by Ed Greenwood
Behind Rose, through the trees, was land she knew well; the country seat of her family, the Harminsters. She sat now at one end of the Barnstaple lands, and out the larger window in front of her was the Sefton estate. Beyond it, half-hidden behind a distant line of trees, were the lands of the Rathercoats, and, beyond that, the estate known as Foxden.
So tranquil, all of them, so seemingly far from bustling London, most touched by its nearness not by sounds but by errant odors and smokes, and by the frequent sight of airships scudding the skies overhead.
It seemed very strange that the foremost sweeping matters of the Empire should reach out to—should be at play in—Bishop’s Bottom.
The Bottom was, after all, a small village. A handful of cottages around a tiny neat white church with a modest vicarage. Hard by a rather ramshackle pub, the Bold Royal Fox; a sagging coaching inn with white-painted galleries, the Old Highwayman; and but one business, if it could be called that: a Royal Mail way yard and office.
Rose could see its dirigible mast from here, though the mail airship usually moored there was absent. It was a base for shuttle runs of mail to and from the countryside around, like so many others across England, and she’d heard it described as smaller and sleepier than most.
Beyond the Bottom’s tiny cluster of buildings were only farms and country places—that is, the half-dozen grand houses and their grounds. With the River Race, a lazy and meandering trout run that had ever belied its name, winding through it all. Not a place of bustle, or tinkering, or steam-driven innovation of any sort. Why, the local farmers grumbled at the steam threshers that—
There was a footfall nearby, and someone suddenly lurched through the archway.
Rose bit her knuckles to keep from crying out.
It was a man, looming up large over her, all in black but with tiny lightnings crawling all over him. His face looked like that of a dead man, his head almost a bare skull, yet his dark eyes regarded her, alive and interested, out of shrunken sockets. His hands were bare save for gleaming pointed caps on every finger. As he lurched forward, she saw that his feet were bare, too, and that he wore some sort of metal frame over his black, many-straps leathers; the little bolts of lightning were snarling along its bars and fittings, betimes spitting sparks from the joints.
His arms spread wide, as if to prevent her escape. Yes, yes, he was cornering her where she sat, leaning and reaching to prevent her snatching up the pitchfork.
His hand came down on it and swept it to the far end of the seat with casual ease. He leaned still closer, face jutting toward hers like a snake about to strike.
Then his jaw fell open grotesquely, and Rose bit back a scream.
“You,” he said slowly, mouth dry and voice gratingly hoarse. “You are not … who I seek.”
He turned, flinging his entire body around like a crudely commanded marionette, shoulders rocking, and peered around the bare stone room. Satisfying himself that it was empty of all but the cowering Rose and several old, dried-out birds’ nests, he turned away from her and lurched back through the archway.
“You did not see me,” he commanded severely, glaring at her from the deepening night. Then he was gone, lurching heavily away through the roofless outer rooms and down the steps into the forest.
Rose found herself trembling and panting, more frightened now that the lurching man was gone than she’d been when he was looming over her.
Would he come back? She—she couldn’t bear it, she—
Almost sobbing in sudden haste, she pounced on the pitchfork and brandished it in shaking hands, holding it up to menace empty air in front of her as she resumed her place against the wall in the corner of the seat.
Watching two long, rusted, and wickedly curved tines tremble in the dimness, and knowing just how helpless she’d be if he—if anyone—came in and attacked her.
She did not remember dozing, would not have believed she could have fallen asleep in the icy grip of terror, but suddenly someone—a man—was clearing his throat apologetically right in front of her, and she was fumbling to raise the pitchfork with a fresh sob of alarm.
“Good evening,” this second apparition greeted her. “I believe you are expecting me.” A calm and confident voice, almost drawling. A voice she’d heard before.
This visitor was taller and far more slender than the lurching man. He wore some sort of dark coat, and now took something from an inner pocket of it: a fat round disk about the size of his hand. He unfolded some sort of crank from it—it was hard to see in the deepening night, for the tardy moon had still not risen—and wound it vigorously. The disk made a whirring, growling sound.
Then, as abruptly as he’d begun, he left off doing that and flipped the disk open. A coil of wires within it gave off a faint glow, and he held the thing up beside his face so she could see his features. And smiled.
She caught her breath in startled recognition. It was Jack Straker, the flamboyant, debonair Lord Tempest of London’s high society.
His smile widened at the sound of her muted gasp. Nodding to her in polite salutation, as if they’d just been introduced in a drawing room somewhere, he said rather dryly, “You can put down the pitchfork. I’m not in the habit of murdering ladies at first sight.”
“You are—?”
“The personage you were sent here to meet, yes.” Gracefully sidestepping the pitchfork, he sat down on the seat beside her, slipped the disk back into its pocket, and produced a smaller metal object from yet another hiding place in his outer garment. “So, to begin … there’s an initiation.”
“And what might that be, my lord?” she asked quietly, putting the pitchfork down on the floor with a calmness she did not feel but was determined to feign.
“No names,” he murmured. He held up the little box between thumb and forefinger. “Nothing more dangerous or energetic than the taking of the snuff.”
“A detestable habit,” she replied firmly.
“It will only have to be this once.” He thumbed open a flap at one end of the box. “Apply your tongue sparingly to the end of one of your fingers, put the finger into this, then put it up your nose and turn it within there—yes, I’m aware that this is both unladylike and not the usual procedure for taking snuff, but humor me—and we’ll be done with the formalities.”
Lady Rose Harminster hesitated. What did she really know of this man, after all? Well, at least she knew who it was, and had to admit that under other circumstances she’d have been more than flattered by his attentions. He was among the most dashing of the young and unattached lords of London, and—
She did as he’d commanded, and in a moment was inhaling the strange and unfamiliar scent, and reacting with helpless tears and dismay, thinking wildly she’d been deceived and betrayed, and was about to …
Lord Tempest stroked her forearm and then moved his hand to cup her elbow supportively, as tenderly as any kindly aunt.
“Pray forgive me,” he murmured, “for I have deceived you. I’ve given you the Grail.”
“The G-g-grail?”
“A truth drug, a secret of the Crown. Let me say merely that it makes everyone’s eyes stream, and overwhelms the will. So a trained questioner can briefly get truth out of someone.”
Jack Straker did not see the need to inform the lady—who might, after all, not last long in Crown service—that each exposure to the Grail had shorter and shorter effects, so it was used sparingly. The beagles tended to use tiny amounts and ask captives merely “Did you do it?” Only if they got a denial did they ask, “Who did?”
Instead, he asked simply, “Are you a member or sympathizer of the Ancient Order of the Tentacles or the Crown Anarchists political party?”
“No!” she replied indignantly.
Good. Truth, and strongly held at that. He proffered his cleanest handkerchief.
“You’ll weep for some minutes, from eyes and nose,” he said comfortingly, “so don’t try to speak. I’m just going to walk the outside of the folly to ensure we’re
still alone, and return straightaway.”
The unbroken night song from the forest told him more clearly than his eyes that no one was lurking near. When he returned, the Lady Harminster’s face was still wet, but she held out a sopping handkerchief to him as serenely as any duchess returned linen to a maid. He didn’t trouble to entirely hide his smile.
“Time to hear my truths,” he told her simply, joining her on the seat and keeping his voice very low, so she had to bend close to hear it.
“The Prince Royal has a country retreat very near here. Not a royal palace or hunting lodge, though he has one of each not all that far afield, but a modest mansion with walled grounds, not known to the general public, that he keeps for his assignations. Which are many.”
If he’d expected surprise, he got something else. “Foxden,” she said. It was not a question.
“How did you learn of it?” he asked sharply.
“I guessed, this very instant,” she replied, eyes steady on his. “Go on.”
Lord Tempest studied her coolly for a moment, then continued, “The Prince Royal has his casual lovers amongst the nobility, and exotic foreign nobility, too—and a distressing number of those are now residing hereabouts, awaiting their turn.”
She nodded. “I have heard the Lord Lion is charming, handsome, and generous.”
“He is all of that. Especially generous; he often bestows largess, royal jewels, and even lands and titles on his favorites, since the Queen’s … indisposition.”
Lady Harminster merely nodded. It was hardly a secret amongst the nobility that Alexandrina Gloriana Hanover, the third ruling Queen Victoria in a row to ascend the Lion Throne, had for some years been an invalid, kept alive with steam-driven bellows as lungs and a hissing hydraulic pump for a heart. The Lord Lion had been knighting and ennobling and distributing royal gifts with her full approval from before her time of seclusion.
“However, there remains a disgraceful secret that must at all costs be kept from public notice. It is this: the Prince has a weakness for commoners as his paramours—and, worse than that, prostitutes.”
The face so close to his drew back a trifle, still-moist eyes calmly studying his, but he saw no grimace or shudder.
Interesting.
* * *
“We’ve found out who he killed. Sir Jasper Richmond.”
“Ah. Interesting. Without warning?”
“Pounced the moment Richmond started to tell the others in the room who he was. Broke the man’s neck, then tore his jawbone right out of his head!”
“Eliminating someone who was about to reveal his past.”
“Past? Valves and pistons, he’s a chimney sweep!”
“Indeed. So he was.”
“What’re you not telling me?”
“Something that could get you killed. If he suspects you know…”
“Well, you obviously know. Aren’t you worried?”
“Of course. Terrified.”
“A rather calm sort of terror, I must say.”
“I know so many things that various persons want to kill me for, and have done so for so many years, that I’ve grown used to it. Not to mention prepared for it.”
“Oh? Prepared how?”
“Knowing that, too, could get you killed, and I’m feeling merciful today. Go badger Marlshrike, and live longer.”
* * *
“I am aware that I raise a topic considered less than delicate,” Lord Tempest continued dryly, “but such impudence is my way. Lady Rose, do you happen to know anything at all about prostitutes?”
She felt the heat flooding across her face, and anger at that rose within her, so she lifted her chin, stared straight into his gaze—was the man smirking? Well, damn him!—and informed him crisply, “Of course I do, Lord Tempest. For a time, when completing my education under tutors in central London, I roomed with two such women, as lodgings in London are so expensive, and at the passing of my parents the family finances were in such chaos, that I thought it best to be prudent. I cooked for these, ah, doves of the evening and handled their correspondence.”
He crooked an eyebrow. “A titled lady, slaving in a scullery?”
“Sir,” she flared, “I am a woman who does what she must first, and a titled noblewoman second—and a lady very much third.”
His eyes flashed with—approval? He nodded as he smiled, in a way that banished all derision and conveyed seeming delight.
“So I can tell you of certain douches and other, ah, habitual precautions, and of both bedchamber and public preferred wardrobe.”
“Ah. So the currently fashionable public dress of a prostitute would be—?”
“Netting hose—fishnet or chain-net—knee-high riding boots, corsets over abbreviated leather kilts, ascots, greatcoats, and above all, top hats. Many men favor toppers, but a woman doing so is signaling the profession she follows to all.”
The lord nodded and asked almost gently, “And do you know more than that?”
“What, sir, are you insinuating?”
“Nothing,” Lord Tempest said flatly. “Let me be more specific. Cinammon, in this context, means…?”
“Prostitutes dust their nipples with cinammon, so their clients can enjoy ‘sweet afters,’ Lord Tempest,” she replied readily.
“Preferred scents?”
“Cog oil is ‘the’ fashionable perfume of the season, but the bawdier sometimes use heavier oils.”
“And a cheerful inquiry of a possible client might be?”
“Bit of the old bump-and-plough, me lord?” came the prompt response, in the broad, rough tones of the meaner streets of London.
Silence fell, as Lord Tempest studied her thoughtfully. They regarded each other thus until she asked lightly, “So, do I pass your test?”
By way of reply, Lord Tempest asked, “And if it became necessary for you to pose as such a strumpet, would you?”
Lady Rose knew her face was flaming, but she lifted her chin and looked him in the eye as before. “I swore an oath to Lord Buckingham. I intend to keep it.”
They looked into each other’s eyes for a long, silent time ere she added, “Is any imminent need for my strumpethood likely to arise?”
Lord Tempest chuckled. “Well played, Lady Harminster! Well played.” His face changed. “But I’ve been indiscreet and made too much noise. Wait here while I walk the night again.”
He rose in swift silence but returned soon enough and resumed his seat beside her, continuing as if he’d never left.
“The reason the Prince’s coarse tastes must be kept secret for now is that the Crown Anarchist elements in Parliament will seize on it to try to set the Prince Royal aside in favor of the Dowager Duchess—”
“Who aches to regain power,” Rose murmured, nodding. Well, the entire interested half of the Empire knew as much. Alice Louisa Hanover, the widow of the German Duke Leopold, who’d been the younger brother of the current Queen Victoria, was a gruff and grasping battle-ax who lived to seize and wield power like a tyrant out of a storybook. For once, the caricature of the popular press mirrored reality almost exactly.
“—and this will plunge the realm into civil war. Once the Prince Royal becomes king, his wenching won’t matter, but right now things are…”
“Politically very ticklish,” Lady Rose supplied helpfully.
He nodded approvingly. “Indeed. What with the Crown Anarchists, the Old Bulls, and the New Landers all engaged in a push of pikes that can only end bloodily … the Prince Royal, thankfully, seems immune to the pox and the like and doesn’t give gifts to his commoner lovers that might leak his secret in a hurry.”
“So what do I have to do?” she asked.
“Shortly before noon tomorrow, with a small satchel of whatever you deem necessary for a few days—smallclothes and such—you will be standing in the thicket of trees hard by the Weir Bridge. You need not use any stealth in reaching that spot, but try not to let anyone see you entering the thicket. Stay quiet and close to the road so you
can see traffic clearly and emerge without a lot of noise and difficulty. A friend of mine will happen along with a gig, cross the bridge, and stop. Don’t come out unless you see no one else in sight. His name is Mister Bleys Hardcastle, and he’s a decent sort. More fists than wits, but a true friend in a fray. He knows nothing whatsoever of this little scheme, or of either of us being Sworn Swords—and see that he learns nothing from you.”
“And he’ll be conveying me where?”
“To Foxden. You do know Foxden?”
“I know of it, but have seen only its gates; it’s entirely surrounded by tall hedges, and within them a stout stone wall. Very private people.”
“Very. The assignations it hosts are many.”
“And am I to be one of them?” she asked bluntly.
“Hopefully not,” he replied sternly. “The Prince is an … avid man, but do remember that the Lord Chamberlain is relying on your discretion. You are to be yourself, but also to pose as a lady doctor, newly appointed by the Queen herself to ensure that anyone who comes into intimate contact with the heir to the throne is … clean. Here are your credentials, Royal Seal and all.”
“And if I’m called on to examine anyone? I assisted a midwife once, but very much as a pair of obedient ‘fetch this, wash that’ hands.”
“Use what’s in this satchel. Swab, place in the waxen envelopes it’s stuffed with, say ‘hmmm,’ and look sternly thoughtful. Arrogant men have been happily collecting fistfuls of gold lions in Wimpole Street for doing far less, for years now.”
“My, but we’re cynical.”
“My, but we’ve acquired thousands of good reasons to be, and daily collect more. What you’re really there to do is to get the names and descriptions to go with them—that is, age, sex, height, nose shapes, hair color, and anything out of the ordinary, especially dyed hair or wigs, not to mention any sign of a badge with tentacles on it—of everyone—and I do mean everyone—who enters Foxden after you do. Hardcastle will be your messenger; report all of these in confidence to him, but make sure you’re not overheard, and always try to look and sound as if you’re giving him orders for medicines to be compounded and brought back to you.”