by Rebecca Diem
The door opened behind her and she whirled around to see—
A man, dressed in the latest fashion of the continent, waistcoat and all, bright red hair combed back into a tidy plait. He was wearing spectacles. And he was working quite hard to show no recognition under the disapproving eye of the butler.
“Master Olivier, this young woman has come here with the notion that you have information regarding that dreadful pirate captain.”
“Ah,” said the man with a perfectly posh accent. “Has he offended you in some way?”
“He’s about to,” said Clara with narrowed eyes.
The Captain Duke barely hid his smirk before turning to his servant, “Would you please allow us some privacy, Sebastian?”
“Sir, I— Of course, sir,” he acquiesced, glaring at Clara before closing the door.
“Olivier?” she asked once they were alone.
“My name.”
“Your name is Olivier?”
“My family’s name, actually.”
“Your family name?”
“Yes.”
“So…”
“Marmaduke. Marmaduke Ivan Lysander Olivier.”
Clara stared. The transformation was remarkable. Gone was her wild pirate captain with his tangled locks and eyes full of mischief. In his place there was… a gentleman. She walked over and removed his glasses, peering through them at the nearest set of shelves. False, as she suspected. She set them aside and looked him in the eyes. Still full of mischief.
Finally, she smiled, “I suppose we both have our secrets then.”
“I was going to tell you.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Four days.”
“Why?”
“I have some contacts here I wanted to check in with. And so, Olivier has returned early from his travels this year. Sebastian is quite out of sorts over my sudden reappearance. I do apologize for his behaviour.”
Clara took a breath while she considered this revelation. She could feel her heart fluttering in her chest as she tried to sort through her emotions. She had missed him, yes, but to see him so unexpectedly... She felt nervous, and elated; it was strange to see him in the trappings of her previous world.
“Take your hair down,” she demanded.
“My—why?”
“I like it better that way.”
He grinned at her forwardness, “Sebastian will give me hell.”
Clara raised an eyebrow, and the Captain Duke reached back and undid his hair, shaking it out into its usual tangle.
“Better?” he asked.
Clara ran her thumb over the embroidered waistcoat, and pulled him closer. It amused her, this reversal. Now she was the pirate queen, courting her gentleman suitor. She smiled as she drew him into an embrace. Oh but she had missed him, missed his warmth and the brush of his lips on her own. She let herself be carried away by the kiss, feeling his strength as he wrapped his arms around her, lifting her to her toes as he pressed against her. When they finally broke apart he picked her up and spun in a circle, laughing. She felt as though they had tipped over the edge of some great precipice. Only instead of falling, she felt as though she could float on thin air. There was so much she wanted to say, but dared not speak of… not yet at least.
“What shall I call you then?”
The Captain Duke’s lips parted in surprise, “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Well, if I continue to address you as Captain dear Sebastian might take offense. Trick must know, and Nessa and Marie. What do others call you? Just Olivier?”
“Some.”
“Marmaduke?”
He made a face and Clara laughed.
“Trick uses it on occasion. He’s the one who came up with my nom de guerre. Captain Marmaduke did not have quite the same effect.”
“So… a pirate by trade, and what? A scholar? The storm season—you must come here for the winter months. You collect so many things on your travels, it’s perfect, really. How do they not guess?”
“Few have ever made the connection. They think I’m quite bookish. Rumours of a family connection, but I do my best to quell them.” He gave her a roguish look, “I find launching into a tale of how my distant ancestor made the acquaintance of Grace O’Malley tends to bore them into complacency.”
“Did they?”
“Did who?”
“Did your family know Grace O’Malley?”
“Perhaps. There’s some Irish on my mother’s side I believe.”
“Your parents…?”
“Long since deceased.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s no matter.”
“So you had a perfectly normal upbringing? None of the stories are true?”
He gave her a roguish smile, “Well some of the stories are true. But as for my parentage, just your average child out of wedlock I suppose.”
“Ah. Your father, he was a noble?”
“My mother, actually. Noble by birth, a countess by marriage. My father was a good man, a tradesman. He did his best by me. It wasn’t until my mother passed that I received all of this,” he said, gesturing about the room.
Clara wanted to know more, but she didn’t feel it appropriate to press for details just now. There were other matters at hand and she had so much to tell him. So, she wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him in for a long, lingering kiss.
“What was that for?”
“For luck. We have work to do.”
“Oh?”
“We’re going to a party thrown by friends of the Tradists tomorrow night. The Professor has secured invitations, but my name will make it difficult to snoop. Cat is scouting the layout and talking up the caterers, but of course we’ll need to make arrangements for you—”
“There’s no need.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The Captain Duke picked up an envelope, heavy and embossed with gold leaf detailing.
“I already have an invitation.”
“An invitation?”
“Yes.”
“To a salon. You attend salons.”
“On occasion.”
“This is how you know so much about the Tradists. Olivier is…”
“Olivier is an eccentric traveller, quite entertaining at dinner parties and the like, ever the gentleman but a tad academic for the likes of the Tradists,” he said, as he collected the discarded spectacles and hunched his shoulders in a bookish slouch. “Still, he rounds out the table nicely and is usually adept at conversing on current affairs.”
Clara smiled. She was going to be fond of this Olivier character.
Chapter 17: In which our hero finds himself in polite company
The salon was to be held at the residences of Mrs. Branson-Honeycutt, a hostess with a taste for robust intellectual discourse and little patience for politicking. Her guests were ever at the mercy of her sharp wit and sharper tongue, but the Captain Duke had made a significant effort to ingratiate himself with the woman and her circle of elite logicians and artists.
He took an hors-d’oeuvre from the autobauble-waitron as it wobbled through the assembled company. Tonight, the theme was the Mechanical World, and the guests had outfitted themselves accordingly. Decorative gears adorned their top hats and sashes. Pocketwatches of the latest fashion were displayed with glass backing so as to show off the delicate mechanisms within. Richly-coloured fabrics were trimmed in brass and gold, and the ladies wore jeweled cogwheels in their tightly-curled hair. The Captain was quickly drawn into conversation about the latest developments in Austrian aeronautical design, but all discussion was halted when the famed genius made her entrance.
Professor Georgina Jameson Sewell wore a cream gown with gold trim, the skirts swept back to reveal her gilded limb. The hush that befell the room turned to whispers as her entourage was announced. The murmur grew to a buzz over the three women, their presence dominating the room. Captain Marie Buchanan — the Black Widow herself! — had her long locs in a
n elegant updo, clad in a fine yellow gown that was trimmed and tucked to the latest Parisian designs. Nessa was outfitted in a suit of grey, cut to flatter her figure and height, complete with a matching yellow pocket square. Her pale blonde hair was pulled into an elaborate braid that hung to the small of her back. The pair made a handsome couple to be sure. But the Captain Duke was struck speechless by their companion. Clara had found herself a gown of the latest fashion, borrowed, perhaps, from the Professor, as the amethyst bodice bared her shoulders, and the overdress was drawn up to reveal sheer skirts of lilac silk beneath.
While the Professor was quickly drawn into a knot of learned gentlemen, the assembly seemed content to levy their naked curiosity without engaging directly with the strange trio. But Mrs. Branson-Honeycutt was an old hand, both in securing the most noteworthy guests for her soirees, and in ensuring that all felt welcome in the space. Gossips would find themselves without future invitations, and cliques were broken with a subtlety that would have shamed her Majesty’s finest diplomats. Flaunting her triumph at securing what would certainly be the most discussed guest list of the autumn, she glided towards the group and began to escort them about the room, making introductions as necessary.
A flash of Clara’s expression of delightful mischief was all it took to set the Captain Duke’s heart racing. Seeing his opportunity, he positioned himself at the elbow of Mrs. Branson-Honeycutt while the pilots were busy conversing.
“Madame, you are aware, I hope, of my extreme gratitude for your benevolence, inviting me as you do to these legendary evenings.”
“Master Olivier, it is ever our pleasure to have such a prolific traveller in our midst. The rosewood cigar box you sent in the spring was simply exquisite. And I’ve told you, it’s Dottie to my friends.”
“A mere token, Dottie. For I do believe I will find myself even greater in your debt.”
“Oh?” replied the matron, her interest piqued. “Do tell.”
“I must admit to an infatuation.”
“Olivier! You never allow me to meddle in your romances—or lack thereof. Tell me what has brought on this change of heart and how I may encourage it?”
“The young lady there, in the violet. I must know her name, or I shall spend the rest of my days a besotted fool.”
He was trusting in her nature as a true romantic, but with one shrewd glance, he was reminded that Mrs. Branson-Honeycutt was no easy mark.
“Your prose is purple, but your heart, I think, is true,” she said, before grabbing him by the elbow and steering him into the circle. “Her ladyship is the only daughter of the late Baron Whittington, a fine family, well-connected. Not a hereditary title, of course, but all the same she is said to have a generous allowance…”
A young man had made the error of attempting to impress Clara with his paltry knowledge of global relations. She was in the act of dismantling his credibility with masterful incisiveness.
“By way of Denmark, you say? I believe the cattle in that region were of Dutch origin.”
He sputtered, “Ah, well, one and the same, to be sure. They must be from Holstein.”
“Hardly, I should think. Particularly after Schleswig.”
Mrs. Branson-Honeycutt chose that moment to rescue the fumbling fool.
“Lady Whittington! Did I hear correctly that you are recently returned from France? Our Master Olivier is an unrepentant explorer himself, ever leaving our quaint company for far-flung adventures.”
Face to face, it was hard to hold the dispassionate expression he usually adopted on such occasions. Particularly when confronted by the coquettish look in her eyes.
“Master Olivier, what is your opinion on the state of diplomacy with the continent?”
The Captain Duke smiled, “I find it best to adhere to the experts in these matters. Too often I find that our brightest applicants to the diplomatic trade are turned off by the promise of a penniless existence in the least favoured missions. It is of the utmost importance in our current day that these appointments be based on merit over aristocratic heritage.”
“Grenville-Murray makes a compelling argument for the modernization of the diplomatic service, does he not?”
“I recently obtained a copy of The Press and the Public Service from a cherished friend, and I must admit I am absolutely riveted by its contents.”
The other man gave a fretful laugh, “The reporter? The Roving Englishman? Hardly an authority I would think.”
“Oh, you’ve read him?” asked Marie with an expression of innocence.
“I—no, I have never found myself afflicted with bookishness. I speak of the world as I see it.”
“Ah. That explains it,” she said, turning her attention back to Nessa.
Unsure of whether an insult had been made at his expense, he soon found reason to seek refreshment on the other side of the room. Mrs. Branson-Honeycutt had a twinkle in her eye as she left the Captain Duke in the company of Clara, Nessa and Marie.
“Splendid turnout, is it not?” asked Captain Buchanan.
“Marie, Marie, you’ll never make friends if you provoke them so,” said Nessa with a smile.
“We did not come to make friends; we came for information.”
“She speaks truth,” said Clara. “Shall we mingle?”
“That was the plan,” he smiled. “Speaking of which, what have you done with Cat?”
The Captain Duke looked about the room, but could see no sign of the girl. Then, a young man appeared at his elbow with a serving tray of sparkling wines. Apparently the waitron was too unstable to trust with fine glassware. It took a second look and a tell-tale giggle on Clara’s part before he recognized her under the slicked-back hair and suit. A false mustache graced her upper lip, and her recent growth spurt had sharpened her cheekbones, lending credence to the illusion.
“At your service, Captain!”
They all accepted a glass and toasted to the success of their mission of discovery before dispersing throughout the room, keeping a watchful eye on the guests and notables.
The Captain Duke found reason to stay by Clara’s side. Her knowledge of social graces was exemplary, and she spoke with an ease that made him ever aware of the difference in their stations. But her subtle flirtations were met and matched by his own familiarity with courtly graces, and he relished the opportunity to lavish his attention on such a deserving subject. The brush of her skirts, the rose bloom on her cheeks, the sparkle in her eye as she looked up at him. They were soon the talk of the room. He had begun to feel a sense of destiny, that although he had assumed his natural identity as Olivier for strategic purpose, it may come to pass that his dual life could be the means by which he and Clara could be together.
His optimism grew as the evening passed, the hours counted by uncorked bottles. But the Captain did notice when, as the hour grew late, Professor Sewell slipped away from the room in the company of a silver-haired gentleman of military bearing. His curiosity piqued, he excused himself from their group with a significant look to Clara, and followed them into the hall.
The two were deep in conversation as they walked, crossing into a second passage that led to an antechamber. It was not until the Professor began to reach for a light fixture that the man turned and caught sight of the Captain.
“You there! What are you doing here?”
“Oh, beg pardon, I thought you were headed to the gentleman’s lounge. Is this not the way?”
“It is not.”
“Oh. My apologies!”
He made as if to leave, and caught the two sharing a look. Turning back, he cocked his head as though he had only just noticed the woman in their midst.
“Say, aren’t you the Professor Sewell I have heard such high praise about?”
“Yes, that would be me.”
“Professor, I must thank you!” he said, crossing the space to clasp her hands. “I heard of your work tonight with an acquaintance of mine. A talented musician, one of Britain’s finest!”
“Oh, M
aster Kilarney!” the Professor said, warming to his company. “Yes, our work with him is seeing great progress. The prototype is functioning quite well – he played for us just this week. I shall tell him of your interest in his recovery, Mr.—?”
“Olivier. Thank you. That is the most excellent news. And you are?” he asked, turning to the frowning man who glowered at their familiarity.
“Oh, this is Admiral Flint. Forgive his moodiness, it’s only his nature.”
The admiral narrowed his eyes, but pasted a smile on his lips and extended a hand to the Captain Duke.
“Thank you for your interest. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Professor Sewell and I have business to attend to.”
“Ah, of course,” he said with a bawdy wink. “Pleasure to meet you both.”
With no other choice, he noted the location of the passage and returned to the party. Resuming his position at Clara’s side, he waited for a quiet moment to share his discovery. But just as they finished conversing with a long-winded author about his latest work on the nature of humankind in the aeronautical era, a hush fell as an impressively mustachioed man escorted a golden-haired and visibly pregnant woman into the room and the guests dipped into a mixture of bows and curtsies. The royals had arrived.
Chapter 18: In which our heroine makes an indecent proposal
The salon was well attended, and populated with all manner of notable personages. The erudite and the industrialist alike waxed poetic over the delicate treats carted around by a mechanical waitron. Artist and inventor conspired to dream up the most delightfully impossible things. Clara was heartened to see such collaboration among the finest minds of the nation. It was a far more exciting affair than she had anticipated, and she found herself swept up in the enchantment of the ideas that flowed as freely as the wine.
Their arrival had caused a stir, but it was the Captain Duke’s reaction that pleased her most. He stared at her with mischief in his eyes, contriving a formal introduction and attending to her as any suitor would. He was dressed in a finely cut suit with his hair pulled back in a low plait that made her long to see it tumbling and loose again. But here, in this space of enforced propriety, she had license to pursue him as she wished.
