“Actually,” said Armand, “that’s an excellent idea. With Agares on the move again, setting some unknown plan in motion, the Duke of Harchings might have vital information. If anything ever came of that blueprint, we need to know sooner rather than later.”
“Then that’s that,” Lily declared. She put a hand up to the onset of Greyston’s scowl. “I’d trade places with you if I could.”
EIGHT
Harchings Castle was less than a two-hour ride from London, nestled deep in the valley of one of those rolling hillocks Greyston had mocked Armand with.
An ornate cast-iron gate, set in a perimeter wall of damp and dismal stone, loomed at the end of the bumpy carriage drive.
“For the love of God,” he said to Neco, half serious, “don’t do anything to chase the Harchings’ cook off. I haven’t seen a pub for miles.”
“England is a strange place.”
“There’s nothing wrong with England,” Greyston drawled. “It’s the people that are strange.”
Neco processed that. “Lady Lily is nice.”
“Lady Lily is nice.” Greyston looked out the carriage window.
He hoped he hadn’t let that kiss talk him into leaving London. That he was running away from the reminder that he hadn’t made as much progress as he’d thought.
The Gatehouse was attended by a man in gold and blue livery, who opened the gates as they approached. On seeing the McAllister Eagle on the side of the carriage, the attendant waved them through without stopping to question Brinn.
Beyond the walls, they drove into woodland, sunlight scattering through the tall trees to ground packed with centuries of fallen leaves and pine needles. The castle appeared before them with little warning, the road exiting the tree line immediately onto a gravel driveway circling around a bed of summer flowers.
Greyston craned his neck, looking up at the monstrous rectangle of grey stone, broken only by the small, very occasional, recessed window. The front door was a massive block of iron-studded wood. The fortified castle looked like something that belonged in the middle ages, which it probably dated back to.
As hard as he tried, he couldn’t imagine Evelyn living here, even for a couple of days. No wonder she was so desperately in need of her friend’s company to endure the ordeal.
As soon as the carriage pulled up, Greyston stepped down, walking stick in hand and carpetbag flung over his shoulder.
“Can you manage?” Neco asked.
Greyston gave him a droll look.
Brinn clambered from the seat box. “I’ll be heading back as soon as the horses have been watered and rested, m’lord, if you were wanting me to carry any messages?”
“I’m sure Harchings will put you up for the night,” Greyston said.
“I’d rather not, m’lord.” Brinn doffed his cap. “Unless you’ll be requiring my services?”
“That won’t be necessary, thank you, Brinn.” Greyston turned from him as the massive door opened. “Do however you see fit.”
Evelyn fluttered out, leaving her husband and several footmen to follow in her wake. “Grey, darling! I thought you’d never get here.”
Greyston’s mouth tucked up at one side. “Haven’t you only just arrived yourself?”
“We departed London first thing this morning,” she declared, then lowered her voice. “And I feel as if I’ve been languishing here for weeks.”
“Adair,” Harchings greeted as he joined them. The duke was a tall man, lean, with ice blond hair and pale blue eyes that sharpened on Greyston. “I wasn’t aware we were expecting you.”
“Oh, did I forget to mention?” Evelyn said dismissively. Her eyes went to the roof of the carriage, where Lily’s trunk should have been, then flickered to the closed door.
“Lily couldn’t make it,” Greyston said gently. He pulled the hastily penned letter from his inner pocket and handed the envelope to Evelyn. “She sent this for you.”
Evelyn’s brows puckered, but she took the envelope without a word. The look she gave Greyston, however, was more worried than devastated.
He gave a slight shake of his head. No demons. Lily is safe. Only half a lie.
A smile lit Evelyn’s face again. She fluttered the enveloped against her breast. “Then we’re doubly pleased to have you.”
“Of course,” Harchings said, extending a hand. “Welcome to Harchings Castle.”
Greyston shook hands with the man, and if it felt a bit like sealing a devil’s bargain, it probably was. He was a viper in Harchings’ nest, and the duke was astute enough to know it.
Greyston spent the afternoon alone with Neco. Harchings had excused himself early on, stating urgent business that wouldn’t hold, but had invited Greyston to take full advantage of his library, billiards room and stable as it suited him. Evelyn had arranged a tea in the gardens for the purpose of introducing Lily to the neighbouring ladies—an elderly widow, a newly married Countess and, according to Evelyn, an independent lady of mysterious means who’d bought Rose Cottage only last year.
Greyston had declined the amenities and the company. He needed to think. Harchings wouldn’t give up spit without a fight.
“We won’t get anywhere with vague suspicions,” he told Neco. “We need a list of specific questions.”
“You want me to make up questions?” Neco went still for a moment, then said, “I don’t know how to.”
“You just did.”
Neco shook his head. “My processing path may branch into questions, but I can’t make up new ones.”
“Do you always have to be so bloody logical?” Greyston groused.
“Yes.”
“Very well, you listen to my rambling and maybe you can make something coherent of it.”
The next few hours were spent pouring over the blueprint and marshalling his thoughts into a plan of attack.
Why had Harchings commissioned Precision Steam Works for the work? Did he have a pre-existing relationship with George Winterberry? Did those appointments even have anything to do with the warship?
Assuming they did…
Had the vision for the warship originated with Harchings? Or had Winterberry initiated the concept, using the duke’s agenda and the Alternate War Office to fund his private project?
Timothkin’s parliamentary seat would have put it in a position to learn about Harchings’ aspirations for a dirigible fleet, would have given the demon ample opportunity to entice Harchings into Winterberry’s hands.
In the role of Eliza Winterberry, the demon Agares could have been exerting undue influence on both Harchings and George Winterberry, manipulating the Alternate War Office and the ship builder for its own purpose.
Greyston thought that through. If he established a connection between Harchings and any one of those demons… Or if George Winterberry, under the mind control of the demon he’d unwittingly married, had approached Harchings instead of the other way around…
The coincidence would be too great. Kelan’s instinctive conclusions would be confirmed.
Everything Agares had been orchestrating for the last two and a half years led to this impractically large dirigible, a warship that would dominate the Aether if anyone ever figured out the science of powering it.
Greyston stared at the massive proportions detailed in the drawing spread on the bed. Was this ship possible? Was this why Harchings was so determined to get his hands on the Red Hawk’s technology?
The Red Hawk’s compressed steam power circulatory system was revolutionary, the dimensions of the complex pipe system that wound around the shell of the ship precisely angulated to accelerate the steam as well as generate a magnetic force that was trapped and fed back into the supply to augment power. It had taken Ferdie, a German engineer who was now Red Hawk crew, three decades to perfect.
But the Red Hawk was a small vessel, a streamlined capsule as revolutionary as the steam system.
Greyston couldn’t see it.
Once you took into account the reinforced iron platfor
ms to support the cannons, and the weight of the cannons themselves, the Red Hawk technology wouldn’t even lift this warship into the air, let alone propel it forward.
Not even with modification, which would in any case take engineers years, decades, to perfect. If they had the base design to work from, which they’d never get. Only two blueprints existed. One in a vault on his island home, Es Vedra, the other in Ferdie’s head and the man would die a slow death before giving that up.
But, assuming this warship were possible, in theory… Assuming the force and flux of the magnetic field increased sufficiently with the scale of coiled inductors to store the extra kinetic energy required to power a vessel of this size…
Had the ship been built?
Had the work even begun?
Was there a hulking shell sitting, unfinished, in some warehouse in Glasgow?
Or was this just a dream, discarded before the vision was even fully formed?
If the ship did indeed exist, in whatever form, Greyston supposed they should all be worried. But he couldn’t deny the prospect enthralled him somewhat. She would be a beauty.
When the supper hour drew near, Greyston made full use of the adjoining bathroom. On the inside, the castle had marched on with the times. Hot and cold plumbing, plush carpeting and silk paper hanging on the walls. The gas fittings attached to the ceiling had the recently adapted mantles that allowed the flame to burn downward, directing the light onto the room instead of up.
At the bottom of the guest-wing staircase, a footman waited to take Greyston to the assembly room where they’d be gathering for pre-supper drinks. Evelyn and Harchings were already there, and they were not alone.
Greyston drew to an abrupt halt, struck dumb by the unexpected sight of Georgina Bonnington. A sheer gown of soft, silken gold skimmed her shoulders and her bosom, and then went on to caress the full length of her slender curves. Coppery curls danced over her cheek as she tilted her head to him, that pale blue gaze brushing up against him like a lazy, summer afternoon.
But that was only part of it.
Greyston cleared the surprise from his face and pressed forward into the room.
The little vixen.
She’d be gone for months and months, would she?
Evelyn slid her arm in Georgina’s, gliding them both forward a step. “We have another unexpected addition to our party.” She turned a vivacious smile on Georgina. “A delightful one at that. Mrs. Georgina Bonnington. And this is Lord Adair, although I’m sure he’ll insist you call him Grey.”
“Then I shall insist on Georgina.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement as she held out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Grey.”
Greyston lifted her gloved hand to his lips, his gaze fixed on hers as he played along. “The pleasure is all mine.”
A footman arrived just then, bearing a tray of champagne served in crystal flutes.
Georgina slid her hand from his and accepted a glass. “Lovely, thank you.”
Evelyn declined with a barely visible shudder. “Lately, I seem to have lost my taste for all the finest delicacies. Devon, darling,” she said, turning from them to join her husband at the drinks counter. “I’m sure Grey would prefer something stiffer.”
Harchings looked at him from across the room. “Whiskey?”
Greyston nodded, then brought his gaze back to Georgina. “What happened to Cairo?”
“I never said I was going to Cairo.”
“But you did say you were leaving the country. That you’d be gone—”
“—for months and months,” she finished, her Welsh lilt wrapping around the words, making it sound like a seductive promise instead of a lie. “I changed my mind.”
Greyston grinned. “Would I have had anything to do with that?”
“You might have had...” She smiled at him, a smile so sensual, his grin turned wolfish. “If I’d had the faintest inkling you’d be here.”
He leaned in, inhaling her scent. “If you had any heart,” he murmured, “you’d throw a man a scrap.”
Desire heated her gaze, even as she pulled back with a soft laugh. “You do not strike me as a man who has ever had to make do with scraps.”
Greyston felt that warmth rushing through him.
He’d missed this, he realised.
A beautiful woman, the flyaway suggestion of a dalliance and absolutely nothing to lose.
From there, the evening eased into a mood of frivolity around the supper table. To Evelyn’s immense dissatisfaction, the independent lady of mysterious means had turned out to be a frumpy spinster, and Georgina delighted in supplying an endless stream of outrageous tales to colour the lady’s history.
Greyston could scarcely keep his eyes off Georgina. There was something about her that enticed—not in the usual way, although there was that, too. But she also enticed him to settle in, to enjoy the evening for what it was, to shut down his ulterior motives for one night.
She had a natural flair for whittling away a man’s calluses and laying him bare. She was the only person who knew the truth about the long shadows Greyston’s father had cast over him and Lily. She’d coaxed that from his soul within the first half-hour of meeting him and, to this day, Greyston felt better for it.
And now, with each look they shared, with each teasing comment and flirtatious smile, more and more of Greyston’s old self emerged. Carefree, careless, spontaneous, autonomous—a little harder on the outside, but maybe a little softer on this inside.
At the other end of the table, Harchings wasn’t saying much. He was, it seemed, a man of few words.
Which probably contributed to the evening’s success.
Actually…
Greyston observed the man’s quiet confidence, the way his attention kept returning to Evelyn, even when she fell silent…especially when she fell silent. If it weren’t for him lusting after the Red Hawk, Greyston revised, Harchings wouldn’t be all that bad.
When the dessert course arrived, a whiff of nostalgia hit Greyston. The sweet currants that dotted the steam pudding blended with the delicate lemon flavour in his mouth as he swallowed a spoonful. “I haven’t had Spotted Dog since I was a boy at Forleough.”
Evelyn giggled as she tipped the sauceboat over her bowl, drowning the contents in custard. “You mean, Spotted Dick.”
“Actually, you’re both right,” Georgina informed them. “The name is a shortening from either of the two Old English names that both mean pudding; puddog and puddick.”
“Trust the Scottish to claim the more ludicrous of the two,” Evelyn declared. “Imagine eating a dog!”
Greyston chuckled. “Imagine eating a Richard.”
Evelyn gave a sigh of pleasure as a bite of the custard-lathered pudding slid down her throat. Her eyes came to Greyston, sparkling with challenge. “We’ll decide this with a game of Charades. Devon and Georgina will act out ten pieces, and whichever one of us has the most accurate guesses wins the privilege of naming the pudding.”
“There’s no need for such drastic measures,” Greyston said quickly, anything to spare himself the parlour games. He put another spoonful in his mouth, swallowed, then set a grin on Evelyn. “This Spotted Dick is delicious.”
Evelyn laughed. “You closed the barn gate, but the hens are already clucking their way to the border. I’ve an itch to play Charades now, and to win.”
After supper, they retreated to a massive parlour that looked as if it could double as a ballroom if required. Two elegant fireplaces, gas chandeliers that glittered above like a sky of stars and thick, woollen rugs thrown over the polished oak floor below.
Georgina paused on the threshold. “I seem to have picked up a sudden chill. I’ll just collect my wrap from upstairs. Please,” she said as she turned to go, “do start without me. I won’t be long.”
Harchings pardoned himself from the games, pleading an acute lack of interest.
His eyes creased with unexpected humour as he added to Greyston, “I’d make up some
urgent excuse, but Evelyn knows me well enough and I suspect you don’t particularly care.” He dropped a kiss on Evelyn’s forehead. “I’ll be in the library. Come and fetch me when you’re ready to retire.”
Greyston wondered if that plea would work for him. “You also know me rather well,” he said to Evelyn. “I might just join Harchings in the library.”
But Evelyn wasn’t listening.
She dragged him deeper into the room.
“I’ve been waiting for a moment alone. Tell me.” She stopped dragging and looked up at him. “Is everything alright in London?”
“What does Lily write?” he hedged.
“Kelan needs her in attendance,” Evelyn huffed. “For what, she doesn’t say.”
Greyston grimaced. He’d never approved of keeping Evelyn in the dark. He understood her delicate condition, but he was inclined to think her a strong, intelligent woman who’d worry more about what she wasn’t being told than what she was.
Evelyn paced away from him. “I confess to being slightly neurotic because I was so looking forward to Lily being here… But it’s not like Lily to abandon her plans at the drop of a pin.”
“It was more than the drop of a pin.” Greyston strode up to her, took a quick glance behind to ensure they were still alone, and lowered his voice. “Lily has seen two new demons.”
Evelyn’s mouth went slack, her eyes huge.
“Not in London,” he hastily clarified. “In fact, she has no—”
“Not here.” Evelyn crossed the room to pull back a slide of drapes and open the door leading onto the patio.
Greyston stepped outside after her, closing the glass-paned door behind them. The curtain on the other side fell into place again, leaving them to the slice of a silvery moon and a handful of stars.
“This seems overly clandestine,” he murmured, his eyes searching, and finding Evelyn leaning against a stone pillar cast in shadow.
“This castle is a relic with all sorts of chutes, flutes and venting hollowed into the walls,” she said. “Do you know, I once heard a—” She let out a sharp breath. “Never mind that! What of these demons? I suspected something was going on when the lot of you descended on London and I was right.”
The Dark Matters Quartet Page 53
