Gilded Lily (5 page)

“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.

“M
Y HERO,”
F
REDDIE
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.”

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.

“Tilbury dock ahead. We need to get off the main road, miss.”

“Fred.”

“Aye, Fred. We don't want to be the ones spotted, we're trying to do the spotting. So which way?”

“You remember Jameson, the tobacconist? Cut down the road past his shop and pull up at the end near the fishing guild hall. We'll be able to see the entrance to my father's warehouse from there. I'll wake Lord Smith-Grenville.”

She leaned over the back of the bench and prodded the top of Barnabas's head. His bowler had slipped off while he slept. His hair was soft, barely springing back against her fingers as she tapped.

“Wake up, my lord. We're in Tilbury.”

“Who—huh?” He came to and jerked to a sitting position, facing the back of the trap, wrench held in front of him like a shield. “Where?”

“Up here.” She waved her fingertips at him when he turned around, wild-eyed. “You fell asleep. Long day?”

“I—yes, I suppose. I apologize. Is this your wrench?” He held it out to her politely, and Freddie had to restrain a grin.

“Yes, but it seemed to bring you some comfort as you slumbered. By all means keep it if you like. Are you otherwise armed?”

She showed him the impressive pistol she carried, and after blinking for a moment he reached beneath his jacket and withdrew a slightly smaller firearm of his own. “I forgot I had it.”

Dan muttered something under his breath that sounded very much like, “Bloody hell.” Freddie nudged his boot with her own.

“At least you've remembered now.”

Barnabas nodded. “And now that we're here, what is the plan, Miss Murcheson?”

“Fred, please. When I'm dressed like this, it's Fred. The plan is to wait on that corner there,” she explained, pointing, “until we see my father arrive and meet his colleague. Then to follow them without being seen, and find out what they're up to.”

“But Miss—Fred, if it's a matter of state secrets, I can hardly condone . . . oh, blast.”

“So my father is privy to state secrets. Thank you for clarifying that. Do you know why he's meeting this man Hampton here?” She ran her fingertips over the barrel of her weapon, caressing the wood.

He eyed the pistol as he felt around him, then replaced his hat on his head. “Your father hasn't confided in me regarding his schedule. You clearly know more than I do about his intentions. Shooting me won't get you anywhere.”

She clamped down on the impulse to apologize for the implied threat, reminding herself that this harmless-seeming young noble was an admitted spy and her father's man. It was entirely possible his accidental sincerity and naïveté were an elaborate front to gain her confidence. In fact, that was a more plausible explanation than the face value of Lord Smith-Grenville.

Freddie checked her pocket watch. “He's due to arrive any minute now. Come with me, take the rear, and do try to tread lightly and keep to the shadows. Mr. Pinkerton will guard the trap.” She hopped down to the street, automatically adjusting her balance to account for all the heavy padding but still less hampered than she would be in a skirt. Dan's mum had found her a new pair of braces to go with the trousers, replacing the old, worn pair she'd liberated from her father's wardrobe and cut down to size. She felt even more comfortable and mobile than usual. “Dan, if we aren't back in two hours, feel free to come looking.”

“One hour.”

“One and a half. Coming, Lord Smith-Grenville?”

“Do I have a choice?”

A sudden rage threatened her vision for a moment, a flicker of red in the dark. Did he have a choice? Lord Barnabas Smith-Grenville, a first son of the peerage, an agent of the Crown, a titled young gentleman in the prime of his life?

“You've nothing but choices, my lord,” she managed against the angry tightening of her throat. “A world of them.”

She turned and made for the corner, not bothering to look behind to see if he would choose to follow.

 • • • 

B
ARNABAS HEFTED THE
pistol in his hand, taking confidence from its weight and the memory of his successful last turn at the firing range behind Hardison House.

As Miss Murcheson had predicted, her father and another man had rendezvoused in front of the warehouse, then disappeared down a side alley without speaking a single word to one another. Both men were on foot. The streets were empty, as befit the ungodly hour. The church bell up the road had tolled three as Freddie and Barnabas slipped across the pavement to steal down the alley after their quarry.

It was clear Miss Murcheson had a knack for this sort of thing. Although most of the narrow passage was lit only by the moon and stars, she never faltered. Her movements were swift and sure as a cat's in the dark, and when she pulled Barnabas with her behind the cover of a row of barrels, he noted that the spot afforded a perfect view of the door through which Murcheson and his colleague entered one of the warehouse's outbuildings. A moment later, the painted-over window by the entrance flickered with a tracework of warm light. A muffled rattle of metal on metal wafted to them on the damp breeze. The glow brightened, then slipped from view as if a lantern shade had been pulled down over it.

Then silence again, and darkness, punctuated only by Miss Murcheson huffing out a puzzled, “Hmph.”

“What?” he whispered.

“It reminds me of something. I'm trying to think what it could be.”

“I see. Are we stopping here, then?”

“Of course not.” She stepped from behind the barrels and strode toward the door, no longer bothering with stealth. He caught up to her as she peered into the window. The glass was dark, the cracks invisible now that they were no longer backlit.

“I have a pocket torch,” he offered, hoping it might forestall the inevitable break-in. He pulled the slender rod from his breast pocket and slid his fingers down its length until he found the tiny latch that held the crank lever flat. With a flick of one fingertip, he loosed it and used it to slide the mechanism free. The crank needed only a few brisk turns before the rod's tip began to shine.

“Very clever,” Miss Murcheson granted, though she didn't sound as though she meant it. Her father was Rutherford Murcheson, after all; Barnabas suspected the young lady saw a dozen more fascinating technological marvels than this on a slow day.

“I shouldn't be helping you. But as I'm doomed to hang anyway . . .” He pressed the torch to one corner of a windowpane, sliding it along the seam between glass and wood, looking for the gap in the paint that the earlier flash of light had revealed. There was nothing, then a flicker he nearly missed.

“Go back a bit,” she urged. “There. Just there.”

In the feeble glow, they could see the network of paint cracks again. Freddie peered through the largest one into the room beyond, then gasped and backed away.

“What?”

“I've seen this before.”

“It's your father's warehouse, isn't it?” Barnabas pressed his eye to the gap and observed what appeared to be an all-but-empty storage chamber. “I don't know why you'd have spent time looking into the closets, but—”

“No, no. I've seen this, but not here. There's a room exactly like this one in my father's factory in Le Havre.”

Giving the torch crank another spin, Barnabas shrugged. “I'd venture to say there's a room like this in almost any factory or warehouse in the world, Miss Murcheson.”

“No. I mean exactly alike. The same paneling. The same few crates in the corner, mouse-eaten papers on the floor. The closet in Le Havre has a broken chair and this appears to have a stepladder with a broken step, that's the only difference. I used to hide in there when I'd go to visit Father, just to see if anyone would notice I was missing. Nobody ever looked for me there; it was as if they didn't know the room existed.”

He looked again. “It's a wholly unremarkable storage room. Perhaps they weren't looking very hard?” He regretted that the moment he'd said it, but she didn't seem to have paid him any mind.

“The same room,” she insisted. “In two busy establishments, in two different countries. The same storage room with nearly nothing stored in it. Why are they empty? And where are Father and Mr. Hampton?”

Blast. “The light. This must just be a pass-through to something else. They must have opened a door. I don't see one, but it's the only explanation. I mean they had to have gone somewhere.”

She was already working at the lock with a hairpin, cursing softly. Her absurdly large hat obscured her profile from his view, and she sounded more tinker than lady. For a moment, her disguise worked on him, causing him to doubt his own sanity. The illusion broke when she spoke to him directly. “Shine that over here, please, sir.”

Even after he obliged, it took Freddie several minutes and two broken hairpins before she finally turned the knob with an air of supreme satisfaction.

“That lock wasn't put there to protect a few empty crates and a broken ladder, Lord Smith-Grenville.”

Clearly not. But the longer she'd worked on it, the more anxious Barnabas had become about what it might be protecting. Nothing that would help his case, he suspected.

“The light shone straight through the window. I think it came from that wall, but I don't see any door.”