Hot and Steamy

by Jean Rabe

  I opened my mouth to deny, but changed my words when I saw his expression. Nothing but the truth would suffice. “To see to it that you are protected and given ample opportunity to develop your ideas and inventions without any harm coming to your person. To act as your secretary, and aid in the management of your household.”

  “The queen’s not sent you here to try to get me to return to London?” he demanded.

  “No,” I said.

  “Last time I attended her she tried to marry me off to one of her dumpy old ladies-in-waiting.” Ashington shuddered in mock horror. “Heaven protect me.”

  I had to suppress a smile at that one.

  Ashington caught it and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied look. “Very well,” he nodded, accepting the situation. “But I want it clearly understood that this arrangement is on a trial basis, Miss Haversham. Shall we say three months?”

  “With free rein, my lord?”

  “Over the house and grounds, certainly. But the laboratory and the work we do here is under my direct control, is that understood?”

  “Perfectly,” I responded.

  “Further,” he said. “I will review any reports that you send to your superiors, before you send them. I will have your oath, Miss Haversham.”

  That caught me by surprise. I could hardly blame the man but . . . “My oath?” I stalled a bit.

  “Yes,” he leaned forward. “Your oath, or nothing.”

  I weighed the options before me and decided there’d be no harm. I’d not been instructed to keep anything secret, and his cooperation would make my task that much easier. “Very well, m’lord.”

  “Excellent,” he leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I’m afraid you’ll find I am not much of a paperwork person. I’ll leave that in your capable hands.”

  I eyed the desk with a sigh and nodded. “As you wish, m’lord. More tea?”

  That night I claimed a room in the servants’ quarters, between the cook and the kitchen maids. It was a small, tidy room, with little else to say about it. But comfort was not my concern. An irreproachable reputation was.

  The next day was a productive one.

  An hour with the household accounts, and Jervis was sacked and in the hands of the local constabulary.

  Another half hour in the kitchens, with a short presentation to the cook and household staff, produced a flurry of activity. There is something magical about the phrase “discharged without a recommendation” that captures everyone’s attention very, very quickly.

  It took two hours to pry the head groundskeeper out of his hiding place, sober him up with generous amounts of tea and sympathy, and offer reassurances that there’d be no further mechanical assistance with his duties. I assured him that I would hire some strong lads that would aid him in restoring the grounds. The fact that they had all previously served in Her Majesty’s Service was a matter that I kept to myself.

  That took care of the morning hours. After a delicious lunch with strong, hot tea, I turned my attention to the greatest of challenges.

  His lordship’s desk.

  A few hours later, I sat back and sighed with satisfaction. In all honesty, it had not been as bad as it had looked at first glance. While his lordship was not the neatest of men, it appeared that his books were all in order, and the accounts of the various tenant farmers were accurate and up-to-date. Further, the bills for the laboratory supplies and sundry were current.

  But his social correspondence was quite unacceptable. I shook my head over the small pile of invitations that I had organized on the corner of the desk. It appeared that he hadn’t responded to a single one for months, and some of them were quite prestigious. Some of the letters were both purely social, but others were from other scientists and inventors from across the country and Europe. Really quite shameful.

  I rang for tea, and then made myself comfortable on the settee to think for a moment.

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. And if that wasn’t well established in the mind of Lord Ashington, it was in the mind of his godmother, the queen.

  I had not lied to his Lordship, nor had I been entirely truthful. My orders were to see to his comfort and well-being, certainly. But that included—

  The door to the office opened with a bang, and Lord Ashington walked in, his face smudged with soot and his curls in disarray. “I rather think I can save that knee joint.” He threw himself into the settee opposite me. “But I will need to order some new gears for the reasoning machine. Seems there are a few bullet holes in the old one.”

  “Really, m’lord?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “Odd, that, since I don’t allow firearms in the lab,” Ashington mocked me by raising his eyebrow. “Do you have any idea how—”

  One of the kitchenmaids appeared in the doorway with a tea cart and a sparkling white apron, freshly pressed by the look of it. She pushed the cart close, curtsied with a giggle, and exited, leaving the door open as was proper.

  “One lump or two?” I asked, reaching to pour.

  Thankfully, Ashington was hungry. He accepted the napkin for his lap and his tea, and settled back into his seat. “You’ve been busy, I see.”

  I poured my own cup. “Yes, m’lord. There are a number of items that need your attention. Some invitations to—”

  Ashington grimaced. “Burn them,” he growled. “Card parties, for God’s—”

  I coughed.

  “Yes, well, I am not going.” Ashington declared. “No card parties, not soirees, no luncheons on the lawn, by all that is holy.”

  “As you wish,” I said mildly. “I shall send notes declining the invitations, for those not yet past.”

  He gave me a careful look over his teacup.

  I offered him the plate of scones, warm from the oven. “One of the notes was from a Dr. Hastings, who will be traveling through London on his way to Edinburgh.”

  “Hastings? Robert Hastings? He is a brilliant chemist.” Ashington frowned. “I’m sorry I missed that one. I wonder if he’s worked out his formula yet?”

  “You might still be able to catch him,” I said. “One of the lads could take a telegram to—”

  “Yes, yes,” Ashington waved his cup in the air, sloshing his tea. “Brilliant, Miss Haversham. Invite him for a few days, and I’ll have him out to the lab.”

  “More tea?” I asked and poured as he explained his new theory. An excellent start to my first day and an answer to my difficulties as well.

  The next few weeks gave me further satisfaction.

  Dr. Hastings’ visit went exceedingly well. I took notes of their discussion over tea, but declined any invitation to dine with them in the evenings. Besides, Mrs. Hastings and their two lovely daughters took delight in dining with Lord Ashington and cooing over him.

  Ashington had given me a look of betrayal as they had disembarked from their carriage, but I ignored him. I’d already extended a dozen invitations to his fellow scientists and inventors, all with daughters of marriageable age. He’d agreed to them willingly enough before the Hastings’ arrival. With any luck, one of those winsome lasses would have him in harness in no time.

  I’d not wasted the rest of the time either. The new butler, Fredricks, was a gem, and had seen service in the Far Indies and Egypt. He’d fit into the household as if he’d always been there and hadn’t blinked an eye at the various explosions coming from the lab.

  After a token protest, Cook had relished the challenge of entertaining the new guests with her culinary arts. The kitchen maids were quite flush from all their efforts and the flirting they’d enjoyed with the new lads I’d hired.

  Best of all, the head groundskeeper had come into his own. He had managed to hide almost all of the ravages to the gardens. I’d enjoyed a number of walks, discussing the plantings with the various new helpers. If we also discussed certain security issues, well, that was all to the good.

  Ashington had a small desk a
dded to his office for my use, and we’d developed the habit of using tea time to deal with the business of the day. It was very comfortable to have him pacing about, expounding on a theory, or some new outrage in the paper as I worked through his correspondence. Of course, the presence of guests meant he had the obligations of a host, but we still managed at least an hour or so each day. I rather enjoyed . . .

  I drew myself up short at that thought, and then drove it completely out of my head. Lord Ashington needed a wife of gentle birth, acceptable to his godmother, and willing and able to take her place next to him in polite society. I’d enjoy what I had and be grateful for it. The moment his betrothal was announced, I’d be on my way to a new assignment.

  But until then . . .

  I fault myself for what happened next. I’d become complacent, at ease even over the last few weeks. It does not pay to let one’s guard down for an instance.

  In my defense, I should point out that Herr Doktor Girdenstein and his chubby wife seemed the last people on this earth to offer a threat. They’d arrived with two carriages filled with luggage and yapping lap dogs. I’d focused on seeing to their comfort, and not the number of muscular, grim drivers, footmen, and servants they’d brought with them.

  On the second day of their visit, Fredricks had gone into town for errands with two of our lads. Ashington and Herr Doktor were in the lab, discussing the various methods of welding, when Frau Doktor Girdenstein came into the office with the terriers, asking for help with some correspondence. I’d been willing, of course, and was perusing her papers when she thrust the muzzle of her firearm up under my jaw.

  She’d no compunction of searching under my skirts for my weapons, removing my pistol and two of my throwing knives. Then she frogmarched me into the lab, those damnable dogs yipping at our heels.

  Lord Ashington looked up from his plans, and his jaw dropped. Herr Doktor used his astonishment to thrust a gun into his ribs.

  “You will order your men to gather,” Girdenstein’s voice was low and calm. “We will see to it that they are secured, and no one will be harmed. We wish only the plans and your notes.”

  Ashington opened his mouth, but the Doktor pressed the muzzle of his firearm harder into his back. “It will not be you who suffers for any disobedience.”

  “There’s no need.” Ashington spread his hands, holding them open in a gesture of surrender. “You have us at your mercy. We will cooperate.”

  The devil we would. She hadn’t found all of my knives. I shifted my weight slightly, eyeing Frau Doktor Girdenstein carefully.

  “Haversham,” Ashington snapped.

  I glared at him for drawing attention to me.

  “Get the plans, if you would. And my notes.” He gestured to the trap door. “Quickly, if you please. I am sure the Herr Doktor and his wife wish to be on their way as soon as possible.”

  Frau Doktor pushed me hard, and I staggered forward. With a snarl, I turned, but she had that damnable pistol in my face.

  “Please,” Ashington said.

  Startled, I looked over. His brown eyes held worry there and concern. Concern for my well-being. A tingle passed through me. I sighed, and started down the steps.

  “Hans and the others are outside,” Frau Doktor told her husband.

  “Excellent,” Herr Doktor rumbled. “They certainly can assist us in—”

  Lord Ashington moved then, leaping forward to push me down into the cellar, jumping in behind me. He jerked at the wooden door and shouted. “Trim the shrubbery!”

  The automatons both lifted their arms, and their eyes glowed as the door slammed down, and Ashington fell on top of me.

  His weight pinned me to the floor and knocked the breath quite out of me. There was a crashing sound as debris fell around us. I couldn’t see a thing, but I could hear the Doktor cursing, the squeals of the lap dogs, and the shrill screams of his wife.

  “I was afraid of that,” Ashington said in my ear. “Damn thing stepped on the door.”

  I gasped, trying to gulp in air.

  “What’s wrong?” Ashington asked. “Are you well enough? I’m too heavy for you.”

  “No,” I couldn’t seem to breathe. “My stays,” I whispered, my vision going even blacker then it already was.

  Ashington cursed. He shifted, and I felt his fingers at my collar. He tore my dress down the front, ripping it and my corset open clear down to my waist. I drew a deep breath, cool, dusty air filling my lungs.

  “Better?” Ashington asked as the debris above us trembled.

  “Yes, but,” I squirmed a bit, trying to adjust. “But your toolbelt is digging into my—”

  Ashington coughed. “That is not my tool belt, Miss Haversham.”

  “Oh,” I froze, suddenly quite distracted from the distant screams.

  “It would be a great help if we both just lie back and think of England.” Ashington said. “Think of our duty to God and country and—”

  “Your godmother is going to have me thrown in the Tower,” I said.

  “That’s quite an effective method of quelling improper thoughts,” Ashington said. “The image of my godmother bearing down on us. Thank you, Miss Haversham, that’s rather taken care of the situation.”

  The floor above us quaked, and dust rained down as the rafters groaned. We were confined in the wreckage and darkness.

  “Sounds like the Germans are having a rough time of it,” Ashington observed. “Serves them right.”

  “It’s my fault,” I said softly. “They should never have managed to—”

  “Who’d have expected Girdenstein of anything other than designs on my pot roast?” Ashington chuckled. “Besides, I am indebted to the man.”

  I blinked in the darkness. “Why on earth would—”

  “Well, you are well and truly compromised, aren’t you?” Ashington sounded very smug, and very satisfied. “There is no hope for it, and I shall do the honorable thing. We will marry immediately.”

  “We shall not.” I said, trying to control the tremble in my voice. “Your position, the queen . . .”

  “Even better,” Ashington replied. “You will both stop throwing women at me.”

  “M’lord?”

  “Ash,” he demanded. “Call me Ash.”

  I drew in a breath of cool damp air. “I—”

  “That last one, Dr. Conrad’s daughter, she had a moustache,” he grumbled into my ear.

  I choked back a laugh. “She did,” I admitted. “But she also is reputed to have a keen understanding of aerodynamics.”

  “Miss Haversham, science can only go so far.”

  I laughed weakly as dust drifted down on us from above. But I knew my duty too well. “Lord Ashing—”

  He kissed me, his warm lips on mine.

  A proper woman would have resisted. I moaned into his mouth, opening to him, wanting more, wanting . . . .

  His hand eased up, cupping my breast under the torn bodice. “Yes indeed, well and truly compromised. The niceties will demand that we marry.”

  “Ash,” I breathed. “I can’t. Your godmother will not be amused.”

  “She will,” Ash assured me. “Once I tell her that we are in love.”

  “We are?” I blinked in the dust and darkness, sure of my feelings. But did he—?

  “Oh yes, my love.” he kissed me again, as thoroughly as I could wish.

  The trap door opened, and light poured in around us as many hands pulled away the debris. Audible gasps could be heard from above. Ash raised his head and gazed into my eyes. “Aren’t we?”

  “Oh yes,” I laughed breathlessly. “I rather think we are.”

  GRASPING AT SHADOWS

  C.J. Henderson

  CJ Henderson is the creator of both the Piers Knight supernatural investigator series and the Teddy London occult detective series. Author of some seventy novels and/or books, including such diverse titles as The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction Movies, Black Sabbath: the Ozzy Osbourne Years, and Baby’s First Mythos, as well as
hundreds of short stories and comics and thousands of nonfiction pieces, this staggering talent is currently celebrating the fact he has now been published in some thirteen languages. For more facts on this truly unusual talent, the man to whom the Dalai Lama once said, “Don’t stand in the doorway, fat boy, you’re blocking the sun,” feel free to head over to www.cjhenderson.com where you can comment on his story in this volume or even read more work if you’re so inclined.

  Beware that you do not lose the substance by grasping at the shadow—AESOP

  “Not much to look at this fine mornin’, is ’e?”

  Filimena Edgars had to agree with the captain. The man snoring on the floor before them was indeed a sorry sight. Of course, sleeping in a heap of straw on the wrong side of a sturdy set of prison bars has never been known to do much for anyone. This individual, however, managed to trump those minor discrediting affectations with an entire roster of others.

  “I should say not,” the young lady agreed, her previous list of reservations about their mission that morning suddenly seeming as inadequate as wine from the Americas or promises made by the French.

  The object of Miss Edgar’s disdain was indeed a sight—his hair long uncut, his body long unbathed. His unshaven face was covered in bruises, his feet were clad in neither shoes nor socks, and what clothing he did possess was stained with such a vast multitude of oils, fluids, and lubricants that their original colors were lost for all time.

  “Wake him.”

  The captain’s order was directed at a guard standing by prepared with a bucket of water. Its relatively quiet splash was followed by a shocking outburst of profanity, coupled with a violent thrashing of the no-longer-sleeping man’s limbs, a display which sent wet straw, an assortment of insects, and a small family of mice flying in all directions.

  “Roust yourself, lad,” barked the sergeant of the guard, “these kind folk has taken enough interest in you to pay your debts, which means you’ll be doing your decomposing somewheres else . . . at least for a while.”