The Dastardly Miss Lizzie

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The Dastardly Miss Lizzie Page 13

by Viola Carr


  She faltered. “Research? I’ve heard of no such thing.”

  Paxton’s open carriage rattled up to the curb, the horses champing. “As for the failed demonstration,” he continued, eyeing her sharply, “I’m only relieved no one was badly hurt. She’s already killed one researcher with her prototypes, let alone poor Ormonde in there. That device is a deathtrap even when it’s working properly. Frankly, madam, I resent your inferences, and if you repeat any such slander I’ll drag you into court to answer for it. Good day.” Coldly, he tipped his hat.

  “But, sir—”

  “Ah, Miss Burton!” Paxton was already ignoring Eliza. “Are you for the meeting at Horse Guards? Care to ride with me?”

  Miss Burton accepted his hand up into the carriage. Jerkily, she seated herself, smoothed her blue skirts, and turned stiffly to Eliza. Her Royal Society badge gleamed like gunmetal on her bodice. “Lovely to see you again, Dr. Jekyll. We must catch up for tea.”

  Eliza retreated, off-balance. Veronica Burton’s pretty face had changed. A steel plate marred her forehead, the skin punched with rivets. Over her bright brown eyes, an ugly metal visor had been screwed, just an empty black slot. Not even a red gleam.

  The same type of metal modifications as Lady Lovelace. The zealous late countess had a clockwork heart, and electrical components wired into her brain. How far had Veronica gone to emulate her? And for heaven’s sake, why?

  The girl’s lips stretched into a cold smile. No emotion. She’d no eyes to show any.

  “Er, yes,” offered Eliza belatedly, “tea would be lovely . . .” But the carriage clip-clopped away.

  An anti-aether railway tycoon and a Royal Society agent, off to a meeting at the War Office. What could they possibly have to talk about?

  Remy emerged, Hipp trotting at his heels. “I say, did you accuse Paxton of criminal damage? I’m sorry I missed it.”

  “You missed him threatening me with a writ for slander, too. Must be your unlucky day.” Eliza turned her face to the sun, enjoying the rare warmth. “Well, that was an interesting visit.”

  “Wasn’t it? I’ve rarely met a bunch of such appalling liars.” Remy jammed on his hat, and together they walked towards busy Piccadilly, Hipp gamboling ahead to chase a butterfly.

  Eliza sidled around a lad who pedaled a tricycle at top speed, trailing a pennant that read STOP THE ROT! VOTE RADICAL! “Your touch wasn’t exactly light, Captain.”

  “Believe me, Doctor, I’ve questioned a lot of scientists, and when they start giving me nonsense about ‘domestic applications’ I immediately know they’re onto something big.” Remy flashed her a glowing glance. “Did you see Crane’s face when I asked about skyships? Dissembling, every one.”

  She laughed. “D’you think so? It’s a marvel we extracted a single sensible word. You forget how you intimidate people. This is a murder investigation, not one of your Royal Society persecution parties.”

  Remy blinked sheepishly. “I confess, these militant science types raise my hackles. Think they’re so revolutionary, with their little secrets and subterfuges. Likely they haven’t the foggiest idea what they’re messing with.”

  “The Philosopher’s man, indeed,” remarked Eliza, surprised. “You sound like Paxton. Surely experimentation can but lead to progress. Nullius in verba, all that.”

  “Do you really believe that, after all you’ve seen? That all progress is positive? The motto means see for yourself, not try any insane thing and hope it works.”

  A vision flashed, of contorted flesh stuffed into Moriarty Quick’s jars, eyeballs blinking, deformed tendons stretching in a vain attempt to escape. Perhaps not all science was worth the price. “Still, that engine concept is amazing. Crane’s crew might yet change the world.”

  “Every witless rebel with an idea thinks he can change the world. When they succeed, it’s rarely for the better.”

  “And you used to be such a cheerful witless rebel, too. Don’t tell me the Foreign Secretary has converted you into a raging Conservative behind my back.”

  A laugh. “Wouldn’t my mother be delighted? She always fancied me as MP for Nepotism-on-Thames, or wherever. I ought to introduce them. With luck, the cunning old fox will marry her and I needn’t talk to either of them again.” Storm clouds darkened his gaze. “No, my sweet. But I do believe that some revolutions cost more than they’re worth. A month spent swimming in Parisian blood will do that to you.”

  Awkwardly, she smiled. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Not at all. Please, don’t let my morose mood spoil your afternoon.” He watched a mechanical horse plod by, twitching its wiry tail. “That fellow Locke is a plucky piece of work. I almost thought he’d try me, badge and all. Is he still a suspect?”

  “For Antoinette’s murder? Not really. And he was on the stage today when the shooting happened.” Absently, she sidestepped a woman in an enormous crinoline with a fat orange cat tucked under each arm. “But surely . . . hmm.”

  “Ah. The sound of you thinking. Ominous indeed.”

  “At least I do think, instead of just loitering about, gleaming like a table ornament and scandalizing irate professors with my come-hither smile. May I see the shooter’s pistol, Captain?”

  He grinned, and flipped it from his belt, offering it grip first. “Ugly contraption. Electrics are so much more civilized.”

  “Civilized,” muttered Hipp dolefully at her heels. “Electricity. Boom.”

  She turned the pistol over, thoughtful. “So why did our saboteur choose this? Would an electric weapon malfunction in the rarefied air of that demonstration?”

  “More than likely. Over-voltage on a handgun isn’t pretty. The prize for most creative demonstration of the word backfire is not one I’d want to win.”

  “Revolver-toting vandals, eh?” She squinted along the rusted barrel, visualizing the scene in her mind. “We have Crane stage front, Locke and Starling maybe ten feet upstage, Ormonde towards the wings. How far would you judge it from that gallery to where the professor was standing?”

  “Fifty, sixty feet.”

  “And the range of this firearm?”

  “If I may?” He took it and flicked open the cylinder, tipping the metal-shelled cartridges into his palm. “An odd model. Strange material. I’ve never seen one like it. I’d say a hundred yards, but you won’t hit anything at more than about thirty. Twenty, if it’s smaller than an elephant.” He snapped the cylinder closed, thumbed the hammer, pulled the trigger with a snap!, and handed the weapon back empty. “I believe I see where you’re going with this.”

  “Yes. Professor Crane assumed an act of sabotage that injured Ormonde by ill-fortune . . .”

  “. . . conveniently ignoring the possibility that said saboteur wasn’t aiming for the engine at all . . .”

  “. . . but instead took a shot at Professor Crane herself—and missed.” She smiled. “An assassination attempt. How dramatic.”

  “And not one of those Oxbridge geniuses thought of this.” Remy cocked an eyebrow. “Extraordinary how their massive brains judder to a halt at the sight of a Royal Society badge.”

  “First Antoinette de Percy, then Professor Crane.” She tucked the pistol into her satchel. “Perhaps someone has a problem with female scientists. Ought I to worry?”

  “It could still have been Paxton’s man, taking aim at a competitor. I gather there’s some friction amongst the Brotherhood of Brilliance about the nexus between commerce and science.”

  “But surely a shrewd businessman would cut off Crane’s funding, or threaten her with some legal problem, or malign her in the press as he’s already been doing. It’s a big step from commercial rivalry to murder.”

  “As big as the pile of money he stands to lose if this engine succeeds,” reminded Remy. “We mustn’t discard the possibility that de Percy’s murderer and the shooter are accomplices in some dastardly conspiracy.” He rubbed his hands. “This gets better by the minute.”

  Eliza nodded. “So we can’t eliminate anyone
just because they were on the stage.”

  “Still, it does rather count out the swashbuckling Mr. Locke. If his motive is sexual jealousy, why fire at Crane? The fellow seemed rather in awe of her.”

  “I agree. He did claim someone else called upon Antoinette that day. A mysterious visitor who upset her, possibly fought with her. Perhaps that’s our man.”

  “Speak of the devil,” said Remy suddenly.

  “Hmm?”

  “Your blushing beau, Starling. He mentioned rival scientists. ‘Speak of the devil,’ Locke said. Right when that fellow Wyverne showed up.”

  She thought about it. “ ‘Why did they shoot at us,’ Crane said. Not someone. They.”

  “As if she’d an inkling who they might be.” Remy gave a delighted laugh. “Told you they were all liars.”

  She grinned. “I declare, we’ll make a proper investigator of you yet. Harley would be proud.”

  “Starling was practically bursting with secrets, too.” A sly glint lit his eye. “You ought to flutter your lashes in his direction. I rather thought him hoping to resurrect a schoolgirl crush.”

  “Ha! Missed his chance. I gave up on witty romantics with dashing good looks long ago.”

  “Good decision. Look what you ended up with.”

  They halted at the corner of Piccadilly, where richly dressed shoppers promenaded and shop windows glistened amongst a cacophony of advertising hoardings. No doubt swell mobsmen worked the crowd, thieves disguised in fine clothes, picking pockets and swiping reticules.

  Remy helped her clear a path across the street. Steam hissed from a vent in the paving stones, the Electric Underground rumbling beneath. People trotted down the steps to catch the next train, clutching umbrellas, briefcases, and shopping parcels. A man in a green Sikh turban operated a clockwork juggler, red and yellow balls popping mechanically into the air from tiny brass hands.

  Eliza dodged a flower-seller’s cart piled with crimson carnations. “Paxton and Veronica Burton certainly seemed chummy. What’s her interest in the engine, if it’s already submitted for certification? Picking out which scientific miscreant to burn next?” She shot him a side-eye glance. “Or was that your job?”

  Jauntily, Remy tilted his sword, his scarlet coat gleaming. “Madam, the man before you is enjoying an edifying day out with his alluring yet pitiless fiancée. In fact, consider it my day off. Beaconsfield’s reports can wait. I’ve something to show you, remember?”

  “I recall the word speechless,” she conceded airily, “which seems at best highly improbable. I do hope you’re not planning some hideous surprise party.”

  “You must wait and see.” He handed her onto the curb, where a row of cabs waited. This one was an old-fashioned hansom type, with a real horse that snorted at his approach. “In you get, my love. Not a moment to lose.” She bunched her skirts and jumped into the forwards-facing seat. He murmured something to the driver and hopped up beside her. “You must promise not to peek until we get there.”

  “Really, Remy—”

  “Promise, or I shall need to use force.” A fiery blue twinkle. “And then we’ll be here all day.”

  Sighing, Eliza leaned back and closed her eyes. “Satisfied?”

  “Tantalized, but it’ll do for now.” A flick of the driver’s whip, and the cab rattled off.

  Hipp snuffled in her lap, grinding his cogs. The leather seat cushioned her comfortably after what suddenly seemed a very long day. The memory of awakening in Lizzie’s room—in Lizzie’s bed, for heaven’s sake—made Eliza’s cheeks burn . . . and reality crushed in on her.

  She and Remy needed to talk. About the wedding, the servants, the house, her medical practice. And Lizzie. Every awkward, unpleasant issue she’d been avoiding like poison.

  Familiar sickness churned in her guts, her oversweet remedy repeating on her like Lizzie’s ghostly laughter. Always, it was like this. Whenever Remy returned from France, sunlight would bathe her world, and for a few precious hours, everything would be perfect.

  And then she’d remember, and all over again, her heart would break.

  A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL

  TWENTY MINUTES OF RAIN-SPATTERED TRAFFIC later, the cab lurched to a halt. Eliza jiggled, eyes squeezed shut. “Can I open yet?”

  “Not yet.” Remy’s hand closed on hers, and she jumped down. Her boots landed on clean cobbles amidst the smell of wet grass and flowers. Clank-clunk! Hipp leapt down—none the worse for his ordeal at the theater—and hared off, clitter-clatter along the street. A bird whistled, a horse whinnied. Electric-warm breeze puffed her skirts, an omnibus or a carriage whisking by.

  “This way.” He tugged, and she followed, laughing. He led her across a street, up some steps. A door creaked, and closed again behind them.

  A familiar, dusty scent assailed her, waxed furniture and a coal fire. Soft footsteps brushed the carpet. A third person.

  Curiosity itched. “Who’s that? Where are we?”

  “Patience, my petal.” Remy led her (and the unknown third followed in a faint odor of cloves) along a wooden corridor and out into a graveled yard. Up more stairs, and inside again, into a room smelling of old books and chemicals.

  Eliza’s recollection stirred, a sleeping giant. “Remy, what is this place?”

  He held her in front of him, covering her eyes. “Charles, the lights, if you please.” Electrics crackled, the smell of hot aether. “Surprise,” he murmured, and let his fingers slip away.

  She blinked, dazzled. Pale sunlight shafted through a frosted-glass skylight to illuminate . . . an anatomy theater. A marble dissection table, ringed by tiered wooden seats. The central hanging light was dark, but warm electric light flickered from sconces lining the distant walls.

  Her vision frosted, smearing into memories of old. Dim gaslights, low murmurs of wonder, surgical bowls and specimen jars passed from hand to hand. Stern men in high collars, authoritative voices lecturing on the nervous system or blood circulation or the operation of valves in the heart. Henry Jekyll’s earnest, insistent speeches, that way he had of knowing the truth, irrevocably committed, and his impulse to tell everyone, for good or ill . . .

  “This is our old house,” she exclaimed. “In Cavendish Square, where we lived when I was a child. Before . . . oh, my.”

  Remy grinned. “I’ve had Brigham here cleaning it up. Still enough dust to smother an elephant,” he added carelessly. “Hurry it up, can’t you, Charles? The decade’s end is nigh.”

  Charles Brigham gave her a cautious smile. A handsome lad, short in stature, with jet-black curls and startling dark-lashed eyes. His immaculate butler’s attire gleamed. “Good evening, Doctor. Do please excuse the mess.”

  Eliza stared. She’d met Brigham a few months ago, when his previous employer had been murdered. One of Remy’s pet spies, but a decent fellow for all that. “I-I don’t understand.”

  “ ’Twas the least I could do.” Remy threw Brigham a wink, earning a blushing eye-roll. “Kept threatening him with a job, didn’t I?”

  “Oh. I mean, certainly. Hello, Mr. Brigham . . . but Remy, why are we here? Are the owners allowing visitors?”

  “That’ll be up to you.”

  She goggled. “What?”

  “I bought it. For you. Us, I mean. I just inherited rather a lot of money, so . . . Presumptuous, I know,” he added quickly, taken aback at her surely undignified expression. “But I didn’t want you to give up your working rooms, and my house on Berkley Square is too small. Seriously, this place is enormous, isn’t it? This theater, the laboratory downstairs, the museum, the library, and that drawing room in the front can be your consulting room. Classrooms, too. We’ve space for an army of assistants, if that’s what you’d like. Of course, we’ll need your Mrs. Poole and Molly to help Brigham run the place. And there’s that odd locked room for Lizzie’s things, and . . . good God, Eliza, whatever did I say?”

  She choked back tears, overcome. All her fears—for her house, her servants, her medical practice—seemed so fo
olish. Because he’d solved them, hadn’t he, with a single elegant gesture like the impossible magician he was.

  For a moment, her glittering good fortune blinded her. She didn’t deserve it. Surely, she’d imagined it all, a wishful daydream of heaven.

  But Remy Lafayette was no dream. He was solidly, undeniably real.

  She swallowed another tearful laugh. He was fidgeting, so anxious was he to please her. Her gallant soldier, who feared little in this world and shrank from even less, talking over himself as if he mustn’t stop lest it break some spell and she’d vanish.

  She wiped her eyes beneath misted spectacles. “Captain Lafayette, I do believe you’re nervous.”

  “Terrified.” His blue eyes shone, brighter than the lamps. “Tell me if you don’t like it. It’s no trouble. I can always—”

  “Stop it.” She walked up to him, still dazzled that he’d read her so well. Touched that he’d even think of it. Frightened by how completely he knew. “I give up. You win.”

  A brilliant smile. “Speechless?”

  “For all sensible purposes? Utterly dumbstruck.”

  He kissed her fingertips. “It’s all right, then?” he whispered.

  For a moment, a tiny sting of resentment spoiled her euphoria. She felt trapped. Swept along by forces beyond her control. Helpless . . . but her own ingratitude pricked like thorns under her nails, and she forced a smile. “It’s perfect, you ridiculous man. You’re perfect.”

  “No more than you deserve.” A sparkling wink. “Well, maybe a little more.”

  She swatted him, and he caught her and kissed her and for long moments the world dissolved. Warmth twinkled over her, sinking deep, and she pressed closer and let him steal her breath. His mouth, his warmth, the scent of steel and aether she’d come to know so well. The deeply pleasant sensation of his strong body moving against her . . . and the catch in his throat, that tiny sound deep in his chest, the stretch and yawn of something other, stirring.

  Politely, the butler cleared his throat.

 

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