She tapped her chin, amused. "Tempting, but not enough to become ensnared in your scheme."
Her spunk irritated him even as he admired it. He decided he must remind her of her situation. "You are already trapped."
"No, not yet. My father just … just paid you a compliment this morning. I feel as if we are progressing marvelously toward a partnership between you."
"What did he say?" Not that he believed a word, but he discovered he enjoyed this repartee. He watched as Nicola sorted through some scraps of fabric and ribbon as if the answer to his question might lie hidden among them.
"He said that you were a superb man of business and that you handled the marketing of your India silk quite well."
The need to shake her up, to unbalance her, was as natural as breathing. But the desire was something of which to be wary. "Ah, then instead of the ball, I will come to supper tomorrow night."
"What?"
A perverse satisfaction pierced him as her eyes widened. He stepped closer, deliberately brushing her arm. Her fragrance of sunshine and meadows enveloped him. Light gleamed on her hair. Shallow breaths caused her bodice to rise and fall, giving lie to the unaffected demeanor she was striving to pose.
Her loyalty to her cousin and father made her very predictable—too predictable to someone like him. That he knew how to play her, how to manipulate her into doing what he wanted, gave him fierce gratification. "I'd much rather dine with your father... and you."
To his surprise, he realized it was true. The prospect of spending an evening alone with Nicola was pleasant. He would enjoy seeing her in her own environs, watching her interact with her father and the servants. He would relish the opportunity to sit across the table from her, to have her attention all for himself. Now from where had that come?
"No, you don't want to dine with the Moore family." She gave a vigorous shake of her head. Blond hair escaped her coiffure.
Although he had expected her reaction, he suddenly wondered why she didn't want him in her home. And why was she so adamant? Could it merely be because she perceived him as the enemy, and that he was an invader? Or was it something more, something of a more intimate nature? Interesting thought, that. She was smart to realize what exactly he represented—a man who never failed to get what he wanted, who would eventually invade in ways that she would never recover. "I don't want to be invited to your home? How can you be so certain?"
"Ah …" She fingered a tassel studded with tiny pearls on one of her hats. "For one thing, our fare will not be nearly as sumptuous as that served at the Garland Ball."
"I enjoy simple country cuisine." With her, as much as the dinners he had shared with pashas in India. Absentmindedly he realized he'd stepped closer, and the scent of her sweet little gasps caused a tautening of his muscles.
It pleased him that he had an effect on her, and amused him that she frowned as if fighting her reaction. What an innocent she was. For a split second, he recalled Gaspar's worry over his pursuit of a proper miss, but dismissed the spurt of conscience and instead deliberately leaned over her to brush his lips across her ear. "And I would take pleasure in the company."
With a visible tremor, she thinned her lips, still fighting. "You would be quite bored. Think of all the entertainment you would miss."
"You could play the pianoforte for me."
"Believe me, you would not want to hear my attempt at being musical. I am quite hopeless. The only people I allow to hear my poor excuse for music are my father and Ramsey."
For some reason, the thought of not being allowed in her trusted circle of family caused hollowness in his gut. "Let me be the judge of whether or not you are hopeless. Ah, you. The picture in my mind is quite cozy." He toyed with one of her curb, which had escaped its bun, enjoying the scent of her: cinnamon mixed with the fresh out of doors.
She batted his hand away and he chuckled, knowing exactly how he affected her.
"Your father and me enjoying the music you make on the pianoforte. Me, the attentive suitor, your father, the indulging parent."
Flapping her hand to create air, she glanced at him, and then froze as if realizing how revealing her action was. "I'll go to the ball."
Her abrupt acquiescence made him smile, and he couldn't help but nettle her a little more. "You certainly are a contrary woman. First you say you won't go under any circumstances, and then suddenly you say you will."
She lifted her chin. "I can change my mind if I have the inclination to do so."
Pleased at her malleability, he nevertheless wondered what would have happened had he been invited to her home. Such curiosity was unlike him, and he had to remind himself that the Garland Ball would give Nicola a flavor of the life she would have with him—which would make her even more bendable to his will. She was a woman, after all, so she would enjoy the treatment.
"The ball it is, then." Turning on his heel, he walked to the exit. He shook his head as he was forced to weave between boxes and crates. His bride-to-be was a little messy. And her bonnets—there was something off with the designs. Too much energy in them, he supposed, an apt description of her. For she was a bundle of light and endless vigor.
He wondered when she would realize she'd played right into his hands.
Chapter 8
A flash of light was Glissando's only warning before ink-black webs dropped over him, trapping him. He had decided against meeting with the Mrasek this time. The last two missions he'd been on were enough of a debacle that he'd decided to lie low this time. Because of his work with the Mrasek, he had enough money to last him awhile, so he really didn't need them. Besides, he wanted to play this mission straight, and not complicate it with the Mrasek's machinations because he discovered a spark of truth in his soul—that he wanted to do right by Nicola, and by Allegro.
Unfortunately, they had found him with one of their magical monocles. Although the Mrasek were human and didn't have magic, he owned gadgets that had been imbued with dark magic. Resigned to his fate, he gazed between the gossamer-thin strands of his prison and waited until he was freed. Tom Ryder, the leader, slid out from behind the wheel of a nearby steam car, followed by three of his men. A hard, menacing darkness surrounded him as he sauntered up to Glissando. "Lost your way to my den, heh?"
"I was just headed in your direction," Glissando fibbed smoothly.
Tom stared at him in a way that made Glissando feel as if every secret was being torn from him. "Now, why don't I believe that."
Glissando reached behind his neck to scratch. "Why wouldn't you."
"Perhaps because you are on the wrong side of London?"
"I couldn't go straight to you. Maestro is beginning to suspect."
"He is, is he? Or is it because you are on a mission?" Quick as a hornet, Tom snatched the hot-air balloon, dug in the basket and pulled out the missive.
Glissando's heart leapt into his throat. Wings aching in dread, he watched as Tom unfolded the missive and read the contents, hoping against hope the villain didn't put two and two together.
Then the Mrasek leader folded the letter and handed it to one of his men. "Tell me the mission. Now."
"I'm supposed to keep Ramsey in Nottingham so that he will be able to halt the upcoming Luddite Rebellion," Glissando quickly improvised, hoping his tale would make the Mrasek do just the opposite.
"If that is true, then why are you delivering a letter to his tutor to take him abroad?"
"Because I'm working for you. Didn't you tell me to always do the opposite of what my mission entails?" Glissando held Tom Ryder's gaze long after he stopped talking, willing the other man to believe him.
"Diderot. Now why does that name sound familiar?"
Oh, no, please don't let him know the name was the same as the clan from the Woodland Faeries. If he did know, then he would soon discover the magical properties of the Clockwork Blue. "I don't know. Perhaps because his name has been in the Nottingham Post? He tends to be a hothead and gets into trouble."
"There's somethin
g else… Forgive me for being suspicious, but I'm going to hold onto the missive for a while." Ryder lifted the netting off Glissando. "Now go ahead about your duties, and I'll see you in a fortnight." He took a couple of steps toward his steam car, and then turned back. "Oh, and Glissando."
"Yes?"
Ryder flipped out a pen-shaped gadget from his cuff. Several pieces of sand-sized granules shot out, hitting Glissando's face, arms and torso, causing him to cry out and double over in pain. "That's just a warning. Don't ever cross me."
"You cur," he choked out. Sharp stings burned his skin, and he was sure he would be bruised. Slowly he glided back toward his hot-air balloon and got it air-born pointing the vessel toward the tutor's home. Never mind Tom Ryder. The threat only made him more determined to defy the bully. Since he didn't have the missive, he would have to improvise.
Two hours later, a bell sounded from Glissando's pocket watch, signifying yet another summons from Allegro. Glissando sat on a dusty shelf in a schoolroom on the third floor of a townhouse on Mayfair, trying to force down a piece of boiled mutton. He gagged at the taste and spit it out, even as a spasm of pain ripped through his swollen jaw. The beating had left him sore and smarting. Ignoring the pain, he concentrated on the problem at hand.
Wilbur Hamilton, Ramsey Diderot's former tutor, rolled the meat in his mouth. A look of pure ecstasy brightened the tutor's homely face as he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his scrawny neck. Then Hamilton licked his fingers as if savoring every morsel, his flabby lips making sucking sounds.
"What's wrong with the idiot?" Glissando muttered, amazed. He glanced at his pulsing watch, deciding he would answer Allegro as soon as he finished there. Pushing a button to signify he would return the summons soon, he hoped that would satisfy his domineering partner for a while.
"Are you practicing your letters, young Peter?" Hamilton called, not bothering to look across the austere schoolroom at his charge. The lad was small; Glissando guessed between five and six years in age.
"Uh, yes, Mr. Hamilton," Peter said, and then slipped something into his pocket.
Glissando realized the boy had captured a lizard when it peeked out of its hiding place. Disgusted with the tutor for not paying attention to his duties, Glissando flew toward the boy, careful to keep his invisibility bubble around him. Peter petted the reptile, his hazel eyes wide in his freckled face. Satisfied the boy was preoccupied, Glissando sucked in air to draw the bubble tight around him—at the same time he retrieved the chalk. Then, carefully, he wrote a message on the slate, taking pains to make it plenty big enough for a human to read.
Help Ramsey Diderot. Take on Tour—
Before he could write "now," he heard a gasp. He glanced up to see the boy staring in awe at the airborne chalk.
Dropping the writing implement, Glissando released his breath, changed into a dragonfly, and became visible—fearing the lad would erase the message before Hamilton got a chance to read it.
Hamilton continued to look down at his mutton. "Keep writing, Peter."
"I am, sir," the boy replied. Quick as lightning, he snatched at Glissando.
Glissando felt the whoosh of air and managed to tumble, narrowly avoiding the grasping fingers. The boy knocked his slate off the desk with a crash.
Hamilton threw down his napkin and stomped over. "Now, see here, Peter, I'll not have any foolishness. Give me your lesson. I will grade it now."
Peter had already jumped off his chair. He grabbed the slate before Hamilton could get to it and hid it behind his back. "I'm not ready for you to look yet," he said, backing into a comer.
"Peter, give your slate to me. Now." Hamilton held out his gnarly hand, bits of grease shining from his nails.
Reluctantly the lad held out the board, cringing as he did so.
Hamilton stared at the missive for a long while. "Very good, Peter." His voice held surprise. "But what does it mean?"
"I don't know, sir," Peter said sheepishly. "Just some nonsense that popped into my head."
"And you don't know Ramsey Diderot?" Hamilton asked.
"N-no, sir," Peter answered, biting his lip.
Glissando held his breath as he watched the tutor frown in thought, certain that Hamilton would take the strange words as a sign. Obviously the man wasn't interested in his post with Peter.
Then Hamilton looked up, his loose lips curled in a smile that looked more like a grimace. "I didn't know you could write so well. Although you didn't write your practice words. Now, copy your lesson." Without any hesitation, the tutor retrieved a rag and erased the message that Glissando had so painstakingly written, then handed the slate back to the boy.
Numb from shock, Glissando simply stared. "What an obtuse, flabby-mouthed numbskull!" he exclaimed. "Doesn't he know a magical sign when he sees one?"
Suddenly an officious series of toots sounded for Glissando's ears only. He whipped his head around to see a pixie page lowering a trumpet, the ornate gold emblem of Jubilant blazing on his chest. Major C, the viceroy who was Maestro's right-hand man, swept past the page and hovered above Glissando, wings fluttering in a scarlet blur of movement.
Uh'oh, trouble.
"Good afternoon, C, old man," Glissando said with a smile and cocky salute, determined not to show his nervousness, hoping to hide his bruises.
Major C held his pointed nose high in the air, then straightened his brass-studded uniform and deigned to acknowledge what Glissando considered a very friendly gesture to such a stodgy pixie. The fact that they had attended the University of Coda together obviously meant nothing.
"You are pushing the boundaries of pixie law by exposing your magic to this young human," Major C said, motioning with a regal nod toward Hamilton and the lad.
Glissando glanced over. The tutor was still eating and the lad had resorted to petting the lizard again.
"His Majesty wants to see you at the dais now," Major C commanded.
Glissando turned to reply, but the Viceroy and his page had already disappeared. Motes of dust sparkled in the sunlight that shone through the window.
With a shrug, Glissando leaped onto a mote, wanting to take advantage of the transportation Major C had used. Ribbons of color wrapped around him like small rivers, warm and soothing, and he felt himself being lifted, carried away from earth and into the clouds high above. A pleasant shudder rippled through him, and he knew that in three counts he would be in Jubilant.
Maestro sat in the glittering gold rays that comprised his throne on the pink temple of Anthem. Glissando genuflected, touching his forehead to the fluffy floor of clouds that created the dais. The cool vapor soothed his burning sores. "Your Eminence," he murmured.
When Maestro said nothing, Glissando glanced up. The King's brows swept down in a thunderous scowl.
"As a graduate of the University of Coda with a bachelor's degree in Lumière Law and Regulations, you should know that you have violated Article I. And I quote, 'A pixie must not reveal unusual phenomena that could be construed as magic to a human who is not a Chosen One.' You have done so not once but twice, the second time happening moments before I could issue a verbal warning for the first occurrence."
"Excuse me, Maestro, but to what are you referring?"
"The first infraction was when you revealed yourself to the boy who owned the toy balloon. The second breach occurred when you wrote on that human's slate."
"Pardon me, Maestro, but the boy with the balloon didn't see me. He merely saw the balloon flying away."
"A toy that doesn't have the capacity to fly."
"It could happen," Glissando defended in his most earnest tone. "The plaything was light and a gust of wind could have easily whisked it away. Besides, this is the era of Enlightenment. Everybody is working on new inventions and gadgets. Perhaps the boy has already worked on the toy to make it fly."
As if Glissando's explanation soared over his head, Maestro continued his scolding, albeit a gentle one. "Furthermore, you broke the law by writing on that student's s
late and allowing him to see you."
He couldn't deny it, especially since he had done so much more—like consort with the enemy.
Maestro's eyes reflected sadness. "You are precariously close to harming Jubilant's welfare."
Even as guilt shredded his heart, he heard himself say, "I would never endanger my country—not intentionally."
"Breaking Article I can bring devastating results," Maestro continued as if Glissando hadn't spoken. "Infringing upon that regulation could cause a change in the weather. A change in temperature can instigate all sorts of erratic behavior in the humans and might jeopardize not only your mission but others. You are dangerously close to transgressing that regulation, Glissando."
"I know," Glissando responded, contrite, even as sweat broke over his brow. "But I fixed my blunder by distracting both lads, and no one has suffered over it. A human has to be aware of my presence for damage to occur."
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