Glass octopus? Freddie tried to make sense of it but couldn’t understand half of what her father was saying. Only that it sounded as though a significant earthquake was coming, and there might or might not be any warning for it.
“Can we be certain it isn’t just luck, or good old-fashioned legwork, that’s helping them avoid capture? Has your implant reported back?”
“Ess Gee is no longer operating in that capacity,” Murcheson grumbled. “He was a disappointment from the beginning, to be honest. Far from bold, and positively squeamish when it came to wet work. But attempting to establish a new implant at this juncture would be . . . impractical.”
Ess Gee. S-G? Smith-Grenville? A disappointment even to his employer. Freddie had to stifle a “ha!” of satisfied suspicion. I knew he wasn’t to be trusted!
Lilies and octopi, submersibles and perimeters. It was all confusing but managed to be worrisome anyway. Thoughts of her client that afternoon nagged at her, along with a prickling sensation as she recalled the growing tension near the docks about missing fishing boats, and the strange changes in the local fish population. Could her father’s men be frightening the fish away? Or perhaps this glass octopus was some new, predatory creature that devoured more than its share of cod and flounder.
“Nealy isn’t going to listen to me on this, sir. Nor can I give you any assurances, not about changing the deployment timetable. I haven’t the authority—”
“Blast! Why does he send you to me, then, Hampton? What is the point of all this? I should have never left Le Havre.” He slammed a drawer closed or something similar, from the sound of it. “I’ll come back with you. There’s only one tram operational this side, yes?”
“Yes, sir. The Admiral won’t like it, sir.”
“The Admiral doesn’t have to like it. Meet me in Tilbury in two hours, Hampton.”
“Aye, sir.”
The study door opened and closed, and footsteps rang down the hall and dwindled away. More slamming and knocking noises emanated from the study, as Murcheson vented his frustrations on his furniture.
Taking a risk, Freddie cracked the paneling door open and peered into the hallway, finding it empty. Quickly she darted from her hiding spot and past the half-open study door, and just as quickly sped down through the garden and carriage house, then out into the mews behind the house. Resting against the carriage block, she paused to catch her breath and consider what she’d heard. None of it made any more sense after careful consideration than it had on first hearing, but her plans for the night evolved.
She would meet with Dan and obtain trousers as they’d arranged. And then she would make her way to Tilbury to find out exactly what her father and Smith-Grenville were up to.
• • •
BARNABAS WAS TERRIBLE at lurking. He stood on the pavement opposite the window he’d identified as Freddie’s, which overlooked the side of the imposing corner house. He could see only that one side and the back of the mansion, which meant he was in trouble if she left via the front door. His money was on a back terrace window or through the carriage house, however. Murcheson had forbidden him from hanging about the stairs in the house itself, which Barnabas had thought the most logical approach.
He had already been greeted cheerfully by two neighborhood residents returning from a late dinner, and several passing servants, none of whom seemed to find him suspicious in the least. This, despite his dark attire and what he thought must be a fierce expression. He was trying hard to concentrate on the seriousness of his mission and how critical it was that he keep young Miss Murcheson from placing herself in harm’s way. This was the only way he’d found to keep from despairing that he’d come all the way to London merely to keep a headstrong young woman from causing his employer any undue convenience or distress.
Or a young man, he reminded himself. He might be looking for a portly lad in a patched coat and overlarge hat.
It was a woman who appeared at the carriage block, however. Miss Murcheson wore a simple brown dress and a ghastly pink plaid shawl that clashed rather violently with her fiery hair. She carried a biggish satchel.
“For Crown and country,” he reminded himself in a whisper, as she glanced up the mews and then over to the park.
When she spotted him, her finger went to her lip immediately. Shushing. As if he might be foolish enough to call out and draw attention to the fact that she was attempting to escape.
Barnabas lifted a hand in silent acknowledgment as she moved off the step and toward him.
“At least you’re smart enough not to start with the front door,” she complimented him when she was close enough to speak low and be heard.
“Isn’t everyone?”
“No. It’s rather sad, really. Some of them seem more keen to underestimate me than they are to keep their positions. ‘How can I possibly keep track of a woman with enough sense to sneak out the back door instead of marching out the front? How could anyone predict the actions of such a wild creature?’ And that sort of thing.”
He wanted to resent this woman. He’d started out with the assumption that he would feel tremendous disdain for the object of his assignment. It was all so ignominious, after all, and she was just a foolish young thing who couldn’t be trusted to keep herself safe. His attempt to place his ill will about the situation at her feet had not survived their first meeting, however. Then, as now, he found her too compelling to dislike even a little. Her face was so expressive, so animated when she spoke that he found himself losing track of what she said because he was fascinated with watching her say it.
“I’ll do my best not to underestimate you,” he vowed. “But I’m afraid I must insist you return home, Miss Murcheson.”
She didn’t even blink but simply replied, “No.” Then she turned and started briskly down the walk toward the high street.
“But—” Barnabas hesitated, then scurried to catch up to her. “But I caught you, fair and square. You have to go back.”
Freddie snorted, not bothering to look at him. “Or what?”
“Or . . . but I caught you.”
“That hardly creates any obligation on my part. This isn’t a schoolyard, sir.”
“It’s dangerous for you to be out alone.” That much was true, at least. Young ladies didn’t belong out on the street at night, and that was that.
“Are you staying behind?”
“What? No, I have to go with you. Except—”
“Then I won’t be alone.”
“Except you shouldn’t be going anywhere.”
She strode toward a steam-pony trap, one he recognized from earlier that day. It seemed an age ago.
“Miss.” The hulking driver in coarse workman’s clothes tipped his cap at Freddie and shot Barnabas a skeptical look. “And a good evening to you, sir.”
“Lord Barnabas Smith-Grenville,” Freddie piped up, settling herself on the seat next to the man and gesturing for Barnabas to climb into the open bed of the vehicle. He did so reluctantly, pushing equipment aside and hoping against hope that his suit would survive the incident free of oil stains. “Lord Smith-Grenville, this is Daniel Pinkerton.”
“A pleasure, Mr. Pinkerton.” The courtesy was automatic, if surreal given the circumstances.
“Likewise, m’lord. You’re sure about this, Fred?”
“Absolutely. You said your mother knows anyway. I mean to thank her for all she’s done. I’m not going to the butcher’s yard afterward, however,” Freddie continued as Dan kicked the pony into gear and started down the road. “I have a more urgent errand. You needn’t join me, though. Lord Smith-Grenville will be coming along, it seems.”
“What are you up to, Freddie?” It was clear from Pinkerton’s tone that he was no stranger to Miss Murcheson’s wayward tendencies. “Is this one of your ‘missions’? I’m not about to let you stroll into God only knows what, with only—meaning no o
ffense, m’lord—some unknown toff to watch your back.”
“No offense taken, I’m sure,” Barnabas muttered. The dingy vehicle was poorly sprung, and he felt each cobble beneath the wheels as a separate insult to his tailbone. The pain was almost welcome, as it distracted him from the obvious insanity of going off with Miss Murcheson and this unknown scoundrel.
Freddie sighed, clearly exasperated. “Dan, you’re not coming with me because I don’t want you implicated if I’m caught. Lord Smith-Grenville is already implicated. Besides, he’s a trained espionage agent of the Crown.”
“He is?” Pinkerton risked a glance over his shoulder at Barnabas, the spy. “Him? Really?”
Barnabas nodded unhappily. “They’re probably going to hang me,” he volunteered.
“Wound up in it already, eh? She does that.” Pinkerton nodded, turning his attention back to the road. They were heading away from Belgravia, and without a map or compass Barnabas was already lost. “She does that. Say, don’t I know you from somewhere, m’lord? Begging your pardon.”
“We spoke this afternoon. On the street, as I was making my way to see Mr. Murcheson.”
“Ah! Of course! The fellow with opinions about the roads.”
“The same.”
“They’ll be worse from here on out.”
Pinkerton spoke only the truth. By the time he pulled up in a narrow side street beside a distinctly tilted house, Barnabas had come to wish they were back on the simple cobbles.
“Daniel’s mother lives here,” Freddie explained as she and Dan alighted. She wrestled her satchel down with her. “She has a pair of trousers for me, and then I can change. Wait here, I’ll only be a few minutes.”
Before he could protest, she’d disappeared into the ramshackle structure, Dan close behind her.
Ineffectual. That was what Charlotte Hardison had suggested as his cover. He’d asked to play himself instead, but here he was, as ineffectual as he could possibly be. Dragged along by events instead of affecting them.
Barnabas knew they’d had his best interests at heart. His friends had been concerned for him, wanted him to find some new purpose in life after the loss of the Sky and Steam Rally had brought him low. He’d been moping, petulant and melancholy about his loss and failing to find Phineas; he’d be the first to admit that. And the Hardisons thought well enough of him to take him into their confidence and recommend him to the agency and to Murcheson. Another aristocrat volunteering for the cause, to serve as an unlikely spy where others could not. It had sounded exciting, like an adventure.
But instead of France and airships and races against time and the elements to save lives, as Charlotte had evidently experienced during her tenure with the agency, Barnabas got London and tagging God knew where after a girl of no strategic importance. And he had revealed himself as a spy after a moment’s conversation, because he was an idiot, so now he was stuck in this ridiculous position on the back of a pony cart in a grimy street where he’d probably be knifed for his pocket watch before Miss Murcheson and Pinkerton returned. As if he’d needed a pedigree to wind up here, in a place like this.
Examining the array of possibilities in the trap’s bed, Barnabas hefted a large monkey wrench in one hand. It was well worn and sported a few rust spots, but the weight of it comforted him. He might be accosted, but at least he’d give his assailant a solid conk on the noggin to remember him by.
He didn’t know what he was doing anymore. None of this was getting him any closer to finding Phineas. He hadn’t even made it to the dock where Phin had been spotted, much less spent time showing his portrait around and questioning people. He considered the new information Murcheson had unwittingly revealed. Perhaps his family was right, and Phineas was truly gone forever. He should return to the estate in New York and get on with the wrenchingly tedious business of learning to take over for his father one day. Make them happy and proud again, as he used to in his school days.
In those days, Phin had been his shadow, ever at his heel but scarcely noticed. A thin, quiet boy who observed everything and came to his own private conclusions about it all. Barnabas, the responsible elder brother, looked after Phin and saw that he came to no trouble. He’d been charged with that at the start of each school term, and he’d taken the duty to heart although it had hardly been difficult to undertake. His brother wasn’t the kind of boy to find trouble, and it rarely found him. Still, even after Phin finished his studies at Oxford and took a commission in the Royal Navy—to the surprise of them all—Barnabas had never forgotten his duty.
He’d failed, though, long before Phineas disappeared from his post. Something had happened, while Barnabas’s back was turned. After years as a steady, deliberate presence in his life, Phineas had turned moody and angry. He’d stopped confiding in Barnabas, and their easy relationship had vanished. Letters went unanswered, expected visits were canceled. The last time he’d seen his brother, they’d barely spoken. Phineas was on leave in London, Barnabas on a visit to friends in the city, but their plans to meet materialized only once for a brief and awkwardly silent meal at his hotel.
“This was the latest in a long string of very bad ideas,” Phin had told him as they sipped port afterward. “I’m sorry for it.” He’d shaken hands and left abruptly.
And then, finally, nothing.
Their mother insisted that Phineas must have been under the wicked influence of opium even then. Barnabas knew better. He’d seen opium addicts before, and although Phin had looked unhappy he’d shown no signs of impairment or deterioration. In fact, except for his expression, he seemed as fit and well as Barnabas had ever seen him. Not a man who required looking out for anymore. So instead of pressing him to explain what was wrong, Barnabas had let him leave unchallenged.
But that expression . . . the pain in his brother’s eyes continued to haunt Barnabas at night, and he’d vowed not to rest until he either rescued Phineas or confirmed that further searching was hopeless. No matter what Murcheson said, Barnabas felt there was more to Phineas’s story than the little he already knew. It couldn’t be over yet; his brother couldn’t truly be gone.
Looking about him at the grimy, gloomy buildings, Barnabas wondered if hopelessness had somehow arrived when he wasn’t looking. But it was late, and he was exhausted; he’d already had a very long day of travel, socializing and spying. Things would almost certainly look better on the morrow. Assuming, of course, that he survived whatever caper Miss Murcheson tried to pull him into tonight.
FIVE
“MY HERO,” FREDDIE murmured when she returned to the pony trap to find Lord Barnabas Smith-Grenville recumbent and gently snoring among the tools of her trade. He cradled a monkey wrench in his arms like a child cuddling a favorite blanket.
Despite the shadow of stubble on his cheeks and chin, Lord Smith-Grenville looked years younger in his sleep, quite boyish, in fact. And Freddie noticed one thing remarkable about his face, at last. Even in the guttering light of the small lantern she carried, she could see that the man’s eyelashes were dark and absurdly long against his cheekbones. His rather fine, high cheekbones, which the chiaroscuro lighting also revealed.
“He’s prettier sleepin’,” Dan noted, cementing her observation. “No good to you, though.”
She stayed his hand when he would have reached for Lord Smith-Grenville to shake him awake. “He’s had an eventful day. And travel can be very wearing. I’ll let him sleep until we’re outside Tilbury. It will do him good. You can come along to protect me on the drive, if it will make you happy,” she relented.
“Not happy, no. Less concerned.”
“As long as you limit your involvement to driving and watching the cart once we get there.”
“Aye. Let’s be off, then. Hour there, hour back, and whatever time you spend on your wild-goose chase. It’ll be nearly dawn by the time we get you safe home, at this rate. Lucky tomorrow’s my holiday.”
&n
bsp; He topped off the boiler and stoked the coals quickly, then joined Freddie on the bench and departed for Tilbury. If he allowed the trap to jerk somewhat more than usual at the start, it still failed to wake up Barnabas.
As they wended their way into the docklands, Freddie pulled her pistol into her hand, eyes scanning the side streets diligently. Comfortable as she now felt in this territory during the day, nighttime was another matter. Only a fool would drop her guard. She was nearly as tired as Barnabas, in truth, but her anger and curiosity lent her stamina.
In the two years since she’d started her tinkering business, she’d come to appreciate the folk who inhabited the rougher parts of town. They were good people who worked hard, for the most part, and many of them seemed smarter and kinder than their so-called superiors in the upper classes. But naïve, even the canniest of them. They lived in blissful ignorance of the machinations taking place in the chambers of Whitehall and the quiet studies of country estates. They didn’t know they were pawns, and when they suspected it and tried to remedy the situation, things usually went badly for them as a consequence.
“It isn’t right, you know,” she told Dan. “He doesn’t care if people are losing their livelihoods. He doesn’t see. Even when it’s right in front of his face.”
“You know I can’t say aught,” Dan reminded her. And he wouldn’t either. His job was already at constant risk because of his helping her, but he drew the line at disparaging the man who paid his wages. Whatever his private opinion of Murcheson, he kept it to himself.
“You needn’t. But this time Father’s gone too far. Playing about with some nonsense in the channel, scaring away the fish and fishermen alike. And for what? We aren’t even at war with the French anymore. Mother’s been able to return home for the first time in so many years. Father’s business has grown a staggering amount since he expanded into Europa. But he doesn’t own the channel. He can’t just go playing God.” It was bad enough when her father’s heavy-handedness affected her alone. She couldn’t bear the thought of it making life a misery for a population already so downtrodden.
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