by Sahara Kelly
But in the overall scheme of things, palace displeasure did little to bother Minnie, nor did it affect her choice of lifestyle. She continued to occupy a place of privilege, to handle the business of Dalrymple Shipping, and to discreetly and carefully select her lovers.
Sir Roger Lutterson was the latest, and had lasted quite some time. In fact, it was almost a year since he’d first seduced her, she realized with a tiny shock. Actually she’d seduced him, but that was neither here nor there and she wouldn’t have dreamed of pointing that out to him. Men were, she’d learned, quite fragile creatures in some areas.
Occasionally she felt that her life was a delicate dance, a carefully learned and complex assemblage of steps that took her from financial matters to sexual matters quite regularly. Or, as her old servant at home might have accurately but bluntly phrased it, “You go from finances to fucking without a blink, Miss Minnie.”
And Ellen was quite right. She did indeed walk from boardroom to bedroom with scarcely a check in between. But there were times when those few steps were the most challenging of all. Then again, it was the kind of challenge she enjoyed. Reviled by some as a loose woman, admired by others for her shrewd brain, Lady Minnie Dalrymple was a law unto herself. And at this moment she shared a grin with her reflection over the small sink in her private carriage.
Lady Dalrymple was the creation of journalists and the society in which they lived.
Everyone else just called her Miss Minnie. She supposed that she could add spy to her talents now, since that was what she was about to do.
It was a rather fun notion.
Yarmouth was a quaint town, in the way of coastal seaside towns trying to be appealing to those eager for fresh air and a change of scenery. Minnie breathed in that air, gave silent thanks that it wasn’t low tide and enjoyed the tang of salt along with the cool morning breeze.
Her assumptions had been correct—they’d arrived quite late at the dock—so she’d happily settled down for the night, rocked to sleep by the gentle motion of the boat and the unusual quiet of her surroundings. It would have been otherwise had she selected Cowes as her destination, since the larger town was likely filled with visitors, sailors, yachtsmen and tradespeople. But she’d elected the smaller western port and was glad she had.
She’d rested well and this morning had opted to stroll the tidy streets of Yarmouth in search of information about this Brass Pluggit of Roger’s. He’d been vague about its location, merely saying it was on the west coast.
Well, she was now on the western coast and the Isle of Wight wasn’t infinitely huge. It had to be around somewhere. Dutifully, Minnie had admired the striking pier, agreed with an old codger and his dog that it was looking to be a lovely day and nodded to a mother who was patiently holding the hand of a toddler as he investigated a shell.
All very charming, she mused, and most un-London-ish. Nobody raised an eyebrow at her lack of a companion, and nobody felt they needed to wait for an introduction. She’d almost forgotten the simple charm of country living and made a mental note to herself to get out of town more often.
The shriek of gulls wheeling overhead made her smile and she barely resisted the urge to pull her hat from her head, kick off her boots and run barefoot over the little sandy beach. Although it was probably more pebbles than sand.
“Ooof.”
Distracted by these thoughts and the continual scream of the gulls, Minnie had failed to pay attention to where she was walking and now found herself plastered against a dark jacket and steadied by two masculine arms.
“Beg pardon, ma’am.”
“I do apologize. Quite my fault.” She straightened her hat and glanced upward. “I wasn’t looking where…” Her voice trailed off as she got a glance at the man she’d walked into.
“Not at all.” He dipped his head politely. “I should have been paying more attention myself.”
She gasped and fought to steady her nerves. The man looking calmly at her had only half a face.
The other half appeared to have been created out of some kind of metal, since the features were molded carefully and with exquisite detail, not unlike a perfect engraving.
“Oh my.” She blinked. “I’m so sorry. Forgive me again.”
He sighed. “I’m used to it, ma’am.”
There was no trace of embarrassment or anger in his tone. He was, realized Minnie, telling the truth. He was used to such a reaction.
Barely half a head taller than she, he stepped gracefully back, releasing her as she steadied. His hair was white…the pure white of natural color rather than the steely white of age. As to what his age was, she couldn’t begin to hazard a guess. His eyes were dark and the one that was completely revealed betrayed a gentle amusement at her intense scrutiny.
He was dressed modestly, dark clothing and an appropriate hat, nothing to mark him as unusual in any way except for his features. Consequently, his next words took her by surprise.
“Might I assume that I’m addressing Lady Dalrymple?”
Minnie blinked. “Ah…that is correct. I’m Lady Dalrymple.” She straightened. “How did you know my name?”
“I was sent to meet you, ma’am. I understand you wish to visit my employer, Dr. Lowell.”
Her years of carefully schooling her facial expressions stood her in good stead at this moment, since she would most definitely not have appeared to advantage had she gawped like a landed fish.
Even though the temptation to do just that was all but overwhelming.
“I’m…a little confused.” She observed the portion of his face that was uncovered. How odd to have to read a man with only half his thoughts on display. It was an interesting challenge. “It was not common knowledge that I would be visiting. How did your employer learn of my arrival?”
He shrugged. “I could not venture an opinion on that matter, ma’am. Dr. Lowell has his ways.”
“I see,” said Minnie, who didn’t, but promised herself she was damn well going to.
“I am Dusk, Dr. Lowell’s assistant. If you will permit me, I will convey you to him.”
She paused for a moment or two, wondering at the odd twist her situation had taken. She was alone—her choice—and had run into Dr. Lowell’s manservant by…accident? Should she accept this invitation?
The voice of conservative reason was drowned out by the voice of interested curiosity. There were times when Minnie knew the latter could steer her into trouble, but up until now she’d managed to avoid it. There was no telling if this was the time she’d trip and fall…and that was part of the excitement. The not-knowing-what-lay-around-the-next-corner school of thought.
“Very well, Mr. Dusk. It seems Dr. Lowell is expecting me. I’d hate for him to be disappointed.”
The man bowed politely. “I’m sure that would be impossible, Lady Dalrymple.”
She chuckled. “Since you’re to be my escort, I’d prefer you call me what everybody else does. A simple Miss Minnie will suffice.”
“As you wish, Miss Minnie. And I am just Dusk.” He waved a hand toward a side road. “Dr. Lowell’s whimsy is this way.”
“His whimsy?” She turned at Dusk’s bidding. “How nice to find a gentleman who not only knows what a whimsy is, but actually has one.”
She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she heard a muffled snort of laughter.
Her curiosity gave way to delight when she rounded the corner and actually saw what had to be Dr. Lowell’s whimsy. It was a kind of conveyance that could well have been built by faeries had they been mechanically inclined.
Looking not unlike a giant, smooth, half-walnut shell, the body of the carriage was shining richly, dark red-gold highlights gleaming from the polished wood. An equipage fit for a fantasy, perhaps, lined with deep-blue velvet fittings and surrounded by a hood of thick canvas, presently folded down into neat whorls of a matching shade. There was a higher seat fastened to the front and it was this that Dusk maneuvered himself into after settling Minnie comfortably into the cushi
oned area.
“Well, I’m entranced.” Minnie looked around her and then watched as Dusk turned a few valves and grasped a lever. “How is this powered?”
A tiny whuff of steam answered her question before Dusk spoke. “For the first few moments it’ll run on its own internal propulsion. Then, when we connect with the track, it will be magnetically propelled.”
They rumbled easily over the surface of the street and out toward the hills around Yarmouth, heading for the ocean. And sure enough, as the buildings retreated behind them, Minnie noticed a thin metallic line appear beneath them. There was a slight shudder and then the hiss of the steam cut off. They moved smoothly down a lane shaded by large rhododendrons and some pine trees.
“Oh my. This is lovely.” She lifted a hand to secure her hat against the breeze and smiled at the delightful sensation of being whisked almost silently over the road. It probably wouldn’t have worked at all in London, but here, amidst the perfect bucolic scenery of the Isle of Wight—well, it was ideal. “Magnetism, you say, Dusk?”
“I believe so, Miss Minnie.” He turned, the sun glinting from his half mask. “However, I’m not very familiar with the technical details. Dr. Lowell is the man to ask about that.”
“I understand.”
She leaned back, adding one more small piece of information to her mental folder. Dr. Lowell was indeed a scientist and a knowledgeable one, apparently. Was his area of expertise this kind of mechanical conveyance? Or did he specialize in something else?
Whatever he did was enough to attract the attention of a Member of Parliament. Thus it had to be either potentially profitable or potentially dangerous. Those were the two most likely scenarios.
A little bubble of excitement stirred inside her. Yes, this was definitely how life should be lived. Never wholly sure what lay around the next bend in the road, but eager to find out what it could be.
“There it is, Miss Minnie.” The conveyance slowed as they topped a gentle rise and the ocean lay glittering before them. Dusk pointed to the shoreline.
Minnie almost choked as she sucked in a surprised breath of air. She knew, without a doubt, that she was looking at the Brass Pluggit.
And it was now very easy to see how it had acquired its unusual sobriquet. It was a lighthouse.
It boasted a great deal of brass plating.
And it was pretty much the identical shape of an erect penis.
“Oh my goodness…” Unable to restrain herself, Minnie began to laugh and didn’t stop until they’d rumbled to a halt in front of the door.
Dr. Pierce Lowell prowled his way around the circular room, pacing like the caged tiger he felt moving within his gut. It clawed at him, demanding release, demanding…what?
The light fell in predictable patterns—it was morning, the sun was in its customary position and the prisms refracted by the thick glass exactly where they always were at this time of day. So why was it that he found himself anxiously striding around, peering landward, awaiting the arrival of Dusk and his visitor?
Ever since he’d received a brief tip that Lady Minnie Dalrymple had expressed an interest in visiting, something had begun to itch inside his mind and hadn’t let up. Now it was a full-blown need to see her, to look into her eyes and to ask her what the hell she was doing here. He’d found a grainy image of her in one old newspaper—barely adequate to make out her elegant profile. Since it was just after Lord Dalrymple’s funeral, she was clad in dark, obscuring clothing. There’d been little more to learn from it and it had done nothing to assuage Pierce’s annoying itch.
He’d learned to trust that itch. It never steered him wrong. There was something about Miss Minnie, about her visit—something he needed to be aware of. Something that would keep him on his guard during her time at the Brass Pluggit.
Always assuming she didn’t faint when she first caught sight of it. Several of his acquaintances had done so, dramatically and thoroughly.
He couldn’t, in all fairness, blame them.
He’d damn near pissed himself when he’d first seen the place, since he’d been laughing so hard that control had become extremely difficult.
It wasn’t just the amazingly phallic lighthouse—as if that wasn’t bad enough. No, it was the two small glass geodesic domes, greenhouses that sparkled at the base of the damn thing. Seaward, of course, to allow for maximum light.
And to top it all off, there were rocky protrusions extending out into the water, for all the world like thighs, positioned exactly where they should be if a giant lay aroused on the shore of the Isle of Wight, legs widely spread, exposing his genitals to the universe.
Whoever had built the lighthouse in the first place had possessed a giant sense of humor. Or a wicked need to shock every woman within twenty square miles. Whatever the goal, Pierce found his new home to be a source of continual amusement and fascination. So he lived in a brass cock. What of it? If ladies wished to make any comparisons or comments, they were quite welcome to. He’d heard all of them several times over the last couple of years.
And had a few compliments to his own equipment as well. Apparently, the unique shape of his lighthouse was a lure in and of itself. Those women who didn’t faint at the sight of it often hurried down to meet the occupant and see if anything matched up.
Modestly, he confessed to himself that they’d all left with smiles on their faces and no further jests about the Brass Pluggit.
He might not be brass, but he could pluggit as well as any man.
All of which was a lot of fun, but didn’t explain his current mood of heightened anticipation as he waited for the notorious Miss Minnie’s arrival.
He’d often blessed his communications channels, a large collection of telegraph wires that he’d cleverly blended into one tidy unit. He could receive messages or information from a variety of sources without surrendering an entire room to the technology. A light above a certain control indicated news from London. Another signaled messages from Cairo or Johannesburg. None were labeled—only Pierce and Dusk knew the origin of the telegraphs. And Dusk barely bothered with them, preferring to work in the greenhouses and leave the other matters to Pierce.
Those other matters were housed in the belly of the lighthouse itself. And concerned nobody but Pierce. Certainly not Miss Minnie, or Lady Dalrymple as he supposed he should call her. Whether this was a simple visit of curiosity or something more, he wasn’t sure.
But the fact her name had been linked to his old school friend Sir Roger Lutterson—that was too big a coincidence to ignore. Politics was politics, after all. He’d known it was only a matter of time before he attracted attention from Whitehall—it didn’t require a huge amount of logical thought to assume that perhaps Miss Minnie was the preliminary salvo fired on behalf of his government.
They’d be wondering what he was doing, tucked away in this quiet little serene corner of the British Isles. The drawback to having attained some degree of fame within the scientific community was the prominence and attention one attracted after that point.
Pierce’s work with magnetic levitation, conducted at the University of Stuttgart, had been rewarded both financially and academically and put his name on the front page of many scientific journals.
And, it would appear, brought him to the attention of his own illustrious government representatives. He caught himself curling his lip in what probably would have looked like a sneer to anyone else, had they been present. Fortunately they weren’t, because Pierce didn’t like to betray his inner sentiments. And although he certainly found plenty to sneer at in the Houses of Parliament—both the Commons and the House of Lords—he’d prefer to keep those notions tucked away where they couldn’t return to bite him in the arse.
For some obscure reason, the thought of being bitten in the arse brought his thoughts back around to Miss Minnie. And stirred something very male in his loins. He lifted his head and listened, trying to hear over the soft susurration of the waves around the base of the cliff. He had the oddest no
tion that if he sniffed, he would be able to smell her, pick up her scent, follow it to her…
Shaking off the strange fancies, he glanced landward once more and stiffened at the quick familiar wink of sunlight off his whimsy.
She was on her way. Dusk had found her successfully.
As he began to descend the smooth wide stone stairs within the lighthouse, Pierce wondered how she’d responded to his servant. Although servant was completely the wrong word for Dusk. He was more friend than employee, more father than friend and a little bit of everything when needed.
Since Pierce had created the mask for him, Dusk had been devoted in his loyalty. Both men had been pleased with the result—Pierce with the overall effectiveness and artistic appearance of his creation, and Dusk with the fact that he could now walk freely amongst his fellow men without knowing they were turning away in horror. And there was the added benefit of the fascination his mask held for the ladies.
Yes, it had been a good day when their paths had crossed, a good day for both of them.
It remained to be seen whether this day would prove to be a good one as well. Pierce moved to the large arched doors that led outside and with a grunt pulled them wide. They were of the thickest wood, reinforced with several plates of brass, and they probably could have withstood William the Conqueror’s army, had he chosen to invade the Isle of Wight. As it was, they’d weathered the occasional severe storm and flooding without a mark. It was simply that they were very difficult to open and close without a lot of effort, which brought a grunt to the throat of whoever had the chore at the time.
Any abstract thoughts about historical kings, doors and grunting vanished as a lilting laugh drifted into Pierce’s brain and made itself comfortable there.
He squinted against the bright morning sun to see Dusk assisting a lady from the whimsy and onto the flagstones. She glanced upward and laughed again, apparently vastly amused by the edifice in front of her.