Brass Carriages and Glass Hearts

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  Other Proper Romances

  by Nancy Campbell Allen

  My Fair Gentleman

  Beauty and the Clockwork Beast

  The Secret of the India Orchid

  Kiss of the Spindle

  The Lady in the Coppergate Tower

  © 2020 Nancy Campbell Allen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, ­Shadow ­Mountain®, at ­permissions@shadowmountain.com. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of ­Shadow ­Mountain.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Proper Romance is a registered trademark.

  Visit us at ShadowMountain.com

  Library of Congress ­Cataloging-­in-­Publication ­Data

  Names: Allen, Nancy Campbell, 1969– author.

  Title: Brass carriages and glass hearts / Nancy Campbell Allen.

  Other titles: Proper romance.

  Description: Salt Lake City : Shadow Mountain, [2020] | Series: Proper romance | Summary: “Detective-Inspector Oliver Reed is assigned to guard social activist Emme O’Shea on her trip to Scotland where she will speak at an important summit on shifter rights, but getting her there safely will be a challenge—especially when the two of them realize they might be falling in love with each other”—Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020002212 | ISBN 9781629727370 (trade paperback) | eISBN 978-1-62973-890-1 (eBook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Man-woman relationships—Fiction. | Shapeshifting—Fiction. | Political activists—Fiction. | Cinderella (Tale)—Adaptations. | Scotland, setting. | LCGFT: Vampire fiction. | Romance fiction. | Steampunk fiction. | Detective and mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3551.L39644 B73 2020 | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020002212

  Printed in the United States of America

  LSC Communications, Crawfordsville, IN

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover photo by Butch Adams Photography; © photomaster/Shutterstock.com; © Westend61/Getty Images

  Book design: © Shadow Mountain

  Art direction: Richard Erickson

  Design: Heather G. Ward

  To my cousin Roy,

  who has the most loving and pure heart I know

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Acknowledgments

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Emmeline Castle O’Shea stood at a podium on the balcony of the Municipal Hall for Citizen Affairs and looked out with satisfaction at the murmuring crowd, feeling the energy build in the large room as she finished speaking.

  “We worked tirelessly for the repeal of the Predatory Shifter Extermination Act, which was not only unethical and cruel but grossly illegal, yet factions within the Predatory Shifter Regulations Committee are meeting tonight with plans to see it slyly reinstated!”

  The crowd, which had begun as a midsize gathering of Shifter Rights advocates, had grown in numbers as curious passersby peeked in to see what sort of ruckus they were missing. And ruckus it would inevitably become. Such was the nature of the business.

  Emme was not an advocate of rioting, not usually, but when social justice was slow to evolve, certain consequences naturally followed. As president of the London chapter of the Shifter Rights Organization, she was firm in her admonition that violence was permitted only in cases of self-defense and that destruction of property not belonging to members of the hated Committee was neither advocated nor condoned.

  Those parameters left plenty of room for movement and interpretation, of course, and Emme was aware that each successive gathering and protest had the potential to turn ugly. Her people were professional and knew their rights and responsibilities, but she couldn’t be responsible for the unruly fringe elements that often joined whenever the SRO mounted a protest. Some people rioted for the sake of rioting.

  People streamed in through the side doors and the back of the large hall, and a sense of foreboding snaked up her spine. The constabulary were already gathering, and she knew that a certain member of the Yard would not be far behind.

  Tonight’s cause, however, could not be ignored.

  Months ago, she’d demanded the repeal of the Extermi­nation Act—the sanctioned murder of law-abiding citizens who happened to shape-shift into predatory animals three days each month—which had drawn the attention of the International Shifter Rights Organization. With the international body’s support, and through a few influential members of Parliament, the London chapter had brought about legislation that should have seen a permanent end to the barbaric practice.

  So when Emme had received word that the PSRC intended to resurrect the horrifying Act, her blood had boiled and she’d nearly cried with anger.

  “We must not allow this travesty to again rear its hideous head!” Her voice carried over the crowd, and the familiar sensation of exuding energy flowed from her as her frustration built. “The Committee finishes their clandestine meeting in ten minutes across the square, and we will greet them with voices raised in unity! The rights of the marginalized among us will be upheld!”

  A loud cheer swelled through the room, building in intensity as several of her fellow SRO members whistled and called for the crowd to follow them outside. Emme wiped a trickle of sweat from her temple and impatiently removed her stylish, brown top hat. It was a new Castles’ Boutique creation, and her mother had added it to Emme’s burgeoning accessory collection.

  “Emme!” Veronica, the London SRO’s vice president, beckoned from the far end of the balcony. “There are hundreds already outside! Come quickly!”

  Emme smiled grimly and tossed the hat on an empty chair. Bigger crowds meant better exposure. The Committee’s attempt at the underhanded maneuver would not be tolerated; it was simply unacceptable! The SRO and its supporters would be heard, make no mistake.

  She slung the long strap of her bag over her shoulder and across her body as she ran down the stairs, navigating her way through the crowd. People moved aside or patted her on the back or shouted words of encouragement. She wore breeches, boots, and a matching blouse and outer corset that her mother had demanded she treat carefully as the material was the boutique’s newest addition from the Orient. Hester Castle O’Shea insisted that Emme be impeccably dressed, even when wearing trousers, but her fussing efforts were lost on her daughter. Emme was rarely still, and she ruined her clothing more often than not.

  The evening air was cool, and night was quickly descending on the square where the Predatory Shifter Regulations Committee had concluded their “clandestine” meeting. People spilled out of the hall and crossed the short distance to a row of government buildings.

  Veronica found her and grabbed her hand, pulling her forward
at a run. “I worry we’ll not be able to control this one,” Veronica shouted. “I’ve spied at least two ne’er-do-well gangs spoiling for a fight.”

  Emme winced as the crowd’s energy pushed at her from all sides. She forced herself to block it out. She couldn’t afford to be overwhelmed by it now.

  “Law enforcement are already watching,” she shouted back to Veronica. “Let us hope they’ll manage them.” And leave us alone. Emme finished her thought as she pictured one very angry detective-inspector who always, always, was on hand to interfere with her duties as London SRO president. Oliver Reed was the bane of her existence, and she ran faster toward the wagon situated across the street from the committee buildings. She must hurry if she wanted to make herself seen or heard outside before he arrived.

  She clambered up on the empty wagon bed, pulling Veronica along with her. They were joined by three other SRO members, who flanked Emme on all sides. She waved her arms at the crowd.

  “Steady!” she shouted. “We do not accost individuals!”

  She looked over the crowd as night continued to close in and gas lamps flickered to light. The sheer size of the gathering would make the morning headlines, and she hoped their efforts would be rewarded with success. Then she spied several buckets of rotten vegetables and mentally apologized to her mother for the inevitable ruination of her custom material.

  Constables emerged through the crowd and began erecting a temporary barricade to keep the crowd under control. Emme watched their efforts with skepticism but knew that many of them identified with the population gathered and thus were unlikely to be hurt or accosted. If they hadn’t been present for official duty, they might well have been part of the protesting crowd.

  The crowd suddenly roared and booed, and she whipped her attention to the building entrance. Bryce Randolph, the Committee chairman, was only just visible as members of his security detail guided him quickly to one of two carriages that had pulled alongside the curb.

  Other Committee members emerged, and the crowd roared. Emme flinched involuntarily as refuse began to fly, winging across the square and thunking against the carriages, the street, and the buildings.

  “Not part of our plan!” Veronica yelled as they ducked down.

  She was right—it hadn’t been part of their plan this time. The fact that they’d done it before, at carefully chosen venues and functions, seemed to lend permission for people to hurl garbage each time they protested anywhere.

  “If we are separated,” Emme shouted to the others in the wagon, “meet back at the offices.”

  “Suppose we are arrested again?” one of the others yelled.

  Emme laughed breathlessly, dodging to avoid a rotten tomato that flew past her head to splatter on one of the carriages. “Sit comfortably while I secure bail money,” she shouted back. “Never fear, we’ve endured worse!”

  The wagon tipped, nudged forward by the encroaching crowd. “Jump down,” Emme ordered the others. “Try to get clear of the mess!”

  She looked over her shoulder at the constables, who barely kept the protesters back. In the distance, a familiar figure caught her eye, running at a full sprint into the mayhem.

  No! Detective-Inspector Reed would not haul her away this time.

  She made certain the others had jumped down from the wagon before climbing to the edge, looking for a spot to slip down and away into the crowd.

  The wagon lurched as the crowd surged again, and Emme knew a moment of fear for the people close by who were in danger of being crushed. She shouted to them to clear the way, and as the contraption was roughly jolted again, she lost her balance and fell to the ground.

  She scrambled up, dusting her stinging palms, and looked around desperately. She was petite, and being so small in such a large crowd was an extreme disadvantage. Dodging elbows, shouts, shoves, and one soggy, flying cabbage, she edged toward the carriages.

  Bryce Randolph had climbed inside, followed by his security and two other Committee members. He made eye contact with her, and smiled.

  She saw red and heard roaring in her ears that had nothing to do with the crowd. Her rage grew until she thought she might choke on it.

  Climbing up on the carriage’s running board, she slapped her palm flat against the window. “You will not do this, do you hear me? I will never rest! I will see you finished, Randolph!” She continued pounding on the window, gratified when the glass cracked and his smirk slipped. “This is not over! The International Organization has been notified, and I will see you finished!”

  Food and foul-smelling refuse flew about her on all sides, and she appreciated the effort people seemed to be making to avoid hitting her with it. The crowd cheered her on, but just as she drew back her fist again, hoping to smash the window entirely and truly make an impression on the vile people inside, an arm clamped around her waist from behind and hauled her away.

  “Miss O’Shea!”

  “No!” she shrieked as she struggled against his hold. “Let me go, Detective!” She clutched at the carriage, grasping and missing as his other arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her against his chest, which she knew from experience was unyielding as an oak tree. “You have no idea what that cretin is attempting!”

  “I have every idea,” his low voice growled in her ear, “and you are not helping your cause! Cease immediately!”

  “No!” Her anger spilled over as she struggled against his arms, and she finally opened her mouth wide to sink her teeth in.

  “Do not even think about it!” He jerked his arm away as he dragged her along.

  “Unhand me!”

  “Miss O’Shea, you are under arrest—blast, do not bite me!”

  With dizzying speed, he spun her around and hauled her up and over his shoulder, clamping one arm behind her thighs like a sack of potatoes, a move that had served him well multiple times in the past. He gripped her right wrist in his other hand, bending her arm at an impossible angle. When she tried to straighten up or wriggle free, he simply pulled on her arm. He had her trapped, and she knew it.

  She pounded ineffectually on his back with her free fist and cursed herself for neglecting to have her cousin, Isla, teach her defensive maneuvers against such a predicament. Her nose bounced uncomfortably into his back as he shoved through the crowd. The mayhem escalated to a fever pitch. She turned her head to protect her smarting nose, and her breath was expelled in grunts as he began to jog.

  “Put . . . me . . . down . . .” she managed.

  “Emmeline O’Shea, you are hereby under arrest for instigating a riot and assault on government property,” he ground out as he continued dodging and twisting through the crowd.

  “I am about . . . to lose . . . my dinner,” she shouted in spurts.

  “Lose your dinner!” he shouted back. “I have another suit of clothing in my office!”

  “You live in your cursed office . . . I wager!” She grunted. “No decent neighborhood . . . would . . . have you!”

  He shouted something in return, but his words were lost as the crowd shifted, jostling them violently from the side and nearly sending them sprawling. He barked an order to a constable, and Emme saw a blue blur in her periphery before Reed turned a corner and slowed marginally.

  He whistled through his teeth, and Emme heard the hiss of steam and crank of gears signaling the arrival of one of the Yard’s horseless brass carriages. The brightly polished brass body with its black ornamental fixtures set the vehicles apart from others and were easily recognizable as police conveyances.

  Reed slowed and finally bent down, shifting her from his shoulder. Before she could secure her footing, however, he tossed her into the carriage with what sounded suspiciously like a curse. She landed on the worn, black upholstered seat with an inelegant thump, and the little air she’d managed to suck into her lungs was expelled in an equally inelegant grunt.

  She breath
ed heavily and put a hand to her midsection, truly wondering if she were about to cast up her accounts. She leaned forward and looked out the open door, considering her odds of successfully slipping past Reed and escaping down an alley before he could catch her.

  His hand clamped on the door, and she sat up straight.

  “—follow with anyone else accosting either government property or individuals,” he directed his officers. “I shall be at the cells.”

  The detective gave orders to the driver and climbed inside, sitting across from her and slamming the door so hard the glass rattled.

  Emme clenched her jaw shut to keep from screaming, but her breathing was still too labored to comfortably manage through her nose. It was just as well, because she had plenty to say. “Detective, you have no idea—”

  “Stop!” He held up a hand and froze her with a look. “Not. A. Word.”

  Emme’s mouth dropped open. “You cannot keep me from speaking.”

  “I can, and I shall. Unruly prisoners are often gagged.”

  She froze him with a look of her own before turning her eyes to the world outside. The crowd’s noise faded as they drove away, and soon the only sounds were the mechanics of the carriage. Her anger had gone from a bubbling inferno to a slow burn. “You have no idea what that man is trying to do.”

  “I know that man a sight better than you do, so do not lecture me. Furthermore, regardless of what he is trying to do, you cannot accost him in his carriage or do damage to government property. I should think you would know that by now!” His shout echoed through the vehicle. “How were you even privy to details about a clandestine government meeting?”

  “I have a confidential informant.”

  He gaped. “You have a confidential informant? On the inside?”

  She lifted her chin, defensive. “You do! You have an entire network of informants all over the city.”

  “Lady, I am a detective!”

  “You have no heart! You are . . . you are heartless, Detective. You are a heartless detective with no concept of the suffering—”

  She gestured angrily, and his gaze narrowed on her hand. His nostrils flared as he reached into his pocket. He withdrew a handkerchief and thrust it at her. “Your hand is bleeding.”