The Convent's Secret: Glass and Steele, #5

by C. J. Archer

  "When your articles bring danger to my door, and the people I care about, it becomes my business," Matt said. "And if you think I can't stop you writing another article, think again."

  Oscar tugged on his sling. "Are you threatening me?"

  Matt picked up his glass but did not fill it. He sat beside me on the sofa and smiled at Oscar. It was a friendly, open smile that seemed to throw the journalist off balance. Only I could feel the anger vibrating off Matt.

  "Have you spoken to Mr. Force?" I asked Oscar in an attempt to diffuse the tension.

  "I tried to but he wouldn't see me. I left a written message for him at The Review's office, telling him how irresponsible it was to name names and mention the murder of Wilson Sweet."

  "A written message, eh?" Duke rolled his eyes. "That ought to fix it."

  "Words are powerful, sir."

  "My name's Duke, not sir. And words are only powerful when they say something the reader is willing to hear. I don't know Mr. Force, but I do know Abercrombie, and he won't care that magicians will be harassed now thanks to that article, and India in partic'lar. He won't care one bit."

  "If anyone bothers you, India, tell me immediately," Oscar said. "Perhaps I can help."

  I paused, waiting for Matt to scoff or say something but he did not. "Thank you, Oscar," I said, "but I don't see how you can."

  "You can help by not writing anything more on the subject," Matt said. "Let the topic be forgotten."

  Oscar shook his head. "I can't. You know that."

  "You've stirred up enough trouble."

  "I can't let that piece of rubbish be the last word on magic." He sipped and set the glass down on the newspaper. "No magician can." He lifted his brow at me.

  I glanced down at my lap but felt everyone's glare bore into me, Matt's being the hardest. "I agree with Oscar," I said.

  Matt shot to his feet and stalked to the sideboard. He poured himself a large brandy and drank half in a single gulp. "We agreed it was best to leave the matter alone, India."

  "No, we did not. Oscar's right. We can't let Force's vile piece be the last word. He calls magicians all manner of horrible things, and people will believe it. We have to print a rebuttal and show magicians in a favorable light."

  He turned his back to me and leaned a fist on the sideboard. If we'd been alone, I would have touched his shoulder and tried to reason gently with him, but I couldn't do it in front of the others.

  I appealed to Oscar. "Be sure to mention that all the magicians of your acquaintance regularly attend church, have families, and simply wish to live peaceful lives as the artless do. Don't use the word artless though. It implies a lack in character. Use mild, conciliatory words, nothing too clever."

  Oscar's face lifted with his smile. "I do know how to write persuasive pieces, India."

  "Yes, of course. I am sorry, but this is an important article and it needs to be exactly right."

  "Be sure and say that magic don't do anyone any good," Cyclops chimed in. "Remind folk that it don't last."

  "Cyclops!" Willie spat. "Whose side are you on?"

  "I ain't on anyone's side, but he's going to write that article no matter what. Seems this way we get some say in what he puts in it. Being all cut up about it will get us nowhere."

  We all looked at Matt's powerful back, slightly hunched as he towered over the sideboard. He slowly turned to face us.

  "Don't mention India's name," he said, his voice as dark as his eyes.

  Oscar looked to me. "I'd like to. Your grandfather has already been mentioned so—"

  "No," Matt snapped.

  Oscar didn't take his gaze off me. If Matt's raging ruffled him, he didn't show it.

  "Don't mention me," I said. "Only those who know me well will know my grandfather's name. Acquaintances do not and hopefully haven't made the connection."

  "Say you agree, Barratt," Matt said.

  "If it's what India wants, then I agree."

  "Maybe write how Chronos was forced by Dr. Millroy to experiment on Wilson Sweet," Willie added.

  "I can't say that since it's not true and is unfair to the memory of Millroy. But I will write how both magicians involved in that sorry event regretted their actions and never tried it again."

  My swallow sounded loud in the silence. We all averted our gazes. Thankfully Oscar didn't seem to notice. Matt's past and his life-giving watch were the only thing about magic that I'd kept from him, and I wanted to keep it that way.

  "I'll note that one is dead and the other thought to be overseas," Oscar went on. "Does that suffice?"

  "Yes," I said quickly. "I think so."

  "As long as India isn't named," Matt said again.

  "Or any other magicians," I added.

  "Except myself." Oscar smiled over the rim of his glass as he sipped. "Don't look so shocked, India. It's time I put myself forward as a magician. It's the best way for these articles to be taken seriously, otherwise questions about their authenticity will continue to arise."

  "But you'll be inviting all manner of judgment on yourself," I said. "Are you ready for that?"

  "Yes."

  "Are your family?" He had a brother who ran the family ink production business. Like Oscar, he was an ink magician.

  "Let me worry about my family. Besides, a reminder that magic is fleeting should dampen the outrage of my brother's business rivals. I'll use the ink trade as an example of what magic can and cannot do. Once I describe the pretty effects I can create with ink yet the utter uselessness of the magic, no one will continue to feel threatened. My brother will be furious at first, but he'll calm down when he sees that nothing will change."

  "You think nothing will change?" Matt went to take another drink but found his glass empty. If he tried to fill it again, I might be compelled to take the glass off him. But he did not. "You're a fool if you believe that, Barratt. A damned fool."

  Oscar finished his drink and bade us goodnight. I couldn't blame him for making a hasty retreat in the face of Matt's hostility. Perhaps I should have retreated too, but I remained, along with the others, in the drawing room. I had one final point to make before retiring to bed.

  "Another favorable article from Oscar could be the very thing we need," I told Matt after Oscar left. "It could flush out Phineas Millroy."

  Matt leaned back in the armchair and stretched out his legs. He closed his eyes and expelled a long breath. "What's done is done. The article will be written. Let's leave all discussion about it alone now." He opened weary eyes and looked at me. "I don't like arguing with you."

  I returned his soft smile. "I don't like arguing with you either."

  "But she's right," Willie said. "If the Millroy bastard suspects he's a magician, he could contact Barratt hoping to learn more about himself." She pressed her hand to heart. "I want to state how sorry I am, India. I didn't think about that before. It's a good idea. You're right to get him to publish another article, and I was wrong."

  "You should get that in writing, India," Duke said.

  "Then frame it," Cyclops added.

  Willie threw a cushion at Cyclops but he caught it and tossed it back. "I'm going to bed," she said, setting the cushion on the sofa again. "Goodnight."

  "You not heading out tonight?" Duke asked, following her.

  "Nope."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I don't want to."

  "Something happened between you and your lover, didn't it?"

  She didn't respond or slow down as she made for the door. Duke caught her arm and she rounded on him. Her eyes flashed. "What do you want, Duke?"

  "I want you to know you can talk to me," he said quietly. "We've been through a lot together, and I'll always be around if you need a shoulder to cry on. No judgment, no giving advice if you don't want it, just to talk."

  Her features softened and, for a moment, I thought her face would crumple and she'd cry. But she rallied and even managed a distorted smile for him. "Thanks, Duke. Appreciate it. But I don't want to talk. I
just want…" She shrugged. "I don't even know what I want."

  They left together, and Cyclops filed out after them with a speaking glance at Matt. I was suddenly alone with him, precisely where I did not want to be. I picked up my skirts and hurried toward the door.

  "I want you to know that I don't entirely blame Barratt," Matt said from his chair. He did not try to stop me leaving or ask me to stay, but I stayed anyway—at a safe distance and in sight of Bristow, who hovered outside the drawing room.

  "That's not how it seemed," I said.

  "Barratt had a hand in inflaming the situation, but I can see his intentions are good."

  "You should tell him that, not me."

  "I care more about your forgiveness than his."

  "Matt." I took a step toward him but stopped again. I clasped my hands behind me. "There's nothing to forgive."

  Lounging in the dim light cast by the lamps, he'd never looked more youthful. The signs of exhaustion were hidden by shadows and he had a way of looking at me that was not quite looking but pretending to be focused elsewhere. My heart thumped loudly in response.

  "When is your birthday?" I asked.

  His mouth twitched. "July nine. Why?"

  "Sometimes it's hard to believe you're not yet thirty."

  He laughed. "It's hard for me to believe too. I feel like an old man, some days. In many ways, I'm lucky. I've lived a full life. If it all ends—"

  "Don't." My voice cracked. "It's not going to end. No way in hell, Matt, so you can stop talking like it is."

  He chuckled. Chuckled!

  "I fail to see what's so amusing about the turn of this discussion," I bit off.

  "It's just that you and Willie are sounding more alike every day. Do I need to be worried about you carrying a gun?"

  I snapped my skirt and spun around. "Only if you say something that offends me. Goodnight."

  "India! Come back and talk to me. I desire your company."

  "Goodnight, Matt," I said over my shoulder, my anger already fading but my resolve to leave even stronger. I hurried out before it faded too.

  * * *

  To everyone's surprise, Matt was gone before breakfast. He'd left the house alone. Not even Bristow knew where he’d headed.

  "He didn't inform me," Bristow told us as he replaced the empty teapot with a full one. "He took the coach."

  "Damn it," Willie muttered, sitting down hard on the chair. "If he's gone out without telling anyone, it's somewhere bad."

  "Aye," Duke muttered. "You sure he didn't leave a note under your door, India?"

  "Quite sure." If he didn't want a single one of us to know then I had to agree with Willie. It was somewhere bad. Somewhere he knew we'd object to him visiting.

  I ran the previous night's conversations through my head, and for a moment, I suspected he'd gone to see Oscar Barratt to order him not to write the article after all. But Matt must know that was a futile exercise. So if not to see Barratt, where else would he go? The office of The City Review? But it was too early and it wouldn't be open. He didn't know Mr. Force's home address so he couldn't have gone there.

  But he did know where Mr. Abercrombie lived, and Matt had told Oscar that Abercrombie and Force wouldn't escape his wrath.

  I sprang up. "I know where he is!"

  Duke, Cyclops and Willie all rose too. "Where?" they chimed together.

  "Confronting Abercrombie." I snatched up a slice of toast and marched out of the room, my skirts snapping at my heels. "Bristow! Bristow, I need a hansom!"

  "Make it a growler to take all of us," Cyclops added from behind me. I turned to see him surging out of the dining room, a slice of bacon sandwiched between two pieces of toast. He shoved it in his mouth and signaled to the others to hurry.

  "What are we going to do if Matt's there?" Willie asked me.

  "Stop him from saying or doing something that will land him in trouble."

  Chapter 5

  According to the footman who answered our knocks, Mr. Abercrombie was not at home. He had business to attend to at the Watchmaker's Guild hall before opening his shop. It wasn't far and we arrived at the Warwick Lane building by eight-thirty. There was no sign of Matt or his carriage.

  I tipped my head back to peer up at the coat of arms above the door. Old Man Time looked somewhat ridiculous in nothing but his loincloth, and the emperor reminded me of the arrogant and overbearing men I'd met from this guild, chiefly Abercrombie and Eddie. Tempvs Rervm Imperator: Time is the ruler of all things. That may be true, but the Worshipful Company of Watchmakers no longer ruled me as it once had. I felt no connection to it anymore, no indignation that I hadn't been invited to become a member. I used to. When I thought their exclusion of me was because of my gender, I'd been angry. But I'd also felt a burning need to be recognized for my skill then, and the guild monopolized the awards and other means of recognition. Now, I knew their exclusion was based on something else entirely, and that my skill could never be compared to that of the members. It was liberating to not care.

  The porter with the white bushy beard opened the door. He sighed upon recognizing me. "What do you want this time, Miss Steele?"

  "Is Mr. Abercrombie here?"

  "He's indisposed."

  "Nonsense."

  "Is Mr. Matthew Glass here?" Duke asked.

  The porter's flinty gaze narrowed. "No. Why?"

  Duke pushed past him, bumping his shoulder. "You sure about that?"

  "Excuse me!" the porter cried. "I say, excuse me, you can't just barge in like this."

  Willie and Cyclops followed Duke, and I trailed behind them. "We'll be but a moment," I said.

  "This is outrageous! I expect it from Americans, but you, Miss Steele, are a good English girl from a good English family. I knew your father—"

  "Do be quiet or I'll be forced to say something very un-English that I might regret later." I didn't spare him another thought as I followed the others through the guild hall.

  We peered into the sitting room, a meeting room, dining hall and even the back of house. All except the service rooms were vacant. Despite the search, it was Mr. Abercrombie who found us. He came down the staircase as we were about to climb up.

  "I should have known you'd be at the root of such a hubbub, Miss Steele," he said down his equine nose. He remained half way on the staircase, not proceeding further. I suspected the presence of three angry Americans at the base of the stairs was the reason for his reluctance.

  "Is Matt here?" I asked.

  "No."

  "Have you seen him this morning?"

  "Lost him, have you? Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later, him being what he is and you being, well…" His meaning was not lost on me, particularly because he accompanied his acidic tone with a sneer.

  Willie surged up the staircase. "You better not be lying."

  Mr. Abercrombie stumbled back a step. "I'm not."

  Willie placed her hands on her hips, revealing the gun thrust into the trouser band.

  "Miss Steele, control your…whatever this person is…or I'll summon the constables."

  "Come on, Willie," Duke said. "Matt ain't here."

  Mr. Abercrombie stretched out his neck and tugged on his jacket lapels. He did not take his gaze off Willie. "Why would he be?"

  "To speak with you about the article in The City Review," I said, climbing the steps. "It was irresponsible of you and Mr. Force to write so negatively about magicians. You ought to be ashamed of yourself for treating innocent people so cruelly."

  "Innocent! You are no innocent, Miss Steele, and neither is the rest of your ilk. You're a wolf in sheep's clothing, and wolves do no belong in the flock. They're a danger. Magicians are a danger. Look what happened to Wilson Sweet!"

  "That was a tragedy and won't be repeated. Chronos regretted it, and Mr. Barratt will say as much in his upcoming article."

  He screwed up his nose in distaste. "You're a fool to put your trust in him. But you're not very good at trusting the right sort of man, ar
e you?"

  "I seem to recall you believed Eddie's story too," I shot back.

  "I wasn't referring just to him." His gaze skipped from Duke to Cyclops. His mouth twisted into a grimace of disgust.

  With his attention pre-occupied, he didn't see Willie's fist. It slammed into his jaw with a sickening thud. He reeled backward, only to stumble over the steps and land heavily. He lay sprawled over the staircase, moaning and clutching is face.

  "Mr. Abercrombie!" The porter ran past us to reach his master.

  Abercrombie shoved him away. "Get out!" he spat. "Get out, witch!"

  I led the way outside, only too glad to leave him behind. Despite my determination not to let the man affect me, my nerves shook. I took Cyclops's offered hand and allowed him to guide me into the coach.

  "So if Matt ain't there, where is he?" Willie asked, inspecting her knuckles. They were red but not cut or bruised.

  "Do you want to go home, India?" Duke asked.

  I nodded and he gave the driver directions before climbing into the cabin and shutting the door.

  "You look troubled," Cyclops said quietly to me. He sat beside me, my shoulder rubbing against his arm. He took up quite a lot of space and seemed uncomfortable in the close confines. His knees hit Willie's, opposite.

  "I've punched Mr. Abercrombie a thousand times in my imagination, but I'd never dream of doing it." I looked at Willie. "How can you be so calm about it?"

  "Practice," she said.

  "He deserved it," Duke added, shrugging. "Where we come from, people like him get punched all the time. It's called Wild West justice."

  Willie rolled her eyes. "He just made that up."

  "True, but I like it." Duke grinned. "Good shot, Willie. Maybe you can retire the Colt and just use your fists from now on."

  "Not on your life, Duke."

  We arrived home a mere five minutes before Matt returned. The four of us presented a united front when he entered. No wonder he hesitated just inside the door, faced with a wall of crossed arms and scowls.