A Lady Never Lies

by Juliana Gray

  And Alexandra was winning it, by God. Her motor streaked away under the full pressure of its formidable boiler, raising a billowing fug of dust and steam behind it. He had to keep her in sight, at least.

  The paving stones shook under his tires and the cheering crowd streamed past. Eighteen, perhaps twenty miles an hour, he judged, holding position between Delmonico on his right and the motorized bicycle on his left. Just ahead, on the other side of the motor-cycle, rolled another motor-car, a high-wheeled petrol model with the driver mounted atop a converted carriage frame.

  The four of them tore down the road, passing through the entrance of the Borghese gardens and angling right onto the via di Porta Pinciana. The crowds still pressed against the sides of the road, cheering wildly, stucco-fronted buildings rising up behind them: a noisy tunnel down which they barreled after the fleeing shape of the Hartley steamer.

  Up ahead lay the sharp left turn onto the via Sistina. The motors began to slow. Finn’s brain had split into two: one part followed Alexandra’s progress as she disappeared around the corner, while the other jostled about with the three automobiles around him. Delmonico roared along steadily, ahead and then behind, his goggles flashing in the sun. The motor-cycle kept pace. Finn didn’t know the driver, another dark-haired man who glanced at Delmonico in a constant rhythm, speeding and slowing, taking his cues from the Italian.

  As they neared the corner, Finn saw the other petrol motor wobble.

  He backed off and edged farther away, almost pushing Delmonico to the right. The other motor recovered, and then wobbled again, and recovered.

  Just as they reached the corner, the tiller came off in the driver’s hands.

  Shouts, roars. The motor-cycle veered smoothly right, forcing Finn back. The disabled motor kept going in a straight line, right for the crowd. The driver waved the useless tiller, screaming, and dove out of his seat in a graceless tumble.

  “’Ware! ’Ware!” Finn shouted.

  Delmonico glanced backward at him and cut across his path, angling around the corner. Finn turned sharply, nearly grazing the back of Delmonico’s machine. His own motor strained mightily, sliding against the paving stones in a screech of tire rubber.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the crowd part in the path of the tillerless automobile, until nothing remained but a fruit stand. The vendor turned his head just in time to dive away, before the machine plowed straight through the middle of his cart to bury itself under a load of astonished bananas.

  Finn judged the turn to a hairbreadth. Inches from Delmonico on his right, from the motor-cycle on his left, he rounded the corner and shot down the straightaway, where Alexandra’s motor appeared once more, leading by twenty or thirty yards at least. Delmonico flung back a look of deep annoyance and wiped his goggles.

  The buildings here were taller, denser, red roof tiles burning in the sunshine. They rushed past the yawning gap of the Piazza Barberini and glimpsed the Triton Fountain through the crowd. Finn fought to keep up with Delmonico and the motor-cycle, fought to keep them from closing him off in a pincer. Behind him came the shouts and rattles of other motor-cars; ahead of him lay the acute right turn onto the wide via Nazionale.

  His heart climbed into his throat. He strained to watch the black shape of Alexandra’s motor, to spot her white scarf rising above the boiler. Slow down, slow down, he begged her. Don’t risk the turn. He had no idea what sort of steering Hartley’s engineers had put in their machine, what strength of rubber contained the air in her tires. A blowout at this speed . . . a shade too fast around the turn . . . the motor rolling over, Alexandra crushed beneath it, Alexandra flung free to break her neck on the paving stones . . .

  He couldn’t watch, couldn’t look away. He didn’t notice when the motor-cycle swerved, didn’t notice until the last second. He hit the brakes hard to avoid the churning tire, and Delmonico roared on ahead of him in a burst of speed, spewing mottled smoke from the back of his engine.

  Damn it all! Bested, caught out in a moment’s distraction. Another motor-car caught up with him, a steamer, ranging up on his right side. He gritted his teeth. He couldn’t see Alexandra’s motor now. He’d have to trust that she made the turn, that he’d taught her well. He pictured her hands on the tiller, elegant, capable white fingers, steering safely around the corner and onto the via Nazionale.

  The corner neared. No smashup, no smoking wreckage. He sighed out in relief and leaned forward, judging the angle and his own speed and the motor rattling along beside him in a hiss of eager steam.

  They slowed in tandem, turned the sharp corner in tandem. He glanced at the other driver, a fair-haired young man with an intent expression. The wide avenue of the via Nazionale stretched before him, lined with people who turned and cheered at their approach. Not so many, now. A sparser crowd, easing the claustrophobic tension of the early stage. Finn glanced down at the instruments on his dash, made to his own specification, measuring speed from the tire rotation and voltage and remaining power from the battery.

  Something was certainly wrong.

  Not enough charge.

  He should have more. He’d recharged the battery fully last night and installed it this morning into the engine.

  Twenty yards ahead, Delmonico surged along, the motor-cycle dropping back behind him. Finn drove in lockstep with the fair-haired man in the steamer, down the via Nazionale and around another corner to the via dei Serpenti, his brain working madly to solve the problem.

  Leakage? Had he left it running at some point? The drive over from the shed: When had he turned the engine on? When had he turned it off? He’d been so bloody preoccupied with Alexandra. He couldn’t say for certain.

  Did he have enough charge to finish the race?

  Uphill?

  The pale stone arches of the Colosseum rose up out of the pavement ahead. He’d lost sight of Alexandra ahead, but he could sense her. She’d be exhilarated at her speed, exhilarated at leading the race. She’d be carried along by the power of her steam engine, beginning the curve around the ancient stadium, drunk on the cheering of the crowd and the wind in her scarf.

  God, let her make it. No disasters. Just let her make it.

  The arches began to flash by. He curved to the right, around the Colosseum piazza. The steamer edged in front by a few feet, helped by the fractionally shorter distance. A smooth, round curve, beautifully executed, arches streaming by under the pure blue sky, and then they sprang out into the open before angling left up the via dei Fori Imperiali.

  Finn spared not a glance for the familiar shape of the ancient ruins, rising up from his left in a jumble of crumbling stone. He glanced down again at the battery dials, calculating, measuring.

  Enough. Just enough. Enough that he’d still have power left at the end. He could keep up with the leaders, make sure Alexandra was all right. Perhaps even enough left for a burst of speed. Enough to beat that rascal Delmonico, at least.

  Up they charged, toward the Piazza Venezia, past cafés and fruit stands and cheering crowds. The knot in Finn’s belly began to relax. Elation began to sing through him: at the speed and the hot rush of wind in his face, at the unrestrained joy and wonder on the faces of the Romans he passed, at the rear tires of Delmonico’s motor edging closer and closer.

  Not until they’d passed through the famous piazza, not until they’d started up the via del Corso, did anything go wrong.

  Not until they neared the corner of the via delle Muratte, leading to the Trevi Fountain, did he notice the tire rolling merrily past him. Only then did he look, astonished, to his right, where the steamer and its fair-haired driver veered left toward him, and then right, and then, as another tire popped off, straight into the paving stones.

  * * *

  Motor-cars, Alexandra thought confidently, were without a doubt the wave of the future.

  Such glorious speed, such ease of movement! She must convince Finn to switch to steam. His electric was well enough, but it couldn’t accelerate out of a corner like t
his. Couldn’t sail along, far ahead of everyone else. Why, she hadn’t seen her competitors in ages! The cheering of the crowd went right to her head as she soared along the broad length of the via del Corso.

  Well, perhaps soared wasn’t quite the word. Vibrated. Bumped, even. Hartley’s engineers seemed not to have put, as Finn had, so much attention into such comforting details as suspension.

  But these were minor considerations. She narrowed her eyes as she approached the turn into the via delle Muratte and regulated the throttle with care. From behind came the distant roar of a petrol engine, Delmonico’s probably. Of Finn there was no sign. Good. The farther back he was, the better. As long as Delmonico wasn’t after him, he’d be quite all right. Nothing to worry about with Finn, strong, capable Finn, clever as the devil. After the race, she’d explain, she’d tell him what she’d realized about Delmonico. She’d quite happily let Finn exact whatever revenge he wanted on the villain.

  Everything would be fine, as long as she stayed ahead of Delmonico. As long as she won the race. The money, the company shares, the glory: It meant nothing now. All that mattered was that Finn was safe.

  She could do it. She could save him.

  People were waving at her now. She slowed just enough to swing around the corner, one hand on the tiller and one on the throttle. She couldn’t wave back, so she smiled and nodded, racing up the street and acknowledging her admiring public.

  Really, Romans were so lovely. Waving and shouting at her like that. Encouraging, was what it was.

  Pop.

  Hiss.

  POP.

  Wrong. Something was wrong. The popping grew louder, insistent. The automobile was slowing down, as if someone had hitched a rhinoceros to its rear. She pulled desperately at the throttle. The engine gasped valiantly and lurched forward.

  A sound came up on her right, a rattletrap roar, and the motor-cycle appeared at the side of her vision. It pressed against her, forcing her to the left, where the Trevi Fountain loomed upward in a tangle of streaming Gothic intricacy.

  “Bastard!” she shouted. “Bastard!”

  The driver’s head swiveled in astonishment, and so did his motor-cycle. She swerved to avoid him, bounced up the steps to the fountain’s edge, and slid over the bonnet of the motor to land with a splash under Neptune’s disapproving gaze.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Finn saw the dripping figure up ahead. White muslin plastered its legs, white cotton voile plastered its skull, and ropy dark hair plastered its back. It shoved a long, elegant finger into the chest of the motor-cycle driver, and its language was both forthright and picturesque.

  It could only be Alexandra.

  He took in the scene at a glance. The motor-cycle turned sideways in the middle of the road. Delmonico outside his automobile, pushing the other vehicle out of the way, his own engine coughing itself to death.

  A narrow passageway remained between Delmonico’s motor and the stucco-fronted building along the side of the street. He threaded his motor through, set the brake, and jumped out.

  Relief hit him like a mighty club. Thank God, thank God. He still had a future before him. She was safe, she was moving, she was unhurt.

  She was just . . . wet.

  “Come along,” he said to Alexandra, and caught her up in his arms. Cool water soaked through his jacket.

  “Finn!” she began, but he didn’t let her finish. He hauled her to his motor and tossed her into the seat beside him and released the brake.

  “Try not to drip over all the leather,” he advised, as they launched up the street.

  “Finn! You don’t understand! It’s Delmonico!” she exclaimed, unwinding her scarf. The water trickled heedlessly over the seat.

  He grunted. “It could be. Damn the bastard. Something’s off. Wrong. A fix-up. I think that cycle driver’s his man. Hold on!”

  He swerved around a darting pedestrian, charged on up to the via del Tritone, and turned right.

  She pounded the seat with her hand and spoke with passion. “Of course it is! Of course it is! Finn, he’s desperate! You’ve got to hurry!”

  “What the devil! What do you mean, desperate?”

  “Delmonico! He set the fire, Finn! His face—I saw his face, just before the race, and I realized . . .”

  “What was that? Realized what? Blast it! Hold on!” They whipped around the sharp turn, back onto the via Sistina. Finn glanced down at the battery dial and bit his lip. The stop and restart had cost him. With the additional weight of Alexandra’s body, the finish would be touch and go. How much lead did they have before Delmonico got his engine running again?

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Charge is running out.”

  “But you recharged it last night!”

  Finn heard the unmistakable rattle of the motor-cycle behind them, like an angry mechanical bee. “Bloody hell.”

  She turned again. “Oh, he’s gaining! Can’t you go faster?”

  “No, I bloody can’t! I’m running out of charge!” They were climbing the hill now, upward toward the park. He could see the flash of trees ahead, see a man in front of the crowd, signaling wildly to the left.

  “Left! Turn left!” Alexandra exclaimed.

  “No! Straight ahead!”

  The motor-cycle came up, rattling at their rear tires.

  She gestured ahead. “The man! He’s pointing us left!”

  “Dash it, Alexandra!” He pounded the tiller. “If we turn left, we’ll be going down the Spanish bloody Steps!”

  She looked at him, and then behind. She grabbed the tiller.

  “Don’t, you fool! I know Rome!”

  “Not us,” she hissed. “Him!”

  She jerked the tiller. The car swerved, the motor-cycle jigged left. The driver tried to recover, but it was too late.

  Down he went, down the elegant curve of the Spanish Steps, bumping toward the piazza below.

  Alexandra stood up on the floorboards, flinging droplets. “I say!” she cried. “He’s awfully good! There he goes, down the right side . . . oh, look out . . . but no! No, he’s still up, by God! . . . still up . . . still up . . . oh! Oh, I say! Jolly luck!”

  She sat back down in a giant squish of frock. “Straight into the fountain,” she said, with smug satisfaction.

  * * *

  They were going to win.

  The finish line lay a quarter mile ahead, just inside the Borghese gardens, shaded by trees. It was thick with spectators, all screaming and waving with mad enthusiasm, handkerchiefs flying in the air.

  “We’re going to win!” she screamed, joy surging through her blood. “We’re going to win! Come on! Faster!”

  “I can’t,” he said grimly.

  She turned in horror. The automobile was slowing measurably, dragged down by some mysterious weight. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we’re almost out of power. The battery . . . damn it all . . . Delmonico, I’m sure of it!” He pounded the seat with his fist.

  “Oh no! Oh, come on!” She strained forward with him, hoping the tension in her belly would somehow carry them over the finish line. Screaming, cheering people, so close! “Come on!”

  “She can’t!” Finn howled. “By God, I’ll see him rot . . . in . . . hell!”

  His words punctuated the last desperate surges of the motor as it rolled to a halt, thirty yards from the finish.

  The crowd ahead of them began to still. Curious faces materialized out of the throng.

  A growl of engine emerged from behind.

  “I’ll get out! We’ll push!” said Alexandra, in agony. The sound grew louder. She didn’t dare turn around. She knew who it was. “Hurry!”

  Finn’s shoulders slumped. “No, dash it. No use. It has to cross on its own power.”

  “You don’t understand!” she screamed. “We’ve got to do something! He might have a gun, he might . . . oh, come on!” She pulled at his arm, frantic.

  A figure separated from the crowd ahead, walking swiftly toward t
hem. Wallingford, dragging Abigail behind. Hartley trailed them at an awkward trot, followed by his three mechanics.

  The engine roared triumphantly behind them. A tiny gust of wind, and then Delmonico’s motor-car blew past them, bouncing along the paving stones to cross the finish line.

  First.

  * * *

  A wave of confused cheering scattered through the air.

  Delmonico’s car came to a stop. He stood up, fists raised. “Vittoria! Vittoria! Viva Italia!”

  “Viva Italia! Viva Italia!” The crowd began chanting, whistling. The handkerchiefs fluttered up again in a delirium of national enthusiasm.

  “Viva Italia! Viva Italia!”

  “Well, that’s that,” Alexandra said dully. She reached for Finn’s hand on the seat next to her. It was hot and damp, and curled around hers with a gentle squeeze. “At least we’re still alive.”

  “Alive?” He turned and stared at her, goggles crusted with road dust. “What the devil do you mean?”

  “The fire. I told you, Delmonico set the fire to your workshop.” She said it flatly. It hardly seemed to matter now. He’d won. They were safe, all right, but the bastard had won. Relief and disgust tumbled through her, all tangled together.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I saw him, on the way to the lake. I didn’t realize it until I caught sight of him, just before the race, and the expression on his face . . .”

  “Good God! Are you certain?” His arm whipped around her and crushed her into his chest. “Good God! But he might have . . . he might have killed you!”

  Wallingford came up. “Hard luck, old man. Why did you stop?”

  “Out of charge. And that villain Delmonico . . .” Finn’s arm tightened around her in a smothering act of protection. “By God, I’ll kill him!”

  “Darling, I can’t quite breathe . . .” she began.

  “Where’s my motor?” demanded Hartley, at a high pitch.

  Wallingford’s brow knitted. “What’s that? Out of charge? But . . .”