“Er, um . . . think nothing of it,” Wellington stammered, feeling the heat rise under his skin. He was drawing a blank. Ye gods, what were their cover names? “Nothing at all . . . Esther.” Eliza’s smile widened. He got it right. Feeling every neck muscle tighten as he craned around her face to peck her on the cheek, he added, “I thought you would enjoy the fresh sea air here in the Carolinas.”
With a delightful little giggle, Eliza crinkled her nose, and then continued to the front desk, leaving him there quite befuddled.
Wellington smoothed out his cravat and cast a nervous glance over to Agent Lovelace who was eyeing him curiously. She darted her eyes to Eliza, then back to Wellington, asking him silently, The vapours?
His nod of reassurance, he knew, was anything but.
When he joined Eliza at the desk, she nuzzled in closer to him, fluttering at him her sapphire blue eyes as if she had caught a handful of dirt in them. There was no reason or rationale in this odd game she had chosen to play at this very public moment; but like all of her antics, he was sure there was going to be an uncomfortable point to it.
“Welcome to Swan’s Retreat,” the concierge recited his greeting.
“Thank you, kind sir,” Wellington replied brightly. “Reginald and Esther McPhearson.”
The man at the desk’s expression remained stoic as he replied, “As I surmised.” With a light snort, he looked down at his ledger and found their names. “We have you staying with us for six days, five nights.” He glanced back up at the two of them, and Eliza giggled again. “How fortunate we are for that.”
Wellington was now feeling a different kind of heat rise, but his anger was immediately quashed by Eliza’s reply. “Oh, such manners here, Reginald. I did hear that the southern states of the Americas excelled at hospitality.” She patted the concierge’s hand and nodded. “I think your establishment here will suit us down to the ground.”
“We do hope so,” the attendant spoke evenly, though Wellington could clearly hear the undercurrent of loathing in his voice. Particularly when he added, “If you desire to anything, just—”
“Ask?” Eliza blurted. “I can assure you we will, provided Reginald and I do not awaken and find ourselves mute.” She then burst into a cackle. “But how ridiculous of a notion, don’t you think?”
Wellington felt dizzy. You are still upset about that? He’d fooled her into silence on that mission, so perhaps it was only fair.
“You are booked in Room Ten.” He slid a single key across the blotter towards Wellington. “I will instruct the bellman to see to your luggage.”
“Thank you,” Wellington managed, wincing slightly at Eliza’s sudden squeeze of his bicep. They were ten paces away from the desk before he asked his partner through a forced smile, “I do believe I apologised for what happened at the Phoenix Society. Several times.”
“Just hedging my bets, Welly,” she began through her own tight smile. “Simply making my presence—and my voice—known to all at the outset.”
“Did you wish to include all of North and South Carolina in your proclamation as well?”
She gave a slight chuckle. “Oh, Wellington, you know how I indulge in excess.”
He went to retort, but paused in mid-step. He then pulled gently on Eliza’s arm, and guided her towards an easel. The announcement written there lightened his mood considerably. Perhaps his first official field assignment would yield a promising diversion or two:
We are proud to bring you
Edison’s Electrical Extravaganza
SATURDAY!
The Amazing
THOMAS EDISON
and his discussion of
ELECTRICITY
IN THE HOME!
EIGHT O’CLOCK
Reception to follow event
“Reginald?”
Yanked back to reality, Wellington turned to look at Eliza, who was casting her gaze between him and the poster. He hated how transparent he was when around her.
“But it’s our honeymoon,” she proclaimed, then adding, rather louder than necessary, “Dear.”
Yes, no mistaking it. That was a warning.
“I understand that, Esther, but this is Thomas Alva Edison,” he returned. Please, Eliza, he pleaded internally, please understand. “Appearing here! In the Outer Banks of North Carolina! During our stay here at the Retreat! What are the chances?”
“But there is—so—much—for us to do while we are here,” Eliza said, her character remaining intact but glimmers of annoyance flashing in her eyes. “Our time in the Carolinas will simply blink by.”
“We have five nights in the Carolinas, my sweet,” immediately tumbled off his tongue. It frightened him a bit how calling her “my sweet” came to him so easily. Not that he minded. “And yes, I promised to show you all the sights of this quaint beach resort, but you know”—and she did know—“how much I enjoy the sciences. This is just for one night. When else would such an opportunity like this present itself? Not only to hear the proficient inventor speak but to actually meet him in person?” he asked, motioning to the reception announcement.
Eliza’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Really, Reginald, I fail to see what is so fascinating about a man carrying a death wish. He is tampering with forces of nature, believing he can control the elements and bring them into fine establishments such as this?” She clicked her tongue. “No thank you.”
He was not going to give up on this so easily. “But, Esther, darling, this is a once-in-a”—and his voice dropped to almost a whisper as he muttered—“bloody”—then shot back to full volume on—“lifetime chance to meet one of the greatest scientific innovators of our time.” He was begging. He really didn’t care. “Please?”
“Well, I certainly have no intention of attending with you, Reginald,” Eliza answered.
A throat cleared behind them. “I would love to attend.”
Both Wellington and Eliza turned slowly. Felicity’s face lit up with a friendly smile as they made eye contact.
“My own husband”—here she gave a wide sweep of her arm to indicate Bill standing nearby—“does not really have a mind for the sciences. Would you mind, sir, serving as my chaperone?” She took a deep breath before going on. “Seeing as we are two newly wed couples vacationing together in North Carolina that would not be improper.”
Out of his peripheral vision, Wellington caught Eliza rolling her eyes. Heartbreaking as it would be to miss out on such an amazing opportunity, she was absolutely right: duty and charge must come first.
Wellington was therefore surprised to hear himself say, “I would be delighted. I’m certain my wife would not mind.”
Eliza flinched at his side. Wellington gave her a pat on her hand, but refused to look at her directly. He knew what would be waiting for him if he did.
Felicity grinned and bounced on the balls of her feet. “Your kindness knows no bounds.”
“Yes,” Eliza seethed, “you could say his generosity steals all sense from him at times.”
A shrill whistle cut through the din, its piercing note causing a few of the women to let out a chorus of little shrieks. They all spun about to see Bill removing two fingers out of his mouth as he leaned casually against the front desk.
“Felicity,” he called across the silent lobby to her, “you okay with a queen in your room, or are you wantin’ a king?”
“A king if it is available, Bill,” she replied, giving him a forced smile.
When she turned back to Wellington and Eliza, her smile was a hint tighter than it should have been. “We’re checked in under our real names. That’s what happens when I let the field agent with the penchant for firearms make the hotel arrangements.” She sighed. “Pity. I was hoping to travel incognito my first time in the field.”
“Shall we take a look at our accommodations?” Wellington asked.
&
nbsp; “Yes, let’s,” Eliza said, gently pulling him closer to her. “We have a lot to discuss, dearest.”
Those were the last words Wellington heard from Eliza as they found their way to Room Ten. Despite the chill, the staff had opened the room’s windows so the sea-scented air greeted their senses, along with the crashing of the nearby surf.
“So,” Wellington muttered as his eyes took it all in, “this is how the field agents live?”
While not as spacious as Eliza’s apartments back in London, the suite here at Swan’s Retreat was most well appointed. The Atlantic breeze casually toyed with the sheer draperies hanging from high above a receiving parlour. Wellington’s eyes continued from where they stood into the main bedroom off to his left. His eyes also noted a second bedroom, perhaps for children or other relatives, to the right. Between both rooms, a door led outside to a small deck where one might watch a sunrise or simply enjoy moonlight on the ocean’s surface.
All this luxury sprawling before and around him became inconsequential as Eliza’s anger abruptly shattered its serenity.
“Really, Wellington? Really?!”
“Esther, darling,” Wellington stammered as he looked about the room wildly, “do lower your voice!”
“Oh, stuff it, Welly. I suspect at Swan’s Retreat they don’t wire the suites with recording devices nor do they spy on their guests. You probably have to pay extra for that.” Eliza paused, pursing her lips together as her hands came to rest on her hips. Her fingertips wiggled against the fabric and creases of her skirts. She was not mad, Wellington realised. She was livid. “So before our luggage arrives, let’s just get this out! I don’t know who I want to shoot first—you or that annoying Lovelace woman!”
“Now, have a care. Felicity is quite charming, in her own, rather unique, way.”
Eliza’s eyebrow arched slightly. That tiny gesture never failed to terrify Wellington.
He adjusted his necktie. “It is harmless. I see no danger in two patrons of science and technology partaking in a lecture, colleague to colleague.”
She nodded, her eyes narrowing on Wellington. “Colleague to colleague? Is that what you call it?”
Eliza was making no sense whatsoever. “Whatever are you on about?”
Her head jerked away, and her tone became very cold. “Never mind. You think I am being foolish.”
“That is not what I said,” Wellington insisted. “I am merely trying to understand why you are taking such umbrage. I did not ask you to attend, as I am well aware you are about as interested in the works of Thomas Edison as you are in those of Verdi.”
“Might I remind you, Welly, that we are on a mission? That means sightseeing and local entertainment is considered a distrac—” Eliza’s words caught in her throat. She was now looking him over head to toe. “Just a moment, we are on a mission.”
“Yes,” Wellington agreed. “And you are stating the obvious because—”
“Because I am looking at your suit, Welly, and I can tell you are not armed.”
Bugger. She noticed.
“I am armed,” Wellington insisted.
Her brow knotted. “With what? A Derringer ’81? We need something with a bit more stopping—it’s not the Derringer, is it?”
“Not . . . exactly.”
Eliza screwed her eyes shut. He could see muscles twitching in her jaw. “Please, Welly,” she began, “please tell me it’s not one of Axelrod and Blackwell’s experimentals.”
Wellington felt his throat go dry. “She calls it the Nipper.”
“The Nipper?!” Eliza screamed. “This is your first field mission and you are armed with an experimental called the Nipper? What were you thinking?!”
“I was thinking”—and Wellington couldn’t stop himself from saying it—“baby steps. Yes, I am skilled with sidearms—”
“You’re a bloody marksman of most lethal abilities, you are!”
Perhaps it was the trip. Perhaps it was the presence of that bombast Wheatley, but now Wellington could feel his own dander start to get up. “I am not going to discuss this with you any further! You can have the master bedroom. I am a man of simple means, as you know, and I will manage just fine in the guest bedroom.”
“The guest bedroom?” Eliza folded her arms in front of her chest.
“Yes. I think that would be best. Besides, as you have said, we are on a mission, so the fewer distractions the better, yes?” When her shoulders fell, Wellington’s exhaustion took the place of his anger. This was growing tiresome, and just a bit silly. “So what have I cocked up this time, Eliza?”
Eliza went to open her mouth, immediately closed it with a snap, then whirling about, picked up her skirts, stormed into the master bedroom, and slammed the door behind her.
The archivist-now-field-agent stood there, staring at the door, waiting for it to open again. However, the door didn’t budge. Wellington couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard a muffled, aggravated scream over the omnipresent sound of the waves of the Atlantic.
“Hysteria,” he muttered to himself as he picked up his suitcase. “Has to be.”
INTERLUDE
In Which the Sands of Kitty Hawk Shift in Dangerous Directions
Dunes shift. Coastlines, under the elements, change. The sky is full of fleeting moods. So too the usually pretty face of Sophia del Morte, which was currently marred by a frown. She now stood on the sandbank, looking out to sea, her dark eyes underneath an equally dark hat scanning the horizon with eagle-like determination. This looked like the right place.
From the inside of her corset she withdrew the detailed map of the Outer Banks that the Maestro had given her. These details included coordinates, something Sophia trusted. If she were off her mark by the smallest distance, things could go disastrously wrong. That he should place his own fate so securely in her hands made even this seasoned assassin quiver with delight.
She had travelled by an exceedingly fast charter vessel, the Mercury. It was hardly comfortable compared to the Maestro’s massive airship, the Titan, but she had required speed above all. He had been most emphatic about where to be and at what time. Even with the swiftness of her charter, she’d arrived in Newport News, Virginia, only to immediately run from aeroport to train depot, catching the one train that could take her to some poor excuse of a town in North Carolina, then grabbing a coach—again, chartered by the Maestro—that whisked her to the edge of the eastern seaboard overnight. She was exhausted but still focused.
An airship as huge as Titan would draw notice everywhere it went, no matter if the port was a major terminal or one barely used. Here, on this lonely strand of beach, there was no need to worry about being observed. Sophia could not wait for the reunion.
She flipped open the rear cover of her timepiece, revealing its compass face. According to the Maestro’s coordinates, Sophia needed to move a little farther west. She hitched the haversack up a bit tighter against her back, hefted the Lee-Metford-Tesla Mark IV higher on her shoulder, and followed the agreed-upon bearing. She was thankful for the choice of garments, her trousers and stout boots making easy work of the treacherous footing. She half ran, half slipped down through the sand and low grasses, her nostrils full of the smell of salt, which she always equated with the smell of fish—dead fish, in particular. Then there was the sudden grinding of grit in her mouth. Even though she had her black jacket buckled against it, kept her head lowered and her mouth shut, she just knew that in the evening she would need a thorough bath to get the sand out of every nook and cranny.
Many people loved the beach, and Sophia del Morte was most assuredly not among them. Her profession had taken her to many unpleasant places before, and this barren wasteland of waves, wind, and dunes was merely another. She understood the Maestro’s reasons for choosing this site, but why couldn’t his ideal location have been within reasonable distance of a pleasant hotel or perhaps a vineyard? S
ophia sighed, turned, and spat out more sand that had worked its way into her mouth, and resolved to forebear it, and most certainly not whisper any complaint. She had only made that mistake once.
The compass in her hand chimed. She pushed her dark lenses up the bridge of her nose and looked around her, a slow smile spreading across her face. Yes, this barren stretch would be ideal. Her smile faded however when her eyes followed the coastline to where she would make ready the Maestro’s arrival.
She was not alone.
Two men in their rolled up shirtsleeves were working feverishly on some sort of contraption. It was a round cigar-shaped object about as tall as Sophia herself, and held in a cradle made of iron. She was curious by nature; and perhaps if she’d been on any other case she would have endeavoured to find out what they were up to, but the fact was they were stymying her plans.
This would not be born.
So engrossed in their work were these two gents that they never noticed Sophia’s approach, even though she was making no particular effort to be quiet. Standing only a few feet behind them, she tilted her head as she considered their invention in more detail. Strapped to the outside of the cylinder were a number of wires and tubes that, Sophia hazarded, contained various fluids, gases, or both. Not a large amount, but they were held in some sort of array that would mix them together. From the base, a small amount of steam was slowly seeping free, only to vanish into the Carolina breeze.
Or perhaps it wasn’t steam at all, because it looked thicker and heavier than the surrounding air. In fact, the dense mist seemed to fall from the apparatus. Now, Sophia was completely mesmerised by the device.
One of the men, the one with less hair, had some small hatch open. “Do you think the thrust calculations are closer this time?” he asked while fiddling around with the invention’s inner workings.
The other, the possessor of a fairly decent handlebar moustache, after passing him various tools, returned his own attention to various pressure gauges along the contraption’s hull. “They better be. We don’t have enough fuel to try again until next month,” he replied, and then gave a guffaw. “Unless we get a few more repair jobs from the Detweilers.”
Dawn's Early Light Page 6