Magnificent Devices [5] A Lady of Resources (7 page)

It would not do to let Mr. Seacombe know he had disturbed her so profoundly—and so irrationally—so Lizzie spent the rest of the evening staying out of his line of sight. As one of the three guests of honor, expected to be in everyone’s sight, this was no easy feat. They were, after all, in the grand salon of
Lady Lucy
, not in the palace, where she could disappear at will.

After she had been politely dragged over to the graduation cake and made to help cut it, then hand out pieces, the Lady found her hovering near the orchestra, where she was distracting the euphonium player to the point that his face had reddened far in excess of the strength of his wind.

“Lizzie, what is the matter? I have been watching you these five minutes and cannot fathom what you are doing. Have you eaten too much cake?”

She mumbled something and wished herself at the bottom of the count’s lake.

Under the pretext of rearranging the Alencon lace draped across one puffed sleeve, the Lady spoke softly. “Has something disturbed you, dear? Has one of the gentlemen taken some liberty? If so, you have only to tell me and Lord Dunsmuir will put the fear of Hades into him.”

“No—yes—oh, Lady, I’ve done something ever so stupid.” Her lip trembled, and the laughing remark hovering on Claire’s tongue immediately dissolved into concern.

“What is it, dear?”

“I can’t tell you.” Claire’s only response was the level, expectant gaze that never failed to make you spill your darkest secrets, whether you wanted to or not. “It’s Tigg’s fault,” she finally blurted.

“Shall I go and ask him?”

“No!” Then in a quieter tone, she said, “He said I was forgetting where I came from and—”

“That is hardly fair. Or likely.”

“—and to prove I wasn’t, I—” Her throat closed and she pulled out the pocket watch just enough for the Lady and no one else to see it.

Claire’s gloved fingers gently pressed the watch back where it had come from. “Oh, Lizzie. You didn’t.” The Lady’s voice held no censure, only sorrow. And a tremble that only disappointment could put there.

Lizzie’s heart felt as though it was going to crack in two. “I’m going to put it back, honestly I am, as soon as I figure out how to do it.”

“Whose is it?”

“Mr. Seacombe’s.”

“Oh, dear.”

Lizzie froze. “Is that bad?”

“No worse than your pickpocketing anyone else among the Dunsmuirs’ guests and abusing their hospitality so shamefully.”

If the Lady had struck her, she could not have flinched any more acutely, nor found her shoulders and body curving around the injured portion—her own heart.

“Unfortunately, Seacombe senior and junior have already left. I expect we shall have an inquiry from them tomorrow as to the lost item. And when we do, you will deliver it to Mr. Seacombe personally.”

“What will I tell him?” Lizzie whispered.

“Perhaps you will not have to tell him anything. If you recall a similar situation at the beginning of our acquaintance, the person concerned was only too glad to see her property again, and not too fussy as to how it came about.”

“Yes, Lady.” Claire had made Lizzie undo her dishonest work then, and she’d tried so hard over the years since to cure herself of this tendency. But it was clear that such defects of character required constant vigilance—and resistance, if not to temptation, then certainly to being teased by her friends.

“Come, darling. We will make our farewells to the Dunsmuirs and return to the palace.”

“Oh, no, Lady. I don’t want to spoil your evening.” A glance, a raised eyebrow. “Any more than I have, that is. Please. I’ll give them my thanks and slip back to the palace quietly on my own.”

“You cannot go unescorted with all these people and coachmen and aeronauts about.”

“Then I’ll ask Tigg to come with me.”

“And get you into more trouble? Never mind. I shall take this opportunity to have a word with him myself.”

Whatever that word was, Tigg looked as though his balloon had been well and truly punctured as she kissed the earl and countess good night and thanked them for the party. The Lady intercepted Maggie before she could join them, and then two of the
Lady Lucy
’s crew asked them to dance, so telling her sad story to her sister was put off for an hour, at least.

The two of them descended the gangway and hopped to the ground, Tigg handing her down as if he thought she might break. “So you really did it?” he asked. “You really were such a little fool?”

Lizzie came close to throwing the watch at his head, but instead she merely handed it to him as they paced, arm in arm, across the airfield and onto the broad gravel avenue that ran with perfect rectitude through the park to the palace. “It belongs to Mr. Seacombe. The Lady says I must return it to him tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll give it to his son and say I lifted it for a lark. He seems like the sort to appreciate a joke.”

Tigg examined the watch, turning it in the palm of his white dress glove. “I think you’re the one who’s the butt of the joke. Lizzie, this isn’t a pocket watch at all.”

“What? Of course it is. There’s the stem, and there’s the chain, and it’s even chased with a design. What else do gentlemen keep in their watch pockets but watches?”

“I don’t know, but look. It’s shaped like a watch, but it doesn’t open. There’s no catch, and no back or front.”

She released his arm and took it herself, but she could gain no more information about the curious gold object than he. “Well, blow me down, as the aeronauts say. Bad enough I must prove myself a fool for a watch, but now it isn’t even that. What kind of device is it, do you suppose?”

“A puzzle, for sure.”

She slipped it back in her pocket with a sigh. “I’m glad you’re with me, anyway, Tigg. I was feeling a little peculiar earlier.”

“Too much cake.”

“Not as much as you. I saw you go back for a second piece.”

“
Hazelnuss
is my favorite. Say, Liz, move out into the center of the avenue. Looks like those chaps behind the elms have been celebrating a little too heartily.”

Sure enough, a small group of men were pushing and shoving in the shadows of the trees, and one of them stumbled out onto the gravel, bumping up against a lamp post with a curse. Lizzie lengthened her step, thankful all over again that Tigg was with her. They wouldn’t be likely to make impertinent remarks to a young lady accompanied by an officer.

Two more men lurched onto the avenue, reeling along behind them. Tigg quickened his pace, and the curls bounced against her cheeks as she did her best to keep up. But the men increased their pace, too, and suddenly Lizzie realized that they were not drunk at all.

Something snatched at her skirt and she shrieked. “Tigg!”

He whirled and shoved her behind him. One of the men threw a punch, but they could not know that every middy in the Dunsmuirs’ service had been trained in the defensive arts by Mr. Yau. Tigg’s leg swept out and caught the man behind the knees as he lunged past him, mowing him down as efficiently as the serving knife had cut the cake. The second man leaped into the breach, and Tigg moved in to engage him, but that left the third man. He made as if to go to the aid of his fallen companion, then dodged, whirled, and grabbed Lizzie around the waist, lifting her off her feet.

Fortunately, Lizzie and Maggie had talked Mr. Yau into giving them the same lessons.

The man might have been expecting a gently reared young lady to dissolve in a paroxysm of fear, or at the most, to kick her dainty feet. An elbow to the ribs and a second to his nose made him drop both her and his illusions about her, which gave her just enough time to plant the leather heel of her dancing slipper hard between his legs.

And then the second man saw his advantage just as Tigg realized she had been in danger. The man’s fist caught him square on the chin and Tigg went over backward, measuring his length on the gravel.

“You beast!” she shrieked, realizing a moment too late that now all three were advancing upon her. She took to her heels. If she could get off the avenue and into the trees, she could lose them in the dark. After all, it wasn’t likely three bully-boys from the
Victualienmarkt
knew this park half as well as she and Maggie did. Her scream would alert the count’s watchmen, and they would be taken in a trice.

But they were fast. She wasn’t going to make it. She dodged behind a fountain, the watch bumping against her thigh—

The watch. Or the not-watch. Seacombe was going to have to sing for it, because the single advantage she had at the moment was her fine right arm.

Running, looking over her shoulder to aim, she snatched it out of her pocket and flung it as hard as she could at the man slightly ahead of the pack. Except the chain wrapped around her gloved hand and the pin on the top of it came right out.

The watch landed with a clatter on the gravel practically at the men’s feet, doing no harm whatsoever.

Lizzie cursed in a manner that the banks of the Thames had not heard in some time, and flung herself sideways to hide behind a marble statue that had no clothes on.

And the night exploded into a thousand pieces.

Her hands over her ears, Lizzie hit the ground face first as the statue was torn from its pedestal and catapulted end over end right overtop her body. Half the water in the fountain rocked out of the basin in a huge wave, and drenched her.

—the cold, the awful water—London Bridge is falling down—

Screaming, her head ringing, she felt rather than heard a vibration in the ground, and tried to roll over to grab a rock, a branch, anything with which to defend herself. Hands went around her waist and she threw an elbow back, but as it connected she heard, as if from deep underwater, “Liz! Liz! My God, are you dead?”

Her gloves were gone. So were those of the hands that held her. Smooth, caring, coffee-colored hands.

Lizzie burst into tears and turned into Tigg’s chest, clutching his jacket in both fists. He pulled her into his lap and held her, rocking back and forth, back and forth, his wet face pressed to hers, as the night came alive with running people, swirling around them like a current.

And then silk skirts descended like a cloud beside them, and Lizzie smelled the Lady’s rosewater and cinnamon scent as she wrapped her arms around them both, her voice urgent, nearly hysterical, as she demanded of Tigg whether they were hurt.

But her own name on Tigg’s lips was all Lizzie could hear, in tones as broken and full of tears as her own had been. “Oh Lizzie, please don’t be hurt. Please, Lizzie-love, please be all right. I swear I will never do anything bad again, if you’ll only be all right.”

She lifted her head, straining at the tightness of his hold. “You mustn’t swear,” she gasped, and fainted dead away.

Claire Trevelyan had just finished instructing the count’s footmen as to the cabins in which their various trunks should be placed aboard
Athena
, when one of them returned from the gangway. “Your pardon, my lady, but there are two gentlemen here inquiring as to whether you are at home.”

In social parlance, “at home” meant that one was available to visitors. One could quite conceivably be physically at home, and at the same time not at home to company … which was the case at this moment. Did these callers not see that the airship was preparing to lift? Or was it the investigators, come back again with one more question?

“Who is it, please?”

“The messieurs Seacombe, my lady. I have told them that you and the young ladies are on the point of lifting, but the elder is insisting.”

Oh, dear. There was only one thing that could have brought them here, on a morning where it was clear that, due to the terrible events of the evening before, the count’s estate was open only to the magistrate’s investigators and not visitors. “I shall see him in the small salon. Would you be so kind as to visit the galley and see if there are biscuits to be had, or possibly tea?
Danke schoen
.”

He bowed and she made her way to the small salon, the first of the private rooms one came to upon walking up the gangway.
Athena
, while not as large as
Lady Lucy
, was still large enough for a crew of a dozen. Its cargo hold was enormous, though, which was why it had been used to smuggle weapons through the skies by its previous owner. She had been meaning to have some of the space converted to cabins, or perhaps a grand salon like that of the Dunsmuirs, but she had so far not found the time. Now that her years of study were concluded, perhaps she could turn her mind to such happy domestic pursuits.

Happy … domestic …

She had not yet given Captain Hollys an answer, and time was running out.

But first things first.

She waited by one of the port side curving windows as the footman showed in the Seacombe men. The elder crossed the room at once, hesitating only slightly when he saw how she was dressed. Her raiding rig often took people by surprise, but that did not stop her from wearing it, especially in the air on her own ship.

“My dear Lady Claire, I am shocked and dismayed at the events of last night. It seems our early departure from the party was providential. I hope neither you nor the guests of the Dunsmuirs were injured?”

She smiled and gave him her hand, over which he bowed in the European fashion. “No indeed.”

“And how is Miss de Maupassant?” the younger inquired, his brow wrinkled in concern. “I heard she was somewhat closer to the blast than many others, and that she was trapped under some bit of masonry?”

“The fountain saved her life,” Claire said, indicating the tea the footman brought in, and seating herself at the small table to pour. “I am saddened to report that the bully-boys—those who set upon her and the officer who was escorting her—were not so fortunate. All three were killed.”

“Mon Dieu!”
Claude’s face paled in shock. “Do we know who they were?”

“Or what caused the blast?” his father put in.

Goodness. How innocent he looks. Can he really not be aware of the true circumstances here—that it was his own device that killed these men?
She did not answer his question immediately, nor did she betray the fact that they were both playacting. Instead, she handed them their tea and offered slices of the cake from last night, which was clearly all the footman could scare up in her bare galley. Hopefully the count’s steward would soon deliver the traveling stores she had ordered from the market that morning.

“It is fortunate indeed that you left early,” she said with a smile as Seacombe selected a piece of cake.

“Yes, it was. I had discovered something missing and hurried home, believing I had left it upon the dressing-table. But when I arrived, it was not there, either.”

He was not lying. Claire had been around enough members of street gangs to become aware of the physical tics of someone attempting to conceal the truth. So he was not aware that he had been robbed. The question remained: What had he been doing with a bomb—for clearly, that was what the small gold object was—in his watch pocket?

“What was this object?” she inquired. “Perhaps we ought to make a search of the grounds immediately around
Lady Lucy
—or perhaps aboard her?”

“It was a small device I had intended to show Count von Zeppelin. As a former Navy man, he is keenly interested in weaponry, and one of my subsidiaries is engaged in the manufacture of ordnance for the protection of the Empire.”

“A small device, you say?”

Claude leaned forward, his fingers two inches apart. “Yes, about this big. Looks a bit like a pocket watch, but when you pull the pin, you get about five seconds before it explodes.”

Claire leaned back in her chair, a hand laid—convincingly, she hoped—at her breast. “Good heavens. Because, you know, small bits of brass were found in the crater, and a pin and chain under the bowl of the fountain. Is it really possible that a device so small could cause such dreadful loss of life?”

Drat the man’s spectacles, which concealed his eyes from her!

She must translate the language of his body, then, which had gone as still as that of an animal who has scented danger. “Yes, entirely possible,” he said slowly. “Might I be permitted to see these pieces?”

“They are in the magistrate’s hands,” she said, “but I am sure he would have no objection, if you were going to show the device to the count in any case. But what a dreadful way to find your property has been abused! I am terribly sorry, sir.”

“Quite,” Claude said. “Only think, Pater. How did the device get from your dressing-table to the Schwanenburg park?”

“I am perfectly certain I slipped it into my watch pocket,” his father said. “I can only surmise that it somehow slipped out as we walked across the park—possibly when we accidentally disturbed those swans by the lake—and the miscreants picked it up.” He laid his hands upon his knees, and Claire saw how they trembled. “Lady Claire, I must say I am—I am quite shattered at the thought that the mishandling of the device might have brought Miss de Maupassant harm. Can you forgive me for putting your ward in danger, even unawares?”

Claire could hardly help the softening of her heart. “I cannot see that you are to blame if, as you say, the device was taken without your knowledge and mishandled.” Which was quite true whether he had dropped it, as he thought, or Lizzie had taken it. It would not change the end result. “Please do not be troubled on our account.”

“Easier said than done, I am afraid.” He rose. “Claude, I must speak to the magistrates, and we must not keep Lady Claire from her departure any longer.” His son unfolded himself from the chair, swiping a second piece of cake as he did so. “Are you preparing for a long voyage, my lady?”

Claire did her best to conceal her relief at their going, and her impatience at yet more questions that required polite answers. “Yes, we are returning to England this afternoon with the Dunsmuirs’ party. The magistrates have given us leave to go, but sir, you must certainly tell them of this sample ordnance, as you say. I cannot see that they would hold you culpable.” When he nodded, she went on, “Regardless of their findings, Lady Dunsmuir is exceedingly protective of her son’s wellbeing, and she is anxious to remove him from the vicinity of danger.”

“Ah, a mother’s love,” said Seacombe. “A force that can move mountains—or at least, airships.”

“Pater …” Claude said, making urgent motions with his eyebrows.

“Ah yes.” Seacombe turned back to Claire, who stifled a sigh and arranged her features in an expression of polite interest. “My son here made the acquaintance of Miss de Maupassant last night before these terrible events, and it appears she has made quite the conquest. He wishes me to ask if—once the young lady has made a full recovery from her ordeal—you and she and perhaps the Dunsmuirs might give us the pleasure of your company for a visit at Castle Colliford? That is my estate in Warwickshire. I feel I must make reparation of some kind—to give you all more pleasant thoughts and memories of us than you have had thus far.”

How extraordinary! Lizzie had said nothing of this—but then, she had hardly been in a condition to say anything at all except, “Please can we go home?”

“Why—my goodness, sir, I am sure reparation is not necessary. But how very kind you are.”

“And as my son reminds me,” he said, recovered enough to smile, “young people these days do not wait upon such boring social conventions as length of acquaintance or depth of conviviality to find reasons to enjoy each other’s company.”

“Oh, come, Pater, you like a house party as well as the next man.” Clearly intent on lightening the atmosphere, Claude addressed her. “Do come. My crowd from the Sorbonne are coming on the fifteenth and it will be no end of fun. The castle’s huge and Liz—er, Miss de Maupassant was keen to see it.”

“Was she?”

“Yes indeed. It will be a jolly time. Say, five days? We’ll send a proper invitation to the Dunsmuirs, of course. Say yes, do!”

Claire couldn’t help but laugh at his artless enthusiasm and good intentions. “It will all depend on Miss de Maupassant’s recovery, I’m afraid. Shall I send you a tube by the end of next week?”

“Jolly good. Here’s our address.” He scribbled the letters and numbers on a calling card and handed it to her. “I do hope you’ll come. The gang will be agog to hear of her harrowing adventure.”

Claire resisted the urge to remark dryly upon those who turned the unfortunate experiences of others into entertainment for themselves. Indeed, he did not mean it negatively. He saw the recounting of last night as a way to give Lizzie stature in his friends’ eyes—which, she supposed, was a function of how he had been brought up. A businessman and a succession of governesses might not be inclined to develop the finer sensibilities of their young charge.

“We will take our leave and wish you a safe flight,” Seacombe said, bending again over her hand. “Good-bye, Lady Claire.”

“Good-bye, sir. I do hope you and the magistrates find the person responsible for the misadventures of your device.”

It was entirely possible that he had intended to share the device with the earl, and if Lizzie had not been so foolish, none of this would have happened. What a strange confluence of circumstances that a man willing to risk having a bomb upon his person and a young woman willing to relieve him of it had met on the same night.

*

Captain Hollys found Claire in the hold, supervising the loading of the landau, which Tigg insisted on piloting up the ramp. When it became clear the younger man needed the assistance of neither of them to tie it down and make it safe for the air voyage, Claire allowed herself to be guided away from
Athena
. Her hand in the crook of the captain’s elbow, the wool of his flight jacket warm under her fingers, they strolled under the trees at the edge of the park.

“We shall have good weather,” he remarked. “The skies are clear, with only a few bumps and buffets expected over the Channel.”

“Lizzie will be happy to hear it. Her stomach finds flight a sore trial indeed.”

“I am glad she is recovering. Tigg gives me faithful reports practically every hour. His devotion to her is touching.”

Devotion? Or guilt? For if anyone could be said to have teased Lizzie into her rash behavior, it was he. It was only by chance that he had not been within range of the blast when the bomb had gone off.

She made a sound of agreement, and Captain Hollys came to a stop under a broad oak whose leafy canopy blocked the view of anyone looking down upon them from
Athena
’s viewing ports. “Claire, have you thought any further upon an answer to my question?” he asked without further preamble. “While we discussed it somewhat, I do not feel we reached a definite conclusion.”

Because a timely sneeze in the garden had put an end to conclusions of any sort, much to Claire’s relief. She did not want to be definite. She wanted things to go on as they were. Which was utterly unreasonable and unfair of her.

“Dear Ian,” she said, meeting his gaze with her own. “Should you really give up the helm of
Lady Lucy
to be married? Would you not rather stay in the sky while I pursue my career with the Zeppelin Airship Works?”

His brow furrowed with confusion. “If I were to do so, we would not see each other at all.”

“But we would. Between voyages, and on land leaves, as you and your crew have done since the beginning of our acquaintance.”

“But the question of my responsibility to my family and title is then left unanswered. It is high time, Claire, for me to leave one career behind and take up another—the one I was born to—that of a landed gentleman.”

She had been born to be a lady, but that did not mean she wanted to leave behind her life. “At least you have
had
a career.”

“Does it mean so much to you, then? You would rather give the best years of your life to a company, a business, no matter your fondness for its leader? And what then, Claire? When you are thirty—forty—fifty? What will you have to show for your labors?”

“Airships,” she blurted. “Inventions. And Maggie and Lizzie and Tigg and the others, living useful, happy lives that might not have been possible without me.”

“But what of the children who could be? Who may never be, if you continue on this course?”

In the branches above their heads, birds twittered and fluttered among the leaves, where nests no doubt were concealed. She had thought of motherhood. More than once, if the truth be told. She had held the babies of others and felt the warm trust of those innocent little bundles. But to imagine one of those bundles as hers—and within the next two years, as seemed to be his intention? Her imagination simply could not reach that far.

“Must it all boil down to children, Ian? Is that the sum and summation of my purpose in the world? Can I not affect others positively in other ways? I told Lizzie not long ago that I would rather see her living a productive life than an ornamental one. I should be a liar if I did not apply that to myself.”