Scoundrel

by Zoë Archer

  Blankets were given to her and Bennett as they clambered back onto the deck of the caique. Athena and Kallas stood with bemused expressions as London and Bennett shook and shuddered and could not stop laughing, their arms clasped around each other.

  “Thank you for the sunlight,” London said to Athena when she could find enough breath to speak.

  “Such magic is like this to her now,” said Kallas, snapping his fingers and beaming with pride.

  “Your mother will be beside herself with glee,” Bennett said.

  “She is very competitive, my mother,” Athena replied. “She will see my powers, take one look at Nikos, and immediately set sail to claim such bounties of her own.”

  “Bringing him home to meet the Galanos women.” Bennett whistled.

  “I’m not afraid,” Kallas said.

  “That’s a mistake.”

  London tugged on Bennett’s hand. “I think you should see this.” She glanced past the rail of the caique.

  Everyone turned and fell mute, though London heard Kallas mutter several prayers.

  The Colossus stood upon the surface of the water, ten stories high, gazing down upon them with both eyes.

  “You have performed your service well,” it thundered. “My sight is restored. The terrible, waterborne gift shall never again fall into the hands of man. I shall keep watch.” The Colossus nodded its massive head.

  And vanished.

  They were silent for a long time afterward, staring at the space where the Colossus had stood. The world felt calm, profoundly peaceful.

  “Is it done, then?” the captain asked in a hushed whisper.

  “It’s done,” Bennett said, then, gathering London close, kissed the top of her head. “And just beginning.”

  Epilogue

  Arrivals and Departures

  Southampton, England. 1875.

  Catullus Graves pushed back from his worktable and growled. His latest device was not coming along as quickly as he’d hoped. There was still the matter of making an internal combustion engine small enough to fit into a knapsack, and light enough to be carried without causing the bearer to crumple under the weight. He could discuss his design with his sister, Octavia, but he knew he could solve the problem on his own—if he could get his mind to clear.

  He took off his spectacles and polished them with a handkerchief, a habitual gesture as deeply ingrained as respiration.

  It was no use. He couldn’t focus. Not now. He would be leaving soon, within the week, and his thoughts jumbled, preoccupied with details and logistics.

  What he needed right now was a good, strong cup of tea. Tea always helped sharpen his brain. And while he was up in the kitchen, he could root around for some of Cook’s cinnamon biscuits.

  Catullus took the steps that led from his basement workshop. There were brighter spaces available at the Blades’ headquarters, but the Graves family always worked in the basement. The room was bigger, and the heavy walls and lack of windows ensured discretion. It wouldn’t do to have their neighbors hearing the variety of explosions and sounds of heavy welding equipment that emanated from the workshop at all hours. He never slept a full night. The best he could do was a few hours here and there, just enough to refresh him between sessions at the workbench. But he was long acclimatized to his irregular sleep patterns. Everyone in his family suffered the same insomnia. The blessing and curse of the Graveses of Southampton.

  Perhaps it was another reason why he was still single.

  As Catullus entered the main house, heading toward the kitchen, sounds of commotion in the main parlor arrested him. Seeking out the noise’s origin, he entered the parlor and found a large group of people assembled there. Samuel Ashcombe. Alex Hughes. Jane Fleetwood, returned only last week from Ceylon. A host of familiar faces.

  And, standing in the center of the group, Bennett Day. Looking tan and relaxed, grinning from ear to ear like a boy on his birthday as he shook hands of welcome. Even Catullus, who had, over the years, seen Bennett looking pretty damned pleased with himself, had never seen the old scoundrel appear so happy.

  “We haven’t received a telegram of condemnation from the Greek consulate,” Catullus said, coming forward. “So I assume the mission went well.” He shook Bennett’s hand, and the bastard actually winked at him.

  “Couldn’t have gone better. London,” Bennett said, turning to the woman standing beside him, “I’ll do you the insult of introducing you to Catullus Graves. Cat, you sodding dandy, let me honor you by presenting London Day, expert linguist and my wife.”

  Catullus couldn’t have heard that properly. “Wife?”

  “I know,” said the woman, extending her hand. She was, as fitting Bennett’s usual tastes, exceptionally pretty, with honey-colored hair and sparkling dark eyes. Yet her eyes sparkled not with flirtation but a keen, perceptive intelligence. “We’re all still waiting for the sun to go black and rivers to flow backward. Despite what my husband said, it’s an honor to meet you at last, Mr. Graves.”

  Catullus shook the woman’s hand. He still could not believe that Bennett Day, inveterate voluptuary, had actually gotten married. However, considering this woman’s beauty and intellect, perhaps that wasn’t such a surprise, after all.

  “London,” he said, musing. He frowned. “London Edgeworth Harcourt?” The assembled group of Blades all gaped in surprise.

  The glimmer in her eyes dimmed slightly. “That had been my name, but no longer.”

  “You’ve heard of her?” Bennett demanded.

  “Of course,” said Catullus. “I make it a point to familiarize myself with the Heirs’ families so that I’m never caught off guard by their sudden appearance. Don’t you?”

  Bennett scowled. “Too damn busy risking my neck to pour over Debrett’s Peerage.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Graves,” Mrs. Day said, sincerity shining in her face, “all connections with my family have been entirely severed. Bennett and I just came from the city, but my mother refused to see me. She took my father’s death very hard. And I’m quite sure that if my brother ever spotted me on the street, he’d shoot me dead.” She spoke these words flatly, as though inured to the idea. Catullus marveled at her strength.

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Day,” Catullus murmured.

  “Please, don’t be. I’m quite happy to trade one family for another. And I would like it if you called me London. I’ve heard so much about you from Bennett, and benefited so much from your inventions, I feel as if we’re already old friends.”

  Catullus bowed. “My pleasure. And call me Catullus, please.”

  “Only I call him Cat,” Bennett said. “Just to annoy him.”

  “That is one of your strengths,” Catullus answered.

  More Blades ambled forward to meet Bennett’s bride and offer their congratulations on the mission and his marriage. Catullus stood back and observed. London met each Blade with genuine warmth and courtesy, and she accepted their good-natured ribbing and questions with humor. None of this impressed Catullus so much as the way she and Bennett stood close to one another, constantly brushing their hands together, touching in small but weighted ways. It was clear that London loved Bennett, and the unmitigated adoration in Bennett’s eyes whenever he looked at his wife made Catullus a little sad, that he himself had never experienced such a feeling and likely never would. Brilliant, intrepid young women like London didn’t just fall from the sky.

  Well, he had his work for the Blades, and that should be enough. Octavia ensured the continuation of the Graves line.

  When all the felicitations and welcomes had been exhausted, the room emptied of Blades, leaving Catullus alone with his old friend and his friend’s wife.

  “I was headed to the kitchen for some tea,” Catullus said. “I can ring and have it brought out here.”

  “Let’s go to the kitchen together,” London answered. She glanced around the large parlor, filled with maps and a ramshackle collection of furniture. Papers covered the available tabletops, and someon
e had abandoned a game of patience on top of an out-of-tune pianoforte. “This parlor is…”

  “A disaster,” sighed Catullus. Few of the Blades shared his love of order, and, truthfully, everyone was too busy chasing down Sources to concern themselves with maintaining elegant headquarters. The cleaning staff knew better than to try to keep order, lest they tempt madness.

  “I was going to say, this parlor is not very cozy.” London laughed. “I do want us to be informal and friendly with each other. To the kitchen?”

  “Of course.” Catullus bowed, liking London Day immensely. “What of Athena?” he asked as they headed down the hall together. He did not miss how Bennett kept a proprietary hand on her waist. “She hasn’t written in some time.”

  “I’d say her time is rather filled at the moment,” Bennett said dryly.

  “Filled, in a good way?”

  “A very good way,” London answered, smiling.

  “It’s a fortunate thing you arrived in Southampton when you did,” Catullus said. They reached the kitchen, where Cook and her assistants were busy preparing the evening meal for a dozen hungry Blades. Fortunately, Cook was well familiar with Catullus’s odd eating habits, and she made no objection when he, Bennett, and London ensconced themselves in some settles installed for just such a purpose. Without prompting, one of the cook’s assistants set a tea tray, complete with cinnamon biscuits, on a small table between the settles. Ah, the headquarters were a bachelor’s dream.

  “Why is that?” asked Bennett.

  “I’m leaving for a mission next week.”

  Bennett sighed. “It’s the way of the Blades. We’re never in one place long enough to even leave a dent in the pillow.”

  “Where are you going?” London asked, nibbling on a biscuit.

  “Canada.”

  Bennett started. “That’s where…” His voice trailed off.

  “Astrid lives.” Catullus stirred his tea moodily. “I have to find her.”

  “Astrid?” repeated London. “She’s the Blade whose husband—” She faltered, and they all knew what London could not bring herself to say. Astrid’s husband Michael, also a Blade, had been killed in action when they were in Africa, five years prior. Her husband had literally died in her arms. In grief, Astrid shut herself away from the Blades, fleeing to the depths of the Canadian wilderness. No one had seen her in years, not since she exiled herself. There had been attempts to contact her, but those attempts had been often rebuffed. Now, there was no choice. Catullus had to find her and drag her out of her self-imposed banishment, whether she wanted to return or not.

  “You know about the Primal Source,” Catullus said, breaking the silence. “What it signifies.”

  Both Bennett and London nodded, somber.

  “Our information has said that the Heirs have almost unlocked the Primal Source,” Catullus continued. “Which means we will need Astrid. She and Michael spent one winter studying it in Africa. They knew the Primal Source better than anyone. And now she alone possesses knowledge about the nature of the Primal Source that is essential in our fight against the Heirs. So there’s no choice but to find her and bring her back. She may hate the Blades, she may hate me, but none of us have the luxury of personal feelings or grief anymore.”

  Everyone around the small table lapsed into a grim silence, contemplating this.

  Catullus shook himself. “This is what happens when you let an inventor out of his workshop,” he said with a wry laugh. “You show up, full of good news, and I stomp all over it with my usual lack of tact.”

  “Lack of tact, indeed,” Bennett snorted. “This from a man who owns a hundred waistcoats.”

  Catullus grinned, smoothing his hand over the bronze and forest green silk of the waistcoat he now wore. “We’re all allowed a desire for variety.”

  “Not me,” said Bennett. He picked up his wife’s hand, stroking it between his own. “Once you find something exactly right, there’s no need for anything else.”

  London laughed. “Are you comparing me to waistcoats?”

  “No, love,” said her husband. “For one thing, no waistcoat has your ear for language. The best one can hope for in a waistcoat is a smattering of French.”

  The lighter mood restored, they spent the next few hours talking of their mission in Greece and catching up on gossip and trifles. Everything Catullus heard amazed him, but he was especially gratified to learn of the success of his illumination devices and glider. Their teacups were refilled three times before Bennett stood and stretched, then helped his wife to her feet.

  “We’ll come back tomorrow,” he said. “There’s still much to discuss. And there’s the matter of London’s initiation.”

  “Aren’t you going to stay here at headquarters?” Catullus asked. “I’m sure the staff could have your room ready in a trice.”

  Bennett shared a look of scorching intimacy with London. “We have lodgings elsewhere in town. No one would appreciate it if we slept here.” His tone made it clear that sleeping would be fairly low on his and London’s list of things they would do in a bedroom together. And London’s carnal blush confirmed it.

  Catullus was well acquainted with his friend’s amorous pursuits, but not the love gleaming in Bennett’s eyes. Once again, Catullus felt isolated, lonely. It was difficult enough for him to merely find a woman who understood his mania for his inventions. He was Negro, which meant that the color of his skin that forever marked him as a stranger in his own home country and, in fact, wherever he went. What woman could see him as a man first, and not a scientific anomaly?

  Still, as Catullus walked Bennett and London to the door, he saw his friend’s love for his wife, a love that was reciprocated wholeheartedly. If someone had told Catullus even the day before that Bennett Day would find one woman to whom he would be forever faithful, Catullus would have laughed at the impossibility. Now, it was not only possible, it was real. The scientist in him couldn’t dispute the evidence.

  If such marvels could happen for an unrepentant scoundrel as Bennett, then maybe Catullus might find his own miracle. After all, the world was full of magic.

  Don’t miss the rest of the

  Blades of the Rose series!

  In September, we met a WARRIOR in Mongolia…

  To most people, the realm of magic is the

  stuff of nursery rhymes and dusty libraries.

  But for Capt. Gabriel Huntley, it’s become

  quite real and quite dangerous…

  IN HOT PURSUIT

  The vicious attack Capt. Gabriel Huntley witnesses in a dark alley sparks a chain of events that will take him to the ends of the Earth and beyond—where what is real and what is imagined become terribly confused. And frankly, Huntley couldn’t be more pleased. Intrigue, danger, and a beautiful woman in distress—just what he needs…

  IN HOTTER WATER

  Raised thousands of miles from England, Thalia Burgess is no typical Victorian lady.

  A good thing, because a proper lady would have no hope of recovering the priceless magical artifact Thalia is after.

  Huntley’s assistance might come in handy, though she has to keep him in the dark. But this distractingly handsome soldier isn’t easy to deceive…

  There was a knock at the wooden door to the tent. Her father called out, “Enter.” The door began to swing open.

  Thalia tucked the hand holding the revolver behind her back. She stood behind her father’s chair and braced herself, wondering what kind of man would step across the threshold and if she would have to use a gun on another human being for the first time in her life.

  The man ducked to make it through the door, then immediately removed his hat, uncovering a head of close-cropped, wheat-colored hair. He was not precisely handsome, but he possessed an air of command and confidence that shifted everything to his favor. His face was lean and rugged, his features bold and cleanly defined; there was nothing of the drawing room about him, nothing refined or elegant. He was clean-shaven, allowing the hard plane
s of his face to show clearly. He was not an aristocrat and looked as though he had fought for everything he ever had in his life, rather than expecting it to be given to him. Even in the filtered light inside the ger, Thalia could see the gleaming gold of his eyes, their sharp intelligence that missed nothing as they scanned the inside of the tent and finally fell on her and her father.

  “Franklin Burgess?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” her father answered, guarded. “My daughter, Thalia.”

  She remembered enough to sketch a curtsey as she felt the heat of the stranger’s gaze on her. An uncharacteristic flush rose in her cheeks.

  “And you are…?” her father prompted.

  “Captain Gabriel Huntley,” came the reply, and now it made sense that the man who had such sure bearing would be an officer. “Of the Thirty-third Regiment.” Thalia was not certain she could relax just yet, since it was not unheard of for the Heirs to find members in the ranks of the military. She quickly took stock of the width of the captain’s shoulders, how even standing still he seemed to radiate energy and the capacity for lethal movement. Captain Huntley would be a fine addition to the Heirs.

  There was something magnetic about him, though, something that charged the very air inside the ger, and she felt herself acutely aware of him. His sculpted face, the brawn of his body, the way he carried his gear, all of it, felt overwhelmingly masculine. How ironic, how dreadful, it would be, if the only man to have attracted her attention in years turned out to be her enemy. Sergei, her old suitor, had wound up being her enemy, but in a very different way.