by C. J. Archer
Tilda went cold. She hadn’t been careful enough. “As I told the guard, I recognize—.”
“But there are probably hundreds of dogs who get walked every day in the city. Do you mean to tell me you knew that this particular one was the queen’s simply by looking at it?”
“The collar is distinctive,” she said, thinking fast. “And mech dogs are more common than real ones nowadays.”
“It’s not that distinctive.” He smoothed his thin moustache with his thumb and forefinger then turned to one of the guards. “Open the gates.” The guard pressed a lever set into the wall. The mechanism hissed and the great iron gates yawned. “And take the dog. It does indeed belong to Her Majesty. I believe it was the very one that bit me last week.” Sir Magnus strolled through the gates. As they slid closed behind him, he turned and added, “Find out where she lives.”
Tilda felt sick. Her stomach roiled as she handed the dog to the guard. Should she flee or stay and pretend nothing was amiss. In the end, she found her legs were too unsteady to run so she answered the guard when he asked her where she lived. She didn’t dare give a false address. If her lie was detected, Sir Magnus’s suspicions would be confirmed. For he was suspicious. He must have guessed she’d found the dog’s owner by using a paranormal skill. She only hoped he would forget about her or decide she was not worth bothering about.
But she knew with a dreadful foreboding that he would not forget.
A week later she was proved correct. Sir Magnus came to her house. Aunt Winnie and Letitia were out and Tilda had to entertain him on her own in the parlor. Mary brought tea and biscuits, forked a brow at Tilda in question then left when Tilda shook her head. This was a person she must face alone. Thank goodness her sister wsn’t home. Letitia might have only a little skill at divination but she also possessed the unenviable skill of not being able to keep her mouth shut.
Sir Magnus stared out the window at an airship ascending into the clouds, its sails full and its engine humming, the great iron wings tucked into the side of the hull to minimize the disturbance over the city. It must have come from the docks which could be pinpointed in the distance by the hundreds of craft of all shapes and sizes hovering above it.
“Let’s not beat around the bush,” Grimshaw said, turning to Tilda. “You have the skill of divination.”
“Not true!”
He snorted a laugh. “Don’t try to fool me, Miss Upton, I can smell the magic on you.” He sniffed the air which was now pristine thanks to the filter she’d fixed yet again that morning.
Ugh. “That is disgusting. I have no magic. If this is about the dog, I told you I recognized the collar—.”
He held up a hand for silence. She swallowed her retort. She didn’t want to antagonize him. If he lived at the palace he was most likely very influential. “I won’t tell a soul,” he said, “if you do one thing for me.”
She swallowed. “Sit down, sir. Please avail yourself of my maid’s biscuits.” She tried to smile. It was difficult.
He flipped out his coat tails and sat. She poured him a cup of tea and handed him the plate of biscuits. He refused them and ignored the tea. He simply looked at her through eyes as black and round as the buttons down the front of Tilda’s gown, and licked his lips.
“It’s unusual to find a girl so pretty and not yet married at your age, Miss Upton.”
“Twenty-four is not that old,” she said, repeating an oft-said line. She was growing a little tired of the comments concerning her marital state, or lack of it.
“Not for a hellhag.”
She dropped her cup into her saucer with a loud clank. “I am not a hellhag.” It was all she could do to get the words out through her tight throat.
“You can divine, Miss Upton. Is there anything else you—?”
“Nothing else, I assure you! Most determinedly assure you.”
He seemed to relax. His wiry moustache stretched as a fleeting smile passed over his lips and he nodded. He had been afraid of her! If she truly were a hellhag then he ought to be. But as a simple diviner, he had nothing to fear. And now he knew it.
“I see,” he said. “Very well, then it is most fortunate you’ve come to me now.”
“Pardon?”
“I wish to commission you, Miss Upton.”
“Commission me? To do what?”
“Find someone. An Oriental man is traveling on an airship called the Adrienne bound for France. The ship belongs to the King of France and is heavily armed. I want you to bring the Oriental to me and the machine he carries with him. Understand?”
Tilda’s head was spinning. Surely this was all a dream. Sir Magnus could not possibly be serious. And yet he looked quite serious going by the grim set of his mouth and the challenge in his hard black eyes.
“Out of the question,” she said. “What an absurd suggestion. I can’t simply drop everything to find a man for you, Sir Magnus, no matter who you are.”
“I am Her Majesty’s Chief Royal Inventor.” It was said with a raised chin and pompousness that got up Tilda’s nose. “And you most certainly can and will drop everything to find this man for me. If you don’t, I’ll make sure the relevant authorities are alerted to your…unusual skill.”
It was the moment Tilda had been dreading. Her chest suddenly hurt and she felt a little weak all over. “I see,” she managed to say.
“Besides, it’s not as if you have anything to keep you here. You’re not married and you don’t work.”
So he’d investigated her. “I’m a gentlewoman,” she said and winced. Now she sounded pompous. “And I, I…” She couldn’t think of a single good excuse not to do as he ordered. “And I don’t want to. You can’t force me. I’m no hellhag so you may say what you want to the authorities. Apart from a little divination, you have no proof.”
He shrugged. “If you think I need proof then you are indeed naïve.”
She sat back against the sofa’s cushions and concentrated on breathing and not shaking. It all felt so hopeless! The more she tried to dig herself out of this, the more she seemed to bury herself.
“How am I to get this Oriental?” she asked. “I doubt the French will hand him over to me with a smile.”
“I don’t care how. Just get him. If you don’t, you will suffer the fate of all hellhags.”
“Hanging!”
“And your aunt and sister with you.”
“B, but they don’t have any skill!” she spluttered. “And I have so little.”
“You have enough.” He sneered, curling his fleshy top lip into his moustache. “You hellhags make me sick, even you pretty ones.” He spat into his teacup. “What a waste of sweet flesh.”
Tilda recoiled. Her insides twisted and her mouth went dry. She needed to be very, very careful. Grimshaw wasn’t a man she could charm or trick into leaving her alone.
So what was she going to do?
Grimshaw cleared his throat and flattened his moustache with his thumb and finger. He dug into his inside coat pocket and handed her an envelope. “This letter belongs to a man traveling on the Adrienne. Not the Oriental, another. It will direct you to the airship.”
She stared at the letter and with a sinking, sickening feeling she realized she had no choice.
***
A week passed in which Tilda and her aunt and sister tried to think of ways to get out of Sir Magnus’s clutches. But they were trapped. They had no one to turn to and nowhere to go. The authorities held tight control on population movements so they could not flee London. It would instantly raise suspicions if they were to turn up in another city or even a small village in the middle of the moors. To travel without triggering an investigation required new identities to be made, false papers to be drawn up and other people to aid them. No, there was nothing to be done but find a way to fetch the Oriental and his machine.
It was after listening to Mary’s story about the latest exploits of Black Jack Knight the sky pirate that Tilda had decided he was the man she needed.
&
nbsp; “They say he captured the trading vessel The Eagle and stole all the cargo,” Mary said over breakfast one morning.
“I heard he tortured the crew,” Letitia said, tearing up her toast.
“Torture!” Aunt Winnie flapped a hand at her breast. “That man’s a beast.”
“So they say,” Mary said, teapot poised over a teacup. “I heard he once kidnapped a cousin to the French king and ransomed him for a thousand pieces of gold.”
Letitia, eyes bright, leaned over her plate. Everyone else leaned closer too. “And I heard he kidnapped the entire family of the Russian ambassador.”
Mary nodded knowingly. “While holding off no less than three navy airships. Three! He may be a beast but he’s a mighty strong one.”
Aunt Winnie sniffed. “Strong or not, he has no morals,” she muttered. “Not that I’m surprised, considering what he did to his poor brother.”
“Aye,” Mary said, pouring the tea.
“The authorities would have his head if they ever caught him,” Letitia said, somewhat wistfully.
Tilda swirled the tea around her teacup, thoughtful. A man with legendary fighting skills, no morals and no incentive to go to the authorities—he was perfect.
“They say he’s terribly handsome,” Letitia went on. “And can charm the skirts off—.”
“Letitia!” Aunt Winnie snapped.
“All I meant was, everyone says he prefers charming women to…” She dropped her gaze and her voice became a whisper. “To killing and raping them.”
“Letitia! Don’t speak that disgusting word.”
“But it’s true!”
“I’ve heard the same thing,” Tilda said. She cut her boiled egg into slices, careful not to meet anyone’s gaze. “That’s why I’m going to hire him.”
Letitia gasped. “Really? How thrilling.”
“I think I’m going to faint,” Aunt Winnie said, flapping her hand faster.
“Is that wise, miss?” Mary asked. “He sounds barely civilized.”
“I don’t require him to be civilized, I require him not to…you know.”
“Kill or rape you,” Letitia offered.
Aunt Winnie whimpered.
“Quite,” Tilda said. “Entering into a business arrangement with a pirate who prefers charming women to hurting them is certainly a point in his favor.” She stabbed a slice of egg with her fork. “Besides, I’ve never met a man whose charms I couldn’t resist.”
***
For someone with Matilda Upton’s unique talent, finding England’s most infamous sky pirate had been easy. Catching him, however, was proving more of a challenge. Black Jack Knight darted like a cat through the deep shadows of the taverns and brothels crammed as close to London’s old docks as possible. For a tall man he was surprisingly nimble. Tilda and her aunt struggled to maintain the same swift pace.
“Curses,” muttered Aunt Winifred between bosom-heaving breaths. She stamped the point of her closed parasol on the flagstones. “We lost him.”
Tilda could think of more appropriate words than “curses”, most of which she’d overheard earlier while waiting for Knight outside The Noose tavern, but she refrained from using them in her aunt’s presence. Instead, she rubbed the pocket chronometer clenched in her fist. The brass felt smooth against her thumb and the gears whirred to life where moments before they had been silent. The case grew steadily warmer until it branded her skin, but Tilda didn’t let it go. If she did, the connection linking object to owner would be severed and the best chance she had of finding the one man able to help her would be lost. Like a mist consumed by morning sunshine, the way to Knight suddenly cleared and she moved off down the damp, narrow lane, signaling her aunt to follow.
“Matilda—”
Tilda signed for silence and Winnie obeyed, although with much reluctance and a lot of tongue biting on her aunt’s part Tilda suspected.
Her senses, taut as a stretched rope, directed her to the pirate. Where a wolfhound used smell to seek out its prey, Tilda used something less tangible but just as accurate to locate Black Jack.
He had stopped around the corner. He waited.
She turned into the street and as she did so one of the dirigibles hovering overhead moved, plunging them into near darkness. The light was bad enough in a city choking to death on its own soot but the old docks area was a notoriously dingy place with the hulls of the airships always blocking what little sunshine managed to pierce through the gray miasma.
Even though she knew exactly where he stood, backed into a recessed doorway nearby, Tilda’s heart, already tripping over itself like a child learning to walk, lurched when he jumped out in front of them. Much less prepared, Aunt Winnie screeched.
Black Jack Knight, silent and quick, clamped his hand over the wide open mouth. Winifred’s wild eyes, round with fear, appealed to her niece.
Tilda swallowed and shifted her gaze to the man she had decided two weeks ago to seek. He towered above her and his broad shoulders stretched the stitching of his black leather coat. He possessed an imposing silhouette, but she had waited impatiently for his return to English airspace and wasn’t about to be frightened away now. They were, after all, in full public view. Although the public in the old docks area seemed as foul and slippery as the lane in which they found themselves. Adding credence to her thoughts, miserable faces turned away without offering assistance.
Squaring her shoulders, Tilda gave her full attention to the pirate. The first thing she noticed was that his name was inappropriate. Captain Black Jack Knight had hair the color of sand and eyes as blue as the sapphire set into the ring on his little finger. Unlike most people of that coloring, his skin was tanned a golden honey from the warmer regions where he reportedly committed most of his crimes. He was also distractingly handsome. His lips were wide and full but not thick, his nose was straight, his cheeks defined without being sharp and his brow untroubled with lines. But more than the sum of his features, he had a presence about him, an aura that pulled Tilda in so that she found it difficult not to stare at him.
“Well, well,” he said cheerfully. “It seems you have caught me.” His arm flexed as Aunt Winnie tried to speak beneath his hand. “Or have I caught you?”
“Let her go,” Tilda said. “Please,” she added as an afterthought.
“Please? Such manners.” His blue gaze took in her tight bodice, gold and pearl drop earrings and matching necklace. Tilda willed herself to be still under his bald scrutiny. “You are a long way from home, Little Chick. Or do London’s whores dress like ladies now?” A smile flicked the corners of his lips but vanished when Aunt Winnie bit him. “Ouch!”
He let go and she bustled to Tilda’s side. Belatedly remembering that she was the chaperone and her niece the virginal lady of only twenty-four tender years, Winnie pushed Tilda behind her broad skirts and tossed her head. “We are not whores!”
Inspecting his bitten hand as if checking a bucket for holes, he said, “In your case, Madam, there was never any doubt. But to the young lady, I humbly apologize for the mistake.”
Winnie frowned. Before she could realize he hadn’t paid her a compliment, Tilda moved out from behind her aunt. “And I apologize for following you, Black Ja…Lord…ahem…Captain. But if you had stopped when you first heard our approach, this cat and mouse game would not have been necessary.”
“Ah, but it was fun.” He flashed a brilliant grin that Tilda didn’t trust. “Now, who are you and what do you want?” The sudden change in his voice, one moment playful, the next as cold and sharp as the hidden dagger strapped to her forearm, sent a chill through her despite the oppressive thickness of the laneway’s air.
“My name is Matilda Upton and I have a proposition for you.”
“Really? How intriguing.” He gave a shallow bow. “I am propositioned by beautiful ladies every day but none of them are quite so…determined as you.”
She blushed then silently cursed the pale complexion that made it obvious. “Oh. When I said proposition,
I meant…my aunt and I would like to employ you, Captain, in a venture rather risky in nature.”
“My favorite kind. But my services are not for sale.”
“You haven’t heard my offer yet!”
“I don’t need to. I have enough copper.” He strode off and did not look back.
“I’m not offering copper,” she said quickly. “I’m offering redemption.”
He stopped and for one long moment, didn’t move. Then slowly he walked back to her. “Redemption?”
Tilda’s skin tingled with excitement. She had him. When she’d first made her enquiries about this man, she’d guessed he couldn’t be lured by copper or material objects so she’d looked for other means. It seemed her instincts had been correct. “A chance to clear your name. Of your original crime,” she added, in case he assumed she meant all his subsequent pirating. She was no miracle worker.
Knight said nothing. The light summer breeze carried the sounds of the new docks both above and at ground level—the hammering of iron nails, the clank of chains as cargoes were loaded and unloaded, the whistle of the steam engines as ships jostled for space above. In the lane where they stood motionless, a baby mewled and a door banged. Dirty faces in the shadows pretended not to watch the strangers. Tilda pretended not to notice them. Thankfully they were out of earshot. No one must overhear their conversation.
Eventually Knight spoke. “For a guilty man, that kind of redemption is impossible.” His blue gaze challenged hers.
“You don’t believe you’re guilty.”
“I know I’m not,” he said, too mildly for a man who would be locked up in Newgate if the constables discovered him and hung if convicted by a jury. “But do you?”
Beside Tilda, Aunt Winnie drew a sharp breath. “That,” said Tilda, “is irrelevant for my purpose.”
“And what is your purpose, Chick?”
“Her name is Miss Upton,” said Aunt Winnie from behind the lacy handkerchief she held to her nose. “A gentleman would call her such.”
He laughed. “I’m no gentleman, Madam.”