Her Own Devices (19 page)

It took a moment for Claire’s mind to move from the aether of science to the room in which she sat. “Which child?” Tigg was seated at the end of the table, looking rather longingly at the filet of plaice on the plates of the others, though Claire knew for a fact he had had two helpings of stew at home. Willie had not taken a chair at all, preferring instead to stand next to hers, regarding everything in this strange household from within the circle of her left arm.

“The younger.”

“Why, this is Willie. Did I not introduce him?”

“You did. What I want to know is, where did he come from?”

“Mother, this is hardly the time. Lady Claire and I must—”

“You and Lady Claire must listen to me.
Where did this child come from?
”

Claire gaped at her blankly. What was she to say when she had absolutely no idea?

Tigg stirred in his chair. “’E was wiv—with us when the Lady came to us, mum. ’E brought ’er to us, you might say.”

“And where did you find him?”

Tigg screwed up his face with the effort to remember. “It was that ’ot summer a couple of years back. Snou—er, Mr. McTavish, the Lady’s secretary, ’ad been to the river with some of our mates to swim and when ’e came ’ome, Willie was with him.”

“The river. Two years ago.”

“Yes’m. Thereabouts.”

“Mother, what has come over you?” Andrew asked. “What is all this about?”

“Simply this,” she said. “Two years ago, a three-year-old boy was stolen from a garden while his nurse slept. A boy with brown hair in a widow’s peak like his father’s, and big blue eyes like his mother’s. A boy for whom I used to make sugar cookies shaped like stars, because they were his favorite.”

To Claire’s astonishment, Willie grinned at the older woman, his dimpled chin barely level with the tabletop as he stood pressed against her. Then he pushed away, ducked under the table to the other woman’s place, and flung himself into her lap. Mrs. Malvern gasped as she tried to hold back a sob, gathering him into her arms as she spoke in a voice close to tears.

“A boy whose name is Lord Wilberforce Albert John Dunsmuir, Viscount Hatley, and Baron Craigdarroch.” With each syllable she gave him a tiny shake, as if impressing them into his memory, though her voice broke. “The son of Lord and Lady Dunsmuir, who have been looking for him without ceasing these two long and empty years.”

It was nearly ten o’clock, and Claire wondered if Lord Dunsmuir would have them thrown out of his library as charlatans. “They have had to deal with all manner of criminals parading boys in front of them, every one trained to pretend he was a lord,” Jane Malvern told them in a low voice. “But young Willie is no pretender. I would know those eyes anywhere.”

A patter of footsteps sounded on the grand staircase of Hatley House, the Dunsmuirs’ town house bordering on Regents’ Park. Somewhere above, a man’s stifled voice said, “Davina, no. You will do yourself harm. Please, let me—”

With a rustle of silk, a woman appeared in the door of the library in a dressing gown, breathing hard. “Mrs. Malvern,” she said. “You would not trifle with—please tell me—” Her wide blue gaze fell on Willie, who until that moment had been pressed against Claire’s side while she knelt, her arm around his shoulders.

She distinctly heard Willie suck in a great breath, and in the next moment he had bounded across the room, the woman had flung herself to her knees and opened her arms, and mother and son both burst into tears as they clutched each other in a bear hug.

Lord Dunsmuir, his shirt collar open and his feet bare, finally reached the library. “Is it—? Davina—?”

“Yes, milord, it is,” Mrs. Malvern said, dabbing at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. “It is really your boy, after all this time.”

“But how—? How did you—?”

The poor man did not seem able to complete a sentence. Finally he abandoned the attempt altogether and joined his wife and son on the floor, manfully attempting to keep his tears back, and failing utterly.

Willie looked at Claire over his parents’ shoulders. “Mama and papa,” he said, clear as day, beaming with such happiness that Claire came near to tears herself.

“Yes, darling,” she said. “Your mama and papa, at last.”

After several more minutes, the earl finally collected himself enough to speak coherently. “Mrs. Malvern, you must tell us how this—this miracle came to pass.”

“I think that story belongs to Lady Claire, milord. She has been acting in a mother’s place for many weeks, I think.”

“Lady Claire?” For the first time, the earl seemed to notice that there were a number of additional people in the quiet, carpeted room.

“Yes, my lord,” Claire said. “I am Claire Trevelyan, daughter of the late Viscount and Lady St. Ives.”

“You are Vivyan and Flora’s daughter?” he said blankly. “How did you come to be acquainted with our cook—not to mention my boy?”

“I am Andrew Malvern’s laboratory assistant,” she said, blithely ignoring his lordship’s look of shock and sticking to the facts. “After my family’s ruin, I was forced to seek employment. In the course of that effort, I met a group of orphans who eventually came under my care. Your son was one of them. But I must tell you, my lord, I have been caring for Willie since the beginning of the summer, and not once have I heard him speak. The other children told me he had been struck dumb—some think it was by an early trauma. To the best of my knowledge, the words he just said are the first to cross his lips in two years.”

The countess looked into Willie’s eyes. “Is it true, my darling?” she asked softly. “Is what she says true?”

“Yeth,” he said, and Claire smiled to realize that his little lordship lisped. “They thaid they’d kill me.”

“Dear God.” The countess hugged him to her breast again.

“Thnouts ith my friend. He thaved me from the bad men.” He looked back at Claire. “I love the Lady, Mama. Can she thtay with uth?”

Claire’s eyes filled with tears again as she knelt next to them. “This is your home again, my dear one, and my home is in the cottage. But we will see each other often, I promise. Just because you have come home does not mean you can neglect your studies in reading and mathematics.”

“You have been teaching him?” Lady Davina asked.

“She teaches us all, milady,” Tigg piped up. “I can read now, and do sums, I’m Mr. Malvern’s assistant too.”

The countess blinked at him. “My goodness. I have more to be grateful for than I ever dreamed.”

The earl got to his feet. “This is not the time, but by all I hold dear, I will find the miscreants who took my boy, and see them in gaol. Perhaps when it is convenient I could speak to this ...?” He gazed inquiringly at Claire.

“Snouts? He means Mr. McTavish, my secretary, whose nose, regrettably, is a source of great fun for the boys.” She had no doubt that
convenient
to the earl meant
immediately, if not sooner
. “Perhaps we might call tomorrow afternoon, if you are at home?”

The countess stood, and Claire found herself in a fierce embrace. “We are always at home to you—to you all. I can never, ever repay you for bringing my boy home to me.”

“My wife is right,” Lord Dunsmuir said. “If there is anything any of you need, anything I can do, you have merely to name it, and it will be done instantly.”

“Your lordship is very kind,” Claire said. “But at the moment, I have all I need.”

“As do I,” Andrew said. “And my mother lacks for nothing.”

“But if at any time your situation should change,” the earl told them, “any of you, even your secretary or this young man here—”

“That’th Tigg,” his son informed him. “He’th my friend, too.”

The earl acknowledged Tigg with a nod, one man to another. “—I wish to be the one to assist. I mean it. No matter what it is, it cannot be enough to equal my gratitude.”

The moment was a good one to exercise delicacy, and Claire and Andrew took their leave. Willie looked confused, and made to go with her, but she knelt and said, “No, darling. Your mama wishes to tuck you into your very own bed, and kiss you good-night. How lovely that will be!”

“You will come back, Lady?”

“Of course. Your papa and I and Snouts are to have a visit tomorrow afternoon, so you will see us then.”

“Promith?”

“Cross my heart.” And she did so.

Only then was he satisfied, and the little group took their leave.

In the landau once again, bowling down the side of Russell Square, an emotionally drained silence reigned until Tigg said, in wondering tones, “Wilberforce. Huh. Wonder if he expects us to call ’im that now?”

“Oh, no,” Andrew said. “You must address him as
Lord
Wilberforce. Or Viscount Hatley.”

Tigg made a rude noise. “Not bleedin’ likely. ’E’s our Willie, no matter what.”

“I imagine he will be perfectly happy to be known as Willie to his friends,” Mrs. Malvern put in. “And you certainly have a friend for life in his lordship. Goodness gracious me, what a night it has been!”

What a night, indeed. Claire realized with a sense of shock that she had not thought of the chamber or of kineticks or science at all in more than three hours. And somehow, when she remembered the joy that had filled that library, it seemed only right.

*

The Evening Standard

August 26

KIDNAPPED VISCOUNT RETURNS

In a turn of events straight from the pages of a penny dreadful, the young Viscount Hatley, stolen from the garden of Hatley House two years ago while his nanny slept, has been restored to the arms of his joyful parents.

According to a source close to the family, Lord and Lady Dunsmuir were summoned from their beds in the middle of the night to find a group of Good Samaritans—as yet unnamed—with a young boy they claimed to be Lord Wilberforce. As our readers are aware, the Dunsmuirs have been summoned to many such meetings, all of which have been proven to be the work of confidence men attempting to pass off urchins and alley mice as the missing lord.

But the credentials of these unnamed angels appear to have been bona fide, because this morning Lord and Lady Dunsmuir announced to their callers that their son had been returned. Little is known of the harrowing events of his captivity, save that he was sworn to silence on pain of death. The boy has been mute for two years, and only the sight of his mother loosened his tongue once more.

Lord Dunsmuir has posted a reward of 100 pounds for any information leading to the capture of his son’s kidnappers, with a further 100 pounds due when they are proven guilty and sentenced to gaol or transport.

The editors of this newspaper join our readers in thanking Providence for the return of the young viscount, and offer our hopes that his ordeal will soon be forgotten in the joy of his return to the family circle.

“’E’s only been gone two days and I miss ’im already.” Tigg finished with the last of the screws on a contraption that, if Claire had to say so herself, was fairly ingenious. Andrew had wasted no time in another trip to the manufactory, and between the two of them, they had created a sort of metal hammock that would set the chamber in motion. Once the cell was activated, the hammock could be locked in place so that the ignition process could occur with some precision in the chamber itself.

“He’s not really gone, you know,” Claire assured him. “His lordship has said we may visit at any time, with no restrictions.”

“It won’t be the same, though. ’E won’t be able to come and see us, will ’e?”

“I shall ask. The Mopsies miss him, too, and the chickens will forget who he is if he does not come within two weeks. But we must understand if Lord and Lady Dunsmuir are not quite prepared to let him out of their sight. Not this soon, at any rate.”

“Are we ready out there?” Andrew called from behind the control apparatus, where he was tinkering with gears.

Tigg scrambled down and put his screwdriver and mallet away carefully in a leather case that appeared to be rather new. “Yes, sir,” he called.

“Come on over, then, and man the switches.”

This time the ignition procedure was more complicated. Tigg set the hammock in motion with one switch, and Andrew raised his arm to signify that the cell had begun to glow. With his other hand, Andrew brought his goggles down to cover his eyes, and motioned for Claire to do the same. When the hum in the chamber reached a pitch that satisfied him, Andrew’s arm swung down sharply and Tigg rammed the control lever all the way up. A blinding light flashed in the chamber—bright as the bolt that had killed Lightning Luke—engulfing the pile of coal. Again, Claire saw the tendrils of power flicker and touch the chunks of coal, delicate as a spider climbing from top to bottom, before the current dissipated and the chamber settled into inactivity once more.

A plume of smoke rose from the coal and was whisked away by the air flowing through the chamber and out through a brass pipe that led out of doors.

Once again, Tigg lowered the cowling and Andrew examined the coal in his heavily gloved hands. He looked up at Claire. “This does not look like the coal we began with.”

“I should say not. All the pieces are fused together.”

“This won’t fit under the microscope, and it’s hot—I must put it down. We shall have to field test it. Tigg, where’s your mallet?”

“Here, sir.”

A smart tap on the coal produced a clink rather like metal hitting metal.

“Claire, Tigg, this is a good sign,” Andrew breathed. “It is hard, is it not? I’m not just imagining it because I want it to be so?”

“Let me, sir.”

Tigg tapped all around the sample, careful not to let it touch his hands. “It’s glowing hot, sir, but it doesn’t burn. How can that be?”

“I suppose if we heated a diamond, the result would be the same. Now, come upstairs. We shall give it another test. The bonfire I lit in the stove should be hot coals by now.”

He carried the sample upstairs in a metal pan, and with the tongs, put it on the thick bed of red-hot coals in the stove. Every half hour, he checked its progress, dictating the results over his shoulder to Claire.