Lady of Devices (7 page)

Friday brought two more depressing confirmations that governessing was not the career for which she was destined, and Claire began to give serious consideration to returning, hat in hand, to the British Museum. But that, she thought, glancing at the twilight sky, would have to wait until Monday. She ought to just make it home before the street lamps came on.

As she made the turn off Grosvenor Crescent into Wilton Crescent, she heard the same roar as before—as though hundreds of voices were expressing their outrage—at Hyde Park Corner. Pulling into the mews behind Carrick House, she released the landau’s steam and listened.

Birds, singing their adieux before dark.

The clash of cutlery from the town house next door, whose kitchen windows were open.

And in the background the roar of a huge crowd, getting louder.

Footsteps. No, an all-out sprint, booted feet slapping on the cobbles, coming down Wilton Crescent as though—

Gorse pelted into the mews, his driver’s cap gone and his coat unbuttoned. “Miss! Lady Claire—oh, thank God. They’re coming, miss. You must take the landau and run to Miss Emilie’s without delay.”

Automatically, her hands began the ignition sequence. “What is happening, Gorse? Tell me!”

“It’s a huge demonstration at Hyde Park,” he panted, the words coming out in chunks. “The Arabian Bubble investors. They’re rioting, miss. They swear to loot Carrick House. To get something out of their investment. Now. They’re coming here now.”

The landau clattered to life and she made sure the brake was set. “Help me get my trunk out of the house. And Mrs. Morven. We’ve got to get her out, too.”

“Miss, there isn’t time for possessions!”

“Come on, Gorse!”

But Mrs. Morven had left a note that she had gone to take victuals to the Foundlings’ Home. Thank goodness for that. “Gorse, you’ll have to go over there and prevent her return.”

“As soon as you’re away, miss.”

They pounded up the stairs. The house was practically naked, with the china, plate, and paintings already on their way down to Cornwall on a dray. The looters would have a tricky time getting the heavy furniture out the doors. With Gorse in front and Claire in the rear, they lugged her trunk and traveling case down the stairs. With a pang, she thought of her pretty bookcases and all her books, which she hadn’t got around to packing quite yet. Maybe someday she would come upon them in a stall in Portobello Road, once the looters lost interest in books about biology and engineering.

Wedging themselves through the kitchen door with the trunk, they could hear the sounds of individual voices at the curve of Wilton Crescent. “Hurry, miss. Go and don’t look back.”

“But you’re coming with me!”

“No, miss. I’m going to send a fast tube to Sir Robert Peel’s policing force and try to hold them off at the door. If I can’t do that, I’ll take to my heels after Mrs. Morven.”

“Gorse!”

“No arguments, miss. Mrs. Morven and I shall see you at Miss Emilie’s.” He secured her trunk to the rear with a pair of leather straps, and slapped it twice. “Now, miss! Quickly!”

The first of the rioters poured into the mews and gave a great shout of triumph when they caught sight of the landau. Claire’s heart leaped in her chest and she pushed the steering lever out as far as it would go. The rioters closed the forty feet between them in less time than it took to gasp, so that by the time the landau had completed the turn, they were already on her. She gave it some steam and the landau took off like a racehorse at Ascot, bumping over something she didn’t want to think about and eliciting a scream of rage. Hands and fingernails scraped at the landau’s shiny exterior, sliding off in a cacophony of frustration.

She did not stop to check the damage—or to look both ways at the corner. Behind her, a window broke with a crash and she heard Gorse’s distinctive voice turn the air blue as he mounted his resistance. The landau careened into Belgrave Square, causing a pair of roans to shy and paw the air while their coachman shouted obscenities at her, and she swung a quick right, heading for Cadogan Square and Emilie’s house. She did not stop at Lowndes Street either, rocketing across it with the throttle wide open and the speed indicator buried at the bottom of its arc.

Heart racing, hands shaking so badly she could hardly grip the steering lever, she slowed to a respectable ten miles per hour in Cadogan Square and coasted to a stop in front of Number 42. After she set the brake and climbed down, she paused. She didn’t like to leave the landau in the open street. First order of business was to secure safety with Emilie, she thought as she marched to the door. The second thing would be to find a place in the stable to hide it before some stray looter recognized it and they brought the hounds of hell down on the Fragonards.

A maid answered her ring. “Good evening, Gwennie. I’m here to see Miss Emilie on a matter of extreme urgency, please.”

The maid invited her into the hall and vanished upstairs. A moment later she heard the sharp sound of a voice, quickly muffled, a door slamming in the far reaches of the house, and then the swish of skirts descending the staircase.

“Lady Claire,” Mrs. Fragonard said from the final turn of the staircase, in tones so civil they practically cracked and shattered on the marble floor.

Claire looked up. “Mrs. Fragonard, I apologize with all my heart for descending on you like this, but I must see Emilie.”

“On what errand?”

Claire paused and looked at her more closely. Emilie’s mother had never been a beauty, but she had a kind heart and Claire had been a guest at her table many times. What was the reason for this carefully schooled neutrality of feature? This coldness of tone?

“I’m afraid I find myself at your mercy, ma’am. It seems that a host of—of investors have taken it on themselves to importune an empty house, and I’m unable to go home this evening. I have my trunk with me, and I was hoping to beg your hospitality just for tonight.”

Not a very gracious speech, but it would have to do. In her memory, Claire heard her mother’s opinion of it. Well, her mother was safely in Cornwall and only a fool would have stood on the step begging the rioters not to make such a fuss.

“My hospitality? After the snub your family dealt my daughter?”

Claire stared at her, lost. “I’m sorry?”

“Do not imagine I don’t know how difficult it was to obtain Lady St. Ives’ permission to invite Emilie to your graduation party.”

Claire’s mouth opened and closed. Then she took a breath and tried again. “Ma’am, I assure you no offense was meant by my mother, and I was very glad to see Emilie there. She has been a wonderful friend to me, especially during these past weeks. I beg you accept my apology for anything my family may have done.”

Even this pathetic but sincere appeal had no effect. “What they’ve done? You obviously have no idea how much the Arabian Bubble has cost this family, young lady.”

Claire’s eyes widened. “You invested, too?”

“We did, and now we are paying for it. I am no penniless rioter, however. If I were, I would also be tempted to, as you say, importune an empty house.”

“Mrs. Fragonard, please—if you’d just let me speak to Emilie—”

“Emilie is unable to receive guests at present. I have no personal animosity toward you, Lady Claire, but your parents have my undying disdain. I cannot let my daughter retain her connections with such a family. In this day and age, it is too dangerous. Good evening to you. Gwennie will see you out.”

Mrs. Fragonard, who had not left her lofty perch on the staircase, turned and made her way up it again. When the maid opened the door, Claire passed her like an automaton. Even when she heard a frantic pounding on one of the upstairs windows, she did not look up. She could not. If she met her friend’s eyes, she would break down in the middle of the street, and there was no time. She simply ignited the landau and released the brake.

Yet another sin to lay at her father’s door. Her mother’s too, if she were honest. How had Mrs. Fragonard found out that Claire had to practically beg Lady St. Ives to invite Emilie to the party? And what a reason to refuse someone a night’s shelter! In such dangerous times as these, people should band together to help each other, not throw their friends to the wolves. But then, her father had played the wolf often enough in Parliament, if the papers were to be believed, voting down the rights of prisoners and those being deported to the Antipodes. Human nature would not pause a moment to turn the tables on him and his, as she was witnessing this very evening.

Was Gorse all right? If he came to find her here, what would they tell him? That they had turned her away? Claire cast a glance over her shoulder as she bowled down the square. Should she wait? She must find shelter before it was fully dark, but where would she go? Wellesley House? Astor Place?

Not likely. Then she blinked as an idea struck.

Who would be most likely to take up the cause of the downtrodden and homeless? Why, Mrs. Stanley Churchill, of course. If she could not find shelter with Emilie, maybe Peony would be the better choice. Yes, that was it. She would go to Chelsea immediately, and send a tube from there to Cadogan Square for Gorse. Surely they would give it to him when he arrived. After all, he had done nothing to offend.

Claire had never been to Peony’s home, but she knew it was on Elm Park Road in Chelsea. Once she located the street, finding the house was just a matter of making inquiries—and even that proved unnecessary. Only the house of Mrs. Stanley Churchill would have a band of—Claire peered through the twilight—wild Indians on the front steps?

She parked the landau and made her way up the walk, sidling past the group of children playing on the railings of the white Georgian house. Not Indians. But definitely something wild, as their boots appeared to be made of animal skins. She rang the bell and waited.

To her astonishment, Peony herself peeked through the nine-paned glass and answered the door. “Why ... Claire Trevelyan. What a surprise.”

“I’m so sorry to arrive unannounced like this, but I’m in rather a fix and I was hoping to ask a favor of you.”

“As long as it doesn’t involve funding of any sort, I’m all ears. Come along into the drawing room.” Over her shoulder, she tossed a string of unintelligible syllables that made two of the children laugh.

“No, no funding. Who are those children?”

“They are Esquimaux, from the Canadas. Far north of the Canadas, actually. Their band hunts on the land where Her Majesty wishes to mine diamonds. They are here to plead their case before the House, with my mother’s help, or they face starvation. Her Majesty wants to boot them off, you see. They’re in the way.”

“Goodness,” Claire said faintly as she seated herself on a striped divan. “And they have brought their children too?”

“They’re not very old,” Peony pointed out. “Can’t very well leave them sitting on an ice floe with a sandwich, can they?”

“I suppose not.”

“So what has brought you to us this evening? But first, allow me to offer my condolences on your loss, Claire. I should have said so right away instead of babbling on.”

“Thank you.”

“How are you managing?”

Claire took a breath and plunged in. “Not well, I’m afraid. My mother has taken my brother down to Cornwall just in time. There was a riot on Hyde Park Corner tonight, and a crowd of vandals attacked Carrick House.”

Peony’s red lips fell open. “Good heavens!”

“They’re investors, apparently, determined to get something out of my father’s estate. As I fled, I heard glass breaking. I hope they find joy in our furniture.”

“They’ll make a bonfire in the street with it to make their point, more like,” Peony said with such world-weary practicality that Claire’s skin pebbled with goosebumps. What must this girl have seen in her life? Far more than herself, that was evident. “I’m very thankful that you got away.”

“Which brings me to the reason I’m here. You wouldn’t have an extra bed for tonight, would you?”

Peony’s eyes filled with sympathy. “My dear, I wish we did. But A’Laqtiq and his family have filled all the bedrooms, to the point that the children you saw outside are sleeping under the dining-room table. The carpet is quite thick. All I have to offer you is the bath, I’m afraid. With a bit of ticking it would do in a pinch.”

Claire was almost tempted. But it was clear that there were important political issues transpiring in this house, aside from the fact that Mrs. Churchill and Peony probably had enough on their plates hosting an entire foreign delegation. “I couldn’t possibly impose on you to that extent, Peony.”

“You wouldn’t be, truly. Now, if you were to demand my bed and make me sleep in the bath myself, that would be an imposition.”

Claire grinned. “It won’t come to that. Do not worry on my account. I have friends yet to impose upon.”

“I know you do. A girl as nice as you probably has hosts of them, all without children under the dining-table. But if you need it, the offer of the bath still stands. Or I could go all out and find a table in a different room to stash you under.”

Claire rose, still smiling. “I may take you up on it. Please give my compliments to your mother. I admire her enormously.”

Peony took her outstretched hand. “I do, too. If I can be half the woman she is, I’ll do well.”

“Heaven help Her Majesty’s empire in that case.”

Peony laughed and escorted her to the door. “I hope to see you soon, Claire.” She hesitated. “I would like it if—well, never mind. You have enough to fill your thoughts at present.”

Claire could seize an opportunity as well as the next person. “I would like it if we could be friends, despite my mother’s opinions on the subject. And since she is eight hours away by train, I think it’s safe to say so.”

“Let’s shake on it. Friends it is.” Peony’s fingers felt cool and strong.

Claire went back down the walk glowing with warmth. Friends were not so thick on the ground that she would turn one down, especially in circumstances such as these. The loss of Carrick House was a disaster, to call a spade a spade, but in the midst of disaster the good Lord had sent her a blessing. She would never have guessed a month ago that Peony Churchill would offer friendship, unsolicited. But the bathtub notwithstanding, Claire was very glad she had.

In the meantime, here came the lamplighter, climbing down into the chamber under the walk that concealed the engine powering the lamps for this block. While she had been within, full dark had fallen, and Claire had exactly no experience in piloting the landau after dark. Carefully, she opened the switches to the headlamps, and ignited the engine.

Returning home was out of the question. So, the next question became, where should she go? Wellesley House was out. She would rather sleep in a bathtub with no ticking at all than endure Lady Julia’s suppressed smiles at her misfortunes. Perhaps she could go to St. Cecelia’s and beg the headmistress for a bed. But no, that would entail far too many questions and very likely public exposure of her plight.

There was nothing for it. She was going to have to go to her grand-aunts Beaton in Greenwich, wake them out of a dead sleep, and explain in as little detail as possible why she was there. They were elderly, excitable, and as ignorant as chickens about the affairs of the day. They actually believed that Papa had had an accident while cleaning his gun. Not that that was a bad thing. It was necessary for everyone to at least pretend to believe that, or Papa could not have been buried in hallowed ground. At the same time, giving credence to a lie galled her.

Very well. To Greenwich she would go, and as soon as she read in the papers that the Esquimaux delegation had been heard and were on their way back to their home in the frozen north, she would return to Peony’s and claim both friendship and a bed until she could find employment and rooms of her own.

She turned east and tried to visualize the best route. The difficulty with Greenwich was that it lay on the far side of the East End. She could either cross the river at Lambeth and circle around to the south, in which case she would arrive long after midnight, upsetting her grand-aunts even more, or she could stick to the well-populated roads in Town and hope that the speed and the sturdy brass skin of the landau would protect her until she got over the new London Bridge.

If only Gorse were here.

Then again, she thought with a snort as she motored down the Embankment at a respectable thirty miles per hour, she could always accept the offer of Lord James Selwyn’s regard. She had no doubt that a fiancée of his would not be chugging briskly through the night, homeless and alone. But then, a fiancée of his would have neither a landau nor a brain to call her own, either.

This cheered her immensely, and she turned her back on the Blackfriars Bridge and took the corner into Farringdon Street with aplomb. Now came the tricky part. The lamp lighters had obviously not come this far yet, leaving her dependent upon her own head lamps to keep her in the center of the thoroughfare. The mouths of the streets yawned black on either side. The sound of the landau’s engine bounced back at her from the brick and wood surfaces of the buildings and the cobbles of the street, making it sound as though she were three or four engines, not just one. She swerved to avoid men loading kegs on to a cart, and steered back the other way to avoid a knot of people who had clearly just come from the theater. Was she so close to Covent Garden? No, that couldn’t be right. She was supposed to be on Queen Victoria Street, away from the bank. What street was this, exactly?

Along with keeping track of the thoroughfare and unpredictable human bodies in her path, she now peered into the cone of dim light provided by the headlamps, seeking a street sign. How careless of the city fathers not to provide them. Etching the name of a street into the corner of a building did not help at all in the dark. Ahead, bright lights shone onto the sidewalk, and she heard the subterranean screech of a train.

A station. That would tell her where she was. In moments, she had come abreast of the station’s front.

Aldgate. Aldgate Station? That couldn’t be right. Why, that would mean she was blissfully driving down
Whitechapel Street
in the middle of the night. She was not on Queen Victoria Street at all!

Oh dear. Oh dear. She had to turn around and get out of here.

Claire steered to the far side of the street and pushed the steering lever all the way out. At the apex of the turn her front tire bumped up onto the sidewalk in front of the station, but there was no help for it. She couldn’t reverse unless she got out and pushed, and she was not getting out of this vehicle for all the tea in China. Not in Whitechapel, for the love of God.

Careful. Carefully now. The last thing you want is to dislodge the arrangement of the boiler when you bump back down onto the street. One wheel. Good. Now the oth—

With a communal howl of triumph, a crowd of black shapes pelted out of the mouth of the Underground station and surrounded the landau.

“Lookit this beauty, Snouts! We got a pretty
’
un this time, ent we?”

“And a pretty lady to boot. Whatsa matter, lady, want some help unsticking your carriage?”

“No, thank you,” Claire said as loudly as her desert-dry throat would allow. “Stand out of the way please.”

“Stand aht the way, please,” mimicked a high voice. “Am I in your way, lady? Wot’ll you give me and my mates to get aht the way?”

“I shall give you a penny. But you must move first.”

“Wot else you got, lady? I bet there’s more’n a penny in this pretty carriage.”

“Don’t touch that!”

“Lady, I wouldn’ say you was in a position to be dishin’ orders,” said a tall, thin shape with an enormous nose. “Give us what you got and then we’ll think about movin’.”

“Yeah! What’cha got, lady? Bet there’s plenty for me in here, eh?”

“Don’t open that! Don’t, I tell you—it’s boiling—”

Too late. The thug had popped open the landau’s side hood panel, probably thinking it was a repository for riches, and a cloud of steam billowed out of the boiler. With a scream, he fell back, writhing on the ground clutching his burned face with equally burned hands.

“You bloody rich witch!” screamed someone in the back. “You’ve hurt Jake!”

With a roar of fury, the entire pack descended on her. Claire just had time to feel her coat ripped from her shoulders when something hard whacked her on the side of the head, and the night whirled around her before she landed hard on the ground.