woo me. I won’t need much encouragement. A few sweet words, a kiss.”
“You have a nerve, Jed Reeve.”
“‘I dare do all that may become a man; who dares do more is none.’” He quoted Shakespeare softly. “You need me. Don’t shake your head. I need you, too. Loving someone doesn’t make you weaker—less, as you called it. I’ve been on my own ten years and more, traveling everywhere. I was never tempted to give up my independence, to modify my desires to another’s needs. Until I met you.”
“Jed.”
“It’s your choice, sweetheart. First we’ll deal with Nazim and his darned threats. Take the time to think about a life with me or a life without me.”
She resented the hint of ultimatum. Then she noticed the tense set of his jaw. He wasn’t as confident as he appeared, and that cut the heat from her steam of indignation.
Abruptly she wished she’d brought a shawl to the meeting. A life without Jed would be very cold.
Chapter Twelve
If you want my love, you have to woo me.
Jed’s challenge still echoed two days later as Esme sat in the library and contemplated the stack of letters, mute evidence of her industry, waiting on the corner of her desk. He hadn’t repeated it, but his mere presence, the knowledge he was in the secret workroom beneath the house, made her restless.
And then there was the threat Nazim represented.
She’d dressed carefully this morning, taking certain precautions. Against all usual practice, the gates to the stable yard and house were shut and bolted.
It had been quite a performance, dragging the heavy
wrought-iron gates over the leaf litter and dirt that had built up against them through months of standing open. There’d been the rusty immobility of the bolts. Francis had muttered, but Esme had been adamant. Andrew had arrived with an oil can and squirted generously, splattering himself and Francis, much to the latter’s vocal disgust.
Try how she would, she couldn’t dismiss from her mind Nazim’s threat against all she held dear. She discovered that courage in the face of a personal threat was relatively simple. One took precautions and walked tall. But courage in the face of threats to those one loved…ah, that was a horse of a different color.
Anyone who ambushed her father at his mining claim would deserve everything they got. After his last trip home, he’d returned to it with the makings of an electric generator and the declared intention of shocking intruders.
Ayesha was known to Nazim as a friend of Esme’s. If he found out Ayesha was harboring Lajli, he’d go after them violently. True, Ayesha had designed any number of ingenious gadgets to ensure women’s safety. Although her chloroform bulb required some additional work. At the moment it was prone to self-detonation, with unfortunate results for all in its vicinity.
Heaven knew what devastation Nazim might cause in crowded Bombaytown. With its many wooden buildings, fire was a constant threat. People could die and he would only shrug. In his twisted mind, their lives would be the price paid for thwarting him.
Please God that Nazim never learns of Ayesha’s involvement. It was hard enough dealing with the knowledge that Jed remained his primary target.
Uncle Henry, Jane Bryant, her good friend, and Mrs. Neeson, her godmother—there were so many people whose suffering would hurt her.
Loving anyone made you vulnerable.
This morning, work was her attempt to avoid that fact and her thoughts.
With a flourish, she signed her name to a reasoned, powerfully argued letter to the governor, glancing over it a final time. Let him wriggle out of this indictment of the government’s lack of care for ex-convict women. Poor old souls. They’d suffered enough from what was usually a small crime of theft or opportunity—transported to the other side of the world, separated from friends and family—and now, decades after transportation ended, if they hadn’t rebuilt their lives, they were facing old age in lonely, desperate poverty.
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