The Escapement of Blackledge: a novella

by Kowal, Mary Robinette

“Because when I met Miss Troyes at the ball, I knew she looked familiar but couldn’t think of where we had met.” George folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the table. “But when a man of Indian descent called at the kitchen door — while I was wheedling a bite from Cook — I recalled where I had seen her. Both of them really. At Astley’s Circus.”

  “What did… what did this man want?” Weatherby could barely breathe. He had known she was a performer, but not where. The fact that George knew — George had seen her perform — only drove home how very little Weatherby actually knew about her.

  “Begging, he said.” He shrugged. “But given that I had seen him at the circus, and the tricks they could do, I thought it rather more likely that he was examining my home in preparation for a burglary.”

  “He was— he was probably looking for Miss Troyes.” Weatherby ran his hand through his hair and bowed his head. “You had invited her to the card party, if you recall.”

  “To which she did not come.” George prodded Weatherby with his finger. “Oh… and what she must be capable of, given her profession. To which I return to my original assessment: You dog. You sly dog.”

  Weatherby’s skin heated. It would be so much easier to deny George’s assertions if he did not have the memory of Helena kneeling with him inside her, and then arching backwards to run her tongue up the inside of his thighs and— He walked to his workbench, aware of the sudden snugness of his breeches. “Could we not?”

  “But I am happy for you.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  Behind him George laughed, clapping his hands together. “You mean ‘nothing’ happened several times.”

  “This is a string of conjecture that—”

  “Think about to whom you are speaking. You reek of sex, and it is an aroma with which I am well familiar.”

  Weatherby leaned his hands on his workbench, his breath coming too quickly. Amid the streaks of grease and scuffs on the wood, a pale stain lay in testament to his earlier activities. A throbbing in his groin insisted on recalling the perfect height of the workbench.

  He slid a piece of brass out of the cupboard to cover the stain. “I have work to do.”

  “Work? My dear fellow, I’m wounded. You have finally joined the rest of us in sampling the delights of—”

  Weatherby slammed his fist on the brass and spun. “Damn it, George.”

  His friend stared, mouth open. With an inhalation, he shut his mouth and gave a little shrug. “Well.” He pushed away from the table and straightened his cuffs. “Well. I’ll leave you to it then.”

  “George— Wait.” He was an ass. Weatherby rested his hands on his hips and studied the seams in the marble floor. George had stood by him and shielded him from public scrutiny on every conceivable occasion. He was being no more intrusive than their history should have allowed. “Thank you for being happy for me. I am surprised by my own reaction and am treating you poorly, but the truth is that I am not yet ready to talk about it.”

  “No— The fault is mine.” George took a step closer to Weatherby. “I know how private you are and I should not have pushed. I only… you looked happy. It is good to see you look happy.”

  Weatherby raised his head, frowning. “What— Is it that unusual?”

  “Since your father died? Yes.” George spread his hands and gestured around the workshop. “Getting you out…”

  “I go to the club.”

  “When I come to collect you, yes. When was the last time you left on your own?”

  Weatherby tugged his banyan robe tighter around himself. He had not become so reclusive as all that, surely. “The Sanderson ball. I went to that on my own.”

  The corner of George’s mouth twisted up into a half smile, but all the lines of his body expressed fatigue. “I invited you.”

  “But I asked you to.”

  “Because I got you intrigued in a mystery.”

  Weatherby opened his mouth to retort that the mystery had interested him because it gave him a chance to see Helena, and then shut his mouth. He could not say that without admitting that she was the thief. Better to let George think that she was nothing more than a circus performer. “Then I owe you thanks.”

  “I’m not— I’m not keeping score, Weatherby. I worry about you.” George tapped his toe on the marble, with one hand on his hip. “Here’s the last thing I’ll say on the subject of Miss Troyes. She makes you happy. Good. But you are inexperienced with women and I want to be certain that you remain happy. Please… please talk to me when you are ready. I will not make mock.”

  Weatherby laughed. “That, that I don’t believe.”

  “I will not mock you.” George winked. “Much.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Awkward and Unsociable

  When the door to their apartment opened, Helena lowered the wash rag and spun from the partially cleaned window. Mama Agnes came through the door, eyed the bucket and snorted. “She’s cleaning.”

  “So you terrified her.” Papa Fred came through the door, pulling his hat from his head. “That seems fair.”

  “I am so sorry.” She twisted the damp rag and dropped it into the bucket at her feet. In an effort to seem more responsible, Helena had changed out of her burgling outfit into a simple blue round gown with a linen apron over it. “I can explain.”

  “Oh yes. Yes, you can try to explain. I look forward to that attempt.” Mama Agnes pulled her bonnet off and hung it on the peg by the door. “You can start with where the hell you went last night.”

  “I went to Mr. Corke’s house.”

  Papa Fred narrowed his gaze at her. “Do you take me for a bleeding idiot?”

  “N-no.” Helena wiped her palms on her apron. “But I did go there.”

  “Now, see ‘ere’s the funny thing.” Papa Fred crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Because I saw Mr. Corke, quite by accident, and ‘e recognized me from the circus like. Knew who you were, too. Apparently, you danced with the Duke of Blackledge at the Sanderson ball. ‘E says the Duke’s besotted with you. That he’d hoped you would have come to the party since you were invited. So what I want to know is what else you lied to us about.”

  Helena’s throat constricted more with each of Papa Fred’s statements. “I didn’t— I haven’t—” But she had. She’d told them that she hadn’t been able to get into the room at Rothfuss house because the window was locked. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “Well, see, now I am worried.” Of her foster parents, he had always been the gentle one. She had never seen his face tight with anger before. Papa Fred pointed to the hard chair by the table. “Sit.”

  She swallowed and sat down, clenching her hands in her lap. What could she tell them that would reassure them and not make them angrier. “He— The Duke of Blackledge. He’s offered to help.”

  “Help. Just like that.” Papa Fred leaned toward her. “And how is it that he had the opportunity and reason to make that offer?”

  “At the ball. I didn’t rob the place because he was there and he recognized me.” She twisted the corner of her apron and tried not to think about what happened in the shrubbery. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you would worry.”

  “You’re damn right I’m worried. What do you think you’re about gallivanting around after that? We should have left town.”

  “See! This is exactly why I didn’t tell you.” Helena looked at the ceiling. “Nothing bad happened. And he’s going to build an arm for me. That’s where I was last night. After Mr. Corke’s we both went to his workshop.”

  Mama Agnes narrowed her eyes and held her hand up to stop them both from speaking. “Fred. Step out a minute.”

  He turned his head, but he must have seen the set of her jaw as clearly as Helena did, because his shoulders drooped and he turned toward the door. Mama Agnes waited until he was out of the room.

  She stared at the floor between her and Helena and shook her head. “I’m going to ask this once, and so help me, if you tell me an
ything other than the truth I’ll turn you over my knee and never mind that you’re a grown woman.” She looked up. “Were you safe when you slept with him?”

  Helena’s cheeks warmed and the fact that she was blushing made her think of Weatherby and the room heated. “Why do you think I—?” Mama Agnes leaned forward in her chair with her eyes narrowed, so Helena wet her lips and braced herself for a tongue-lashing. “Yes.”

  With a sigh, Mama Agnes leaned forward and rested her forehead on her hands. “And that’s why he’s going to help.”

  “N-no. That was before, I— we… He’s very kind.”

  “Child…” Mama Agnes lifted her head and her eyes were wet. “Don’t. He’s not going to marry you. This isn’t a fairy tale. If you have to lead him by the balls to convince him, fine. Your body is a tool and use it as you need to, but for God’s sake— Don’t believe that a nobleman will love you.”

  “But I’m—” Helena stopped and bit her lips. She was a noblewoman. Or rather, she had been born to nobility and for all that her name should be Lady Helena, she was a circus performer now. Somehow in the last day she had lost sight of the goal, which was to restore her father. And the simple fact was that, even after their fortunes were restored, Weatherby’s position would require him to marry a young woman of good reputation. Helena had abandoned all hope of maintaining that years ago. “Of course. I know that. But I still need that arm, so I’ll have to see him again.”

  Mama Agnes drew in a heavy breath and shook her head. “Oh child…”

  “I thought you said I was a grown woman.”

  With a shrug, Mama Agnes waved her to the door. “Let Fred back inside. We have some planning to do.”

  Helena paused, half out of her chair. “Planning?”

  “If he’s really going to help, and we’re really going to go forward with the robbery, then we’re going to do it right.” She shook her head. “And Lord have mercy on us all.”

  When Helena dropped through the skylight, Weatherby was crouching in front of an elaborate box. His hair was in disarray and his shirt undone at the collar. He stood, turning with a smile of welcome that made her heart clench in her chest. If only Mama Agnes had seen that unguarded moment, she would know that Weatherby was not toying with Helena’s affections. She glanced up to the skylight, hoping that Mama Agnes had come into view but she was staying back, as promised.

  Weatherby wiped his hands on the banyan robe he wore over his clothing and left a streak of grease down the side. “I’m so glad you’re here. It won’t work.”

  “Sorry?”

  “The mechanical hand. Or rather, it works perfectly, but it won’t do what you want it to do.”

  She hopped off the table. “I am a little confused. It works perfectly and it won’t work, all at the same time.”

  “I can make it extend and bend at the correct angle, but you won’t be able to see what you are picking up.” Weatherby rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You would have to feel for the keys, only the mechanical arm doesn’t have sensation. You’re likely to knock them off and— anyway. I’ve got another idea.”

  This was not the visit she had planned, but here she was and there was no getting around it. Helena cleared her throat. "Before we continue... May I introduce you to my foster parents?"

  Weatherby stared at her, brows drawn together as if she had spoken a language other than English. He blinked. "Yes? I mean... when should you like to bring them round?"

  Shifting her weight, Helena looked up to the skylight. "They... they came with me."

  "I see." He, too, looked at the skylight as though he could see into the darkness of the London night. "So this is not actually a request, is it."

  "I can take them away." Helena wiped the sweat off her hands and onto her trousers. She had not wanted to bring them, but it had been the only way that they would agree to letting her meet Weatherby. "If it is not convenient."

  "By all mea-- Wait." Weatherby looked down at his shirt and reached for the collar to fasten it. "Give me a moment to make myself somewhat more presentable."

  "Of course." It was a shame to see him hide away his beautiful collarbones, and the firm muscles of his forearms. "I am sorry I was unable to give you warning."

  "What.... ah... what prompted this visit?"

  "Everything?"

  He flushed red to the tips of his ears. When he spoke, his voice cracked. "Everything?"

  "They are circus people and less easily shocked than society might be."

  "Still." He picked up his cravat and wrapped it around his throat in an efficient and inelegant knot. "Still... that is not a conversation that I could have had with my mother."

  "She did not want to." Mama Agnes voice made him flinch and look sharply upward.

  Helena turned her head more slowly. The skylight framed Mama Agnes and Papa Fred as beautifully as a painting. At least they had let her prepare Weatherby for their arrival. With the smooth motion of long practice, the two moved as one and grabbed the edge of the skylight to flip down onto the table. They bent their knees on landing and sprang off the table to land on either side of Helena.

  Helena swallowed, but did not turn to see how he was reacting to having two circus performers in his study. "My Lord Blackledge, may I present Mr. and Mrs. Mohabir?"

  "How do you do?" For a man who flustered so easily, Weatherby sounded remarkably calm.

  Helena turned as her foster parents bowed and curtsied. The flush on Weatherby's face gave his discomfiture away, but otherwise he seemed to be making an effort to appear at his ease.

  That might have had something to do with the unmistakable suspicion with which Mama Agnes was glaring at him. Papa Fred's distrust was somewhat more circumspect and appeared nothing more than a chilly reserve.

  Mama Agnes took a step forward. "Why?"

  Weatherby’s brows came together with confusion and he gestured toward a contraption on his workbench that bore more resemblance to a beetle than a mechanical arm. "Why… Why won’t it work? Well... I tried a series of mirrors to view around the corner. But then there is the trouble of light and--"

  "I meant why are you interested in helping Helena?"

  "Ah."

  "Mama Agnes-- We agreed not to talk about--"

  "No. You asked me not to interrogate him as to his intentions, which I have not. I have assumptions, but I am not asking him--"

  "I want to marry her." Weatherby turned bright red and swallowed as though he had not expected to say that. He took a step back, then steadied himself and faced Helena who suddenly had difficulty breathing. "You. I want to marry you."

  "That-- I am..." Helena reached behind herself for the table and took comfort in its sturdy wood. "But--"

  "But I'm awkward and unsociable and a mess and--"

  "You're a Duke." Helena put her free hand on her bosom. "I'm a circus performer. And a thief. And not a virgin."

  "Well, neither am I." Weatherby clapped his hand over his mouth and his eyes grew comically large as he looked from Papa Fred to Mama Agnes. "That is to say... I mean. I think we are well matched."

  "We'd be a scandal. I would... do you know what people would say if you married me? I perform at Astley's circus and-- and--" She turned to Papa Fred not wanting to watch Weatherby and let hope grow in her breast. "Tell him."

  Papa Fred laughed and shook his head. "Oh no. No, no... If I had a set of those arguments that worked, then Aggie and I would not be married. But she's a convincing woman."

  Helena's brow contracted and she spun to Mama Agnes. "You asked him? To marry you?"

  "Well, he wasn't going to get around to it" She shrugged. "But at the moment, we're leaving your young man hanging."

  She had performed for hundreds of people, including the Prince of Wales, and nothing had made her heart race as much as the ardent fear in Weatherby's eyes. Why was he afraid? That she might turn him down? Helena took a breath, trying to catch some measure of calm. "I would be pleased to accept your offer, if I can prove that I am who I
say that I am."

  "But I already believe you." Weatherby came a little closer but stopped before he was close enough to touch. "So we don't need to rob your aunt's house in order for you to help your father. You can both-- all four of you can come live here."

  Helena shook her head. "That is your other plan? That I just give up? My aunt stole my life from me, and my fathers. If I come live with you, even married, as I am then the scandal will ostracize all of us. I cannot expose my father to that. But if my circumstances are known -- if my aunt's machinations are clear then the story that goes with the scandal becomes entirely different. "

  For a moment, Weatherby seemed poised as if he had another argument, but he rocked back on his heels and nodded. "Well... As it happens, I do have another idea." He beckoned them to follow him over to the elaborate case he had been working on when Helena arrived. "The question is... how small a box can you fit inside?"

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Delicate Mechanism

  As the footmen at the Worthen estate lowered his case from the carriage, Weatherby winced, though not as much, he suspected as Helena was. “Careful. That is a very delicate mechanism and I’ve only just restored it.”

  “Very good, my lord.” The butler for the estate gestured the footmen inside with a meaningful glance.

  “I will see it settled, if you don’t mind.” Weatherby followed the footmen, not caring a whit how eccentric it made him appear. And rude, for that matter, to not trust the servants of a noble house.

  The butler paused just long enough to show his opinion but not long enough for it to be something that he could be called out on. “Very good, my lord.”

  Weatherby followed the footmen inside, clenching his walking stick so that he would not try to take one end of the case from them. The grand entry rose two floors above them and was covered with a ornate glamural of climbing vines. The constant movement of the leaves and petals seemed more appropriate for eels than anything else.

  Out of one of the rooms to the right, came an older woman attired in a purple gown of some sort and a young man with hair as blonde and full of curls as Helena’s. The woman said, “My lord Blackledge, what a great honor.”