Phoenix Rising (21 page)

He jerked upright in his chair. “I beg your pardon?”

“Didn't hesitate to mention the broken vase to him, did you?”

This woman was intelligent, resourceful, and sometimes thicker than clotted cream. “Eliza, do you really think he gives a toss about that bloody vase? He is onto us!”

Wellington could see it in her face, and this was one of those rare moments where he hated being right. “Then we will have to be more careful, won't we?”

The woman's tenacity could not be denied.

This colonial is hardly worth a thought
, he heard his father speak in his head.
Do as I raised you, and send the strumpet packing! 'Twill do England and the Empire a spot of good.

“I suppose we will have to be, yes.”

In the abrupt silence, Eliza looked to be having some difficulty choosing her next words. “So in the interests of being careful, we need to discuss the wild card in all this—the gentleman that tried to cut in on our carriage dance. Did you get a good look at him?”

The Archivist let out a long slow breath. “Unfortunately, no. All I saw was he was dressed in black, his face concealed by a black mask, and he rode a black horse. Oh, and he was quite the marksman.”

His colleague nodded, while her gaze remained fixed on the desk between them. “Do I have to say it or will you?”

The conclusion Wellington drew was the same one he had arrived to when he had come home. It had been thoroughly unpleasant then. It was even more so under Eliza's stare.

Her voice was so low it was nearly drowned out by the analytical engine. “The House of Usher are still after you, Wellington.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and pushed back what threatened to be a splitting headache. “I pray to God you are wrong, Miss Braun.”

Her hand slid across and just for an instant clasped his. “I am afraid I very seldom am.”

“Regardless, we cannot tell where they will next strike, so I suggest we concentrate on the task at hand.” With another deep breath he opened the top drawer of his desk and flipped through the ledger they had retrieved from the death coach's driver. “So as we are now destined for destinations of onward and upward, what are your plans tomorrow evening?”

Now it was Eliza's turn to blink. “Excuse me?”

He held up the book, looking at Eliza over his spectacles. “The driver's next appointment. There's a fare scheduled tonight for the London Opera. I believe the current production there is Verdi's
Macbeth
.”

“Opera? As in the bustiers, the Viking helmets, and suicide scenes that last about fifteen minutes too long on account of the caterwauling?”

Wellington pursed his lips together as he considered her. “So,” he said, returning the book to his desk, “I have discovered where your refinement ends.”

“An abrupt one at that,” she grumbled, as she tugged at her bodice. “Are you sure that is our next lead?”

“Oh, this ought to be delightful,” Wellington said, leaning forward over the book-cluttered desk. “I get to watch the astounding field agent Eliza D. Braun
squirm
.” He sighed. “I do so enjoy the Arts.”

“A night at the opera, is it?” groaned Eliza. “Gods . . . the sacrifices I make for Queen, Country, and the pommy bastards that live in it.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Wherein Agent Books Almost Keeps
Agent Braun Waiting

F
or the fifth time that evening, Wellington peered into the mirror and attempted to affix his tie properly around his neck. Maybe this time would be the last.

He had always preferred the ascot to the necktie as it was a far simpler fashion statement. The necktie meanwhile stood for elegance and refinement. Hardly surprising then Books was out of practice.

It wasn't as if he didn't put forth some effort to keep the manners his upbringing had taught him, as he believed in them and the civilisation they were the hallmark of. He might not have been what his father wanted, but he was still a gentleman.

Tempting as it was to break out a simple ascot, Wellington struggled on with the necktie. Tonight he needed to dress to fit into the world he had left behind shortly after serving in Her Majesty's cavalry. His eyes drifted into his reflection and to the open wardrobe behind him.

No, it was out of the question. He needed to blend in, and wearing his military dress, even free of the medals and commendations, would attract attention. Tonight, he needed to hide in plain sight.

“
You do not have to enjoy the Arts, Wellington
,” he recalled his father telling him, “
but simply put in your time at the theatre. There, you meet those that matter, and you must—above all—be better dressed than everyone else. Your breeding should be on display at all times.
”

Perhaps his father's first disappointment was when Wellington expressed an actual appreciation of the opera and theatre. He should have known better than to reveal such a thing.

Wellington pulled at the wings of his collar gently. He almost had it. His nerves were rattled enough. What he did not need now were memories of his father sneaking up on him. That's all they were: Memories. Bad memories. Nothing more.

“
It's that colonial. You've let her get ahold of you.
” His father's voice was so clear that for a moment the Archivist dare not turn around—just in case he was standing behind him. Impossible as that notion was. Wellington swallowed as he tightened the knot centred on his neck. “
She will drag you down with her into the mud.
”

When he took his hands away, Wellington finally let go of the breath he had been unconsciously holding. The tie was perfect. Immaculate. He gave the lapels of his black jacket a light tug, inspecting his reflection one final time. He gave a smile at how he looked, but still picked up the clothes brush and gave a few strokes along his arms for good measure. It had been too long since he had indulged in an operatic performance.

He felt the finger where his Ministry ring usually resided. That was another recommendation of Agent Braun's. While the tracking system was reserved for emergencies, Doctor Sound could very well consider them a threat to the Ministry's overall security and activate the ETS.

I'm sure Thorne considered the same thing
, he thought to himself, a slight tremor creeping into his hands.

He afforded himself a compliment:
Wellington, old boy, you look quite dashing tonight.
Granted, this occasion was not about a night of elegance and gentility in the City. He could not afford to lose himself in the embrace of music, voice, and tragedy.

Perhaps the real tragedy resided in the fact that Wellington finally had an engagement with a beautiful woman, and it was all in the name of Ministry business. Ministry business that he had to keep secret from the Ministry itself.

Wellington was certain that somewhere in Heaven, William Shakespeare was smiling.

“Right then,” he said, donning the top hat. Wellington was not fond of that particular accessory, but there it was: The final touch on his disguise for the night. “In for a penny . . .”

A soft rattling came from outside. The tenants of this convenient apartment were apparently coming home.

He slipped into his long coat, took up the cane, and finally hoisted the bulky case up to have it rest by his hip. It didn't feel heavy; yet its size and weight would eventually catch up with him, perhaps as he made his way to the appointed address where the hired coach would be meeting him.

On Eliza's suggestion, she would meet Wellington someplace other than his home. “
A precaution
,” she had assured him, “
in case Doctor Sound is really keeping an eye on us.
” She also recommended finding another apartment, preferably with a back entrance, to change into his evening wear, again in case Ministry personnel were watching.

The tenants were lingering in the main foyer, and now moving to the parlour. He smiled as he calmly, quietly moved for the apartment's back door. Slipping out, Wellington crossed the walled garden, unlatched the gate, and continued into the night. Fortune was, at least for tonight, favouring the bold.

“Spare a coin, sir?” the voice spoke from a darkened alcove.

Wellington shouldered his case and forged ahead, past the voice.

“Why so cruel, Mr. Books?” the beggar asked.

He froze and turned to look behind him.

Two shadows had come to life, and were blocking his way back. He took another glance to the street ahead. There was a third, standing deliberately in his path.

“Gentlemen,” Wellington said, slowly lowering his case by his feet and placing his hat on top of it, “I have an engagement tonight, and the lady I am meeting will not take it kindly if I keep her waiting.”

The two men closest to him remained still while the third began walking towards him.

“Very well then.” He sighed.

Wellington took one more look at the man coming from the main street.
At least thirty paces away. When I engage, he will most likely run.
He turned back to the two shadows.
I will have to make this quick.

The two thugs shared a glance as Wellington moved for them. His cane came up for the man to his right, but the feint was enough to make the large man step back. The cane shot for the other man, its handle striking his thick neck. As the thug stepped back, his hands at his throat, Wellington swung his weapon around. The cane slammed into his partner's knee, and the crack assured the Archivist that his opponent was not getting up.

Wellington turned towards the sound of running footsteps. The third man would be close. This is why Wellington brought his left arm up as he pivoted, and his attacker's arm was brushed out of the way.

At first.

The brushing arm slipped around the lumbering man's forearm, and then bent it upwards in a manner it was never meant to. Wellington brought his cane up, its top slamming into the thug's chin. The man's head snapped skywards, causing him to stumble backward. This misstep made it easy for Wellington to send him to the ground.

And back to the beginning, once more
, Wellington thought as he turned towards the coughing. The attacker struck in the throat had now pulled himself up on all fours, and was still straining to catch a breath.

His foot caught what the third attacker had dropped. Even in the shadows he easily identified the sidearm as an 1881 Remington Elliot three-barrel Derringer. Its compressor glowed softly, the indicator lights reading green for each barrel.

“
Go on, my son
,” his father told him. “
A smart boy would have the good sense to do right now what you refuse to. Three men, three high-velocity hyper-projectiles. Finish this.
”

Wellington kicked the weapon away from all four of them.

“
Bloody coward
,” his father spat.

The thug had managed to bring himself up to one knee, but he never made it to his feet. Wellington's cane struck across his attacker's nose, planting him on his backsides with an audible thump.

“The level of crime in London is just disgraceful,” he said, brushing himself off and once more placing his top hat where it should be.

He picked up his case and took one step when his cane snapped under his grip.

“Damnation!” The Archivist allowed himself one crass word, considering the only ones to hear it were the groaning ruffians. “They certainly don't make these like they used to.”

Wellington tossed the ruined accessory aside and made a mental note to visit Savile Row as soon as possible for a replacement: something in ebony, this time with a silver handle.

He paused on hearing the groan behind him. They were still on the ground.

Perhaps a concealed sword in the replacement would be worth considering.

He made his way again to the street to pick up his coach, checking his watch as he did. He was running late.

Eliza would make quite a joke of it to be sure.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
In Which Beautiful Attire Still Fails To Make
Miss Eliza D. Braun Happy with Opera

T
he cost of hiring a truly grand carriage was worth it, Eliza decided, as she waited outside the gentlemen's club. The coach was warm, comfortable, and even she—occasionally—enjoyed feeling like a lady. It was definitely against the social norms, however, for the lady to be picking up a gentleman for a night at the opera; however, she was well used to working outside the lines of society.

Eliza adjusted the line of diamonds and emeralds at her neck. Her right wrist was weighed down with a thick bracelet of matching jewels, while her long dark hair was held off her shoulders with a fine hairpin decorated with another spray of gems that formed a peacock, a pretty bauble she had picked up in Persia that doubled as a very serviceable stiletto. Eliza was looking forward to seeing the effect the whole outfit would have on proper Mr. Wellington Books when she removed her cloak.

As if summoned, he emerged from around the corner and strode towards the carriage—but it was not an easy perambulation, because he was carrying a large odd-shaped box before him.

Eliza threw open the carriage door before the driver could get to it. “Perhaps you have mistaken the point of the excursion. This is an evening of opera. I am not helping you move your residences.”

He slid the object, which she could now see was the breadth of his chest and as wide as her skirts, into the carriage. “I am perfectly aware of our destination Miss Braun. But this,” he said, patting on the wooden crate, “will make all the difference in our little mission tonight.”

“Good gracious, Books!” In the flickering gaslight, she could make out smears of dirt on his face, and his coat and necktie—while the definition of a proper knot and fashion—were in need of adjustment. “A moment, driver, and we will be on our way.” She exited the cab and was immediately on Wellington, preening and fussing over his attire. “You look lovely, just a touch disheveled. You didn't nap in your evening wear, did you?”

The joke fell flatter than her usual jibes did with him. Once they were both in the close confines of the carriage and underway, Eliza tilted her head as she considered his fidgeting. “Welly?”

“It's nothing,” came his sharp reply. “London is full of ruffians, and a gentleman must be on his guard.”

She slapped him on the knee. “I'm afraid you will have to do better than that!”

He pressed his lips together, but finally blurted out, “Let's just say God didn't hear my prayer this afternoon.”

The carriage lurched while Eliza digested that particular hard nugget of information. She usually liked being right.

“They attacked me in the street,” Wellington stared out of the carriage window, sounding more outraged when he added, “They even called me by name.”

Eliza's jaw twitched. “And the Mad Hatter's tea party rolls on. You know they're not going to stop, Wellington.”

He adjusted his necktie; and now his gaze, surprisingly hard, fixed on her. “I am fully aware of that, Miss Braun—however, it is not as though we can take the matter to the Director. He would only have his suspicions about us both confirmed.”

That one stung, Eliza leaned back in her seat, unable for once to find a truly pithy reply. Silence would be the most appropriate response.

It did not last long as Wellington's eyes flashed to her neckline. “Where in the blue blazes did you get those?”

Eliza reclined a little, giving the gems following the curves of her breasts a chance to catch the waning light coming in the carriage window, “Wonderful, aren't they?”

“I beg your pardon?”

The poor man really needed to get out more. “I was referring to the necklace, Welly.”

Just by his shocked expression she discerned he was imagining all sorts of nefarious ways she had gotten her hands on them. Best to put his mind to rest. She laid a silk-gloved hand on his arm. “There was a very grateful sheik that was happy enough to give them to me.”

The resulting confusion and embarrassment was quite satisfactory. Wellington sniffed, and then returned his eyes back to the street passing by. “I don't think I need to hear the rest of the story.”

“Good,” she replied mildly. With a tilt of her head she examined his worthiness to enter the hallowed halls of the London Opera. Music Hall was more Eliza's cup of tea but she had to admit that she liked dressing up—something she obviously shared with the Archivist. Immaculately attired in a very smart evening suit, Wellington Books outdid her impressions of him. In fact, he looked quite dashing in it. “You'll do,” was her final assessment.

“Why thank you.” And those words were the last they exchanged for a long time. They sat in silence most of the way to Drury Lane. Eliza stared at the odd suitcase shape his fingertips rapped lightly against, and Wellington stared out the window, studiously ignoring her curiousity. The closer they got to their destination, the more a self-satisfied smile began to form on Wellington's lips.

It appeared that most of London's high society was attending Verdi's
Macbeth
this evening. Wellington stepped down from the cab and assisted Eliza in her descent—which was most helpful because it had been a while since she had worn so much fabric. Her expression reflected many of the patrons' excitement for the entertainment, but inwardly Eliza dreaded what lay in store for her tonight. Ye gods, how she
hated
opera. However, the game was, once again, afoot; and she needed to perpetuate the façade and so came the smile and outward appearance of anticipation.

When she inclined her head in Wellington's direction, she wanted her smile of gratitude to be sincere. Her evening's deception faltered for only a moment when Wellington slung the strange suitcase in their carriage over his shoulder. If she'd been hoping that the Archivist would leave it behind she wasn't that lucky. It most definitely did not go with his evening wear, and it would attract attention. By the list in his posture it had to be heavy—but she was damned if she was going to ask him why.

Even with this awkwardness, Wellington still managed to win back her sincere smile on offering his arm to her. There was a charming chivalry in his determination to keep up appearances.

They climbed the stairs to the entrance, in the stream of other fine looking people. Books bumped a few of them with his ridiculous case, but he was so effusively polite and so was everyone else that they made it in with little trouble.

Once in the warmth of gaslight, Eliza took off her cloak and draped it over one arm while a ridiculously tiny evening purse and a vibrant fan hung over the other. The indrawn breath at her side was just what she'd been hoping for. Admittedly she had briefly considered wearing red, but much as she loved that colour it would draw the wrong kind of attention. Her deep green dress drew notice but the kind that she wanted. The sleeves were stylishly ballooning, but set low so that her shoulders were just as fashionably exposed. The dress turned her form into a long serpentine swathe, and exposed enough décolletage to set off her jewels perfectly. Wellington was not the only one that was looking—she could feel many admiring glances. Eliza might have been stripped of her power within the Ministry, but at least she still had this.

Turning to the Archivist, she inclined her head. “Is something wrong, Wellington, dear?”

“Not . . .” He cleared his throat. “Not at all, Miss Braun.”

She raised her fan and pointed it at him, her voice just above a whisper. “I believe in this particular,
under-cover
situation, you should call me ‘darling,' ‘sweetheart,' or at least ‘Eliza.' ”

“I think I can manage the last.” His expression hardened, but there was a bit of blush remaining. He then managed, “Eliza dear.”

“Very well,” she nestled in against his side and directed him over to the cloakroom attendant.

After the young man took her cloak he looked with befuddlement at Wellington's valise. He was trying to be very polite and not ask directly. Finally he had to. “Sir, are you planning to take this into the theatre?”

The Archivist made a stern face. “I am dreadfully sorry but I have to—doctor's orders.”

“We have a box seat, especially for that reason,” Eliza picked up the hint and ran with it. “My husband must be comfortable.” A little flash of her smile and a switch of posture that displayed her bosom and the jewels resting there, and the young man melted.

“Well, I am sure we can make an exception for medical reasons.” He gave Wellington a small yellow card. “Hand that to the usher.” He leaned forward slightly and added in a hushed tone, “Some patrons insist on bringing their dogs in, so I am sure this is fine.”

“Very sly, Wellington Books,” Eliza muttered as they walked through the main foyer. She had been genuinely impressed at his acting skills. The glance he gave her was indeed most self-satisfied.

After handing in both their regular and irregular tickets, Eliza and Wellington entered the hallowed halls of the London Opera. The theatre, only opened a year before, attracted enthusiastic crowds for more than just a night's entertainment. This was a place where people wanted to be seen. No one rushed to their seats. Patrons milled about either to admire the fine surroundings or chat and gossip with those they knew. The opera house was a fine confection though: all scarlet and gold, and spiraling curves. The box seats, of which there were six on each side of the stage—grouped in three rows of two—were held aloft by half-naked goddesses. Some of these plainly displayed in a cartouche the crest of the family that paid some exorbitant fee for the privilege of a regular box.

“Do you see it?” Wellington hissed, slipping his arm around her waist and guiding her over.

“Yes, yes.” She replied just as quietly.

On the left-hand side, middle row, middle column, the Phoenix painted in gold seemed to shimmer and gleam in the firelight of the theatre's grand chandelier. Currently this box was empty.

“You know,” Eliza commented under her breath, “for a secret society they aren't being that secretive.”

“Hubris is a wonderful thing, and it is only obvious to us as we know what to look for. But here's the sticky thing—we need to be in the box right above that one,” Wellington tapped his case meaningfully.

“Do we?”

“Absolutely.” His expression brooked no further discussion. Whatever he had in that mysterious case of his, he was certain.

“Very well,” Eliza snapped open her fan and turned away ready to make the impossible happen . . . as usual.

“Darling,” the Archivist pulled her close, “do hurry back,” he said for the crowd milling around them. Into her hair however he murmured, “Please don't kill anyone.”

With a charming laugh, Eliza moved off.
He really doesn't know me—Harry would realise exactly how far I would go.
She sighed as she slipped her way through the crowd. It was an easy enough thing to do really: stand at the entrance to the box seats, tickets in one hand, her handkerchief in the other, and look pitiful. She only had to stop two groups of people before finding the right ones.

A tall old man wearing a smart evening's ensemble and his diminutive wife in a bright blue dress stopped when she asked politely, “Excuse me, but are you in Box Seat Five?”

“Why, yes,” he replied.

Eliza held out her own tickets, her lip trembling a calculating amount. “I was wondering terribly if you would mind swapping with ours.”

The gentleman looked down, “But these are—”

And that was when Eliza's acting chops kicked in. Turning, she pointed over to where Wellington stood in the crowd, looking lost amongst strangers. “I know, they are perfectly good box seats, but my husband . . .” She flinched. “Well, he has an awful temper and I was supposed to get Box Seat Five.” Eliza fixed them with a pleading look. “He is very particular.”

He looked between Eliza and Wellington, his eyes fogging a bit as he asked, “Particular? Dear lady, I fail to under—”

Eliza drew in a breath and shook her head, “No, no. It is quite all right. I should just . . .” And her voice trailed off. She felt her eyes tear up as she spoke with plenty of tremble and fear, “This is my fault and I should bear the responsibility. Thank you.”

“Henry, dear,” the wife chimed in, “I'm sure the view is more than adequate at this sweet girl's seats.”

“Oh, that is so kind of you, madam,” Eliza said, pursing her lips tight as if to keep from sobbing, “but no, I have failed as a wife and should stand for my shortcomings.”

Both of them gave a start. The wife took Eliza gingerly by the arm. “My dear, these are just seats at the opera.”

“Yes, but he is most . . .” Her voice faltered, and after the moment lingered to where things felt most awkward, Eliza lightly traced her cheek with the backs of her fingers and added, “insistent. But no, it's all right. I am sure I will enjoy tonight's performance. It will tide me over in the future.”