Tony shot him a sideways glance. “Two men with a brassbound trunk. A carter took them to an empty warehouse, where Froggs Spices used to be.”
“I know it,” Ben said. “No space around it to land a dirigible, but the road runs straight to Shergold’s makeshift airfield down near the river.”
“Let’s go,” Colin said. “Or give me the address of the damn warehouse and I’ll—”
“Nah, nah.” Tony was already moving in his wake. “You’ll not be going without me. You’ve got me curiosity roused like.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Ben grinned. “That and I’d like the chance to smash Looster. Let’s go collect your lady, Truitt.”
They squashed into the steam-car and sped into the night. Wind buffeted the car and the roads were slick with water. It ran in great streams. At least the bad weather had locked people indoors. Ben drove with a kind of inspired insanity and they were soon in Berden, with the tenements crowding in and the warehouses ramshackle and showing the small fires of nightwatchmen trying to keep warm.
There was a light in the upper floor window of the stone building that Ben stopped opposite. A flash of lightning showed the old sign, “Froggs Spices”.
Ben produced a pistol from a hidden compartment in the car. He took the lead, ducking across the road and into the shadows. They trotted along the side of the building with Tony in the rear. Colin had his knife in his hand. It had saved his life more than once.
A thick chain and heavy padlock secured the side door. Colin cursed under his breath. They’d have to break a window, trusting that one of the loud cracks of thunder would hide the sound.
Ben gripped the padlock with his prosthetic hand and squeezed.
The lock broke.
Colin had never seen a prosthetic display that much strength. If anything, they were weaker and definitely more clumsy than a normal human limb.
“Some benefits,” Ben murmured and opened the door.
They spread out, moving silently, learning the emptiness of the lower floor. Stone stairs lead upwards, light spilling down them. At least stone steps wouldn’t creak.
This time Colin wasn’t having any nonsense of Ben going first. He started up.
Looster’s voice grew in clarity.
Chapter Ten
“Unfortunately for you, my dear, your husband made this personal with his revenge. He’s trying to lock me out of that freak Oswell’s airfield. York is too important for me to let that go. Besides, any appearance of weakness and the vultures descend. I am going to destroy Truitt.”
Anthea shuddered. The hate in Looster’s voice was frightening enough, but what terrified her was the way he ran the tip of his knife in a perverted caress from the corner of her left eye to the hollow of her throat. She heard and felt her lace collar tear.
He was in an evil mood. Whatever vehicle he’d used to transport her here had skidded and crashed on the journey. She could hear the thunder and see the bright flashes of lightning through the dirty windows of her prison, and could imagine the wicked state of the roads. The accident had toppled her trunk, leaving her dazed and bruised, barely able to follow the slight sounds that filtered in. Eventually she’d worked out that Looster had flagged a passing cart to stop and transport the trunk and her to this echoing warehouse.
Released from the trunk, she’d been in no state to activate any of her defensive mechanisms. She’d been sick and shaky, muscles cramped and cold. Looster had slammed the trunk closed and pushed her so that she staggered backwards and sat on it. She very nearly fell over it, and her muffled scream had made him laugh.
“Do you know, I looked up your father’s will?” He bent close to her.
She wished she had her hands free and could trigger the vile vinegar blast from the limp artificial daisy pinned to her jacket.
He inserted the knife and cut the top button from her jacket.
She looked around wildly.
The man who’d transported her here, playing the role of porter, stood near the paraffin lamp, and its light showed the sick anticipation shining in his eyes. He licked thin lips.
A second button rolled to the floor. If she lent any further back, she’d fall.
“Your father was an interesting man, Mrs. Truitt.” The knife flicked open her collar. “In his will, he gave your husband full control of your inheritance while you lived. In the event of your death, the estate passes in full to your children. If you die without children.” The knife point traced a cold pattern on her skin.
She tried not to breathe.
“When you die without children, your father’s estate passes to the Children’s Hospital. In effect, Truitt loses Farleigh Dirigibles, his wretched contract with Oswell is void, and the power that is rightly mine returns to me. I own air travel in this country, Mrs. Truitt. And soon I will own it throughout the Empire.”
A hard thrust of the knife slashed through the threads on her remaining jacket buttons. “I could just kill you, but you’re Truitt’s woman. You must suffer. I want him to know that you suffered.”
The stories the cleaning women back at the engineering works had told her of Looster flooded her mind and set her body trembling. He was a monster, perverted. He delighted in women’s pain.
“Let her go, Looster!”
Colin stood at the top of the stairs, a dagger in his hand. Mr. Oswell emerged behind him, holding a pistol.
Looster grabbed for her, to use her as a shield and hostage.
She flung herself backwards, over the trunk and hitting the floor hard, her bound arms screaming at the pain of the fall.
There were shouts, the bark of a pistol, and a thud as someone else fell. Then running footsteps faded into the distance.
“Damn it to hell.” Colin strode around the trunk. He crouched beside her and cut the cords binding her arms, but his attention was on something happening across the room.
After a half-second of relief as her bonds fell away, the blood rushed back, and pins and needles multiplied a thousand times stabbed through her. She gasped and shook.
Her feet freed, Colin lifted her upright, and rubbed her arms roughly while she leant against him. He spoke over her shoulder. “He’s gone?”
“Lost in the night,” an unknown man said. “Bloody weasel. There was a second set of stairs outside.”
“This one might know something.” Mr. Oswell hauled the porter up and shoved him against a wall.
“Take me home,” she whispered, turning her face away from the violence.
Colin ceased rubbing her arms. “To the hotel. The storm is too bad to fly tonight.”
“Not the hotel.”
“My house,” Mr. Oswell said. He released the porter who slid to the floor. “This one says Looster has a dirigible at Shergold’s airfield.”
She could feel Colin’s tension.
He vibrated with the need to chase Looster, to find and punish him. He swore. “He can’t launch in this storm.”
“It’ll end soon.” The third man was much smaller than the other two, but as alert as a terrier.
“When it does, I want to fly home,” she said. Home to London. Not to Colin’s gray house, not to the monstrous mansion her uncle bought with her father’s money. She would go to her office at Farleigh’s Dirigibles or to Ivana at the toy shop. She didn’t care where Looster went. She would go to Ivana and her friend would get out the shotgun she kept filled with birdseed, make a pot of hot tea and curse all men. “Home. Someone will fly me.”
“I will.” Colin’s arms tightened. “After I’ve caught Looster.”
“Now!” She struggled against his hold, ignoring her bruised shoulders though the pain set her gasping.
“Anthea, be calm.” He released her. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
Her laugh broke.
The two strangers looked away.
“I won’t hurt me. It’s everyone else who hurts me. All I want is to go home! Oh, don’t worry.” As she saw his frustrated expression. “I’m not as
king you to give up your revenge against Looster. Chase him. Hunt him down. I don’t care. But I am flying home.”
“I told you. There’s a storm. Only an idiot would fly in this.”
“A storm won’t last forever. Nothing lasts. As soon as it ends, I’ll leave. You stay and pursue Looster.”
“I will stay with you.” Colin vowed. “No one is hurting you again.”
“No,” she agreed softly.
His eyes narrowed on her.
She walked away to look out the window at the flashes of lightning tearing the sky. The same storm was in her, tearing her apart. She saw Colin’s reflection for an instant.
His hands were fisted, his shoulders tense, as if he would reach for her. She shrank closer to the cold, dirty window and he froze.
The men organized things swiftly. Mr. Oswell would drive her and Colin back to his airfield office to wait out the storm and prepare the Tyger for launch. The third man, Tony, said he’d find out if Looster was at Shergold’s airfield.
“Thanks for your help.” Colin shook his hand.
“It won’t go in the papers, either,” Tony said. He gave her a small nod of acknowledgement. A promise.
A reporter? Anthea didn’t care. As her arms and legs lost the sharp pain of restored circulation, her body settled into a dull, bruised ache that seemed to cushion her from the world. She hugged herself, bereft of comfort.
“I’ll carry you down the stairs,” Colin said.
She stepped back, but he picked her up anyway. Always so strong.
“Put your arm around my neck. It’ll be easier.”
Easier for whom? She closed her eyes against the nearness of his face and his grim expression.
In other circumstances, the oddly designed vehicle he carried her to would have interested her. Now she saw only its tiny size. Colin tucked her in, holding her on his lap in the small space. Mr. Oswell took the driver’s seat. The journey was silent, but Colin rested his head against her hair.
She supposed he was trying to offer comfort.
A tremor started deep inside her and she tensed all her muscles, denying it life.
“Anthea, love?” Her name and an endearment, asking what was wrong.
She refused to answer.
The airfield was a place of nightmares. The dirigibles rocked in the wind and their mooring ropes groaned against the strain. Lightning reflected a thousand times in their gleaming wet brass and steel hulls. At the edge of the field, a lone oak tree stood. Thunder boomed.
“Hurry inside,” Colin urged her.
Hurry, hurry. It was how he lived his life. He would hurry her home, then fly back to hunt Looster. She gripped her hands together tightly. He probably thought he was indulging her hysterics. She wasn’t hysterical.
She sat in Mr. Oswell’s office, with Colin’s coat around her and simply stared out the window, willing the storm to move on. She accepted the hot tea Mr. Oswell produced, but didn’t reply to any conversation.
Colin moved with restless energy. The engineer and apprentice were hastily woken and he worked with them to prepare the Tyger for flight. He returned a couple of times to the office, where Mr. Oswell sat with her, on guard apparently. He kept his pistol near him. She ignored Colin till he said the Tyger was ready to launch.
Fortunately, the strong winds had blown the storm away as fast as they’d brought it. The moon shone between scudding clouds.
It was safe to fly.
She jumped up and Colin’s coat slipped from her shoulders to the floor.
“Wait.” Mr. Oswell looked up from the telephone call he’d taken.
Colin straightened from picking up his coat and stood behind her.
“That was Tony.” Mr. Oswell replaced the telephone handset. “Looster is dead. He tried to launch at the height of the storm. His engineer had the dirigible waiting, but refused to fly in the conditions. Looster attempted a solo launch. He was struck by lightning. The dirigible exploded. Fortunately, not over any houses. Tony saw the body. There’s no doubt. Looster is dead.”
“Good. I hope hell welcomes him as he deserves.” Colin wrapped his coat around her. “You’re truly safe now.”
She shook her head. He was wrong. She didn’t think she’d ever feel safe again. “I want to go home.”
Chapter Eleven
The cabin of the Tyger mocked Colin with memories of yesterday’s flight to York. Then Anthea had been warm and responsive, all shy happiness.
Now she sat on the furthest chair, tucked in a corner and stared sightlessly out the window.
He made no attempt to coax her closer.
She was right. He had failed her. She had given him everything: her father’s company, the salvation of his business and her trust. He hadn’t used the word, but they’d been going on their honeymoon, yesterday.
But he hadn’t protected her. Looster—devil take and torture him—had kidnapped her and terrorized her. She must have been desperate and despairing.
His watery mouse hadn’t cried once. He clenched the controls hard enough that they creaked. Some hurts went too deep for tears.
He landed the Tyger at Fairleigh Dirigibles airfield and helped Anthea down from the ship.
At the airfield, his staff stared at their dishevelment and at Anthea’s frozen features. She had retreated deep inside herself.
“Call a hansom,” he demanded of one of the guards.
“I’m staying here,” Anthea said quietly.
“No.” He looked down at her, so still in the circle of his arm. “You must come home.” With me. “You need a hot bath and a change of clothes. Food.”
“I’ll go to Ivana. She’ll look after me.”
He winced. “You don’t need your friend, Anthea. You have a husband now. I know I did a pi—poor job of it, but I’ll look after you.”
She shook her head, but he ignored her, bundling her into the waiting hansom and ordering it home. He studied her broodingly as she withdrew to the far corner of the seat. Just so had they driven home from their wedding.
“Damnation.”
Her eyes jerked to his at the profanity. Then fell away.
He’d never felt so helpless. At the townhouse he surrendered her to Mrs. Jones’s care with a curt order to that good woman to ask no questions. Then he sat in his study and contemplated the cold fireplace. All his dreams were in ashes.
If Looster wasn’t already dead, he’d have killed the bastard himself.
A week went past. Anthea knew Colin tried to talk to her. For the first day she avoided him by staying in bed. On the second, he still refused to go to work and his presence stopped her slipping out to Ivana. The narrow rooms of the townhouse pressed in on her.
Colin’s staff had no idea what was wrong, but by their subdued manner, they knew it was bad. Even Mrs. Jones was silent. The cook prepared invalid meals. Anthea hated blancmange.
Colin continued to work from home.
Bruce, her guard, was gone. Looster was dead so she didn’t need protection. Colin stayed not to keep her safe, but to keep her home.
The newspapers went to town on the mystery of Looster’s death.
“Why did he fly to York?” they trumpeted in large font. “What reason was compelling enough to risk flying in a lightning storm?”
The innuendo hinted that he’d had a mistress.
Then the power of the old boys’ network frayed a bit and the scandal became less salacious and more financial. “Had Looster had business difficulties?” The press pursued the theory—and found the evidence. Colin’s takeover of Farleigh Dirigibles had brought down the pack of cards empire Looster ran. Investors and creditors scrambled for what assets remained.
Looster’s widow returned to her childhood home and refused to answer questions. According to her brother, she deeply mourned her husband.
Ha!
Anthea read each newspaper, but wouldn’t be drawn into discussing the articles with Colin. Each time she saw Looster’s photograph in the papers she remembered the t
wisted evil of his expression and the cold touch of his knife at her throat. She heard again the sharp tear of her clothing and her hand would creep to her collar.
“Telephone your friend, Ivana,” Colin exploded one afternoon. “Ask her to come and visit you. Maybe you’ll talk to her.”
She lifted her blank gaze from the open book on her lap, the book she hadn’t been reading, and watched him poke the fire. The day was hot enough for a summer picnic by the river, but she couldn’t get warm.
Colin had his jacket off and left his tie unknotted.
She looked away from the strong cords of his throat. There was no point in answering. He knew she didn’t want Ivana here, in his house. Anthea wanted to leave the house and the jail it represented.
He stayed home to guard against that chance.
Even with the threat of Looster gone, the reality of her father’s will remained. Colin needed her to retain control of Farleigh Dirigibles. She was his prisoner, as she’d been her uncle’s pawn.
“For hell’s sake.” Colin strode out of the drawing room. A few moments later, the study door crashed shut.
She closed the book, set it aside and drew her knees up. Huddled in the armchair, she stared into the fire.
Confinement to the house was playing havoc with Colin’s temper. He couldn’t run his business effectively when clerks had to run to and from his office and Farleigh Dirigibles to the house with urgent memorandums and letters requiring his signature. His second in command, Peter Helms, no longer waited for Jones to answer the front door, but slipped in via the kitchen entrance. Despite Colin’s mile-wide streak of stubbornness, he’d have to leave her alone soon.
She wouldn’t go to Ivana’s. Nor Brighton. She didn’t know where she could go where Colin wouldn’t find her. She had no family. Perhaps she’d stay here, after all; a prisoner of her own listless mood and of the legal system that made her her husband’s property.
She watched the flames die to smoldering ash.
The next morning at breakfast, Colin wore a suit and tie—evidence that he intended to leave the house.
The Lion and the Mouse: A Steampunk Romance Page 6
