The two men jumped, startled by her sudden appearance. After a moment of awkward throat clearing, one spoke. “Y-Y- You’re the Clockwork Widow?”
Still hovering in the shadows, she said, “I’m here, aren’t I?”
The tall skinny one edged forward and held out a leather portfolio with brass fittings and a lock. She allowed her gloved hand to appear in the light long enough to take the case. Without another word, Jo slipped back into the shadows and exited the building. The last thing she needed was two cog-grinders getting a look at her face. And where the devil was Holt? Holton McPhearson was her handler. The man who perennially showed with the details. Sure, he’d continually told her that it wouldn’t always be him dropping the file, but then it had always been him.
Safely in the alley again, she tucked the case into the back of her trousers under her jacket. Clearly her assignment was important, or perhaps just different? She would sort it out later as she reviewed the details she’d been given, for now she needed to disappear. Finding her cycle still tucked away where she left it, she hopped on and cranked the engine. On a gush of steam and a soft chugging sound, she pulled out of the shadows and into the night before the engine fully roared to life.
Two blocks from The Market she caught the flash of a light in her rearview mirrors. Bloody hell! She needed to get back and look at the information on her mark, but first she had to lose her tail. There was no telling how soon the Crown wanted her to take action, some orders came with more urgency than others. Hooking a right at the next lane, she circled back around the block and dropped in behind her unwanted company. Keeping a good distance between her and their rather unsubtle conveyance—who followed an assassin in an old steam-coach?—she watched them drive past her business, slowly, as though looking for someone, and then speed up to disappear into the night.
With a shrug she drove past the front entrance, circled around through some of the side streets to be safe, and finally pulled up through the back mews that housed her carriage and her steam-cycle. She still kept a fine stallion for leisure rides, but for business she used her steam-cycle, and for propriety she still used the horse and carriage as Madame La Roux.
Wheeling her cycle into its parking space, she wiped the leather saddle down and checked all the fluids before retiring for the night. Again, she crept up the back stairs looking to avoid any wandering patrons. It was rather silly that she must sneak about in her own establishment, but secrets were secrets, and while society had come to accept prostitution as a legitimate industry with regulations and oversight, they hadn’t gone quite so far as to make her true profession acceptable.
Being an assassin was an honest line of work, really. Governments were going to kill people, people were going to kill people. Why shouldn’t she provide that service for the government and get rich while doing her patriotic duty? It was capitalism at its finest. And in the middle of the Steam Revolution, well…there were plenty of people that the government wanted eliminated. Business had been brisk.
Locking her chamber door behind her, she breathed a sigh of relief as she slipped off her leather riding coat and draped it over a chair. Curiosity about her assignment propelled her over to her bed where she pulled the case out of the waist of her trousers and sank onto the mattress. Behind the headboard she pressed a small lever that released a panel covering a secret compartment. In the small hidey-hole lay a chain with a key of sorts attached. It looked more like a broken piece of metal, but it would snap into the lock of the case to open it. She and Holt were the only two people with keys…which meant the men had presumably been sent by him. It was the first bit of good news so far.
In addition to the key, inside the alcove lay a scrap of fabric, a hair comb, and a coin. She closed the door by pressing the lever again and turned to unlock the case, but a knock at her door interrupted. She slipped the case under the mattress and the key around her neck, then unbolted her door.
Miriam bustled in carrying a tray laden with a cold supper and a pot of tea. “I heard you come in and had Cook put some food together. You need to eat more than you do,” she said as she set the tray on a small table near the window.
“Thank you. I could use a bite.” Jo followed her maid over to the food and sat as a cup of tea was prepared.
“I do not understand why women have this fascination with men’s clothing.” Miriam looked pointedly at Jo’s trousers, then turned and left the room as Jo snorted. Her maid might tolerate some of her quirks, but she drew the line at menswear. It drove her crazy every time Jo donned trousers.
Alone again, she jumped up and grabbed the case from its hiding place and sat down with her tea at the table. She slipped the metal shard into place and turned it in the lock. The latch released with a soft click that would have brought joy to any tinker’s heart. She smiled and reached in to slide out the papers held within. As odd as the whole night had been, she should not have found it unusual that the file on her mark was thinner than normal, yet she did.
The first page was a photograph of a group of three men, with one individual circled. They looked pleased with themselves, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. Lord John Griffin, Earl of Melton, the one that was circled, was handsome, devastatingly handsome in person she would guess. It seemed wrong somehow to snuff out the life of such a fine specimen of manhood, but it would appear he was not such a fine specimen if he was in a case that had been handed to her.
The next page documented his physical specifics. Hair: black. Eyes: silver. Height: approximately six feet. Then came a list of places he could be found, his home, club, boxing saloon, and his favorite spot to ride. The following page detailed his daily movements. The last page held her instructions. The Crown wanted him dead, and they didn’t care how it looked. Murder, suicide, accident, whatever expedient method presented itself was good so long as he was eliminated. She was given until the twenty-fourth of March to complete the job. Close to two weeks was a short window to allow her to track him and find a good opportunity, but she’d worked with less time.
She stuffed the pages back into the briefcase and locked it with the key that still hung around her neck. Sipping her lukewarm tea, she picked up a slice of bread to nibble. She considered her options for getting close to him, and how public she wished to make the kill. He was unmarried according to his dossier, with no mistress and no current lover. That meant there would be no opportunity while he was…indisposed. Perhaps she could manage to infiltrate his club? Despite the fact no one but her and whoever sent the orders would know a woman had not only entered a bastion of male superiority, but killed one of its occupants, she would still enjoy having that knowledge. It was worth considering.
She ate a few more bites of bread, a slice of cheese, and some cold chicken before deciding it was enough. Abandoning the fare, she took the case over to her dressing room. Inside, she crouched down to push the long dresses to the side, exposing her safe. Three quick spins in alternating directions and a twist of the handle released the door. The case safely stowed inside, she closed and locked the heavy steel door and rose. Dresses once again hanging to the floor, she began to strip off her shirt and trousers.
Naked, except for the key that dangled between her breasts, she walked back into the bed chamber and poured some water into the basin. Many houses had running water now, even hers, but she hadn’t been willing to give up all the old ways. Keeping an ewer of water and a basin in her room was a comfortable habit of a lifetime at the ripe old age of thirty-five.
Taking a cloth and dipping it in the water, she cleaned herself up a bit then headed over to the bed. Jo had long ago given up trying to sleep in a nightgown. They always twisted around her legs, making her feel vulnerable and restricted. Not really an acceptable situation for an assassin. She slid between the cool sheets, enjoying the soothing sent of lavender that wafted up from the fabric. Then, she turned and tripped the lever again, exposing the compartment. She placed the key back inside and closed the panel.
Reaching o
ver, she doused the steam-lamp that sat on her nightstand and tried to sleep. A muted burst of laughter carried up the three stories to her chamber. She rolled over, drawing in a deep breath and releasing it slowly. As the darkness swept over her, she saw flashes of a pair of intriguing silver eyes.
2
Griff relaxed in one of his favorite chairs in his home as his best friends—they’d been chums since their school days—battled it out at billiards, the balls clacking merrily with each man’s shot. Cole straightened up from the table and looked at Dell, “That, my good man, is the third game in a row. Double or nothing on a fourth game?” Cole let a smile stretch across his face.
“No, I believe it is time for Griff to be trounced. I have served my time.” Dell pulled the three pence he owed Cole out and dropped them soundlessly on the maroon felt of the table. They never gambled for real stakes, mostly pride and bragging rights.
“Guess you’re out of luck, Cole. I don’t fancy a trouncing at your hands just now.” Griff sipped his brandy as his friends replaced the cue sticks and balls on the wall and poured themselves a drink.
The pair of friends sat down with Griff, stretching their legs out before them in a comfortable slouch despite their elegant attire. Dell picked up the paper that sat on the small table to his right and snorted. “The Lord of Cogs strikes again,” he groused aloud. “You’d think the authorities could put an end to this rebellious display of steam tech. It boggles my mind that one man can engender such enthusiasm and loyalty from the lower classes. Why not even Trevithick himself, the father of steam technology, engenders such zealousness.”
“I’d guess that they see him as a symbol of hope.” Cole shrugged. “Steam tech is far more affordable and accessible than electricity, it makes sense it would be more broadly embraced across the population.”
Griff listened to his two friends, cautiously remaining silent for the moment. He’d always known Dell was less supportive of steam tech. It was probably the reason he was appointed as the Deputy Director of the Bureau of Steam Technology. Their job was to regulate steam tech, what better choice than someone who wasn’t particularly fond of steam? Or at least that is what the Crown had surmised. Griff knew better.
“Well, it is still vandalism—these steam tech displays he sets up around town under the cover of darkness. Mark my words, the man is going to get someone killed one of these days.” Dell’s attractive face—if the women of the Ton were to be believed—creased as he frowned.
Griff chuckled. “What makes you sure it’s a man? Women do plenty of jobs and activities that were once considered the domain of men.”
Dell snorted again. “Did you see the size of the automaton the Lord of Cogs built? Had to be a man. Besides, if it was a woman, wouldn’t she be Lady of Cogs?”
“Leave off, Dell. Steam is cheap tech, that is why it is so popular. The Lord of Cogs is merely a figurehead.” Cole sipped his drink and eyed Dell warily.
Griff felt the chasm between he and Dell growing more and more each day. Dell and others of the Ton like him—including Griff’s own father—were exactly the reason he kept his affinity for steam a private matter.
“Do not be fooled, my friend.” Dell set the paper and his drink aside so he could sit forward. “The Lord of Cogs is more than a symbol. He is truly the organizer behind the Free Steam Party (FSP). Mark my words, the steam rabble isn’t intelligent enough to organize without help.”
Cole looked at the ceiling as though in search of guidance from above. “None of that makes them or steam dangerous. Certainly no more so than electricity, which we barely know how to harness.”
Dell frowned. “Ballocks! Just last month there was a terrible steam-ship crash. All passengers aboard were killed.”
Cole glared back. “And once the investigation is done you will likely find one of two causes. Negligent maintenance by an unfit Captain and crew or sabotage!”
Griff sat up and held up a hand. “I dare say you are both right. Someone is most certainly organizing the FSP, and that horrible crash will prove to be a nasty business either way. The reality is we need real regulation of technology, not just veiled attempts by New Victorian elite to line their pockets.”
Cole and Dell grumbled a bit, but both agreed.
Griff winked at Cole, “Dell, are you hoping to see Lady Olivia tonight?”
Dell turned a mottled red. “I am not, that woman fancies herself in love with me. We danced one time last season, and she has dogged my every step since then.”
Cole guffawed along with Griff. Lady Olivia Thornby had proven to be quite the nuisance for Dell. The moment brought the three back into an accord, as Griff had intended.
“We should probably head out for the evening’s festivities.” Cole slugged the last bit of brandy in his previously forgotten snifter and stood. “Are you ready to go, Dell? The ladies at the masked ball aren’t going to whirl themselves around the dance floor, now are they?”
“Sadly no. We must do our chivalrous duty and court the fair maidens of the land.” Dell set his own glass down and joined Cole in heading for the door of the billiards room.
“Are you sure you won’t change your mind, Griff? We could wait a bit for you to change clothes,” Cole asked for the fourth time since they’d arrived an hour earlier.
“I have too much paperwork that has been neglected with my annual visit to my properties.” Griff waved them off. The sooner they left, the sooner he could retreat to his laboratory and get back to work.
“Very well, though your paperwork won’t keep you as warm as a willing wench, I’d wager.” Cole saluted him with two fingers to his brow and departed the room.
“Night Griff.” Dell followed in his friend’s wake.
Alone at last. Griff took a long, deep breath and unfolded his length from the low lounging couch. He rushed to his study in the room next door as he shed his cravat, coat and vest. He dropped the unwelcome garments on a chair as he walked over to the fireplace and stood for a moment watching the flames dance.
Thoughts of his laboratory beckoned him, made him yearn to set his hands to work tinkering with machinery that would ultimately be powered by steam. But he had not been speaking false when he told his friends he had paperwork to see to. Turning back to his desk, he’d just sat down when Higgins, his butler, appeared bearing a silver salver.
“A missive has arrived, my lord.” The steel gray-haired man wore mutton chop sideburns that lent him a distinguished air.
Griff took the correspondence and cracked the familiar seal bearing an imprint of the three overlapping cogs and wheels. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end—a sign he had learned to ignore at his peril during his military service—as he unfolded the page. The few scrawled lines relayed a terse warning.
Lord Melton,
There is to be a midnight vote of the Free Steam Technology bill. The SCP has called for a last minute vote in an effort to kill the new legislation fresh out of the lower house. We need your vote to help carry the day.
Your Humble Servant,
David Sterling
Director of the Free Steam Party
Griff crossed the room and tossed the letter into the fire before addressing Higgins. “I’ll have need of my horses and carriage. I’m off to Parliament.”
The next day, Griff had decided that having run his errands, a walk to his club would give him some much needed exercise, of course that was before the prickling sensation on the back of his neck had started. With each step, he grew more certain someone watched him. And he had learned long ago as a Hussar not to discount his instincts—they had served him well as a soldier. But, with his certainty came the nagging worry that his secret had been revealed. Once again he stopped and drew a deep breath. He was a member of parliament, he made decisions every day that could cause a man to want to follow him. To possibly confront him. It was far more likely to be related to that than the notion that someone had discovered his most closely guarded secret. Waving off his paranoia, he s
topped at the door of Boodle’s to see if he could catch a glimpse of his would-be tail. Unfortunately, the street was so busy it was difficult to tell who his shadow had been for most of the day. What he did notice was a stunning brunette—who’d dared invade the male bastion of St. James Street—as she drove past in her phaeton wearing a charming navy driving dress. The brazen woman caught his attention, causing his heart to race and his cock to stir with an interest he’d rarely experienced since his last mistress nearly a year earlier. It wasn’t until the distracting beauty passed that he realized he’d missed the opportunity to identify his spy. Well, damn and blast.
“Good afternoon, my lord.” The club maître d’ was waiting for him with his hand outstretched.
“Good afternoon, Helmsford. Have you seen Dellinger or Chapman today?” Griff handed over his coat and hat.
“Mr. Dellinger is in the reading room, my lord.” Helmsford bowed and disappeared with Griff’s accessories in tow.
Griff headed down the hall past the main dining room into a cozy little reading room with a fireplace. There, he spied Dellinger reading the London Steamer’s daily edition. The Times latched on to society’s fixation with all things steam and changed its name nearly ten years earlier. It annoyed members of the SCP, but most of London was so taken by steam that it kept the paper in step with public sentiment.
“Hello, Dell, how are you this fine afternoon?” Griff settled into a nearby empty chair.
“Hello, Griff. Did you get through all that paperwork you had last night?”
“An unexpected vote in Lords pulled me away. Did you and Cole have any success at the masked ball?” Griff waved over a waiter. “Brandy, please, and a copy of today’s paper. Anything for you, Dell?”
“No, thank you.” He declined as he set his paper aside. The waiter disappeared. “Drinking this early in the day?”
London Calling Page 2
