Kathleen Y'Barbo (4 page)

And possibly to meet the owner of the secret crate.

Millie shifted positions to lean against the rough stone wall. A chill
wind sent her tunneling deeper into her velvet-and-silk opera coat. Like her, the coat was meant to be more decorative than useful.

Going home would be best, but the solitude she found here warred with knowledge of the warmth she would find beside the fireplace in her bedchamber back on Adams Street. Millie toyed with the chain that rarely left her neck, the legacy passed down from grandmother to mother and then to her.

Two charms lay hidden at the end of a length of chain resting beneath the fabric of her gown. A gold locket held a miniature portrait of a dark-haired man whose identity was shrouded in mystery. A distant relation, Mama had been told, though her mother-in-law refused to say any more.

The other charm, no broader than a dime, was no less mysterious. A gold cylinder with notches and an odd metallic rattle when shaken, this device had been an early source of Millie’s interest in cryptography.

She ran her thumbnail over the edges of the cylinder’s metal rings, seven in all. Some combination of alignment was needed to reveal whatever had been hidden inside. Though she had become quite adept at solving all manner of puzzles, the charm with its hidden treasure had proved as yet unsolvable.

Thanks to Mama, however, she knew that its contents were important. Life changing, perhaps. That she owned the piece and Father did not vexed him something awful. Another bonus.

The rooftop door opened and then closed again. Tucking the charms back into her bodice, Millie darted to hide behind a stack of wood left by the construction crew. Heavy footsteps echoed above the muted sound of the Peabody’s orchestra, each one bringing the intruder closer to her.

Her heart pounded. Could this be the crate’s owner?

A pair of black boots stopped just the other side of her refuge. Carefully peering out, she spied long legs and the tails of what appeared to be a formal coat. Inching slightly to the left, she could see one broad shoulder, a hint of ebony-colored hair, and a hat suited to an evening at the opera house.

How did he get in and, of all the places in the building, find his way up here? She had been careful to lock the door behind her lest Father or Sir William had seen her exit from the hotel and attempted to follow.

Either this man had a key as well or was a trespasser up to no good. Another peek revealed him holding some sort of metal and glass object in the air and then making notes in a small notebook.

Perhaps he was the person she sought. Millie watched intently as he leaned forward and disappeared from sight only to straighten again and heave some sort of carpetbag atop one of the barrels. The bag must have been heavy, for the barrel swayed as the burden landed on it.

Though the stranger’s face was hidden in shadow, Millie could just make out the outline of a dimpled chin and a pleasing smile. Opening the bag, he pulled out an array of items and set them at his feet.

“Benchmark of practicality, indeed,” he muttered, his voice deep and low. “Let’s just see what Mr. Toulmin says once I provide him with the proof.”

Something clattered to the ground with a metallic sound, and he reached down to pick it up. His fingers grazed the round object, sending it rolling to a stop at Millie’s feet.

With that simple incident, the moment of truth came. She could have easily grasped the object and stood.

And yet Millie found she was frozen in place. So much for being a brave scientist looking to find another kindred soul with whom to swap experiments.

She gathered her knees to her chest and held her breath as his hand reached for the ball and grasped it, missing her shoes by mere inches. Heart pounding, her eyes darted around the small space for a means of escape but found none.

All right, Lord. Please just make him leave.

Almost immediately he walked away, his footsteps sounding as if he were heading for the edge of the roof. Millie leaned over and looked at the empty bag lying on the ground. Inching forward, she saw the man step into the far edge of the pale light from the street below.

Indeed, he was quite tall, his broad shoulders balanced nicely with arms that appeared muscled even beneath the formal cut of his suit. Slung over one shoulder was something that looked like a length of cloth or perhaps an oversized cloak, and in one hand was what appeared to be several pipes or perhaps a cluster of sticks.

He moved with purpose, stepping around the puddle of light from the
streets below to disappear into the shadows on the other side of the building. Was he going to fetch the crate?

Millie waited a moment before darting to hide behind a stack of construction materials on the far end of the structure. From her vantage point she could just make out the fellow’s movements as he easily slung the crate onto one shoulder and carried it over near the edge.

She inched closer. What was he doing with those ropes? Her foot caught on something, and she stumbled hard against the brick wall.

Despite the pain, Millie managed to stand absolutely still as she watched the fellow stop to look around before returning to his work. Tomorrow she would probably pay for the collision with a nasty bruise, but tonight she bit her lip and maintained her silence.

He paused at the roof’s edge to slip the cloak over his shoulders and then fitted the sticks into a cage of sorts. Once he had slipped the object beneath the cloak, he turned his back to her and began working in earnest on something Millie could not see.

A flash caught her attention, and she realized he was holding a small torch that he also slid beneath his cloak. What in the world was he doing? The stranger stepped up onto the rail and stood very still. After a few moments he straightened and stretched both arms out at his sides and then up over his head as if preparing to dive.

And then he jumped.

Millie screamed and raced to the edge of the roof. Her fingers gripped the bricks but she could not make herself look down. Instead, she closed her eyes and waited for the sound of the man’s body landing on the pavement below. To her surprise, only the music of the orchestra over at the Peabody combined with an odd hissing noise was audible.

The noise grew louder until it sounded as if someone were boiling water for tea just out of reach. She remained quite still, fear at what she might find keeping her eyes shut tight.

“What are you doing here?” a deep voice asked.

Millie’s eyes flew open. There, just a few feet away was the dark-haired man in the formal suit and beaver hat. Floating. In midair.

A rope tied to his waist stretched to the building and across the roof to disappear behind the wall. This explained how he managed to hover
so
near the edge of the roof. It did not, however, explain how he could remain suspended with his feet four stories up from the sidewalk. Or was it five?

He continued to watch her, one hand on the rope and the other resting at his side. Her gaze traveled up to the black device hovering above him. Of course. The contents of the crate could easily have been assembled to form this device.

“Is that a balloon?” She shook her head. “But it is so small. How do you manage to keep it in the air?”

Something akin to annoyance crossed his features. “This is no balloon.”

“And yet you are floating.” She looked up. “Attached to something that looks very much like an extremely small balloon. I would hesitate to call it a dirigible, what with the size being such as it is. Of course, the real question is what is powering the lift and how are you managing to steer it?”

Her courage emboldened, she asked more questions, most having to do with the gas involved, the materials he used, and the like. During the barrage of queries, the aviator merely stared at her.

He leaned forward, his posture threatening despite the odd location of his person. “I repeat: What are you doing here?”

“
I
have a key,” she snapped. “What are
you
doing here?”

“I also have a key.” Kyle would tell her nothing more than that, especially given the fact she appeared to know how to ask intelligent questions.

The idea occurred that she might be some sort of spy sent to find out what he had learned about steering mechanisms and flight. He would not rule that out. Not yet, anyway.

She scoured him with a haughty gaze. “You have no good reason to be here, sir. Nor do you have a decent explanation for...” She made a sweeping gesture in his general direction. “For this.”

Wasn’t she the spunky one? Had their meeting occurred elsewhere and under other circumstances, Kyle might have found her imperious attitude amusing.

Tonight, however, she was either a threat or an interruption. He aimed to decide which, and quickly.

“Go back to your party, miss,” he said as evenly as he could manage. “I am sure there are a dozen Memphis boys waiting for their turn on your dance card.” He gave her a slow looking over—what he could see of her, which was not much thanks to the absence of moonlight. “And my guess is your father does not know you have gone off alone.”

Silence.

A thought occurred, and he laughed. “Oh, I think I see what is happening here. You have slipped away to meet someone, have you not?” He paused to watch her closely. “Or are you hiding from someone?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Though her face was hidden in shadows, her tone told Kyle he had struck a nerve. Then she leaned forward.

There. Her expression showed the truth. The girl was on the run.

A chill wind whipped past them and rocked the equipment overhead, causing him to grasp for a better hold on the rope.

“Having a problem with your plaything?”

“This is no plaything,” he said as he checked the altitude reading. No problem there. A glance at the gas levels, and he frowned. He had used more than his calculations indicated he might expect to, an issue in need of further exploration.

Kyle released his grasp on the rope to pull out his notebook and jot down the numbers. When he finished, he tucked the book away, only to realize he had drifted up and now hung suspended at the far length of the rope and well above the roof.

“I will need a promise of confidentiality from you before I can allow you to leave.” He paused only a heartbeat. “It is a matter of national security.”

It was. Of a sort. According to Mr. Taft, the War Department was interested, as were several other government agencies. All would be for
naught should someone catch wind of the fact he had managed to get this close to perfecting the device.

To his surprise, the woman rested her hands on her hips and gave him a withering look. “Who said I was going anywhere?”

“You have no business here,” he said as he pulled on the rope and began to descend.

“But here I am, and I am very interested in what you are doing. That is an experimental flying machine, which explains the crate I found two days ago.”

So she had found his equipment. Kyle bit back the words he wished to say in favor of not responding at all.

“I understand the need for secrecy.” She moved to the left and appeared to be studying the device. Or possibly him. “What with national security and all,” she added with an obvious note of sarcasm. “But, I truly am curious. How does this work?”

When she stretched to touch the rope, he yanked it out of her reach. “I will thank you not to play with the equipment.”

“Play?” Her laughter was haughty and yet her expression was not. “I assure you I am not interested in amusing myself with your rope. I only wanted to see what sort of device this is. You cannot possibly be using hot air to keep it afloat as there is no flame, so what is providing the lift? Or is that a matter of national security too?”

Her questions continued as her gaze swept the length of the flying device and then landed on him again. When he didn’t respond, she grew silent.

“Are you finished?” he asked.

“For now. Oh, wait. Just one more thing.” At his chuckle, she continued in a more conciliatory tone. “Take me with you on a flight.”

“Absolutely not.
Now
are you finished?”

Her expression answered for her. Kyle returned to his notes in the hope she might lose interest. When she remained in place, he looked at her again to find her watching him closely.

“As you can see, I am busy here,” he said as firmly as he could manage. “I suggest you leave now.”

The hurt in her eyes was unmistakable. “You are not going to answer my questions?”

Again, he remained silent.

“Oh, I see. You are one of
them.
And I had hoped we might talk as one scientist to another.”

The woman shook her head and turned to walk away. She reached the door without sparing him so much as a backward look.

He studied her. He had never seen a scientist who could wear a ball gown so successfully.

She gave the door a jerk and then another. Apparently it was locked. Or jammed.

Turning around to face him, her stance told him how she felt about the matter. “You have locked me up here. I demand you come down here this instant and release me.”