Gilded Lily

by Delphine Dryden

  Freddie cast her mind about for some other alternative, some other truth to frame these facts with, other than the unpleasant one she didn’t want to accept.

  She was bolted in.

  Her stomach lurched as the realization set in, and she had to sit for a moment while the fog of sudden, intense anxiety cleared from her head. Soon it occurred to her that the fog was not all anxiety, and a dawning suspicion made her lift the lid from the teapot again and dab one finger in the liquid. Tasting the smallest amount possible, she tried to analyze. Tea, of course. But honey-sweet, not her preference at all, and beneath the honey was a subtle, wretched bitterness she had apparently failed to recognize in last night’s wine. Laudanum, or something as like as made no difference. She spit as much as she could out of her mouth into the napkin, wiping her tongue with the linen until no trace of the medicine remained. No wonder she’d slept through half the day, unaware of the meals being traded out or the lock being installed on the outside of her door.

  A look at the clock on her mantel confirmed that it was nearly lunchtime. In another hour or so she ought to be taking her drive with Barnabas. Being locked in her room was going to make that far more difficult to accomplish.

  “Damn you, Father!”

  She considered ringing the bell again, pulling the cord until she got some sort of response. But that would really only create annoyance for the servants, not for her father, who might not even be in the house. And it also assumed he hadn’t disconnected the bell, anticipating her attempts to summon someone. Should she ring it, just in case that was what he was expecting her to do, to make him think she was that predictable and throw him off track when she did something wildly unexpected later?

  And what exactly might that be?

  The pessimistic voice in her head took the opportunity to remind her, also, that she really deserved no better treatment than this, and was lucky her father hadn’t had her thrown into a stockade somewhere. Or perhaps Newgate. She wasn’t really sure what his relationship was to the military, or whether he had the authority to throw anyone in a stockade, but he could certainly have turned her over to some sort of authority for any number of crimes she’d committed. Which did he know about? She’d stolen things, broken into a classified military base, stolen things from the classified military base . . . really she’d done quite a lot of illegal things, lately. Normally her stealth and subterfuge were merely employed to allow her to pursue her chosen line of work. Since Barnabas had arrived, however, things seemed to have taken a decided turn for the larcenous and vice-ridden. Not that he’d encouraged any of it, except a few of the vices.

  He’d been against the rest of it from the start, of course. That was the basis of his employment. In their last few encounters, though, he seemed to have forgotten all about that. And really now that she was looking back and trying to clarify her hindsight, shouldn’t that be suspicious in itself?

  Somebody had to have tipped off her father to trigger this incarceration. He’d obviously known when precisely she would be back. The hot bath and meal, perfectly timed. The drugged wine, already prepared. And then the locksmith who’d evidently been plying his trade here in the middle of the night. It all spoke of preparation, premeditation.

  Just as she’d tried to find some other explanation for the locked door before accepting it as truth, Freddie scoured her mind for other possibilities, other ways her father could have learned she was up to more than her usual no good. Phineas had come into the picture only recently, and if he’d been pretending not to know her in the sub yesterday, he’d done an excellent job fooling everyone. He couldn’t be her father’s man still. He didn’t even know whose man he was; he’d said as much himself. And even she hadn’t known she’d end up at that particular dock at that particular time. Not Phineas, then.

  Not Sophie either, she knew in her heart. Sophie might care for her, might want her to avoid dangers both physical and moral, but she would never give Freddie’s secrets up to a man who might lock her in a room because of them. It simply wouldn’t occur to her to even consider such a thing. Besides, Sophie had had years to develop a tolerance for Freddie’s doings. She’d volunteered to help in the first place, and urged Freddie to find her own path if the one offered to her was too bleak to contemplate. If she’d wanted to change things, she could have simply stopped abetting the sneaking about. The same was true of Dan. And neither of them had anything to gain by ratting her out. Quite the opposite. They were best served by preserving the status quo, dubious though it had been.

  Although there had been that odd exchange between Dan and Barnabas, at Sophie’s house. She hadn’t overheard it, but Dan had looked thunderously displeased and Barnabas wore his smoothest, mildest, most harmless expression throughout. Giving nothing away.

  Change. That was what it all came down to, the fixed point her mind kept circling. The status quo had clearly not been preserved, so what had changed? What new element had unbalanced the delicate machinations by which she had maintained the structure of her life?

  Her stomach clenched again as she focused in on what had to be the truth. There was nothing else left. Barnabas had known her whereabouts and her plans. He’d helped her, followed her, been vocally concerned about her safety, and she’d trusted him with . . . well, with everything. But now he had found his brother, and they had the smugglers to foil and the squid to save, and what if Barnabas had grown too worried at the prospect of Freddie accompanying them? That was the kindest slant she could give it, that he’d meant well. She could almost bear it if she thought that was the reason, that he’d turned Freddie in to her father to protect her. Bear it, but not forgive him.

  Because the alternative . . . Freddie wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold herself together as panic and anguish came crashing in. If he had played her for a fool, strung her along to get to his brother and the smugglers, turned her in to get her out of the way once he’d served his own ends—and stolen her heart in the process, not to mention her maidenhood—she would have to get out of this room. And she would have to find Lord Barnabas Smith-Grenville. And she would have to punch the treacherous smile right off his beautiful face.

  • • •

  “BARNABAS.”

  Something wiggled his foot, and he snatched it to safety under the covers, trying to find his way back into his dream. It was a lovely dream, featuring a nebulous but alluring fantasia of Freddie, naked in a clean bed, with her legs parted just enough that he could almost see—

  “Barnabas.”

  And it was gone.

  “Bloody fucking hell, Phineas.”

  “You were supposed to go back to Murcheson’s last night. You fell asleep in the bath instead. Fortunately the butler came along and heard you snoring.”

  Barnabas had a vague memory of a groggy conversation with the butler, and of being shown to a room, but he couldn’t have attested that it was this room, or to any other particulars of the evening. He no longer smelled like dead fish and sewage, though, and he counted it among his blessings that he had evidently finished the functional part of the bath before he fell asleep.

  “Well done, Lady Sophronia’s butler.” He sat up and rubbed his hand over his face, grimacing at the stubble and at the sleep sand caught in his lashes. “What time is it?”

  “Half past eleven. You slept for nearly twelve hours.”

  “Blast. How can I return to Murcheson’s now, after being gone all night and half the day? How do I explain it?”

  “Mrs. Wallingford already did. She sent a note saying you’d injured an ankle getting out of the carriage to assist her down when it stopped here, and she’d insisted you remain here while she summoned a doctor to examine you. Later, of course, she sent another note stating that the doctor had recommended you stay in bed with the offending limb elevated for at least a night and a day.”

  “Murcheson’s house isn’t two miles from here. I could’ve trav
eled that. She made me sound like a bloody Jane Austen heroine.”

  “It seemed believable. She also invited Freddie to take luncheon with her today. She should be here within the half hour, so get dressed.”

  He was wider awake now, and the full peculiarity of the situation was dawning on him. Phineas was standing next to the bed. Phineas, whom he hadn’t seen in years until the mad adventures of the past two days. Having a conversation with him as if it were the most normal thing in the world. He continued to look like a pirate, however.

  “Why are you still wearing that ridiculous thing on your face?”

  “My fine mustache?” Phineas twirled one of the long, tatty ends around his finger.

  “That is disgusting, but I was referring to the eye patch.”

  His brother touched the patch, the rakish charm vanishing from his face. “That is to keep the sun from my eye.” He lifted the edge of the thing briefly, and Barnabas winced at the sight of blood red where white should be, and a scrabble of short, vicious-looking scars fanning out from the corner of the lid. “And to keep from frightening the innocent.”

  “I’m far from innocent.”

  “As I’m well aware.”

  “What happened?”

  “I attempted to rescue a kitten from a tree. It was the wrong kitten, and very much the wrong tree.”

  “You could have just told me it was none of my business.” Barnabas flipped the bedclothes away from his legs, then flipped them back when he realized he was naked. He wasn’t sure how he was ever going to face the butler again. “Where did you get the clean clothes?”

  “Mrs. Wallingford procured them.”

  His brother lifted a pile of garments from the chair in the corner, tossing them to Barnabas and taking a seat while he dressed.

  “Not her husband’s?” Barnabas couldn’t resist, especially as Phineas kept pointedly emphasizing the lady’s marital status rather than her rank.

  “Neither of you mentioned she was a widow.”

  “We hardly had time. Honestly it didn’t occur to me until later. Would it have made a difference?”

  Phineas scowled, gesturing down at himself, then waving a hand at his damaged face. “Probably not. You’re a terrible spy, you know. I thought I ought to mention it, in case you planned to continue in this career past this one assignment. Assuming Murcheson doesn’t have you hanged at some point in the near future, because you’ve made such a botch of this first job already. Watching his daughter. I just know he jokes about that assignment. It’s a scut detail.”

  It was a fair point, one that Barnabas had made to himself already. But Phineas was his younger brother and that sort of talk couldn’t be allowed to go unanswered. “Says the one-eyed former spy who fled the country in the middle of his own undercover job, apparently in a fit of pique because the girl he fancied had married somebody else. And is that supposed to be a pirate costume, Phin? An airship pirate? How can we possibly tell? You’re still short one wooden suction-leg and a grapnel hand, not to mention the parrot. Somebody might not understand that you were a pirate, without those additional cues. The eye patch, unkempt hair and surly disposition simply aren’t definitive enough. Though the striped shirt you had on the other day was a superb defining touch. You might consider knocking out a tooth or two.”

  “Bastard.”

  “Don’t disparage our parents like that.” Barnabas knotted his tie before shrugging into the jacket Phineas had thrown his way. The clothes fit surprisingly well, though they were plain. Sophie apparently had a good idea of men’s sizing. “Perhaps we can get something to eat before we go to find the squid. Wait, why are you here at all? I thought you were going to Mersea to retrieve the Gilded Lily. Did I dream that conversation?”

  Chuckling, Phineas stood and headed for the door. “Last night I went for a walk and discovered that Lady Sophronia had a very nice single-chair dirigible in her carriage house. Not to mention a comfortable steam car. I borrowed them for a little while, took the steam car to the place I planned to dock the Gilded Lily, then flew to get it and took it to its new dock. Deflated the airship and drove the steam car back here, after making a few stops for supplies. I returned a few hours ago and had a short rest until I got bored waiting for you to wake up on your own. Really, the trip was ridiculously easy compared to when we made it.”

  “It all depends on who you’re borrowing from, it seems. I must say you’ve had an admirable night and morning, doing all that while I was sleeping like the dead. You must have the constitution of an ox. What stops did you have to make?” He stepped into his shoes and bent to tie them before following Phineas. They were the ones he’d had on the previous day, unfortunately, and were still damp with a disreputable air about them. Somebody had at least attempted to clean them and restore their polish, however. Sophie really did have a top-notch staff.

  “Villesandro’s Fine Voltaics, of course. For zinc and potassium chlorate. Where else would you find them?”

  Squishing down the hall, Barnabas shrugged. “Of course. Naturally.”

  “Then a printer’s, for the manganese dioxide. I had to ask around a bit to find a fellow who specialized in colored plates. Hope I have enough of the stuff. Of course the real problem will be keeping the potassium stable until we can get it to the submersible. Where it may or may not blow us to kingdom come when we actually attempt to use it.”

  “Did you memorize the sub’s manual?”

  “I could have, but I didn’t have to,” Phineas said, as they tramped down the stairs side by side. “I wrote most of it.”

  TWENTY

  DANIEL PINKERTON STOOD in the hall near the foot of the stairs, bearing an envelope. He appeared to be there in his official capacity, as he was wearing livery, and he studiously avoided Barnabas’s eye as he passed him the missive with a perfunctory bow. All formality.

  “M’lord.”

  “Good morning, Daniel.”

  Two of Sophie’s servants were at work nearby, one visible through the front parlor door, dusting, and another busy cleaning the large mirror down the hall. Although her people had demonstrated remarkable discretion thus far, Barnabas had no idea how far her trust extended. He kept his voice low as he addressed Daniel, while he pulled the envelope open and withdrew the contents.

  “I take it you delivered Miss Murcheson safely last night. My thanks again.”

  “I did, sir.”

  “Regardless of what you must think, my intentions toward her are—” He stopped for a moment, unsure what his intentions in fact were. Whatever he might want, things were muddled by the things Freddie didn’t seem to want. He wasn’t sure where that left him. “They’re not dishonorable.”

  “Yes, sir. Begging your pardon, but I was told I needn’t wait for a response. I must return to my duties. M’lord. Sir.”

  He gave them each a nod and was out the front door before Barnabas could think of what to say.

  “Cheeky,” Phineas remarked.

  “Not usually. He’s a good lad, but he’s under the impression I’ve sullied Miss Murcheson, and he’s not happy about it.”

  “I was laboring under that same impress—”

  “I’m going to marry her,” he said abruptly, glaring at Phineas, daring him silently to say another word. He had no idea where it had come from, that declaration. But it felt true, and by God he would knock his brother to the ground if he kept going on like that.

  “Duly noted. And probably for the best. Why don’t you read your letter? It seems to have come from the young woman in question.”

  It had. And it was baffling.

  Dear Lord Smith-Grenville,

  He had to read that a few times, confused by the formal address. Too late for that now, surely. Was somebody reading over her shoulder when she wrote it?

  Dear Lord Smith-Grenville,

  After my arrival home last night, I received wor
d of your unfortunate circumstance. I hope you will accept my sincere well-wishes for your recovery in light of what I must now convey. My father has learned of our adventures in the tunnel below the channel. He has convinced me of the extreme dangers of this enterprise and the luck we had in escaping unscathed. He has explained the severity of my crimes—and yours—and I now understand how wrong I was to undertake such activities and encourage you to stray so far from your own duties. I have agreed to limit my excursions in future to those venues most appropriate for a young, unmarried woman. To aid in this, I shall soon be moving to the country.

  Father has indicated your employment will be ending as I will no longer be in need of your supervision. I wish you the best of luck in all your future endeavors.

  Please also relay to Lady Sophronia that I must decline her kind invitation to luncheon, as I am suffering a headache.

  She’d ended with “Sincerely, Frédérique Murcheson.” If there was one thing this letter lacked, it was sincerity, of that much Barnabas was sure.

  “This is some sort of code. Or he forced her to write it. Something. It makes no sense,” he insisted to Phineas after reading the letter aloud. “I have to go see her.”

  “Shouldn’t you be planning to flee the country? Look, you have a narrow window of opportunity here. Murcheson apparently believes Sophie’s excuse about your ankle, that’s all well and good, but he’s going to do a great deal more than just dismiss you from his Agency if he knows you were down in that tunnel with Freddie. At the very least he must assume you’ve been a horribly incompetent employee to let her get that far. And it sounds as though your Freddie’s had a fairly extreme change of heart. From the tone of that note, it’s only a matter of time before she tells him the rest, and he learns you were actively assisting her. Working very much against his direct orders.”