She had to struggle not to squirm under that too-sharp glint in his eyes. It was as if he could see straight into her soul, and for a moment she was certain he’d overheard her conversation with Sir Wesley.
“Really, Fawkes, I think your head’s far too fat for that little cap of yours,” he finally murmured.
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and managed to shoot him a half-hearted glare, but before she could say anything, Sir Wesley appeared around the corner, stopping just short of colliding with them.
“I say!” Sir Wesley exclaimed, eyeing the pair of them in surprise.
Hirst jumped back from Davina, looking vaguely guilty. He cleared his throat. “Have you concluded your family thing, then?”
It seemed the throat clearing was contagious, for Sir Wesley soon followed suit. He glanced at Davina briefly before looking away, looking supremely uncomfortable.
“For the moment,” Sir Wesley said reluctantly.
Hirst wasn’t a fool, and from the slightly suspicious furrow of his brow, he knew something more was going on. He looked between them as if he wanted to push the issue, but seemed to think better of it after a moment.
“Why don’t you show me that contraption of yours, Sir Wesley?” he suggested, moving past Davina and slapping Sir Wesley companionably on the shoulder.
It was as if the past five minutes had not happened, for Sir Wesley’s expression lit up. “Contraption indeed!” he said with mock affront. “It is a charlière, old boy. Premium rubberized silk envelope powered with hydrogen. Took me days to fill it properly.”
“How many cubic feet?”
“Four hundred twenty,” Sir Wesley said proudly. “Quite the largest in history.”
Davina didn’t bother to hide her eye roll, for she knew that Sir Wesley wouldn’t notice. Once he got started on the subject of the damned balloon, he went off hell-for-leather like a horse with blinders.
Hirst noticed, however, and gave her a knowing smirk. “I’m sure you have plenty to occupy yourself, Mr. Fawkes, while your cousin and I inspect his contraption?”
Sir Wesley spluttered. “I say!”
“Certainly, Mr. Hirst,” she replied, glad to be rid of the pair of them so she might fret over Sir Wesley’s arrival in solitude.
As she watched the pair of them walk toward the back garden, Sir Wesley throwing her a worried glance over his shoulder, a knot of dread started to grow in her stomach. She may have averted disaster, but that wasn’t going to last forever. She’d be lucky if her reprieve lasted the next hour, considering Sir Wesley’s complete lack of guile. Between Lady Ambrosia and her brother, Davina had a feeling she wouldn’t be masquerading as her cousin for much longer.
On the bright side, at least she’d no longer have to wear Leon’s stupid boots.
Chapter Twelve
Flight Risk
The knot of dread in Davina’s gut only grew worse as the day wore on. She buried her head in Hirst’s manuscript, but comprehended absolutely nothing as her mind whirled frantically with worry. She soon had to abandon the workshop entirely when Hirst and Sir Wesley began tinkering with the engine, for the less time she spent in her brother’s presence, the better. The only saving grace was the fact that between the charlière and Hirst’s engine, Sir Wesley was too distracted to remember she existed.
By the time she’d managed to escape to her room for the night, she was practically sick with nerves. Her days at Arncliffe Castle were definitely numbered. She had no idea what her next move would be, but she knew her brother was right. She’d already lingered for too long as Leon, and it was beginning to take its toll on her sanity. And it wasn’t even that she hated being Leon—it was that she liked it too much.
Even in the circumscribed milieu of Arncliffe Castle, being a man was a liberating experience. Despite the masquerade of being Leon Fawkes, she was more honest and open with Hirst—with everyone she’d encountered at Arncliffe—than she’d ever been in her life. There were dozens of small freedoms a man took for granted, but she never would.
Even something as fundamental as being friends with a man like Hirst, and enjoying each other’s company without all of the bothersome rules that governed relations between the sexes getting in the way, was a revelation. Hirst would have never talked to her—touched her—if she’d been a woman to him.
And there was no sense in denying it. She was reluctantly captivated by the man. He may have infuriated her on a daily basis, but she was just insane enough to find this one of his most charming qualities. He challenged her as few had, and in his own arse-backward way seemed to enjoy her company equally.
More than captivated, then. She was well on her way to full fledged infatuation.
She couldn’t bring herself to go. Not yet. It made her sick to her stomach to think of Lady Ambrosia marrying Hirst, sicker still to watch the two of them riding together today, but she was determined to see it through. She’d stay for as long as she could stand it. And after that?
Well, she had to return to being Davina Benwick some day.
Unsurprisingly, sleep proved elusive, and she was still staring at the ceiling of her room at the witching hour. With a sigh, she threw off the bedclothes and strode to the window in her room. It just so happened to overlook the back garden, the site of Sir Wesley’s inelegant landing.
The shape of the charlière loomed like a shadowy beast from its perch in the rosebushes, hiding a full moon from her sight and obscuring the garden surrounding it. Hirst and Sir Wesley had not moved the charlière from where it had landed, having found it easier to take the equipment they needed to refuel it out into the garden, much to the groundskeepers’ chagrin. Their rosebushes would never be the same, if they even survived at all.
The good news was that the charlière was nearly ready for another flight. It had taken the better part of the day to replenish the balloon’s supply of hydrogen, which was a slow, complicated process that involved sulfuric acid, iron, and lead pipes. This gave Davina some hope that Sir Wesley’s tenure at the castle would be short-lived. She knew that her brother couldn’t bear to be away from his wife for too long.
The bad news was that she had a sneaking suspicion Sir Wesley was going to try and convince her to return with him.
Ha.
Even if that were a remote possibility, she’d certainly never agree to return in a floating balloon. Unlike her brother, she had some sense of self-preservation.
Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted as she spied movement off to the side of the charlière. She peered closer and just managed to glimpse two figures moving slowly through the shadows in the direction of the balloon. For some reason she couldn’t name, a feeling of unease immediately slipped down her spine. It was hardly the time for anyone to be enjoying a leisurely stroll through the gardens.
Suddenly, one of the figures passed through a beam of moonlight, and she recognized the unmistakable features of Hirst. Davina’s sense of unease only grew, for even at a distance, she could tell something was…off about the man in the stiff, plodding way he moved, and the slackness of his usually animated features.
She’d seen an automaton once, during the entertainments at a dinner party her mother had dragged her to. It had been the creation of an eccentric Frenchman, a life-size gentleman made of metal parts and ceramic, with limbs that moved with the mechanical precision of one of Hirst’s engines, and black holes where the eyes should be. Davina had thought at the time that it was more disturbing than the most chilling novel she’d ever read.
Seeing Hirst acting in such a manner was no less disturbing.
She couldn’t make out the identity of the other man, who never stepped from the shadows. But from the breadth of his shoulders, she immediately ruled out her slightly-built brother. The only other men in the household with shoulders that broad were Mr. Bonnet and Kildale, and just the thought of the marquess out there alone in the garden with Hirst when he was so vulnerable made her uneasy. The antipathy between the two men
had been obvious from the moment the marquess had arrived.
Something was definitely wrong.
Heart in her throat, she shoved her feet into Leon’s boots, grabbed her jacket and spectacles, and raced out the door. By the time she found her way to the garden, Hirst had nearly reached the basket of the balloon. The other figure—the marquess, perhaps, though it was still too dark where he stood for Davina to properly make him out—seemed to be leading him there for some reason.
When the figure opened the gate to the wicker basket and nudged Hirst inside, the man’s ill intent, as improbable as it seemed, was suddenly clear to Davina. He meant to send Hirst up in the balloon.
She ran toward them. “Wait!” she shouted. “What are you doing?”
Her suspicion that something was wrong with Hirst was proved, for he had no reaction to her voice. He stepped into the basket in his stupor, while the other man shut the gate and began to frantically cut the ropes of the sandbags mooring the charlière to the ground.
Davina had never considered herself particularly brave, but in that moment, she was fearless. She threw herself at the broad-shouldered man, who effortlessly knocked her away. She stumbled back and slammed her head hard into the side of the basket, causing her vision to swim before her eyes.
She climbed to her feet and charged the man once more, but this time, he seized her by her wrist and wrenched it behind her. She cried out from the pain and struggled against the man’s chest, clawing at his clothes and pushing as hard as she could to escape him, but he was simply too strong.
The metal of a knife glinted in the moonlight as the man raised it in the direction of her throat, and in a final panic, she brought her knee up between his legs as hard as she could, sending the man staggering back with a grunt and loosening his grip on the knife. She knocked it out of her attacker’s hand and scrambled away, her head spinning dizzily.
It took the man no time to catch back up with her. He scooped her up with a growl and threw her into the basket. She collided with the insensible Hirst, and they both went tumbling to the wicker floor of the basket, her head thumping against the copper pipes that controlled the gas flow.
The last thing she knew before she drifted into unconsciousness was the snick of the final sandbag being cut away, the hiss of the hydrogen pump’s valve releasing, and the sickening realization that she was literally floating away into the night.
∞∞∞
Davina awoke to a sharp pain in her head and the patter of raindrops against her skin. She opened her eyes to find Hirst hovering over her with a worried expression on his face. A feeling very akin to the seasickness she’d once experienced crossing the English Channel washed over her.
For a moment, she didn’t know where she was, but then as she caught sight of the giant, shadowy balloon looming overhead and felt the gentle sway of the wicker basket underneath her, she remembered everything.
She sat up with a gasp and staggered to her feet. Hirst put a steadying arm around her shoulders as she propped herself against the side of the basket. She risked a look over the side, but all she could see below her was the vague, murky outline of the countryside. It may have been a full moon, but rain clouds had set in, limiting her field of vision to practically nothing. She didn’t know whether to be grateful she couldn’t see anything or unnerved.
She decided on the latter.
“Oh God!” she cried, swaying on her feet as the full import of her predicament began to set in. “We’re floating. In the air.”
“Apparently so,” Hirst said grimly. “Are you all right?”
She laughed hysterically. “Does it look like I’m all right?” she demanded, clutching at her aching head.
He frowned at her. “What happened, then? I woke up and found myself here, with you.”
“I should be asking what happened. What in heaven’s name is wrong with you? I found you walking in the garden like some sort of… of automaton. I called out to you, and it was as if you didn’t even hear me.”
What are you talking about?” he demanded, but it was obvious from his wary expression he knew exactly what she meant, more obvious still that he didn’t want to talk about it. He’d just have to stuff it, however, because they were trapped in a basket in the sky, and she didn’t think she was asking too much for an explanation.
“You were wandering the back garden, but you seemed entirely unaware of anything around you, as if you were drunk or… or asleep on your feet.”
His shoulders stiffened at this last bit.
“You weren’t drunk, then,” she pressed, but she got no response from him other than a further tensing of his shoulders. She was beginning to understand. “It’s called somnambulism, isn’t it? Is that why I found you in a ditch the first time we met?”
He turned back to her with a look of warning, daring her to question him further. “I’m not insane,” he finally said gruffly.
“No, that’s not…I wasn’t insinuating that at all,” she began, frustrated. “But it’s just…unusual.”
He looked as if he would rather be eating glass than having this conversation. “I’ve had these episodes ever since I lost my younger brother. There was a typhus outbreak in St. Giles. He didn’t survive.”
She sucked in a pained breath. “I’m sorry,” she said helplessly.
He shrugged. “It was a long time ago, and hardly unexpected, considering the sort of life we led. But my brainbox has never behaved like it should.”
Well, that seemed an understatement, and Hirst’s vehement denial of his insanity made Davina think he wasn’t entirely convinced that he wasn’t. No one could possibly think it was normal to sleep naked in ditches, drunk or not, or to ramble about half asleep and fall into hydrogen balloons, and he must have realized that.
But Davina didn’t think Hirst was mad, despite his own silent doubts. He was a…unique creature, extremely high-strung, a bit tyrannical, and disturbingly intelligent. At least in terms of numbers and formulae. Common sense, social acuity, and emotional maturity, however, had not developed past the most primitive levels in that great thinking organ of his. Which was hardly uncommon, since he was a male.
What was uncommon, however, was the intimidating package these run-of-the-mill failings came in. What would have seemed unremarkable in regular mortal man—i.e. the disagreeableness, the tendency to do the opposite of what one was told, a predilection for mud and squalor (in other words, behaving like a ten year old boy)—in Hirst seemed excessive. He was large, loud, and by virtue of his wealth, nearly untouchable.
No, he was not mad. He just had more demons than most, and they seemed to manifest themselves the only time his mind was vulnerable: when he slept. Just the hint of the life he must have led in the stews made her own formative years seem positively heavenly in comparison, despite her social isolation and Lady Benwick’s abuse.
She would have wagered her life upon Hirst's sanity, though she had no logical explanation as to why she was so firmly convinced of this. She just knew.
“Well, I don’t think you’re insane,” she said. “Or at least not a candidate for Bedlam. Not yet anyway.”
“Your faith in me is heartening,” he said dryly, but the tension in his shoulders eased a little bit at her subtle teasing.
“Well, as I just nearly got myself killed trying to fight off the man who was so intent on sending you to your death, I think I’ll leave some room for doubt,” she shot back.
Hirst’s dark expression gave way to shocked surprise. “What man?”
Ah, yes. They’d not gotten to that part yet, had they? “The man who followed you in the garden and practically pushed you into the balloon. I tried to fight him off, but he coshed me on the head and threw me into the basket with you.”
As she spoke, his expression grew increasingly stormy. By the end of the tale, he was livid.
“Did you recognize the man?” he demanded.
“It was too dark,” she said. “But he had broad shoulders. Shorter than you, and st
urdily built.”
He rolled his eyes at her vague description. “That could be anyone.”
“Hardly. He rather resembled your Mr. Bonnet.”
Hirst looked at her incredulously. “Bones?” he scoffed. “I highly doubt that. He’s my oldest friend. Why would he wish me harm?”
Davina could think of several reasons at the moment, despite her hopeless infatuation.
“Or the marquess,” she continued, watching his reaction carefully. Hirst’s expression darkened, but he didn’t protest her deduction. She shivered a little, and it wasn’t from the drizzle. “What grudge does Kildale have against you? Surely he wouldn’t resort to murder to prevent you from wedding Ambrosia.”
Hirst just laughed humorously. “I’m sure he’d resort to just that for far less provocation. But what were you thinking, trying to fight him off? You could have been killed!” he scolded her.
“You could have been killed,” she retorted. Ungrateful wretch. A gust of wind jostled the basket so hard she thought for a moment they were doomed. “We could still be killed!” she cried. “Is there nothing you can do to land this thing?”
“I can’t. The release valve is broken,” he said, sounding entirely too calm for her tastes.
Her heart sank all the way to China. “What?”
He held up a metal handle, and gestured with it at the crude system of cooper pipes Wesley had rigged beneath the envelope. The place where the handle had been attached was hopelessly mangled.
“It must have been broken in the struggle,” he said. “There’s no way to vent the gas or control our direction now. We’ll just have to let it run its course.”
Well, that sounded like a terrible idea.
She wouldn’t panic. She wouldn’t…
But despite her resolve, her head was swirling and her knees were swiftly becoming entirely uncooperative. She felt close to swooning…something she hadn’t done since the last time her mother had laced up her bodice too tightly in a misguided attempt to give her cleavage. She absolutely refused to give into such a display of weakness. But it seemed her body had other plans, as it started to sway backwards despite her best efforts otherwise.
Miss Benwick Reforms a Rogue Page 13