Gilded Lily (15 page)

“This whole section is terrible. Whoever wrote it in had a very poor hand as well as a distinctly loose grasp of proper grammar and spelling.”

“True. Excellent illustrations, however. Look at the diagram on the back flyleaf.”

“Ah. Oh, I see. This isn't bad at all.”

She heard him flipping through the pages, toying with the controls. Before her, the murky water obscured the long view, and she had to trust the instrument panels to tell her they were heading in the right direction and maintaining a safe distance from the channel floor. It was difficult at first, observing the gauges and ignoring the scanty physical evidence. After a time, however, she found herself drawing inward, cycling her attention through the various panels in a comforting pattern, the dials more real to her than the world outside the safe bubble of the submersible.

“What should I do if I find something?” whispered Barnabas after a particularly long and quiet interval.

“Tell me which direction it's in so I don't run us afoul of it, I suppose.”

“It's right . . . there, over there.” It took her a moment to realize he was pointing, another to follow the direction of his finger and shift her focus back to the world outside the cockpit. “Look, don't you see?”

Of course she saw. It was huge and ungainly, a whale of a vessel compared to their own sleek craft. Painted in watery striations of blue, green and brown, with a poorly executed yellow poppy on its pointed nose. Freddie quickly adjusted speed so as not to pass it by. The big sub was evidently going in their own chosen direction, and she'd nearly overtaken it.

“I don't see any hydrophones on that one.”

Until Barnabas said this, she'd been in a mild panic, assuming the other sub could “see” them as clearly as they saw it. He was correct, though; the massive vessel seemed to sport no special listening equipment like their own. Nor had it altered its course when they approached. Keeping behind it, they might as well be completely invisible.

“What if it isn't going anywhere useful?” Barnabas worried aloud. “We could run ourselves out of fuel and never learn another thing about the smugglers' location.”

It had been a little over three hours since they departed from the station. Freddie was having trouble converting knots into miles, but she thought they must be reasonably near the English side of the channel by now, and surely there were only so many places the smugglers' sub could be heading.

“Look at the size of that thing,” she pointed out. “It can't dock just anywhere. It seems to be traveling in the same direction we were, which suggests to me that it came from France as well. Besides, what's our other option? To wait about until some other clearly demarcated smuggler's vessel comes along instead?”

“Fine, then. But stay well back. And keep an eye on the instruments. I say if we seem in any danger of running empty, we make for the nearest available piece of land and abandon ship.”

“Fair enough.”

Perhaps.

But the more pressing problem, in the end, wasn't an insufficiency of fuel. It was the challenge of continuing to follow the sub once they neared the coastline. The captain of the smuggler vessel clearly knew what he was about, for he seemed to have no difficulty maneuvering his seemingly unwieldy craft through a narrow gap between two rock shoals, then into a sort of groove along the channel's bottom, a winding course of obstacles that left Freddie's nerves jangling and her knuckles sore from an overtight grip on her submersible's controls.

Then, there was an even shallower stint, dangerously near the surface, and finally the bit that nearly had her abandoning the entire enterprise. They had to weave through a labyrinth of massive pilings, all of which confounded the hydrophones and other instruments as well. She proceeded on faith and hubris, and when the course cleared again she was so relieved she almost followed the other sub straight up to the water's surface.

“No! Retreat, retreat!”

“What? Oh!”

Maneuverable as it was, the
Gilded Lily
couldn't reverse course with no preparation. Freddie throttled back hard and prayed as the ship drifted perilously close to a piling, pitching higher in the water while its momentum bled away. She didn't want to attempt to navigate backward, so she executed a hasty turn before engaging the main propeller again and slipping away between the piers to what she could only hope was a safe enough distance from where the smuggler had docked.

“There were four more of those things in there.” Barnabas seemed to have gotten the hang of the hydrophone mechanism. “One of them was the one we saw our first time in the tunnel, I'm sure of it. It had the whiskers.”

“Five submersibles. That's a large operation for blockade running, isn't it?”

“They could be supplying the whole of England and the European seaboard with opium, with a fleet like that. But submersibles have a limited range, and we know the opium must have originated in the California Dominion. At least Orm's did. Perhaps whoever is running the operation now has a new supplier. But either way, he'd need to be receiving shipments over longer distances than subs could manage. There must be ships involved, also. Perhaps even the steam rail in Europa. It goes everywhere now, faster than lorries or wagons and far cheaper than airships.”

“We still need some sort of evidence, though. And I know where we are in the water, sort of, but I've no idea how to find the same place on a map of the shore. We need to go up and find some landmarks.”

Abandoning the earpiece and levers, Barnabas leaned over the pilot's seat, one hand on Freddie's shoulder for leverage as he pulled forward to examine the instruments. She'd grown so accustomed to his presence a few feet away that she'd forgotten how close the space truly was. Inches apart, they'd been this whole time. His hand burned even through layers of uniform wool and cotton, and his breath teased her ear when he bent closer to peer through the glass up into the sun-dappled water.

“There. Go back into the pilings, but bring us up underneath one of the docks where it's widest. Where a warehouse is, but not one with an opening in it.” She complied, hands more certain on the controls now, and the little vessel broke the surface in an uneventful few seconds. “Nobody should spot us under here, and you can stay with the sub while I can climb out under the pier and if need be, swim to a better vantage point.”

“Or I can go, while you stay with the sub. I brought a change of clothes too, you'll recall.”

“You'd drown in seconds once that bolster under your coat got waterlogged.” He poked a finger at the padding over her belly, and Freddie stifled a giggle. The disguise was ridiculous in that respect, she'd be the first to admit.

“Fair enough.”

“Why a portly lad? I've been wondering. It seems an odd choice for a costume you wear so much. It can't be comfortable.”

He'd kept his fingers there, brushing the fabric, when she expected him to pull away. Flustered, she gave him the truth before she could think better of it. “If I pad my middle it helps to hide my bosom. Somewhat. I mean I still have to . . . people get an overall impression of plumpness. As long as they don't squeeze me I'll never be found out. And when I'm in my usual clothing that particular feature seems to be the first thing men notice. I don't mind, really. I suppose it makes it even less likely anyone will recognize me.”

“I did,” he pointed out. He seemed to have moved closer, despite the interfering presence of the chair. Entirely too close, really.

“Yes, but you didn't know me.”

Barnabas chuckled, a soft round breath of a laugh that filled her senses and made her skin come awake to a host of sensations. She felt as though the stifling air of the sub had sprung to life and started caressing her, taking liberties.

“Does that make sense?”

“It did until I said it out loud. At any rate, the costume is a helpful illusion. And it makes me feel more the part, if I know that nobody can see me under all that batting.”

“I can,” Barnabas admitted. His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “Your illusion has spent its power with me.”

“So even with all that extra stuffing, you still look at Freddie the tinker or Fred the officer and see Frédérique, the half-French temptress with the splendid figure?” she teased, trying to lighten the mood.

“I'm afraid so. In fact, it drives me more than a little mad to look at Freddie the tinker or sailor. I not only know what's under the stuffing, I know that when you're dressed this way you're not wearing a corset.”

She had to tip her head back to see him properly. “We really shouldn't be discussing my undergarments, Lord Smith-Grenville,” she sighed. “We have smugglers to spy on.”

“It's not so much the undergarments as the lack thereof. We shouldn't be doing a lot of things, Freddie,” he pointed out. “You shouldn't be running around dressed as a boy or spoiling ball gowns with engine grease; I shouldn't be thinking about your lack of a corset while helping you steal government property and chase dangerous criminals. We really shouldn't be extorting one another. And yet . . .” He trailed a finger down her cheek, then carried on from her chin straight down her neck to the divot between her collarbones. It was shocking, almost literally, as though he were electrified and her skin had become a conduit for that energy.

“And yet?” No use trying to keep a level voice. It was as shaky as the rest of her.

“Yet we keep doing all those things. It says something about us both, I suspect.”

“I'm sure it does.” She wanted him to move his hand and he did, as if he'd read her mind. Just a stroke, gentle but assured, fanning his fingers out and letting them curve under the fabric of her lapel.

“And don't let's discuss what I'm thinking about whenever I see you in trousers,” he added, sounding damnably calm. His hand, though, was trembling. And so was his other hand, which had somehow arrived at her hip. In fact, it had all turned into an outright embrace at some point.

“Well, we seem to be on the subject just now anyway.” She didn't know how she could speak; it must be some reflexive action to throw a quip Barnabas's way to keep the conversation going.

“No, really. We shouldn't discuss it. I'm having a difficult enough time maintaining my composure as it is.”

Her next quip was silenced aborning by his lips, finally—when had it become a question of finally?—claiming hers.

H
E WOULD HAVE
preferred to remain in the submersible, kissing Freddie and avoiding any possibility of encounter with potentially hostile smugglers. At the very least, Barnabas wished they'd considered bringing waterproof weapons, as he was now stuck with traipsing about the enemy lair bearing only a penknife with which to defend himself against the criminals inside.

On the other hand, once he'd fallen from the understructure of the pier into the shockingly cold water and had to swim his way out from under the warren of dark, algae-slick columns, the idea of his being attacked on sight for not belonging seemed less likely. He'd traded his uniform for the rough clothes he'd worn to accompany Freddie on her tinkering job, and now he could have been any dripping, miserable fool wandering the docks after an accidental dunking. Surely it was a common enough sight that nobody would give him a second look, unless it was to laugh at him.

Shivering, wondering what his life had become and feeling generally put-upon, he crept along the narrow edge of pier between one dilapidated building and the water, resisting the instinct to go sideways with his back pressed to the wall. From the corner of that structure he could almost reach out and touch the fence that separated Orm's warehouse from its neighbors. At least he could only assume it was Orm's establishment, the one under which the poppy-emblazoned smuggler sub had docked.

The docks were quiet, nearly deserted, only an occasional gull cry or slap of water breaking the afternoon calm. Sounds of a barroom, drunken good humor and a shrill fishwife of a barmaid, drifted in from a few streets over, but the building Barnabas stood by seemed empty and quiet.

The silence of Orm's place, however, seemed active and ominous. He heard footsteps behind the fence. The creak of shifting weight on the planks of the pier, but not so much as a whistle from whoever walked there. No conversation or sounds of industry. When the walker seemed to have passed, Barnabas risked a peek between the fence boards. His limited view showed him only more sad, weathered gray wood.

Emboldened, he gripped the top of the fence and hoisted himself up, feet scrambling for purchase, until he could rest his weight on top of the boards and have a good look in either direction.

To his right was the empty, windowless prospect of the warehouse's side wall, with the broad span of walkway between it and the fence.

To the left was the corner of the warehouse and the waterfront beyond, and Barnabas had just decided to venture in that direction when a man rounded the corner, stopping with a look of near-comical shock that Barnabas could only suppose was a mirror of his own expression. Horrified, he tried to slip back off the fence, only to lose his balance and flip forward instead to land at the unexpected watchman's feet.

“Here now, you shouldn't be on this side. There's a sign that says no admittance! Now I 'av to take you in to Mr. Edwin, and none of us'll be happy.”

From his vantage, the poor guard looked as taken aback as he was, and more anxious about the prospect of dealing with Mr. Edwin than concerned with any danger Barnabas might actually pose. But he was armed with a vicious-looking club and seemed ready to call for assistance, so Barnabas steeled himself to either flee back over the fence or fight his way free.

He stopped by some instinct when the boy—for he was young, this apparent criminal, and obviously green—looked over Barnabas's head with a squint against the sun's glare and then relaxed, sudden relief palpably altering his apple-cheeked face.

“Mr. Finn! This one was slithering over the fence. I ought to stay on my watch, do you want to take him in?”

“Happy to, Nick. I'm sure nothing would please Edwin more. But look, what's that over there?”

The newcomer pointed to the water; young Nick gaped in that direction, then slumped into Barnabas's lap, felled by Mr. Finn's expertly wielded blackjack to the head.

“Sorry about that, Nicky. Well, well. You've just made my day considerably more complicated, I'll have you know. Come on, back over the fence before we're spotted.”

His rescuer bent a knee and cupped his hands together, and Barnabas took the chance without thinking. He used the assistance to vault back over the fence, stumbling and pitching over onto his knees on the other side too. The other fellow was over a few seconds later, executing a neat turn at the fence top and landing on his feet, soft and agile as a cat. An eerily familiar cat.

“You'll need to get up. We mustn't linger. What kind of conveyance did you come in? Is there a chance it's been spotted?”

Barnabas couldn't believe his eyes, but he couldn't ignore his ears. He knew that voice better than his own, even if it seemed at odds with the roughly clad, scruffy, patch-eyed pirate who was speaking. For a moment he was so overcome he couldn't answer; the conflicting feelings welled up to clog his throat, to cloud his brain with years of unspent emotion. Relief, joy, anger and betrayal, all vying for first place.

The pirate extended a hand, hauling him to his feet and frowning. “Did I arrive too late? Did Nick get in a blow to the head I don't know about?”

It couldn't be. But it was.

He flung his arms around the pirate, not caring if all the smugglers in the world were bearing down on the other side of the fence.

“Phineas!”

His brother succumbed to the embrace for only a second or two before pushing him away none too gently. “Yes, yes, but we really ought to have this reunion at a more opportune moment, when there isn't quite so much risk of imminent death. Or pneumonia. Christ, you're drenched. And now so am I.”

Barnabas laughed because he would have sobbed otherwise. There was little humor in the short, ugly sound. “You heartless bastard.”

“Shhh! Your carriage, where is it? Or did you swim down the river? It smells that way, I must tell you, Barnabas.”

“Neither. I came by commandeered submersible.” He couldn't understand the vague pride that swelled in him when he made this disclosure, surely more the feeling of a younger brother to an older. The wish to please, to impress. Or perhaps just to remind his sibling that he too had unexpected resourcefulness.

Phineas didn't seem impressed, but the facial hair and eye patch made it difficult to tell for certain.

“Just lead the way. Quietly.”

 • • • 

F
REDDDIE HAD PROMISED
to wait inside the sub until she heard Barnabas's prearranged coded knock on the hatch. She had given that up after a few minutes and leaned on the rim of the open hatch instead, with her feet braced on the back of the pilot's chair and her head and shoulders in the breeze. Not that there was much breeze under the dock, just an occasional stirring of the fetid air that brought a moment's coolness at the cost of a fresh wash of fish and rot. And worse odors she refused to put names to.

When the trapdoor dropped down mere yards away from her head, she gasped and nearly lost her footing attempting to duck out of sight. But it was Barnabas, identifiable by his dripping wet trousers. He swung from the rope-and-plank ladder that had come down along with the door, then navigated a tricky scramble onto the nearest crossbeam, making room for the next climber, a development even more unexpected than having Barnabas return from his venture after only five or so minutes.

“What are you doing? Are you mad? That trapdoor is inside somebody's business establishment, anyone could have seen you. And who is that?”

“Shh! The warehouse above is empty. Nobody saw us, but they'll hear you if you keep that up. Fire that thing up, we need to leave with all due haste.” Barnabas made room on the beam for the other man, who jumped across after closing up the hatch behind them. He wore an eye patch and directed a fearsome scowl at Freddie as he followed Barnabas over the intervening puzzle of woodwork to reach the submersible.

“All three of us? We'll never fit. And he's a pirate.”

She pointed at the stranger's eye patch as clear evidence. Barnabas shook his head and waved a hand, dismissing her concern. He maneuvered himself into the hatch and dropped down, pulling her with him and bracing them both against the moment of turbulence as the sub took the shift in weight. “All will be explained in the fullness of time, Freddie, but we must go
now
.”

As if to punctuate his demand, a distant shout and a rumble of footsteps erupted above them. Freddie cast a final baffled look at the newcomer, then flung herself into the seat, engaging the fuel tank and readying the engine. “Secure the hatch. This is still warm, it'll only take a moment.”

“Hatch secure,” the stranger volunteered. He was squeezed into the back of the cargo area, looking entirely too long and gangly.

“Check it, Barnabas.”

“I think he knows how to secure a submersible hatch, Freddie. Probably better than either of us.”

“Is he the acting captain of this vessel, Barnabas?” asked the pirate in polite, cultured tones that in no way matched his appearance. Something about him tugged at her mind, even as she tried to focus on the sub's controls.

“Is . . . I suppose so. One might say that.”

“Then you check the hatch.”

Freddie smirked. “Thank you, whoever you are.”

He didn't respond. Not all
that
polite, then. Barnabas, grumbling, fidgeted behind her—checking that the hatch was secure, she assumed. Although now she trusted the stranger to have done it properly in the first place.

“Why did you say the
acting
captain?” She fiddled with the ballast controls, taking the submersible down and angling toward the open water beyond the pier. “Why not just the captain? It's my submersible, I'm piloting it, who else would be in charge?”

He chuckled, and she had to stop herself looking to make sure it wasn't Barnabas responding. They sounded freakishly alike. That was what had bothered her a moment earlier.

“I know you can't be the captain, and I know it isn't your submersible. It's the Royal Navy's submersible, and you and Barnabas stole it. Your uniform is real enough, but you're no more an officer than my brother.”

“Brother?”

“Mind your trim.”

“Oh!” She steered away from a looming hulk of algae-draped wood and into an avenue of thick pillars. “You're Phineas! He found you! And you're not an opium fiend after all, how lovely.”

“Phineas found me,” Barnabas corrected. “I've no idea if he's an opium fiend—”

“I am not.”

“Or whether he's truly working for the smugglers instead of the government now—”

“Of course I'm not working for the smugglers. But just a moment, I have to ask . . . are you a
girl
?”

Freddie understood he was no longer speaking to Barnabas. “Even if I am, I'm still the captain. What gave it away, though?”

“Understood. You said it was lovely I wasn't an opium fiend. Not the usual turn of phrase I associate with young male officers. But I had my doubts, anyway, looking at your hair. Bits are coming down from under your cover.”

“Cover?”

“The hat.”

“Oh, I see.” The bobbed hair, while performing brilliantly under a standard hat, was less manageable under the smaller, streamlined model worn by naval officers. Now that Phineas had mentioned it, Freddie was aware of wispy curls tickling behind her ears and over the nape of her neck. She would have to invest in more pins, and possibly try some pomade next time.

Barnabas cleared his throat, reinserting himself in the discourse. “As we're discussing subtle verbal signals, Phineas, I have to point out you said you were not working for the smugglers. You did not say you were working for the government.”

Phineas chuckled again. “Blast. I was hoping you could tell me.
You're
working for them now, aren't you? That was my impression, anyway. I've kept tabs. One of the clerks for Father's man of business in London is secretly working for me as well, so I see a great deal of his correspondence. When I learned you were on your way to Rutherford Murcheson, I made what seemed the obvious assumption. If anything I was expecting you to show up sooner.”

“But don't you
know
if you're still working for Murcheson?”

“I did know. However, when I was taken to the Dominions by Lord Orm's crew last year, my last communication to my superior at the Agency went unanswered. Next thing I knew, my name showed up in an article in the
Times
about the ravages of opium abuse in Her Majesty's military, and I learned that the Navy had informed our parents I was missing and due to be discharged in absentia for addiction, moral turpitude, and suspected treason.”

“They never discharged you, to my knowledge.”

“But the letter was sent. I'd been working for Murcheson for months already at that point and been into several opium dens as part of my investigations, so the suggestion of addiction was part of the cover story for my absence from my post with the Navy. Murcheson didn't warn me of that before I agreed to work for him, I hasten to add. Then the cover story made it pitifully easy for them to explain away my disappearance. My name was published on a list of accused deserters. And Murcheson ignored my efforts to check in. Even once I was back in London and learned he was here as well, he took no apparent notice of my attempts to contact him.”