by Juliana Gray
Finn narrowed his eyes. “What do you see, Mr. Hartley?”
“You want us to lose, don’t you?”
“Naturally, I do. I’m fielding another entry, after all. But my primary concern is for Lady Morley’s safety.”
Hartley stabbed a finger in the general direction of Finn’s chest. “You want us to lose so we’ll be forced to accept your flimsy offer for my company. Eh?”
Finn raised his overlarge hand and folded it around Hartley’s stabbing finger. “Fifty shillings a share is not flimsy. It’s a damned windfall, and you know it.”
“If we win . . .”
“If you win, then what? Your company will be worth over half a million pounds overnight? When current law in England prohibits speeds in excess of four miles an hour? When legal operation of motorized road vehicles requires the employment of no less than three accompanying men?” He brought Hartley’s offending finger down to his side and released it with a pat. “I think not.”
Hartley’s face began to flush. “We expect those laws to be repealed.”
“Not for years, I think. Not with railway interests pushing so hard to keep them in place. Eventually, perhaps, but not yet.”
The photographers, noticing the intensity of the conversation, began to draw near. Hartley glanced nervously toward them and then back to Finn. He licked his lips. “If that’s what you think, Mr. Burke, then I wonder why you’re so keen to buy my company.”
Finn shrugged and folded his arms. “Because I’m playing the long game, Hartley. I can afford to; I’ve got two million pounds in hard-won capital, and I’m going to use it to muddle around and experiment and find the solution that sticks.” He leaned down and spoke softly. “Cash is king, Hartley. Remember that.”
“Damn it all, Burke.”
Finn straightened. “Now, look, Hartley. As I said, I don’t particularly care if your automobile runs today or not. My only concern is for Lady Morley’s safety. If you can find another driver, I’ll raise my offer to fifty-five shillings a share.” He reached out his hand and brushed at a piece of lint on Hartley’s wool shoulder. “Should Lady Morley so much as step inside that machine of yours, however, I’ll withdraw my offer entirely.”
Hartley’s mouth opened and closed. He threw a desperate look at the photographers, setting up their cameras a few feet away.
“Mr. Hartley! Mr. Burke!” called out one. “A photograph, please!”
“Why, Hartley, old chap.” Finn linked his arm with the other man and turned them both to face the cameras. “Do smile, there’s a fellow. You’re looking a bit panicked.”
“But surely you understand. When Lady Morley’s determined about something, she always manages to get her way.”
“Hmm. Yes. I’ve noticed,” Finn said affably. “So I suggest you find a way to manage her. And soon.” He started to turn away.
“Hold still, please!” shouted a photographer.
“If it’s as easy as that,” Hartley said, “why the devil don’t you tell her to sod off?”
“Well, well!” broke in a female voice. “How very charming! Our two competitors, linking arms and all that before the race. Whatever can they be talking about?”
Hell.
Finn looked across the heads of the photographers. There stood Alexandra in another impeccable white dress, hat spreading about her head, arms folded across her bountiful chest. The expression on her face could have melted stone.
“Gentlemen,” he said to the cameras. “Thank you. That will be all.”
He withdrew his arm from Hartley’s, stepped over to Alexandra, and drew her aside. “Darling,” he began.
“You’re plotting against me, aren’t you?” she said, in a harsh whisper. “You’re trying to convince Hartley to keep me from driving.”
He exhaled. “Yes, I am. It’s dangerous, Alexandra. Not just the race, but the automobile itself. I haven’t looked at the engine. I don’t trust it. It’s untested, untried. And steam’s a damnably tricky thing.”
“Finn, if I don’t drive, we won’t win. It’s as simple as that. Hartley’s a fool, and the mechanics don’t know the course.”
“For God’s sake, Alexandra! Better the automobile loses the race than you lose your life!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. No one’s going to die, Finn. Or perhaps you don’t like the idea of my racing against you? Beating you, perhaps?” Her eyebrows rose in challenge.
“Nonsense. I . . .” He frowned into her gaze. “All right. Perhaps a little.”
“I knew it!”
Finn looked up at the cloudless sky, hoping God might perhaps help him understand her. “Look, I don’t see why you’re so determined on it. It’s as if you want to pit yourself against me.”
“That’s not it at all. Not exactly. It’s just . . . oh, Finn, don’t you see? It isn’t just the money; it isn’t just being able to sell my shares to someone other than you. I admit that. I want to do it, to prove to myself that I can do it.” She put her hand on his arm, her slender fingers biting into the thin summer-weight wool of his jacket. “Look at me, Finn. When will I ever have another chance to do something like this?”
“You can drive my motor whenever you like.”
“Would you let me race it today?”
He hesitated. “No. The course . . .”
Silence settled between them. In the back of his mind, he sensed the shift of people around him, the curious glances directed their way, the smug attention of William Hartley in his wilting bowler hat a few yards away. But in his sight there was only Alexandra, her golden brown eyes looking up at him in supplication, her hand still tight and pleading on his arm.
Pleading not for his permission, he realized, because she was going to climb into Hartley’s motor-car and drive it anyway.
Pleading for his understanding.
“You see?” she asked, in a small voice.
“Oh, Alexandra,” he breathed out. “The danger . . .”
“Far less danger than having a baby, I think, and most women face that all right.”
He slid his hand down her arm to grasp her fingers. With his other hand he grasped her chin, heedless of their gathering audience. “In other words, you’re going to risk your life just to prove to me that you don’t need my money?”
She tried to pull away. “That’s not it. You’re twisting my words.”
“Because I don’t understand. I don’t. What are you saying, exactly? That if you don’t win the race, you won’t have me? That your damned independence, this need to have a fortune of your own, is worth more to you than a life with me?”
“No, I . . .” She pushed his hand away. “Why do you put it like that?”
“Because that’s how it is. You’re risking everything just to prove that you’re not the mercenary woman you used to be, when I already know that perfectly well. When I’ve been trying to convince you all along. I don’t need your proof, Alexandra.” He forced his voice to soften. “I only need your love. Can I not have that, at least?”
“Stop that, Finn. Don’t turn this into a test.”
“It is a test, by God!”
“Is it? Is it?” Her voice grew, not in volume, with nearly every ear on the grounds trained on them, but in intensity. She folded her arms and leaned forward. “Very well, Finn. If it’s a test you want, it’s a test you’ll get. I’ll back out of the race.”
He let out his breath in a gust. “Thank God. Thank you, Alexandra, for understanding. I promise I’ll . . .”
She held up her hand. “Wait. As I said, I’ll back out. But only if you will, too.”
He stared at her. “What the devil?”
“What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, isn’t that right? If I’ve got to pull out of the race to prove my devotion, so must you. If it’s too dangerous for me, it’s too dangerous for you.”
“That’s . . . that’s rot! That’s the most unreasonable . . . ridiculous . . . female convoluted . . . reasoning!” He knew he was sputtering, and he di
dn’t care.
“I think it’s quite logical indeed, and I’m sure that if you consider the matter carefully, you’ll see that I’m right. After all, I have a great deal more to lose than you do.” She took her sleek kidskin gloves from one clenched fist and fitted them carefully to her hands. “Now, while you’re busy thinking it all over, I believe I have an automobile to ready for a race.”
TWENTY-SIX
Of the eleven competitors in the race, Alexandra decided, only two were any real threat to her: Bartolomeo Delmonico, with his rumbling petrol engine, and Phineas Burke.
Phineas Burke, who should have been making a last-minute inspection of his own motor-car just now, but who instead hovered over the boiler of William Hartley’s automobile, firing questions at all three mechanics at once.
“Impossible man,” she said, as she wound her white cotton voile scarf securely about her head, trapping the hot afternoon sun in her hair.
“I think it’s touching,” said Abigail. “Aren’t you going to speak to him?”
“I think we’ve done enough speaking for one day. Goggles, please.” A flashbulb went off at her left elbow, scraping against the raw edge of her nerves.
Not that she would admit that to anyone.
Abigail handed her the goggles and helped her slip them over her head, with the lenses atop her scarf, ready to be pulled down. “This is so thrilling,” her sister said, tightening the buckle on the leather strap. “I want you to know, I’ve laid twenty lire on you with the chap running the book at the hotel café.”
“Where the devil did you find twenty lire?” Alexandra asked her sister. “Really, Finn,” she said, more loudly, “that’s quite enough. These men are really most frightfully competent. You should see to your own machine.”
He straightened and turned to her. His forehead was creased with worry. A light sheen of perspiration shone on his temples, beneath the line of his driving cap. “You’re certain of the course?”
“Perfectly. Around the gardens, down to the Colosseum, back up to the gardens. I tracked it yesterday. And it’s marked.”
He stared at her a second or two longer, his eyes the color of new leaves in the bright Roman sunshine. “Be safe,” he said.
For an instant, her heart swelled painfully against her ribs.
“And you,” she whispered.
He turned and walked away, his long limbs flowing purposefully through the thick, hot air. Alexandra watched him circle his automobile, checking the tires, and then swing into the driver’s seat in a competent motion. Why couldn’t he understand? Could he simply not imagine her need to walk into his arms as her own woman, with her own fortune, free and unencumbered? Could he not comprehend her desire to shut the door on her past, on the idle and useless Lady Morley she’d once been, the one who married for money and position instead of love?
“Lady Morley.”
She was so absorbed, she didn’t hear the words at first. It was Abigail who whipped about and exclaimed, “Good God! Wallingford!”
Alexandra turned. “Wallingford! What on earth?”
He stood there glowering in a light gray suit and straw boater, his black eyes flashing not at her, but at her sister. “You might have told me where you were going, you silly fools,” he said.
Alexandra recovered in an instant. “And why is that, exactly?”
His gaze slid to her. “Because I woke up four days ago to find myself the only damned resident in the castle, and the entire pile gone silent, without a word of news from anyone, and . . .”
“I’m so terribly sorry,” Abigail said. “How were the goats?”
“I don’t,” he said, between clenched lips, “give a damn about the goats.”
“Such language, Your Grace! In front of Miss Harewood! I’m shocked. Shocked and appalled. Moreover, I’ve a race that begins in”—Alexandra consulted her watch—“five minutes, and I beg leave to point out that you’re a most unwelcome obstruction.”
“You’re driving? In the race?” He looked thunderstruck. His eyes shifted back and forth between her and her sister.
“Certainly I am.”
“But you can’t simply leave your sister alone in a crowd of . . . of Italians!” Wallingford exclaimed.
“Of course not. Mr. Hartley will protect her from any insult.” She nodded to where Hartley stood a few yards away, hat in hand, scratching his ear, mechanics lounging at his side. He seemed to hear his name, for he looked over at them, replaced his hat, and worked his jowls.
Wallingford stared a moment and turned back to Alexandra. “You’re not serious.”
“Well, watch her yourself, then. Though I’d be more concerned for the poor Roman fellow who dared to accost her. Mr. Hartley!”
He straightened. “Yes, your ladyship?”
“I believe it’s time. Is the steam up?”
One of the mechanics spoke. “Yes, ma’am. Full steam. She’s ready to go.”
At that instant, a loud noise like a pistol shot cracked through the air.
* * *
The poor fellow,” Alexandra said.
They watched in respectful silence as the injured man passed by the ten remaining automobiles in a stretcher, arm and face bound up in white.
“Did you see the way his arm swung about? Jolly lurid,” Abigail observed. “To say nothing of his jaw. I thought they’d never get all that blood off the bonnet.”
“Damned cranks on these petrol engines,” said Alexandra. Her fingers drummed along the steering tiller. A solid weight had been forming in the pit of her belly for some time. She ignored it. She looked instead down the row of competitors, lined up at the starting point, automobiles of all shapes and sizes and engines, each more improbable than the last. One fellow balanced on what looked to be a sort of motorized bicycle.
She saw Delmonico chuckling with Herr Jellinek, whose wife and daughter were apparently avoiding the hurly-burly of the race itself. The Italian’s automobile perched next to him, its metal frame polished to a blinding sheen.
In the automobile next to her, Finn stared straight ahead, as if memorizing every paving stone on the road before them. With one hand he drew his goggles down over his eyes. Wallingford came around and leaned on the edge of Finn’s doorframe, exchanging a few words, face intent.
On Finn’s other side, Delmonico’s mechanic cranked his shiny beast’s engine with expert heaves of his arm. A deep growl rumbled through the air, and then another from down the line, smothering the boiler’s hiss behind her. Delmonico glanced down the row of motor-cars in her direction, and the look in his eyes surprised her, fierce and piratical beneath the huge disks of his goggles.
A flash of recognition exploded in her brain.
She’d seen that expression before, those dark, fierce eyes narrowed in malevolence. She’d seen it among the olive trees, near Finn’s workshop, on her way down to the lake on Midsummer’s Eve.
The night of the fire.
Good God. It was Delmonico. Delmonico, who wanted Jellinek to invest in his company. Delmonico, who’d spent a fortune, who’d nearly bankrupted himself setting up this exposition, to showcase his own automobile.
Delmonico, who would apparently do anything to win this race.
She turned to Finn and called his name, into the roar of engines and the shouting of the crowd. He didn’t stir, didn’t so much as flicker a muscle of his face.
“Finn!” she screamed again.
He started and turned to her.
“Finn! Watch Delmonico!” She stabbed her finger at the Italian.
Finn swiveled his head and looked at Delmonico. His face returned to hers with a quizzical shrug.
“Watch him!” she screamed again.
Finn shrugged again and pointed in front of them.
She turned to follow his finger, to where the starter stood fifty yards down the track with his pistol raised.
It was too late. The race was about to begin.
The sultry smell of petrol exhaust filled her nose and lungs
. Her right hand clenched the steering tiller with an unshakable grip, and her left hand stuck to the throttle.
The starter looked up and down the line, consulted his watch, and scanned the line again. Watch the pistol, Finn had told her. You’ll see the puff of smoke before the sound reaches your ears.
She watched the pistol. Her pulse pounded in her throat.
Around her, the crowd of spectators had gone utterly still. Not a sound, except for the roar of the engines; not a movement, except for the starter swiveling his head up and down the line of automobiles. She sensed the eager pressure of the steam in the boiler behind her, ready to burst.
Puff.
An eternity passed before the crack rattled her eardrums, an eternity in which Finn’s motor surged next to her and her foot lifted from the brake and she opened the throttle.
Hartley’s steamer erupted forward with an eager burst of speed. She matched Finn, passed him, her acceleration carrying her to the front of the field with nothing but empty paved road before her, lined with trees and spectators. The wind flowed over her scarf, fluttered the ends, cooled her head from the burn of the sun.
Elation sang through her body.
She had the fastest machine. She’d stick to the front, draw Delmonico’s attention, keep him from bothering with Finn. Delmonico would follow the greatest threat. All she had to do was keep her lead.
From behind her came the whining grind of the petrol engines, shifting gears and building speed. Somewhere in that pack Delmonico’s automobile strained toward her, trying to catch up.
The dust from her tires must be stinging his goggles.
Ha-bloody-ha.
* * *
Finn knew something was off the instant his automobile leaped from the starting line.
She was quick off the mark, almost as quick as Hartley’s steam engine. But some subtle spark was missing, some additional fraction of energy.
He couldn’t pause to consider the question. Dust and motor-cars swarmed around him, jockeying for position. The screaming growls of the petrol engines filled his ears, drowning out the roar of the crowd. A race among gentlemen it might be, an exhibition of infant motor development, but a race was still a race.