A Conspiracy of Alchemists: Book One in the Chronicles of Light and Shadow (6 page)

“It’s not polite to stare, you know,” he drawled after a few minutes.

Elle bit her lip. He’d caught her. Again. To hide her embarrassment, she pulled the travel rug on her lap around her and closed her eyes, quietly grateful that her glowing cheeks would not be that obvious in the dark.

He chuckled softly.

He would need watching. She would have to keep her eye on him every step of the way, she thought as the rocking of the car lulled her into an exhausted sleep.

CHAPTER 7

Marsh watched Elle sleep, wrapped up in a mohair travel rug. Vivienne Chance’s daughter. He only made the connection once they were in the air. And with her surname as plain as it was before him.

She was a difficult woman, monstrously stubborn, with a tongue as sharp to match. But he had to admit there was something about her.

He studied the fine curve of her nose. She was very pretty. He bristled at the thought. He’d learned his lessons on the subject of beautiful women well enough. And bitter lessons they were; bitter enough for him to know better.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to drive away the tiredness that was threatening to swallow him whole. The loss of the box was a blow to their cause. He should never have allowed Patrice to deviate from their plan. And now he had to deal with the added complication of this woman.

Elle shifted position and nestled her head against the leather of the seat in search of a more comfortable spot. A few strands of her hair had worked their way out of the low knot at the base of her neck. They were draped across her cheek as she slept, gently moving in the breeze that the motor stirred up. Marsh resisted the urge to lift them out of the way.

Careful not to wake her, he placed his bare fingers against her temple and focused his energies on her. As a general rule, he had serious moral objections to using his abilities on people. It was not the way of the Brotherhood, but he needed to make sure this was really Vivienne’s daughter. And this was the quickest way. He felt the tiny facial muscles under her skin relax beneath his fingertips. Then he closed his own eyes and allowed himself to drift away as he synchronized his mind with the velvety luxury of her sleep patterns.

He felt a sudden shift. He drew back in surprise and stared at his fingers. They were tingling. He reached out and touched her temple again. A jolt of energy crackled under his fingertips. She was pushing him away. In her sleep.

Marsh blinked in the dark. Was it even possible? After all these years? He sat back in his seat and stared out before him; his mind reeling with the implications of what he had discovered. Forget the Ministry. They were a bunch of impotent bureaucrats. He needed to speak to the Council about this. But first he needed more proof. And extracting it was going to be a delicate task, if today was anything to go by.

He rubbed his eyes again. This mess was becoming more complicated by the minute.

When they reached the outskirts of the town of Windsor, they stopped to refill the water tanks.

“She all right?” Patrice asked. He had a smoldering cigar clasped between his lips as he helped Marsh haul the hoses and the hand pump out from the hatch behind the boot.

“Fine. She’s asleep. It’s been a long day.”

They dragged the hoses to the canal.

“You picked her for more than her flying skills, didn’t you? What are you not telling me, Patrice?”

His companion just shrugged as he puffed at his ubiquitous little black cigar, in a very Gallic, “I have no idea what you are on about” gesture. Patrice could be a stubborn bugger when he wanted to be. “Word on the street is that she has talents other than flying freight. I thought it might be fun if we used her. And she has a pretty face. I thought you might like that. It’s not my fault she didn’t take to you.”

“We both know that’s not what this is about.”

Patrice’s eyes glittered sharp for a moment in the light of the lantern. “Why? Have you found something?” Somewhere in the distance an owl called out in the black night.

“I’m not certain,” Marsh said.

“So you did find something in her.”

“Perhaps. I can’t tell for sure.”

“Then we should find out. This could be important.”

“All in good time. I’m not about to wake our young lady on the suspicion that she might be special. I think I have faced her temper enough times for one day. There is always tomorrow.”

“If you say so.” Patrice shrugged and they cranked water into the tank in silence for a few moments.

“You think he’s home?” He inclined his chin in the direction of looming shape of Windsor Castle, darker against the night sky in the distance.

“He,
mon ami,
should be referred to as his majesty, the King of England. And no, I believe the King has already left for his annual visit to his favorite spa in Switzerland. His majesty adheres to a very regular routine.” Marsh closed the water tank with more force than was strictly necessary. “That should do it, don’t you think?”

Patrice puffed at the last of his cigarette and flicked it aside. The butt glowed orange where it fell in the wet grass.

They rolled up the dripping hoses and stored them in the compartment under the steam car.

“Here, let me have a go. You’ve been driving for hours and I’m bored in the back,” Marsh said.

Patrice shrugged and settled in the front passenger seat, next to Marsh. He pulled his hat over his eyes and flipped his coat collar up against the crisp night air. Marsh took hold of the steering lever, engaged the gears and eased the accelerator lever forward. The spark reactor glowed and the automobile trundled off into the night.

CHAPTER 8

The famous spires of Oxford glimmered through the morning haze shortly after eight o’clock that morning. Elle straightened up from underneath her travel blanket and looked about. The morning sun flickered on the river and bounced off damp leaves as they passed Iffley Lock and the part of the river they called the Isis. Her spirits rose; she would be home soon.

“Good morning.” Marsh turned round from where he was sitting in the front passenger seat and smiled at her. Dark stubble covered his chin.

“Oh, good morning. Have I slept the whole way?” She straightened her shirt and tucked her hair back into its knot.

“The whole way.” Patrice said over his shoulder without taking his hands off the steering lever.

“Did we stop?”

“Indeed we did. Twice. You even missed the part where I drove,” Marsh said. “But if you’d oblige us with a few directions, we shall stop for a third time to deliver you home safe and sound.”

Soon the steam car pulled up outside the house she shared with her father. Situated on the outskirts of town, it was a new house as far as houses in Oxford went. It had been built in the style the King’s mother, Queen Victoria, had favored some thirty years before. Elle loved the redbrick front and the white stonework around the windows. It reminded her of the gingerbread houses one saw around Christmastime.

“Pull into the coach yard behind the house, if you don’t mind,” she said. “It will be easier to turn the car around that way.”

The steam car shook to a halt on the gravel behind the house. It hissed as Patrice released the steam in the engine pressure tanks. Startled by the noise, a fat wood pigeon flew off the lead-roofed spire, an acknowledgment of their arrival at a house that was otherwise silent.

Elle stretched her back as she stepped onto gravel. Her body ached all over from sleeping upright. She stopped mid-stretch and gripped Marsh by the arm.

“What?” he said.

She raised a finger to her lips for them to be silent and pointed at the back door. It was ajar.

“Something’s wrong,” she whispered.

Marsh motioned for her and Patrice to take up positions on either side of the door frame. The sound of gravel crunching underfoot as they tried to be quiet was excruciating.

The brickwork pressed against Elle’s back as she flattened herself to the wall. Marsh leaned forward and pushed the door with his boot. The old wooden door creaked open to reveal a patch of red tile kitchen floor.

Silence. The house was quiet … and dark.

Elle held her breath in an attempt to still her heart as it hammered against the inside of her rib cage. She craned her neck forward to get a better look, but Marsh pushed her back against the wall. His hand felt heavy and warm against her stomach. Silently he mouthed the word
stay.

With slow, deliberate movements, the two men entered the kitchen.

Seconds ticked by in time with the pulse of blood through Elle’s veins.

A woman screamed, followed by flash of light and a loud metallic clang that ended the silence.

“Oh my goodness—Mrs. Hinges!” Elle ran into the kitchen.

Patrice was on his knees on the floor, holding the side of his head. Marsh stood over Mrs. Hinges, who was armed with a large cast-iron frying pan.

“No, don’t hurt her!” Elle shouted.

Everyone looked at her.

“Eleanor!” Mrs. Hinges pushed Marsh out of the way and folded Elle into a big hug that pressed the pan handle into Elle’s back. “Oh, my darling girl, I’ve been beside myself with worry. Thank heavens you are all safe. Now, get away from us, you devils!” Up went the frying pan to its former defensive position.

“There is no need for any of that.” Elle disentangled herself from Mrs. Hinges and pushed the frying pan down. “Mr. Marsh over there was kind enough to bring me all the way home from the airfield. I’m so sorry to have startled you. What on earth is going on here? Why is the house so dark?”

“Get back, I say!” Mrs. Hinges glared at the men with wild eyes. Her long salt-and-pepper hair was hanging down her back in a braid and her normally immaculate starched apron was stained and crumpled.

Elle gave Marsh a warning look. “I think we should all take a moment to calm down, don’t you?”

Marsh nodded at Patrice and they both took a step back.

“Mrs. Hinges, this is Mr. Marsh—I mean Viscount Greychester—and this is Patrice Chevalier, my docking agent and his lordship’s man.”

The older woman’s eyebrows shot up and the frying pan wavered.

“Gentlemen, may I present Mrs. Mathilda Hinges, our housekeeper and dear friend.”

“Ah, the unrivaled queen of shortbread biscuits. How do you do, madam.” Marsh bowed politely.

Mrs. Hinges nodded at Patrice suspiciously and turned to Marsh.

“How do you do, my lord.” Her free hand fluttered to the base of her neck and she bobbed an unsteady curtsey.

She turned to Elle and gave her a stern look. “Eleanor, what on earth are you doing, bringing important guests into the house through the back door, like thieves? Do you realize that I could have killed them?”

“I’m sure you could have. But why were you hiding in the kitchen armed with the frying pan?”

In answer, tears welled up and collected in the crinkles around the older woman’s eyes. “Oh, it was terrible. I’ve not slept a wink all night. They came into the house after midnight and took him. You know how he likes to work late sometimes. Grabbed him out of his study. I was fast asleep when— the commotion woke me.” She wiped at her face.

Elle frowned. “Who? Who came?”

“Oh, they were like devils, they were. All wrapped up in cloaks.” She eyed Marsh’s carriage cloak. “They came into the house through the front door and grabbed the professor, right where he was in his study. They didn’t even let him put on his coat.” She sniffed and rubbed her eyes.

“My father has been abducted?”

“Constable Pierce only left about an hour ago. A proper case has been opened and everything, but what do the local lads know about such a crime? This is the work of Shadow, I tell you.” She shook her head and set the frying pan down on the kitchen table. “What has the world come to that we’re not even safe in our own beds anymore? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“No!” Elle strode past Mrs. Hinges ,through the kitchen and into the house. She tore up the stairs, flinging open doors on the second floor until she reached the professor’s bedroom. The bed was made. No one had slept in it.

She bounded down the stairs and into her father’s study. It too was empty. The professor’s chair lay on its side and books and papers were scattered across the parquet floor.

Shock enveloped Elle like a wet wool blanket and she sank to her knees. The others found her there a few minutes later.

“Oh, my dear girl. I’m so sorry. I should have watched over him more carefully.” Mrs. Hinges put her arm around Elle.

Marsh spoke. “Mrs. Hinges, Miss Chance is currently in my charge and so it falls to me to assist in these circumstances.” There was quiet authority in his voice.

Mrs. Hinges rubbed her eyes again. “In your charge? But I don’t understand.”

“It’s all a silly misunderstanding. Nothing to be concerned over.
Mr.
Marsh

was just about to leave,” Elle said.

“On the contrary. I think my stay here has just begun,” Marsh said.

“I said, you are leaving.”

“And I said I am not going anywhere—not until I know what has happened here.”

They glared at one other. Neither blinked.

“Perhaps we should hear what his lordship thinks,” Mrs. Hinges said.

“I don’t really care what he thinks. This is none of his business.”

“Oh, but I think it is,” he said. “And since I so recently find myself in charge of a certain freight ship, currently moored in Croydon,” There was a dangerous edge to his voice.

“Eleanor. Where are your manners?” said Mrs. Hinges, now fully composed. “And if you are going to insist on wearing that terrible shirt, at least make sure that it is tucked in properly.”

Elle suppressed a sigh as she straightened her shirt. Mrs. Hinges was a formidable woman; there was no arguing with her once her mind was made up. And it wouldn’t hurt to have Mr. Marsh where she could keep an eye on him. “Very well, you can stay. But don’t get too comfortable.”

“Oh, I will do my best not to.” Marsh gave her one of his irritating little smiles.

Mrs. Hinges straightened her apron, fished a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. “Well, gentlemen, I had better take your coats, then. Perhaps a spot of breakfast is called for. You must be hungry after your long journey. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the guest rooms, where you may wash up. This way, if you please.”

Elle glared at Marsh as he followed Mrs. Hinges from the room. But she had her ship to think of and so she would have to play his strange little game a little longer.

“Don’t worry, little one. I am here to help. I won’t let him take the
Water Lily,
you have my word on that,” Patrice whispered as he walked past.

“Thank you. You are a gallant and true friend,” Elle said. “It’s good to know that I have someone I can rely on.”