An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Mechanical Rose
ISBN 9781419916267
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Mechanical Rose Copyright © 2008 Nathalie Gray
Edited by Mary Moran.
Cover art by Syneca.
Electronic book Publication May 2008
This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Mechanical Rose
Nathalie Gray
Chapter One
She held him until he had drawn his last breath. Only then did she let his lifeless form slump to the checkered floor, his face a sharp contrast to the black velvet jacket he wore. She did not hate him. She hated none of them, these dangerous men. But to preserve the fragile balance, to protect the world from their carelessness, their wars or grand ambitions, she had been tasked with either their capitulation or their murders. None had ever suffered at her hands for this was not her way. Eleanor Cleverly may be a spy, a murderess, but she was no fiend. Why resort to violence when a simple drop of potent poison would suffice?
Through her gloves she felt his neck cooling. After she gently let his head rest on the floor, she stood, dusted her corseted dress and retracted the spring-loaded needle into her broach, which she then reattached to her bodice. Shaped like a blood-colored rose, light reflected off its glossy petals. In fact, enough weapons were concealed on her person—her corset alone was a veritable armory—to kill a man in half a dozen ways. Slender dagger, garrote, pistols, poison.
Without a backward glance, Eleanor swept through the grand foyer, noiselessly opened the door and emerged from the man’s house to a clear, cool night where stars twinkled like sapphires in a sky of black satin. Steam-powered dragons of brass and silver flew overhead, their mechanical flapping wings and clanking gears discernible to her keen hearing, the subtle gleam of their hulls catching the twin moons’ light over the bristled city skyline.
The Divine Graces must have been on her side. Not that she had ever needed their intervention.
Smells of the night greeted her as she rushed from her target’s house, padded to the corner of the interior courtyard, making sure no one would surprise her while she activated her own dragon—a smaller version of those above. She nimbly climbed on the hinged stepladder, shook the hem of her dress out of the way as she turned to sit at the commands. Like burnished gold, the ignition lever glimmered when she wrapped her gloved hand around it, released the foot brake by small increments until steam hissed an angry tune as it filled the machine’s cylinders.
With a lurch, the dragon took off. Rose above the man’s house, higher until wind whipped at her hair and stung her eyes. The unseasonable chill shocked her. Only mid-autumn and already cold-charged high winds howled and wailed. Made it smell like winter. But then again, she should not be so surprised. Unfortunately, Terra’s climate had gone the same way as its population—out of control. If the latter had been fixed with an assisted selection vaccine for anyone not chosen to become parents, the former was proving more problematic. Due to mankind’s foolishness climate had grown unstable in the last decades, so much so that seasons blended into one long uninterrupted blur of gray days and cold nights. And the wind. Travel by air, lauded not so long ago, had now become the means of transportation of the poor. Or those who preferred anonymity. Such as herself.
She presently flew above the city center, built on piles hundreds of feet over the marshy lands that had, for all the rain, undergone a dramatic expansion in the last century. Eleanor swerved to the south, flew almost to the end of New Gaulis’ limits then spotted her destination, a belfry of brickwork and stone cladding with a giant clock on one of its five faces. She was landing on the topmost turret, a framed spire of cast iron, when the clock chimed the hour with its two-octave carillon. The profound sound traversed her belly, made her cringe. After securing her dragon with its mooring line so it would not topple from its precarious perch, she opened the door leading to the wrought iron steps, which she took two at a time.
Mr. Clarence already waited in the salon. Smoke from his longhorn pipe rose blue in the gas lamp light. He poured her tea from a long glass and silver carafe then set it back on its heater. Steam hissed from coils of copper pipes underneath the porcelain plate.
“He is gone?” Mr. Clarence asked, even if he must have known already.
Her colleagues of the Mechanical Rose Society prided themselves on their connections and vast network of informants and sleeper agents. She had often wondered if they also spied on full members, of which she was part. Probably.
“Everything went as planned.”
Mr. Clarence nodded, his brown eyes sad, wrinkles forming over his dark brow. “Unfortunate. I was hoping he would come to his senses before we had to act.”
He proffered the thin white cup, which she accepted before removing her gloves. “Unfortunate, yes, but inevitable, I am afraid. Even in the end, when he realized who I was, he would not sign the peace treaty.” Tea burned her lips, but she welcomed the small discomfort for it chased the lingering cold that had seeped into her clothes and bones on her way to the meeting. She shivered. “I would enjoy a few days to myself, I think. Somewhere warm.”
“That will not be possible, my dear Eleanor. A pressing matter requires your expert touch.”
She had not wanted to show her displeasure but could not stifle the long sigh. “Yes?”
Mr. Clarence nodded. “I know you have pulled more than your fair share lately. But our Society is needed now more than ever.” He reached inside his jacket pocket and retrieved a small tube he set on the table. Despite his age, his hand looked supple and possessed the rich color and shine of coffee beans. He must have been a striking man in his youth.
Eleanor took and uncapped it so she could unroll the sheets of paper and read. Some of her hair—the red tint gradually giving way to her natural black—spilled on the sheet. She blew it out of the way. The picture of a teenager occupied the top half while the intelligence the Society had gathered on the young man took the lower part.
“A child, Mr. Clarence? Has it come to this?” She had little qualms about engaging full-grown men or women, but an adolescent? What could he have possibly done to warrant the Society’s interest?
He shook his head. “Read the date. This picture is almost twenty years old. Leeford Gunn is a man of thirty-nine now.”
“From the Gunn family? The Gunns?”
“The same. My guess is that Mr. Gunn, a brazen young man and now a social disaster, embarrassed them one time too many with his inventions and eccentric behavior, and so they have exiled him to their seaside estate. He takes care of a cousin there as well. He is a decent fellow, this Mr. Gunn, from what I have heard. If only he had better judgment with his business associations.”
“What has he done? What danger does he pose?” Those blue eyes spoke to her.
Mr. Clarence rose, stretched his long frame. “Out of desperation, he accepted money from the wrong man. It is all in the file. Read it. Learn it. Tomorrow you leave for the coast. Fresh air would do me good as well, but I am afraid this requ
ires your personal touch.”
After a nod, she poured over the file, all two measly sheets of it. So this Leeford Gunn was an inventor and during a recent trade fair had attracted the attention of a very dangerous man, an engineer named Aloysius Spark whom the Society had wanted to “approach” for many years—without success—and on whom it kept a very, very close eye. She should know how dangerous the man was—they had at one point been lovers, even if love had never been part of the equation. He did to her body what she, at that time, needed and vice versa. Sex with Spark had been brutal and exhilarating. She had ended their torrid relationship when the Society received information regarding his less-than-moral experiments on cadavers. To think she had received him in her own bed. Eleanor shivered.
Gunn’s invention, from what little detail was in the file, had the potential to start another arms race and, with Spark’s financial means and political aspirations, could become very, very dangerous. And they had a history these two, all the way back to their education—Spark at a prestigious university, the other sent to a modest backcountry college despite his family’s great wealth and influence. But that was all. Eleanor flipped both pages back and forth. Not much information. Gunn seemed to be a secretive sort, hence the lack of visual document, with a lighthouse for laboratory and a rural setting for his research. She would have to build the file as she went, not an ideal situation, but as far as field work was involved, the Society had no better agent. With the exception of Mr. Clarence, of course, but a distinguished older gentleman attracted more attention in certain circles than a thirty-four-year-old woman with more curves than a kettle.
Eleanor yawned, took another look at the picture of the narrow-faced, dark blond young man with the bluest, most intense, dazzling eyes she had ever seen. A hint of a mocking grin touched his lips. The old picture had been taken outdoors with wind playing in his hair. Such vitality back then, which she surmised had evaporated given his reclusive life and ostracism from the Gunn family. She hoped with all her heart she would not have to use her last card with him, that he would listen to reason and drop his research into the dangerous project. The sort of knowledge such research could yield—and the machines built from it—could not fall into the hands of men such as Aloysius Spark. No matter the cost.
* * * * *
The train ride proved long enough to give her time to ready herself, learn the file, arrange her new looks—back to her natural black-eyed, black-haired self finally—but not too lengthy that Eleanor grew bored. An easy feat with her. She had always been attracted to action and danger, even at a young age. At nineteen, she had been the youngest member to be approached by the Society—thanks to the dean’s contacts—and had joined right out of university with a degree in political science under her belt. Had it been fifteen years already? Mr. Clarence’s star pupil. The respect was mutual, even if she would never trust any member of the Mechanical Rose Society. With them, the common good superseded that of individuals. She accepted that.
Dawn slashing the sky with brown and purple, she presently stepped off the train, pulling the trunk behind her with an assortment of creaks and groans, and proceeded to scan faces. Her ground transportation, arranged by the Society, would be waiting for her. When she spotted a woman with a coach driver’s tall hat, Eleanor joined her, exchange a nod then followed her to a gleaming black vehicle already steaming and ready to go. They drove over graceful bridges and twisting streets where a few ramps jutted out over the void for those with flying machines.
Out of the city—she had never before visited Aconia and its fabled botanical gardens, and vowed to after her mission was over—they rode in silence through the lush hills, interspersed with whitish boulders and gnarled trees, until the road forked. Her driver swerved left onto the narrower road and soon Eleanor spotted the sea beyond, which seemed to become one with the gray sky. A timid dawn sun managed to poke a blade or two of light and hit the sea at an acute angle.
“Fifteen minutes,” announced her driver. “We should be there at six thirty, as arranged.”
Eleanor sat straighter. She had learned the file by heart but still went over the details to make sure she had everything right. Her name was Violet Escoraille, distant relative to Gunn’s cousin, a woman whose mind tended to wander, or so the Society had gleaned. A “Violet” did not exist in reality, but in such a large family as the Escorailles, no one could be certain who had given birth when and who had married whom. The Society had deemed it safe. So, fatigued with the city life of her native Sigona, Miss Violet had decided to pay her relative a visit and benefit from the fresh ocean air. End of story. She would have to invent the rest.
When the coach crested over a steep hill, a vibrant shade of green despite the clouds, the Gunn seaside estate came into view. It resembled a multitiered castle of cards made of angles and bridges, twisting wrought iron stairs and spires, glass and copper covered in verdigris, and the whole thing mounted on a collection of elaborate piles. It defied every law of physics, yet beauty and harmony blended well with the improbable juxtapositions. Beyond the asymmetrical roofline, a lighthouse stabbed skyward.
Her driver managed the twisting road up to the estate with speed and agility, if a bit of recklessness and soon pulled in front of the house. No one waited for her, for which she was glad, as it gave her a few precious moments to study the place. Numerous side doors and windows that could be used for hasty retreats. Entry points on every level. The gas line running along the easternmost wall. Nodding to her driver, Eleanor stood, pulled her trunk behind her and jumped off the coach at the same time as one of the doors opened and out rushed a young woman.
In a cloud of steam, the coach sped out the way it had come, the crunch of its wheels against the gravel receding fast. The woman must have been used as getaway driver more often than tame coach chauffeur.
“Violet!” called the young woman, her loose hair flowing behind her. Barefoot—it was cold in these parts—and with the hem of her faded burgundy dress in one hand, she rushed at Eleanor and engulfed her in a lavender-smelling hug that stole the breath from her.
Eleanor dropped her trunk to return the embrace. A genuine rush of affection filled her even if she had never met the person. Who could resist such reception? She tried to dispel her embarrassment by patting her “cousin” on the back. “Lily, I am so glad to meet you!”
She truly was. Eleanor made a mental note to keep her emotions under stronger leash. She would not remain for long and could not forge emotional ties with anyone here.
“Oh no, it is Lady Frivolous, that is what Leeford calls me.”
“Lady Frivolous?”
The young woman nodded, beaming. “I like it!”
“So do I,” Eleanor replied, grinning as well. She did like it as the moniker fit the person to perfection.
“Here,” Lady Frivolous said, reaching for the trunk and grabbing the handle. “Let me get—Divine Graces, what is in there?”
Eleanor wanted to laugh. On the outside, she may be dressed and look like a polite society lady—down to the long gray corseted gown, gloves and tilted hat—but inside the clothes, she was a woman who could scale walls, shoot pistols, outrun most men and hold her own in a fight. One who had enjoyed many a lover’s touch and returned the favor tenfold. So her suitcase content tended to reflect that. She doubted many ladies traveled with explosives shaped like buttons and a set of grappling hooks tucked away among their underthings.
“I will get that,” a male voice said from her right.
Eleanor aborted the fighting instincts at the sudden intrusion. A tall, bearded young man stood by, glaring at her from underneath thick brown eyebrows. The groundskeeper according to her file. A man with no past, or so it would seem, but a sour disposition. She logged him under “possible threats” in her mental catalog.
“Max,” Lady Frivolous said, tut-tutting. “Extra sneaky today?” She giggled when the man scowled as he bent to pick up Eleanor’s trunk. It looked small and light in his bear paw of a han
d. But he did crack the young woman a small smile when he turned to leave. Eleanor made a mental note of this as well.
Arm in arm, Lady Frivolous and Eleanor followed the large man across the gravel courtyard, up a wide set of stairs that twisted to the first level and onto a wide, wrought iron balcony. Stained-glass doors opened automatically, steam hissing from the mechanism hidden near the floor. Eleanor gave a quick peek at the tiny set of gears and pipes coiled on the jamb, no doubt triggered by some sort of pressure plate near the threshold, and smiled. Clever.
Inside the foyer, the metal-and-glass frame ended to be replaced with elegant wood in rich russet tones and creamy plaster walls. If the outside of the manor looked definitely more industrial, the inside was warm and inviting. She shook the silly notion away.
“Leeford is due to come out in four minutes,” Lady Frivolous announced after checking a wall-mounted clock ticking in a corner. “He is never late.”
Four minutes? That was precise.
Max and the young woman took her to a great room filled with books and an assortment of machines great and small, of which she had no idea the use. Red velvet couches, worn threadbare but still elegant, occupied one of the walls, which faced the ocean. High winds, which could be heard whistling outside, frothed the sea into white caps. To her left, the lighthouse stood erect, a tiny path leading to its front door. Supported by wires, a slender copper pipe—the gas line, no doubt—ran from the corner of the house to the lightning rod on the lighthouse’s breast-shaped roof. The topmost window glowed amber and she wondered if this was where Gunn worked. Her eyes were once again drawn to the ocean’s majestic beauty. She could get used to such view.
“Why not take your gloves and hat off, Violet,” Lady Frivolous offered. Did the woman always smile? “And warm yourself by this here.” She pointed to a contraption of copper pipes made to resemble a strange, uncomfortable-looking stool. “Leeford made it.”
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