Magnificent Devices [5] A Lady of Resources

by Shelley Adina

  Oh, dear. She’d dug herself a moldy grave for true on this one. Once she’d proved her point to Tigg, she’d find a way to slip the gentleman’s watch back onto his person as quiet as you please, and then swear Tigg to secrecy for the remainder of his life.

  “Miss Elizabeth, if I might have a word?”

  Lizzie realized a moment too late that she had drifted right in front of Mr. Seacombe and was face to face with the gold lions on his waistcoat. Settling her expression into vacant politeness and trying not to stare at his spectacles while trying to see his eyes, she said, “Good evening, sir. Please allow me to thank you once again for your generosity, which I am afraid I do not deserve.”

  “Nonsense. I conferred with your headmistress and of all the possibilities, you were the student who stood out.”

  “But sir, Katrina—”

  “Your concern for others is a credit to you, my dear. Say nothing more about it. I am happy to be in a position to give assistance where I see the need.”

  Which was not terribly delicate of him, but Lizzie, eyeing the golden lions, was in no position to criticize. Like most gentlemen of her acquaintance, Seacombe kept his watch in its own pocket, with the chain extending across the stomach and hooking through the bottom buttonhole of the waistcoat. Her task, then, was to either find a man who did not wear a chain, or to find an opportunity to pop the fob through the buttonhole and lift the watch silently.

  What she required was a distraction.

  “Such modesty in a young woman,” he went on. “I should like to introduce my son to you, with your permission?”

  Goodness. For a moment Lizzie wanted to cast about wildly for the Lady, who ought to be here to manage the situation. But then she stopped the impulse. I am old enough to be introduced to someone, for goodness sake. Two minutes and I either get a chance at that watch or I don’t, but in either case I move on to more congenial company.

  Vacant politeness became pleasant expectation.

  “Miss Elizabeth de Maupassant, may I present my son, Claude Seacombe. He is in his third year at the Sorbonne, and will be joining me in the business upon his graduation.” He laughed. “Though his will not, perhaps, have the fanfare of that of your guardian.”

  Lizzie smiled and extended her hand to the young man looming over his father’s shoulder. Goodness, he was tall. And very handsome, if you liked macassar oil and merry blue eyes and exceedingly white teeth.

  And dimples. He smiled at her in return and bowed over her hand as if she were a great lady. Then he straightened and squeezed her fingers, as if she were an utter flirt. “My very great pleasure, Miss de Maupassant. I hope you are enjoying your celebration party?”

  “I am, thank you.” She removed her hand from his.

  He glanced from her to the couples whirling past. “But what’s this? You’re not dancing. I must rectify this situation at once. May I have the honor?”

  “But I’m not yet—”

  Whether she was out yet or not, it didn’t make a bit of difference, since clearly he’d seen her dancing with Tigg. He swung her onto the dance floor, where she felt a bit like a duck doing the polka with a stork. He was such a weed that she barely came up to his shoulder.

  She hadn’t had much practice in polite conversation with young men with whom introductions were necessary, either. What did one say in situations like this? “Do you have plans for the summer, sir?” she finally asked, a little breathlessly. His hold rode just on the edge of propriety, close and warm despite the speed of their movements, but not yet offensive.

  “Oh yes. The pater is spending the warm months in England, you know, which we do every summer that we’re not traveling.”

  “Oh? You have a home there, too?”

  “Yes, a grand old pile he bought from some impoverished lord. His breeding couldn’t pay the taxes, so it was going for a song. Papa considered buying the title along with it, but that seemed a bit nouveau riche, don’t you know.”

  “Your … pater … is a man of restraint as well as sensitivity, then.”

  Claude laughed. “I don’t know about that. You haven’t seen him going at it in the gambling salons in Monte Carlo.”

  “And your mother? Does she travel with you?”

  The laughter faded, and Claude steered her into a turn. “My mother is no longer with us in any form. She died when I was just a puppy.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Don’t worry your pretty head. It was a long time ago—I’m twenty-one now, and past the age of needing my mother.”

  Lizzie wondered how anyone could be past needing a mother, or a father. She and Maggie had had neither for many years. But sometimes, when she woke in the night after a dream of water and navy-blue skirts, she got a tight feeling, like a scab that was trying to grow over a wound.

  Even now, deep down, she missed her mother. Missed even the memories of her. Didn’t most people have those, at least?

  Claude peered into her face. “Did I say something to offend you, Miss de Maupassant?”

  “No. No, of course not. I have no memory of my own mother, that’s all.” Which was a terribly personal thing to admit to a perfect stranger. She pasted on a smile. “So tell me about this pile. Is it terribly grand?”

  Another turn, and a whirl out and in. He really was a good dancer—better than Tigg, if it wasn’t too disloyal of her to say so.

  “It is—or at least, it will be once the pater pours some cash into it. It’s actually a castle—there’s a keep and a bailey and a moat that has flowers in it now instead of water, and two big towers on the corners. Her Majesty stayed in one of them once. Hence they call it the Queen’s Tower.”

  “It sounds lovely. Fancy a moat filled with flowers.”

  “You’ll have to come and see it.” A flash of those white teeth, and mischief in the merry eyes. “I can get Papa to invite your guardian and the Dunsmuirs. It would be quite the social coup for him.”

  Lizzie didn’t know as much about the finer points of society as she hoped to once she finished school in Geneva, but even she was aware this was a little bit much to divulge to a young lady under their protection.

  “Oh, don’t give me that look,” he said cheerfully. “I’m quite the free spirit, you know. Say what I mean and none of this polite flummery that causes people to misunderstand one another. I’m all about clarity—and good fun, of course. Especially in the company of a pretty young lady.”

  Lizzie hadn’t blushed in so long she’d almost forgotten what it felt like. Heat crept into her cheeks and she kept her eyes down so she wouldn’t see him laughing at her. Blushing probably wasn’t the done thing among his fashionable friends, either.

  “Come, come, Miss de Maupassant. Surely you’ve heard a man say such things before.”

  “No,” she managed. And in the interests of clarity, she said, “It’s my first proper compliment.”

  He waggled his eyebrows. “Are there improper compliments?”

  The cheek of him! “I’m sure you would know more about that than I. The polka is over, sir. I should like a glass of punch, if you don’t mind.”

  “A paragon of proper behavior. Come, let’s find the pater. I want to share my bright idea with him.”

  Fortunately, Seacombe was standing not far away, and while Claude cantered off to get her some punch, she smiled at him and prepared to be her own distraction.

  “I see your interest in my spectacles,” he said, removing them and handing the double-lensed marvels to her. “My eyes do not seem to react well to the electricks over here on the Continent. They seem to be of a harsher persuasion than those in England. I find the amber lenses helpful.”

  “I should not want to cause you discomfort.” She lifted her gaze to his and—

  —tiger eyes—

  —a crack in the door—

  She dropped the spectacles.

  “Careful, now—”

  “I’m so sorry, how clumsy—”

  He bent, but she beat him t
o it, handing them up to him as she crouched. And as he straightened and held the lenses up to check them for damage, she straightened, too, her clever fingers working his watch fob through the buttonhole. In less time than her next breath, she lifted the watch from its pocket and stuffed it into the one sewn into the side seam of her gown. Simultaneously, she raised her right hand to tend the curls MacMillan had teased from her Psyche knot, as if they had been disordered in their little contretemps.

  His gaze followed her hand as he adjusted the spectacles on his nose, and she pulled her left hand from her pocket just in time to accept the glass of punch from Claude.

  Breathe. Calm your heart before it beats right out of your chest.

  “Pater, I was telling Miss de Maupassant about Colliford Castle. Wouldn’t it be a fine plan to invite the Dunsmuirs and Lady Claire for a house party? Perhaps the week my set will be there. We’re going to race our boats on the river, you know,” he added, turning to Lizzie. “Have you ever rowed?”

  The closest she’d ever been to a boat was the coracles they used in the surf below Gwynn Place, and in the old days, the skiff they used to cross the river from the cottage.

  “A little. Not big ones, though—that would be lovely.” Which was a bald-faced lie. She liked boats and water even less than she liked airships—or rather, than her stomach did.

  “A capital plan,” Seacombe said heartily. Goodness, did fathers normally agree to have houseguests they’d only just met? Or was he so used to Claude and his “set” racketing about that it was just another lot of place settings to order at dinner?

  “I shall speak to your guardian directly, Miss de Maupassant. In the meanwhile, do enjoy your party. Shall I see you over to Lady Claire?”

  “No, thank you. I want a word with Captain Hollys.” She dropped a curtsey and hurried in the direction of the captain, who was laughing with Mr. Yau as they tucked into the cakes.

  Directly past them was the door into the corridor, and she hurried along it until she found the cabin that Lady Dunsmuir was in the habit of giving them when they travelled together. Only when the carved, glossy door closed behind her did she take a long breath and sink onto the lower bunk.

  Amber eyes. Tiger eyes.

  —a crack—

  —and then the smoke and the cold—

  Was it a memory? Or a dream?

  7

  It would not do to let Mr. Seacombe know he had disturbed her so profoundly—and so irrationally—so Lizzie spent the rest of the evening staying out of his line of sight. As one of the three guests of honor, expected to be in everyone’s sight, this was no easy feat. They were, after all, in the grand salon of Lady Lucy, not in the palace, where she could disappear at will.

  After she had been politely dragged over to the graduation cake and made to help cut it, then hand out pieces, the Lady found her hovering near the orchestra, where she was distracting the euphonium player to the point that his face had reddened far in excess of the strength of his wind.

  “Lizzie, what is the matter? I have been watching you these five minutes and cannot fathom what you are doing. Have you eaten too much cake?”

  She mumbled something and wished herself at the bottom of the count’s lake.

  Under the pretext of rearranging the Alencon lace draped across one puffed sleeve, the Lady spoke softly. “Has something disturbed you, dear? Has one of the gentlemen taken some liberty? If so, you have only to tell me and Lord Dunsmuir will put the fear of Hades into him.”

  “No—yes—oh, Lady, I’ve done something ever so stupid.” Her lip trembled, and the laughing remark hovering on Claire’s tongue immediately dissolved into concern.

  “What is it, dear?”

  “I can’t tell you.” Claire’s only response was the level, expectant gaze that never failed to make you spill your darkest secrets, whether you wanted to or not. “It’s Tigg’s fault,” she finally blurted.

  “Shall I go and ask him?”

  “No!” Then in a quieter tone, she said, “He said I was forgetting where I came from and—”

  “That is hardly fair. Or likely.”

  “—and to prove I wasn’t, I—” Her throat closed and she pulled out the pocket watch just enough for the Lady and no one else to see it.

  Claire’s gloved fingers gently pressed the watch back where it had come from. “Oh, Lizzie. You didn’t.” The Lady’s voice held no censure, only sorrow. And a tremble that only disappointment could put there.

  Lizzie’s heart felt as though it was going to crack in two. “I’m going to put it back, honestly I am, as soon as I figure out how to do it.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “Mr. Seacombe’s.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  Lizzie froze. “Is that bad?”

  “No worse than your pickpocketing anyone else among the Dunsmuirs’ guests and abusing their hospitality so shamefully.”

  If the Lady had struck her, she could not have flinched any more acutely, nor found her shoulders and body curving around the injured portion—her own heart.

  “Unfortunately, Seacombe senior and junior have already left. I expect we shall have an inquiry from them tomorrow as to the lost item. And when we do, you will deliver it to Mr. Seacombe personally.”

  “What will I tell him?” Lizzie whispered.

  “Perhaps you will not have to tell him anything. If you recall a similar situation at the beginning of our acquaintance, the person concerned was only too glad to see her property again, and not too fussy as to how it came about.”

  “Yes, Lady.” Claire had made Lizzie undo her dishonest work then, and she’d tried so hard over the years since to cure herself of this tendency. But it was clear that such defects of character required constant vigilance—and resistance, if not to temptation, then certainly to being teased by her friends.

  “Come, darling. We will make our farewells to the Dunsmuirs and return to the palace.”

  “Oh, no, Lady. I don’t want to spoil your evening.” A glance, a raised eyebrow. “Any more than I have, that is. Please. I’ll give them my thanks and slip back to the palace quietly on my own.”

  “You cannot go unescorted with all these people and coachmen and aeronauts about.”

  “Then I’ll ask Tigg to come with me.”

  “And get you into more trouble? Never mind. I shall take this opportunity to have a word with him myself.”

  Whatever that word was, Tigg looked as though his balloon had been well and truly punctured as she kissed the earl and countess good night and thanked them for the party. The Lady intercepted Maggie before she could join them, and then two of the Lady Lucy’s crew asked them to dance, so telling her sad story to her sister was put off for an hour, at least.

  The two of them descended the gangway and hopped to the ground, Tigg handing her down as if he thought she might break. “So you really did it?” he asked. “You really were such a little fool?”

  Lizzie came close to throwing the watch at his head, but instead she merely handed it to him as they paced, arm in arm, across the airfield and onto the broad gravel avenue that ran with perfect rectitude through the park to the palace. “It belongs to Mr. Seacombe. The Lady says I must return it to him tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll give it to his son and say I lifted it for a lark. He seems like the sort to appreciate a joke.”

  Tigg examined the watch, turning it in the palm of his white dress glove. “I think you’re the one who’s the butt of the joke. Lizzie, this isn’t a pocket watch at all.”

  “What? Of course it is. There’s the stem, and there’s the chain, and it’s even chased with a design. What else do gentlemen keep in their watch pockets but watches?”

  “I don’t know, but look. It’s shaped like a watch, but it doesn’t open. There’s no catch, and no back or front.”

  She released his arm and took it herself, but she could gain no more information about the curious gold object than he. “Well, blow me down, as the aeronauts say. Bad enough I must prove myself a fool
for a watch, but now it isn’t even that. What kind of device is it, do you suppose?”

  “A puzzle, for sure.”

  She slipped it back in her pocket with a sigh. “I’m glad you’re with me, anyway, Tigg. I was feeling a little peculiar earlier.”

  “Too much cake.”

  “Not as much as you. I saw you go back for a second piece.”

  “Hazelnuss is my favorite. Say, Liz, move out into the center of the avenue. Looks like those chaps behind the elms have been celebrating a little too heartily.”

  Sure enough, a small group of men were pushing and shoving in the shadows of the trees, and one of them stumbled out onto the gravel, bumping up against a lamp post with a curse. Lizzie lengthened her step, thankful all over again that Tigg was with her. They wouldn’t be likely to make impertinent remarks to a young lady accompanied by an officer.

  Two more men lurched onto the avenue, reeling along behind them. Tigg quickened his pace, and the curls bounced against her cheeks as she did her best to keep up. But the men increased their pace, too, and suddenly Lizzie realized that they were not drunk at all.

  Something snatched at her skirt and she shrieked. “Tigg!”

  He whirled and shoved her behind him. One of the men threw a punch, but they could not know that every middy in the Dunsmuirs’ service had been trained in the defensive arts by Mr. Yau. Tigg’s leg swept out and caught the man behind the knees as he lunged past him, mowing him down as efficiently as the serving knife had cut the cake. The second man leaped into the breach, and Tigg moved in to engage him, but that left the third man. He made as if to go to the aid of his fallen companion, then dodged, whirled, and grabbed Lizzie around the waist, lifting her off her feet.

  Fortunately, Lizzie and Maggie had talked Mr. Yau into giving them the same lessons.

  The man might have been expecting a gently reared young lady to dissolve in a paroxysm of fear, or at the most, to kick her dainty feet. An elbow to the ribs and a second to his nose made him drop both her and his illusions about her, which gave her just enough time to plant the leather heel of her dancing slipper hard between his legs.