Sophia fell in behind a family that was making its way to the exit, giving the impression she was part of their group. Luckily, a wailing child was keeping their pace slow.
Albert had come to a stop beneath the clock. “Ah yes, quite clever what with all the tinkering I like to do, isn’t it?”
An employee operating a Portoporter came rumbling up to the two Englishmen, just as an ebony-skinned woman came bustling into the marble foyer. Sophia lowered her eyes towards the wailing child, and began to coo at it so as not to catch the newcomer’s attention.
The child stared at Sophia, wide-eyed and hypnotised by her distractions. Sophia smiled brightly at the toddler before shifting her eyes under the cowl to the ebony-skinned woman bowing slightly before Bertie, holding out her hand. “Your Highness, Agent Martha Harris at your service. I am your OSM liaison for this little visit of yours.”
“Awesome, indeed,” Bertie replied smoothly. “A jewel plucked from the Nubian shores and brought before me, you are.”
Sophia smiled in response to the heavy sigh she heard from Harris. “If believing your own poetry makes you more amicable, so be it. It’s my job to protect you, Your Highness.” There was a pause. “And for the record, my lineage doesn’t come from Nubia.”
“Oh,” the prince asked, still trying to charm the striking young woman, “and what exotic location does your tribe hail from?”
“Baltimore.”
Sophia had studied all known agents of the Office of the Supernatural and Metaphysical before setting foot on American soil, and Martha Harris’ name had appeared in many OSM reports displaying valour and ingenuity in the field. She was easily among their best and brightest. At this moment, Agent Harris was immaculately dressed in tailored trousers, matching jacket, and a very alluring white frilled blouse—which stood out brightly against her smooth, dark skin. She also wore a set of odd spectacles, which Sophia recognised as serving some other purpose than correcting vision, as she had a similar pair packed in her own luggage. The lenses were scarlet and wrapped fully around her head, giving her a very dire aspect, despite her beauty.
Martha’s eyes drifted out the door. “My superiors wish for me to express that they would have preferred you arriving in either an official capacity or covertly.”
Sophia smoothed the creases out of her cloak, still remaining within range as well as inconspicuous. The latter had become more a challenge now that a trained operative had intercepted the prince. Discovery by Agent Harris would simply not do, especially with what Sophia had planned for later.
“Since I am presenting at a clankerton convention I could hardly travel incognito for long,” Albert said mildly. “I already know half of these people by sight.”
“I can understand that, Your Highness, but also please understand I have hired on a few men to help with your security. Strictly as a precaution.” When he raised his eyebrows, she raised one hand. “Don’t worry. We won’t be too obtrusive.” She gestured, and a flotilla of Portoporters wheeled in their direction.
On the gesture, the folds of Harris’ jacket billowed, and Sophia clearly saw the handle of a sidearm. A slight antiquated Volcanic Repeater but with recent modifications. She immediately darted her gaze down to her trousers. The left hem billowed out a touch wider than the right. Perhaps a Remington-Elliot, considering the lay and cut of her pants. She favours the left then, Sophia also noted.
The assassin wandered to a rack of pamphlets by the exit, her gloved hand idly thumbing through information on the cable car network that San Francisco prided itself upon while she watched Harris escort the prince and his valet to a waiting carriage. Once their carriage pulled away, she disconnected the antenna and torc, pushed back her hood, and strode hastily from the station to secure her own transport and then settled into the carriage seat, pulling the folds of the Maestro’s cloak closer around her.
“Since I am presenting at a clankerton convention I could hardly travel incognito for long,” he had mentioned to Agent Harris.
“Where to, miss?” the driver asked.
“I’m here for the science and innovation exposition,” she stated.
He craned his neck to look Sophia over. “You don’t look like a clankerton.”
She gave a slight nod before extending her arm. The two razor-disc cogs sank deep into the back of the driver’s seat, their sharpened teeth most assuredly poking the man just enough to make their presence known.
“My expertise is in personal security,” she stated. “Now then, drive.”
A single crack of the whip, and the carriage rumbled into the San Francisco evening. She was not a woman rushed or hurried. She knew to where her target was en route. Sophia was committed to achieving the Maestro’s goal satisfactorily and efficiently. The carriage soon pulled to a halt outside the smooth white exterior of the Palace.
Her eyes spotted porters struggling with some very fine luggage brandishing tags from the Continental. Agent Harris and her charges had obviously already disembarked. Paying her driver, and leaving him the lethal cogs in the back of his seat as his tip, she stepped free of the carriage before the doorman could serve. For the porter in the lobby tending to her cloak, however, Sophia reluctantly tipped in earnest, charging the young man to take care of it as if it were his own.
Inside, the Palace was all soaring white marble arches, gleaming chandeliers, and gilded decoration. On a placard she read a heartfelt welcome from the hotel staff to the attendees of the “Engineering the Future: 1896 and Onward” symposium. Open to the public, the event promised to be a full week of seminars, workshops, and—more important to the curious—demonstrations from amateur inventors and professional scientists. Sophia spotted the three new arrivals lingering by the front desk. She took a seat on an over-stuffed chair facing away from them. At this range, Sophia no longer needed the Maestro’s device. Her natural hearing was sharp enough to overhear their conversation.
“I do love your country,” the prince commented to the agent. “All the hopes of the new with the style of the old.”
Harris replied, her response careful and calculated. “It isn’t all this pretty.”
“No place is all pretty, Miss Harris. My own country is riddled with ugliness on all sides. As individuals, I believe it is a duty for us to endeavour to make it right and beautiful.” Albert’s footsteps drew nearer, and Sophia bent her head closer, masking the gesture by rummaging through her open purse, perhaps for powder or a mirror. “I see you are doing your own bit with your service to your country. May I call you Martha?”
Sophia smiled slightly to herself. The Spare Parts Prince did enjoy the ladies.
The agent’s reply, when it came, was surprisingly chilly. “You may call me Miss Harris or Agent Harris. As for my service to my country, it is not for my own betterment, nor is it some charge put on me. It is to understand the unknown and protect our shores from it, if necessary.”
“Precisely,” he returned, “and thus you endeavour to make things right and beautiful.” Sophia dared a glance from her chair to the prince. His brow was creased together. “Whatever did you think I meant?”
She eased back into her chair as Harris, her tenor now peppered with embarrassment, said, “I understand there is a reception for the convention currently under way in the Garden Court. Shall we?”
Sophia saw Harris leading the prince into the Palace’s Garden Court, a breathtaking display of grandeur consisting of a huge vaulted ceiling made entirely of glass, supporting gilded ironwork, and teardrop chandeliers. She stood slowly, and kept a wide berth between herself and her target, allowing her eyes to surmise the people around her. There were ways of finding a spy’s tell, and with an agency as young as OSM, those tells could be quite pronounced.
Concerning tells, Bertie’s reaction to the Garden Court was quite surprising. She expected him to be underwhelmed by the attempt at splendour, just as she had been; but he took all of the artistic
touches with relish. It must be the way of a clankerton to find the wonder in everything and anything, even the audacious.
Adding to this comical farce of wonder were strains of “God Save the Queen” blaring out from a hidden steam organ. She heard some of the people around the prince joining in the chorus while others showed a bit of cheek and sang the alternative American lyrics, which did make Bertie’s cheek ruddy with laughter. From where Sophia stood, shadows seemed to move of their own accord as chandeliers dipped, swayed, and twirled overhead to the laborious beat of the music. It was a ridiculous affectation.
“Not the best tune, is it?” came a familiar voice, heavily buttered with Scottish brogue, making Sophia turn with a start.
“Hamish!” she exclaimed, rising to her feet. “Of course I would find you here.”
The smell of machine oil and Macassar oil should have warned her. Lord Hamish McTighe travelled in a veritable cloud of it, merely feeding the image he perpetuated of the quintessential Scottish mad scientist. “Mad McTighe,” with his crop of wild, yet still receding at the brow, red hair, his clan tartan displayed both proudly as his jacket and his kilt, grinned broadly at Sophia before making a rather spectacular bow.
“Contessa,” he wheezed when he stood up. “Nah’ this is a most wonderful surprise.”
Sophia smiled. “I am a firm believer in the joy of surprises.”
“Well,” McTighe said, blushing a red that rivalled his beard, “I can hardly wait to share this one. A very good friend of mine has just arrived for the convention, and I would love ta introduce you.”
Smoothly, Sophia cast her eyes over the fine French silk satin dress she wore, knowing full well the white stood out against her olive skin, and made it gleam in contrast. “I am sure any friend of yours, Hamish, will be delightful.”
She had not lied when she told McTighe she was a firm believer in the joy of surprises. Sophia had not counted on his presence here. The Scotsman was as erratic as he was brilliant. She had met him at an event that was a far more intimate affair than this event, taking place in a tiny Tuscan village. Under her Contessa guise, she had been there to win over the trust of an ambitious French biologist. Along the way, she also made an impression on this madman.
Now that would serve her well. She took his arm and allowed herself to be led into the Garden Court. Just as she had anticipated, McTighe led her straight over to the OSM agent and the Prince of Wales.
“Albert,” McTighe called across the ballroom, “I have someone ya must meet.”
Before he could mangle her alias with that vicious accent of his, Sophia introduced herself. “Contessa Fiammetta Fiore,” she announced, her full, crimson lips fixing into a smile as she held out her white-gloved hand. “And you are?”
“Albert Edward Saxe-Coburg-Gotha. People call me the Prince of Wales, but you can call me Bertie”—and Sophia feigned a mock gasp of surprise as he kissed her hand and added—“provided you call upon me.”
With the exception of Agent Harris, they all burst into laughter. Sophia placed a hand on her chest and caught her breath. “Oh, I feel so silly not showing honourable deference.”
“Worry not, madame,” Albert said, “in the eyes of St. Patrick, we are all humble engineers.”
McTighe gave a gruff laugh. “Bertie and I have enjoyed a few of these soirées together, I canna tell you!”
Between McTighe’s dark chuckle and Bertie’s blushing, the evening was promising to yield many stories, possibly around many drinks. That would have been the direction of things had redoubtable Miss Harris not stepped in. “Unfortunately, Your Highness, there is an urgent message from home waiting for your attention in your suite. From your wife.”
Really, the American knew just how to kill a mood, and Sophia was becoming more and more unhappy with her presence.
Bertie broke the sudden silence between them with a bit of nervous laughter. Through a tight smile, the prince asked, “Miss Harris, exactly what do you think you are doing?”
“My job, Your Highness,” she replied pointedly, her gaze fixing on Sophia.
The assassin did not return the glare, lest she engage in a staring competition with the American. After all, she wouldn’t be much of a lady if she did. However, she did take note of the woman’s opening tactic. Sophia wanted to know this adversary’s tell, and she was getting her wish.
McTighe cleared his throat before making a rather spectacular bow to the agent, and then followed it up with a, “If you don’ min’ me sayin’, you are a bonnie lass to be guarding this old fool.”
“Now, now, McTighe, don’t attempt to turn the lady’s head,” the prince said cheerily, looking between the women. “She’ll get quite the wrong idea about you.”
“Gotcha eye on her yourself?” McTighe whispered none too quietly to him. “Can’t say I blame you there . . .”
Albert winced, as if he would rather not be having this conversation. With a gentle shake of his head, he implored, “My dear friend, when are you going to learn at least some of the social delicacies? Not all of them, mind you, but just a spattering?”
McTighe shrugged and grinned. “I got thro’ fifty-eight years without ’em. Why bother now?”
Sophia chuckled at his rather poor joke as if it were the most amusing thing she’d heard in months.
Once again, Agent Harris interjected, “Watching His Royal Highness is my duty, Lord McTighe, and I made a promise to fulfill my duty to the letter.” Her eyes returned to Sophia. “No exceptions.”
“Your guard is most”—Sophia paused to lick her lips—“enthusiastic.”
The prince shrugged. “I fear you are right, and that the only way to calm her is to do as I am told.” He smiled wickedly, seemingly ignoring his own advice. “As if I am a very naughty schoolboy.”
Sophia knew she was walking a fine line between McTighe and the prince, but she dared an askance look. “Perhaps that is what she likes.”
Both men nearly choked on her wickedness.
Harris went to retort, but this time Sophia spoke first. “The pleasure has been all mine.” She paused, then smiled wide, making the prince gasp as she said, “Bertie.” She tapped her hand just briefly on the prince’s arm, earning a flinch out of Harris. “We shall leave you to your amazon. Another time, I hope, we may enjoy one another’s company under less chaperoned conditions?”
McTighe, taking his cue, led her deeper into the Garden Court, with the prince falling behind her.
Sophia’s smile was content as they went. She knew one thing about such men as the Prince of Wales: they always wanted what they couldn’t have. Such dangerous passions could also be used to lead them as if there was a ring in their nose.
She felt within the next few days she would have exactly what the Maestro wanted. That would make putting up with Lord Hamish McTighe almost bearable.
TWELVE
Wherein Our Intrepid Heroes Ascend a Spiral of Madness
Eliza tried the door, and found it surprisingly unlocked. Perhaps someone up above—be it Heaven itself or just the chap manning the top of Currituck—was trying to make up for her rather marginal evening. She took a deep breath, and pushed it open slowly. Beyond was the interior of the lighthouse, lit by a series of incandescent lightbulbs. Once through a stone archway, they all stopped just before a circular alcove, a spiral staircase winding its way up to the summit of Currituck Light, its flash only visible through the cracks of the access hatch.
“This ain’t good,” Bill muttered softly behind her. His grasp of the blindingly obvious was still intact, and just as annoying as it had been on the Sea Skipper.
“Oh, come along, Bill, where’s your sense of adventure?” Eliza asked brightly. “Entering a potentially hostile environment with no intelligence whatsoever pertaining to who could be here? What could be better than this?”
“Yeah,” Bill breathed nearly in her ear while matc
hing her step for step, “what could possibly go wrong?”
“We know at least one person is up there,” Wellington whispered. “Edison’s assistant was receiving data from Currituck. Best-case scenario: there’s a difference engine up there, sending out a simple, rudimentary signal the assistant was reading.”
Felicity asked, “Worst case?”
Wellington looked at Eliza. “Don’t worry,” she replied. “I have plenty of bullets to go round.”
“The longer we stand here,” Bill grumbled, “the worse it gets.”
He had a point. Many times while on assignment Eliza had been in similar situations, and she had discovered there was a certain point where waiting began to eat at confidence: ears began to hear things that weren’t really there, and nerves began to fray. She took the lead, but paused after taking only four steps. It was bloody nigh impossible for anyone to climb these stairs silently. The sounds of their footsteps on the iron staircase reverberated throughout the brick spire. If there was someone up there, they were practically announcing their ascent through.
On reaching the first landing, “This lighthouse,” Felicity whispered, “is quite tall, isn’t it?”
“Just keep climbing,” Eliza returned, continuing up the next flight.
At the top of the stairs, all four of them trying desperately to catch their breaths quietly, they reached the Watch Room. It was crowded with all the trappings of lighthouse keeping, but also, and far more importantly, the bottom half of the clockwork that kept the light turning. It was still working, and the whirring of its cogs and gears was somewhat soothing.
Eliza turned to Wellington and Felicity. “You two, stay back. We don’t know how many are out there.” She then looked to Bill. “What do you think? In, or out?”
Bill’s eyes considered the door leading to the Watch Room, and then looked over the heavy hatch that led to the Gallery.
“Out.”
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” Eliza muttered, holstering her pistols. Gripping the handle, she disengaged its lock and pulled. Obviously the light keeper had not been so careful in his maintenance of Currituck’s details as the door’s hinges let out a scream like a terrified cow, a scream that echoed throughout the tower.
Dawn's Early Light Page 17
