Briar had been too willing to believe the worst in Isabella. It was the only explanation, and the faint burn of shame settled upon her cheeks as she contemplated it. It behooved her to do better.
The day passed by slowly as she checked record after record, but with no luck. Mirabilia Carriageworks was real; she’d seen the horseless they built. If not for that, she would doubt its very existence. They appeared nowhere, not in the tax records, nor in the incorporation records, nor even in the insurance atlases. Either the company was exceedingly new, or they were taking care to do business under a different name.
She was going through records of industrial building licenses for the previous year when the clerk from behind the window approached her.
“It is time to leave, Miss Riley. We’re closing down for the evening.”
There were no windows in the room and no way of telling the time since the only clock’s hands had been showing 7:30 for the entire time she’d been there.
“Thank you for your assistance, sir.” Regretfully, Briar closed the file of licenses. She was no closer to locating Mirabilia’s manufactory. Perhaps Isabella would have better luck with an evening visit to their office. “At what time do you open tomorrow?”
“We shall be open at precisely nine o’clock.”
“And will you hold this file for me?”
“Very well.” He drew a watch from one pocket and flipped open the top.
Briar took the hint and gathered her materials. “Thank you again,” she said on her way out the door. “I shall be back on the morrow.”
“Very well, Miss Riley.”
Though the morning had been sunny when Briar entered Spring Gardens, the day had taken a decided turn for the worse while she’d been indoors. Instead of spring sunshine, a cool drizzle greeted her on her way out of the building. It was barely more than a mist, but the rain coated her quickly, introducing a chill into her bones with stunning rapidity. The stone buildings around her were rendered even darker and more depressing by their coating of rain. The skies were almost black with the onset of evening; a faint light remained only in the western corner, and that too would disappear soon.
The night would be perfect for burgling, Briar thought. Isabella would be pleased. With the rain, no one would tarry outside or look up if they had the misfortune of needing to leave the warm confines of their homes. The wind came up, driving heavier drops of rain before it, and Briar ducked her head, trying to avoid a face full of cold wetness. She was only partially successful.
She stepped closer to the curb and raised her hand to hail a cab, keeping an eye out for carriages. It had been raining long enough for significant puddles to have accumulated. She tried not to look too closely at the trash and filth that created an unappetizing skim on top of the water. If a carriage went through that at speed, she would be covered in it. An umbrella would be very convenient, but there had been no sign of this weather when she’d left the earl’s home. Nor had she planned on spending the entire day immersed in dusty records, and her stomach was rumbling its pique. Neither situation should have been overly vexing, but with nothing to show for the day’s work, she could feel a dark mood descending upon her. She only hoped Isabella would have better luck.
* * *
It felt strange to be out without her rig, and the false mustache upon her upper lip itched abominably. The coarse horsehair had seemed like a good idea at the time, but Isabella had to force her hand down once again to keep from scratching at it and ripping away large chunks. It had made sense not to come out in her Spring-Heeled Jack gear when she’d first conceived her plan. The last thing she needed was the police investigating something here and tracking it back to her and Briar’s visit. Not to mention, this was a completely different type of break-in. All she needed here was a convincing disguise and her lock-picking tools.
The street was dark enough, and the rain that had shrouded London since early afternoon continued to fall. She’d seen no one since she’d prudently parked the carriage two streets over. The heavy coat she wore over the suit of rumpled tweed kept the cold spring rain from chilling her too much. Her breath wreathed her head before being swept into nothingness by insistent drops. Her head was more or less protected by her shabby bowler. It was a good thing there would be no one in the offices; if she took off her hat indoors as manners indicated she ought to, her hair would spill out for all to see. All the false mustaches in the world wouldn’t save her disguise then.
At least the hat sheltered her glasses from being speckled with raindrops. She’d removed the lenses from the goggles she wore with her rig and transferred them to a pair of spectacle frames. One allowed her to see in the dark, the other would highlight where objects had been recently moved, bringing disturbances in dust or recent scratches on hard surfaces into bright contrast. It was unlikely she’d need any of the other lenses, and they looked odd on the glasses. The point was to blend in as much as possible and avoid detection.
The office building was ahead of her on the left. Fortunately, there were only two streetlamps on this block, and both were at opposite ends of the street. As she unhurriedly mounted the stairs in front, she was pleased to see an abundance of shadows in which to hide herself as she tinkered with the door’s locking mechanism.
It was a good thing, too, as the lock, while exceedingly simple, proved stiff and unyielding. As Isabella tried to muscle the tumblers into place, she wondered if she’d have to go back home to get her jump rig after all and look for a way down from the roof. She should have brought it and left it in the carriage just in case.
Were those footsteps approaching? Isabella redoubled her efforts on the lock while straining her ears to listen over the ever-present sound of rain hitting cobblestones. Yes, those were definitely footfalls. Should she melt back into the shadows of the small exterior entryway or continue fighting with the lock in hopes that it would open?
If you have time to wonder, then you have no time at all. Althea’s words rang in her head. Decision made, Isabella heaved at the lock. The resulting click of tumblers finally giving way was the sweetest sound she’d heard since the last time she’d taken a woman in her arms and made her gasp aloud from their kisses. She opened the door barely wide enough to squeeze through and closed it softly behind her. The small foyer was even darker than the outer entry had been and she hid herself out of sight around the corner.
Footsteps mounted the stairs. Isabella’s pulse hammered in her throat, threatening her ability to draw a full breath. Whoever was out there stopped under the overhang. She couldn’t see much as she pressed herself deeper into the corner. All that was visible was a shoulder glistening dully in what little light there was outside.
The brim of a hat was suddenly lit from below by warm light and a small cloud of smoke drifted past the door’s window. All was dark again for a moment, then that warm light glowed again as whoever was out there lit another match. The glow didn’t go away completely this time, but dimmed almost into nothingness as small clouds periodically rolled past.
Isabella sagged back against the corner. It was just a bloke who’d found some shelter under which to smoke his pipe. She stayed put, waiting for him to leave before taking the risk of crossing the foyer. She certainly couldn’t chance him glancing in at the wrong moment and seeing a shadowy figure disappearing up the stairs of a supposedly empty building.
Exactly how long does it take to smoke a pipe? Isabella wanted to get the night’s activities underway, to get this over with. Her father smoked a pipe. If she recalled correctly, he could take quite some time with it, letting it go dark and relighting it again. If he was involved in something as he smoked, he might relight the pipe four or five times.
Fortunately, whoever the man was on the building’s front stoop, he wasn’t her father. There was no telltale light from another match, and eventually he wandered off.
Isabella didn’t wait to see if he’d return. When he hit the bottom step, she was already halfway up the stairs to the second
storey. A moment later she was on the third floor. The long hall with nothing but doors to relieve the empty walls was disconcerting at this time of night. It would have been nice if Briar had come along, for company against what might lurk in the shadows more than anything else. The shadows weren’t impenetrable, not when she wore the glasses, but they were still there and she still felt vulnerable and exposed without her suit.
Her pace quiet but quick, Isabella was down the hall to 306 in very little time. The lock on this door was slightly trickier than the one to the building, but it was a good deal less tight. Of course, it hadn’t been sitting in a rainy London evening. Still, it was nothing Isabella hadn’t seen before and she was able to pop it open without too much thought or effort.
The deserted office beyond was as eerie as the hallway outside had been and felt even more desolate. The furniture, with its few personal items scattered about on the desk’s top or on top of the sparsely filled bookshelves, couldn’t disguise the layer of dust glowing softly through the lens of her spectacles.
The faster she did this, the sooner she would be gone. Making sure the door was locked behind her, Isabella swallowed, then crossed to the desk. As she’d suspected, there was very little inside it. Mr. Atwater had an interest in penny serials, it seemed. One drawer was stuffed full with them, a stack of the cheaply-made chapbooks crammed in along the edges. He worked very hard in his capacity for Mirabilia.
Isabella snorted softly at the unprepossessing Atwater, though she wasn’t surprised in the least. Another drawer held little beyond a dozen or more carefully sharpened pencils. They were all the same length, and none looked to have been used. The contents of the remaining drawers were as useless in helping determine where the factory was located. Maybe there was a secret drawer or panel. Isabella had come across many of those in her exploits through the homes of the rich and well connected. She checked everywhere she could, knocking on paneling, checking the widths of all the drawers, and trusting her glasses to alert her of any scrapes in the wood where there shouldn’t be any, all to no good effect. She sat back in the chair. Nothing.
The only other place to check was the other room, the one she suspected was empty. And she was right. The inner office held nothing, not even a decoy desk and chair like Atwater occupied in the outer office. Dust lay thick upon the floor and window sills, the only disturbances arising from her feet as she walked through. A small closet in the corner raised her anticipation until she opened the door and found it as empty as the rest of the place.
Back in the outer office, Isabella made one last sweep. In desperation, she checked behind the two framed pictures on the wall, one a cheap lithograph of a scene upon the Thames and the other an even cheaper engraved copy of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Ecce Ancilla Domini. The cheap lithograph and insipid picture seemed out of place in the featureless office, and for a moment Isabella thought she was on to something. It proved for naught. The only secrets hidden behind the painting were chipped plaster and peeling paint. There was nothing to be found there.
Defeated, Isabella let herself out the door, taking care to lock it behind her. She hoped Briar had been luckier in her endeavors than she had been in hers. They were to meet for brunch the next day, and while she was looking forward to seeing the serious archivist, she was not looking forward to bearing bad news. Briar might be entertaining to irritate, but this affair was one she took seriously. Some harmless flirtation in the form of teasing and needling was far different from the very palpable fear Briar held for the so-called engine in the Mirabilia carriage.
As Isabella unlocked the building’s front door, she happened to glance down at the floor. A small bundle had been placed in the corner. It was covered with brown paper and held together with twine. As she looked closer, Isabella realized there was an address on the top of the package.
Her breath quickened slightly with excitement. Can it be? Surely not. Despite her admonition, Isabella couldn’t help but feel the uncoiling of butterflies within her belly. If it was, Briar would be very pleased, and there was nothing the matter with that. She picked up the package and explored its sides with sensitive fingertips. Isabella recognized the edges of envelopes or the like beneath the brown wrapper. She blinked at the writing until the words settled down. It wasn’t an address she knew, but it was a London one. The return address, on the other hand, was to Room 306, though there was no indication of the company’s name. Atwater did do at least one job. He was forwarding Mirabilia’s mail somewhere.
This was it. This was what she’d been looking for. What Briar had been looking for. This was their next step to finding the elusive Mirabilia factory. If they were very lucky, the address might even be to the elusive manufactory. Isabella committed the address to memory, then put the package back down, taking great pains to leave it exactly as she’d found it. She let herself out into the cold London night.
Chapter Ten
The dining room certainly wasn’t as large as the earl’s, but it had a homey feeling Briar never experienced in her employer’s house. The household’s singular footman stood behind her chair. At least she suspected he was the only one. His hands trembled a bit with a palsy when he cleared away her dishes. Briar felt for him. He really should have been the one sitting down, not her. Behind Joseph Castel’s chair was the house’s butler. He wasn’t as elderly as the footman and his back was so straight it was almost painful to look at, but he too could have been happily retired.
Still, brunch had been delightful. Viscount Sherard was a charming conversationalist, if slightly vague on occasion. It was as if he retreated into his head to retrieve a fact and became interested in something else he found there. Briar was the same way when she ventured into the stacks of any library, so she couldn’t fault him. Althea Castel never failed to bring him back on task with good-natured prodding.
Through it all, Isabella was somewhat subdued. Oh, she was congenial enough when a question was directed at her, but she didn’t volunteer much.
“How did you come to be in the Earl of Hardwicke’s service?” Althea asked.
Briar dabbed at her lips with the serviette from her lap to buy some time. “I heard through a third party that he needed someone to arrange some papers.” She shrugged. “I applied for the position. Based on my references and a demonstration of my capabilities, he saw fit to take me on.”
“A third party, is it?” Althea leaned forward intently. “Doesn’t one usually advertise for this sort of position in the paper? So you didn’t find out from an advert?”
“I was out of the country when he was advertising, Lady Sherard. From what I heard he wasn’t pleased with the quality of his applicants. I was lucky.”
“Out of the country? I’ve done some traveling myself. Where were you?”
“In the Swiss Alps.” Althea drew breath to ask another question and Briar kept going before she could ask it. The woman knew how to pull every drop of information from somebody. Isabella had the grace to look slightly embarrassed on her mother’s behalf. “I was conducting research at a monastery. You’d be surprised what monks will hold onto.”
She’d definitely been surprised. For a sect that railed against the evils of infernal magic from the pulpit almost every Sunday, the Catholics had an extensive trove of books and manuscripts on the subject squirreled away in dozens of abbeys and convents all over the Continent and beyond.
“Mother has done some traveling as well,” Isabella said when Althea took a breath for another question. “She is American, you know.”
“I did not.” Briar turned to inspect Althea as if she could divine her American-ness from her looks alone. “You do not have any of it upon your speech.” American English was clipped and nasal compared to what she heard here, though both were an improvement over the guttural harshness of the language of her mother’s people.
“I’ve been here for many years now,” Althea said. She smiled conspiratorially. Briar could see Isabella’s grin in the curl at the corners of her mouth. “I’ve
found the English take me a lot more seriously if I sound like them.”
“It only really comes out when she’s angry,” Isabella said.
“And I’m sure you rarely hear it then,” Briar said much too seriously. “I cannot envision you taxing your mother the least little bit.”
A snort from the end of the table brought all eyes upon the viscount, who was staring studiously at his plate as though it were the most interesting thing in the world. He delicately speared a remaining portion of ham into his mouth and chewed busily.
“Hmm?” he said, as if only now realizing they were watching him.
“Izzy may have been an occasional handful when she was younger,” Althea said after fixing her husband with a mock stare that he ignored. “These days, she’s a credit to her mother.”
“I’m certain she is,” said Briar. It was her turn to ask questions. “Which part of America are you from?”
“Heavens, aren’t you aware that the only part of America that exists is New York City?”
“I’ve done my research, madam.”
“Of course you have. I’m from all over, I’m afraid. I grew up on the east coast, then spent some time in California. Eventually, I met Isabella’s father and moved back here with him.”
“Is that so?” Briar was skilled enough at evasion to recognize it in Althea. There was more to the viscountess than met the eye.
On that note, Althea wiped her mouth and gestured to the footman that he should take her plate away. “I’m sure you two have plans, so I shall take my leave of you. Dear?”
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