Tenfold More Wicked

by Viola Carr

  Oddly, her eyes burned. This was the end, then. A bittersweet relief, not to exhaust herself figuring him out any longer . . . but it hurt, too, the way a missing tooth hurt, that ghostly, unaccountable yearning for a thing probably better lost.

  Remy just smiled. Haunted, only a glimmer of his customary glory. But still, for a beat, it stopped her heart. “That’s all right, then. For a moment, I thought you’d insist on changing your ways for me.”

  She gaped. “But . . . you . . . honestly, Captain. ‘Impossible’ doesn’t even begin to cover you.”

  “What?” he protested. “Are you calling me a fool? Then a fool is what I am, and to hell with being sensible.”

  “Now listen—”

  “Eliza, will you shut up and let me adore you?” He scooted closer, stopping her protests with a finger to her lips. “No, don’t. Your stubbornness drives me wild. Your ill manners make me laugh. And just so you know, if given the chance I’ll happily spend the rest of my days refusing to give you your way, just so you can bully me into relenting. Nothing would captivate me more.”

  “Oh.” Bewildered, she digested what he’d said. “Well. If that’s the case . . .”

  He didn’t speak. Just sat there, irresponsibly magnificent. Insufferable, maddening, undoubtedly dangerous. So bloody perfect he made her head ache.

  She sniffed. “Very well. I surrender. The answer is yes.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Please, tell me your wits haven’t rotted in the last twenty-four hours. I said, I’ll marry you.”

  He stared. He grinned. And this time it erupted full force, stealing her breath.

  Her head swirled, like the initial stages of a fever. Was she ill? Or was this what happiness felt like? “On one condition,” she added.

  “Astonish me. Please.”

  “Promise me that one day—it needn’t be today—you’ll tell me everything. The Royal. Your wolf. I want it all. No secrets, Remy. Not from me.”

  His eyes shone, candid. “Fair enough. You have my word. If that’s still good enough.”

  “As I hope mine is for you.” She steeled herself. “That invitation to Le Caveau des Oubliettes . . . it came from Mr. Todd. He didn’t hurt me,” she added quickly, seeing his reaction. “Nothing like that. But I wanted . . . I thought I could cure him. I see now that I can’t. I’ve been so very vain and foolish. Forgive me.”

  Heart sinking, she waited. Would she forgive, in his place?

  “Madam, your dedication to your calling and your compassion for the lost only make you more intoxicating.” Lafayette lifted her fingers to his lips. His big hands were warm, battle-scarred. Safe. “I’m drunk on you, Eliza. Utterly undone. It’d be embarrassing, if it weren’t so delightful.”

  She laughed, dazzled by the sunshine flooding her heart. “Mannerly, I’m sure, but isn’t it customary to kiss your betrothed properly at this point?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.” And he kissed her, until her eyes rolled back and she couldn’t breathe, and he broke off with a bashful yet satisfied grin. “I believe I’m the luckiest man on this earth. Thank you.”

  She shoved him, still tingling all over. “You say that now. Wait until my father wants to come to the wedding.”

  “Christ. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Ha! Too late. Shall we invite the Philosopher? They could have such a nice chat.”

  “By all means. Should be quite a spectacle.” His laughing gaze teased her. “Speaking of relatives . . .”

  She groaned. “Oh, no. Do I detect too late this cunning ambush?”

  “You said ‘no secrets.’” He swept her to her feet. “Luckily for you, my brother’s inspecting the new Royal Navy skyship this afternoon. If you’re looking for a reason to change your mind.”

  “That’s not fair,” she protested. “You know I’m simply dying to see that skyship.”

  “There you are, then.” A shrewd wink.

  “But what about the case?” She told Remy about Quick’s intoxicating smoke, the wild revelry. “Reeve arrested him. Taking credit for my work, the rotten little weasel. But Quick’s no sorcerer, just a charlatan alchemist. I’m afraid our investigation is at an abject dead end. We must begin again.”

  “Perfect. Then a few hours more won’t matter, will they?”

  “But . . . I’m not dressed. Look at me, I’m covered in dirt.”

  “Then go home and change, pretty lady. Ah,” he added, forestalling her objection with a grin, “I’ll have you know that my hard-won standing as a singularly disappointing second son is at stake. If you don’t astound my brother in every way with your sheer magnificence, I shall never forgive you.”

  BLOODY WARS AND SICKLY SEASONS

  GRITTY GOLDEN SUNSHINE BATHED TALL STATELY houses, busy shops, and a noisy stream of traffic. Across Piccadilly loomed the skyship, shadows deepening beneath. That canvas banner flapped in the breeze:

  HAIL THE ENLIGHTENED BRITISH EMPIRE!

  HMS INVINCIBLE

  Self-consciously, Eliza tugged her clean gray skirts, and narrowed her eyes eastwards, between strolling shoppers and rumbling carts, to Moriarty Quick’s beauty parlor, where wide upstairs windows flashed gaily in the sun. Quick would have a fine view of the skyship launch and the Mad Queen’s speech. When Reeve was forced to release him, that was, after the true Pentacle Killer struck again.

  The idea of setting the pestilent wretch free still taunted her, a mocking carnival clown. She’d had it wrong about the murders. Didn’t mean Quick wasn’t guilty of something—and she couldn’t peel off the sticky suspicion that there was more to his evil swindles than she knew.

  At the corner of Green Park, hawks hovered and swerved aloft, hunting field mice. A flower-seller in ribboned skirts and a fat man pushing a smoking barrow shouting “Oysters! Frrresh oysters!” fought for attention with a skinny ancient in a stovepipe hat on a soapbox, who waved a sign announcing THE END IS NIGH! and delivered a blistering rant about sorcerers and Frenchmen (apparently the same thing) at top volume.

  At Eliza’s side, Captain Lafayette—Remy, she supposed with a bewildered laugh—looked brightly polished as ever, uniform, weapons, and charm. So perfect, it blinded her. Already, he showed little sign of what must have been a harrowing night. He handled his changes better than she . . . or did he? She hadn’t asked him where he’d been, or what he’d done, and he hadn’t volunteered.

  But her heart sank a little as they crossed the street. Her desperately middle-class dress itched her skin, unforgivably plain. Even her neatly coiled hair felt insipid and unworthy. Was she doomed forever to feel like a charity case? She could already hear the whispers. Why in the world did he marry her? Must have deflowered her, poor lad, a baby on the way . . .

  Crazy laughter tickled her. I said I’d marry him, Lizzie. Marriage. Wedding. Wife. Am I insane?

  Remy touched her arm, soothing. “Relax. François doesn’t bite.”

  “Bite?” burbled Hipp hopefully, ducking from beneath her skirts.

  “Is that another wolf joke?” Exasperated, she shook her head. “What was I thinking, taking fashion advice from you? You’re supposed to wear the same thing every day.”

  “He’s my brother, not the Queen’s garden party. As you are is perfect.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re not being tested. He’ll think I’m . . .” She faltered. Poor? Plain? Contemptible? “Ordinary,” she finished, despondent.

  Remy laughed. “A dread verdict, to be sure. Trust me: François will worship you. How could he not?”

  They walked through the park gates, under the shadow of the massive skyship. Remy lifted the drapes, letting Hipp dash off across the lawn, and they entered.

  She gazed upwards, and sighed joyfully. “Oh. It’s fantastic.”

  A steel leviathan shining in the sun, forty feet high with a deck as long as three train carriages. The hull was shaped like a sailing warship’s, with three gun decks, portholes bristling with cannon. A hot halo shi
mmered about the exhaust vents at the bulging stern, twin aetheric engines at idle. That sharp thundery scent threatened, and static lifted the hair on her arms.

  An array of silvery rigging gleamed along each gunwale. The metallic sails at fore and aft thrummed in light breeze, making the vessel strain against the four thick ropes tethering it to massive iron stakes hammered into the grass.

  “Amazing,” she exclaimed. “I should like so very much to see it fly. Truly, science has no limit.”

  Remy inspected the rows of cannon with a critical soldier’s eye. “If it does, it’d be gratifying if this were it. One doesn’t win wars with the second-best navy.”

  Those horrid tales of Paris made her shudder. Ghettos, executions, ritual human sacrifice. “‘Invincible,’ eh? Here’s hoping she lives up to it.”

  Far above, on the quarterdeck, a lean figure scrambled down glinting ratlines, dark coat swirling. Remy waved. The man waved back, and ran to unhook a belaying pin, and soon a knotted rope snaked down to puddle at her feet.

  She eyed it dubiously, pushing up her spectacles. Glanced at the deck, thirty feet above. “You did this on purpose. You know I don’t like heights.”

  “Nonsense. You’re tougher than you imagine.” Remy grabbed the rope, stuck his booted foot in the loop, and held out his hand, with a charming twinkle of eye. “Madam?”

  “I rest my case.” But she gripped the rope, and let him wrap his arm around her waist. He felt strong and warm. He smelled delightful, too, of pine needles and soap. It wasn’t helping. “If you drop me to my death, I’ll never forgive you—Oh!”

  The rope jerked, hoisting them skywards. Her stomach lurched. She flung both arms around him. “Remy—”

  “You’re safe.” His whisper warmed her cheek. “Just hold me, and don’t look down.”

  The creaking winch reeled them in, and they soon reached the top. Remy grabbed the standing rigging, and reluctantly she let go and stepped onto the shining metal foredeck. Above, the huge central balloon groaned in the breeze, canvas luffing in the smell of steel and thunder. Below, she could see Hipp chasing butterflies in the park, brass legs flashing.

  Remy jumped to the deck, red coattails flying, and helped her alight. “Ahoy, me hearties, and pieces of eight! Or whatever you poxy pirate fellows say.”

  The black-coated man tied off the winch. An inch or two taller than Remy, and a lot leaner. Some years older, too, his features sharper. He wore dark glasses and no hat, and the sun lit flames in his reddish hair. “Do I look like a pirate to you?”

  “You look decrepit and bewildered to me, but that’s nothing new.” Remy made a flashy bow, lifting Eliza’s hand to show her off. “Surprise!”

  Lafayette the elder removed his glasses, revealing the same brilliant eyes. If anything, they were bluer, summer-ocean indigo. “You little rat,” he accused, “you could have warned me.” His voice was low, roughened, precisely British. Had she expected a French accent?

  Remy grinned, a tomcat licking creamy whiskers. “Dr. Eliza Jekyll, I present Captain François Lafayette, Royal Navy.”

  “Enchanted, madam. Finally,” François added, unleashing a smile fit to stun an elephant. Good lord, that ran in the family, too. “I wondered if he’d invented you, but I see his feeble imagination would fall miserably short of reality.”

  Amused, she accepted a warm handshake. He smelled sweetly of brandy. “Delighted, Captain.”

  “François will do. Retired,” he explained. “Purely a civilian nuisance these days.”

  Remy snorted. “A wonder you’ve made it this far, with the hare-brained heroics you nautical twits attempt. Think you’re all Nelson at the Nile. In the army, promotion is much more civilized. We just fling money. “

  “Buy yourself an entire regiment, for all I care,” returned François, “I’ll still outrank you. Senior service, all that.”

  “Keep telling yourself that. Until the Foreign Office surpasses the Royal Society for striking terror into cowardly hearts? I’ll still get invited to better parties.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Eliza sweetly. “I’ve heard you regimental fellows have a habit of arriving late to parties. Especially those hosted by the French.”

  François gave a throaty laugh. “Madam, I like you already. Remy, she can stay.”

  “You say that now. She hasn’t started on you yet.” A sardonic wink. “Nice skyship. I’m surprised they let a crusty old relic like you play with it.”

  François rolled his eyes. “Don’t listen to him. Care for a tour, Doctor? I was just tinkering with a few last-minute adjustments in the engine bay.”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  They followed François aft, past coiled rope and hatches leading belowdecks. The silvery sails rippled in sunlit breeze. “Seventy-eight guns, three decks,” he explained. “Cast from the new alloy, lighter and better resistant to heat. Lightweight guns, explosive shot.” He tapped his gold-topped cane on the buffed metal deck. “We had to reduce the weight, or the engine space was insufficient to generate enough lift. Making the vessel bigger only reduces maneuverability.”

  She ran an admiring finger along the gleaming gunwale. “Were you involved with the design?”

  “I chimed in here and there.”

  “He practically drew the blueprints,” corrected Remy as they approached the brass-railed quarterdeck. “The old days of the seaborne navy might be behind us, but when they want lessons on blowing French ships to splinters, they still ask Captain François.”

  “Admirable,” said Eliza. “Are you still serving with the War Office, then?”

  “Not exactly. Remy, help me with this, will you?” The brothers heaved up a trapdoor. Warm ozone-scented air ruffled her skirts. Yards below hulked two massive cylindrical engines, all but a tiny glimpse hidden by the deck.

  A control box hung open, exposing a pair of fat alloy gas conduits. François leaned down, grabbed a spanner, and wrenched a squeaking tap closed. He yanked a lever, and a tiny diode glimmered on the fuse panel. “Voilà. I told them the electrics were bleeding amperage.” He tossed the spanner back in the box and jumped up. “What was I saying? Oh. The aether ignites, and via those conduits, the inner balloon fills with ultra-light phlogiston-rich air. We adjust the pressure of ordinary air in the outer balloon, which adds or subtracts altitude.” He waved his cane at the canvas swaying above their heads.

  Eliza watched, rapt. “As for a submersible craft, but designed for the air?”

  “Just so.” An appreciative smile. “More fuel-efficient than anything we’ve built before. Still coal-powered, initially, but with those sun-catching sails, when the right temperature is reached, the reaction is self-sustaining. And the waste products are non-toxic.”

  Eliza gazed around happily, holding on to her hat. “Marvelous.”

  “Isn’t it? And it’s the Foreign Office, mostly,” François added. “A bit of this and that.”

  “Mostly he just flits across the Channel, smuggling cheese and champagne and trying to look mysterious.” Remy skidded down-ladder, and helped her follow. The top gun deck was only six feet high, with rows of cannon and stacked shot receding into the dark.

  “Steady on,” said François cheerfully, ducking his head. “Official secrets, all that.”

  “How sinister. I do hope you’re an assassin, or something equally outrageous.”

  “I could tell you, madam, but I’d have to do away with you, and then he’d truly be insufferable.” François invited her into a cramped but well-furnished cabin with a teak dining table. Crockery and muskets bolted into racks, books and documents strapped to shelves. A map table was jammed beneath sunlit windows overlooking the stern.

  “He hunts French spies,” said Remy carelessly. “That ruffian Harlequin and his gang. Nice job, brother. Didn’t stop them blowing that electricity generator to splinters.”

  “The soul of secrecy, as usual. Now I’ll have to kill you both.” François waved at their surroundings. “Admiral’s quarters, dou
bles as a combat deck. That partition folds away so you can run in the guns.” He indicated grooves in the floor.

  Remy pulled a chair into the sun, and Eliza sat, arranging her skirts. “Have you any leads on this Harlequin miscreant?” she asked. “The papers say our home-grown republicans look like Tory reactionaries compared to him. A master of disguise, sneaking around London whipping up working-class discontent and stabbing unsuspecting Royal investigators in the back.”

  François wrinkled his nose. “If only the odd murder were all. Harlequin’s idea of starting a revolution is killing civilians en masse to frighten Her Majesty’s government into enacting more draconian laws, whereupon the long-suffering populace will rebel. Les aristocrates à la lanterne! and all that.”

  “How bloodthirsty,” remarked Eliza. “And a mite underhanded, don’t you think?”

  “Cowards,” agreed Remy. “Portable bombs, indeed. It’s just not cricket, old chap. What’s wrong with an old-fashioned British riot?”

  “That’ll teach those smart Swedish fellows to invent dynamite, instead of forcing these terror-mongers to oblige us by blowing their own limbs off with raw nitroglycerine. Remy, while you’re up, pour us some lemonade, there’s a good lad.” With a sigh, François took the gimbaled admiral’s chair. “Still, the spy game is rather good sport for an elderly fellow such as myself. Sword fights, cunning disguises, cloak-and-dagger stuff. Much higher life expectancy than running Spanish blockades in the colonies and firing double-shot broadsides at French ships of the line. I’m saddened to admit that’s a younger man’s game.”

  Eliza laughed, aware of how deftly he’d put her at ease. “Nonsense. I can easily imagine you doing either.” He looked at home in that chair. What a dashing pair the brothers Lafayette made. Did François know about Remy’s curse?

  “He makes it sound so heroic.” Remy handed her a tall glass. “I assure you, he’s a glorified civil-service snout, not the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

  François cocked that same single eyebrow. “You’re just jealous, Royal Society. You and your tedious treason trials. No wonder you’re getting fat and lazy. When did you last disguise yourself as a harlot to rescue Her Majesty’s loyal spies from the Châtelet?”