Heart of Brass (7 page)

“Go find yourself someplace warm and dry to wait, Gibbs,” she instructed. “In the carriage if you like. I will be ready to depart for home in thirty minutes.” He was dressed in the appropriate outerwear for such a day, but she would feel guilty if he came down with a cold.

When he walked away she turned to the row of buildings before her.

Number 13 Downing Street did not technically exist, having been remodeled and partially absorbed by one or two of the other buildings close to the redbrick dwelling that was the official address of the Prime Minister. Of course, Lord Salisbury didn’t actually live in the house—he had a much grander estate befitting a man of his rank on Arlington Street in St. James’s.

But for her purpose there was still a number 13. It simply wasn’t visible on the surface.

Number 13 housed the Wardens of the Realm’s London Office. They had smaller locations scattered throughout the Empire, but this was the largest, and home to the Director, who ran the organization. The Wardens were spies, for lack of a better term, dedicated to the protection of Britain and all Her interests. There seemed to be no shortage of intrigue in Europe and the world, much of it involving England, directly or indirectly. Sometimes the job was about keeping someone alive, or making sure someone else disappeared without a trace. And sometimes, it was so political Arden’s eyes crossed at the subtleties, backstabbing and dual nature of it all. When those moments got to be too much, she reminded herself that both her father and husband had dedicated themselves to the agency—and to their country. She could do no less.

There was a black door on the building right in front of her to which she had a key. Past that door was a small foyer that housed nothing but an elegant oak and iron-grated lift. The matching gate in front of the lift was locked, but she had a key for it as well and easily walked through to the lift itself. She slid the polished door open, stepped over the slight gap between box and floor, and then shut herself inside, latching the door securely.

She took a punch card from the lining of her bag—the same place where she kept the keys to this mysterious place—and slipped it into the slot provided. There were no buttons to push or levers to pull, for the analytical engine of the machine read the information on her punch card and took her to her desired location. Normally she used another card that did require a floor selection, but today she was going to see the Director, which required a special card that only a handful of people were privileged enough to own.

The lift moved slowly at first, grinding and hissing as the steam engine that powered it came to life. Many people would be afraid to be in such a seemingly decrepit piece of machinery, but Arden wasn’t concerned. There were safety precautions in place in case of emergency, and her father had built the lift, so if there was an issue she could probably fix it herself—if she survived.

The cage jerked into motion—she placed a palm briefly against the wall to steady herself. A soft hiss whispered around her as the floor beneath her feet began its descent.

Down one floor the lift crawled; then it hesitated and she felt something like a giant hand close around either side—jostling the cage as it clamped hold. Chains and cables jangled as they were released. There was a slight drop, followed by a jar that never ceased to make her curse like a sailor. Then the lift moved backward, burrowing into the building rather than beneath it. Instead of relying on cables and pulleys, it now sat upon a track that ran parallel to the street above. It spent several minutes on this route before it stopped and the door—this time the one at the back of the box—was cranked open by an unseen mechanism that sounded as though several of its parts required lubrication.

Arden remembered to take her punch card before exiting the lift. The heels of her boots tapped sharply on the glossy polish of the white and black-veined marble floor as she strode briskly toward her destination.

Both sides of the large hall were lined with sconces holding brightly burning lamps, filling the subterranean hall with blue-tinged light. She’d wager ten pounds that it wasn’t gas in those lamps. Another ten said she’d have better luck sprouting wings than finding out just what the blue substance was.

There was only one door other than that to the lift behind her. It was actually a double door made of carved oak—tall and wide enough for a pair of giants to walk through. A guard stood on either side, dressed in livery of black and gold, the brass buttons on their jackets embossed with the image of a gryphon wearing a crown of roses. It was the symbol of the Wardens—the gryphon symbolizing England and the mythical creature that protected the kingdom, and the roses symbolizing virtue and superior merit.

Spine straight, Arden stood before the guards, fixing them both with a level stare. “Lady Arden Grey, Countess Huntley to see the director.”

Neither of the guards’ countenances changed, but the smaller of the two—the female—moved to turn the knob on the door nearest her and opened it, bowing as Arden wordlessly swept past.

She stepped over the threshold into what could have been a drawing room or salon in any aristocratic lady’s household. The walls were covered in cream-colored, delicately hand-painted paper from the Orient depicting birds in flight. The carpet was pale as well, and just as exquisite in its subtle pattern. All of the furniture was made from dark wood, and upholstered in the darkest crimson velvet.

A young man sat at a desk near the back of the room, not far from yet another door—the entrance to the Director’s office. He glanced up, his spectacles glinting in the light. “Good day, Lady Huntley.”

“Hello, Mr. Chiler. Is she in?”

“Of course. Allow me to inquire if she is able to accept visitors.” The young man rose to his feet and moved to the door. The hand he lifted to knock was almost skeletal-looking—but bones didn’t have rivets and bolts. Mr. Chiler’s fingers could crush a normal man’s hand with very little effort. Arden knew this because she had seen it happen.

A voice called out for him to enter, and he slipped into the office, closing the door softly behind him. All Arden could do was wait for his return. The Director would either have time for her or she wouldn’t. There was never any hidden agenda, not here.

Seconds ticked past on the large clocks on the wall. One was set to London time, another to New York, another to Berlin, and one to St. Petersburg. There were others, but before Arden could glance at them, the door to the director’s office opened and Mr. Chiler reappeared.

“You may go on in, Lady Huntley,” he said in his soothing baritone.

“Thank you.” Arden brushed past him to cross the threshold into the inner sanctum.

The room was large, decorated in muted shades of violet, burnt orange, gold and rich fuchsia. Plush sofas and chairs were topped with thick, colorful cushions. Swaths of silk draped the walls, brightened by the light of the lamps. Paintings of India adorned the walls, their bold colors contrasting with the monochromatic photographs of London that hung alongside them.

A large desk sat at the back of the room—a thick slab of ebony atop the backs of four hand-carved elephants, each different in appearance, painted to look as though they should be carrying a rajah through the streets of town.

The woman standing in front of the desk was by far the most exotic part of the room. A little taller than Arden’s own above-average height, she was built like an hourglass in black trousers tucked in knee-high black boots, and a fitted dark-purple waistcoat that was boned and laced like a corset. Her thick black hair was coiled into a large, heavy bun at the base of her skull, and large, piercing amber eyes stared out of a face that was just a little too dark and exotic to be wholly English.

Dhanya Withering was rumored to be the illegitimate granddaughter of Queen Victoria, though no one had ever seen any evidence to prove this theory. Her mother was from India and ran a successful bakery in the West End where Arden often went when she had a craving for something delicious and sweet. She had developed quite a taste for cardamom thanks to Dhanya’s mama.

“I hear you had some excitement at your home a few nights ago,” Dhanya said in lieu of greeting. Her faintly accented English sounded lyrical and exotic to Arden’s ears.

“I did,” she replied. “Zoe seems to think the Company wants to see me eliminated.”

One already incredibly arched brow quirked as the darker woman gestured for her to sit. “I had heard a similar rumor, yes. The price of having the satisfaction of dispatching Victor Erlich to his just reward, no doubt.”

Arden wouldn’t describe having to kill a man to save herself as satisfying in any degree, but she didn’t voice that. It was the only time she’d ever harmed another person. Her talents normally kept her out of harm’s way, inventing gadgets and weapons for W.O.R. agents. With God’s grace it would be the last time she ever had to take a life. She still dreamed of Erlich on occasion—his wine-soaked breath and grasping fingers.

The director didn’t seem to notice her suddenly reflective state—or she chose to ignore it. “I also heard that you believe the man who snuck into your home was none other than your errant husband.”

Was she surprised Dhanya had already heard this? No.

“Indeed I do.” Arden seated herself in a violet wingback chair, watching her friend and superior W.O.R. member as she poured them each a cup of chai tea and placed several sweets on a plate. Arden didn’t know the names of them all, but there were small golden logs topped with cream, swirls of bright orange batter that had been fried and dipped in sweet syrup, and different-colored squares topped with silver leaf. The sight of them set her mouth to watering.

Dhanya joined her, offering her first tea, then a sweet. “You know that if your husband is working for the Company, the rest of the Wardens will call for an inquiry into your own loyalties.”

Arden nodded as she took a bite of a sticky swirl. Bliss! “To be honest, Dhanya, if my husband is truly alive, I don’t care if the Wardens want my blood.”

The darker woman watched her closely. “Is he a traitor or a victim, then?”

“Victim,” she replied immediately. “He looked at me as though I were a stranger.”

Licking a drop of syrup from her thumb, the director leaned back in her chair. “You believe his mind has been tampered with.”

“I do. When Luke left seven years ago he was determined to bring the Company to an end once and for all. I am convinced they caught him and have somehow altered his mind.”

A frown furrowed Dhanya’s usually smooth brow. “I have heard of such things happening, but I’ve never witnessed it for myself. I’ve always thought it to be the agency equivalent of a monster in the cupboard—something to keep operatives on their toes.”

Arden found her tone dubious at best. Why did everyone doubt her judgment? “I
know
my husband. It was Luke.”

The director raised her honey-colored gaze. It was like staring into the eyes of a lioness. “Arden…my friend. You do realize what will happen to this man, especially if he is your husband?”

Arden’s heart staggered against her ribs. “He is one of
us
, Dhanya.”

Not a flicker of emotion crossed the other woman’s face. “Which is precisely why if you see him again you have to try to reach him. It is because of who he might be and what he might know that we cannot allow him to continue to be used by the Company. If you cannot turn him, or find some way that he might serve our cause, I will have no choice but to give orders that he is to be terminated.”

If fear could have fingers, it would have her very soul in those icy digits. “You cannot kill my husband.”

The cool façade dropped for a second, and she saw real sympathy—pain even—in her superior’s gaze. “If he has been programmed to murder you and is willing to carry out those orders, I will put a bullet in his brain myself.”

Arden swallowed hard against the bile churning in her stomach, threatening to rise in her throat. She set her cup and saucer on the desk, unable to countenance the thought of eating or drinking. “I understand.”

“I do not think you do.” Dhanya leaned forward. “I’m giving you the chance to find him first. I pray to God I don’t regret it, but I have faith in your abilities. Find him and fix him and I will rejoice in his return with you, but if you cannot…”

There was no need for her to say it again. Arden understood perfectly. “I will find him,” she vowed—as much to herself as to Dhanya. Then she rose to her feet—ashamed to find her knees trembling. “I have taken up enough of your time. I will leave you now.”

The darker woman also stood, and came around the desk to give her a hug. “You may not believe this, but I very much hope that you succeed.”

Arden nodded, not daring to speak for fear she might burst into tears. She had only just found Luke again and now was faced with the very real possibility that she might lose him again—for good this time.

Just as she turned the doorknob to make her exit, Dhanya called after her, “It’s good to see you in some color, Lady Huntley.”

She managed a smile while inside wishing she’d worn the protection of her blacks and drabs. She wouldn’t have felt quite so vulnerable in them.

She said good-day to Mr. Chiler and made her way back to the surface, as far away from the oppressive secrecy of the W.O.R. offices as she could get. The din and dirt of the city was a welcome balm to her troubled soul.

All she had to do was find Luke. He could be anywhere in London, making her task much like attempting to find a hairpin in a pile of automaton scrap. But if that was what she had to do to save his life, to have him return to her, then she would do it, even if it meant putting herself in danger.

The pavement was wet, but the rain had stopped, so she didn’t open her umbrella on the way to her carriage. Gibbs stood by the gleaming vehicle, smoking a cigarette. He threw the rolled tobacco to the ground when he spotted her, crushing it beneath his heel.

Normally she would inquire as to how he spent his time, or thank him for being there when she returned, but she couldn’t summon the energy to put on a smile and be the good lady.