Scarlet Devices (5 page)

“Nobody knows.”

They observed the unlikely companions a moment longer. Then Dexter tossed the wrench into the air, catching it neatly and placing it in the proper slot in the enormous tool kit he'd wheeled over to the steam car's side. “Time to brave the press and win through to the hotel. You'll need a proper night's sleep before you set out.”

Eliza didn't think she'd sleep a wink, but she shrugged off her coverall and obligingly followed Dexter from the hangar, passing Matthew's car along the way. He looked up as they walked by, and she caught a glimpse of something on his face that stopped her in her tracks. Concern, tension . . . and something that strongly resembled yearning. Eliza turned toward him for a moment, not sure what she planned to say, then covered her confusion by pulling her broad-brimmed hat on as if she'd meant to stop for that purpose all along. The moment flitted by, she waved with her fingertips and received a solemn nod from Matthew in return, then the open door loomed before them and she braced herself for the onslaught.

 • • • 

W
HEN
E
LIZA TURNED
toward him, the sun streaming into the hangar backlit her for a moment, transforming her slender figure into a silhouette of elegant curves. Her hair, which had seemed so securely battened down into its tidy chignon, revealed a nimbus of stray wisps that glowed a hot auburn in the afternoon light.

Then the clouds shifted, the illusion faded, and it was once again Eliza standing before his sun-dazzled eyes. She blinked at him, looking as though she was going to speak, then shook her head and put her hat on. He watched her fiddle with the ribbons, her nimble fingers fixing the bow just so. Then she waved and was gone, following Hardison into that damnable crowd.

He wanted to run after her, explain himself to her until she understood. He wasn't really so benighted in his views. He knew she was capable, even formidable. He knew there were other women in the race. But none of them were Eliza. None of them made him think of terms like “sylph” or “toothsome.” He hadn't pulled his hair half out of his head and paced for hours trying not to think inappropriate thoughts about any of those other women. Only Eliza, maddening though she was.

Dexter hadn't needed to make looking out for her a condition of his support. Matthew would have been her watchdog anyway, whether she wanted him to be or not. For the first time in his life, he had a primal impulse to protect and possess another creature. And the creature in question was not remotely amenable. Nor should he be thinking this way about a Hardison, of all people. He was trying to make his
own
way, distinguish his
own
name, not become more attached to Hardison House. The last woman he should be daydreaming over was Dexter Hardison's cousin, a girl whom Dexter practically treated as a daughter.

“I think I'm going mad,” he mumbled as he watched her go.

“At least you'll have somebody to talk to on the drive,” remarked the mechanic who'd just approached him.

“I can think of better company,” Matthew admitted, grinning ruefully. “Sorry, Toby. I'm short on sleep.”

“Aren't we all, guv? But you make sure to get your rest tonight. I've got a certain amount riding with you, as it were.”

As the man filled Matthew in with last-minute particulars about the car, Matthew scanned the hangar, scouting out his competition. Over half of them were there, seeing to their vehicles or making an early start to packing up, and he recognized all but two. One Greek flag and one Dominion, two unfamiliar drivers. He had studied the racing roster and knew the names, but despite what he'd boasted to Eliza, he knew precious little else about the participants and their sponsors. Less than he should, he suspected.

One unpleasant presence was impossible to ignore. Not a driver, just a visitor, for which Matthew was thankful. Matthew had run across Lord Orm, the Californian cattle Baron, when the man visited one of Rutherford Murcheson's workshops in Le Havre the previous year. Matthew had been in France conducting some business with Murcheson on Dexter's behalf. Orm was there to perform some sort of efficiency study, officially, but all of them agreed he was more likely touring makesmith shops and other factories to steal ideas for a new enterprise of his own. Murcheson's bet was a dairy, as Orm had asked about glassmaking and bottling methods, and obviously was already in possession of a good many cows. He'd made sure to keep Orm away from the most cutting-edge projects, showing him only a curated selection of his multifaceted makesmithing operations.

Matthew had disliked the cut of the man's jib on sight then, and liked it no better now. He noted the fellow still wore that flashy lapel gadget, a gilded golden poppy. It was said to conceal a set of secret compartments under the lapel that could be revealed using a complex clockwork mechanism similar to one of Murcheson's famous curio boxes. All Matthew knew was that the thing was in exceedingly poor taste, and the weight utterly spoiled the drape of Orm's coat. It was also—and this was unforgiveable—so ornate that the decoration would obviously hinder, not enhance, whatever operations the device was meant to perform. Nothing like his own slim-lined, tasteful model, which converted with a flick of the hand into a set of light but useful tools.

Orm was deep in conference with one of the unknown drivers. Was the cattle Baron a silent benefactor, perhaps? His appearance worried Matthew, though he couldn't put his finger on any good reason why. Matthew was just making up his mind to approach the man when Orm left the building, disappearing past the press line into the thick crowd.

Well, he could find out about Orm and the unknown driver at his leisure. Of the rest of the field, he knew Whitcombe and Cantlebury from Oxford, and he had at least a passing social or business acquaintance with three or four others. Van der Grouten and the two French contestants he knew by reputation. Making up his mind to find out more about the mystery entrants once he returned to the hotel, Matthew let his thoughts drift back to the problem of Eliza and his embarrassingly sleepless nights of late.

He didn't ruminate for long before a new distraction arose.

“What's that smell?” One of the mechanics said, just as another of the men flicked something from the air in front of his face.

Looking up, his upper lip curling at the stench, Matthew saw the ceiling of the hangar many stories overhead. But the girders were obscured by a faint haze.

A shriek from the opposite side of the structure seemed to trigger a wave of reaction, and the crowd mobilized like a flight of starlings, pushing and pulling toward the wide-open door. The haze descended like something from a nightmare, a foul, hot rain that coated everything it fell upon with a slick, brown residue.

Matthew turned to see his mechanics throwing a tarpaulin over his car, and then his gaze continued to the bright crimson vehicle in the stall adjacent. The vivid color blurred as the noxious fumes began to make his eyes water. Cursing as he coughed and batted away the first heavy droplets of the disgusting spray, he sprinted and hurdled the velvet rope, reaching inside Eliza's car and rolling up the open window on the driver's side. He shouted for his team but they had already joined the crowd jostling in a panic at the exit.

Steer manure
. There were cattle on the Pence estate, and as a boy Matthew had been taught the basics of their upkeep. He recognized the smell, though it had taken him a moment to place it, so far out of context. Liquified, possibly by the addition of some sort of alcohol from the stinging smell of it—and by the looks of it, sprayed through the dirigible hangar's vaunted, state-of-the-art fire control system.

“Help!” The voice from the far side of Eliza's steam car was nearly drowned out by the still-swelling commotion. “Mr. Pence!”

A pair of mechanics, apparently having the same idea as his own team, were struggling to pull an oilcloth from an overloaded supply box. Matthew hastened to their aid, and the three men were able to drag the heavy canvas over Eliza's vehicle just before the heaviest drenching of stinging filth began to fall. Looking across the garage, he noted with relief that Smith-Grenville's car was covered and protected as well.

“This way!” One of the men shouted, holding up a hand to shield his eyes. “There's a side door, sir!”

It wasn't locked, and Matthew gave a roar of pure relief when he half-fell from the opening into the unsullied air beyond the hangar wall. Hacking and swearing, he and his ad hoc companions pushed their way through the confused masses nearest the building, until they hit a clearing several yards off.

“Coated in . . . we're coated in horse shit!” The mechanic was so offended he forgot to beg Matthew's pardon.

“I believe it's cow shit,” Matthew corrected him, staring at his own clothing in dismay. He had rather liked the crisp, pale linen suit and the waistcoat of robin's-egg blue figured silk he'd chosen to wear that morning. He would certainly never wear them again. Served him right for not donning a coverall the second he walked into the garage.

“Oh aye, cow,” the second mechanic concurred in a Yorkshire burr. “Burnt enough of the stuff on t'fire back home to know.”

Matthew frowned, trying to clear his head through the fug of stench and confusion. “That's right. Our gamekeeper used dung chips for his stove too. And from the sting and fumes, I think this has had some ethyl or other alcohol added to thin it out. One good spark in there now and . . .”

His eyes met the Yorkshireman's in a moment of perfect understanding and horror, and as one they bolted back toward the hangar.

“Water!” Matthew screamed to anyone who would listen. “We need water!”

A pair of policemen, evidently rerouted from the front entrance, blocked the way back in; Matthew nearly bounced off the larger one in his haste to get through the door.

“Nobody goes—eugh!” Large as he was, the man quailed before the mighty aroma of Matthew's ruined suit.

“It's flammable,” Matthew said firmly, hoping like hell he seemed like a person in charge. “Flammable. One match could blow the place up, cars and all. We need water, now!”

“Flammable—holy mother of God!”

Within moments the swell of motion had turned, as pails materialized and onlookers rushed in to help the mechanics who dashed back in to save their cars from an even worse fate. Knowing both his own and Eliza's steam cars were fairly well-protected, Matthew threw his hand in where he could, helping throw soaked blankets over other steam cars and moving a barricade to allow the firemen access once they finally arrived.

“Fire!” The first cry went up from the back of the hangar, closest to the scaffold of catwalks and stairways that enclosed the offices.

The Yorkshire mechanic pulled something off the nearest wall and pelted for the rear of the building, Matthew hot on his heels. When the man passed him a cool glass orb, he stared at it in puzzlement, nearly tripping over a bundle of hoses in his blind rush. Smoke had started to curl off a pile of oil-stained rags along the wall, and licks of flame were already attempting to jump to the wall itself.

Just as the Yorkshireman flung his own orb at the floor next to the rags, Matthew realized what the glass ball must be. He aimed his a bit higher, toward the top of the rag pile where it met the wall, and shouted in triumph as the breaking glass released its powdery contents and the fire began to peter out.

An emergency chemical fire extinguisher, self-contained and at the ready. Now that he knew what they were, Matthew noticed the orbs in sconces at regular intervals along the walls.

“How did you know?” He asked the mechanic as they moved back, making room for the bucket brigade. “I thought those were some sort of lamps.”

The man shrugged, bashful in the face of direct questioning. “Airship mechanic. A hangar this size, extinguishers are always to hand. I know a bit about steam cars as well. I suppose Mr. Hardison thought I'd be of use.”

“And so you were,” Matthew said, extending his hand. “Tell me your name.”

“Roger Brearley, sir.”

“Mr. Brearley, I'm going to sing your praises to Mr. Hardison. Without your quick thinking I believe this would've been a disaster.”

Brearley grinned and lifted his arm, pointing to his sleeve which—like everything else in the hangar—was drenched with evilly pungent slime. “An even bigger disaster, you mean, sir.”

Matthew frowned down at his own clothing, then surveyed the vast room where order was slowly beginning to win out over the chaos. With the immediate threat of fire averted, the sharp edge of panic dulled, but the dawning dismay at the magnitude of the damage was equally apparent. The smell would have been unimaginable . . . if he'd only been attempting to imagine it. He didn't see how things could possibly be set to rights in time for the scheduled start of the race in the morning.

“Bloody hell.”

O
NE
E
NGLISH COMPETITOR
, one French entrant and the sole driver from China were sitting on the sidelines at the race start, and Eliza was fervently thankful she was not among them. Their steam cars were irredeemably soiled, as they had all featured jaunty soft tops that happened to be open at the time of the sabotage. One Dominion driver had also been affected, but his sponsor had come through with a replacement vehicle just in time for the starting lineup. The rest of the steam cars had been cleaned up, though most of them had suffered cosmetic damage. The lineup was not nearly as bright and colorful as it should have been.

That it had been sabotage was clear. The liquefied manure solution was obviously calculated to do the most damage possible, even if the fire were thwarted. No culprit had been found, however, and the race's sponsors had agreed that the incident should not derail the event.

“You can say it, you know,” Eliza said to Matthew as they waited with the other drivers to walk out to the starting line. The bank building off Tryon Square, where the race was set to start, was crowded with sponsors and luminaries. As cultured as the throng was, Eliza still had to raise her voice to be heard over the babble. Matthew leaned closer to listen and she caught a whiff of his shaving lotion, an unexpectedly warm and spicy note from a man she thought of as neither of those things. She scolded herself for liking the way he smelled.

“I can say what?” he half-shouted.

“That the sabotage means it's all too dangerous for a little thing like me.”

He pulled back and shrugged. “It was already too dangerous for a little thing like you.”

“I'm just surprised the incident didn't prompt further lectures.” In truth, Eliza had almost looked forward to the challenge of arguing with Matthew about her continued right and qualifications to participate in the rally. Over the weeks they'd spent training in tandem at Hardison House, she'd grown accustomed to the regular infusion of righteous indignation those conversations afforded her. His failure to renew the battle in the face of these new circumstances had been vaguely disappointing.

Although she hadn't been there for the horrific spraying of flammable cow dung, Eliza had seen—and smelled—the aftermath, and assisted in the cleanup effort. She couldn't fail to notice that most of the other drivers eyed her and Matthew with a chilly suspicion, as their two vehicles had escaped relatively unscathed. Thanks largely to Matthew's efforts, Eliza's steam car gleamed as brightly as ever this morning, a rosy beacon against the field of scoured and hastily rewaxed competitors. Thanks to the color choice, the press had already labeled her “The Scarlet Woman,” much to her mother's mortification. She'd received a number of telegrams from home, upon her arrival at the hotel, elaborating on that theme. Eliza's protests that the color was amaranth, not remotely scarlet, had thus far fallen on deaf ears. The reporters continued to use the epithet, and her mother continued to scold her from across the state and beg her to reconsider participating in her cousin's “mad scheme.” At least the latter concern would become moot the moment the race began.

“It's not my job to lecture you now,” Matthew said with a somewhat devious smile that Eliza hadn't seen before. “It's my job to win the race.”

“It's your job to beat
me
, you mean. Fair enough.”

“Do you think beating you would have any more effect than lecturing you? I suppose I could put you over my knee, in that case. It's unorthodox, but I'm certainly willing to give it a go if you are.”

She started to respond, then gasped as his words and the attendant imagery registered. Matthew coughed into his gloved fist and looked away, but not before she saw the sparkle in his eye.

“You're strangely cheerful this morning.”

“I'm excited,” he demurred.

“I'm excited too. But aren't you worried about the saboteur?”

“Of course. Not as worried as I'll be if he starts targeting drivers instead of vehicles, however. There's always the chance the sabotage was meant to end with the . . . fertilizer. That was certainly bad enough to knock several cars out of the running. The fire might have been an unfortunate coincidence.”

“You don't believe that.”

He opened his mouth to reply and was cut off by the clanging bell that alerted the crowd it was time to meet the drivers. As the peals died down, Matthew turned toward Eliza and stepped closer, clasping her upper arms. “It's true, I don't believe that. I told myself I wouldn't say this again, but as it's my last opportunity,
please
don't do this. It's not worth the risk, Eliza.”

She should have shrugged his hands off, or even slapped them away, but despite her anger she took comfort in the almost-embrace. Because she was anxious, doubly so since the sabotage, Pence's words may have grated but his hands were gentle and warm. His eyes were cool, however, and almost glittering. Flecks of pale green and icy blue muddled the crystalline gray and seemed to catch the light. Why had she never noticed before how odd Pence's eyes were? Not that it mattered in the slightest, she reminded herself firmly.

“Why is it not worth the risk for me, but worth it for you, Matthew?”

“Because you're—”

“Don't.” Eliza lifted her chin, daring him to continue. He met her gaze with a stormy frown. “Think, really
think
about what you were going to say just then, Matthew. Think how if the roles were reversed, you would find it ridiculous, offensively ludicrous. And know that you sound every bit as ridiculous and offensive to me. I don't need your condescension. I'm not your little sister.”

His frown deepened, along with his voice. “You have no idea how aware I am that you are not my sister, Eliza. I'm perfectly aware that you're—”

“Drivers to the start,” a voice boomed over the loudspeakers outside, and Eliza yanked herself out of Matthew's grip. She marched out of the building before he could recover his poise.

 • • • 

“A
WOMAN,”
M
ATTHEW
finished as he watched Eliza walk out onto the red carpet that bisected the crowded square.

It was what he would have said, but not what he meant. Had he thought about it,
really
thought, as she'd exhorted him to? Of course he had, but he couldn't see any way around it. He wanted Eliza out of the race to protect her, not because she was a woman but because she was
the
woman.

Matthew had always considered himself an enlightened sort of fellow, supporting universal suffrage, women's property rights, equality in general. In theory, he believed in all those things. In practice, he now realized he believed them mostly with respect to theoretical women. Servants and millworkers and machinists, typists and cryptologists and doctors. Women other than Eliza, for whom he instead felt a protective urge so ferocious it alarmed him. His other urges toward her were at least an expected part of his physiology. He wanted to keep her safe so he could have her all to himself and do wicked things to her.

He hadn't recognized it four years ago, that instant and inappropriate reaction. He'd been too young and still too likely to react physically in the presence of any reasonably attractive female; all his other irrational responses to Eliza seemed only to stem from that root source. Those responses had bothered him, made him inclined to argue and fret, because he was normally easygoing, steady and reliable, and liked being so; he didn't know what to do with all those unpredictable sensations and the prickles of guilt that so often accompanied them.

She'd also been barely nineteen, his employer's cousin, a shrill harpy obviously headed for a future as a domineering virago and determined to drive him mad with her insistence on playing with dangerous equipment every time his back was turned. Wholly out of the running for anything resembling romantic consideration. And yet . . . Eliza was a shrew, but a lissome one, and debating her got his blood roiling. So of course his heart pounded whenever she hove into view.

Or so he'd reasoned back then. Now, with the perspective of a few more years and a bit more experience, he knew enough to be concerned that he still jumped like a green schoolboy when he caught a whiff of her perfume or spotted her across a room. He was mooning over the girl, and it just wouldn't do. Wouldn't do at all. She was not a woman over whom he could allow himself to moon.

“Best of luck, Mr. Pence,” a smooth voice intoned at his shoulder as he finally made his way through the door. Squinting against the sudden sunlight, Matthew turned and caught a glare of gold on a lapel, a hazy impression of dark hair beneath a tall hat and a face that was too long and too smug to sit comfortably on anyone.

“Lord Orm,” Matthew replied with a nod, never slowing his pace. The prickling sensation of wrongness struck him again, and he recalled the unease he'd felt the previous day at spotting Orm with one of the drivers. That driver was still in the race—his sponsor had been the one to come up with a last-minute replacement—but Orm still felt like an ill portent there behind Matthew, watching him as he approached his car to take his post position. Matthew resisted the urge to turn and see if the man really was following him with his gaze.

The red carpet ended abruptly at the line of cars, two abreast, all stoked up and pointed west. Mechanics swarmed each vehicle, bristling with spanners and polishing cloths, a few with metallurgic lenses leaning close to boiler casings to assure themselves their precious steamers showed no signs of metal fatigue from previous adventures.

The morning was crisp, a late spring chill nipping at Matthew's face. But the cloud of heat from the double row of boilers surrounded him like a thick fog when he stepped between the cars and walked up the line. He passed Barnabas Smith-Grenville on the way and noted he looked slightly green around the gills. Nerves, probably. His shocking blue car had held up well to the previous night's vigorous scrubbing. Waving, Matthew continued past his friend's vehicle and toward his own. He had drawn a good position, third back on the right. He would be able to study the cars ahead to spot any adverse road conditions early, but still be ahead of the bulk of the field.

And ahead of Eliza Hardison's car by two ranks. At least he wouldn't be distracted by the sight of her in front of him.

This time he looked behind him to see if he was being watched, and he wasn't disappointed. Eliza's eyes met his for a long moment over the intervening vehicles before she gave him a solemn nod and turned away to consult with one of her mechanics—Brearley, the one who'd been so instrumental in stopping yesterday's fire. Eliza was in good hands, then, but he thought she looked pale. Tense. Not quite as bad as Barnabas. Matthew knew he probably looked the same.

And he probably hadn't helped Eliza's mood any, he realized, with his stubborn insistence on lecturing her. He'd known she was determined. He'd known she had the right, as any woman past the age of majority did these days, to choose her own course of action.

His task now wasn't to protect her, except in the sense that Dexter had charged him, to support her if she needed it and keep away any unwanted male attention. No, it was simply to defeat her. In order to prove himself in this brave new world of industry, to win enough capital to start his own enterprise and begin building his own future, he
must
defeat her. He must defeat them all, and Eliza was no exception.

 • • • 

H
ER HANDS COULDN'T
tremble if she gripped the steering wheel hard enough. Eliza wound her fingers around the leather and hung on, forcing herself to breathe slowly. She hadn't laced very tightly that morning, knowing she'd be sitting all day, but the corset still prevented her from breathing as deeply as she had the urge to. It couldn't be helped; she needed the corset in order to wear the crisp white military-cut driving suit with the burgundy trim, the only possible choice for this morning's appearance. She would simply have to put up with the consequences of her fashion decision.

“No time to be dizzy,” she admonished herself.

“Sorry, miss?” the mechanic piped up. Eliza had forgotten the window was open.

“Nothing, Mr. Brearley. Just starting-line jitters. Almost time for you all to step back now, the countdown will begin any moment.”

Her voice, at least, was strong. The experience of delivering lectures in the face of scorn had trained her not to let her nerves affect her speech.

“Copy of the ready checklist in the side pocket of yon balloon case, Miss Hardison.”

“Yes, I remember.” She gave the usually steady Yorkshireman a smile. “You sound more nervous than I do, Brearley. Things will go fine. The steam car is sound, and you know the airship is in tip-top shape.”

The loudspeaker boomed, and Brearley took a step away from the steamer's door. “Aye, but I won't be there to assure myself of that. You'll keep the cases locked and the keys on your person until the air leg, miss?”