Clockwork Image

by L G Rollins

  Not even from a crazed werewolf.

  Because no matter what,

  Family takes care of family.

  Download Your Free Copy at

  LGRollins.com/freenovella

  Please enjoy this first chapter from

  Stolen Bloodline

  Steam and Shadow Series, Book 4

  CHAPTER ONE

  One. Two. Three. Four.

  He ought to be getting ready.

  Six. Seven.

  Standing here, working on this picture, was only an excuse.

  Nine. Ten.

  Halfway there.

  Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.

  But, he’d already begun the process. If he were to stop now the images would be ruined. Jasper Wimple dipped his fingers into the developing tray and pulled them through the mixture of water and pyrogallic acid. In the red light of the room, the liquid looked almost otherworldly as it swirled in tiny rivets around his fingers.

  Sixteen. Seventeen.

  The stench of chemicals was faint, yet even the smallest waft seemed to bite against his nose. Even after so many years of making pictures, it never smelled good in his homespun developing room. Nonetheless, the scent always made him feel a bit sentimental.

  The image bloomed across the glass. Ghostly at first—pale background and eyes. Then a few details followed—dark cheeks and collarbone. A negative of what the image would be.

  Oh, this one was looking excellent.

  Twenty.

  Jasper cupped his hands around the glass plate and held his breath.

  Did he pull it now? Or give it a moment longer? This was always the hard part. He could count and calculate and follow an exact process. But in the end, he knew from years of practice and failures, that nothing replaced that gut feel of when things where ready; or not ready.

  So he waited.

  Each second slipped past and he could feel it pull on him. As though they were each a tiny spirit from the beyond warning him that, if he didn’t pull the glass plate out now, it would be ruined. He watched the image closely. All his work. All the time preparing the plate, working with his subject, even using this image as an excuse to not being getting ready—as he certainly should be doing right now—would be all for not if he didn’t pull it . . .

  He felt that tinge in his gut. The one that meant it was time.

  Jasper smoothly lifted the glass plate from the tray and tipped it upright, allowing all the solution to run off. He gave it a gentle shake and the last few drops ran off the glass and rained back down into the tray.

  He placed the plate beneath the nozzle of a faucet and, foot on the pedal, pumped water over the image. It was important to remove every last drop of the previous solution before putting it into the next—he didn’t want spots marring his beautiful art. He moved his foot up and down, up and down. Water coursed over the plate, his gloved hands, everywhere.

  Then he carefully laid the glass into the next tray over, the fixing tray.

  Reaching forward he tugged off the sheer red fabric he had earlier wrapped around the single gas lamp he had lit. The light brightened, pushing shadows fuller into corners and casting the room in a warm, golden glow.

  The image reversed. Black turned white; white turned black. The light back ground and hair turned into a dark background and ebony locks. The dark cheeks and neckline brightened to a pale face and delicate features.

  And those grays. The mid-tones were exquisite. Those were always the hardest to get right. It was easy to get a brilliant white or a rich black, but to get every shade in between was a sure sign of experience.

  Jasper couldn’t stop the grin that pulled on his lips. This was one of his best yet. This one—

  A knock sounded from below.

  As in, a knock at his townhouse door.

  Who in the blazes was coming to call on him? No one ever visited his small town home. No one except Tom, a young boy living at Westwood Orphanage, or, even less frequently, Jasper’s sister Tressa. He frequently deflected questions regarding where he lived just so he wasn’t ever interrupted during such a process as this.

  Jasper’s eyes returned to his tintype image. It was beautiful. Whoever had knocked would probably come back later—it wasn’t likely to be anyone he wanted to talk to anyways.

  The knock came again. A persistent bang-bang which seemed to demand it be answered. Hang it all, he didn’t want to walk all the way downstairs just to be annoyed by some neighbor.

  Wait—what time was it? Jasper stood upright and pulled out his pocketwatch.

  Devil take it. He was late. And not just a few minutes late—not fashionably late as the women of society called it—but almost two hours late. His agent, Mrs. Hedgecock, would ring his neck.

  Jasper pulled the glass plate from the fixer tray—luckily the image was done now. He ran it under water once more and then set it up to dry fully. He pulled off the strip of fabric which held his dreadlocks back whenever he worked and hurried from the room, but took a second to glance at his recently completed picture. Mrs. Hedgecock would be thrilled when he showed it to her. If she hadn’t already killed him for being so late.

  The knock sounded yet again. Just how persistent could one person be? Maybe it was something important. Jasper turned in his tracks and began down the two flights of stairs to the main level. Had there been an accident at Westwood Orphanage where his sister Tressa and her new husband Brox worked? With so many children always running around it was bound to happen some time or another.

  Jasper neared his unadorned foyer when the knocker made their presence known for the fourth time. Surprisingly, it sounded as though it was coming form his back door. No one ever used his front door and even fewer people used the back. It was made for servants and butlers and ladies maids and all those people whom Jasper found expensive and not worth their keep.

  He made it to the back door before a fifth knock sounded. Jasper swung the door open to find a short, elderly woman with white skin and jet black hair smiling up at him. She was petite and her face was full of wrinkles.

  “Good evening,” she said as she placed the palms of her hands together and bowed over them. “You need house cleaner?” Her voice was sharp and the tones clipped but not unpleasant.

  She wore simple, loose fitting breeches which billowed around her ankles and a long shirtsleeve which hung nearly to her knees with slits up either side to her hips. Holding her black hair back on one side of her head was an ornate jade clip.

  The clip was delicate and showcased three flowers, pearls in the center of each. Now, that was a beautiful piece of art work. Jasper had never thought to try carving jade—perhaps he should try it someday.

  His gaze dropped back down to the waiting woman’s hopeful face. “No, but thank you.” Jasper moved further inside and readied to shut the door.

  “Cook?” the woman continued, her smile only growing. “Laundry woman? Butler?”

  “Butler?” Jasper replied—that was strictly a man’s role.

  The elderly woman laughed. “I do it all,” she reassured him with a confident nod.

  Jasper almost wished he did need to hire someone, she would probably brighten up his drab home. He had a few hired hands once: a butler and a cook. But they’d only taxed his meager income and bothered him whenever he was right in the middle of creating. So, after only a couple months, he’d let them both go. He’d been quite content to live alone ever since.

  “Thank you,” he said yet again, “but no. I am not looking to hire at this time.”

  She bowed over her hands again and turned away. There was a hunch to her back, probably from years of leaning over hot laundry vats or from carrying heavy pots of stew in who knew how many kitchens.

  Jasper leaned against the door frame as the little woman shuffled to the next house over. Living in London, all the houses were stuffed up next to each other and she didn’t have far to go before she was knocking on the next back door.

  That door was answered far sooner than Jasper h
ad answered his own. He watched her bow and, though he couldn’t hear what was said, he was fairly sure she was saying the same thing yet again. Did the master of the house wish to hire a cook? A laundry woman? A butler? Jasper chuckled silently. That little woman could probably be one very intimidating butler if she so chose.

  She was turned away quickly and off she shuffled, onto the next house. On to her next ‘no’, most likely. Jasper felt bad for the little woman—he knew just how hard it was to find work in London. He walked back inside and shut his door. His own art work hadn’t consistently paid the bills until two years ago. He’d filled nearly a decade doing odd jobs before that time.

  Blast—he’d gotten distracted and lost track of time, again. Jasper dashed up the stairs, praying he had something decent to wear for this evening. A quick rummage through his battered armoire revealed little to chose from. Perhaps he should have hired the little woman as a launderer after all.

  ***

  Jasper Wimple’s boots slammed the pavement as he flew up the front steps. Mrs. Hedgecock was always saying he should buy a motorcar instead of traversing London on foot every day. Perhaps he should have listened to her before now. Jasper lifted a hand toward the door. A butler answered before he could even knock, and usured him in.

  “Where have you been?” Mrs. Hedgecock in her crisp South Asian accent. Though she’d moved to England from the Persian Gulf over three decades ago, she still always wore the traditional wrap around dress and a shayla—a one piece veil which covered her black hair and was secured beneath her chin with an ornate pin.

  “I’m sorry, I got caught up with something.”

  “It had better be a something that’s worth a pretty penny in today’s market.”

  That’s why he loved Mrs. Hedgecock; she understood him shockingly well and their priorities were almost always aligned. If he was making art he was happy, and Mrs. Hedgecock helped him make enough money selling his creations that he could continue making art. He couldn’t have asked for a better agent.

  “Just you wait,” he reassured her. “It turned out lovely.”

  “Good. Still, couldn’t you have planned ahead and gotten it done early enough to arrive on time?”

  Jasper shrugged with one shoulder. He wasn’t much for planning ahead. “Art doesn’t follow a schedule. You just have to follow your gut.”

  A couple of the hard lines around her mouth and jaw eased. “Well, at least the time wasn’t a waste. Hand your things to Thomas here”—she motioned toward the butler—“and follow me. There are some very important people you need to meet.”

  Important people? At his art show? That was a first.

  Mrs. Hedgecock began with introducing him to a Lord and Lady Cogsmith. He was sporting white hair, wrinkles and a turned up nose.

  Jasper smiled regardless. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance's.”

  “Naturally,” Lord Cogsmith said.

  Standing beside him, Lady Cogsmith opened her fan, glancing up at Jasper. She wore more pearls around her neck than Jasper had ever seen someone wear and the way she batted the fan quickly she seemed almost nervous. Jasper got that a lot. Tressa always said it was his large stature, dark coloring, and dreadlocks that put others on edge while in his company. Jasper wasn’t about to change the way he looked, though, just to better fit in to society.

  Still, it was best if he put the woman at ease.

  “And I must say,” Jasper turned more fully toward the woman, “I had heard of your beauty. But, none of the compliments have done you justice.”

  That earned him a touch of a smile. Huh, that wasn’t enough. He needed her to feel truly comfortable. “You’ll forgive me,” he continued. “But as an artist, I can’t help but notice the petiteness of your nose and the delicate turn of your throat. You, my sweet, are exquisite.”

  Just as Lord Cogsmith was beginning to eye Jasper with one eyebrow raised, Jasper turned toward the wealthy man. “You are a lucky man, sir. Though I can clearly see why Lady Cogsmith is so happy. You are clearly a man of much wealth and of elevated position.” Lud, that was probably a bit prosy and over the top; he would have to work on that. Nonetheless, Lord Cogsmith didn’t seem to mind. His brow dropped and an arrogant smile replaced it.

  For the next two hours Jasper let himself be lead about the large ballroom shaking hands with gentlemen and bowing before ladies; all of whom had probably spent more money on their attire for that evening alone than Jasper spent in a month on food. Mrs. Hedgecock was relentless; pushing him about the room, forcing him to explain many of his pottery pieces and statues to onlookers.

  Jasper did his part. He flirted shamelessly with the ladies and nodded sagely with the men. It was exhausting. Finally, during his third glass of wine, he spotted Tressa. At last, someone he knew and actually would enjoy talking to. He excused himself from the circle of stuffed shirts and voluptuous dresses he was speaking to and made his way around various art pieces he’d created.

  He shoved his unwanted glass of wine at a passing servant. Mrs. Hedgecock insisted he have a glass in his hands at all time during these things; said it make him look distinguished and that the upper echelon always bought more when he fit their preconceived ideas of what an artist should look like. Truth was, he hated drink. He’d seen far too many of his friends ruin their lives with it while still young.

  Furthermore, it dulled his senses until he couldn’t see the nuanced beauty around him. When one couldn’t see what other’s often missed there was no art to be made. Jasper slipped by a small group of young women who fluttered their lashes and smiled demurely up at him.

  Furthermore, it wasn’t as though he fit the traditional persona of a French artist anyways. He was dark skinned, had long dreadlocks which he kept tied at the base of his neck, and didn’t own a single beret. No, his look was closer to what Mrs. Hedgecock had called ‘bohemian’.

  “I’m pleased to see you could make it.” Jasper said as he neared his sister and her husband. It still seemed strange to him to see Tressa in a dress. She almost never wore them, but this evening she was in a light pink one which was simply adored with a single strand of pearls. No frills or ruffles—Tressa would never wear frills or ruffles, of that Jasper was confident.

  Tressa must have caught him eying her dress, for she motioned down at it. “Brox bought it for me.” Before any of them could say more, however, she caught sight of someone. “Stay here,” she said to both Jasper and Brox. “There’s someone I want you to meet.” Tressa hurried away, taking long confident strides which seemed wholly out of character with the elegant attire she wore.

  “You bought her a dress?” Jasper asked his brother-in-law, shaking his head. “Bold move, my friend, bold move.” After stepping in and saving the children of Westwood Orphanage from endless nights of grueling labor, and after escaping death by vampire, Brox had married Jasper’s sister, Tressa. Gads, that had all happened only three months ago—it felt like a lifetime ago.

  Brox laughed softly. “Between you and me, I was in a sweat the entire day waiting for it to arrive. I wasn’t sure if she was going to thank me or belt me.”

  Jasper laughed with him. He could absolutely see Tressa punching someone else over the gift of a dress. But, not Brox. Though she never gushed—about anything, ever—Jasper knew Tressa was smitten with her husband. For a short time, Brox’s secretary, Christina Brown, had looked at Jasper with hope that they could make a pair as well. But Jasper, good at flirting though he may be, never went further than that and never saw himself making designs on any woman. He was an self-proclaimed, permanent bachelor. He liked it that way. He and Christina were now just friends.

  Tressa returned with two well-dressed individuals; a man in a captain’s uniform and a woman who was—there was just no way to ignore the fact—surprisingly with child. Jasper had never seen a woman so, well, so round. Generally women secreted themselves away to the country side or stayed at home so near their time. Is that how one said it? ‘So near their time’? Not havin
g ever been around a woman who was with child before, Jasper wasn’t sure.

  Whatever the proper wording was, Jasper held out his hand toward the man. There was only one person this could be. “You must be Captain Hopkins. I have heard much about you, sir.”

  Captain Hopkins gave his hand a firm shake. “It is an honor to meet you finally, Mr. Wimple. I have franked so many letters to you for your sister, I feel we are already good friends.”

  For nearly two decades Tressa Broxholme worked aboard a variety of submarines as an engineer. Her last job was aboard Captain Hopkin’s Gearhound, where she was head engineer—that was, before the thing was pirated away by werewolves. Gads, Jasper still got defensive on his sister’s behalf whenever he thought of it. And that had happened over a year ago.

  How had Captain Hopkins handled the debacle? It was hard to really know a man just from the way he smiled and acted during an art show.

  “This is my wife,” Captain Hopkins continued. “Doctor Elise Hopkins.”

  She gave him a shallow curtsied and Jasper bowed wishing propriety allowed him to assure her she needn’t trouble herself. It could not be easy to curtsy while one was extra round about the middle.

  “Your art is stunning,” Captain Hopkins said, his eyes roving over the room.

  “Thank you,” Jasper said. “After spending so many hours on each piece, I would hate to think of any of them as bland.”

  A man walked up from behind Jasper. “Doctor Hopkins, we meet again.”

  Jasper turned to see an elderly man in long flowing silk attire. His skin was light and his hair black. Instantly the woman who knocked on Jasper’s back door came to mind. It would seem that China was intent on invading his life today.

  “Ambassador Leng,” Doctor Hopkins gave him even less of a bow than she’d given Jasper. More than that, her expression had gone from pleasant to icy. Her lips were pressed tight and it seemed to Jasper she held her chin up just a fraction of a centimeter higher than it she had before. That fraction of a centimeter made all the difference.