Phoenix Rising (11 page)

He wanted to give her that “cold archivist's stare” of his, but that would have meant looking down towards the heaving bosoms. His voice was a half-octave higher as he stammered, “That's a rather personal question, don't you think, Miss Braun?”

Eliza continued as if she didn't notice a thing. “When was the last time you felt your heart race, your blood flow, or simply found yourself completely reliant on your wits to see yourself to the next morning? When was the last time you
lived
?”

Eliza's warmth against him was so distracting that he was struck dumb.

Her lips, as soft-looking as warm velvet, parted as she whispered, “When was the last time you did that, Welly? Really
felt
alive?”

He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the smell of lilacs that emanated from her skin. For reasons that currently escaped him, his earlier allergic reaction to her scent failed him now. Damnation. “The day I joined a complete stranger for tea. She was a beautiful woman, Miss Braun. Eyes like emeralds. Skin like silk. Quite striking.”

“And?”

“The following week I woke up in the hold of an airship, en route to Antarctica.”

Braun nodded. “Well then, that explains quite a bit now, doesn't it?”

“What? That the last time I followed the lead of a beautiful woman, it was a poor choice?”

Her devious smile softened a bit, then Braun reached up and lightly flicked the end of his nose. “It's all the time you spent in the Archives. Alone. You need to know how to think fast so you don't end up in the situation I met you in. You, my dear colleague in cataloging, sorting, and shelving, need to remember what it means to
live
.”

Abruptly she released him, stepping back, withdrawing her heady warmth. Wellington had to take a moment to regain the shreds of his composure. When he looked up he realised she was actually beckoning him to follow her. “Come on, Welly. Let's go have some fun.”

He could still smell her perfume, and Wellington found it conjured mixed emotions. One of those mixed emotions was ruin. He knew there was no way he could convince her to return to the Archives. Not now. What was more, the whiff of perfume had quite derailed his own logical process. Perhaps that was the reason, and the longer he caught a whiff of her scent or felt her warmth, he never would. For some reason Wellington Thornhill Books found he could not muster the wherewithal to deny her anything.

Best not to let her know that.

CHAPTER EIGHT
In Which Our Daring Agents of the Ministry
Share a Quiet Drink and Discover a Hidden Clue

E
liza wondered if Wellington's façade was starting to show the odd crack or two. He'd allowed himself to be ushered into a cab and driven north towards Fleet Street with never a comment passing his lips—though he couldn't have failed to notice that they were venturing into the city proper. This wasn't a quick pop down to the local establishment. They were crammed up against each other in the narrow confines of the hansom cab, and Eliza only just managed to avoid taking his arm in a tight embrace. It would have been priceless to see the expression such an action would have engendered, but she would not dare further intimacy. Rubbing up against him had been utterly inappropriate, and somehow dangerous at the same time. Eliza always enjoyed the thrill of shocking the opposite sex. It was part of her nature that had amused Harry a great deal. Pushing manners to teeter on the precipice was where she found an equal euphoria to that of demolitions and covert operations, and Wellington sometimes resembled a pom caricature—full-of-fuss-and-feathers. Watching him squirm did blunt the serrated edge of her punishment slightly.

The danger, though, came from one undeniable fact that Wellington Books, while still a bit stuffy, was hardly unpleasant in his carriage and demeanor. Her antics in the alleyway had also heated her skin and even teased her most intimate of places. Had it been
that
long since she'd pressed against an attractive man? As Wellington preoccupied himself with where they were heading, Eliza closed her eyes and pushed back the lingering sensations. Perhaps seeing Harry had unearthed old spirits.

Her inappropriate enjoyment she would keep to herself. Yes, that would be best.

Eliza glanced over her shoulder and loosed a wink at Wellington, receiving a crooked eyebrow in response. There was another danger, at least nagging in the back of her brain, in having the inexperienced Books along for this particular adventure. His world was a world of parchments, relics, and statistics. However, this was her lead, and some wicked part of her enjoyed the fact that she had the very proper Archivist along for the ride—all unknowing, opening his idealistic eyes to the real world behind his ancient baubles. Having him in plain sight was also much better than having him crop up at some inopportune time.

She afforded him a smile. Eliza had not considered the ETS, and Books had been resourceful enough to get his hands on a tracker. Out of the corner of her blue eyes, Eliza watched him, silently cataloguing her own question concerning that little feat.
More than you appear, aren't you, Agent Books? I shall have to find out one day how deep that rabbit hole goes.

They reached Fleet Street, and Eliza rapped on the roof to tell the driver that this was far enough. After paying him through the hatch in the roof, she led Books out onto the pavement. She couldn't resist taking him by the arm and leading him down the little alley to their detour from the Archives: Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. The little cheery sign above the door caused Books to stop and actually cock his head. It was so like a confused spaniel that Eliza had to stifle a laugh.

“A very interesting and literary choice of pub, Miss Braun,” he commented.

Ah, so he was going to display his vaunted intellect and make her look like a complete fool once again. Well, time to turn that one on its head. “Oh you mean Dickens and Johnson—or perhaps the Poet Laureate himself, Mr. Tennyson? Yes, I believe they have all imbibed here. Why Books—not frightened off by a few wordsmiths, are you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Certainly not. Miss Braun. This is merely not the type of place I would have thought you frequented.”

Eliza knew the comment had not meant to be cruel, but she bristled nonetheless. “Contrary to popular belief not all of us colonials are without culture, but perhaps tonight I will show you something that we are good at: Drinking.”
This is it
, she decided,
I am going to humble this dusty man, blow out a few of his cobwebs. He's not that old. Time he remembers it.

Another little part of her mind whispered,
And wouldn't it be fun to find out what lies underneath the veneer?

The inside of the Cheese was deep brown wood paneling, smoke, and suddenly hushed conversation. Its occupants were, as in most pubs in the respectable areas of London, all male. Eliza was used to the eyes of men being on her—sometimes with lust, sometimes with disapproval—sometimes with both. Yes, today it was most definitely both.

“Miss Braun,” Wellington whispered at her back, “Perhaps this isn't a good choice of drinking establishment. These are all journalists, not used to the company of a lady . . .”

Eliza's jaw tightened, and by the gods she wished for dynamite and a knife. In lieu of that she took off her shawl, displaying her other arsenal, the one that got her into as much trouble as the aforementioned physical weapons. She was rewarded with an indrawn breath from Wellington as he caught sight of her sharply drawn-in corset.

“Good God, Miss Braun, did you wear that in Bedlam?” He only wrenched with difficulty his gaze from her curving bosom.

Eliza laughed. For such an analytical man he really was sadly lacking in a clue. “I do know better than to taunt the mad with what they cannot have. I kept my shawl there.”

“Yet everyone else is fair game?”

Her reply was a wicked-through-and-through grin. Books was a man of letters, fully capable of drawing his own conclusion.

“Now,” Eliza went on firmly, while looking around for just the right spot to sit. “You get the drinks in, I'll find us a table.” She made for one in the corner, providing the best view of the room, including the door.

“Miss.” The gruff voice of the publican behind the bar cut through the near deathly silence. “I think you'll be wanting that one.” He gestured to a large round table by the fire, set away from the rest of the patrons. A small lidded box served as a modest centrepiece for its leather top.

While its location sated the agent in her, Eliza's pub patron frowned a little at the table's isolation. She went to protest when she noticed the barkeep's eyes were on her bosom. It was not a leer or any sort of lust-filled gaze. Her fingertips itched and she only just stopped herself from touching Harry's locket.

“This will, indeed, do nicely,” she said with as much lightness as she could muster.

Wellington snorted, his eyes looking from table to table. Finally accepting his evening at the Cheshire Cheese, he asked, “What can I get you then, Miss Braun?”

“Beer. Lots and lots of beer.”

The newspapermen, some dressed rather shabbily, some in the height of fashion, followed her progress to the table, their eyes never leaving her generous cleavage. Harry would have called what she was doing foolhardy, but attention was her intent. The time for sensible, subtle action had passed long ago.

With the publican's recommendation, the brazen tactic led her to this particular table for a reason. A sweep of her eyes assured her that Books was struggling to be noticed by the barmaid, while her boss continued cleaning glasses and staring at the newcomers as surreptitiously as he could out of the corner of his eye. Eliza took her seat, and ran her fingers along the lid of the table's centerpiece. No lock. A hint of dust that she rubbed between her thumb and forefinger. Inside the box was a set of playing cards. The pattern on the set's back was not one she was familiar with. Was it a falcon, or an eagle?

“A Phoenix,” Books had made his return more rapidly than Eliza would have thought possible. He was carrying a pint literally overflowing with good dark stout and a chipped glass of something resembling white wine—either that or vinegar. He placed them carefully down on the table and took a seat next to her. “Not one of the usual designs for playing cards.”

So now he was a connoisseur of the deck?
Really—let's see how well you know your stuff!
Eliza hid her examination of the deck beneath a bit of flourish. The one-handed Charlier cut, where the top cards were adroitly folded beneath the bottom ones, caused Books' eyebrow to rise a good inch. It was childish, but Eliza smiled.

“Quite familiar with cards then?” Books quipped, “I shall have to remember that.”

“You try spending months on a ship from New Zealand with no other entertainment. A lovely American taught me a thing . . .” She grinned at the memory, “. . . or two.” The cards paused in her hands, and then she chuckled. “No, three.”

A quick movement of her fingers, and she laid the line of cards in a ribbon spread, then flicked them back and forth, letting the faces of the cards flip up and then back a few times.

“A pity one is missing,” Books observed, and she had to stop her flourish to realise he was right. “The Queen of Hearts,” the Archivist went on, seemingly unaware of her sudden stillness.

“Nice catch, Welly,” she said, taking a good long drink to steady herself.

The din of arguing journalists and camaraderie continued around Eliza but she was a statue. She stared at the fifty-one cards splayed out, her mind racing at what this meant. The pendant and Harry's ramblings of “mice in a maze” made sense, but when he said, “
I've found her, and now you have too . . .”
she thought was in reference to the Cheshire Cat. Was he referring to the Queen of Hearts? She needed time to figure it out.

Her deductive reasoning came to a quick halt on looking up at Books. He was tracing the base of his wineglass. He looked as she pictured herself in the Archives. “Why aren't you drinking, Welly?” Was her company that despicable to him?

Books cleared his throat and looked a little shamefaced. “Did you not hear me the previous times I've mentioned it? This,” he said, motioning to the activity around him, “is how I got into trouble last time.”

Eliza smiled into her beer. “Go on—tell me about her—this vixen that got you with a simple honey-trap.”

The Archivist shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I would rather forget her.” Yet he appeared unable to do that, at least for now. He made no effort to mask how unsettled it made him. Finally Wellington took a sip of his wine. His face went very pale, before he carefully put down the glass. “Another problem, the barkeep is mixing his bathwater with the wine.”

Choking back a laugh, Eliza gestured for the barmaid to bring them another pint of stout.

“If you must know,” he grumbled, “she was forward, quite like yourself; but her gift of conversation astounded me. I felt as if we could really talk about anything.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Oh, advancements in science, the latest airship designs of Europe—she was Italian, did I mention that?—and the social impact Babbage and his lot could have never forse—”

“You really know how to engage the ladies, don't you, Books?”

His skin blushed, and he took a sip of the stout that had appeared in front of him. “No, Miss Braun, I do not.”

That confession caught her off guard as a bludger from the shadows.

“I am solely responsible for the choices I make in life.”

Eliza was not certain if that was his conviction or if he was trying to assure himself of this. She held her tongue as he continued, “I chose a career in the Archives for reasons that, I still believe, were right and best. But this recent turn of events, including your presence across my desk, has me wondering where I went wrong.”

“You took a chance,” she offered.

He nodded, defeated. “That I did.”

Eliza's bark caused him to start. “So because some gammy tart pulled a flam on you, you're thinking yourself the Ministry's glock?”

He rapped a single knuckle against the table in reply. “No need to speak so common, Miss Braun.”

“From what it sounds like, Books, you have been working too hard for Queen and Empire. You're forgetting that there's a world out here to experience.”

“I experience plenty, Miss Braun.”

“Really then?” Eliza took a long draught, and then deliberately licked the white foam clear of her lips. “So tell me, Wellington Thornhill Books, Esquire, what
do
you do for fun?”

Wellington blinked at her. Whether he was knocked back by the unexpected nature of her forwardness or the stout's bitterness, it was hard to tell. “I don't think that is an appropriate question.”

Eliza let out a little sigh. Perhaps the cracks in his façade were only wishful thinking. “Look, Welly, I'm serving a yeoman's office. We could be stuck with each other for a long time, or we could get killed tomorrow—but either way, we should get to know one another as partners do. We have to work together for the moment.”

“Which we would be doing, back in the Archives, if you had been a bit more honest with me. I'm sure your previous partners regarded trust as an understood assurance in the relationship, yes?” He took a slight sip of his beer, and set down the pint with something verging on satisfaction.

So, Wellington Thornhill Books, Esquire, had teeth.