Hot and Steamy (22 page)

Whatever the machinery was, there were also men high above us on scaffolding, climbing all over them, some waving tools, all of them shouting at once in an effort to be heard. Jervis stood by the door, but I advanced, determined to make my presence known.

I literally had to walk into the path of a workman to get him to acknowledge me, and I shouted my demand to see Lord Ashington. The cheeky fellow pointed up and darted off as I lifted my chin. Undaunted, I started up the ladder toward the figure at the top.

The man was stuffed half inside the top of the machine, bent over at the waist and cursing at the top of his lungs, banging at something I could not see. I arranged my hat and skirts and prepared to confront my erstwhile employer. “Lord Ashington,” I started.

“Damn gear refuses to budge, Harkins,” boomed a voice that echoed out of the oddly shaped canister. “Hand me—” The rest was lost in the roar of a steam valve, but a hand emerged and waved back at me as if requesting a tool.

I picked up a mallet from the nearby tool box and slapped it into his hand. There was another muffled explosion of words as it became clear that was not the tool he required. A head of brown curls emerged and glanced back at me.

I stood properly, my parasol firmly planted before me, with both hands on the handle. “A word, Lord Ashington, if you would,” I shouted.

He stepped back and straightened. The queen is a small, stout woman, and I'd formed a mental image of her godson as roughly the same height and weight.

Lord Ashington was huge, towering over me, with a broad chest. He'd rolled up his sleeves, and the strength in his arms was obvious. His shirt was slightly opened, and his skin carried a sheen of sweat that was not unattractive. But his eyes . . .

His eyes blazed like brown suns, twinkling at some secret amusement that probably centered on my appearance in his domain. He ran his fingers back through those curls, and laughed. “Now, what's brought the likes of you—”

A klaxon sounded, loud and pulsing.

Lord Ashington's face changed in an instant. “Clark, are you on the damned boilers?”

There was noise below as men shouted and ran.

The scaffolding lurched beneath my feet. I staggered. Lord Ashington wrapped his arm around my waist to steady me and grabbed for one of the braces with his free hand. He clasped me tight in a most inappropriate manner.

“What?” was all I had time to say. The machine he had been working on moved, lurching to rise to its feet. It was an automaton, fully twenty feet tall, and it turned a copper face toward the klaxon.

There'd be no help from below, as men raced to what appeared to be a boiler on the verge of boiling dry. Once again the automaton lurched. Ashington released me, thrusting me behind him as he turned to confront his creation, wrench in hand. The platform shuddered beneath our feet. “We have to stop it,” he yelled to me. “Or else it will—”

The automaton raised its hand, and whirling blades emerged inches from Ashington's face.

I gripped my parasol and leaped to the attack.

 

Silence fell over the ruins of the laboratory.

I stood amidst the destroyed automaton and slapped out the flames on the tatters of my skirt. Smoke rose around me carrying the smell of burnt cloth and my singed hair.

“Well, that's done it,” Lord Ashington observed. His shirt hung in strips from his shoulders. He was bruised and bloodied but unbowed, hands on hips, looking about us. “Anyone hurt?”

The chorus of answers were negative as his workman scrambled around, putting out the rest of the fires. The scaffolding was a crumpled mess off to the side, having been destroyed by the flailing of the automaton during the battle.

With the reassurances of his men ringing about us, his smiling brown eyes focused on me. “Nice work with the parasol,” Ashington said.

I glanced over to where my parasol was jammed into the leg joint, mangled almost past recognition. “Thank you.” I tried to straighten my bodice and arrange my skirts. “May I enquire as to why you equipped the creature with those whirling blades?”

“It was supposed to be a gardening machine,” Ashington said. “To aid my groundskeepers.”

“Ah,” I replied. “And the beams of light shooting from its eyes?”

“I call them lasers. For trimming the shrubbery,” Ashington said absentmindedly, as he examined the wreckage. “But the reasoning machine could never distinguish between ‘gardening' and ‘guarding.' Every time an alarm sounds, the thing attacks.” Ashington ran his fingers through his curls. “No help for it, I'm afraid. We will have to start again.”

“That may take some time,” I observed. Strands of my hair fell into my face. I reached up to try to gather it back into its bun.

Lord Ashington watched my efforts. “Perhaps introductions would be in order? You already have the benefit of my name, Mrs. . . .”

“Haversham,” I said. “Miss Haversham. I am your new secretary.”

His eyebrows furrowed as he studied me. “I do not recall—”

“Her Majesty sent me,” I explained, still struggling with my stubborn curls.

“Ah,” his expression became guarded. “Did she now?”

“She did, m'lord.” I gave up on my hair. “I am also here at the behest of Her Majesty's Select Ser—”

His face was a thundercloud. “I see.” He stepped closer, glowering at me now with his full wrath. “I've told those idiots that my inventions are for peaceful purposes, not for the war efforts of the Empire.”

He stood close enough that I could feel his breath on my cheek, but I refused to budge. I simply gave the chaos about us a pointed glance, lifted my chin, and met his eyes. “How could they draw such a conclusion, my lord?”

Startled, he threw back his head, and let out a ringing laugh. I waited patiently as he got himself under control. “I suppose I must endure you,” he finally said.

“It would be for the best, m'lord,” I replied.

“Perhaps we should discuss the matter further. Over dinner?” His brown eyes danced.

“That would be terribly inappropriate, m'lord,” I replied. “But a cup of tea would be most welcome.”

“Tea, then.” He frowned as he watched some of the workmen lifting the torso of the automation. “Ask Jervis to see to it. I will be in shortly.”

With that, he strode off, shouting orders to his workers.

 

Lord Ashington seemed even taller in the confines of his office.

Jervis wheeled in the tea cart, and Ashington bid me pour. The tea was weak and tepid. The scones had clearly been from a prior week's baking.

I took a few sips for politeness sake. Lord Ashington gulped his down and crunched through the scones, sending crumbs everywhere.

“So tell me,” he said, those brown eyes intent on mine. “What is your real mission?”

I opened my mouth to deny, but changed my words when I saw his expression. Nothing but the truth would suffice. “To see to it that you are protected and given ample opportunity to develop your ideas and inventions without any harm coming to your person. To act as your secretary, and aid in the management of your household.”

“The queen's not sent you here to try to get me to return to London?” he demanded.

“No,” I said.

“Last time I attended her she tried to marry me off to one of her dumpy old ladies-in-waiting.” Ashington shuddered in mock horror. “Heaven protect me.”

I had to suppress a smile at that one.

Ashington caught it and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied look. “Very well,” he nodded, accepting the situation. “But I want it clearly understood that this arrangement is on a trial basis, Miss Haversham. Shall we say three months?”

“With free rein, my lord?”

“Over the house and grounds, certainly. But the laboratory and the work we do here is under my direct control, is that understood?”

“Perfectly,” I responded.

“Further,” he said. “I will review any reports that you send to your superiors, before you send them. I will have your oath, Miss Haversham.”

That caught me by surprise. I could hardly blame the man but . . . “My oath?” I stalled a bit.

“Yes,” he leaned forward. “Your oath, or nothing.”

I weighed the options before me and decided there'd be no harm. I'd not been instructed to keep anything secret, and his cooperation would make my task that much easier. “Very well, m'lord.”

“Excellent,” he leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I'm afraid you'll find I am not much of a paperwork person. I'll leave that in your capable hands.”

I eyed the desk with a sigh and nodded. “As you wish, m'lord. More tea?”

 

That night I claimed a room in the servants' quarters, between the cook and the kitchen maids. It was a small, tidy room, with little else to say about it. But comfort was not my concern. An irreproachable reputation was.

The next day was a productive one.

An hour with the household accounts, and Jervis was sacked and in the hands of the local constabulary.

Another half hour in the kitchens, with a short presentation to the cook and household staff, produced a flurry of activity. There is something magical about the phrase “discharged without a recommendation” that captures everyone's attention very, very quickly.

It took two hours to pry the head groundskeeper out of his hiding place, sober him up with generous amounts of tea and sympathy, and offer reassurances that there'd be no further mechanical assistance with his duties. I assured him that I would hire some strong lads that would aid him in restoring the grounds. The fact that they had all previously served in Her Majesty's Service was a matter that I kept to myself.

That took care of the morning hours. After a delicious lunch with strong, hot tea, I turned my attention to the greatest of challenges.

His lordship's desk.

A few hours later, I sat back and sighed with satisfaction. In all honesty, it had not been as bad as it had looked at first glance. While his lordship was not the neatest of men, it appeared that his books were all in order, and the accounts of the various tenant farmers were accurate and up-to-date. Further, the bills for the laboratory supplies and sundry were current.

But his social correspondence was quite unacceptable. I shook my head over the small pile of invitations that I had organized on the corner of the desk. It appeared that he hadn't responded to a single one for months, and some of them were quite prestigious. Some of the letters were both purely social, but others were from other scientists and inventors from across the country and Europe. Really quite shameful.

I rang for tea, and then made myself comfortable on the settee to think for a moment.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. And if that wasn't well established in the mind of Lord Ashington, it was in the mind of his godmother, the queen.

I had not lied to his Lordship, nor had I been entirely truthful. My orders were to see to his comfort and well-being, certainly. But that included—

The door to the office opened with a bang, and Lord Ashington walked in, his face smudged with soot and his curls in disarray. “I rather think I can save that knee joint.” He threw himself into the settee opposite me. “But I will need to order some new gears for the reasoning machine. Seems there are a few bullet holes in the old one.”

“Really, m'lord?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Odd, that, since I don't allow firearms in the lab,” Ashington mocked me by raising his eyebrow. “Do you have any idea how—”

One of the kitchenmaids appeared in the doorway with a tea cart and a sparkling white apron, freshly pressed by the look of it. She pushed the cart close, curtsied with a giggle, and exited, leaving the door open as was proper.

“One lump or two?” I asked, reaching to pour.

Thankfully, Ashington was hungry. He accepted the napkin for his lap and his tea, and settled back into his seat. “You've been busy, I see.”

I poured my own cup. “Yes, m'lord. There are a number of items that need your attention. Some invitations to—”

Ashington grimaced. “Burn them,” he growled. “Card parties, for God's—”

I coughed.

“Yes, well, I am not going.” Ashington declared. “No card parties, not soirees, no luncheons on the lawn, by all that is holy.”

“As you wish,” I said mildly. “I shall send notes declining the invitations, for those not yet past.”

He gave me a careful look over his teacup.

I offered him the plate of scones, warm from the oven. “One of the notes was from a Dr. Hastings, who will be traveling through London on his way to Edinburgh.”

“Hastings? Robert Hastings? He is a brilliant chemist.” Ashington frowned. “I'm sorry I missed that one. I wonder if he's worked out his formula yet?”

“You might still be able to catch him,” I said. “One of the lads could take a telegram to—”

“Yes, yes,” Ashington waved his cup in the air, sloshing his tea. “Brilliant, Miss Haversham. Invite him for a few days, and I'll have him out to the lab.”

“More tea?” I asked and poured as he explained his new theory. An excellent start to my first day and an answer to my difficulties as well.

 

The next few weeks gave me further satisfaction.

Dr. Hastings' visit went exceedingly well. I took notes of their discussion over tea, but declined any invitation to dine with them in the evenings. Besides, Mrs. Hastings and their two lovely daughters took delight in dining with Lord Ashington and cooing over him.