The Escapement of Blackledge: a novella

by Kowal, Mary Robinette

  “Pardon me…” The Duke of Blackledge stepped in front of her. “I do not believe we have been formally introduced.”

  Helena’s lungs seemed to shrivel in her chest. His eyes were every bit as blue as she remembered. It took all her will power to inhale at all, much less calmly. She lifted her chin. “If we have not been introduced, then I think you impertinent for speaking to me, sir.”

  “Oh, but we are acquainted, I think.” With a bow, he said, “I am Weatherby Kendall, the Duke of Blackledge.”

  A slender young man, with a shock of dark curls, appeared at Lord Blackledge’s elbow. “Good lord! You’re speaking to a lady, voluntarily.”

  A flush appeared on the Duke’s cheeks momentarily. “Ah— May I present my good friend, Mr Corke.”

  ‘You look shockingly familiar. Have we met before Miss…?”

  “Troyes.” Helena winced internally, but she was so startled that she had forgotten the name on her invitation. At least she had not given him her real surname. She offered her hand to Mr. Corke, and bent in a courtesy. “A pleasure.”

  “Troyes?” Mr. Corke bent over Helena’s hand, his dark eyes twinkling. “Are you any relation to Frederick Troyes?”

  “Only very distantly and he would not know me.” Helena withdrew her hand, stealing a glance behind her to see if Mama Agnes was in view.

  “Good enough for me to claim an acquaintance. May I have the honor, unless you are already spoken for…?” Mr. Corke gave the duke a sidelong glance, with his brows lifted.

  The Duke cocked his head and smiled a little, but the color was still high on his cheeks. “I am afraid that Miss Troyes has already promised me the next dance.”

  Which put Helena in the awkward position of being unable to refuse. It was absurd, but the least conspicuous way to escape his attention was by submitting to it. Once they danced, she could claim being overheated and send him off in search of some punch. “Yes, I want nothing more.”

  “Well, then you must come to my card party on Thursday. Nothing formal, just a small gathering of friends, but we might have enough to stand up a small dance.” Mr. Corke smiled at her, all charm. “My sister plays the pianoforte beautifully. Do say you will. You can dance with Blackledge again.”

  It was difficult not to laugh in response to his manner. “Let me see how the first dance goes.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Knowledge of Clockworks

  As Weatherby stood opposite Miss Troyes, waiting for the dance to process to them, he racked his brain for what to do next. He had expected to find her committing a crime and yet, here she was, dressed for a ball. He had been upstairs and seen Lady Sanderson’s chamber — or rather, he had seen the door to it, which was guarded by two stout footmen. Was she planning to charm her way through. With her abundance of golden curls and her figure--

  He was staring.

  Weatherby lowered his eyes to the floor, feeling his cheeks heat. He cleared his throat and sought for some avenue of conversation. “I still have your glove.” Truly? That was what he chose to say to her.

  She laughed, and the sound bounced like sleigh bells through the music. “I must say, you are not at all what I expected from a Duke.”

  “So my mother tells me at frequent intervals.” The couple above them lead down the set and they countered by moving up.

  “There are worse things than to be the unexpected.”

  “Agreed. For instance, you surprised me with your knowledge of clockworks.”

  “That is how I surprised you?” She turned from him to trace a winding hay with the two gentlemen of their set.

  “Among other—” Before he could complete his thought, Weatherby was likewise obligated by the forms of the dance to pay attention to both other women in their set. He danced a hay around them, but could not be said to pay attention. He could not simply ask her if she were here to rob the house. In these circumstances, she would say “no” and then complain and he would appear very much in the wrong. When the set revolved again and he found himself with Miss Troyes, he was no closer to an answer. Weatherby offered his hand to lead down the set.

  “The weather is fine tonight, do you not think?” It was what all the young ladies at his coming out had talked about, but Weatherby was fairly certain that if George were here, he would be making mock at that very moment.

  Her hand was small and warm within its white kid glove. “Indeed. Do you think we shall have rain?”

  “Tomorrow, around three in the afternoon.”

  “Oh? So specific. Do you take the Almanac?”

  “No. I made a weather…” He cleared his throat and tried to return to the business at hand “How do you know Lady Sanderson?”

  “My cousin is an acquaintance of the family.”

  “Frederick Troyes?”

  “Mm.” She turned with him to promenade back up and left him uncertain if that were a yes or a no. “And how do you know them?”

  “Went to university with their youngest son.” She couldn’t very well be planning on robbing the place dressed like that, could she? He tried to picture her executing the movement required to vault out of his window and missed the next section of the dance. “Sorry. Terribly sorry.”

  “You’ve gone red again.”

  His cheeks warmed further. He touched his hair as they turned allemande. “That is a constant state for me.”

  “I find it charming.”

  She left him for a moment to trace the hay with the new top couple. Really, she was uncommonly graceful. She must be a dancer or, recalling her movement out of his skylight, an acrobat. To replicate that movement with clockworks would require a weighted pendulum action combined with— He missed the next step and had to jog to keep up. “Bother. Sorry. This is why I never dance.”

  “Never? Then I shall count myself flattered. What distracted you?”

  “I was thinking about how to make a clockwork automaton of you— Not, make you into one. I mean, one that could… That could move like you do.” The music blessedly came to an end and Weatherby gave her a bow, not disguising his sigh. “It is not hyperbole to say that I have never met anyone like you, Miss Troyes.”

  She stared at him, head tilted a little to the side, with her generous lips parted. Miss Troyes took a step closer and lifted her chin to look up at him. The iris of her right eye had a speck of gray amid the blue. “Was I… Was I your first kiss?”

  The room became unbearably hot. Weatherby coughed and looked at the floor. “That bad?”

  “No… No, it was sweet.”

  Sweat ran down his back, and not from dancing. He squeezed his eyes shut. What did one say to that? I should like to kiss you again? Or perhaps Please come rob my home at any time and perhaps we could have tea? Or— he opened his eyes, “Thank yo…”

  She was gone.

  Weatherby spun, rising onto his toes to see over the crowd. The ballroom was awash with gentlemen and ladies in their finery amid the apparent clouds of the glamural. Ostrich plumes stuck up above the crowd here and there, as if they were cloudlets. How could a woman with such vivid hair simply disappear?

  He dropped back down to his heels and grimaced. If she were here to rob the Sanderson home as he believed she was, then she would either have been put off by his presence, in which case she was likely no longer on the property, or she was attempting to proceed with her plan.

  If he was correct that she had been entering the rooms through their windows then that meant he would most likely find Miss Troyes under it. Weatherby headed for the door that opened onto the veranda. The intelligent thing to do would be to alert the household staff and have someone waiting upstairs.

  He had absolutely no cause to be pursuing her. She might be a great beauty, and witty, and know something of clockworks, but that was not a reason to follow her himself. Weatherby jogged down the stairs of the veranda and onto the pleasure grounds of the house.

  The window in question was at the back of the house. Of course, if she had departed, alerting the
staff would cause a ruckus for no good cause. Better to make certain she was there first. And if she was, then surely he could subdue such a mite of a woman.

  Weatherby rounded the corner to the back of the house. He stopped on the grass as the dew crept in through his dancing slippers. The grounds were empty. Weatherby sighed. Well, then. She must have departed, which was the best possible outcome.

  Against the wall of the house, a shrub rustled without a breeze to move it.

  Weatherby jogged forward and pushed himself behind the plant. Miss Troyes stood there in little more than her stays.

  “Oh!” She snatched her dress from the branch she had hung it upon and held it in front of her.

  “I—” He turned his head, lifting his hand to mask his eyes. “My apologies. I only…”

  “Only what?”

  Only wanted to see if she were committing a burglary. “Why have you taken your dress off?”

  She sighed and the branch rustled again. The mulch crunched underfoot as she moved closer. Even with his eyes shielded, her bare legs were still visible. No— not bare. She was wearing buckskin trousers.

  He jumped when she put her hand on his arm. “Lord Blackledge… I admire your modesty, but there is no need for it.”

  Weatherby swallowed. Her hand was warm upon his arm. “It… I am— Whatever you are planning to do tonight, I beg you not to.”

  She chuckled and slid her hand up his arm to his shoulder, then traced a line across it and up his neck. Weatherby’s heart was racing like one of George’s horses. He swallowed again as her featherlight touch brushed his cheek. “Please do me the courtesy of looking at me when you beg.”

  By the warmth flooding his body, Weatherby thought that he must be very red indeed. He lowered his hand, glancing at her bosom and then down.

  “Oh God.” The state of his breeches made the focus of his…attention painfully obvious, which only made him blush the more.

  “Oh, my sweet, sweet man.” Miss Troyes laughed and rested her golden head against his chest. “How is it that you are such an innocent?”

  “I doubt that question is sincere. And I am not an innocent, just merely… principled.”

  She snorted. It was such an unladylike sound that Weatherby laughed with her. Her head was still bent, creating a spot of warmth on his chest. The curls had been pinned into a confection, threaded through with a delicate ribbon. Weatherby stared at his own hand, knowing it was a terrible idea, and yet… he touched one of the curls.

  Miss Troyes raised her head, looking up at him with a crooked smile. She slid a little closer so that her body pressed against his in several interesting ways. “I have always believed that one should periodically examine one’s principles.”

  “Is that how you came to — ah…” His brain stopped functioning for a moment as her other hand found its way to his breeches. “I—”

  She stood on her toes and found his lips.

  Weatherby had been about to say something compelling, but all of the muscles involved in speech became invested in exploring the warmth of Miss Troyes’s lips. The pressure changed like an endlessly variable cog — no, not a cog. Those were all angles and edges and she was…she was pliable and strong, molding against him the way wax melted around a form. He tried to match the rhythm of her movements.

  And then her hand wrapped around his arbor vitae. Weatherby tightened his hands on her shoulders to keep from falling. When had she undone his breeches? “Miss—”

  Miss Troyes kissed him on the cheek. “You are very sweet.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Yes.” She kissed his other cheek. “You are. And I’m very sorry.”

  And then she stepped back, leaving a chill down his front where her warmth had been. She took her frock from the shrubbery, blew him a kiss, and slipped away.

  “Wait!” Weatherby took a step after her and his breeches fell down.

  He yanked them up, stumbling through the shrubbery as he fumbled for the buttons. He found only soft wool. Looking down, Weatherby stared at the tufts of loose thread at the corners of his fall front breeches and then started to laugh.

  Miss Troyes had stolen his buttons.

  CHAPTER NINE

  In the Mirror

  In the small backstage space of Astley’s Circus, Helena leaned against the wall with her right foot raised above her head. She pointed her toes and bent forward to touch her head against the wall as she warmed up for the evening performance. “Am I correct in remembering that we are not in the show on Thursday?”

  Papa Fred paused in his preparations and looked at her in the mirror, with a kohl pencil in his hand. “Yes. Why?”

  “At the Sanderson ball I overheard that there would be a card party at the Corke residence.” She left her leg elevated and bent backwards to rest her hands on the ground. “I thought there might be an opportunity there.”

  At that, Mama Agnes turned, with a tortoiseshell pin in her hand. “Have we any reason to think there is something worthwhile there?”

  “Well, his home is on Belgrave Square. It seems likely, does it not?”

  “Likely is not the same as a sure thing.” Mama Agnes pinned another curl into place.

  “True.” And the Duke of Blackledge would be there, which was reason enough to avoid the place. Although it had been terribly fun to make him blush. Helena pushed off the floor to stand upright again and lowered her leg. “It was just a thought.”

  “Mm… We do need to consider another ‘patron’ to visit, since the window at the Sanderson’s was locked. Pity that. I thought it didn’t have a lock.”

  “Maybe it was only jammed.” Helena rested her palms against the wall and raised her left foot above her head. She was not entirely easy with lying to Mama Agnes, but neither did to explain the real reason she had not made the attempt. It would worry Mama Agnes and Papa Fred no end if they knew that the Duke of Blackledge had not only recognized her but followed her. “I could try again.”

  “I suppose it would not hurt to make some inquiries about the Corke establishment.”

  Weatherby stared out the window of George’s drawing room, while the reflections of the revelers swayed in the glass. He rubbed his forehead and the growing ache at the laughter. He should have stayed home.

  In the glass, George’s reflection grew larger and then the man himself was by Weatherby’s side. He held out a snifter of brandy. “How did you meet her?”

  “Who?” He took the brandy and swallowed without tasting it.

  George snorted and nudged Weatherby with his elbow. “Please. Do me the courtesy of not pretending to be an idiot. You have come to a party. Voluntarily.”

  “Well, you are my friend.” He sipped the brandy again, tempted to swallow the whole thing down.

  “Yes.” George rested a hand on his shoulder. “Which is why I never push you to come, because I know how you dislike crowds. Now. If I were to need advice about a broken clock, I should be a fool to attempt to repair it on my own rather than coming to you.”

  Weatherby stared down into the glass. Oh, the hell with it. He finished the brandy with a gulp. “My heart is not broken.”

  “But…?”

  “But we met by chance and… and it would not be a good match.”

  “That.” George produced a decanter from somewhere and refilled Weatherby’s glass. “That, sounds like your mother.”

  “Truly, I think mother would not object to anyone I chose to marry so long as I did.” He took another drink of the brandy, feeling his cheeks redden. “She…She rather thinks I have no interest in women. At all.”

  George coughed, and then busied himself with his own glass. “So if your mother would not object to the match—”

  “Leave it, George.” Weatherby downed the contents of his glass and handed it back. “Thank you for the evening.”

  “Weathe—” He trailed off with a sigh as Weatherby walked away from him.

  He threaded his way through the card tables and made it to the blissfully
quiet foyer. It was not fair to George to take his disappointment out on him. What had he expected? That the lovely thief would actually come to play cards tonight? With his luck, she was taking advantage of his absence to burglar his own home. And why— That was the part he did not understand. Going after money or jewels, that made sense. But why would she want his mechanical arm?

  His head was spinning from the brandy. As the footman went to fetch his coat, Weatherby rested his hand on the newel post of the stairs. George would probably have bedded her right then. No telling how many maidens he had taken upstairs and… Weatherby stopped and turned to look into the drawing room. Upstairs. The entire household was currently downstairs.

  That was why she always chose a night with a party.

  Weatherby charged up the stairs two at a time, only slowing when he reached the last few steps. George had a wall safe in his bedroom. Weatherby had never seen it, but George had mentioned something about needing a discreet glamourist when he had his bedroom redone. Apparently it was themed like a Roman palace, or rather, like one of the pleasure houses found in Pompeii.

  This was foolish. He had drunk too much brandy and was besotted with a young woman who was a thief.

  He had to try several doors, sweating with each that he opened, before he found George’s room. Only the moon and the gas lamps outside the home gave it any illumination. The walls had been done to look like elaborate mosaics set amid fluted columns. The fireplace had a broad mantel and the columns repeated there. Even the furniture had been carefully chosen to match the theme, with low backless chairs, a chaise lounge, and rich swathes of fabric draping the bed.

  A bank of double-hung windows looked out over the street. One of them had been pushed open from the top. Weatherby closed the door behind him and stepped farther into the room. She might already be gone. He frowned at the window. No… if the reports were correct, she always closed her entry after departing.