by Viola Carr
She popped her eyes open, grinning. She wanted to grab his hair, draw his mouth to hers for real. “Stop that, you pirate. People will stare.”
“Let them.” As usual, his ridiculously blue eyes undid her. Nothing but truth. “Let them marvel at how beautiful you are.”
“Ha! If you’d only written ahead, I’d have had my hair done.” She resisted the need to tidy imaginarily disheveled skirts. “I hardly expected you back so soon. Whatever will my husband say?”
“The wind was good, and I have ways of traveling swiftly.” A mysterious wink. “I wanted to surprise you.”
His presence made her ache, both sweet and bitter. She wanted to laugh in bliss, but a darker, more shameful mood seized her, too. Living alone was so much simpler. Only herself to care for, only her own affairs to worry about.
But that was a joke, wasn’t it? Since he’d left for Paris weeks ago, she’d struggled to fall asleep each night, fearing for his safety. Imagining all the horrible things that could be happening to him. And always, like a wicked worm coiled in the blackest depths of her heart, there lurked the creeping certainty that she’d be found out, slammed down, stripped of her illicit joy.
She sighed. Was this love, then? Because it came burdened with cartloads of unpleasant baggage that no one ever spoke about. Hmph. Those sonnet writers had a lot to answer for.
Remy touched her chin. “You look as if someone stabbed your ghost in the heart. Did I say something wrong?”
She smiled sweetly. “Given your usual addle-mouthed antics? I expect irate antagonists are scattered in your wake all the way from the place de la révolution. No wonder we’re on the brink of war.”
An unreasonably charming smile. “Is it wrong that I just swooned a little? Madam, if forced to trade away either your kiss or your wit, I’d be in agonies of indecision.”
“The former, I should hope. Ought I to agree with your every idiotic remark, and surrender to your un-gentleman-like ravishment without a blink? Imagine how vain and indolent you’d become.”
A gleeful glint of eye. “Imagine.”
Hipp dashed up, blue light blinking madly and cogs whizzing. “Ee-e-e-e-e-e-EH!” he shouted, too excited to make any sense.
Remy petted Hipp’s boxy head. “As eager as I.”
“And even more articulate.” She edged towards the exit, eager to leave this suffocating hall where they were public property. Where they couldn’t touch or share confidences or be themselves. “I got your letter. How was Paris?”
He made a face. “Awful. A bloodbath. I still can’t get the stink of sorcery out of my clothes. I’m only surprised the Philosopher didn’t arrest me on the spot.”
“And the mission goes well?” She kept her voice light, though she desperately wanted information. What was his mission, anyway? For whom was he working—the Royal, or this unsettling Lord Beaconsfield?
“Swimmingly. The Philosopher has me ferreting out crackpot scientists all over Paris. Wants to catalogue their contribution to the French war effort. Truly, it’s mind-numbingly dull and I don’t understand the half of it.”
Uneasily, she recalled Mr. Finch’s tinfoil hat. “Do they really have mind control machines?”
“It would explain a lot. You wouldn’t credit the nonsense these people believe.”
“And the Foreign Office? What do they want?”
“Oh, you know,” he said cheerfully as they picked their way down the stairs through a forest of servants and petitioners. “Political machinations, Machiavellian plots, bloody coups d’états in the Tuileries. Up to our necks in it. Oh, I almost forgot. I’ve a present for you.” He handed her a feathered cockade. Black edged with scarlet, the colors of Liberté du Sang.
She whisked it out of sight. “Put that away, you anarchist. Are you trying to get us arrested?”
An irreverent blue twinkle. “What? It’s what they’re all wearing in Paris this season.”
“Honestly, do you take nothing seriously?” But she couldn’t help laughing. He didn’t. Never had. “How you ever succeed as a covert agent is a mystery. It’s a wonder your tragic sense of humor doesn’t give you away as soon as you open your mouth.”
“Doubtless it would, my petal, if they didn’t already know exactly who I am. All part of the fun.” At her expression, he sobered. “It was inevitable, my sweet. This appalling fellow la Bête knows François was my brother. That’s the whole point. It’s a double game. Perhaps I, too, can be lured to the ways of darkness.”
He said it lightly, but she knew that even the mention of François’s treachery still hurt him deeply. The brothers Lafayette had both fought wars for the Empire, spilled too much blood—their own and others’—in the service of the late queen. The notion that François, a decorated Royal Navy captain, had thrown it all away for nothing was too much for Remy to bear. He was convinced François had been turned. Warped into a traitor by sorcerers’ lies.
They emerged into the wet gray courtyard, where flowerbeds ran sodden and puddles ringed the ornate memorial to the dead Prince Consort, who’d supposedly been poisoned by sorcerers. “And are you well? With the, er, moon phases, I mean.”
“Well enough. I’ve barely time to worry about it.” He shrugged, unconcerned. “Don’t fret, my sweet. There are worse things than a night spent in a cage.”
“It’s only that I’ve made some progress with my cure, and . . . no, let’s not speak of it,” she finished hurriedly, seeing his expression. “No doubt you’ll be leaving again soon. Let’s just enjoy each other?”
“Perfectly.” His eyes glowed, and he kissed her gloved hand, warm and safe. “Tell me everything that’s happened. You and Griffin making short work of that Soho Slasher business?”
“Not yet, sadly. But I do have another interesting matter.” She explained about Antoinette de Percy’s murder, the defaced ledger, the inexplicable equations. “There’s a demonstration this afternoon of the new aether engine. I’d like to meet this Professor Crane, see what kind of people these scientists are. I don’t suppose you can spare the time?”
“For you, I can spare all the time.” A vintage Lafayette smile. “Lunch first?”
“Shirker. What of your reports for that ghastly Foreign Secretary?”
“As if he’ll read them anyway. Too busy stabbing hapless Tories in the back on his way up the greasy pole.”
“What a dreadful man. I thought he was a Tory.”
“Precisely why they never see him coming. If they don’t cover their flank, he’ll be Prime Minister once the polling’s in. Then those bunglers down at Horse Guards will see some action.”
She smiled uneasily. If it came to war, Remy might return to his regiment. Leave her behind, helpless along with all the other women. The army needed doctors, surely. Would she be allowed to go? “But surely the Empire wouldn’t risk such a shattering defeat. The French coalition army is too vast. Seems reasonable to build up our military capability first. Rebuild the skyship fleet, that sort of thing.” Immediately she winced at her carelessness. The skyship fleet had been François’s project, terminated in a hail of flame and treason.
But Remy just shrugged. “Reason rarely comes into it, my love. They say this mysterious la Belle character is a double agent, a man with influence at the War Office. Perhaps we’re all doomed. But you needn’t worry your pretty head about unladylike politics,” he added airily. “Leave the voting to the men. We’re so much cleverer.”
She swatted him, earning a strange look from the Enforcer at the gate as Remy collected his weapons: sword and electric pistol, both polished to perfection. “I liked you better when you were just an arrogant Royal Society investigator. This civil service nonsense is giving you airs.”
“Oh, I’m still an arrogant Royal Society investigator. I’m just sharing my talents. Seeing as I’ve so many to go around.”
“Don’t spread them too thinly, Captain.” She eyed him sternly as they crossed the wide avenue and turned towards Hyde Park Corner. “I should be disappoi
nted if none remained for me.”
A METHOD OF FLUXIONS
IN EARLY AFTERNOON, REMY HANDED ELIZA DOWN from their electric cab onto rain-splashed Albemarle Street. The Royal Institution loomed, a massive twelve-columned edifice in imitation of a Greek temple. Hipp jumped down after, and the cab clattered off into the traffic, brassy feet sloshing through the mud. It bumped into a rickety horse-drawn cart, eliciting shouts from the indignant driver. The popularity of the RI’s demonstrations made for so many traffic snarls and accidents that the northern end of Albemarle Street was closed to entry, making it the only official one-way street in London.
Remy held her umbrella for her. “What are we here to see, again?”
Eliza pointed at the canvas banner above the door.
PROFESSORCRANE’S NEW MINIATURE AETHERIC GENERATOR THE FUTURE OF ELECTRICAL POWER
He looked impressed. “I read something about this in the Royal’s files. They say it’s a fraction of the size and weight of the current models. What a fantastical modern age we live in.”
She stifled an unladylike burp. Their lunch in Hyde Park had been glorious, despite the dull sky, and if her stomach now creaked, uncomfortably stuffed with smoked salmon sandwiches, strawberries, and ice cream, it was small payment for a wonderful time. To think she’d worried they’d have nothing to talk about.
Call that a conversation? whispered Lizzie sarcastically in her ear. She’d been quiet all morning, just a breathy warmth in Eliza’s belly. All that grinning and gazing into each other’s eyes. I’m snoring over here.
Casually, Eliza pulled out her flask of remedy and sipped. My time, Lizzie. Don’t interfere. “So they’ve submitted for the Royal’s approval?”
“Submitted, if not yet certified. Does that surprise you?”
“It doesn’t seem like the kind of device the Philosopher would countenance.” They wormed through a knot of protesters waving pasteboard placards and shouting slogans. Eliza nodded towards a banner that read ENERGY IS PRECIOUS—PRESERVE OUR AETHER. “Dare one hope he’s mellowing in his dotage?”
“With Beaconsfield chewing his ear day and night about new technology for the war effort? ‘Mellow’ isn’t the word I’d use. Given half a chance, he’d burn his lordship for unauthorized sexual ambiguity and be done.”
“Down with progress!” yelled a man. “Jobs, not volts!”
A woman shook a NO ELECTRIC AUTOMOBILES! sign in Eliza’s face. “Science is sorcery! String up the sorcerers! Wring their Froggie necks!”
At her skirt hem, Hippocrates buzzed indignantly. “String. Breaking strain insufficient. Does not compute.”
Eliza snorted. “By all means, blame the French for everything we don’t like. Next this pestilent rain will be their fault.”
“Didn’t you know? English weather has been a French conspiracy since Agincourt.” Remy held the door for her. “I suppose it hasn’t occurred to these shouting buffoons that science has weaved their clothes and grown their food for the last two hundred years? Clearly Crane’s engine is stirring up the common prejudice against good sense.”
“Mmm. Still, tell that to a man whose children starve because an electrical generator rendered his job superfluous. It’s not all onwards and upwards.”
“I say,” he remarked as they crossed the carpeted hall and entered the little theater, “am I marrying a Luddite? Smash the generators, tear down the looms, set the factories on fire?”
“Hardly. But progress ought to feed the poor as well as entertain the middle classes, or what good is it?”
Remy smiled. “You have my vote, madam.”
“Well, I’d take it, but . . .” She frowned, patting her skirts. “No trouser pockets to put it in. Oh, well. Back to my embroidery.”
A high gallery ringed the stage on three sides, seats receding into the gloom. Beneath it, gaslights illuminated more rows of steeply raked seats, all but filled. Well-dressed ladies and dapper gentlemen mixed with businessmen and scruffy students gripping notepads, as well as a few plain, ordinary people nearer the back.
On a table onstage sat the engine, a cubic frame about a foot square containing a bundle of wire-wrapped magnetic components. Long coiling wires connected the engine to a rack of heat sinks and capacitors, thermometers and barometers and aetherometers, their crystalline kernels glowing. Inside the engine burned a tiny electrical coil, just the size of her finger, shining too brightly to behold.
Her skin tingled with anticipation. Truly a marvel of modern science. But she recalled irascible Seymour Locke’s jibe—I did say advanced aether physics—and her heart sank, prepared for disappointment. In all likelihood, the device didn’t work. Just a flim-flam, pursued by careless researchers with more enthusiasm than ability.
In the front row sat Princess Victoria, fanning herself impatiently in the warm electric-smelling air, surrounded by bored-looking courtiers. She rose. “Dr. Jekyll,” she called, “a moment.”
Eliza rolled her eyes at Remy’s delighted chuckle—she’d always been the one needling him for hobnobbing with the upper classes, entertaining Baroness Whoever or Lord So-and-so—and hurried over to make her curtsey. Hipp copied, executing a jaunty bob of brass knees.
“I trust you took no offense this morning.” Victoria had the grace to look chastened. Gloveless hands, Eliza noticed, strong and capable like her own. “His Majesty’s condition, that frightful Dr. Savage . . . I fear for what will become of us all.”
“Don’t mention it, ma’am.” But her skin wriggled. Don’t mention it, mocked Lizzie’s voice in her ear. The hell you say. Rude cow. Who’s she think she is, eh?
“You seem more sensible.” Victoria studied her coolly. “I daresay you’re used to imbeciles who assume they know better just because they wear trousers instead of a skirt.”
“So you’ve met the Fellows of the Royal College of Physicians? Uncanny.”
Victoria smiled, for once unguarded. Beautiful, if severe. The picture of her mother as a young woman, still sane and unfettered by grief. “I was rather thinking of His Majesty’s privy councilors.”
“The same, ma’am, I’m sure.” She waited for Victoria to wave her away. What did the woman want? She felt dowdy and ill-dressed in her plain dove-gray working attire, and she hated it.
But the princess lingered, finery glaring in the gaslight like an exotic bird’s plumage. “I couldn’t help noticing you appeared on good terms with the Regent.”
So now we’re getting to it. “Sir Isaac has employed me in the past. In his capacity at the Royal Society, ma’am.”
Another studious stare. “The Regent’s a busy man. He can’t always keep me appraised of His Majesty’s affairs.”
“I see.”
“I’d be grateful for any assistance. Any tidbits you might happen to overhear.” A polite smile. “Just a courtesy, understand. To spare the Regent’s valuable time.”
Eliza faltered. She was already supposed to be spying for both Sir Isaac and Mr. Hyde. How many sides could she be on? “I’ll see what I can do, ma’am.”
“Excellent.” The princess glanced at Remy, who’d wandered insouciantly over. “And who’s this?”
“Oh. May I present Captain Remy Lafayette, of—”
“I recall.” Victoria’s gaze smoldered with contempt. “Lord Beaconsfield’s lackey. A baby reptile.”
Remy executed a smart bow. “Your Royal Highness is doubtless thinking of my brother. Easy mistake. I’m the Philosopher’s lackey, actually. Mind if I borrow the good doctor, ma’am? I should hate her to be party to a plot against him.”
Victoria smiled sharply, and retired in a whisk of rich skirts and outrage.
Eliza chuckled as she and Remy found a pair of empty seats in the back. She settled, Hipp jumping into her lap. “Honestly, Captain, have you no care?”
Remy arranged himself beside her with a careless flick of scarlet coattails. “What? She started it.”
“She’s a princess. She can start whatever she likes. You ought to tread more careful
ly.”
“You saw the Philosopher’s attitude. Perhaps the day is finally coming when actions will count for more than accidents of birth.” He eyed the crowd with interest. “Quite a society gathering. Look, there’s Mr. Paxton from the North-Western Railway.” He nodded towards a distinguished-looking old man a few rows below. “Nerves of steel even coming here, I’d have thought. Spying on his competitors?”
Eliza pointed to a young woman in a blue dress who watched the stage intently, her back to Eliza, dark hair in a severe bun. “Isn’t that Miss Burton, your admirer from the Royal?”
“No longer, if ever she was.” Remy grimaced. “An unpleasant disagreement over the best use of force in interrogations. That’s what metal modifications will do for you.”
“Oh, no.” Eliza felt sick. Burton had lodged with her for a time. They’d never really gotten along. “Not one of the Philosopher’s awful new special agents?”
“Mmm. Eager to please, I suppose. She’s taken to asking sharp questions about Lady Lovelace and what happened that night at the Tower.” He tossed her a grin. “You know. When you rescued me from my despicable captors against insurmountable odds, and spirited me away to be your concubine?”
She’d put an end to the clockwork-hearted countess in order to free Remy from her evil experiments. It had been self-defense, and she wasn’t one whit sorry. “Is that what happened? I rather recall you staggering about drugged to the eyeballs and declaring undying love before passing out at my feet.”
“Worked, didn’t it?”
“Don’t count your chickens, Captain. We’re not married yet.” Eliza slipped a pair of dark goggles over her spectacles. “Look, the professor’s nearly ready.”
Professor Crane—a tall, middle-aged woman in a dark brown dress and rubber apron—was on the stage, tinkering with her device. Thick reddish hair streaked with gray was knotted at her nape. She wore dark goggles, too, and long rubber gloves, and she wielded the twin prongs of an electrical meter like a conductor virtuosa with her baton.