Clockwork Blue (The Lumière Chronicles)

by Gloria Harchar

  Gaspar's teeth flashed in the depths of the coach. "My lord, I don't like the glint in your eyes."

  "How can you see anything?"

  "I sense your determination, so I won't say any more on the matter."

  Hurt and censure laced Gaspar's tone, which Malcolm ignored. "Much appreciated." He dismissed Gaspar and thought again about Miss Nicola Moore. Whatever challenge she posed was minor compared to the reward of owning the dye. An image of his brother floated through his mind—blond hair blowing in the wind, his blue eyes crinkled with laughter. The memory was replaced by William's pale face and closed eyes as he laid in a coma. Knife-like pain drove deep in his chest. Determination swept over him. He vowed to get rights to the recipe.

  In addition to owning the dye, Nicola Moore would fit well into his plans. Her hoydenish manners would make him more of an outcast, a condition he preferred. Society had never been kind to him and so their opinion meant nothing.

  The carriage stopped at last in front of the Campbell's manor—more like a two-story cottage with a thatched roof—and a surge of anticipation swept through Malcolm at the thought of running the recalcitrant tomboy to ground. He stepped down from the cab and waited until his servant followed. "Watch for her and her cousin, Gaspar. If either one leaves, notify me at once."

  "Yes, sir," the man replied and headed for the servants' quarters while Malcolm took the brick paved steps to the main entrance.

  The moment he entered, a hush crept over the guests closest to the foyer as they recognized him. A resigned acceptance washed over him. Most people feared him or, if not feared, had a healthy respect for him and didn't feel comfortable in his presence, which suited him fine. He approached the small ballroom, barely noting the paisley wallpaper or the oak flooring, instead his senses tuned to locating his quarry.

  A cloak of indifference settled over him as he scanned the chamber. Nicola wasn't among the guests gawking at him. Some revelers danced. Others milled about, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary, which signified her absence.

  The young Mr. Diderot conversed with other rascals on the far side of the ballroom. Diderot scanned the room, his gaze lighting on Malcolm briefly before moving on. Soon the scamp would take the bait.

  Then he heard a voice he remembered all too well from the turmoil in the street and turned.

  She stood in an alcove several feet away, talking to a homely man with a large nose who appeared to be a lieutenant of the Hussars. Her animated demeanor fascinated him, and briefly Malcolm wondered what subject could bring about such enthusiasm. Then she batted her hands about her face as if chasing away an insect, turning to glance behind her. Flushing, she gave the lieutenant a curtsy and left him gazing after her with a foolish smile on his face.

  Malcolm knew the exact moment Nicola became aware of him, for she looked across the crowded ballroom and their gazes met. The frisson of energy from that look shook him to his very soul. He wondered if her wide-eyed stare indicated she also felt the strange attraction… or the danger he presented.

  Reluctantly entranced, he studied her. The almost exotic appeal of her almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones contrasted with the chaotic look about her person. The feathers on her bonnet stuck out at odd angles, and the some of the starfish had broken, leaving only a couple of the legs. Those wide generous lips made his mouth water with the desire to taste them. What did she think about him? Did he pique her curiosity?

  She jumped, and he wondered if his presence had caused the bizarre reaction. But as she turned with a smile and opened her mouth to speak, her friendly expression melted into confusion as she looked at the space behind her.

  What bothered the chit? Did she have an overactive imagination? What caused her such animated expression?

  Soon—very soon he would discover the reason. The mystery surrounding her would be solved. Once the secret unraveled, he would put her on a shelf with his other memorabilia and return to putting in his time until death.

  Chapter 2

  Nicola resisted the urge to glance behind her again. Why did she keep hearing that ethereal voice when nobody was near? It all started when she conversed with the very nice Lieutenant Tell. Although she told him that he hadn't done anything to offend her, but that she had to be alone for a while, she could see he didn't believe her. His hurt expression would haunt her.

  Truth be told, she was feeling spooked and more than slightly crazy. Add insult to injury, the Earl of Falconwood watched her with unnerving intensity. The fine hairs on her nape tingled again. Against her will, her attention riveted on the source.

  How strange that he was at a ball so far beneath his social status. He stood half a head taller than the rest of the guests in the chamber. His dark breeches and matching waistcoat were in sharp contrast to the clothes worn by the ladies around him. Although the women eyed him with fascination from behind their fans, none of them conversed with him.

  A falcon among parakeets.

  Unable to look away, Nicola experienced a shiver of apprehension creeping down her spine. Polite society didn't quite know how to cope with this wild bird of prey that had recently alighted among them after his ten-year exile to India. She didn't know, either, and she didn't care to learn.

  "Miss, your undergarments are gone."

  There it was again. For a moment she wondered if the Black Falcon had conveyed his thoughts to her through some sort of mind power, and then rolled her eyes over that idea. As if she believed anyone had a sort of telepathy. Perhaps it was due to lack of sleep. She had spent most of the night type-setting the pamphlets in Mr. Campbell's print shop. It must be ringing in her ears that sometimes happened when she became exhausted.

  A whirring stirred her nape, causing Nicola to whip around to see only an innocent potted plant and a portrait of a Campbell with his hunting dog. Was somebody throwing something at her? She inspected the floor, hoping to find a rubber band, a paper airplane—something. But she could only detect a couple of deep scratches in the wood treading, and a piece of starfish dyed in her Clockwork Blue. Cheeks as hot as a steaming vat of dye, she stooped and picked up the crumbs. As she rose, she pretended to smooth down the back of her gown as she groped for the small rolls of fabric. The stitching had held. Of course it had. Time to go to the ladies' retiring chamber.

  She must regain her composure—if anything, splash a water on her face. If that didn't help, she might as well find Ramsey and force him to go home with her. More and more she discovered she couldn't trust him to stay out of trouble. She would have to servants keep an eye on him if this voice in her head didn't go away and she was forced to retire.

  Nerves humming down her spine, she turned from the Earl's disconcerting stare and strived for what she hoped was a serene expression. She ventured down the hall, breathing a sigh of relief as she slipped through the ornate mahogany doorway that led into the ladies' retiring chamber. When she saw no one occupied the room, she chided herself for her fanciful notions.

  "Between mythical voices and imagining men as falcons, it's a wonder I can get out of bed in the mornings. What a ninny I am." With a shake of her head, she made her way to the wall with the looking glass and wash basin. She looked at her reflection and frowned. Most of her impossibly straight hair had slipped from the pins. What was worse, the quill to her feather had bent and only two of her starfish remained whole. The rest were a crumbled mess. With a sigh, she plucked the accessories free, leaving only the gold and black striped hat with the matching black netting. "Pitiful."

  "Pitiful, indeed," a tiny voice replied.

  A bright yellow insect buzzed about her head. If it was a bug, it was a very strange bug. Why, the creature resembled a miniature human. Shocked, she froze. A mist gathered along the edges of her vision. The counter tilted.

  A pixie, no bigger than her pinkie finger, flew in front of her. "You are about to discover your true love and here you are, looking quite shameful. Your skirts are too short. No bustle and hardly any petticoats. And bloomers of all things.
What manner of dress is this for your Coming-Out ball, the place where you are to meet your future husband?"

  Nicola's stomach somersaulted as if she were falling out of a tree. "Not real." Blinking hard, she tried to dislodge the strange creature from her vision.

  As dragonfly-like-insect hovered close to her face, she saw the creature had a nose with a mischievous tilt. Yellow wisps of hair fell about his pointed ears. His wings were like a rainbow in motion, all bright light as he hovered in the air. He wore a golden dress coat with a waistcoat underneath, sported a white cravat, snug-fitting breeches made of deep chartreuse velvet, and gilded shoes that curled at the toes. "You don't believe in your own grandmother's teachings about the Diderots," he said. His miniature face puckered with disapproval. "This is the first time in centuries a daughter has questioned the Way. What is this generation coming to? I must tell Glissando. Glissando! Where are you?"

  "Over here."

  Nicola jumped at the sound of another tiny voice. Close by, a wiry, diminutive figure with tufts of silky-orange hair covering its small head, sat on the edge of an abandoned wineglass. Pastel wings the colors of a fading rainbow, fluttered behind his back. He wore similar clothing as his companion, but his coat was silver with a green waistcoat and matching breeches.

  Had she been whisked to a fantasy world? A make believe world her mind had conjured up?

  The one called Glissando glanced over his shoulder. "Don't scold her so, Allegro. Surely you noticed all the ladies were dressed as she. Some adorn themselves with even less of a bustle. It must be the fashion now—which is an improvement, in my opinion, just as the food. The true question is, has the liquor gotten better?"

  "I must be coming down with fever." Nicola rubbed her eyes. Carefully, she opened them to look again, disbelief washing over her.

  The pixies remained.

  The pixie called Allegro hovered about a foot from her. He beat his wings to twirl and face his companion. "First it's books, now it's spirits." He shook his finger at the other pixie. "If you think you can do a better job at this mission, then get your nose out of the wine and have a go."

  Glissando waved a dismissive hand and continued to stare into the abandoned wineglass. "No thanks. You're doing fine. Carry on."

  Allegro flew toward his companion, his posture rigid. "Glissando!"

  "Very well." Glissando sighed and lifted from the rim. Wings whirring, he halted midair and gave Nicola a perfect bow. "Good evening, Miss Diderot."

  She couldn't bring herself to talk to the creature her mind had conjured up.

  Glissando cocked his head, then turned to his accomplice, and held his hand up to cover his lips. "What's wrong with her? She looks rather dim-witted to me."

  Nicola realized she was staring with her mouth open. Scowling, she snapped it shut.

  Allegro shook his bright yellow head. "I didn't sign onto this mission to be rude."

  "Oh?" Glissando smirked. "With your carping at her about her clothes, you could have fooled me."

  Nicola watched Allegro's face turn blood-red, the color contrasting with his bright yellow hair. Could her mind really conjure up such details? Slowly she reached out and touched Allegro.

  He faltered and yelped. "Watch out! You could knock a fellow silly with that huge hand of yours."

  She rubbed her fingers together, marveling. It was as if she'd touched light, yet solid, tangible light—like a fragment of the sun. As the shock wore off, memories from her childhood flooded Nicola's mind, memories she'd convinced herself had been dreams.

  She shook her head in wonder. "So, the little Callers do exist. The pixie tales are true."

  Glissando flew close and smiled. "Of course, Miss Diderot."

  "My surname is not Diderot. It is Moore."

  The pixie's gaze outlined her face. "However, your aura says Diderot. You have Diderot ancestry in your blood, which is much stronger than the Moore surname you claim."

  What rubbish was the wee fellow spouting? She dismissed his comment, her mind too busy with the fact that the pixies really did exist, and that they were here. "And you have finally returned."

  "Aye, we have come."

  Allegro nudged his companion aside and stared at her. "You remember?"

  She glared at him. "Of course." She'd gotten a glimpse of pixies when she was a child of five years. And Grandmother Diderot had told her about the Legend. But that had been so long ago, Nicola had convinced herself it was a child's tale her grandmother had fabricated to soften the harsh realities that made up her grandfather.

  "So you really do remember." Although Glissando smiled, Nicola could detect a strain in that grin.

  Legends came flooding back. Even though she was only five years old, she remembered Granddear's own tale of how devious pixies could be—namely a pixie called Glissando. "Yes, I do. And I particularly recall how Grandmother warned me against you."

  Glissando's shoulders drooped. Then he lifted those shoulders and gazed up at her. "Lass, I've changed. And I'm here to redeem myself."

  "What's this?" Allegro's eyes widened as he glanced between them.

  "Why are you here?" Nicola asked, ignoring the other pixie. Instead, she narrowed her eyes at Glissando.

  He ran a hand through his hair to flatten it, but the strands only popped up again. "To save England."

  "Ha! Well, sorry to break the news, but you came too late. England is saved. The war is over. We have the Treaty of Amiens between us and France. In fact, you missed the grand celebrations we had nearly three months ago."

  Allegro flew in front of Glissando to face her, hands on hips. "See here. I don't know what this note slider did to your grandmother, but I wasn't involved. And I tell you that England is still vulnerable. Napoleon Bonaparte will renege on the deal. Your country will be a war again, several terrible wars that will be named The Napoleonic Wars, and you are the key to defeating Napoleon as well as crucial to a long, prosperous era following the wars."

  Nicola narrowed her eyes at Allegro. "And just how am I going to achieve all this magnificence?"

  The pixie opened his mouth as if to answer. But then he glanced down at his dangling, curly-toed shoes as if he couldn't look her in the eyes. Soon he darted a look toward his companion who had landed on the copper lip of an electrified wall sconce.

  "Go ahead, hotshot," Glissando leaned against the copper lamp and shrugged. "You might as well tell her everything. You've already compromised our mission."

  "I didn't like your schemes anyway," Allegro muttered and tossed a dark look at his nemesis. "All right, here goes nothing." The yellow-haired pixie's chest rose as he took a deep breath and straightened, giving Nicola his full attention. "In order for England to win in this upcoming war, you must marry—"

  "Lieutenant Jethro Tell," Glissando interrupted.

  Nicola's eyes widened as disbelief swept through her. "You have got to be jesting. Another mission to force two humans to wed? That's exactly what happened to Granddear." She whirled on Glissando, standing on her tiptoes so she could glare at him while he still sat on the sconce. "And what does Lieutenant Tell have to do with anything about the war?" She couldn't imagine the timid man having anything with ending a war or ensuring long post-war prosperity.

  "Hello? He's a lieutenant in the Prince Regent's Calvary, to be exact. I wasn't clued into all the details, but it's not out of the line of reason to think the poor man could influence England's destiny."

  "I remember when I was very small that you came to me. You tried to entice me to throw a snowball at Mary Turpin."

  "If only you would have. It would have delayed her for ten minutes while she chased after you, and she wouldn't have run over old Dr. Wilcox with her steamcar."

  "What? Oh no. You can't lay blame on my door. Shame on you. I was quite young at the time. Why couldn't you have gotten somebody older to delay the woman, if that's the truth? No, I'm not buying it."

  "We didn't approach anybody else because you were the only Diderot around at the time. We mad
e a pact with the Diderots a long time ago, and not all Diderots have the ability to see us. However, you do."

  "Lucky me. You didn't have a pact with this Diderot. Besides, I'm a Moore."

  Allegro shook his wee head. "You cannot eschew your Diderot roots."

  "Don't fret so, lass," Glissando cooed. "You really were too young to understand. And everything turned out all right in the end. Dr. Wilcox was old and I suppose it was his time anyway. Besides, I was able to find a good doctor to take his place."

  "You're talking about Dr. Potter? You're claiming to have influenced his coming to Nottingham? I don't believe this."

  "'Tis the truth. Face it, lass. And now we are here to demand this one task from you."

  "Forget it. I will not follow in my grandmother's footsteps and wed on a pixie's say so."