Gossamer Wing (30 page)

Dexter turned the ornate little cube over once more and pointed to an inlaid starburst pattern on one face. “You see this? The circle around the star? Look here, there’s a seam.”

Charlotte bent to scrutinize the wooden box, tracing a fingertip where he indicated. She couldn’t see it but she could feel it, an indentation slightly greater than that of the inlay itself.

“You take two fingers and press, then twist,” Dexter demonstrated, “and it opens.”

The curio box fanned out into its star-like pattern on his hand; he started the music and handed the box over to Charlotte.

It seemed so easy now that she knew the trick. “I wasn’t even close,” she admitted, “I never would have thought to try that. Have you worked out some secret spy use for it yet?”

“No. I like it just as it is.”

They listened to the Mozart for a few measures, then Dexter cupped a hand over the box and closed it up again to silence it, setting it aside on the railed shelf over the bunk.

“So this is our last hurrah?”

Charlotte ignored his question and asked one of her own. “Do you know what I think I’ll do when we get back home?” She continued once Dexter had shaken his head. “I think I’m going to quit the Agency and try my hand at being a dauntless society matron who embraces charitable causes and spends a great deal of time and effort cultivating roses that win awards in local flower shows.”

“I see.”

“I’m tired, is the thing. Tired of pretending to be one thing and secretly being another. Tired of never knowing where people stand on anything. All this pretense, it’s exhausting after a while. I don’t know how my mother’s managed it all these years.”

Dexter was starting to eye her as if she’d sprouted a horn in her forehead or an extra nose, but Charlotte pressed forward, though even she wasn’t quite sure where she was headed.

“My mother has pretended all her life not to know what my father’s profession is. And he’s always pretended to be a silly stuffed shirt peer who simply travels a great deal. It’s ridiculous. She knows, why pretend? I’ve never understood it.

“Even Reginald, telling me he hated sport when in reality he was apparently a gifted lemur. I mean acrobat. He even lied about being good at cricket, all because he thought that was what
I
wanted in a man. Because
I
didn’t like those things.”

Dexter coughed into his hand. “Reginald was a lemur?”

“No, no. He just . . . I praised him for his mind, but I would have loved the rest too. I would have even cheered him on. I could have been
that
wife to him, that wife who tolerates a lot of talk about googlies and innings. But I never had the chance, because he never showed me all of who he was.”

“All right. I agree, that does sound silly. I’m still not clear on why your bags are here.”

He shifted his weight forward as if to stand, and Charlotte panicked. She put a hand on each of his shoulders and pressed back, tipping herself halfway into his lap in the effort to keep him from leaving.

“I’m doing a terrible job of explaining,” she said. Then she kissed him, leaning into it until, like a switch flipping on, he started kissing her back.

Kissing felt right, kissing made sense, and when Dexter pulled her down to the bed and rolled her under him that made even more sense. Touching him again was like a cool drink of water after a long, hot day; it restored some parched part of her spirit.

“You always show people all of who you are,” Charlotte said when they came up for air and lay panting, staring at one another. “Except this past week, you’ve been avoiding me and I haven’t known what you were thinking, and I’ve hated it.”

“You said you didn’t want to talk about what happened when we got home,” he reminded her. “I couldn’t face you when that was
all
I wanted to talk about.”

“I was wrong,” Charlotte admitted. “I was stupid. I want the other Dexter back, the one who fixes my ears, and cares whether I come back when I’m expected, and holds me in the dark and makes me
want
to feel things for the first time in years.” Saying it aloud took a weight from her heart.

He grinned and brushed his lips against hers. “It really was also that I was just so busy. The whole team was. It was quite an undertaking, getting the whole system installed in such a short time. I’ll probably have to return within the next year or so to make adjustments and take some readings. Particularly if I want to duplicate it elsewhere.”

“I’ll try harder to remember the name. Hardison’s Multi-hypercordal Photophosphorescent—no, I’ve got it wrong again, I can tell by the look on your face.”

Dexter bit his lip, then said the name again for her. “Multi-hyalchordate Phototransphorinating Seismograph.”

“I do know the seismograph part,” she assured him. “If I can ever get that far.”

“You won’t need to. The men have already given it another name, and I suspect that’s the one that will stick.” He sounded resigned, but not too upset about it.

“What do they call it?”

Dexter sighed. “The Glass Octopus.” She snickered before she could help it, and he shook his head with a mock frown. “For shame, Charlotte. If people could only be bothered to remember their Greek and Latin roots . . .”

“You are like a balm to my soul,” she murmured at him, stroking a hand up his cheek then feathering her fingers through his forelock. Dexter closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into the caress. Free from his gaze, Charlotte felt brave enough to take her final leap.

“I love you,” she whispered, “and I want to keep being your wife. I want to go home with you and clutter up your bedroom with negligees and dancing slippers and frivolous hats.”

Dexter opened his eyes and Charlotte quickly pressed two fingers over his lips before he could interrupt. Then she closed
her
eyes, because the look on his face was too much to take without bursting into tears, and if she did that she’d never finish.

“I want to plant an outrageous rose garden, since you said you didn’t have one. With benches for trysting. I also want to have your children, but no more than three at the most. I want you to make me a new dirigible, in pretty colors, because I want people to see it this time, I intend to start a new craze for them. I want to do something useful, but not this anymore. Not being a spy. I’m not sure what, exactly. And as a shorter-term goal, I’d like to spend the trip home in this bunk with you, making love day and night until the crew becomes concerned for our safety and we’re both sore in places we didn’t know existed.”

She punctuated the end of her speech with a huff of air, expelling the rest of her nervous energy, then dared a peek up at Dexter. He was propped on his elbows, looking down at her, blinking in amazement.

She blinked back at him. The silence grew until she couldn’t take it anymore.

“Well?” she risked.

“I prefer to keep my bedroom tidy,” Dexter said solemnly. Charlotte’s heart soared.

“The frivolous hats are not negotiable,” she insisted, ignoring the break in her tear-stricken voice. “I shall require them if I’m to be a fashionable young matron.”

“Oh. Then perhaps I could design a special revolving hat stand. Or better still,” he posited, warming to the idea, “outfit an entire room as a wardrobe, with cranks and levers to move the shelves about, and—”

“Dexter.”

“I love you, Charlotte.”

“I love you,” she said again. “What a lucky thing we happened to marry one another.”

Kissing ensued, but after a few seconds Dexter lifted his head and nuzzled the tip of her nose with his own, looking delighted.

“Mrs. Hardison.”

Charlotte grinned. “
Lady
Hardison, if you please.”

“Good heavens. I’ve created a baroness.”

“You have indeed. Now whatever shall you do with her?”

Charlotte hardly needed to ask. She already knew Dexter had a limitless supply of ideas.

READ ON FOR A SNEAK PEEK AT THE NEXT STEAM AND SEDUCTION NOVEL FROM DELPHINE DRYDEN

SCARLET DEVICES

COMING SOON FROM BERKLEY SENSATION

THE OLD MEN
sitting in the front row presented Eliza Hardison with a uniform front of disapproval as she took her place at the lectern. She was accustomed to this, and told herself she didn’t care. Every time, she told herself this. One day she might come to believe it.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said firmly, then paused as if to wait for the smattering of polite applause that had greeted each previous speaker.

From out on the street, noises drifted in to fill the silence. A rumbling steam lorry, the honk of a horn. Somewhere in the back rows, a man cleared his throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Society, thank you for this opportunity. Today I present for the first time my recent findings on the underpinnings of certain tenacious mythologies in the lower-class working culture, and the very real limiting effects those mythologies can have on behavior and the perception of available alternatives, with a final consideration of who might benefit from—”

It wasn’t a throat-clearing. It was a snort, contemptuous and disruptive. This time, snickers of thinly veiled laughter radiated from the noise like rings in a pool, finally lapping up against the front row in a wave of raised eyebrows and frowns.

“With a final consideration of who might benefit most from what may at first appear to be a harmless superstition.” She stared into the back of the lecture hall, waiting for further indirect commentary, then continued when she felt the audience growing restive. “Even in San Francisco, workers who disappear are said to ‘go west,’ never to return. While some argue that the fanciful term originated from tenant farmers abandoning their home lords’ lands to become independent pioneers in the early days of the Dominions along the Atlantic Coast, the geographic inconsistency of the term’s use along the Pacific suggests that it is purely metaphorical, a subconscious invocation of the great unknown . . .”

She spoke at length, clear and loud, projecting her voice to the back of the hall as she’d trained herself to do. At only twenty-three and fresh from university, Eliza was the youngest member of the Society for the Study and Improvement of Workplace Reform. She knew she couldn’t afford to appear frivolous, not even for a moment.

Even now, as she neared the end of her speech and congratulated herself, she noted the mood of the crowd was still tenuous, liable to shift either way. There was some interest, some skepticism. The few old crones in the audience eyed her with the usual suspicion, looking for flightiness. Half the men in the front row were asleep. Of the remaining half, most looked bored, but several wore sour expressions that boded ill for the question-and-answer portion of her presentation.

Two were leering at her. Always the same two. She ignored them and gave her papers a neat tap on the podium to indicate she was finished. “Thank you. At this time I would be pleased to entertain your questions.”

There was the usual scuffling, hemming and hawing, a few hands raised tentatively in the air then lowered just as quickly. Eliza was already preparing to leave. They never bothered with questions. Not for her. They only allowed her to speak because she was Eliza Chen’s granddaughter, but she would continue until she had won her own place in the Society’s esteem. Or perhaps, she thought some days, she would form her own damn reform society.

“Miss Chen!”

A murmur ran through the crowd, and the whisper of wool against upholstered seats as every head turned to the back of the house. A man stood in the next-to-last row, leaning on a cane in a somewhat dandified pose. His bright golden boutonniere caught the light, gleaming against his wine-colored jacket.

“It is Miss Hardison,” Eliza reminded him. “Did you have a question for me, sir?”

Even across the many rows of seats, Eliza could see the man’s smirk. His entire posture conveyed condescension. Instinctively, she braced herself.

“For the Society at large, rather. I came here today expecting to learn information beneficial to my business, from like-minded gentlemen with experience in industry. Instead, I apparently stumbled onto some sort of recital for children. To whom do I apply for a refund?”

The crowd’s outburst ranged from horrified gasps to outright giggling, and Eliza could feel her control of the room slipping away as though it were palpable, a rope being yanked from her hands while she scrambled for purchase on treacherous ice.

“I say! I say! Order!” One of the senior members, the Duke of Trenton and Drexel, pounded his walking stick on the floor repeatedly, to no avail. “Order!”

“Did you have a question about the topic of my presentation, sir?” She lifted her voice, straining to be heard over the uproar. It was difficult to unclench her teeth enough to speak. The temptation to hurl insults was almost overwhelming.

The man chuckled, leaning to one of his companions to share something, then straightening and raising one indolent hand for silence. The crowd granted it, and Eliza knew with a sick certainty that she had lost any hope of salvaging the situation. Whoever he was, he had the audience now, and she could be no more than the punchline of whatever horrific joke he had planned.

“Tell the truth, Miss Hardison. You didn’t do any research. You just had your nursemaid tell you some bedtimes stories, didn’t you?” Over the laughter, he called out, “Do be careful on the way home, miss. You wouldn’t want the bad men to get you and go west forever!”

The tide had turned for good. Anything she might say could only make things worse, and the only thing she could salvage was enough poise to make a dignified exit. With shaking hands, Eliza gathered her notes and made her way offstage, fumbling for a moment to find the gap in the velvet curtains. Her eyes were full of unshed tears, anger and mortification vying for control. She had bitten the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood.

When the hand curved around her elbow, she jerked away, ready to fight.

“Easy. Easy there, Miss Hardison. Stand down, it’s only me.”

She blinked rapidly, clearing her sight enough to recognize the man beside her. “Mr. Larken.”

The mild-mannered elderly gentleman had been in charge of lecture arrangements since the Society’s beginnings. He gave her an encouraging smile and, to her fierce gratitude, said nothing of her heckler.

“This way, please.”

Eliza let him lead her swiftly from the wings and out a side door of the lecture hall. The noise and smell of the street rose up to greet them, harsh and acrid despite the cool spring air.

“What are we doing out here?” Eliza tried to catch the heavy door but it latched behind her before she could reach it. “Who
was
that man? I’d planned to have him ejected.”

“His Grace asked me to make sure there was no trouble. To see you made it outside the building without further . . . harassment.”

Of course. The Duke of Trenton and Drexel was a powerful patron to the Society, but shunned any hint of controversy like the plague. Larken hadn’t been sent to secure her safe departure, but her quiet one. No public ejection of the heckler, no formal complaints. Bad enough the press would report the incident itself, no need to add ruffled feathers on top of that. She could almost hear the Duke’s pompous, lugubrious voice speaking the words.

An ornate steam carriage pulled up before them on the cross-street, hissing and creaking to a halt. As she and Larken rounded the corner, Eliza realized it was one in a long line snaking down the street. She glanced at the lecture hall’s doorway, half a block away. Her presentation had been the last of the day, and the attendees were starting to emerge.

“This is perfectly ridiculous. Are you going to let me back into the hall at some point? I’ve left my satchel and scarf inside, along with my driving things.”

“Oh. By all means, miss. My apologies.”

Eliza stopped again, just yards away from the entrance, when the next group issued from the door with her persecutor at their head. Sunlight caught his glistening boutonniere much as the light in the hall had, this time forcing Eliza to squint against the reflected glare. His companions wore similar fripperies, all in the latest style. No simple rosebuds, but elaborately enameled and jewel-encrusted flora limned in gold or platinum, often with tiny mechanisms that opened the petals of the “blossom” at the flick of a switch to reveal a secret compartment, or offered up a flame suitable for lighting a pipe.

“Do you know him?” she asked Larken. “The one with the gilded pansy whatsit in his lapel.”

“I don’t, Miss Hardison. He was the guest of one of the less regular members, and the name escapes me at the moment.”

No name had escaped Larken’s memory since his birth, Eliza was fairly certain.

“You’re not planning to accost him, are you, miss?” the gentle old fellow asked in a quavering voice.

Eliza hadn’t moved from her spot to the side of the entrance, nor did she intend to until the man left. Eliza might petition to have him tossed out on his ear, but she was no ill-bred harpy or impetuous child to fling harsh words on the open street. Much as she might wish to. Instead she bit the much-abused inside of her cheek once again, forcing back the many unladylike sentiments she longed to hurl at the heckler’s sleek top-hat-covered head. The man’s dull brown, silver-streaked hair was long, clubbed back with a black velvet ribbon, and she noted uncharitably that the rakish style did not flatter his narrow, unremarkable features. It was too much for him, like his flashy suit and flashier jewelry, almost as though he were all costume, no content.

“Of course not, Mr. Larken. That would be begging for trouble, and I assure you I want none.”

The man and his cohorts entered their ornate carriage, and Eliza breathed a little easier as the threat of confrontation passed. But just as the heckler turned to take his seat, his eyes lit on Eliza through the open carriage window, and his look of icy calculation chilled her to the bone.

He did not look at all like the flippant dandy who’d ruined her presentation, and possibly her professional reputation to boot, with his boorish humor. In that unguarded moment, swift but unmistakable, his gaze had revealed both intelligence and malevolent speculation. Eliza wasn’t sure which she found more troublesome.

* * *

THE LATCH ON
the boiler’s cover was stuck, and Eliza knew she was about to spoil a glove getting it open. She didn’t care, as long as she made it to her cousin’s party in time to wish him a happy birthday. That, at least, might end her day on a positive note. Nearly anything would be better than her experience at the lecture.

The India rubber gasket sucked at the lid, keeping it closed, resisting her tug. When it finally popped open, a spray of superheated droplets caught Eliza’s forearm above the kid glove, prompting a curse she would never have uttered if she hadn’t been alone.

Though she was standing in a relatively safe zone, Eliza still felt her hair and dress wilt in the steam. She waved the hand with the stained, crumpled glove to disperse the vapor, and peered at the inner boiler casing and cooling tank gauge in dismay.

“Bloody hell!”

A gently cleared throat startled her and she jumped back from the velocimobile. A fresh puff of steam clouded the face of the intruder for a moment.

“Pardon. Can I be of any assistance?”

The voice was smooth, pleasant. The gloved hand that waved the steam away this time was elegant, the glove itself expensive and pristine. And the face . . .

“You
.
”

“Oh! Eliza, I had no idea you were back from school. Welcome home.”

With a sigh, Eliza stepped back toward the velocimobile and faced the interloper over the hot boiler.

“Matthew, an unexpected pleasure. May I assume you’re also on your way to my cousin’s party?” She tucked the offending glove behind her back and hoped the rest of her appearance wasn’t too unkempt. She’d paid little thought to her appearance when she changed out of her lecture suit. The snug driving helmet kept her plaited hair in place, and her lightweight coat and split skirt were sorely wrinkled and coated with road dust. She would have to do, she supposed. It was only Matthew, after all; he was used to seeing her streaked with engine grease, although it had certainly been awhile since he’d seen her at all. Nearly four years, she realized with a start.

“Indeed I am. Are you having trouble with your boiler? I know a little about engines, as you know, I might be able to help—”

“No!” Eliza bit her tongue and smiled sweetly. “No, thank you, you mustn’t trouble yourself. Please, proceed to the party. I have matters well in hand. I know more than a little about engines, as you may recall.”

Hubris
, her hindbrain warned.
That never ends well
. Eliza ignored the warning. She could handle things quite well alone. After that morning’s set-down at the lecture hall, the last thing she wanted was the company of a man who assumed her less than competent merely because she was younger and female.

If Eliza’d had a big brother, Matthew would have given him a run for his money when she was growing up. He had never let her tag along when it came to working on the truly exciting projects. He found her interest in delicate clockwork devices charming and appropriate for a young lady, but not so her interest in things like locomotive engines and velocimobiles. And he always, always pointed out that she could lose a finger in the machinery, as if the mere prospect of such a hazard should be enough to dissuade any properly brought-up girl. As if he were not himself at the same risk. But if you didn’t take that risk, how could you find out what made the thing
go
?

The early afternoon sun shone through the dark bronze of Matthew Pence’s hair, lending him a halo that Eliza couldn’t help but view as ironic.

“I’ll put myself at your disposal,” he insisted. She didn’t remember him as being so obnoxiously chivalrous. “Consider me your minion. With two of us working, surely you’ll be able to repair your vehicle more quickly?”

“It’s just overheated,” she explained. “Or nearly so. It ran close to dry but I caught it in time. There’s really nothing to do but wait for it to cool enough to add more water. My own fault, I’m afraid, I’ve been stopping frequently to take photographs and letting the engine idle too long. This one builds up steam quickly, which is convenient, but it needs close minding because it’s so small.”