Her Own Devices, a steampunk adventure novel

by Shelley Adina

  *

  “Lady, you’ll be caught!”

  Jake and Lewis gaped as Tigg handed her into the steam landau. She pulled the lightning rifle out of its holster and tucked it under the seat, otherwise it would dig into her back as she drove. The buckles and clips of her corselet held their usual accoutrements, and her skirts were rucked up to her knees by their leather straps. A riding hat completed the raiding rig, with a black chiffon scarf tied round it in case she needed it, and her driving goggles perched on the brim.

  “I think not, Jake.”

  “I thought you said you was goin’ to a ball wiv ’is nibs, not on a firelamp run.”

  “I am. A fancy-dress ball.” She indicated a Venetian leather mask hanging from a clip, bought that morning in Portobello Road. “The best disguise is to go in plain sight. I can’t think of an ensemble more likely to accomplish that end, can you?”

  “Make someone recognize you, more like.”

  “It’s hardly likely anyone from the South Bank gangs will be at Lady Wellesley’s ball. And if they are, it’s for thieving, which I would be well equipped to prevent, don’t you agree?”

  “If you say so, Lady.” Doubt laced his tone. “One of us orta go wiv you.”

  “Tigg will go with me as far as the laboratory, where he will wait with the landau, and his lordship is going the rest of the way.” Jake made a sound that conveyed his opinion of his lordship’s usefulness in a tight spot. “I will be all right, Jake. I’ll have the rifle in its holster and a vial of gaseous capsaicin at my belt. Which I will not need, of course. These are civilized people, more interested in waltzing and gossip than in wrangling and stolen goods.”

  With that, she ignited the landau and pushed out the steering lever. The boys stepped back as they bowled past, taking the familiar road to the laboratory.

  “I’ll be interested to see what progress Mr. Malvern made on the chamber this week,” she said to Tigg.

  “I went yesterday, Lady. He’s got it all constructed, and said ’e was waiting for you before ’e did a test ignition.”

  “How exciting! Does it look like the old chamber?”

  “It’s bigger. I could stand up in this ’un.”

  “Did he ... have any message for me?”

  Tigg shook his head. “Just said ’e were impatient to see us Monday so’s ’e could do the test and see wot adjustments we need to make.”

  Claire stifled a pang of disappointment. Of course he would say nothing to Tigg. And when they arrived at the laboratory and found him there, tinkering, he was his old self, breezy and self-deprecating and utterly unlike the man who had kissed her so passionately.

  Which was all to the good, she thought as the baronial coach pulled to a stop, its horses stamping, and Lord James got out.

  “Great Caesar’s ghost,” he said, gaping at her much as Jake and Lewis had done. “What in heaven’s name have you got on?”

  “A costume,” she said, twirling like a ballerina. “Do you like it?”

  “You look like an air pirate. Let those skirts down at once. Do you want His Royal Highness to see your knees?”

  “They are covered in wool stockings, James. It is not likely he can see through them. Why, you are wearing hose yourself. What is the difference?”

  He had chosen to go as an Elizabethan courtier, complete with white lace neck ruff and puffed and slashed pantaloons tied at the knee with ribbons. “The difference is that they are your knees.”

  “You are being illogical.”

  “And you are being intransigent.”

  “And you both look wonderful.” Andrew moved between them. “With your masks on, I would not recognize either of you, which is the point of fancy dress, isn’t it?”

  “Just so,” James said stiffly.

  “So take your matching knees and go have a wonderful time. Lady Claire, I look forward to Monday, when we’ll see what our contraption will do. Tigg, how fortuitous that you came. I could use your assistance, and then perhaps we’ll go round the corner to the pub for a meat pie.”

  Tigg’s face lit up. “Yes, sir. I’ll just check the pilot flame on the landau, and be in in a tick.”

  It took all of the ride to Wellesley House for James to master his temper and speak civilly to her. There was no receiving line, of course, since it would not do to be recognized at the door, which allowed him to find a circulating waiter straightaway and secure two glasses of champagne. He knocked one back, found her a glass of punch, then drank the second one more slowly.

  After that, he was ready to converse. And following that, to mingle.

  Secure behind her mask, Claire smiled at the raised eyebrows and smothered gasps that her costume provoked. No Greek goddesses or china shepherdesses for her. The fact that her raiding rig was both sensational and utterly practical delighted her.

  “Goodness. And what have we here?” said a fairy Claire assumed to be Titania, complete with glittering wings, in Julia Wellesley’s unmistakable drawl.

  “An air pirate, milady,” Claire responded in her best airman’s vernacular. “We moored t’yer roof an’ gots our eyes on yer jewels.”

  Julia sniffed behind her silver mask. “What a pity everyone else’s eyes are on your legs. Ah, well. Some people have no sense of propriety and are no doubt no better than they should be.”

  “Lord Robert Mount-Batting liked ’em well enough.” Which was the truth. “Asked me for a waltz, ’e did.” Which was almost the truth.

  She had pretended to threaten him if he did not dance with her, and he had put up his hands, laughing, and surrendered. His name was on her card for the third waltz—which would never have happened if she had been in regular evening clothes. In her old life, she had been introduced to him at least five times and he could never remember who she was.

  Julia whirled and pushed through the crowd, her wings raking the coiffures of passing ladies, and Claire resisted the urge to chuckle. Julia would no doubt be kinder if he had asked her to marry him when she expected him to, immediately following graduation.

  “I say, well done,” purred a voice behind her. Claire turned to see the female equivalent of a Cowboy, complete with buckskin skirt, drover’s coat, and a Colt repeating pistol strapped low on her hip. “It takes a woman with a spine to stand up to Julia Wellesley in her own ballroom.”

  Claire took a closer look at the merry black eyes behind the mask. “Peony Churchill?”

  “The same. Jolly marvelous costume, Claire. I would never have recognized you. Even your walk and your carriage are different.”

  That was because she lived under no one’s thumb nowadays. “How did you recognize me?” Heavens, if Peony could, then anybody could, and she would have to leave rather sooner than she’d planned.

  “Your voice,” Peony said simply. “Julia doesn’t mix with the working classes, so she can’t tell an imitation airman when she hears one. But I can.”

  “I shall have to do better, then. But tell me, why are you still in town? I thought you were going to the Canadas.”

  “I am. Persephone leaves on Saturday next, makes a stop in Paris, and I will be in New York by Wednesday night. From there we take another airship directly to Edmonton, and go by train to the mines up north.”

  “It sounds terribly exciting.”

  “It is. I do regret missing the new exhibitions coming to the Crystal Palace, though. The papers say they will include the most advanced engines ever invented.”

  “I shall write and describe them in detail, then.”

  “That would be wonderful. And put a few clippings in while you’re at it. We shall get our mail care of the Canadian Pacific Hotel in Edmonton.”

  “Expect one from me. Peony, is that pistol loaded?”

  “Of course not, or I should be tempted to shoot Catherine Montrose. What about that magnificent device on your back?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s loaded. But Catherine is quite safe. It’s for my own protection only.”

  Apropos of nothing, Peony said,
“Is it really true you are engaged to Lord James Selwyn?”

  “Yes,” Claire said slowly.

  “You sound as though you don’t want to admit it.”

  “I—well, our engagement is—the circumstances are—”

  A man materialized at Peony’s elbow and bowed. “Oh, dear, this will be the second waltz. Goodbye, Cl—er, Mamzelle Air Pirate. I want you to tell me the end of that sentence in your letter.”

  “Safe travels,” Claire said. Perhaps by then Peony would have forgotten.

  *

  By the time Lord Robert Mount-Batting appeared to claim his waltz, he was three sheets to the wind. If she had been a better dancer, she might have been tempted to lead, but as it was, she was forced to endure an embrace much closer than she would have preferred.

  She had been perfectly right to wear her working clothes. The leather corselet protected her from roving hands as well as it did flying objects or certain kinds of weapons.

  “Izzat a real gun?” he slurred, looking over her shoulder. “Where’d you get that?”

  “I inherited it, and of course it’s not real,” she said, attempting to steer him away from a potted palm before he fell into it. “I imagine it’s just painted ceramic.”

  “Looks real.” He attempted to touch the barrel, and she gripped his hand firmly. “Who are you again?”

  “If I told you that, sir, the unmasking at midnight would be dull indeed.”

  “Whole party’s dull. Julia’s angry with me. I ought to just go to the card room and stay there.”

  Claire perked up her ears. “There’s a card room?”

  “Course. Wanna play?”

  Two hours later, Claire had cleaned out every man at her table using the very latest permutation of Cowboy Poker.

  “I don’t understand it,” one man muttered—a knight with estates in Sussex, if she remembered correctly. “That hand just came out in the Evening Standard tonight. How is it possible for a female to know it already?”

  Claire tucked her winnings in the wallet secured to her corselet by a chain, and wished the players good night. It wasn’t until she was descending the steps to the ballroom again that she remembered the supper waltz, which she had promised to Lord James.

  Oh, dear.

  From the clatter in the dining room, it was over and done some time ago. She would apologize profusely, and consider it a bargain. After all, she had made enough tonight to pay for her first term at university, not counting books.

  She collected a plate and arranged a nice selection of food on it, then turned to look for James. Ah, there he was, deep in conversation with Lord Wellesley. She would not interrupt that for the world. Instead, she was content to sit with three elderly ladies behind an arrangement of lilies and enjoy her dinner.

  Once she had taken meals like this for granted. But no more. She appreciated every bite.

  “—find it most distressing to think of,” one of the ladies said.

  “It’s worse than that.” Her companion did not seem to mind that a stranger had joined their party. With everyone masked, an odd sort of anonymity prevailed. “I heard she is to be admitted to a private sanitarium.”

  The curried prawns turned over in Claire’s stomach. Had Dr. Craig been apprehended in the midst of leaving the country?

  “Well, the family couldn’t very well send her to Bedlam, could they?” Her companion tucked into her salad with enthusiasm. “She’s the wife of an earl.”

  Claire resumed her dinner, relieved. Who on earth were they talking about?

  “The poor girl. She’s been going downhill ever since that precious child disappeared. I suppose it was only a matter of time before—”

  “Oh, go ahead, Alethea. Just say ‘before she made an attempt on her own life’ and be done with it. We are not schoolgirls any longer.”

  Lady Dunsmuir. They were talking of Lady Dunsmuir, whose son had disappeared from the garden while his mother entertained a princess to tea. “She tried to take her own life?” Claire leaned forward. “When was this?”

  “Two days ago. Such a pity. She’s a shadow of what she once was, poor girl, and no hope of getting better. The only thing that will cure her is seeing her boy again, and that’s not likely.”

  “Not after all the time that’s passed.” Alethea shook her head. “It’s certain he is dead.”

  Alethea. This was Julia’s grandmother, the Dowager Duchess, and a crony of Claire’s great-aunts Beaton. Claire withdrew, and the ladies went on with their observations of the guests without her.

  Poor Lady Dunsmuir. She should send a tube to her mother and let her know how things stood. They had been great friends once, before all the troubles. Perhaps Lady St. Ives would be able to give her some comfort.

  Claire accepted another glass of punch from an obliging waiter and watched the dancers for a while, but then began to feel restive. She had never liked large crowds, or small talk, or the kind of empty social events that were more about being seen than about greeting friends. She was good at the latter, and abysmal at the former.

  She would go out to the mews and see if she could find Gorse.

  Her rig was designed for concealment. She slipped down a passage behind the roar of activity that was the kitchens, and into the rear courtyard. The sound of muffled wood on metal took her to a carriage house, where she found a man in livery beating a curve into what looked like a fender.

  “Gorse!” She slipped off her mask and hooked it to her belt.

  His jaw fell open and it was a moment before he could say, “Miss Claire!”

  She was so happy to see him that she threw propriety to the winds and hugged him fiercely. He smelled of wool and engine oil and bay rum. “Are they treating you well here? Is this Lord Wellesley’s four-piston Henley? What are you doing to it?”

  “Slow down, miss, I haven’t caught up with you yet. What are you doing here, and in that getup to boot?”

  “It is a fancy-dress ball, Gorse. I had to wear something. But you didn’t answer me. Are you well?”

  “As well as can be expected, what with Silvie downalong.”

  “I was down to Gwynn Place this week with Lord James. Silvie is very well, and most of that hug I just gave you was from her.”

  “Lord James? Ah yes. I did hear a little news along that line. Are you happy, miss?”

  “I’m very happy.” Lord James had only a little to do with that, but Gorse did not need to know. “Thank you.”

  He gazed at her, then looked at the metal in his hands. “I’m trying to bend this fender back into shape. I’m afraid his Lordship isn’t as handy with the engines as you are. He had an unfortunate tangle with a tree this afternoon.”

  “I hope it wasn’t serious?”

  “No, merely a brush, but enough to bend this here almost back to the fuselage.” He gave it another whack with the wooden hammer wrapped in cloth.

  “Let me help. If I hold it, then you can apply more pressure.”

  “But your ball, miss. Won’t you be missed?”

  “I hardly think so. I danced once, spoke to my hostess, played two hands of cards and won both, and had my supper. My social obligations are fulfilled. I would like to help.”

  They spent a very satisfying half hour repairing the fender, and then Claire got a personal tour of the four-piston’s more sophisticated inner works.

  “Do you still have the landau, miss? Ever since that night of the riots, I’ve thought of you and wondered how you were. I did get the one note, but that was all.”

  “I am very well. I live in Vauxhall Gardens, in a cottage by the river, and am governess to a number of orphan children.”

  “Are you now, miss?” His eyebrows rose. “And what does your lady mother have to say to that?”

  “Plenty.” She grinned at him. “But she is in Cornwall, so I cannot hear it.”

  “And his lordship? Mrs. Morven seems to think you will be living in Wilton Crescent again soon.”

  “His lordship may. I am going to
the University of London to study engineering, as I’ve always told you I would.”

  “You’re a singular young lady, miss,” he said, admiringly. “I always thought folk underestimated you.”

  She only smiled. As the card players now knew, folks’ underestimating a woman was often her greatest advantage.

  Chapter 17

  On Monday, she sent a tube to Lady St. Ives tell her about the ball and the sad news about her old friend, omitting the part about the lecture James had read her on the way home. Apparently, the card players had not taken their losses like gentlemen.

  Then she and Tigg drove to the laboratory with a sense of anticipation.

  They found Andrew already there—did he sleep in the equipment loft?—and the chamber already humming. “Ah, I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “The coal is ready in the chamber. Tigg, will you do the honors?”

  “Me, sir?” Tigg’s eyes widened. “But you’ve been working at it all this time.”

  “With your assistance. Go on. Throw the switch. I must observe down at this end.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He grasped the lever and jammed it upward with the flat of his hand. The chamber’s hum increased, much the way the lightning rifle’s did, and Claire clasped her hands at her breast. Would it work? Would the months of failed experiments now finally come to fruition?

  A glow began to form in the glass chamber, surrounding the coal. “Yes!” she heard Andrew whisper. But before the word was fairly out of his mouth, the glow intensified, and then with a pop it went out.

  She and Andrew looked at each other.

  “Is that it, sir?” Tigg finally asked. “Should I shut it off?”

  “Yes. Let me inspect the coal.”

  He unscrewed the cowling and the bottom of the chamber lowered, revealing coal that looked very much like ... coal.

  Andrew touched it. Examined it. Took it over to a microscope and gazed at it under the magnifying lenses. Then he sat rather abruptly on the unused chair.

  Claire couldn’t hold back another second. “Well?”