Clockwork Blue (The Lumière Chronicles)

by Gloria Harchar

  "Did you know that Malcolm married me for my dowry?"

  Startled, Teresa only stared at her for several moments. "I had heard rumors, but I also saw how smitten you are with him. I didn't want bring up the suggestion of a forced marriage."

  "How kind. But did you know that my dowry was the Clockwork Blue dye?"

  "Ah, yes. That is... I mean, I suppose I have heard that. Why do you ask?"

  "Bear with me, please. Now, do you like the shade?" "It's pretty, I do admit." Teresa gave her a puzzled look. Nicola withdrew a swatch of the cloth, arose from her chair and walked toward the oil of William. "Do you know why Malcolm was so obsessed with owning the dye?"

  Teresa hesitated. "No."

  Nicola held her cloth up next to the painting. "Your artwork is good, but not perfect because it doesn't catch the essence of your husband's eyes. The Clockwork Blue does. I remember his eyes, vibrant even as a lad, and they were the exact shade of the Blue."

  "You've been sent by the devil to torment me! I think you need to go," Lady Teresa said, her voice shaking as much as her hands.

  "All right. But I think that if you and Malcolm reminisce about William, you both can heal." Nicola gathered her reticule and walked toward the door.

  Lady Teresa called her back. Nicola turned, hope building in her chest. If she could convince this woman to reach out, maybe Malcolm would begin to recover.

  "You are kind. Don't make the mistake of seeing Malcolm through rose-tinted spectacles." Lady Teresa's face seemed carved in ice. "He destroys everything good in his life." With a sigh, Nicola shook her head. She left the depressing mansion, despairing. How could she ever make light shine upon Malcolm if those who knew him best insisted on keeping him in shadow? Perhaps she should look into the other accusations against him.

  "The Black Falcon's new wife is coming," a man with a bulbous nose said to his counterparts as they stood near the doorway, a split second before Nicola walked into the chamber.

  The moment she'd had the carriage halt in front of the building with its massive columns and brick walls, she'd been acutely aware she was about to intrude in a man's world. Now, as she glanced around, she saw men scattered about the large chamber—some at tables, some standing in clusters. She heard a few more Black Falcon remarks, then a hush descended; all looked at her as if she were a strange creature with wings. Even the dark mahogany paneling that decked the walls held gloomy disapproval.

  Although she'd never been allowed to attend, her father had always been careful to tell her of the Guild's discussions—investment and marketing ideas, upcoming bills at Parliament and how they would affect business, prices on imports and exports. Now, as she stood in the forbidden chamber, she felt like a mouse caught with a morsel of food. Since she had been bold enough to intrude upon their sacred business gathering, she could be bold enough to state her desires, so she approached the largest group. After a deep breath, she called out, "Excuse me. I'm looking for the president of your organization, Mr. Thomas Hill."

  Everyone merely continued to look at her until a robust man with round cheeks parted from one of the clusters and approached with a swagger. He sketched her a shallow bow. "I'm Thomas Hill. What can I do for you?"

  Nicola stared at the man and his suave smile that didn't reach his eyes. He reminded her of a viper. "I'm here for advice."

  "Ah, and how may we assist your'

  "I have a question about a particular business situation."

  The smile he threw her was patronizing. "Come, come. You shouldn't worry that pretty head of yours about business affairs, my lady."

  Now she definitely distrusted him. "Nonsense, sir. I want to know, if a man of business wanted to unfairly discredit his partner, what, in your opinion, would be the most effective method?"

  The tolerant but bored look suddenly hardened. "See here. I beg your pardon, but I find myself rather uncomfortable with this conversation. We are above such here at the Guild. In fact, we advise our members on how to detect fraud, not commit it."

  "And I'm certain you are more than an expert on that." She tapped her chin. "Tell me this. If someone was losing an extraordinary amount of money to pirates on the high seas, but the incidents always seemed limited to a particular ship, what would that indicate to your

  "My lady, I beg your pardon, but I have no idea. Now, if you will excuse me..." He gave her a stiff bow, then swiveled and walked away.

  "Pardon me, my lady," someone said from behind her. Nicola turned toward a slim man with a shock of white hair.

  "Excuse my intrusion, but I couldn't help but overhear. I know your husband used to be in business with Mr. Hill. It's said that fraudulent dealings occurred during their partnership, but recently I've heard new information about him that—"

  "My husband doesn't care for gossip."

  "Since he is a gentleman in trade I can well believe he answers to no rules society wishes to dish out. I admire him greatly. I'm Walter Busby, by the bye." He bowed over her hand.

  "Nice to meet you."

  "My lady, I'm worried about my son. He went into partnership with Hill about ten months ago. There has been a rash of piracy during the past three months. I believe Hill is involved, but my son won't listen to me. He thinks Hill walks on water."

  "Sir, I believe you have every reason to worry." She tapped her chin. "What sort of shipments has your son lost?"

  "Most recently silks from India along with musk from China."

  "Quite costly, I see." Shaking her head, Nicola frowned. "My husband could surely help in—" As if her thoughts had conjured him up, the air suddenly sparked with a familiar energy. Malcolm had walked into the room. She turned to see him bearing down on her. His fierce scowl did the opposite of its intention.

  She gave Malcolm a bright smile. "Speak of the devil, there's my wonderful husband now."

  If possible, his scowl became even darker. But that was better than icy indifference. "My lord, this is Walter Busby. Mr. Busby has been telling me about his son's partnership with Mr. Hill. Their shipping company has been losing vast sums of money."

  "Have you now decided to open a salon to advise men of business, my dear?"

  She cocked her head. "Quite ingenious of you to suggest it, my lord."

  Busby's eyes widened. "So, the rumors are true." "What rumors?" Malcolm asked.

  "That... that you indulge your lovely wife's every whim."

  Malcolm stared at the man a moment, seemingly nonplussed, and then grasped Nicola gently by the arm. "We have another engagement, my dear. If you will excuse us?" He didn't wait for a response from Busby, but hustled her toward the door.

  "I will have word for you about this matter soon, Mr. Busby," she called over her shoulder before being swept outside.

  After retrieving her wrap, Malcolm escorted her onto the hazy street. "I'm almost reluctant to discover what you were doing in there."

  She saw that Gaspar, who had insisted on escorting her, had left her coachman and was holding the reins of Malcolm's black Arabian. "Did Gaspar send for you, then?"

  "He was instructed to keep me abreast of your activities." As they approached the carriage, he turned to the large man. "Gaspar, ride Mohammed home."

  "Yes, my lord."

  Waving away the footman, Malcolm assisted her into the town coach himself.

  Nicola arranged her skirts, unable to help a flash of memory about the last time she'd been in the carriage alone with Malcolm.

  "Don't even try to divert me."

  She stared at him. "You can read my thoughts? Are my pixies talking to you after all?"

  "Don't be ridiculous. I can read your mind close enough. Your cheeks are flushed and your eyes are passion-filled. But you are not going to divert me with your charms."

  "My charms?" Oh, how she wished he'd be moved by them.

  "What, madam, were you doing at the Textile Guild?" Suppressing her hopes, she concentrated on the business at hand. "I'm investigating misconceptions about you, one by one."

 
Rubbing his chin, he contemplated her. "I need to find something for you to do, other than meddle in my affairs." She stared at him. "Don't you care at all, my lord? Hill is at it again."

  "What are you blathering about, my dear?"

  "Mr. Hill stole from you, and now he has found another dupe."

  "I'm no man's dupe."

  She squinted at him in the cool interior of the carriage, determined to get to the bottom of his abstinence to be labeled a crook, a blackmailer and a black-hearted man. "I know you didn't steal from him."

  "How?"

  "Because I'm beginning to understand your character." At the shake of his head, she smiled. "And I admit I saw the ship logs you had in your study. The captain was very detailed."

  He stared at her, his eyes narrowed, but otherwise showing no emotion. "Sneaky. I will have to remember that my new wife is devious."

  The coach turned onto another street, causing Nicola to sway in her seat. "Why, the captain's detailed accounts of meeting with Mr. Hill and the arrangements they made for the stolen goods are amazing."

  "Captain Emerson was punctilious, if a bit corrupt." "Do not fret, Malcolm. I will make sure the truth of the matter is printed in the Times. Your reputation will be restored."

  "Very admirable, my dear, for you to worry so on my

  account. But rest assured you will report nothing to the newspapers."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I happen to like my reputation."

  "Why?" Here was what she'd guessed at, and she wondered if he would tell her the truth.

  "It makes me invincible, so to speak. The problem with most people is that they don't want a black reputation, which makes them vulnerable to blackmail and coercion. But since I don't give a damn, nobody can control me." She frowned, and then decided to push harder. "There is more, my lord."

  "How so?"

  "You think you killed your brother and, therefore, believe you deserve to be an outcast." The pain that darkened his eyes was so swift she might have missed it if she hadn't been staring intently at him. As it was, the condescending smile that curved his lips made her wonder.

  "I really am going to have to find a hobby for you. And not analysis of the human mind."

  How was she going to penetrate this icy shell around him? A strange desperation caught her. Hawkers called out to potential customers as gravel crunched under the wheels of the carriage—common, everyday sounds of normalcy that contrasted the situation inside the coach. She couldn't shake the feeling that she had to save Malcolm, or else he would die of a broken heart. "If you aren't willing to help yourself, then you will surely assist young Mr. Busby."

  "You keep trying to paint me the saint, but you've got the colors all wrong. Don't you know Lucifer's color is black?"

  Instinct told her to push on. "Nonsense, my lord. You were a victim. Now, I have promised your help to another one of Mr. Hill's victims."

  "I repeat—I'm no man's dupe."

  She tilted her head. "I admit that I do have trouble with that part of the story."

  "Thank God for that. I see I must satisfy your curiosity, else you will snoop more and create new situations for me to resolve."

  "I am tenacious."

  "Yes, I realize that." He gave her a meaningful look. She tapped her knee with her fingers. "Back to my original question. You weren't duped. What did you do to get even with Thomas Hill?"

  He leaned back against the squabs. "To put it simply— nothing. That is, nothing other than make him promise to put all the blame on me."

  She sat, stunned. "Excuse me? You mean to imply that you wanted him to spread false rumors about how you were responsible for the missing cargo?"

  "I'm not implying—I'm telling you that."

  "But... but why?"

  "Haven't you been listening? I have taken great efforts to develop my black reputation. Power, Nicola... as I've attempted to explain before, much can be said about the power of fear."

  Mind working, she stared at him. How strange he was. Why couldn't he have actually stolen the goods if he was so bent on living a blackguard's life? He lived a lie—and everything became clearer than ever. "No, your sham is up. It's no use."

  "What?"

  "You are such a good man that you have to borrow other men's sins."

  "Don't you ever relent?"

  The coolness in his tone was enough to put off almost anyone. But she wasn't just anyone. She was stubborn, bullheaded, and she knew a well of goodness lay in his heart. Like a miner searching for gold, she would dig as deep as she must. "I know there's goodness, just as I believe you will help anyone who has been victimized. Mr. Busby's son needs your help."

  With a nonchalance almost certainly feigned, he flicked at something on his waistcoat. "He'll learn to roll with the waves or else be drowned. It's the way of the world."

  Tilting his hat to cover his eyes, he leaned back, clearly dismissing her.

  Huh. If he thought she was that easily discouraged, he had another think coming.

  Chapter 20

  Nicola slid a third hairpin into the lock that secured Thomas Hill's offices. "Bloody hell," she muttered, and then realized she had picked up Malcom's favorite expletive. She peered behind her at the darkened street.

  "What are you doing, lass?' Glissando perched on the knob, leaning against the door.

  Startled, she jumped, the movement causing her to break the hairpin. "Botheration, Glissando! Can't you warn me of your appearance once in a while?"

  "And miss seeing your reaction? That wouldn't be nearly as fun."

  Grumbling, she pulled another pin from her hat. Glissando sat on the nail head that stuck out from the knob, which made a perfect stool for him, and retrieved a flask from his waistcoat. "Lass, what are you doing?"

  "For your information, I'm trying to find proof that Thomas Hill is behind the Busby's missing shipments." A sparkle of yellow light flashed near the window a split second before Allegro's tiny form appeared next to Glissando.

  Allegro flitted close to her nose, beacon flashing. "You are a danger unto yourself, missy! Don't you know cutthroats and thieves abound in London? This place is dangerous waters during the day and completely shark-infested at night."

  Nicola glared at him. "I don't have time for lectures."

  "Get in the alley, lass," Glissando whispered urgently, putting away his flask. His wings buzzing, he peeked down the night-shrouded street.

  The unexpected command from Glissando was enough to make her do as he bade—she stepped back into the shadows. Two men rounded the comer. One had a cutlass in hand, and the other wore a patch over his eye. Both were obviously sailors, and rough-looking ones at that. Nicola waited until they passed, then rushed back to the office door and bent to her task.

  "I can help you, lass," Glissando announced. "You don't need to pick the lock."

  "Are you going to open it for me then?"

  "You don't have to go into the office at all. I know where Hill's stolen goods are kept."

  "You do?"

  "Aye, in a warehouse nearby."

  "Glissando, I thought we were working together now," Allegro exclaimed.

  "Can't you see the lass is determined? We can't plan everything. Sometimes the best results occur impromptu." Keeping close, Allegro flew so that he was nose-to-nose with Glissando. "Too, impromptu can get the girl killed."

  "Please," Glissando replied, rolling his eyes and grimacing.

  Raucous laughter echoed through the eerie fog, followed by squeals of delight from women as a group approached, causing a nervous tremor to skitter down Nicola's spine.

  Allegro's mouth thinned. "Oh, all right. But I don't like sneaking around in this unsavory part of town—not at all."

  "Your objection is duly noted," Glissando responded.

  Barely holding on to her patience, Nicola listened as the rowdy group of revelers faded back in the mist. "Do you really want to stand around and argue?".

  "I'm the one waiting for you," Glissando replied, exas
perated. "Follow me and don't dally. The warehouse is just three blocks south of here." He snapped his fingers and a tiny object appeared before him. Nicola leaned close to get a better look in the dim light, and then blinked. It looked like a carriage—a miniature, gilt-embellished, lavishly appointed carriage... except all the wheels were missing but one. That one spun horizontally over the carriage instead of attached underneath, as it should be.

  "I'll just ride in my self-designed aero-chariot."