Mechanical Rose

by Nathalie Gray

  Leeford sat, seething in his chair and raked his hair back. He could not believe this was happening. The humiliation all over again, as though they stood in the annual engineering student fair, the disparate resources, the various public figures roaming the place, grinning like fools at the shiny things that sat there and did nothing useful, the press-like vultures around the richer schools while his project went unnoticed. His had been the only machine that had actually worked and served a purpose.

  His sponsor was Spark? Of all people. Violet’s words about his tool being twisted into a weapon came back to gnaw at his conscience. She had been so right. What a fool!

  A ring that resembled a steel scarab wrapped around his little finger gleamed when Spark rested his hand on the table. In spite of his frustration, Leeford spent a second or so admiring the tiny hinges and the way the ring fit the appendage to perfection. Flawless symmetry, smooth lines. No way had Spark designed this.

  “What do you want?” Leeford asked without taking his gaze off the ring. He preferred to look at a steel scarab then at Spark’s beady eyes.

  “To inquire about the project’s status. What else?”

  Anger replaced frustration. Leeford usually did not waste such energy on people but Spark’s tone made him radiate with rage. He made him feel like a whore. Hateful man. “You have been forbidden from practicing as an engineer. I could report you to the Order.”

  Spark’s eyes narrowed, a tic pulled at his eyelid. The man obviously had a tenuous hold on his mental stability. “Do not venture further on that path, Gunn.”

  “I will venture on the path I choose and I suggest you stay out of it,” Leeford retorted. “And as for the project, it is not completed and neither will it be. Ever.”

  The steel scarab creaked when Spark balled a fist. “I paid for your research. It is mine. Prototype, plans, everything. Do not toy with me, Gunn, you are not equipped. You never were.”

  How the conversation had veered in the span of a minute. Leeford leaned back in his chair. “The prototype is not anywhere near completion and I work without plans. As for the money, I will send it back to you with the next post, to the last ecu, I assure you. I do not want it.”

  Spark grinned wide. “You do not even have it anymore. As quickly as it comes in, it goes back out for that pitiful shack you call home and the fools who inhabit it.” He leaned over the table, still smiling as if they were exchanging on the weather. He barely moved his lips when he spoke. “I possess excellent sources of information, Gunn. You have no financial backing except for me, no status since your family all but banned you, and you drink what little money is left.”

  Leeford took the hits without flinching. He had endured much worse at the end of his parents’ tongues. “I have something that you will never have, it is called professional integrity and mine is not for sale.”

  “Professional integrity?” Spark chuckled, shook his head. “Gunn, Gunn, Gunn. You do not even have a profession. Do they not say inventors are failed engineers?”

  “And do they not say failed engineers become financiers?” a woman said to Leeford’s left.

  “Ha!” He wanted to slap his hand on the table but was afraid to make a mess.

  Violet stood near the next table, her cheeks flushed from—he thought—the wind and the brisk walk to reach the messenger bureau and return. Not even ten minutes had elapsed.

  If her words produced a satisfying twitch to pull at Spark’s cheek, his expression bordered on panic and shock when he turned to address Violet and saw her standing there. He quickly recovered, leaned back in his chair and took his time disrobing the woman with his gaze, who did not seem disturbed in the least as she stared back. Several seconds passed. Clearly these two knew one another. Leeford could not imagine a world where such dissimilar people could ever meet. Or more. Perhaps they had met because of her work. He stood out of courtesy for her.

  “You find me profoundly stunned,” Spark purred, standing as well to give Violet her chair back. “I had no idea you kept such charming company, Gunn. A world apart from the ugly girls who found you amusing during our youth.”

  Before Leeford could intervene, Spark pulled himself another chair from the neighboring table and would have helped Violet sit had she not pointedly ignored his hand to instead take Leeford’s.

  “Thank you,” she said to him, warmed his heart with a smile.

  “There was a time you would not have avoided my touch,” Spark put in while he rubbed the inside of his ring with his thumb.

  “Experience comes from bad judgment,” she said as she warmed her hands on the tea pot. “And good judgment comes from bad experiences.”

  Leeford’s mood was lifted considerably. If it did not mean he had to spend a lot of time around people, he would have enjoyed being as skilled at ripostes as Violet was. And delivered with a small smile and no outward sign of nervousness. Unlike himself. It was all he could do to not jump to his feet again and yell curses at the arrogant ass. Perhaps he should!

  Spark put a hand to his chest and winced. “My dear, how you wound me.”

  “I am sorry to have interrupted your conversation,” she said to Leeford. “Would you prefer if I left?”

  “Absolutely not! We all know who interrupted whom here.”

  “Yes,” Spark replied, pulling his gloves out of his pocket. “Speaking of which. I will await news from you, Gunn. About the project.” He threw a quick glance at Violet. “Or better yet, I will come by tomorrow to see for myself.”

  “I have told you that our association is over. Had I known my sponsor’s identity, I would not have even started the project. It is over.”

  By the corner of his eye, he saw Violet sit up straighter and angle her head as though she listened in on a mental conversation. She seemed happy to hear him say this. Perhaps she was proud he would not turn his tool over to a man such as Spark, who clearly had more money than morality or vision.

  When a scowling Spark leaned over the table, Violet’s hand slipped below the tabletop to disappear in the folds of her dress. Leeford could see it well from where he sat. Taut like a violin string, she exuded intensity. A cat about to pounce. Such strange reaction.

  “Understand me well, Gunn,” the engineer snarled in undertones. “I own that research, I own the prototype and I own you. When I come by tomorrow, I will take it and finish the job myself. If I find nothing to satisfy me, what your family has done will look pleasant to what I can do to you.” His gaze slid to Violet and he grinned. “Your companion can tell you more about this, I am sure. She is well acquainted with my drive.”

  From recesses of male protective instinct he did not know he possessed, Leeford leaned over the table as well, literally growled. “Do not dare speak to Miss Violet in such a way, Spark. I will not tolerate it.”

  “Leave while you can, Aloysius,” Violet snapped. Her cheeks looked flushed.

  Spark’s black eyebrows arched high. “‘Miss’ Violet?” he scoffed, stood and pulled his gloves on. “What has she been telling you, Gunn?”

  “Nothing that could concern you!”

  For the first time in his life, anger evaporated the logical side of his brain and left the primitive male pride in charge of things. He saw whisky in his future tonight and hated Spark for it. Hated him even more. “I have no qualms about challenging you. Should we get the pistols?”

  Patrons must have heard his challenge for they turned to look at their table. Pinched little noses and puckered mouths. How he loathed all of them, the prissy upper class and other fools who gravitated to them. “What?” he threw around the place. “Have you anything to ask? No? Then mind your own blasted affairs!”

  Even though his deportment must have embarrassed her, Violet never let it show and kept staring pistols at their unwanted guest.

  Spark laughed. “A duel? Good fortune, man, I would never partake in such asinine activity. I prefer to hire someone to get rid of my problems. I think it is a very common method, is it not, Miss Violet?”
>
  “It is,” she replied, standing. “Goodbye.”

  “Indeed, Spark. Good riddance!”

  “Oh, I am not so easily dismissed, Gunn. At dusk tomorrow. I look forward to this.” He straightened. “Gunn, Eleanor, oh, forgive me, Miss Violet.”

  Spark left before Leeford had found a proper reply that did not include calling him an assortment of names not suited for public hearing. For her sake, he would try to remain calm. Then it hit him.

  “Eleanor?”

  Violet stared at the table for several seconds before meeting his gaze. And he did not like what he saw there. A whole new person, older, colder. Cheerless determination, steely resolve. And sadness. Ah yes, a lot of that.

  Eleanor hated the triumphant glint in Spark’s eyes as he left. But she hated even more the look of hurt confusion in Leeford’s.

  “Is Eleanor your real name?” he murmured.

  She nodded.

  “Why not tell me? What difference does it make? You are still an Escoraille, still Lily’s family.”

  She noticed he had not called the young woman Lady Frivolous. It pained her without reason.

  “No. I am not an Escoraille nor related in any way to Lily. You let a stranger into your home, Leeford.”

  He poured hot water into her cup then into his. His hands shook. “Not only into my home.”

  Tears welled her eyes. “I am sorry. Truly.”

  “You look sorry enough, but then again, you are a good liar.” He grimaced. “I should not have said this. Forgive me. As you said, we all have our reasons and do what we think is right.”

  “You remember?”

  He nodded. “Not only do I remember, I believe it. Your tea is getting cold.”

  “Let me tell you. Everything—”

  He raised a hand and looked out through the window a few tables down. “Not here. At home. So I can salvage some shred of pride and not make a bigger fool of myself in a public place.”

  The knife of regret stabbed deep. She tried to swallow a bit of tea but it would not go down. “You are not a fool, Leeford. I was dishonest with you. My reasons are just if that makes a difference to you.”

  He shrugged noncommittally, gulped his tea in one swallow then plunked the cup down on the saucer, which broke in two and spilled bits of soggy leaves onto the table. “Keep it for later when I am properly drunk and anesthetized. Come, we must leave while there is still light.”

  She knew his financial situation was tight at best and was torn between letting him pay or offering to share the costs. Would he feel more slighted if she offered or if she did not? Hoping she would nullify the dilemma before it happened, Eleanor rushed to retrieve enough ecus from her little pocket sown into the bodice of her dress and put them on the table. To her chagrin, Leeford had time to pull out a ratty leather wallet but not to take the money out of it. He shoved it back into his pocket and stormed out of the tea shop, knocking a few patrons out of his way and yelling at them for being there in the first place.

  Her heart in her boots, Eleanor followed in his wake, caught up to him only when he had reached the garden and yanked his jacket and gloves from the valise. He never met her eyes as he prepared the duo-cycler, cranked the handle then sat. She joined him, held onto the edge of the seat instead of his waist—she doubted he wanted her to touch him—and closed her eyes to keep from seeing the tight set of his shoulders or the way he stared stubbornly forward.

  He followed the road until the first drop-off ramp then angled his machine out toward the precipice. After revving the engine, he leaned forward. She hung on with all she had—fought the instincts to wrap her arms around him—and gritted her teeth when he propelled them forward with all speed. They went over the ramp and fell into the void, aimed at the marshy ground below their feet.

  For a split second, she thought it would end this way. In a crash. But he deployed the wings, which flapped out in the wind and strained against their metal armature. The sound much like her heart, a wounded beast in the throes of death.

  She was barely cognizant of the way back home, if only to watch out in case Spark decided he could continue the project without its creator. No one attacked them. No private dragon came to swoop over them and pepper them with bullets. No mysterious malfunction afflicted Leeford’s machine. Either the Society had assured protection from afar or Spark had not tried anything. Yet.

  They made it back to his seaside estate without a glitch. But the sky had darkened over the horizon with thunder clouds hanging low over the water, roiling closer in black fists and shadowy maws. In a series of bumps and rattles they landed. Despite his ignoring her, she helped push the machine into the hangar, stood while he closed the doors without locking them. She wished he would. Lock everything down and leave. Before Spark arrived, the Society no doubt a second behind. Before things turned ugly.

  “You should not be here when Spark arrives tomorrow,” she said to his back. “He is dangerous.” And so were her colleagues. As careful and professional as they were, she would not trust one of them with Leeford’s life.

  He whirled around and ripped the goggles off. Red rimmed his eyes. His chin trembled. “I will not be pushed out of my house by the likes of him!”

  “Temporarily at least. Destroy the prototype, take your friends with you and leave. Tonight. Please.”

  “Destroy it? Are you mad?”

  “You have built it once, you can again. It is your genius that designed it.”

  “Do you not get it?” he demanded as he threw his goggles to the ground. “When I finish a project, I can never go back to it. It is gone!” He twirled his index finger by his temple. “Gone forever! I could no more build another than I can turn back time and pretend you did not stab me in the back. But he still will not get the prototype. I will hide it. Tonight. There are no plans, no sketches. It is all here.” He pointed to his head. “He will have nothing.”

  He turned and marched back for the house. “And neither will I,” she heard him mutter.

  She ran after him but could not bring herself to touch Leeford so she trailed him like a disobedient dog would his angry master, afraid of having caused irreparable harm, afraid of being tossed out or deprived of his affection.

  Fortunately, neither Lady Frivolous nor Max was present and Eleanor followed Leeford up to the third floor, which she had seen only once since most of it was his chambers.

  After shouldering the door open, he threw the gloves aside, ripped at the many buckles of his boots until he could kick them off. One thudded against the wall and created a black scuff. His chambers were much like their occupant. A bit messy, a bit befuddled but charming in their laisser-faire charm, worn grace and subdued but strong masculinity. After he grabbed a bottle of amber liquid she recognized to be whisky, he collapsed onto his massive bed—the thing was made of wood and steel, unlike anything she had ever seen. One of his inventions no doubt.

  She stood uncertainly by the door. “Leeford?”

  “Oh, please come in,” he snapped. “Pay no regard to the state of affairs. Spark may be an oily bastard, but he had this one thing right.” He took a long swallow from the bottle, smacked his lips then grinned sadly. Another swig made him wince.

  She entered, closed the door behind her.

  “So,” he said with a circular gesture. “Let us hear the fable of Miss Violet. But first, a drink.” He proffered the bottle for her to take. She shook her head and watched the liquid slosh when he tipped the bottle high then back down.

  “My name is Eleanor Cleverly. I work for a secret society that is privately funded. They—we—work with governments to rectify certain situations they cannot fix themselves for legal or political reasons. Or when the means unfortunately justify the end.”

  “Fascinating.” Another swing. “Please go on. I feel there is more. Enlighten me.”

  Eleanor walked to the foot of his bed, clutched her hands behind her back so he would not see how they shook, how vulnerable she felt in the face of his quiet rage, his raw
disappointment. It would have been much better had he thrashed the room and thrown things. She had grown accustomed to anger and rage and what it did to people. In her line of work, one often witnessed the ugliest side to humanity. But watching him this way, quickly drinking himself into oblivion, in a way self-destructing before her very eyes, hurt Eleanor as she had never been before. She had done this to him. It was her fault. She could perhaps fix the situation, but she may never be able to undo the harm she had caused. Even if she managed to glue the pieces back together, there would always be cracks. She sighed long, rattling like a silent whimper of pain.

  Above the bottle, Leeford’s eyes flared, rimmed in red as if he had endured strong winds too long. He let the bottle rest on the mattress and stared at the liquid moving up against the glass sides.

  “This is the truth.”

  Eleanor took a long breath. As she let it out, she told him. Everything. About the multitude of men she had charmed either into compliance or into their graves. The beds she had shared for her duties. The lies she had told. The reasons why. Always the reasons why. She gave him absolute truth right down to trivial details and shameful specifics that he never would have learned on his own. Leeford’s expression grew sadder as she told her tale. She had expected anger again. Her world was populated with angry people. She stopped after she recounted her rendezvous with Mr. Clarence and how he had tasked her with taking care of the present situation.

  “Your ‘society’ sounds as bad as those they fight.”

  She took the hit without—she hoped—letting the shame show. “The common good supersedes that of individuals, Leeford. It is our motto.”

  He let out a mirthless laugh. “And so what if buffoons like me are trampled in the process?”

  “You are no bu—”

  “So you knew all along Spark was my sponsor?” Leeford cut her off. At once several timekeepers chimed, gonged or clicked seven o’clock. The storm had swallowed the sky outside his windows, which she noticed only then opened out onto the sea. Rain started ticking against the glass panes. “You knew but never told me?”