Phoenix Rising (23 page)

“Ah, and here is our late arrival.” Havelock then spoke as if the language of the opera were second nature to him. “
Buona sera, Signora. Come sta?
”

“
Ci sentiamo bene
,” a low female voice cooed through the crackle of the auralscope, “
E voi?
”

“
Ah, mi va bene, ma lei sa come stanno le cose.
” He chuckled, and then switched tongues. “But where are my manners?
Signora
Sophia del Morte, may I introduce you to Simon Ross, your companion for the night.”

“
Signor
Ross,” the voice, luscious and exotic, conjured romantic images for Wellington; and he longed for her to grow tired of the opera and simply read poetry out loud. To him. “I must apologise for my tardiness.” A pause. “I was delayed at my previous appointment.”

“Oh, that's quite all ri—
ouch!
”

Her gasp hissed through the auralscope. “
Oh, mi dispiace terribilmente
, forgive me. I think this family heirloom I wear needs tending to from a jeweler. It has been in my family for years.”

“No matter,” Simon replied. “Simply a pinprick. Sometimes, well-loved heirlooms can develop jagged edges if not worn often.”

“Yes,” she said, a soft laugh falling from her, and trilling into her words. “This ring was my grandmother's.”

Wellington pressed the cup harder against his ear as he returned to the auralscope's control panel. He needed cleaner sound, particularly of the Italian. Something about this new arrival made him uncomfortable.

“So,” Havelock interjected, “I assume things have been taken care of.”

“Only a few loose ends to contend with, but well in my control.”

“But I thought, for what we are paying, you would resolve loose ends, not keep them under control,” Bartholomew hissed.

Wellington felt that dryness in his throat grow worse. He had just finished writing out the Italian woman's name, staring at it intently as her voice filled his headphone.

“They are,
Signo
—”

“Lord,” he snapped.

“Of course,” the
signora
replied—a reply that strangely felt like a warning. “Lord Devane, when you first hired me to . . . how you say . . .
resolve these issues
, you failed to inform me of the gentleman and lady who gave chase in the streets.”

His shoulder suddenly stung. He looked up to see Eliza waving madly to the journal, and then a thought screamed at him:
Write down his last name!
Why was he so distracted by this newcomer?

“A most unfortunate turn of events, I agree,” Doctor Havelock added, his voice accented by a strange knocking sound. “Do we know anything more about them?”

“Welly,” Eliza whispered, breaking the thick silence of their own box, “What is that?”

“Some sort of interference,” he muttered. While still holding the phone to his ear, Wellington reached inside the auralscope for a row of tiny levers. Steam hissed softly with each lever engaged, but still the knocking sound continued. “I'm trying to isolate—”

“I thought you were subtle!” Bartholomew snapped. “First, Smith's practice and now this?” He let out a disgusted snort. “Olivia, tend to this.”

They heard a rustle of fabric and the knocking sound subsided. It was not completely silenced, however; and now something else filtered into the conversation. There was a gurgling, and what sounded like someone practising proper theatre etiquette in smothering a cough.

Over a tiny whimper which, considering the pitch, had to belong to Olivia Devane, the conversation resumed.

“There was a rider, as well, wasn't there?” Devane asked. “Killed on the scene by the woman driving the hansom?”

“That is not a loose end, Lord Devane, to concern yourself with,” del Morte interjected, her tenor decorated with annoyance. “That was a disagreement between professionals, and it will
not
happen again.

“If you want me to take care of that somewhat adventurous couple, however,” del Morte continued, her demeanor neither wavering or faltering as someone gasped for life beside her, “my compensation will have to reflect as such. I was not made aware of any other parties involved.”

“We became aware of them at the same time you did,” Havelock said. “We can only assume they are of the same organisation that our candidate was a part of.”

“But why now?” Devane asked, “That was nearly a year ago?”

“It does not matter how much time has passed,” countered Havelock. “What matters is this unknown couple are looking into his previous affairs, and at present we are giving them a trail to follow, aren't we?”

“I would not call it a trail,” del Morte interjected. “Your servants will take care of
Signor
Ross here after the theatre has closed. I took care of that poor wretch in the asylum just tonight. Considering he did not receive any visits for months, I doubt if he will be discovered by his allies anytime soon.”

Eliza's earpiece bounced against the thin carpet. Wellington grabbed her arm, only to have it wrenched free from his grasp.

“No, Eliza,” he whispered sharply.

“That bitch killed Harry!” she hissed through clenched teeth.

A thought flashed through his mind that Eliza, for all her faults, remained a disciplined agent. In the midst of her turmoil, she still managed to keep her voice down. Her hands in her fine opera gloves clenched, and her eyes grew glassy, but there was still an undercurrent of control.

“I know, Eliza, I know, but we cannot just barge in on them. If we do that, it stops here and Harry's death—his desire to know the truth—will be meaningless.” Wellington locked his gaze with hers on grabbing her wrist and whispering tersely, “Pull yourself together, Agent Braun, and see this mission through.”

Wellington felt her tremble in his grasp, but she remained in place when he let her go. Eliza swayed slightly, and with some shock he saw that her eyes were filling with tears. A small muscle was flexing in her jaw, telling that she was repressing the normal female reaction to howl or scream. His colleague looked fragile in that moment—as if the wrong word or gesture could crack her. She swallowed, took a long, wavering breath, and brushed the nascent tears out of her eyes before they could fall.

Carefully Wellington raised the headpiece to his ear. Below, the rustling of skirts was only drowned out by a barely perceptible chiding.

“Olivia, compose yourself, eyes front. Do not shame my family any more than you normally do.” Another snort of derision, and then, “For God's sake, wipe the spittle off your face.”

“Eliza,” Wellington whispered, “the assassin's leaving.”

Her eyes were dry and hard. “What about the rest of that lot?”

“They are still in the box, watching the show. I don't know if they are done or not.”

“Keep listening, Books,” Eliza said, making for the door. “I'll meet you back here.”

“And just what are you intending to do, Agent Braun?”

The knives seemed to appear in her hands from thin air. She cast a glance over their sheen and smiled. “Introduce myself, from one professional to another.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
In Which Miss Braun Treads the Boards
and Brings the House Down

A
fter the torture of opera it felt good to Eliza to be out of that damn seat and hot-footing it away from the screaming on the stage. How Wellington could be so entranced with that glorified caterwauling was beyond her.

However, all discomfort at the performance had melted away when she had heard the assassin's words.
Harry was dead
. It mattered little to this Italian bitch that he'd been nothing but a shattered wreck in the asylum. So long as Harry had been alive, recovery was always a possibility, no matter how small the chance he could have been rescued from madness. The edges of guilt pricked her as she wondered if she should have just broken him out of Bedlam and nursed him back to health on her own. Considering her own ghosts and the brother she left in New Zealand, tending to Harry would have been a delight. Perhaps the chase had become everything, and she'd lost sight of why she was here at all.

Yet she could not seek vengeance—not yet. They had to follow the clues, just as Harry had taught her. Then, and only then, would there be a reckoning.

In the civilized atmosphere of the opera, pretense had to be maintained. This situation required a little stealth, so she didn't bolt out the door as her impulses demanded. Eliza shut the door firmly between herself and Wellington, leaving him to tidy up his contraption. Where in the blue blazes he had got that thing? The clankertons in the armourey were damn tight with their toys, and Books wasn't exactly their chum. Another creation of Welly's, like the Archives' analytical engine? So very strange.

That little mystery would have to wait however—there were villains to track down. Admittedly, tailing anyone in the height of evening fashion was not an ideal scenario, but like all good field agents Eliza knew opportunity was not a thing to be squandered. This was as close as they had got to those who had destroyed Harry. The only thing better would have been if he were here to share in the moment.

No, I must not think of Harry. Not yet.

Just outside their box, Eliza kicked off her satin high-heeled shoes and left them next to the door. Wellington could not fail to stumble over them and pick up after her. He better—those shoes had cost her a pretty penny in Paris.

She crept down the stairs, her ear tuned for the quarry from the box below. An usher passed her, heading up, and his eyes turned in shock to the length of calf she was showing, but he was too well paid to question the goings-on of the gentry. Still he did let his gaze linger there several good moments longer than propriety would have dictated. When he made eye contact with Eliza, she granted the boy a wicked wink before continuing down the stairs.

When the door to the box below popped open, she flattened against the curve of the stairwell, her heart picking up its pace. Forcing herself to breathe slowly, Eliza waited to see if she would have to beat a hasty retreat up the stairs, or if the occupants of the booth would exit along the corridor. However, the sound of footfalls did not approach. After giving them a moment, she darted down the stairs and glanced to her left where the corridor led to the front of the theatre. It was empty.

A quick glance to her right afforded her a glimpse of skirts dragging across the carpet. It would seem the conspirators, while flaunting their Society's influence, were not above employing stealth when desired. As this one had just eliminated one of their own, stealth would have been paramount.

Her hands dropped for a second to pat the outside of her skirt: the tiny, compact Derringer 1881 pistols were still there, strapped, one to each thigh. For a brief instant she considered bailing up the whole Phoenix group—but she knew without backup that was foolish.

Also there was thought of Doctor Sound's reaction of her unsupported accosting of the London's upper crust—this stayed her usual inclination to rashness. Wellington, unfortunately, was not here to appreciate her restraint.

No, she decided, the best thing was to identify them, maybe trail the lead suspect and find out where he was staying in London, watch who went in and out to meet him, pinpoint the rest of the conspirators that way. “
When in doubt
,” Harry's voice whispered in her mind, “
back to the basics.
”

If she truly went back to the basics, she wouldn't be merely tailing this bitch. Her stiletto would be in hand, and Eliza would be avenging her fallen partner and friend.

Damn theatres—this was just like at la Scala: always too many cursed entrances and exits. A glance up and down the corridor told her that everyone else in the boxes was too entranced by the opera—another indication of inbreeding amongst the aristocracy, as far as she was concerned.

A shadow moved in the corner of her eye. She froze, held her breath, and watched the Italian disappear behind the door labeled “Backstage.” Five seconds—that was all she gave Harry's killer before sliding in after her, the two blades Wellington caught a glimpse of back in her grasp.

Verdi's score nearly knocked her down as it enveloped her. It was so damn hard to hear anything with the opera still wailing on, and the commotion within the wings was even more distracting. This close to the action of opera, Eliza had no way of avoiding it, and the music seemed far more frantic as apparently they were reaching some sort of crescendo. Stagehands were watching the action with hawklike intensity, at the ready to lower the curtain. Ahead, a crush of actors bearing weapons and foliage waited for their cues, seeming to trickle on to the main stage to join their cast in the wall of music and voice. Lowering her head, Eliza did her best impression of just another actress—hard work considering the dress and jewelry she was wearing.

Luckily there were few here who could spare a moment to complain.

Then a hand grabbed her hard by the hair and spun her around, the swiftness of the attack sending her blades out of her grip and into the darkness. This was no stage manager: the grip was too confident, too professional in its application. Spinning under it, Eliza managed to break the hold, and found herself face-to-face with a neat little woman, at least a head shorter than her. A beautiful olive-skinned face framed by waves of dark curls smiled at her, but not in greeting. Anticipation, along with a touch of challenge and outrage, blazed in the woman's eyes. Eliza had not actually seen the assassin from the doctor's office, but instinct, experience, and the grip on her hair confirmed this. She was the kind of lady who might grace any salon in Europe: comely, intelligent and whip-smart—that and the knowledge of dynamite she had applied upon Doctor Smith's practise made
Signora
Sophia del Morte a lethal combination.

The grip Sophia briefly had upon her also told Eliza something else—this was not a woman who relied merely on explosions.
Very well then
, Eliza thought with detachment.
Neither am I.

“A little early to leave your seat, madam.” The assassin's accent was even lovelier in person.

Around them, actors readied themselves and stagehands flitted back and forth between props and set machinery. The basics Eliza had pledged to follow just got very complicated.

“And a little early for deaths at the opera,” she snipped back over the building. Motioning back towards the box seats, so there could be no mistaking her point, Eliza crooked her eyebrow. “Macbeth doesn't drop dead for another five minutes at least, Sophia.”
Take that, bitch, I know your name.

The assassin's smile was thin and deadly as she heard her name on Eliza's lips. “Not so cultured to know the curse of the Scottish play?” She took a daring step forward, and Eliza just as quickly danced back to keep the distance between them. “It is very bad luck to speak the name back here. But from your manners at Charing Cross, perhaps you enjoy tempting the fates, yes?”

So nice to be recognised for a day's work. “Why not retire to the lobby, exorcise your bad luck?”

“And miss the grand finale?” Eliza chuckled. “Tosh.”

She seemed to shimmer before her. The assassin was fast.
Damn
fast. Eliza felt hands grabbing her fashionable billowing sleeves in order to swing her about, slamming her into the mass of pulleys and ropes at the side of the stage.

It would leave bruises, but that would hardly be enough to keep Eliza down. She pushed herself off the wall, grabbing the assassin by the arm. This time it was Eliza who spun her opponent to face her, immediately backhanding the dark woman in a sweeping, graceful follow-through. While the backstage area was not well lit, Eliza could just make out crimson marks her rings had left across the assassin's skin.
First blood to me
, she thought with pride
.

However, she felt a chill when the assassin grinned back as trickles of red ran down her sculpted cheek; and then she threw a slap with her open hand.

Her ring,
Eliza realised in the moment.
Bloody hell, her ring.

Eliza just caught the blow before it landed, snapping her fingers around Sophia's wrist and jerking her opponent forward and around, her hand still clamped tightly about it. Quickly she turned the assassin's hand back and upwards, causing Sophia's fingers to splay wide. Eliza removed the deadly ring from the olive finger, avoiding the curl of points on its underside, and then with a shove, she slammed Sophia into the backstage rigging, her impact sending ripples along the taut hemp holding Macbeth's stronghold together.

Both of them were encumbered by their dresses, though the Italian's was a far simpler affair, less bulky, without the frills and ruffles of Eliza's green evening gown. As they circled each other warily, Eliza sized up Sophia. Eliza pushed back a whisper of doubt. So far, she had been lucky. She knew in their grapples that she was the more muscular of the two of them, but this creature possessed the same skills as she did.

Out of her now slightly ragged hairstyle Eliza drew the stiletto with the peacock hilt, knowing the smile on her face was triumphant. However, when the assassin produced two similar long, thin blades out of her own elaborate coiffure, her smile was just as fierce.

A shadow moved in Eliza's peripheral, but it was moving away from them both—a stage manager running for help perhaps? They did not have long, not that Eliza needed time. The curtain would come down on Harry's killer before it came down on the Scottish king.

With a graceful lunge and the flutter of fabric, the assassin drove both blades in separate arching angles, one for Eliza's head, one for her gut. Eliza blocked the attacks, one with the thick bracelet of diamonds on her right wrist, while she caught Sophia's head assault in a bind. Sweeping the attack aside, Eliza's target opened before her and she jabbed forward just as Sophia slipped past the wrist block and thrust.

Both women froze, their eyes studying each other, looking for the sign of their blades' purchase. Then, on the sound of metal clattering at their feet, they looked down.

Their blades now vibrated gently on the floor, empty hilts merely resting against where their kidneys would have been skewered.

“Who
is
your seamstress?” They asked simultaneously.

When no answer came, they pushed against each other, casting their useless weapons to one side. The similarities between them Eliza found distracting: a love of explosives, relishing the chase, and an appreciation of strengthened undergarments. If Sophia del Morte were anyone else, they would have been friends.

With Sophia's second blade catching the dim light that crept backstage. Eliza silently added “concealed weapons” under their mutual interests.

The knife flicked forward several times, back and forth, like a mongoose's head attempting to strike a cornered cobra. When Sophia lunged the third time, Eliza finally took advantage of her fashion sense; using her large, billowy sleeves to entangle Sophia's weapon within the layers of fabric. The assassin pulled back only to lose her balance and fall forward—

—right into Eliza's waiting fist.

The agent pulled on her sleeve a second time and again connected with Sophia's nose. The third punch she dealt was building on her euphoria, so much that she did not notice Sophia's head angling itself to connect with Eliza's bottom lip and chin. The assault freed the blade from the folds of fabric, but Eliza's other hand shot out and clamped hard around Sophia's wrist. In the shadows, they wrestled for the remaining weapon, tugging it between them, like two adolescent girls fighting over a bauble. Eliza's elbow connected with Sophia's chin, and the knife flew free and slid from the wings and out onto the stage, disappearing beneath the feet of Birnam Wood which now reached ear-splitting heights for Verdi's grand finale.

Both women scrambled after it, Eliza yanking Sophia's hair to pull her back, only to have her own balance thrown off by a knee striking her reinforced corset. Eliza pushed against the floorboards, wrapping her arms around the Italian, and cursed softly on the feel of warm amber light against her face.

The cries from both actors and audience confirmed it—their fisticuffs had stumbled into Birnam Wood.

Eliza shoved Sophia further downstage, and growled, not at her opponent but at the horrified chorus around them both who were
still
singing and dancing the grand finale of Macbeth's fall.
The show really does go on
, she thought to herself as her eyes narrowed on Sophia.