Brass Carriages and Glass Hearts
Page 2
She paused in her tirade and looked at her hand, which was smeared red. She frowned. “Tomato?” No. Once she forced herself to take a breath, she felt the pain in her palm and along the side of her hand where she’d pounded on Bryce Randolph’s carriage window. She wanted to refuse Reed’s offer, but the blood steadily dripped, so she snatched the cloth from his fingers and wrapped her hand with it.
Something caught on the fabric, and she sucked in a breath as another sharp pain pierced her hand. Unwinding the cloth, she saw a shard of glass imbedded in her skin. She pulled it out with shaking fingers, her energy wearing down to numb shock as the carriage rolled along the streets.
She sniffed in satisfaction. “I did break the glass.”
She didn’t look at the detective but imagined she could hear his teeth grinding. The sound of a ringing bell came from the bag she still had slung across her body, but when she reached for the opening, the detective lunged forward.
“What are you doing?”
“My telescriber,” she enunciated as though he were a child. “I am going to see who has sent me a message. Perhaps it is news of the fete from which we bolted.”
He leaned back in his seat but watched her, unsmiling, unsympathetic.
She reached again for her bag and slowly withdrew the handheld messaging device, holding it up dramatically. “May I check for messages?”
He eyed her evenly and eventually looked out the window. She glanced down at the device, intending to skim the message, then put it away for later perusal in private, but one line caught her eye. Her breath stuck in her throat, and she stared.
Her hands shook as she opened the scriber and pushed a button to scroll to the message, which was brief:
Miss O’Shea, pursuant to your recent interview with Signore Giancarlo, the International Shifter Rights Organization is pleased to offer you the position of Spokeswoman. We look forward to further discussion. Signore Giancarlo will arrive in London next week and shall contact you then. Congratulations! Please respond to acknowledge receipt of message . . .
She lifted a trembling hand to her mouth. She had interviewed for the Spokeswoman position, hoping so much to be hired that she’d hardly allowed herself to think about it. Were it not for the night’s events, she’d probably have been sitting at home, staring at the device, willing it to ding.
I did it. I did it! Her eyes filmed over, and she quickly blinked back tears she refused to shed in the presence of That Man. That she was receiving the most glorious news of her life whilst riding in a carriage with Detective-Inspector Reed on her way to a jail cell was a cruel twist of fate, but she refused to allow the moment to be tarnished.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
She looked up at him, searching for signs of mockery. He did not look pleased, or even friendly, but neither did he seem flippant. The tone seemed genuine enough.
“Nothing is wrong.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve received good news.”
The silence stretched between them. He was not about to ask for details, and she was not about to offer them. Her problem, however, was that she was bursting with excitement, fairly bouncing in her seat with it. After a day of despair and worry about the Committee and Bryce Randolph’s nefarious intentions, the message was like receiving first prize. Now that she had even more of a voice, she could bring shifter injustices immediately to the international body as a colleague and peer.
“I interviewed for a position with the ISRO.”
He raised a brow, which always smacked of condescension to her, and she hated it. “And you have been hired for it?”
She nodded and lifted her chin. “Spokeswoman.”
The silence stretched again. He slowly nodded. “Apropos.”
She cleared her throat. “Quite. This means I shall resign as the London chapter president and turn over my duties to Veronica Stein. She will be much less . . . troublesome for you, I imagine.”
He didn’t agree or disagree. His expression turned speculative, and it raised her hackles.
“What?” she demanded.
“You’ve amassed your share of enemies. You should take precautions; I imagine the list will grow.”
“You—chief among them.”
He sighed and rubbed a hand along his head. “I am not your enemy, Miss O’Shea.”
She disagreed, but for the sake of her improved mood, she said nothing.
“At any rate, congratulations.” He didn’t smile but nodded once and then looked out the window again. “With any luck, this will be the last time I arrest you.”
A million snappy replies sprang to her lips, but she held them back, with effort. She looked down again at the message and smiled. Her life was about to change; she felt it to her core.
Ten months later
Emme stood in the breakfast room of her family’s lovely London townhome in Charrington Square and stared at two pieces of mail. Both letters referenced the upcoming multinational event—the “Summit for Shifter Relations and Rights”—in Edinburgh, Scotland, and both messages had caused her heart to pound, but for vastly different reasons. The energy she could feel emanating from them was a frenetic mix of positive and negative, and it caught her by surprise. She’d not felt the intense waves unsolicited for a very long time, and rarely from inanimate objects. She mentally titled the two messages “Good Letter” and “Bad Letter.”
“Emme?” Her mother, Hester, glanced over her shoulder as she dished up a plate from the side buffet. “Will you please come to the shop today? Summit week looms large on the horizon, and if you persist in avoiding fittings, the dresses will not be ready in time.”
The letters trembled in Emme’s hand, and she clasped the papers tightly to still them. She swallowed, and when spots appeared before her eyes, she realized she was holding her breath. “I . . . of course. I’ve a meeting with Isla and shall stop by the boutique before my luncheon with Signore Giancarlo . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she made a concerted effort to draw in a measured breath and exhale slowly.
Lady O’Shea’s attention snapped to her. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Nothing . . . well, good news!” Emme managed a smile and placed the Good Letter atop the other. “I’ve been awarded the final time segment to speak before the international body votes on the proposed accord at the end of Summit week.”
Mrs. O’Shea’s mouth dropped open. “Emmeline! Dearest, that is wonderful news! Your comments will be the last they hear before they decide whether or not to sign. Your gift for emotional appeal will surely bring about good results.”
Her mother rushed to hug her with one arm, her other hand balancing a plate of eggs and croissants. “I am so proud.” Her eyes filmed over, and Emme felt a surge of warmth. Focused attention from her mother was a rarity.
“Thank you, Mama. I confess, I am relieved. I—”
“And the other letter?” Hester grinned and released Emme’s shoulders as she grabbed the paper from beneath the Good Letter. “Another invitation to an important event? Your schedule has been so full with meetings and dinners lately that I can hardly remember them all!”
“Mama, wait, I’m certain it’s—”
Hester’s eyes scanned the Bad Letter, and they widened as she gasped a horrified breath. Her plate hit the ground and bounced, scattering food across the thick Persian rug. She put her hand to her midsection and swayed.
“Mama!” Emme grabbed Hester, whose face was dangerously pale. “I will get to the root of this. I’ll . . . I’ll have Isla help me find the sender. Please do not fret—”
“Do not . . . do not fret? Emmeline, you cannot go to the Summit meeting, not now. Not after this!” Hester held the letter up and shook it.
“No, Mama, do you not see? The sender is a coward, someone who thinks to scare me away from the most monumental event in history concerning shifter rights!”
Emme opened her mouth to snap back but paused and inhaled, trying to control her racing heart. “Mama. I am the spokeswoman for the International Shifter Rights Organization. I have clawed my way past every barrier my enemies have set before me, and I will not be bullied.”
Hester looked at Emme, eyes flashing, and called out, “Barnesworth! Have the Horseless Traveler brought ’round front. Emmeline and I are going out.”
Movement at the door caught Emme’s eye, and she noted her stepsister, Lysette, entering the drawing room with her usual pause for dramatic effect. Lysette was Emme’s junior by three years but stood several inches taller than Emme’s own five feet and two inches. Her stepsister’s hair was blonde perfection, every curl in place, and she wore a lovely pale-pink ensemble that included a satin corset trimmed in silver ribbon.
“Why, Mother, what has happened?” Lysette’s large blue eyes flicked from Emme to Hester, and Emme’s nostrils flared of their own volition.
“Nothing.” Emme turned to her mother and lowered her voice. “I shall see to it. Please, leave it be for now.”
Lysette floated to Hester’s side and placed a hand on her arm. “What could possibly be causing such an uproar?”
Emme snatched the paper from her mother’s hand. “My personal correspondence. Please do not concern yourself with it.”
Ignoring Lysette, Hester grasped Emme’s arm, shoved her toward the door, and out into the hall with surprising strength.
“Mama—”
“Not a word,” Hester enunciated through tight lips. “Barnesworth!”
The butler automaton, humanlike in appearance and movement, appeared from the cloak room with their wraps. “My lady. The Traveler is nearly ready.”
“Mama,” Emme tried again as Barnesworth helped her mother and then her into her wrap. “I want you to think for a moment. You are rushing to judgment—”
“A fine thing for you to say, young lady—you who rush into absolutely everything!”
Emme frowned as Hester nudged her out the front door and down the short walk to the street. “Not two minutes ago you were praising me!” She knew she should have enjoyed the moment while it lasted.
Hester Castle O’Shea had built a small empire with her sister, Bella Castle Cooper, and Castles’ Boutique was one of London’s premier clothiers. She’d done so with determination and focus, traits now directed full blast at Emme.
“Mother, where are we going?” Emme took the ’ton driver’s hand and climbed into the vehicle, scooting over when her mother charged in behind her.
Hester smacked the switch that alerted the driver to proceed and then looked at Emme, her lips tight. “To the Yard.”
“Wh . . . where? Why?” Emme’s heart thumped. “That is the last place I want to go!”
Hester glared at her. “Is Detective-Inspector Reed looking for you again?”
“He is always looking for me. Mama, that man thinks I am responsible for every crime in London.”
“Nonsense. Though you cannot deny your past acts of mischief have not painted you in an innocent light.” Hester flipped the Talk switch and shouted to the driver, “Go faster!”
Emme briefly closed her eyes. She gripped her mother’s hand and looked into her tense face. “I am fine. I shall be safe. I can protect myself; do you not remember who my cousin is?” She smiled and squeezed her mother’s fingers. “Isla has taught me how to fight like an East End pugilist.”
Hester’s scowl deepened. “I told Bella we left you children alone too much. I just . . . It was necessary to build the business when we were both widowed, and we hoped we were doing the right and proper thing to support you all.”
“Come now, don’t be silly. We all survived childhood and are none the worse for wear.”
To define Emme’s upbringing as “unconventional” would be apt. Her mother and aunt had poured every moment and shilling into creating the shop, and although nannies had come and gone, Emme’s cousin, Isla, had been the one to truly take the reins and care for both Emme and Isla’s young sister, Melody. Their good friend, Hazel Hughes, now Mrs. MacInnes, had rounded out the small group, and they had experienced much more freedom than many other young ladies did.
Her mother sighed and sat back in the cushioned seat as the Traveler wound its way into the heart of London. She retained her hold of Emme’s hand and looked out the window, though Emme could clearly feel her mother’s sense of guilt. Emme felt a familiar pang of resentment that not only had her mother been largely absent for years building the business, but then she’d married an odious, oafish man with multiple daughters, changing their family forever. Even so, she did not like to see Hester’s sadness.
Emme was a young woman of twenty-three who had pushed her way into circumstances and pursuits that a more attentive mother might have curtailed. Bittersweet though it was, her mother’s inattention had provided benefits that far outweighed any negative consequence.
Of all the times for Hester to tighten the parental reins. Once they were actually at the Yard, Emme would have to diffuse her mother’s panic, downplay the emergency, perhaps slip the threatening letter away from her mother and conveniently lose it. She wasn’t stupid, however. The letter was a clear and graphic threat on her life, making sinister reference to the Ripper’s handiwork and describing in detail exactly where Emme’s bedroom was and what it looked like.
But Emmeline Castle O’Shea had been fighting her own battles for a long time; she was not in unfamiliar territory. She would simply make time for daily practice with the ray gun.
A neatly folded copy of the morning’s largest newspaper sat in the door compartment, and she opened it, hoping to find something that would distract Hester. Regrettably, the headline was not one inclined to aid Emme’s cause.
Three Bodies Discovered in Edinburgh Alleyway Indicate Deliberate Attack
She scanned the article, but before she could refold the paper and set it aside, Hester grabbed it. Her lips thinned, small lines forming around her mouth, and Emme braced for another blast.
“That makes twelve murders over the last three Full Moon Phases, Emmeline, and all bear signs of a predatory shifter attack!” Hester glared at Emme as though she were the responsible party.
“Mama, they cannot possibly say for certain.”
Hester rattled the paper in Emme’s direction and read, “‘Most certainly the work of human shifters, given clues left at the scene and autopsy findings.’”
Emme winced. The recent attacks on innocents over the last few months seemed to be the result of increased mayhem propagated by both predatory shifters and vampires. Emme thought it was all too coincidental and said as much. “Mother, do you not find it odd that we are witnessing an uptick in attacks just before the Summit meetings? It flies in the face of logic to assume a human shifter would oppose friendlier legislation. Why, if he were a murdering fiend, a broader acceptance of his kind might increase his opportunities.”
“I know you are an advocate for the innocent, Emmeline, but perhaps we are putting ourselves in danger by—”
“Oh, Mother, not you too! We cannot deny people their rights simply because there may be a few bad members of their group who abuse them. We may as well lock ourselves up, then. Heaven knows there are plenty of bad humans—humans who do not Shift into animals but simply harbor an evil we might all potentially possess.”
Hester’s eyes were glossy with tears, and Emme realized she’d unleashed the whole of her emotion into the carriage with her appeal. The air felt thick with it, and Emme had no desire to make her mother cry. She gently took Hester’s hand into her own. “We mustn’t be ruled by fear. Much of this is hysteria concocted by the few who wish to control the many.”
“Emmeline.”
&n
bsp; “Mama?”
“Do not attempt to control my emotions when I am simply looking after your safety.”
“I wasn’t trying to control anything, I—”
The Traveler lurched to a stop by the tall building alongside the Thames, and before Emme could draw a decent breath, Hester yanked her from the vehicle and marched her up the wide steps and inside the building.
“We require an immediate audience with Chief-Inspector Conley,” Hester told the young officer at a desk.
The constable looked at her in surprise. He was young, and his uniform looked new and crisp. The name on his badge read “Brinley.”
You poor, poor boy, Emme wanted to say.
“I regret the Chief-Inspector is occupied at the moment.” Brinley’s open face showed regret. “May I take your name, madam? Perhaps later—”
“We will see him now. Either you interrupt him, or I shall.”
“But . . . but, madam—”
“You may tell him Lady Ronald O’Shea requires an immediate audience. He will recognize my name, as Castles’ recently donated a generous sum of money to the Metropolitan Police’s uniform fund.”
Emme closed her eyes and quietly exhaled. “Mother.”
“Emmeline.”
Emme smiled tightly at the young man. “We shall schedule an appointment for next week.” That might buy her enough time to insure her mother forgot the matter entirely.
It was not to be. “We shall meet with the Chief-Inspector now.”
Brinley cleared his throat, his cheeks red, and hurried to the door behind his desk. He knocked quietly, keeping one eye on Emme’s mother. A muffled command came from within, and he opened the door and murmured something inside.
Almost immediately, two gentlemen in suits left the Chief-Inspector’s office looking befuddled, followed by a taller man impeccably dressed in dark attire that matched his black hair and dark eyes.