Her Own Devices, a steampunk adventure novel

by Shelley Adina

  “A gentleman’s refreshment, or the kind fit for my young lady, here?”

  The girl hesitated, her gaze darting from Claire to the older woman. “He didn’t say, ma’am.”

  “I shall send both, then. Millie, show Lady Claire to the library. By the time you come back, I’ll have a tray ready.”

  Oh, dear. This was intolerable. Claire mounted the stairs much the way she was sure Mary, Queen of Scots, must have climbed the steps to the block at Fotheringhay. She should have run while she had the chance. She shouldn’t have come at all. Why couldn’t she merely have sent a note and asked any further questions by correspondence? What had she been thinking?

  “Lady Claire Trevelyan, your lordship,” the parlormaid squeaked, like a violin played by an inexperienced hand, and Claire walked in to face the one man she despised above every other person on earth.

  Chapter 6

  He turned from his contemplation of the vase of paper flowers that filled the cold hearth in summer. It had been not quite two weeks since he had attempted to blackmail her, and the force of those emotions under Claire’s breastbone had not yet had time to diminish.

  She had no idea of his thoughts. He stood, still in his traveling clothes, and regarded her as though she were there to collect funds for charity. Well, whatever his behavior, her family dated back to the fourteenth century, and she would not disgrace her breeding by alluding to his defects of character.

  Perhaps his was only a life peerage. One must make allowances.

  “Lord James,” she said politely, when it was clear that though he had summoned her, he did not seem inclined to speak. “I trust you had a good journey?”

  “Very good,” he said, a little absently.

  “I am happy to hear it. You were meeting with railroad people, I understand.”

  “Yes.” His gaze sharpened. “And you have been talking with Andrew.”

  “He is my employer,” she said steadily. “We talk quite frequently, given that I am in his office four hours a day at least.”

  A knock sounded and Millie came in with a tray. She set out the teapot and cups—Limoges, no third best services here—yet more orange chiffon cake, and a decanter of spirits.

  When the door closed behind her, he said, “Would you like some tea?”

  “No, thank you. I have been visiting Mrs. Morven and we—”

  “Then I hope you won’t object if I have a drink.”

  Definitely a life peerage.

  “I’m sure you’re tired after your long absence. I won’t trouble you.” She turned for the door, when the sound of a glass being set hard on the table startled her into turning back. Reflex had her reaching over her shoulder for the lightning rifle, and when she realized what she was doing, she turned it into a self-conscious maneuver with her hatpin.

  “Lady Claire.” He splashed whiskey into the abused glass, but did not pick it up. “I find that in spite of my express wishes, you have accepted employment with my partner. He sent a tube two days ago to tell me you had begun work. I want to know why.”

  Because the Lady of Devices does not bow to blackmail. “When we last spoke I told you I would do so. I must keep a roof over my head, sir. As you know perfectly well.”

  “You have an adequate roof at Carrick House.”

  “The house is for sale, and after the riots it is uninhabitable. Roofs notwithstanding, I fail to see why my working for your partner should be so objectionable.”

  “You know why.”

  The temptation to swing the decanter at his head surged through her, and she mastered it. “I do not. Please enlighten me.”

  His fingers closed around the glass so tightly the liquid vibrated. “It is inconceivable to me that a woman I had hoped to court should be working for me. There. Is that plain enough for you?”

  He had said something very like that during the disastrous interview. “It is inconceivable to me that you should harbor such a hope, sir. I knew nothing of it. And even if I had, it would not have stopped me. I want to work for your partner. I need to learn from him.”

  “And charm him into giving up his secrets?”

  She glanced at the decanter. Heavy crystal. A couple of pounds at least.

  “I shall not need to use charm, even if I were silly enough to stoop to it. I am filing thousands of papers, and I’m perfectly capable of reading what interests me. Is there something you wish me not to see?”

  “Andrew is doing valuable work. Any one of the treatises he has written could be sold.”

  “And you believe me capable of that?”

  He took a breath, as if to answer, and let it out again. “I have no idea what you’re capable of.”

  We are in complete agreement there.

  “I must have your word, Lady Claire, that nothing you learn in our laboratory will leave it. Nothing, do you understand?”

  She looked him dead in the eye. Snouts McTavish would have run to the far side of the garden had he seen that look, knowing that a bolt of lightning was about to follow.

  “You insult me, sir, by insisting on such a promise. Of course I would not speak of what I learn in the laboratory. Nor would Tigg, or the—” She almost said Mopsies, but stopped herself in time. “—or any of the children.”

  “Those children are not to come on my property!”

  “Mr. Malvern has already given his permission.”

  “Then I rescind it.”

  “Why?”

  He stared at her. “Why? Because children have no place there, that’s why. They could be hurt, or destroy something, or—”

  “Tigg is already acting as Mr. Malvern’s assistant, and very capably, too. Are you telling me you plan to deprive him of a way to better himself? Can you really be that unkind?”

  Now he was entirely speechless. She took advantage of the welcome silence.

  “If I had ever harbored any tender feelings toward you, my lord, this interview would have put paid to them. A man of your stature should be able to extend charity to those less fortunate, especially if it comes at no cost to himself. If Andrew is willing to teach him, how can you tell him he may not learn?”

  “You ... are a Wit,” he snapped.

  She smiled. “How observant of you, sir. But my question stands.”

  She had shamed him. His face flushed, and it was fortunate the glass was made of stern stuff, or it would have shattered in his grip long ago.

  “Your father would be ashamed of you.”

  “My father is dead, and I have good reason to be ashamed of him.”

  “You are the most unladylike young woman I have ever had the misfortune to meet.”

  “You have not answered me, my lord.”

  “You will not hold me hostage with your infernal questions.”

  “But you are free to blackmail me with impunity?”

  She had brought out the bull in him. He practically pawed the Turkish carpet. He towered over her by at least a foot, and could probably snap her in two if he laid hands on her, and yet she would not back down. A year ago she would have burst into tears at the very sight of him, and run to her room.

  The Lady of Devices did not run from anyone.

  He controlled his temper by gritting his teeth and breathing deeply. “I shall write to your mother.”

  She could stand up to Lightning Luke Jackson. She could take on The Cudgel without fear. But this ... this! This was beyond anything.

  “Why should you do that?” she said between stiff lips.

  “To rescind the letter I sent her three weeks ago.”

  Three weeks ago? Before he had tried to force her to turn down Andrew’s offer of employment? “What letter?”

  “The one in which I told her my intentions toward you were honorable, and asked her permission to court you. I certainly have no desire to do so now, and you have made it abundantly clear that the feeling is mutual.”

  Now it was her turn to stare at him, jaw unhinged. She must look like she belonged in Bedlam herself. “You—you
did what?”

  “You didn’t believe me, did you, when I interrupted your interview with Andrew? I can assure you, when I wrote that letter I was in earnest. Despite the fact that you no longer have a dowry, and you are certainly not the catch you were in June, I was still prepared to make an honorable offer. Lord knows you could use a firm hand on the reins.”

  She overlooked these insulting remarks while she calculated time versus the speed of the mail system. Her mother had sent a letter saying she would be dragged bodily down to Cornwall if she didn’t come voluntarily. Lord James’s letter had obviously crossed with it. No wonder she had not heard again. Lady St. Ives was probably shouting hallelujah and planning the wedding.

  Lord James wanted to court her. To marry her. Lord James Selwyn.

  It beggared understanding.

  “But—but why?” If he had been Fermat’s theorem made flesh, she couldn’t have been any more stumped.

  “Why should I want to court you and contemplate a life in your company? I agree, it’s quite astonishing.”

  “All the more reason I should want to know.”

  He put the glass down carefully on the mantel, and studied the paper flowers as if they had been freshly delivered from the Antipodes. “Because you almost won at Cowboy Poker on your first try. Because no matter how abominably those meringues treat you, you are unfailingly polite. Because, Lady Claire, you have a spine.”

  “You did not seem to appreciate my spine a few minutes ago.”

  “I have a temper. Sometimes it gets the better of me.”

  A gentleman of breeding could control his emotions. Claire let it pass. “Meringues?”

  “Those girls. Julia and Catherine and that Astor featherhead.”

  “You are most uncomplimentary, sir.” Meringues. Sweet on the outside but having absolutely no substance within. She bit down on the urge to giggle.

  “It’s a failing of mine,” he said on a sigh, then glanced up. “It does not seem to have had much effect on you.”

  I have killed a man, however unintentionally. Uncomplimentary remarks no longer have the effect they used to. “Are you a life peer, sir?”

  He looked a little surprised. “No. Selwyns have held lands and the title in Derbyshire since 1625. Why?”

  She shook her head. “No reason. I must thank you for your good intentions, Lord James, at the very least. Send your letter if you must.”

  “I think I must. Unless you would like us to—I mean, if you wanted me to—what I mean to say is—”

  He broke off, floundering, his face reddening as he realized he had left himself open to the lash of her tongue—and her poor opinion.

  Several thoughts flashed through her mind with the force of a lightning storm.

  Despite his fearsome denials, he might just want to go through with it after all.

  If it were known he was courting her, she would be safe from public opinion.

  She could continue her activities at night, and no one would connect the infamous Lady with the intended of Lord James Selwyn.

  He did not love her. So when she must inevitably break it off, he would not be hurt.

  And it would deal such a poke in the eye to Julia and Catherine and all the rest that they would never recover. She would be the first of her class at school to become engaged. She, the one with no prospects—indeed, who was more familiar with social disgrace than social graces—would be the first to be chosen.

  She returned from that far-off, sparkling vista to realize that he was gazing at her, waiting, while the color returned to normal in his face. He must be preparing himself to be soundly refused.

  “I must be permitted to continue my work in your laboratory,” she heard herself say.

  It took him a moment to realize what she meant. “I see that I have no power to stop you, short of hammering a sheet of wood over the door.”

  “I am responsible for the children.”

  “Curiosity compels me to ask about them, but I will save it for another time.”

  “You will not visit me at home.”

  “That would be most improper.”

  “I shall be applying to The University of London, to begin classes in the autumn.”

  “Claire—”

  “I am immovable on this point.”

  “This is the deal breaker?”

  “It is, sir.”

  “It will be a very long engagement, in that case.”

  “Four years. Three, if I take advanced classes and study during the summers.”

  He did not drop his gaze. “I find this a very strange turn of events. I had every intention of turning you out of the house.”

  “That would have been beneath you, sir.”

  “James. If we are to be engaged, you must call me by my name.”

  She didn’t think she could force her tongue to shape the word. Instead, she tugged on her gloves and held out her hand. “I must be going. Thank you for ... er, tea.”

  “I won’t write to Cornwall, then.” He sounded as if he wanted confirmation that they had just done what he thought they’d done.

  “Only to tell my mother the ... happy news. Or no, perhaps I should do that.”

  “If you would. Well ... goodbye, then. For now.”

  “Goodbye, Lord James.”

  It wasn’t until she was in the Underground carriage that the consequences of what she’d done hit her.

  An old lady sitting across the aisle was kind enough to lend her a handkerchief to wipe up her tears.

  Chapter 7

  She must have been mad.

  She would write to Lord James when she got home this evening and call the whole thing off.

  And then she would write to her mother and tell her she had called the whole thing off.

  And then Lady St. Ives would be on the next train to London.

  Oh dear, oh dear.

  Claire leaned her head back against the window of the coach and closed her eyes in despair, which meant she nearly missed her Underground stop.

  Surfacing from the tunnel into the bright light of late afternoon, she waited for her eyes to adjust. If she went back to the cottage now, she would only have to make the trip to Chelsea another day. Granted, at the moment finding out about Dr. Rosemary Craig seemed trivial, compared to what Claire had just done to herself. On the other hand, having a concrete task to perform might serve as a distraction, giving her a little distance until she was able to think clearly.

  A brief stop at the local switch of the Royal Mail provided her with the location of the Craig house, which turned out to be a flat on the third floor of a building crammed between two more prosperous ones. So the Craigs did not go about in society? Claire wondered whether they could even squeeze outside.

  It wasn’t until she stood at the door that she remembered she should have sent up a card first, to make sure the inhabitants were at home to visitors. However, in the absence of anyone to send a card up with, she herself would have to do.

  At her knock, the door swung wide and she found herself face to face with a woman in her thirties wearing a severe gray suit in the elaborately bustled style of the previous decade.

  “Good afternoon,” Claire said in her best social tones. “I am Lady Claire Trevelyan, and I do apologize for not informing you of my visit. Do I have the pleasure of addressing Miss Craig?”

  The woman wobbled a bit at the knees, as if she were unsure whether or not to curtsey. Claire extended a hand and shook with the other woman to set her at ease. Finally she said, “I am Dorothy Craig. Please, won’t you come in?”

  The furniture was so glossy with polish that one might almost miss the threadbare condition of the cushions. The floor likewise shone, and the single carpet was a good Persian. Daguerreotype photographs in silver frames were arranged upon a sideboard, and Claire wondered if Dr. Rosemary Craig’s likeness was among them.

  “Would you like some tea?” Dorothy asked.

  “Thank you, but no. I won’t trespass on your kindness. I mere
ly came to inquire about a woman I believe is your sister. Doctor Rosemary Craig.”

  At the word sister, the expression of polite but puzzled interest froze into shock.

  Claire hastened on, despite the sinking feeling in her stomach that she had made a mistake. “I am very much interested in your sister’s work for—for a paper I am working on, and—” The other woman stood. “Miss Craig?”

  “I am very sorry to incommode you, Lady Claire, but I find I have a headache coming on. Please allow me to show you out.”

  How odd. She didn’t have any of the symptoms Mama exhibited during one of her headaches—the pale skin, the wincing at noise, the inability to bear light.

  “I am very sorry to be the cause of your headache,” she said gently. “I will go, but I hope you will answer one question. Did your sister leave behind any papers or information that I might look at for my research?”

  “If she did, they were burned years ago,” Dorothy said, her voice tight. “Before she was sent away.”

  “To Bedlam.”

  “It’s common knowledge among the titled, is it—my family’s disgrace?” she said bitterly.

  “Not at all. I learned of it from someone at the Royal Society of Engineers. I mean—not the disgrace, which I am sure is not true, but of your sister’s unfortunate circumstances.”

  “Which brought on our disgrace. My father was only a barrister, but who will hire a man into a position of trust when madness runs in his family?”

  Claire saw that there were closed doors down a miniscule corridor on her right. “Are your parents well?”

  “My mother passed away two years ago. I am my father’s nurse. As you see—” Her voice trembled, but whether with grief or rage, Claire couldn’t tell. “—our family has not recovered.”

  Claire’s own family had not recovered from disgrace, either, but one did not simply sit down and give up. “Do you see your sister?” she asked softly, fully expecting to be pushed out the door.

  “Oh, yes. Once a month, faithful as can be. For all the good it does.”

  “Does she not recognize you?”