by Ed Greenwood
“Lady Harminster!” Hardcastle burst out, unable to conceal his shock. “What—whatever’s got into you?”
Almost bare, creamy shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I … don’t know. But I find I rather like it.”
She pirouetted languidly. “You, I take it, do not.”
“I … I have not said as much, madam. Yet I cannot help but observe that there is no pressing need to look like a cut-rate trollop,” Hardcastle informed her, desperately seeking some semblance of dignity.
“And how, sir, would you know what a cut-rate trollop looks like?” Lady Rose inquired, arching one flashing, gem-adorned eyebrow at him. “Casually interested minds would like to know!”
Tempest’s grin had already grown wide; at that, he guffawed.
“Where did you get that, ah, rig?” he asked. “Or rather, from one of the Prince’s play-pretties, of course, but, ah, why?”
“Having seen one in action, so to speak,” she replied—and both men were interested to see that when Lady Harminster blushed, her color flooded from the roots of her hair right down the shapely length of her body to the tips of her delicate toes—“I wanted to try one out. So I borrowed one from Bess Lalbrooke. Purely in the interests of experimentation and innovation, of course.”
“Of course,” Tempest agreed dryly. “And what—pray tell—did you discover?”
“It looks like a corset mechanically mated to a gown,” Hardcastle said doubtfully.
“That it is—and more,” she purred. “Observe the clockworks here, where my waist is flattest, and how they ascend, gear by gear and rod by rod, to my, ah, breastworks. For lone and private pleasure, to be sure—”
Coy fingers gave the two staring men a momentary glimpse of a demure rose-pink nipple clasped between two copper calipers that stretched and pinched that bud of flesh to make it jut forth in reddened and presumably painful splendor. Calipers crowned the end of an intricate array of tiny gears descending into the greater linkages of the corset. Rose did something with her other hand, and with the softest whispering whir, they saw the nipple teased farther, then tugged rhymically.
“—but also for the shared delight of a companion.”
Her slender fingers did something else to the lowest of a row of small levers above her nearest hip, and two of the gears at the upper front of the corset spun outward on lengthening shafts and extended small claws. Hardcastle could see that their inner ends were directly linked to the movements of the nipple calipers.
“A partner, similarly clad…” she murmured, gesturing to indicate imaginary breasts in the air in front of her, equipped alike with claws that could mesh with hers. By way of concluding her sentence, she smiled a catlike smile.
Tempest chuckled and turned to his friend. “A trifle warm in here, isn’t it?”
Hardcastle seized his cue with a surge of relief, hastening to reply brightly, “Indubitably! I had indeed noticed as much and attributed it to the sudden rise in the price of potatoes, word of which was all over the streets this morning—such excitement stimulates the blood of every man and woman in all the Empire, and inevitably a general feeling of warmth suffuses…”
“You two,” Lady Rose told them fondly, “are idiots. Likable idiots, mind.”
Tempest bowed low, the exoskeleton clanking. “At your service, ma’am.”
Then his voice changed, and from the depths of his bent posture he said sharply, “Hardcastle, help me. This damned contraption has jammed. Again.”
* * *
It was a rare thing indeed, Uncle reflected dryly, to have a uniformed beagle standing in this room.
Yet here one was, as large as life and looking more like a sweating walrus, with that untamed mustache, than a hound of justice. Even a bloodhound of justice.
“… So you see, Lord, that he had it all hidden in the walls, behind his clever removable doorframe,” Oldtree was saying.
“That’s all that was in there, those two cases with the contents he described to the inspector?”
“That’s all I could see, sir. When they were out, the ’tween walls looked like empty darkness to me. But you never know.”
“Indeed. With Tempest, you never know.” Uncle smiled softly. “At least the man affords us all endless entertainment. A pity he’ll eventually become expendable enough to be eliminated. I shall miss him.”
“Miss him? But your aim is getting better,” the beagle joked.
He chuckled, but his mirth faltered as Uncle stared at him coldly. Long, stretching, and chill moments passed.
Then, abruptly, Uncle shouted his sudden laughter.
* * *
“Algernon, this is delightful.”
Algernon Hartworth felt himself flushing, but minded not a whit. He felt like he was strolling amid the clouds, a bright and sunlit hero striding along twelve feet tall.
He was with Heliotrope at last, and they were walking hand in hand through the sun-dappled Sefton woods. His woods, someday.
The picnic hamper in his hand was heavy with wine and delightful foodstuffs yet felt light as a feather. Every time he saw Heliotrope, she was prettier than their previous meeting, and this afternoon she was positively stunning.
Not to mention willing. She’d kissed him twice now, the first time in full view of his father’s favorite window, and the second time she’d pressed herself against him long and ardently enough that he’d felt the full thrusts of her shockingly firm bosom. And once they were in the woods, she’d turned to him and winked.
Pistons and boilers, it was enough to make a man ache! He was aching now, but his heart was flying. He laughed aloud at the thought, and threw back his head to give the sky overhead a broad smile.
A mail airship promptly scudded past overhead. Fluffy clouds were drifting lazily across the sky, and the late afternoon sun was golden. It was going to be a glorious sunset, and a warm evening. And just ahead was the little dell, where the brook tumbled past and there was a mossy bank in the shade and a sunny sward where the sun lanced through. Already Heliotrope was exclaiming in delight—
And then Algernon’s world turned dark in an instant. There were men in the distance, on the path ahead—masked and gloved men in dark suits, some of them with pistols in their hands. They were looking his way. Heading his way.
Trespassers! In his woods! Eight of them, no, eleven—twelve!
“Heliotrope,” he said warningly, but she had already gasped in alarm, and her hand had tightened around his.
Algernon swung her around as if she’d been a prize pony, and said, “Run!”
And they ran, hands still clasped, leaping like frightened rabbits, hearts pounding, stumbling in their panting haste. Sneering laughter rose behind them but seemed at least to stay well behind them.
They kept on running, past the folly and down the hill, until they were back at the great house, where they came to a panting halt and looked back.
To see no pursuit at all. Not a single masked man. The Sefton lands, rising up green and rolling, looked peaceful and deserted under the warm sun.
“Heliotrope,” Algernon said urgently, “go inside and right up to the parlor where we met. Take this. Tell the servants that there are intruders on our land, and they are to close and bar the doors and tell my father. Take this; you’ll be hungry once you’re settled.”
She clung to him, eyes large and frightened. “But—but Algy! You can’t be thinking of going back!”
He met her eyes, feeling more heroic than ever, and said grimly, “I must. This is my land, and they’re up to no good; the beagles must be told what they’re up to, and my father warned. He’ll want details, to know how best to respond; my duty is clear.”
“Oh, Algernon!” she breathed, eyes bright with admiration.
“We’ll have our time together, no fear,” he murmured, giving her a kiss that left her gasping and blushing crimson. Then he whirled away from her with a wave and started running back up the hill.
And as he went, all his gallantry left him, and his
fear, too, and all that remained was a rising anger.
An anger so deep he wanted to cry. Gone were his disputes with his father, his insecurity, his self-loathing at being a headstrong ignoramus. He was a Hartworth, a Sefton, the youngest lord of a long line of gruff, fierce lords who’d fought for what they had and fought against those who crossed them. He’d see these blackguards taught a lesson that would warm their backsides and make them quail at the thought of ever setting foot on Sefton land again.
Oh, he’d not do battle this day. Not one against a dozen, and some or all of them armed against his bare and empty hands. No, once past the folly he’d stop running and do off his tweeds, then put on the old beekeeping darks and turn spy.
He wanted to see what this lot were up to, here on his land. He’d go creeping like a fox, and peer and listen, and find out.
Hopefully discovering something that would see them all hanged and win him the approval of Father, and …
Bah! Time for daydreaming later. They had guns; he could be dead soon, if luck or the gods weren’t with him.
Yes, there was the hut, and the key was still hidden where it always was, in the little buried-to-its-brim clay pot by the old stump, and he was out of tweeds and the white silk shirt beneath and into the old black—long since sun-faded and dirt-smirched to mottled brown—beekeeper’s overalls and hood. He caught up the gloves, too, and traded his brogues for the old boots, then closed up the hut again, put the key back, and started creeping.
He’d done this for hours in play, not really all that many years ago, but this time it was for deadly real, and he must be the Horned Hunter so well and so silently that they wouldn’t see him.
There was a game trail that climbed to the right of the path he’d been walking along with Heliotrope, and he took it, crawling on hands and knees, moving purposefully but not hurrying. If he got too hasty …
He must assume they’d posted sentinels, or he’d be seen before he saw them. And it would only take one shot …
There! There they were, all dozen of them. Down on the path he and Heliotrope had taken. So they hadn’t come after him. No, they were clustered around someth—digging! They were digging … but digging what?
Cautiously, he worked his way closer, from tree to tree, keeping low and making no sudden movements. It was confoundedly hot in the hood, and the sweat was running down his face so fast and hard it was dripping from his chin in an almost-constant stream. His favorite silk shirt would have been ruined.
The masked men were finishing their work now, letting down short ropes to help each other clamber out of their creation. It looked to be nothing more than a big pit—right in the middle of the path. A pit they were now covering with those same ropes, crisscrossed. Dirt and leafy boughs were being tossed on the ropes, and then a large mat with vines and old branches sewn to it was being laid out over the ropes, to completely cover the pit. Handfuls of dirt were being enthusiastically scattered over it.
Algernon peered hard at the trees around the pit, trying to fix what they looked like in his mind so he’d know exactly where the pit was, for later. The masked men had chosen a spot where the path was overlooked by several old trees that had been pollarded years ago but then left to grow on their own since, so they sprouted a great number of large boughs, in all directions, fairly low down. Great climbing trees, if he’d still been six summers old. Or a masked man—because they were all climbing up into those trees now, leaving the path suddenly deserted, the pit hidden.
Algernon sat down behind his own current tree, not knowing what to do but deciding for now to do as the masked men: wait in hiding. For whatever they were waiting for. It looked like they were hoping to capture a person or beast coming unawares along the path, but who would come—he would! He, himself, with Heliotrope.
Was this some sort of crazed scheme to get a ransom? Or kidnap nobles into slavery? It sounded like something out of a cheap book of derring-do, but—
There came a loud but distant crashing then, from another part of the woods, and the men up in the trees jumped down and went racing away along the path toward the disturbance. Which, if he’d placed it right, was farther along the path, which curved in that direction …
Hardly thinking, Algernon Hartworth was on his feet and racing after them. Keeping back in the trees, but within good sight of the path and the mob of running men.
Some of whom suddenly let out shouts and vanished!
They’d—yes, they’d fallen down another pit trap in the path! Obviously they’d misjudged its precise location. The rest of the men kept right on running, leaving behind those in the pit, and, amid all their crashings of footfalls and yelling, Algernon abandoned all stealth and sprinted to catch up with them.
He soon came to their destination and hastily swung himself behind two close-grown trees, panting, to watch.
They were manhandling a struggling man up out of yet another pit. Their captive was wrapped up in what looked to be the borrowed shrouds from a ship. Yes, the mesh of thick, knotted ropes from a ship’s rigging.
As Algernon stared, flabbergasted—what, by all that was holy, was going on?—the captured person fought. Whoever it was seemed to be terrifically strong, landing punches that knocked masked men cold, or dashed them over backward like rag dolls, but there were so many masked men—well over a dozen, even without those lost back in the other pit, that they soon buried it under their sheer numbers, several of them clinging to each limb.
Three of them were struggling near its head, now, snatching the mesh of ropes back to bare it. Algernon peered. That revealed head looked like a skull, or like a river eel, lunging and biting energetically, snapping its teeth as it tried to stop the men.
Who opened a little door in the back of that skull-like head and clapped something inside!
Then slammed it and fell hastily back.
Free of their grasp at last, the captive shuddered violently, then stood up very tall, shedding the netting. There were still loops of rope around its chest and shoulders that became slanting lines like the ropes that held tents and fete awnings up, held taut by masked men crouching at the other ends of those lines, as far away from their prisoner as they could get.
The skull-headed man—or was it some sort of grotesque automaton?—stood looking down at the masked men contemptuously, and for the first time Algernon saw that the captive’s arms and legs were clad not just in dark clothing but in some sort of sturdy metal frame or cage fitted closely to each limb.
Suddenly it twisted around, thrusting its arms out wide, sawing at the ropes now bent over the bars of the metal cages on its arms.
Then it turned the other way, the ropes it had pulled tight sagging suddenly slack, some of the tensed masked men falling and rolling in the sudden release of tension—while the ropes on the captive’s other side thrummed and went tight, the masked men there straining to hold.
The captive twisted back the other way with a savage jerk, tumbling still more men, then turned again. Masked men were cursing and falling all around it now—as it jumped forward, pulling them all toward it, then flung itself over on its back, pulling hard with both arms as it did so.
Masked men were flung bodily through the air, some thudding helplessly face-first into the trunks of trees, and the captive snatched the ropes—no longer at tension and holding him between them, but now mere loose loops around its torso—over its head and sprinted out of their midst.
Then it turned, reached down with one hand and caught up a masked man by the throat, broke that neck with apparent ease, flung the limp body down, and reached for the next man.
At that, masked men fled in all directions, three of them right toward Algernon—who dropped behind the trees and lay still, peering hard between the trunks so as not to miss one moment of the goings-on.
The three masked men stopped and turned to watch, too, as their fellows closer to the skull-headed thing hauled out their pistols and formed a hasty, frightened line.
Their former captive
lurched fearlessly up to them and towered over them, as Algernon shook his head in disbelief—if this thing came down to the house, how could it be stopped? Even if all the beagles in London and his father’s shooting companions were all massed there to fight it, like an army …
The skull-headed thing reached for the nearest man, staggering a little under the hail of point-blank bullets that erupted then.
Only to stop, hand extended, and stiffen.
Silence fell as the masked men stopped firing. Then Skullhead stood tall again … and turned, its movements abrupt, in the direction of Bishop’s Bottom.
It swayed for a moment, as if undecided or bewildered, then adjusted the way it was facing slightly and lurched purposefully off through the trees, in a straight line, departing the path immediately to crash through bushes and old dried underbrush.
The trio of masked men nearest to Algernon relaxed visibly, sighing in relief.
“He’s sent it to kill the Prince Royal,” one said in satisfaction, loudly enough for a horrified Algernon Hartworth to overhear.
* * *
“A splendid repast,” Lord Tempest commented in satisfaction, leaning back in his chair.
“You were hungry,” Hardcastle grunted, returning their plates to the tray. He peered out the window. “Gorgeous sunset, but look at those clouds; it’ll be dark soon.”
“That late? Hmm; it appears the lady will miss out on food that no one should miss,” Tempest observed, looking at the silver dome of the one steam hood that remained undisturbed on the tray.
“You’re not still hungry, surely!” Hardcastle chuckled, heading for the sideboard and a decanter of Old Islay he’d spotted earlier. “You’re like a hunting hound that gulps down everything in sight—you’ll be sick!”
“It is worth gulping down, if you’ve a mind to,” Lady Rose agreed merrily, as she slipped through the door. Her borrowed clockwork gown was gone, returned to Lil, and she now wore her own favorite riding breeches and jacket, which were of the style usually worn by men. “I had two heaping plates, I must admit. So, my lord…”
She plucked off the dome and offered the plate meant for her to Tempest, who took it with a hungry eagerness entirely devoid of shame.