A Soul's Worth

by T. S. Barnett

  Warren almost choked on his champagne. “Weren’t you listening? That’s precisely the opposite outcome of what I just told you.”

  “Not if you want to keep it a secret, it isn’t. Loads of people do it. You think there’s any shortage of young women in London who don’t want anything more out of a marriage than a few thousand a year in investments and a place to hold the occasional salon? I’ll introduce you to a few and you can have your choice.”

  “What, you’re serious? Just like that?”

  “Of course, just like that. You’re just the thing these days, my lad; any mother would be pleased to pass on her daughter to such a promising young man. You are a bit young, and there is that, I suppose. But that can be overlooked.”

  “But I couldn’t simply...for one thing, there would be certain expectations—”

  You’d make all those arrangements with the lady in advance, of course.”

  Warren frowned. “Your advice, then, is to tell this secret to an unknown number of single ladies of London until one of them agrees to the absolute promise of a loveless marriage?”

  “Most of them are bound for loveless marriages in any case, aren’t they?” Wakefield chuckled. “Love and marriage have very little to do with each other, in my experience. This way, at least, a man and his wife may be able to maintain an amicable friendship—an elusive goal if I ever heard one.”

  “And for telling secrets to women who aren’t sure to agree to such an arrangement?”

  “I’ll handle that.” He laughed and held up a hand at Warren’s skeptical glower. “Don’t worry, lad; I know how to be discreet. Go and enjoy the party. I’ll be surprised if I haven’t found you a bride by morning. Do you prefer brunettes or blondes?”

  “Honestly,” Warren hissed, but he found himself smiling as Wakefield ambled away, calling to another friend and waving his arm in a most indecorous fashion.

  “Warren Hayward is going to marry?” Cam asked while Warren took a sip of his champagne. “I have seen marriage in the books in the study. Are you and Ben not already married?”

  Warren shushed him, smiling brightly and shaking hands with a gentleman whose name he couldn’t quite remember as he passed by. “No, we aren’t,” he said when the man had passed. “I’ll explain when we’re at home. You mustn’t talk about Ben here, Cam.”

  The golem nodded, and Warren took a breath before leading the way into the depths of the masquerade. He drank, he greeted acquaintances and friends, and he was introduced to a few more. He happily gave his card to anyone who asked, though he more than once had to wave away worried glances at the two men behind him. Cam was a sensation, chatting animatedly with other guests and asking curious questions. He was occasionally inappropriate, but most took it in good humour and seemed to enjoy correcting him.

  When he reached Buckley, he was determined not to reveal his eagerness to talk to the promised American friend, and instead chatted casually about this and that until a woman in a high-collared plum dress walked by. Buckley stopped her with a friendly, “Ah, Miss Trentham,” and she turned to the pair of men with a pleasant but cool smile. She was tall—one might even say statuesque—with soft brown hair tucked into a neat roll and a single cascading curl brushing her bare shoulder. Teardrop diamond earrings touched the collar of her slim-fitting jacket, matching the pendant on the simple choker around her neck. She was handsome, rather than pretty, with a sharp jaw and steady brown eyes.

  “This is Warren Hayward, the young man I told you about. The one with the automatons.”

  Her gaze went first to Warren, then to the golem at his side and the two men standing at his rear flank. “Of course,” she said, and she offered her downturned hand to Warren. He took it gently with his free hand and bent to give her a proper bow, not quite touching his lips to the back of her gloved hand. He’d made that mistake more than once at Wakefield’s and been playfully scolded for his flirtatious forwardness. It may have had something to do with the lipstick on the collar incident, come to think of it.

  “Very pleased to meet you, Miss Trentham,” he said with his best smile as he released her hand. “I’ll admit that when Mr. Buckley told me he was expecting an American business associate of his, you would have been the last person I imagined.”

  “It is my father’s business, actually,” she corrected him without offense, “but he is aging and not up to the journey at present. He asked me to come and represent our interests overseas.”

  “What exactly is your business?”

  “Mining,” she answered simply. “Coal in West Virginia, and with some luck we may expand to the Midlands.”

  “Must be prosperous business these days,” Warren chuckled. “I think most of London is coated in a fine layer of coal dust.”

  “It won’t be for long if you carry on building machines that require no refuelable power source, Mr. Hayward,” she said with a long glance at Cam.

  Warren smiled, but he felt a tightness in his stomach that gave him pause. Perhaps he had been hasty in assuming it was someone like Arville who had broken into his home—automatons could always be made better, but fuel sources were either necessary or they weren’t. This Trentham woman had a cold gaze that suggested she knew precisely how ruthless one must be to run a business with the scope of an international mining company. He didn’t know how long she had been in England—who knows what she had heard about him?

  “Ones like Cam here could actually make your work much easier, Miss Trentham,” Warren began.

  “They’re simply extraordinary,” Buckley cut in, determined to make himself a part of the conversation. “Wakefield will hardly stop talking about his. Even wearing clothes, now, I see. Come on then, Cam, show Miss Trentham how extraordinary you are.”

  The golem blinked it eyes curiously at Buckley, then at Miss Trentham, his jaw making a quiet clinking sound as it moved. “I do not believe I am extraordinary,” he said in his tinny, echoing voice. “I believe humans are much more impressive. I walk and talk, and I think, but I cannot dream. I do not love, and I will never be able to make more of myself, as you humans do. Humans are immortal, in their way, because they pass on the memory of themselves to their children. My body will erode and decay, and when it is too far gone to be repaired, I wonder what will become of me? Perhaps I will die,” it mused, leaving the small group surrounding it in stunned silence.

  “Something of a philosopher,” Warren said with a bit of a nervous laugh, patting the golem on the shoulder. “Don’t bring down the room, Cam.”

  “I apologize. I was thinking.”

  “Absolutely marvelous,” Buckley said, not quite managing to close his mouth. “A remarkable impersonation of thought. And you say they continue to learn, Hayward?”

  “Of course.” Warren’s eyes were on Miss Trentham and her impassive face, trying to read her for hints of guilt or avarice but finding no clue.

  “Do you have a card, Mr. Hayward?” the woman said suddenly, turning her gaze on him.

  “Ah—yes, Miss Trentham, of course.” He removed the slim metal carrier from his coat pocket and presented her with his card, which she tucked into her small clutch before excusing herself.

  “She’s something, that one,” Buckley said once she had gone. “Should have been born a man.”

  “She’s certainly...something. Pardon me, Buckley; I’ll talk to you later, shall I?” Warren shook the man’s hand and moved away from the crowd, letting out a long breath and looking over at Cam.

  “Couldn’t have just done a bit of a dance, or juggled something, could you?”

  The golem shrugged at him, causing Warren to think it had spent quite too much time around Ben to pick up such a casual nature.

  The ballroom deck was walled entirely with windows, giving a truly stunning view of the lights of the city below. Cam clinked his metal face against the glass to get a better look, and Warren smiled, though he wished that he could be so free as to enjoy a sight like this with Ben at his side. Could he really marry a woman
for show? What kind of woman would agree to something like that? Even if Wakefield found someone as easily as he claimed to be able to, how could he trust a woman who would necessarily be a materialistic opportunist?

  The magic was a whole other problem. It was one thing to admit his private proclivities to Wakefield, whom he knew to be free-thinking in such matters, and quite another to reveal the realities of magic and divulge himself a witch. He didn’t know what the consequences would be, precisely, but he didn’t expect that they would be good.

  As if summoned by his thoughts, Wakefield appeared at his side as the swell of music sounded above him. It was being piped through the ballroom by speakers that hung from the tall ceiling disguised as delicate stars, glittering against the dark painted sky of the ceiling. Warren could see the limp mechanical quartet of musicians at the end of the hall, made of shining brass painted to look like tuxedos, which now sprang to life and moved in jerking motions to give the appearance of live music.

  “Let’s have a dance, shall we?” he said, taking Warren’s glass from him and causing a waiter to wobble as he set it on a passing tray without looking. He took Warren’s arm and turned him to face a young woman with a thin smile and dark hair pulled up into a fashionable twist. Wakefield urged them toward the dance floor together, clearly feeling quite proud of himself.

  Warren had enough alcohol in him not to feel timid with his hand on the girl’s lower back, but it didn’t help his dancing. He’d become what some people might call adequate, but hardly good enough to impress young ladies in the mood for a husband. Since when did he care about impressing any ladies, in any case? Was he really agreeing so quickly to Wakefield’s suggestion? He couldn’t possibly. How could he marry for such a selfish reason? Ben would be furious.

  Won’t Ben be even worse off if we’re both taken to prison?

  Warren looked down at the girl in his arms and gave her a weak smile.

  Chapter Thirteen

  At the end of the night, Warren was glad to climb into the back of his autocar. The twins sat across from him, taking up most of the leg room, but he didn’t care. He just slipped off his mask, let his head fall back against the soft leather of the seat, and shut his eyes. Wakefield had kept a steady run of dance partners flowing in his direction, all of whom seemed exactly the kind of woman he had expected—wealthy, pretty, bland, and superficial. He had hoped to find one with something interesting to say. If he was going to marry for appearances’ sake, he demanded at least someone who would make good company.

  “Makin’ a lot of friends this evenin, Hayward,” Owen said, sprawling even further in his seat and tugging his bowtie loose as the autocar puttered away from the docks. “Not exactly good behavior for someone what needs bodyguards, eh? Can’t blame you though. That blonde one in the red was hilly as the Highlands.”

  “I suppose,” Warren answered without opening his eyes.

  “Not your idea, was it?” Simon asked quietly, and Warren sighed and lifted his head.

  “Not exactly.”

  “It’s a good plan,” Simon said with a small shrug. “You’d have to be much more blatant than you are now for anyone to accuse you once you’ve got a wife.”

  “What what?” Warren sat up straighter in his seat and frowned across the way at Simon. “Blatant? Accuse me of what?”

  “I’m not an idiot, Hayward, nor am I deaf. What you do in your private life is your own business. We have a good arrangement here, and I think I speak for Owen as well as myself when I say that I am your man without question. If taking a wife keeps you in business and us employed, I’m not concerned in the slightest with whether or not you have romantic feelings for her.” He glanced sidelong at his brother. “But I wouldn’t recommend the blonde. She’s in too much of a hurry. Probably because she’s in a family way.”

  “Hold on, now,” Owen said, leaning forward and resting his elbow on his knee. “Bit too much observatin’ goin’ on without no one tellin’ me what’s bein’ observated.” He looked up into Warren’s bemused face. “You mean to say you and the Constable, you and him’s…?” He made a quick gesture and accompanying whistle that left no doubt about the act he meant to reference.

  Warren groaned and put his face in his hands. “Yes,” he admitted with a muffled voice. It actually felt a little nice to have a few people who knew, at least. There seemed to be slightly less weight on his shoulders. Here he had two men he didn’t have to hide from. He was paying them, but even so.

  He jumped slightly when Owen cursed, and for a moment he feared the man wasn’t as favorable to the idea as his brother. When he looked up, Owen was lifting his hips from the seat to dig into his pocket, and he slapped a shilling into Simon’s waiting hand.

  “I told you,” Simon said with the tiniest of smirks.

  “I only wish I could call ‘im names without takin’ it in the jaw,” Owen said. “He packs a wollop an’as a temper to match eh?”

  “I haven’t noticed,” Warren answered, not keen on continuing any line of questioning related to his relationship with Ben. It was strange to hear them talk about him like the determined policeman he no doubt was—to Warren, he was gentle and soft-spoken and named rabbits silly things, but to the Travers, he must have been a constant obstacle to their wrongdoings and a frequent source of black eyes.

  “Now about that blonde,” Owen went on as he slumped back into his seat, and Warren was glad for the change in conversation. “How d’you know she’s up the duff?”

  “Puffy face,” Simon explained blandly. “Kept touching her stomach, though she likely didn’t even realize it. Her dress was a bit tight, which suggests bloating. Clear signs.”

  “Right,” Owen muttered, shaking his head with a chuckle. “So when’re we movin’ into this new house, boss?” he asked with a slight nod toward Warren.

  “I haven’t even discussed it with Ben,” he admitted. “The—you know—Constable Cartwright.” It felt even stranger to talk about him than to hear about him, but Warren was determined not to sound like a flustered adolescent. “He isn’t going to be happy about it, but it’s for the best.” The fact that Warren had made the decision to purchase a house in Belgrave Square, keep his workshop in the cellar, move the twins in as permanent guards, and apparently get married all without consulting Ben meant that he almost certainly had an unpleasant conversation ahead of him. Regardless, he told himself that the logic was sound—he would have a cellar door into the garden for the twins to bring their unfortunates, and it would mean always having them within reach. He didn’t doubt that Owen could have extracted much more information from his intruder than Ben had.

  As far as the marriage—that was for Ben, too. It might make their new home seem crowded, but it would be a home where they would be free to be themselves and live the life they pleased. They would need a reason for Ben living with him, he supposed. Perhaps he could even quit his job, though convincing him of that seemed unlikely. He was dedicated to his calling and did good work.

  Cam let the twins out of the autocar with a promise that they would hear from Warren soon, and at the front door of Sir Bennett’s house, Warren hesitated with the key in his hand. He would have to have this conversation sooner or later.

  Ben was waiting for him inside, though daylight was only a few hours away, lounging on the chaise with his hands folded on his stomach and his chin on his chest as he snored. Warren smiled at the sight of him, left his hat on the small table by the door, and curled up on the chaise beside him, burying his face into the rough fabric of his shirt and inhaling his familiar scent. Why shouldn’t he marry? It would only be for convenience. For appearance. It would make them safer. It would allow them to lie like this, together, unafraid.

  Ben grumbled and shifted his arm so that Warren could rest his head on his shoulder, and Warren smiled at the warmth in his stomach as he felt Ben’s lips gently touch his hair. Listening to the other man’s heart, he drifted to sleep with his fingers curled against Ben’s chest.

  Warr
en was awoken by Ben’s pained grunting, and he was unceremoniously lifted as the larger man sat up on the chaise.

  “Buggar me, Warren,” he grumbled, rubbing at the back of his neck. “You couldn’ve woken me?”

  “You looked comfortable,” Warren objected as he settled himself in Ben’s lap and leaned in to kiss him.

  “I’ll ‘ave a crick in me neck for days,” Ben mumbled against Warren’s lips, but that was the end of his protest.

  Warren bit the other man’s lower lip lightly, fully expecting the soft grunt it brought from him. “I’ve been thinking,” he said softly.

  “‘Hurt yourself?” Ben smiled as Warren flicked him sharply in the chest.

  “I think it may be time to kill off Sir Bennett. After what happened.”

  “Is that so?” Ben was distracted, touching light kisses to the redhead’s chin, which was exactly what Warren had hoped for.

  “I’ll be free from my apprenticeship, and we can sell the house,” Warren went on, trailing his lips down Ben’s jaw to his neck.

  “What?” Ben stopped, reluctantly pulling away. “Why on earth would we sell the house?”

  “To move somewhere safer, of course,” Warren explained, casually beginning to unbutton Ben’s shirt. “And nicer, quite frankly. This place is dreadful dull. There’s an available townhouse in Belgrave Square,” he added helpfully, slipping his hand inside the open shirt to run his fingers through Ben’s thick chest hair.

  “Love, are you sure about this? You want to make yourself even higher profile, with this...with our secret in the ‘ands of some unknown somebody what clearly means you ill?”

  Warren smiled, feeling the goosebumps on Ben’s skin despite his attempt to keep a straight face. “I meant to talk to you about that,” he said softly as the last of Ben’s buttons came undone. He hesitated, suspecting that no amount of distraction would prevent the backlash from his suggestion. “I think...I think I ought to marry, actually.”