He didn’t answer, but he took a seat at his bowl. He shoveled a heaping spoonful into his mouth.
Beatrix took a seat on the end of the bench and scooted until she sat across the table from him. “Have you ever wanted to go flying?”
He grunted. “Not a chance. Men aren’t made to fly.” The foul-odored man lacked imagination, but she wasn’t about to tell him that.
Instead, she said, “Shame. I’ve always wanted to be on an airship.” She shimmied her hips and shook her shoulders. “It excites me.”
Claude looked her over and scratched his hairy chin. “You ever been to an air race?”
“No,” Beatrix breathed. She raised her eyebrows and leaned closer. “Have you?”
She hoped she wasn’t selling her fake intrigue too hard, but she couldn’t be sure with the jailkeep. He had a propensity toward denseness. She didn’t have time to spare.
“The greengrocer gets me tickets now and then.” A bit of watery mush dribbled down his chin.
She kept her eyes on his. “Now why would he do that?”
Claude took a drink from his beer mug, and his eyes gleamed. “The less you know about Jackson, the better.”
Beatrix almost smiled. Jackson. That was his first name. She ticked that off her list of things to find out. “Have you ever been to the opening night festivities?”
“No, I’m not high-brow enough to get invited to those. Jackson always does, though. I think he’s taking his cousin this year.”
His cousin. The one with the diamonds. She already knew that. She needed information about Jackson. “Does he have a wife?”
“Never.” He lifted the bowl to his lips and drank the rest of the liquid from the bowl. “He’s always looking, though. You have a sister?”
Beatrix leaned forward. “No.”
“A friend?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Would you like to meet her?”
“Jackson would.”
Beatrix hid her grin. Claude didn’t know it, but he’d given her the way in. She shifted in place, already anxious to leave. She had a drop or two of the sleeping draught she let the maid use last month, if she could slip it into his beer…
Claude reached for his beer mug.
Suddenly, Beatrix gasped and leaned around the jailkeep. “Did you hear that?”
He didn’t turn around, but he lowered the drink. “No.”
She grimaced. “Sounded like jangling keys. Do you have any prisoners here?”
He slammed his cup down, swore under his breath, jumped to his feet, and hurried toward the shadows. While he was gone, Beatrix tipped the vial over his mug. The frothy surface rippled as each drop landed.
When Claude returned, he collapsed into his chair, huffing and pouting about the interruption. “Wild goose chase. You’re hearing things, Bea.”
Beatrix nodded. She handed him his pint. “I’ll make it up to you.”
He gave her a dark look that slowly turned to a leer. “Aye. This time you will.” He took a long drink. When he placed it back on the slab between them, it had been half-emptied. “How did you intend to do that?”
Then he frowned and then blinked. “Is there two of ye, Beatrix?”
Beatrix feigned surprise. “Now, what would you do with two of me?”
“I have an idea or…” His voice trailed away, and he tipped to the side.
Beatrix darted around the makeshift table, catching him before he slammed into the stone floor. The jailer had his uses, but she didn’t wish him ill.
Carefully, she shoved him up onto the roughhewn table and laid him out. Wrinkling her nose, she unfastened his breeches. She never would have done that, but it didn’t hurt for him to wake up thinking she had. The possibility might keep him malleable, particularly if her plan to free William didn’t work.
Then she slipped to the back of the jail to check on William.
The Next Morning
After Helen had left for her workday, Beatrix donned her finest dress, procured from the rear corner of the dress shop, and spent hours curling her hair. Her cheeks and lips had been rouged, and she looked every inch a well-to-do lady. She lifted her skirts and hurried toward Market Street.
If she could sell her fake accent, she’d have Jackson eating out of her hands. He’d salivate over the idea of being desired by his “betters.”
A strap of bells jangled as Beatrix stepped inside the greengrocer’s shop. Once over the threshold, Beatrix lifted her chin slightly, waiting to be addressed. In a con, first impressions were worth their weight in gold, and Beatrix had curated every detail of her character.
Jackson stood behind his counter, writing on a scrap of paper. Barrels and bins lined walls and shelves. He wiped his hands on his leather smock. When he looked up, his eyes widened. “May I help you, madam?”
Beatrix swept closer. “I’ve come to see you, Mr. Luntz. My name is Beatrix Bordeaux I’ve heard many good things.”
He glanced around. “About my… produce?”
She laughed. “About you, silly.”
He blinked. “Me?”
She moved close enough that her skirts grazed the front of the counter. Then she leaned toward him, and she lowered her voice to an enticing purr. “May I call you Jackson?”
Something flicked in his eyes, and he nodded.
“I heard you haven’t procured an escort to the Airship Ball tomorrow night, good sir, and you’re in need of one with my… experience.”
“How do you know that?”
Beatrix straightened and winked. “The jailkeep sent me.” It was a long shot based only on a gut feeling Beatrix had gotten, but it was the card she had to play. “I find it hard to believe an eligible bachelor such as yourself wouldn’t have an escort.”
“My, uh—” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “My cousin will be in attendance. I had thought…” He paused. “I mean, she needs…”
Beatrix stuck out her bottom lip. “What a shame. I had such high hopes. The jailkeep told me so much about you.”
He stared for a long time, slumped in place. His gallantry warred with his lust. Finally, he straightened. “Actually, I may have a free arm for you.”
“What’s that?”
He muttered under his breath. Louder, he said, “I can find someone else to escort my cousin.”
Beatrix clasped her hands in front of her. “That sounds delightful.”
“I can send a carriage to fetch you?”
“A steam-powered ride would be wonderful.”
He hesitated. “I’ll send the stocker to fetch one at the end of the day.”
“What time should I be ready?”
“Five o’clock, sharp,” he said. “Where do you live?”
Beatrix giggled and issued an address in the nicer part of New London. “Have the carriage wait for me at the corner. I don’t want my guardian to send a chaperone along. She’s always worried about my reputation. If she only knew…”
Jackson’s mouth opened slightly, and he swallowed. He seemed shocked. “I will,” he stuttered.
Beatrix left the shop, grinning from ear to ear. Jackson had taken the bait more easily than she could have hoped. Despite the work at hand, a thrill of excitement worked through her. She’d never been to an airship soiree, but she’d heard stories.
Unless she missed her guess, it would be a night none of them forgot.
Meeting the Mark
Beatrix put her hands on her hips. “I think we’ve got our stories straight. You going out to walk Market Street in my clothes?”
Herbert nodded. “At six o’clock sharp and again at eight.”
“That should take care of my alibi. What about our plan for a replacement stone?”
If they could manage it. If he could match it. There was so much they didn’t know.
Herbert flipped the gadget belt over and adjusted another setting. “I’ll meet you near the bathrooms of the administration building at half past six. I’ll collect the real diamond from you, so I
can match the fake one to it exactly. Then I’ll come back to give you the replacement crystal shortly after. We’ll have half an hour at best.”
Beatrix leaned over him. “What does the belt do that’s new?”
Herbert pressed his lips into a straight line and peered at her over his glasses. “You would ask that.”
“At least I’m dependable,” she said.
He lifted the wide leather belt from the workbench, and the metal latch jingled almost like a bell. Each feature had been worked into an ornate design. Throwing stars hid in the round backs of elephants, and a dagger paraded as a displaying bird.
He pointed to a line of triangles along the top. “You have poison-tipped darts. To deploy, tap the top button on the belt clasp. They shoot out in a straight line.”
“They’re poison?”
“Not lethal. They’re sleeper darts. They provide about thirty minutes of sleep time.”
“Brilliant.” Beatrix tapped her chin. “I could have used those on those magistrate guards last month.”
“Indeed. That’s what gave me the idea.”
“Go on.”
Herbert caressed the fine leather. “Not much else has changed. There wasn’t room, so not much else has changed.”
“Surely, there’s at least one more thing.”
Herbert’s mouth twitched. He pulled a small velvet drawstring bag from a new pocket on the side. He loosened the string and emptied the contents onto his palm. “If you crack these and throw them, they flash and smoke about thirty seconds later. They’re meant to cause a distraction so you can make your escape.”
Beatrix nodded. “Those could be useful. Is the wire still wound on the front?”
“I left the harness and the wire, but, next time, please don’t unstring the whole spool.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“Of course not,” he said. Then he unfastened the buckle at the front and held it up to her waist. “It fits as it did previously, but I added one more notch to allow for the ballgown and the typical undergarments. In fact, between an evening gown bustle and the frills of a waistcoat, the belt may be barely visible.”
Beatrix fastened the gadget belt around her waist, settling it over her breeches. Then she hooked her thumbs over the belt and smoothed her finger over the row of jeweled buttons. “Smart thinking.” She paused. “What about the wire cutters? Did you add those?”
He crossed his arms. “I did. Was there anything else?”
Beatrix smirked. “I do have one request for next time, Herbie.”
Herbert flinched. He hated that nickname. “What is it?”
“Next time, I want a gadgetized bustle I could use to shock the hoity-toit folks… or perhaps weaponized pantaloons.”
At that, Herbert flushed bright red, and his mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.
Beatrix belly-laughed. She’d thought that one up the day after she’d dropped the belt off for repair, and she’d been saving it since.
“Indeed,” Herbert finally offered. His gaze narrowed. “I’m not an expert in women’s matters, Beatrix, but shouldn’t you be getting home to get ready? I gather it takes more than a few minutes to prepare for a ball.”
“You’ve done fine work, Herbert.”
He beamed in response.
“But I suppose I should be getting on.” She ran her hands over the belt once more, but flinched when a sharp edge bit into her fingertip. Several clicks followed, like the winding of a clock. A slight shift in the belt and a hiss were the only signal that something had been launched.
“What was that?” Beatrix squealed, turning away from Herbert to observe the triangle move across the room.
“Dart,” Herbert barked and ducked beneath the workbench. The projectile whizzed over the workspace. It slammed into the wall, knocking cogs and gears off the shelves, and then fell back to the surface of the desk.
She winced with every ping. Each impact slowed and adjusted its trajectory until it landed on the workbench and rolled to the edge. “What’s it made out of?”
“A special blend of the blowfruit juice and minerals from a cave in the Amazon rainforest,” he said.
“How did you get…” Her voice trailed away. She already knew it wouldn’t make any sense to her. Herbert had his ways.
A moment later, Herbert’s eyes widened. “Damnation,” he muttered.
Beatrix dropped to his side. “What is it?”
He reached behind him and plucked the dart from his calf. “It fell off the desk.”
“Tip down?”
He nodded. “Tip down.”
“Herbert,” she groaned.
Then his eyes rolled up, and he hit the floor. Poor Herbert always got the less-pleasant end of Beatrix’s attempts to learn to use his inventions. On the bright side, at least they knew the sleeper darts worked.
Several hours later, Beatrix stood in front of the floor-length mirror, twisting one way and then the other, admiring her blue dress and practicing her proper, cultured dialect. It would be the first time she’d held an aristocratic character for the duration of a long evening. Her native speech pattern was much more low-brow than Jackson would expect.
Did it look like she’d done her hair and makeup all by herself? A break in the foggy glass reflected her in two pieces, and it made it hard to get the full effect. Mixed silks and velvets weren’t the style anymore, but she only had the one dress.
Her dress wasn’t the latest fashion, but it wasn’t archaic. Perhaps Jackson wouldn’t notice the social foibles. It wasn’t the sort of thing she was used to doing, but she had to maintain a certain level of decorum to fit in at the poshest party in the New London racing season.
Herbert had been correct about the belt being nearly hidden. The flashy buckle brought attention to the thinnest part of her waist, and the fluffy bustle in the back obscured the rear of it. She glanced at her locket watch, fastened to her chest. Either way, she’d run out of time.
She hurried out the rear of the lean-to. When she came around the corner, the cobbler was locking up his shop, and he let out a low whistle. “Ho, Bea, where you off to dressed up like that?”
“Working,” she called without stopping.
“Must be some job.”
She didn’t answer. No doubt the cobbler thought she was a working girl, but she didn’t care. He could think as he liked.
The roads changed from dirt and gravel bits to brick, and her low-heeled boots clicked against the masonry. On time, she arrived at the meeting place.
A steam-horse cab waited at the corner with the young driver dozing in his seat. Beatrix stopped beside the carriage, but the man didn’t react beyond a deep breath and sigh. His shoulders drooped even more.
Beatrix knocked against the shiny metal door. “Hoo, boy, are you here for me? How long have you been here?”
He snorted and came upright, confused until his eyes landed on her. He ambled down from the seat. “I beg your pardon, Miss Bordeaux. I’ve been here since four o’clock sharp. The man who hired me couldn’t remember what time he’d said.”
Beatrix chuckled at that. “No harm, then. Will we pick up Mr. Luntz on the way?”
The driver doffed his hat. “He is already there, ma’am.”
“Oh.”
The driver opened the silvered door, and helped her into the carriage. This particular steam vehicle had been made to look like a fashionable hackney. The driver stopped at the front, no doubt stoking the fire that heated the water that made the whole thing run.
The vehicle shifted as he climbed aboard. With a hiss, they were away, the slam of eight iron hooves loud against the pavement.
Beatrix peered out the window, relishing the looks the hackney received. Steam-powered creatures were the conveyance of the wealthy. Every few strides the horses hissed, venting excess pressure from their safety valves.
Several blocks later, they arrived at the gate to the airship pit lane, tucked in the middle of the warehouse district. They paused
at the gatehouse long enough for the driver to show his invitation. The gate arm raised. Then they rolled beneath a cast-iron arch with the words Airship Row. Dozens of warehouses lined the main street, and one or two airships floated above each one. The large buildings had been painted to match the dirigibles, including their assigned team numbers. Mechanics in goggles ran from one place to another, no doubt preparing their airliners for the first race of the season.
Beatrix leaned out of the window. Two roads stretched between the entrance and the administration building. One lane bore incoming attendees and the other carried them away. Butterflies flapped in her stomach. Almost time.
A long, low pool filled the space between the avenues. Small candles floated on the pond. Water cascaded from a fountain at its center.
At the end of the boulevard, finely dressed partygoers milled about the administration building. Paper lanterns hung from iron hooks that stuck out of the lawn. A peacock screamed in the distance, and another flew across the space.
They pulled to a stop at the entrance. The carriage shifted as the driver climbed down, and the door opened with a squeak. The administration building resembled drawings of the Parthenon she’d seen in history books.
Idyllic opulence. All of it. But she couldn’t get lost in the world. She had one job to do. She had to set William and Helen free.
The driver offered his hand. “M’lady?”
Beatrix raised her chin, took a breath, and laid her hand in his. The moment her foot scraped against the cobblestone, Jackson appeared at her side, dressed in a dapper pin-striped suit. He smelled dreadful, a soured mix of sweat, cigar smoke, and an excess of brandy.
“Hello, Ms. Bordeaux. Are you ready to go in?” He offered his elbow, but wobbled, and his voice sounded like he was chewing on his tongue as he spoke.
Beatrix considered him. Was he inebriated already? She plastered a smile on her face and placed her hand on his forearm. “Of course, kind sir.”
He placed his hand over hers, laced his fingers between hers, and squeezed.
Beatrix grimaced. The sensation wasn’t altogether unpleasant, but the action held a bite of pain that made her uncomfortable. Not because of the feel of it, but for the flash in his eyes. Her throat dried. Suddenly, Jackson Luntz seemed dangerous.
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