Dawn's Early Light (3 page)

“Your Majesty can rest assured, I have all my agents on newly shortened leashes.”

The silence descended again. Sound's mind was racing over what story he would spin if the monarch should ask for further details. Luckily, she did not press.

“Then go, do the same for my son!”

The director nodded and left the splendid room with an icy pit in his stomach. He turned in time to see the doors shut, but he stood there a moment getting his bearings, not entirely sure what had just happened. Certain people and events, he knew without question, were fixed in time. They were reliable as rock, and even a person such as himself came to depend on them. His gaze still boring into the door that had shut before him, Sound felt as though someone had removed the Rock of Gibraltar from under him.

The person whom he had just spoken to had been a complete stranger.

T
he airship captain gave Eliza a warm smile, a smile that remained confident even in light of her rejections while on their transatlantic journey.

“Miss Braun”—and when Captain Raymond spoke her name, Eliza did wonder for a moment that her knees did not give way—“when you cross the Atlantic again I hope you will choose
Apollo's Chariot
. We would love to have you.”

The double entendre was blatant, but she managed to ignore it. It was true, the captain's voice alone could keep a teakettle piping hot, and he possessed a chiselled jaw and eyes as brilliant as the sky they just sailed across.

Despite her reputation, her head was not for turning.

“Thank you,” she replied with the sort of manners a lady of polite society would have been proud of. “This has been a lovely voyage.”

Eliza smiled at Captain Raymond, but once down the gangplank it was replaced by a twisted frown of frustration. Her hands clenched on her purple travelling dress. She had been put quite out of her usual good humour, and it was all one person's fault. Wellington Books was being entirely too obtuse, a trait Eliza attributed to his gender.

Her first thoughts on touching down in America should have been about the case that awaited them, but instead they lingered far too long on the archivist and that damnable kiss he had planted on her in the Archives. The tumult of feelings it had awakened was confusing; and as her way demanded, she wanted them sorted out. Yet, it seemed Wellington had wiped away any memory of the encounter. It was as if it had never happened.

Eliza tugged on her gloves and stood in the sun, looking up and down the quay. Wellington was nowhere to be seen. Typical.

On their journey, she had at first imagined that Wellington Thornhill Books had no inkling of how to proceed. That could explain the quick luncheons, the brief dinners, and his insistence that they sleep in separate cabins.

On the second night they were in the air, after trying unsuccessfully to get to sleep, Eliza decided as primary agent to take control of the situation. Dressing in a nightgown that was far from scandalous, but still suggestive enough to make her accessible, she knocked on the door adjoining their cabins.

When no reply came, she picked the lock.

His room had been empty. At
two o'clock in the bloody morning
, his room had been empty. Once again the mystery of Wellington Books confounded her.

And yet, the memory of that kiss would not go away.

With a sigh, Eliza stared once more up and down the quayside, only dimly hearing the hubbub around her.

On occasion, she had passed through the United States when returning from South Pacific or Asian assignments; but this would be her first assigned case in the country. The harbour town of Norfolk, Virginia, appeared no different than any other she had known in her travels around the world, but it was the collection of accents that caught her attention. She recalled the background information provided by the Ministry: since the end of America's Civil War over thirty years ago, Norfolk had transformed itself into a significant international port. It in fact rivalled New York and Boston in the number of people passing through. The Chesapeake Bay, seen from a porthole in the airship, was both vast and lovely. Thanks to her heritage as a woman of New Zealand, Eliza always had a particular affinity for seaside towns.

The taste of sea salt momentarily distracted her, but the bald fact remained that while porters continued to pass by, there was still no sign of luggage or Wellington Books anywhere.

It was the sudden honking and the cries of ladies behind her that made her spin around. Her eyes went wide in surprise. The horseless vehicle emitted a soft, almost melodic
chitty-chitty-chitty-chitty
rhythm from its undercarriage as it slowly pulled up next to the gangway. It was the length of a landau, but minus the elevated perch where a driver would have sat. The body was lower to the ground and ran on what sounded like and appeared—on account of the thick wisps seeping from the undercarriage—to be internally generated steam power; and Eliza begrudgingly admitted to herself the motorcar sported a rather smart, stylish look with its black, red, and brass detailing, polished to a blinding sheen. She could see her luggage sitting behind the driver in its long and luxurious velvet seat.

Wellington waved cheerily as he brought the car to a halt right next to where she stood.

“Good Lord, where have you been hiding this monster?” she said, adjusting the brim of her hat so as to better examine the unexpected transport.

“In my home,” he said brightly, lifting his driving goggles and resting them against the cap covering his head. “This was my big project following the analytical engine.”

“And you brought it with you to the Americas?”

His eyes followed the lines of red trim within the metal and wood with obvious pride. “I finished working on it while on the trip. Granted, there are a few modifi—”

“You mean,” Eliza began, a muscle twitching in her jaw as she pieced together what had been occupying all his time, “you've been spending the past five nights and days working on this contraption?”

“Well, of course I have. How else should I have been preoccupying myself?” he asked.

Innocence was an endearing quality—at least in young children. In a grown man, it was infuriating.

Eliza only just restrained herself from giving him a bloody good thump. “Yes. What else? An educated mind could only fathom the possibilities.”

“Besides, this was for our mission,” he continued, “and I wanted to have it ready for extensive and rigorous field—”

Eliza shot her hand up, immediately silencing him. “Welly, please . . . just stop.” Wellington's brow furrowed, a look she was growing accustomed to when he lacked a clue, particularly when it came to her. “I think we should just get to our contact. So,” she said, walking around to the passenger door, “let's be off.”

She opened the door and froze. Waiting for her in the seat next to Wellington was a leather cap identical to his, with two exceptions. Instead of being of weather-beaten brown leather, this cap was a bright white with pink lace around its edges. Second, on the top of the cap's crown was a large pink bow, matching the tint given to the riding goggles that came with it.

Her eyes looked up from the cap to Wellington in absolute horror. He looked quite pleased with himself.

“Surprise,” he said cheerfully.

It simply would not be born. Eliza dropped the atrocity without comment onto Wellington's lap, snatched the goggles and riding cap off his head, put them on herself, and situated herself in the passenger seat.

Without protest or contradiction, he took a deep breath, donned the ridiculous cap and goggles, looked over his shoulder to make sure the way was clear, and wrung his hands on the steering wheel.

“I say,” he said on releasing the hand brake, “things do look quite . . . pink . . . through these goggles.” He cleared his throat and asked Eliza, “Do you think you—”

“Not if the fate of the Empire hung in the balance,” she seethed. “Drive.”

With a roar of gears and pistons, the great beast lurched forwards and soon they were off, the cadence of the car's engine providing an oddly comforting backdrop in their drive along the docks.

Wellington had certainly given his horseless carriage many little amenities. The seats were comfortable and the ride itself, even with the uneven parts of the road, was as smooth as their time on
Apollo's Chariot
. Wood panelling enclosed the dashboard, and every stylish detail was in evidence, down to the various dials and gauges changing with every ping and pop from the motor.

“Is it a safe assumption to make,” Eliza called over the chugging engine, “that Axelrod and Blackwell have not even heard a whisper about this fine carriage of yours?”

“Please, do not evoke their names,” he grumbled. “I'm trying not to think of my analytical engine left to their whims and devices back in the Archives. But yes, I kept this project very much off the books. This is a personal endeavour that I want to offer to the Ministry once properly engaged and executed on a genuine mission.”

“Welly,” Eliza said with a laugh, “it's just a motorcar. A clever variation on horseless carriages. Hardly groundbreaking.”

He glanced briefly at her. “Even something as simple as your corset needs proper field-testing.” Wellington's eyes dipped down to the two gauges flanking the steering wheel. “Right now for example, I'm curious as to how far a full boiler will take us.”

The car chugged along, and Eliza tried not to crack a smile in reaction to the looks they drew from those they passed. She wondered how many were in response to the car itself, and how many were to Wellington's fabulous headgear.

In the silence Eliza contemplated how Doctor Sound had made clear his intent to keep close tabs on them, having his hand forced by circumstances she and Wellington created in Case #18960128UKEA. Their results could not be denied, but the Duke of Sussex was putting pressure on Sound in turn. Regardless of the plot they uncovered, they had been working outside Ministry parameters, compelling the director to lend them as “goodwill advisors” to the American agency, the Office of the Supernatural and Metaphysical. This was hardly the first time Eliza had been shipped off somewhere until the heat of the moment blew away, but back then, she only had herself to worry about.

Their automobile chugged and rumbled to a stop outside a small pub called the Artifice Club. As the engine settled reluctantly into silence, Wellington ripped off both cap and goggles, and smoothed his hair into some semblance of tidiness. Now Eliza could make out the sounds of boats in the harbour and the usual din of an establishment such as this one.

“This is where we are to meet our contacts?” Eliza asked, looking up and down the street. Anyone waiting for them could not fail to have noticed their entrance.

There was very little around the pub, save for other small establishments that catered to sailing vessels, schooners, and fishermen. The area was more dedicated to nautical professions than aeronautical ones. Eliza could see no noticeable hazards, apart from the tavern itself. The way they were dressed, their motorcar, and their manner of speech would all attract attention. It was a conundrum that did not bode well for smooth operations in the field.

“According to the file,” Wellington said, with a shrug.

“Any idea who we are looking for?” Eliza asked, shifting in her seat.

“She said she would introduce herself in an appropriate fashion.”

Eliza's brow furrowed. “Come again?”

“Security greeting, of course,” Wellington replied brushing his beard.

She swallowed back a groan; she hated the formal greetings between agencies. “Lovely, we get to speak in code, do we?”

“Proper procedure, Miss Braun,” Wellington chided. Then he reached into his coat pocket. “And that reminds me . . .”

A ten-pound note appeared out of his wallet, and she recalled the bet he'd made that they would never be on assignment in America.

“Oh, that is not necessary, Welly . . .”

“A wager is a wager.” And he extended the ten pounds to her again.

Eliza snatched the note from his hand gleefully, debating whether she would be investing in a stunning new outfit from Paris, or a new long-range sniper rifle.

She clambered down from the automobile, before her companion could offer a hand, and preceded Wellington into the tavern. The Artifice Club was an eclectic mix of patrons, ranging from true salt of the earth types to wide-eyed youngsters enjoying the late afternoon entertainment. One gent made eye contact with her, gave a slight nod in greeting, and then returned to his ale.

In her survey of the pub, Eliza paused to watch the artist performing on the modest stage. The spectacled man was of considerable carriage, wearing a fine boater and impressive cravat, and behind him sat an even more impressive collection of beer, single malt scotch, and bourbon. Apparently, all for him. In front of him were three gramophones playing “Daisy Bell,” “Daddy Wouldn't Buy Me a Bow Wow,” and “Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay,” all at the same time. Perhaps in the hands of a novice, this could have easily become an unforgiving onslaught of noise, but this gent possessed an intimate understanding of the three songs. Through a series of keys and cranks, the artist was altering tempo, and starting and stopping one or two of the music hall songs while the third continued, in effect creating one complete song.

And it was quite the toe tapper coming from the stage.

Wellington leaned in. “Exactly how is he doing that?”

“He's mixing. Apparently, it's all the rage here in the Americas.”

He nodded, tipping his head askance as he watched the man work the gramophones. “And he's wearing a lab coat because . . . ?”