London Calling

by Sorcha Mowbray

  Jo sighed, he was right of course. “Under ordinary circumstances I would agree. But someone is trying to kill him. How can I be expected to keep him alive if I don’t know where the threat is coming from? This was a key piece of information. A betrayal.”

  “I withheld it as well. Does this mean you are severing our arrangement?” Holt sipped his tea.

  She wanted to jump up and pace. Holt was different. She’d known him longer, worked with him during some of the darkest hours England had ever faced, and Holt had never been a mark. Not to mention, they’d never slept together. “No. Our relationship is…different.”

  Her friend looked at her or a moment, letting the silence stretch between them. “I see. So you did not heed my warnings.”

  “It was too late by the time we spoke. The damage had been done.” She stood, giving in to her urge to move. “Are you telling me I have to protect him?”

  Holt’s dark, fathomless eyes softened. “I shall remind you that he is an innocent man—”

  “The Lord of Cogs is not innocent. Nobody is innocent, Holt. Don’t be so naive, I expect more from a seasoned intelligence officer.”

  “Very well, he is not guilty of anything that warrants his death. He is the titular head of a segment of our population. In a democracy, that means he has the right to stand in opposition to the government, and to do so in relative safety. I believe the person behind this has less than pure motives. In fact, I am almost certain greed is at the center of this.”

  “Do tell, because you seem to know far more than I do.” Her tea forgotten, she continued to walk the short width of the kitchen.

  “As is always the case in these things, I looked into the money trail and it leads right to Sir Franklin Hathaway, the primary investor in electrical research done by Edison and Tesla. I dare say the man has a bit more at stake than a mere political ideology.”

  “Indeed. But he isn’t part of the BST, so he wouldn’t have the means to compromise our communication channels.” Jo ceased moving and faced him.

  “True. I still have to find his link to the BST, but we are one layer closer to the truth. You keep our dissenter alive, and I shall finish uncovering the sordid details.”

  Jo nodded. Her sense of justice, though slightly warped, was still mostly intact. “Very well. I will go see Griff in the morning. Perhaps he can shed some light on who might be connected to Sir Hathaway. After all, as the Lord of Cogs I would imagine he has access to his own intelligence network.” She offered a wry smile.

  “Just remember, knowledge can be dangerous. Whether they see you as a possible defender of the man they want dead or merely a pawn to be used against him, you are without a doubt in the line of fire.”

  “I shall keep that in mind as I press on. You should be careful as well. I will be very displeased if you get yourself killed.”

  Holt snorted.

  “Snort all you like. If you die it will lead to a very bloody mess.” And that was as close to telling him how she felt about him as she was comfortable getting for the moment.

  His gleaming teeth made a slash in the darkness of his face, a brown deepened by the shadows cast all around them, and then he rose from the kitchen table. “I wonder if you’d tell Lord Melton the same thing?” Without another word, he departed her quaint little kitchen. If Jo hadn’t seen his book of profiles she might have wondered how he knew where to find her, but clearly her friend and handler knew far more than anyone would want him to. Alone again, she considered Holt’s parting words. Lord Melton was not a man she’d known for nearly a decade. He was…she hesitated. He was many things, but would she kill over him? To protect him? Certainly. But if he was expired unexpectedly, would she hunt down the ones responsible and render her own brand of justice? Her gut reaction scared her sufficiently that she decided to push the unwelcome thought aside.

  Better she focus on how she would handle the man in question. As she retreated to her room, she considered her rather ridiculous show that afternoon, blasting him for his secret. Something that she suspected might be mortification settled into her bones and made her stomach feel queer. She had shot into the brown and now she had to recover. How did one apologize? Perhaps the best apology would be progress. She glanced at the clock, there was still time for a late-night visit to Sir Hathaway.

  Jo crept into the bedroom of Sir Francis Hathaway and found him sound asleep. For a moment she stood there listening to the deep, even breaths of the man who had technically funded the attempt on Griff’s life, and the urge to take action had her fingers curling into her palms. But then she reminded herself why she was there.

  She had questions. He had answers.

  Two steps had her out of the shadows and moving across his room. Two more landed her close enough to place a hand over his mouth and a blade to his neck. Whether it was the press of her hand cutting off his air or the chill of the blade didn’t matter. The result was the same, he jerked awake, eyes wide and fear shining like a beacon in the darkness.

  “Ssshhhh…” The sound should have been soothing, but the sibilance sounded menacing in the dark. And that was her intent. “Now, love. I have a few questions for you.”

  The man nodded once, very slowly.

  “Excellent. You recently gave someone a large sum of money to fund an assassination. Who did you give that money to?” She lifted her hand from his mouth, but left the blade poised against his flesh—a warning.

  “You won’t get away with this.”

  She shrugged even though it was highly unlikely he saw the movement. “I’d say I am getting away with it as we speak. Regardless, I’d like an answer, and no isn’t really an option.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. It isn’t terribly difficult to figure out who I gave the money to.” His eyes darted around the room as though he was searching for something.

  Jo rolled her eyes. “If it was so easy, would I be here holding a knife to your throat?” She pressed the blade a hair harder, actually drawing a thin trickle of blood. “Talk.”

  “I-i-i gave it to the Steam Control Party.” He tensed up, causing the blade to sink a little deeper.

  “Who?” She glanced nervously at the door. This was taking too long. Any moment someone could come through, a maid or manservant going about their duties.

  “The man who truly runs the party.” He laughed, a malicious sound that was an abrupt departure from the fearful coward of a moment before.

  What in the steaming hell? And then two sets of hands snaked out of the darkness and clamped down on her arms. She jerked the knife back and aimed for the body on her right, but the goon blocked her strike and stripped the blade from her hand. Then a bag slipped over her head, leaving her blind and immobilized. She continued to struggle until someone whacked her in the head and it all faded to nothing.

  By mid-morning, Griff was tired of waiting for Jo to possibly be awake. He needed to talk to her, hopefully now that she had calmed down. He went straight to The Market, it was the seat of her power base, the place where she controlled everything around her, and so in the face of his lies, might be a source of comfort. Elena answered the door, all sultry disheveled elegance in her robe with her sable brown hair mussed as though she had just come from the bed. He felt certain artifice was at play, though he’d be hard pressed to pick any one indicator.

  “What can I do for you, Lord Melton?” Her thick Spanish accent made the question sound more like a purr and only heightened her sensual appeal, except for the fact that he was entirely occupied by thoughts of her employer.

  “I am looking for Madame La Roux. Is she at home?” He tried not to allow his anxiety to bubble up from the deep pit he’d shoved it in, but with every moment that ticked by he was finding it more and more difficult.

  Elena made a moue and shook her head. “She is not. When she did not come home last night we assumed she had stayed with you.”

  Griff couldn’t help the surprise that sliced through him. “Does she often not come home?”

  “No, sig
nor. She is always home, but then you seem to have become something of a special case with her. It seemed the next logical step in the progression of your relationship.”

  The notion that she might see him as special struck him like a knife to the heart under the circumstances. Jo was missing, and even if he found her, he had to convince her to give him another chance, to listen. “Very well. I will send word when I locate her.”

  Elena straightened and the façade of lazy sexuality slipped away like a mask removed at a midnight masquerade. “As will I, my lord.” The woman nodded and promptly shut the door in his face. He’d be offended at both being left on the stoop and the door slam, but with the sudden warning bells ringing that something was off, he was grateful to be able to make a quick departure. His next stop would be Jo’s childhood home. Fortunately once she settled in the day before, she’d sent a note around letting him know her direction. Of course, that was before she’d discovered his secret.

  He drove his steam-car, it was the fastest mode of transportation he had at his disposal, directly to her newer residence. He was across town in a matter of minutes since it was early enough that most of society was just rising for the day. He quickly knocked on the front door despite there being no knocker present.

  A woman answered, her apron covered in baking debris. “Oh!” She straightened in surprise at seeing him. Then after a careful assessment, dropped a small curtsy. “What may I do for you, sir?”

  Griff nodded. “I’d like to speak with…the lady of the house.” He realized he wasn’t sure what name she might be using at this residence.

  “She’s not receiving visitors at the moment.” The woman spoke warily but glanced pointedly at the absent door knocker.

  Griff stifled his sigh and forged ahead. “If Jo is in, I am in immediate need of a word with her. I checked in at the…uh…at her place of business and she was not there. I am worried something has happened to her.”

  The woman looked more worried at his expression of concern. She looked him up and down again, seemed to be sizing up his reliability. Finally, as though deciding that he might be trustworthy, she nodded. “Very well. She slipped out the back of the house late last night. I haven’t seen her since and her bed has not been slept in. I was a bit worried, but hoped she’d gone over to The Market.” She lifted a worn, wrinkled hand to her forehead and rubbed the crease between her pinched brows. “Now I’m worried something happened to her.”

  Griff grunted his agreement because he couldn’t push a single syllable past the lump currently wedged in his throat. He took a deep breath and nodded. “As am I.” He turned to leave, but stopped. “I shall continue to look for her. If you hear of anything, please send word over to the Earl of Melton on Curzon Street.”

  The woman’s eyes widened as she dipped a deep, deferential curtsey. “Of course, my lord.”

  Griff departed the residence and returned to his own. At a loss for the moment, he took refuge in his study. He was far too distracted to tinker with anything at the moment. Pouring a drink seemed as good an option as any, so he reached for the decanter, but a knock interrupted. He bade the person to enter and found Higgins bearing a piece of correspondence. “You may leave the note on my desk.”

  Invitations were the least important thing on his list of things to do on a good day. Today was a decidedly bad one.

  “The messenger said the missive was of the utmost importance.” Higgins hesitated, not precisely countermanding his guidance, but not following it through either.

  “Very well, I’ll take it.” Griff was more annoyed by the inconvenience than anything. But, he supposed a quick look would allow him to dismiss the note with a clear conscience. He took the parchment and broke the unfamiliar seal. The wax was imprinted with what appeared to be a lightning bolt and the words ipsa scientia potestas est. He translated the phrase easily, relying on the Latin he learned in school: Knowledge itself is power. He unfolded the page to find a barely legible scrawl.

  Meet me on Hampstead Heath, near The Elms at the next three bells.

  —Jo’s H

  Griff glanced at the clock on the mantle and noted he had just enough time to make the meeting. He abandoned the decanter and the parchment as he bolted to the mews. Ten minutes later, he was thundering down the lane on the back of Cimmerian, his black Arabian. As he neared the heath, he slowed his mount before sliding off his back and walking the rest of the way. He approached through the back side of the elms, using the leaf strewn ground to muffle both his and the horse’s steps. It was easy to assume that the —Jo’s H was her handler, possibly too easy.

  He arrived first, since it appeared no one else was there. But only a moment later a soft rustle of leaves alerted him to the presence of another. He spun around and found a tall man with caramel skin grinning at him. For a moment he feared he had fallen into a trap, but then the man laughed. “Either Jo has taught you well, or fear has made you a cautious man.”

  Griff knew it was a little of both, so he simply shrugged a shoulder. “One can never be too careful where spies and assassins are concerned. I assume you’re her handler?”

  The stranger nodded and smiled more. “A wise man. I assume she has not shared my name, you can call me Holt.” They shook hands. “We should press on to business. I believe you have noticed the absence of a particular lady?”

  “Indeed. She seems to have vanished like steam vapor.”

  Holt nodded. “I know who has her, or at least who took her.” He stepped in closer. “Sir Hathaway.”

  Griff reared back. “Taken? I assumed she was merely following through on her promise not to work with me.” He cursed himself a fool for not following her and demanding she talk to him. “And Hathaway? The financier? He’s the one who took her?”

  “Yes. He has taken her in an airship headed for the Isle of Wight. I do not know what his plans may be or who he is meeting, but if he has left London, it can only mean bad things.”

  Damn, Griff hated air travel. But for Jo, he’d endure anything. “I have access to a ship. When did they leave?”

  “If my sources are right? A few hours ago. Remember, we don’t know who Hathaway is meeting. It could be anyone.”

  Griff shook his head. “No, it has to be whoever hired her to kill me.” He slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. “I can’t let her suffer because of me. I will go after her, can you keep working to discover who the leader is?”

  Holt nodded. “Of course. Be safe, my lord.”

  “Wait!” Griff stopped him. “Tell me one thing. What is her real last name?”

  “If she hasn’t told you…”

  “I love her and right now I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again. Please?” Griff’s heart ached for all he feared losing. Nothing mattered anymore. Not his love of tinkering, his secrets, or even his past. He loved her, and as soon as he rescued her he intended to tell her. Her name, her real name was like the last little piece of her, and knowing it made him feel closer to her even as he searched for her.

  Holt nodded, a short curt movement. “Stanton.” And then he was gone as silently as he had appeared.

  Griff couldn’t help himself, he really wanted to learn how to do that. To simply appear wherever he wanted, silent as a wisp of air. Without further delay, he mounted Cimmerian and took off in the opposite direction of his home. Twenty minutes later and a few new colorful curse words under his belt courtesy of a fishmonger’s wife and a baker, he arrived at Cole’s front door. With a few perfunctory taps, the portal opened and he entered. “Good afternoon, Brewton. Is Colechester in? It is imperative I speak with him at once.”

  The butler nodded, “If you will come with me, my lord.”

  He dutifully followed Cole’s longtime, and very proper, retainer. Within moments Griff was led into Cole’s study. “Thank the steaming heavens you are at home!” Griff barreled past his unnecessary guide and hurtled across the room to where Cole stood, somewhat surprised by the sudden interruption.

  “What’s
the matter, Griff?” Cole set the book in his hand down and turned to his friend.

  “Jo has been taken. I need you to fly me to the Isle of Wight. And, well—” Griff hesitated, worried his friend might not be game for the whole adventure. “We will likely need to board another ship. I know it legally falls under the description of piracy, but I cannot let them hurt her.”

  Cole merely offered a wide, toothy grin before he turned to Brewton and snapped orders for his horse to be brought around. The butler bowed slightly and then departed the study, leaving the two men alone.

  Curious, Griff asked, “How did you know I arrived by horse?”

  Cole laughed. “Besides the clatter you made barreling up to my home? If you hadn’t been on horseback Brewton would have simply had two mounts saddled.”

  Griff grunted. “Pays to have good help. How long will it take to launch once we are aboard your ship?”

  His friend frowned. “She has a name.”

  Griff’s brows drew together, confused. “Who has a name?”

  “My ship. Do you not listen to anything I say? Her name is the Sweet Annie.” Cole seemed truly miffed at him for not remembering the name of the ship, the response baffled Griff.

  “I feel as though I should apologize, but I am not quite certain about what.”

  Cole rolled his eyes and slapped his friend on the shoulder. “I’m probably a bit touchy, Sweet Annie is the only woman I’ve ever been faithful to. I’d sooner cut off my arm than sail another ship.”

  Griff snorted. “I’m not sure how that compares with not sleeping with anything that has breasts and moves.”

  “It proves I have restraint. I simply choose not to employ it very often.” His friend winked and then they headed out to find their mounts.

  Griff had an assassin to save.

  11

  Jo’s head felt like it blew a gasket. The throbbing was bad enough, but the nausea had her on her knees and panting like an animal. It was horrible to experience, let alone in front of two men who stood snickering the whole time. She drew a slow deep breath and her stomach calmed. But, then the floor tilted and swayed—or was that her? She checked herself, looked around and everything appeared to be where it had been. She was fairly certain it wasn’t her. She looked up at the two men and considered questioning them. The need to be sure forced her hand. “Are we on an airship?”