INTERLUDE
In Which Miss del Morte Learns about America
Being Madame Fiammetta Fiore was no great hardship, but being on the arm of a mad Scotsman was. Sophia allowed herself to be led around and have her feet trodden on by McTighe for several days. Most of his conversations were about things that she couldn’t understand one bit. The meaning of freckles, the movement of cloud formations over the Isle of Skye, or the history of copper coins. Rantings of a brilliant lunatic. Now she understood that the “Mad” moniker he had earned was entirely appropriate. Albert was going to be the harder target, since that OSM agent assigned to him, Martha Harris, never let him out of her sight.
It was always the women, Sophia mused, watching her over the rim of her morning cup of tea. The assassin took the female of the species far more seriously than the male. She knew all too well that one of the “weaker sex” had to work much harder to rise into any position of power. Despite the recent advances in technology and society, women were still seen as creatures that needed to be protected. But Sophia’s mother, the renowned courtesan Francesca del Morte, had taught her daughter that strength did not merely lie in weapons alone. It was also in the mind. This Miss Harris required some assessment.
Hamish McTighe was up in his suite today on account of a rather severe cold, thanks to an additive Sophia had dropped into his nightly single malt. Now she was freer than she had been in a few days.
A lucky thing for Hamish too. Sophia had reached the stage where she was quite willing to risk bloodshed just to be free of him. It was her preferred modus operandi, but since joining the Maestro’s employment, she had stretched her skill set to its utmost. Assassinating nobility had been a pastime for her. Kidnapping nobility? Something new, at least when it came to royals. A fact she had to remind herself again and again as she loaded the dart gun that morning.
Sophia took a sip of her tea and smoothed down the rather plain bronze-coloured day dress she had picked out this morning. The only concession to luxury was the narrow trim of fur at the neck and on the trailing edge. It was as simple as Sophia’s wardrobe got.
The prince’s American agent, in Sophia’s observations of her, was more than competent at keeping an eye on him, but she didn’t appear to be heavily armed. Sophia’s assessment was that this Martha Harris had been chosen for her assignment because of her looks. The prince appeared charmed with her, her dark skin and shapely figure most becoming to him. Bertie’s lingering gaze insinuated that he desired a more intimate adventure with her. Like all men, it was not the head on his shoulders that led him.
Sophia stirred her tea, and drank another sip. She was proud of the fact that anyone observing her would never have been able to tell she hated the stuff. Far too much time in England had forced her to drink lakes of the dishwater beverage, yet without it a lady often had nothing to mask her intentions while seated.
So when Miss Harris came downstairs, and walked to the concierge desk, Sophia was careful to be busy about adding more lumps of sugar to her cup. She watched with her peripheral vision as Harris stood at the desk, waiting impatiently for someone to tend to her. The concierge in his very fine dark green coat continued whatever menial task held his attention at the other end. Sophia knew this was a trivial thing as she had seen two other hotel patrons approach the concierge, both patrons receiving the man’s undivided attention. Martha Harris was the exception, even when he completed whatever was at his desk. The agent was visible to him, and yet he did not seem ready to acknowledge her existence. He sat there for a moment, his eyes darting in the direction of Miss Harris for a brief instant, then set to stacking some papers. Something about the set of Harris’ shoulders suggested that she was used to this.
America was a strange creature to Sophia; always talking about liberty for all, and yet failing so miserably to provide it. Their recent war might have proven a point, but its good intentions were still some way from filtering down to the actual people.
An immaculately dressed red-haired woman approached the desk at the other end, also ignoring Miss Harris. Immediately, the concierge was on his feet, tending to the lady, standing mere inches from Harris. Sophia managed to hide a smile. She would have laid odds that the agent was having trouble repressing the urge to smash the man’s face into his own counter.
The red-haired woman and the concierge were talking about travel plans, and sights to see in the area. From the look of the travel brochures in the woman’s hands, Harris would be waiting for some time. This would leave the prince unprotected for, at the longest, thirty minutes, depending on how many places this patron wished to visit.
She recalled McTigue’s comments earlier when he had first introduced Sophia to the prince. He would be on the fourth floor. Before the lift came to a halt, she pulled back the inner gate, opened her handbag, and pulled out her compact.
This early in the morning, especially after a night of carousing, there would be few people in the hallways, and those in their rooms asleep or groggy. Her chances of moving undetected were all in her favour. Still, she kept her footsteps light as she crept down the row of suites. She opened her compact and held the mirror down low and angled out in order to peer around the corner. The way was clear. She looked over her shoulder, and then swept as quietly as possible back the way she came. Reaching the end, she repeated the manoeuvre.
The man currently standing in front of the prince’s door appeared remarkably alert for this time of the morning. He was also quite large. If he were the first line of defence for her to face, his counterpart would be even more formidable.
She put her compact in her purse, and took out a dark mask of hard leather, with two small cylindrical filters fixed on either side of it. Once the mask was secured around her mouth and nose, she fished out a silver ball that fit quite nicely in the palm of her hand. She then glanced at the fob dangling from her dress, checked the time, and gave the sphere a slight twist from each side.
On hearing the sphere click, Sophia began a silent count to ten as she tossed it towards the man and then disappeared back around the corner flipping up the mask’s eye shields. Sophia calmly walked around the corner, her carriage confident and hardly rushed. Perhaps her fashion was bizarre, at present, but she would wear it with all assurance.
The guard had seen the sphere first as his eyes were cast downwards. When he looked back up to see a woman of pleasant proportions, her stunning outfit topped by a monstrous visage of brass, leather, and glass, he drew his sidearm. The weapon had cleared his jacket when the sphere tapped at his foot. He disappeared in a rush of greenish gas that enveloped him, turning whatever warning he attempted to shout into a sickening retch. The guard was already dead considering how his body collapsed onto the fine-carpeted floor underneath them.
A second guard, alerted by the sound of dead weight falling in the hallway, appeared in the door. Sophia knew the first burst was lethal, but once dissipation occurred it was nothing more than an irritant.
That did not mean it was a mild irritant.
Sophia was only a few steps away when she caught sight of tears glistening against the guard’s cheeks, his pistol faltering in his grasp and his breath audible in excruciatingly harsh, dry coughs. A quick flick of her wrist, and the concealed stiletto shot out of its hiding place under her very respectable sleeve and stabbed the guard’s forearm twice, releasing his grip on his weapon. The other arm came around in a wild left hook that Sophia ducked under. She leapt on the man’s wide back and drove the stiletto deep into his neck. He stumbled back, but Sophia continued to ride him as if he were a fine performance horse until he joined his compatriot on the floor.
The bloody stiletto still in hand, Sophia stepped into the prince’s suite. The man she recognised as the valet was on his feet, a modified blunderbuss braced against his hip.
“To arms!” the man screamed just before Sophia dove to one side.
An explosion ripped through the mêl
ée, but she was a moving target and this man was not an experienced shot. Sophia stood from her roll and shot her other arm out forwards, sadly ripping the respectable sleeve and cuff there, and two razor-discs sailed across the suite and knocked the valet to the ground. Unlike her, the brave servant to the prince would not be getting back up.
Sophia took a few moments to get the tingle of excitement running under her skin back in control. She had not enjoyed this sort of kill for quite a time, and she found that she had missed it. Scooping up the fob hanging from her waist, she noted the time, the second hand also helping her rein in her thrill. She still had time, but could not kill the man in the final room. The Maestro wanted him alive.
She kicked open the door with a well-planted foot and immediately dove for the floor on hearing the generator. A wild, frantic display of lightning bolts reached above her and singed the walls, shattered wall fixtures, and destroyed a breakfast setting where the valet had originally been. From her purse, Sophia pulled out the small dart gun, leaned out from her hiding place, and fired. Prince Albert hefted his unique rifle but no second volley came. Sophia’s dart had landed square in his chest. By the time Bertie got his hand on it, he was already falling.
She ripped the mask free, tasting fresh, unfiltered air. He landed hard, but he would get no compassion from her. Soon enough, under her care, he would be earning more bruises. Heaving from underneath Bertie’s armpits, she dragged the unconscious prince through the servant’s door, hefted him into the lift, and then joined him in a ride down to the laundry. The convenient carts on the ground floor she could use to push his not-inconsiderable bulk to the rear entrance. There, her driver could manage the prince into her carriage. This morning’s abduction was about keeping things simple.
The lift doors shuddered open.
“Room service!” Martha Harris spoke cheerfully just before punching her hard in the nose.
This was not the first time Sophia had taken a blow there, and so she avoided the natural reaction to clasp her face. Still hurt like the devil, but she managed to stay standing. Her vision flared white for an instant, and yet through the glare she could see a form she knew was Harris. The thing in front of her lolled and shifted in her eyes, and then snapped into focus. Harris’ second jab was coming straight for her. Sophia’s hands came up and landed a strong hold on the American, yanking her into the lift, sending her chin into Sophia’s elbow, and pushing the black woman back into the hallway wall.
“Between the wait for the idiot at the concierge desk and all the lovely reflective surfaces downstairs,” Harris said, pulling herself off the wall, “you didn’t think I spotted you, did you?”
Sophia did not respond. Her own body was flush with the joy of battle now. The punch to the face had been unexpected. That meant Miss Harris was formidable. And as she loosened her skirts and stepped free of them, she recalled how she preferred being up close and personal like this with opponents.
Harris did not enjoy it as much when Sophia’s knee stopped her charge. Martha struggled to catch her breath, leaving herself open for a kick, but Sophia’s leg was in Martha’s iron grasp before it could reach its target. The assassin found herself thrown hard into the wall and then, a moment later, on the floor. She attempted to roll out of the way as Harris unleashed several kicks to her rib cage.
“Nice corset,” Martha quipped. “Before I turn you in to the authorities, I’m going to want the name of your tailor.”
Getting her feet under her, the assassin returned her stiletto back to her grasp. She feinted right, but Harris ignored the bait, trapping then twisting her arm, driving the blade between the door and its frame. She then pushed hard against Sophia, and the blade snapped free of its hilt.
Sophia loved that blade.
“Puttana!” she spat, charging forwards. Elegance and technique were both supplanted by all-out brawling, both women landing what blows they could. Sophia, through the flurries of punches, jabs, and slaps, caught sight of a stairwell, perhaps leading to a basement. She grasped tight to Harris and pushed her to what she hoped would be her death on the narrow staircase.
Unfortunately, her opponent was far too clever for her to get away with that.
Harris wrapped a free arm around Sophia’s waist, and together they slammed against the stairwell. The assassin landed on top of Harris, and proceeded to strangle the life out of the agent who had broken her favourite stiletto. Harris brought the heel of her palm straight up into Sophia’s lip, breaking the Italian’s hold on her.
Sophia scurried back away from Harris, just as the prince moaned from the floor of the lift. This was not going as planned. She should already have been out of the building with her prize, instead of roughing it with this harlot. This scuffle was costing her time. Time she didn’t have as the commotion in the prince’s suite would have assuredly alerted others by now.
The door to the first floor rooms popped open and a maid appeared with a stack of towels in her hands. At the sight of a coloured woman standing in a martial challenge stance, an Italian lady dressed in the top half of a day dress and tight trousers, and the heir to the throne of England lying in the servants lift, she apparently did what came naturally. The ear-piercing scream Sophia seized as her opportunity, quite literally. The assassin threw the still-shrieking woman into Harris’ direction, then scrambled for the door where the maid had appeared. The exit led to an access hallway to the street. Sophia dashed down the length of the hotel, reaching the open alleyway where the hired driver was waiting.
“Andiamo!” she yelled to the cab.
The man jerked awake and urged the carriage forwards. Not waiting for it to stop, Sophia pulled herself up into the moving carriage, and secured the door just as she disappeared into the bustle of San Francisco.
As she leaned back in the seat, she let her racing heart slow. She had underestimated Agent Martha Harris of the Office of the Supernatural and Metaphysical. It would not, however, be a mistake she would repeat.
The mark of a good assassin was to know when to retreat, and how to change the approach for the next opportunity. She knew. There would be other ones.
She would simply have to find a moment when the odds were more in her favour.
NINETEEN
Wherein Our Colonial Pepperpot Takes Advantage of What Precious Time Remains
“You know,” Wellington observed, “usually our mad scientists have their lairs hidden underground, or in desolate wastelands, or, in the case of the Culpeppers, at a country home with convenient escape airship handy. But Edison has to be a first.”
“Oh, come along,” chided Eliza. “Do you think death rays, evil henchmen, and raw materials come free? Man’s got to earn a bob or two to pay for all these marvels of technology.”
“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.” Wellington and Eliza continued walking, at a slower pace this time, casting occasional glances to Edison’s not-so-secret hideout.
Wellington was in desperate need of a drink, and while a chilled white wine sounded like a delightful option, he knew in Flagstaff he would be hard-pressed to find such a thing. Most especially right now as he and Eliza stood across from the Edison Illuminating Company workshop, their American counterparts completely unaware of what they were doing.
“How do we know he’s not there?” Wellington asked, shifting against the post to get comfortable. His back was to the building, but the dry goods shop window in front of him offered a clear reflection.
“Bill mentioned that Edison’s train arrived very early this morning,” Eliza replied, her own eyes scanning left and right. Her gaze lingered only for scant moments on Edison’s workshop. “He’s speaking today, so he’s bound to be napping, just to make certain he is well rested for his personal appearances.” Eliza reached for her fob watch dangling by her dress, flipped open the cover, and nodded. “I’ll wager he won’t be rising from his bed at the Concord for another hour or so, th
en off to tuck in with a late breakfast or early lunch, depending on his perspective.”
“Are you suggesting,” he said, trying not to notice how close she was standing to him, “that you have somehow gained insight into Mr. Edison’s personal habits without ever clapping eyes on him?”
“Not at all,” Eliza said with a chuckle. “I am simply relying on one of the most accurate of timekeepers—a man’s stomach.”
As if answering to her voice, Wellington felt his own grumble. He regretted not partaking of that breakfast Felicity had so kindly fetched for him earlier.
She took a few steps away from him, nodded for no apparent reason, took in a breath, and then said, “Shake your head, Welly, and spread your arms wide as if you are completely in the dark as to what I have apparently asked of you.”
Wellington did so, adding in a hushed tone, “And we are performing this pantomime because . . . ?”
“Because, my newly promoted fellow field agent, just in case we have any curious eyes, either inside or outside the Illuminating Company, we are two people having a conversation.” Eliza stood, smoothing the creases in her dress. “Part of the scenery.”
“Then may I,” Wellington asked, slipping a hand into his coat pocket, “suggest this accessory?”
The two magnifying lenses swivelled on a single hinge, and the tiny apparatus was fastened to a clip, which Wellington secured on one arm of Eliza’s sun spectacles. She lowered one lense in front of her right eye and then gave a little start. Lowering the second one in place, she gave a small giggle as she looked over to the workshop.
“Seems that Edison should have someone tend to the windows. They’re filthy.” Eliza returned the second lense to a vertical position, keeping the first in place. “Quite clever, Wellington.”
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