Phoenix Rising (32 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Where Miss Braun Breaks Her Silence
in the Midnight Hour and Mr. Books
Rejects a Perfectly Good Pistol at Dawn

I
t was certainly a vigorous evening's entertainment. Eliza pulled her robe around her, and shut the heavy oak door. She was used to ducking out of parties early, and those she had left to the orgy were so wrapped in the hedonism they had created they wouldn't notice she was gone. By her calculations, she had titillated the right number of people, helped a few others out of their clothes, and yet somehow managed to maintain most of her virtue.

Well, at least on this occasion.

It shouldn't really have mattered, but something of Wellington's disapproval during the orgy had altered her plans for the night. She was hoping to enamour one—or several—of the society during the orgy; despite the prickly nature of their relationship, she found herself caring what Welly thought. On her descent, she decided tonight would simply be an introduction for herself. Nothing more.

She had stayed long enough to make an impression—unlike a certain other person.

An initiate's wife whom whispers had identified as Dahlia Fairbanks had cut out far earlier than Eliza, and it had most certainly been noticed. Particularly by Lord Devane. Eliza climbed the stairs, more than ready to find some sleep, when she heard sobbing from a room down the hall. A quick examination showed that the Fairbankses' door was ajar. Eliza padded down the hall, and pushed it all the way open.

Dahlia was quite the sight. The poor thing's corset was askew, her dark hair undone, and when she turned and looked at her late night caller, her green eyes were swimming in tears. “I . . .” She shook her head, her bottom lip quivering as she said, “I don't know why I'm here.”

Eliza took a deeper look into Dahlia Fairbanks' eyes, and a chill stole through her.

She strode the short distance and gave the foolish woman a sharp slap across the face. The retort of the blow echoed around the bedroom, even as Dahlia's hand flew to her cheek. Before she could recover, Eliza was already placing a cylinder into the gramophone. Once the cheery strains of “Daisy Belle,” crooned by Katie Lawrence, filled the room, Eliza resorted to what had made her such an outstanding field agent in Doctor Sound's assessments: her snap decisions.

“I don't know who you are, but I know for a fact you are not Lady Dahlia Fairbanks.”

The tiny woman gaped at her, a result of two shocks in such quick succession. Finally she managed to stutter, “They . . . they said you were mute.”

“Congratulations,” Eliza said snippily in return. “Now that we both know each other's secrets, we can be honest. Who are you?”

The other woman swallowed, gathering a little of her bravery around her. “Who are you?”

Eliza leaned in, blocking out the sole flickering gaslight, “I'll tell you who I am: I am the other hen in the fox's den. In other words, I am the only person you can trust.”

“Molly,” the other choked out, “I'm a journalist from the
Tribune
.” She blinked, and then her pathetic manner grew even more sheepish. “Well, more like a proofreader; but I'm just needing a chance . . .”

Eliza tilted her head back, and hissed, “Spectacular—just what this weekend needs—amateurs!” She looked over her shoulder at the door, making sure it was shut tight, and then narrowed her gaze back on Molly. “Your ‘husband' then, I assume, is the one who put you up to this?”

“That's Fred, yes. Fred Abbot.”

No, not him!
“Fred Abbot as in the
Tribune
's columnist that indulges in criticisms against industrial barons, bankers, and the other Imperial elite?”

“Yes,” and Molly actually giggled. “One of the benefits of being a writer is a degree of anonymity. People know your work, but wouldn't know you if they were standing right next to you. Fred is my mentor at the
Tribune
.”

“Lucky you,” Eliza snapped.

“Fred and I heard there were some wild goings-on here. We managed to bribe the real Fairbankses, and—”

“Molly dear, I could barely give a toss about how you got here. I need to know what you've done
since
being here.” She took a long deep breath. “For example, while your fellow journalist seems to be fully partaking of dessert—you are here, sobbing in your room.”

“But you stepped out early too,” Molly muttered, making Eliza realise she couldn't be more than twenty. She sounded like an overindulged child who had been caught snogging the stable boy.

“The difference being, I did enough to make them remember I was there—before they devolved into
mindless
debauchery.” Eliza sighed. “I think you and your prolific partner should leave immediately. This is far more dangerous than you can know.”

Molly swallowed, and tried to gather some semblance of professionalism. “It's only a bit of hanky panky, they just—”

Eliza leaned over the woman and glared at her. “It is far more than just that. These people are responsible for a score of murders. Do you think a secret society not caring a jot over the lives of women and children would stop themselves from polishing off a couple of journalists?”

She held Molly's gaze for a long moment, and then asked. “Do you believe me?”

Her tone was stern, very like the one she'd heard Harry use often in the field. It seemed to work, because Molly nodded and her voice came out with a discernable quaver in it. “Y—yes . . .”

“Good, now please tell me you haven't been talking amongst yourselves about your real profession.”

Molly blushed, and Eliza's heart sank.

“Let me hazard a guess. Upon your arrival, you came up here to your room, jumped up and down on the bed and shouted, ‘Yes, yes, we made it inside the secret society!' ”

Again Molly didn't answer, but the agent didn't need her to.

“Well”—she pointed to the still jauntily playing gramophone—“unfortunately for you, this contains a listening device—so you really had better get out of here. Bugger your belongings. Find your partner. And run. Now.”

The journalist brushed tears out of her eyes and nodded. “Yes, yes, perhaps that is best.”

Eliza felt a twinge of empathy. Once she'd been this young, and someone had taken her under her wing. She found herself giving the younger woman a hug. “It'll be all right, Molly. Just get out tonight and don't look back.”

The poor thing was quite unsuited to deception, because she actually sobbed into Eliza's shoulder. Instinct took hold; and Eliza patted Molly's back gently, rocking her back and forth, murmuring words her own mother had once used on her.

Eliza then pushed Molly away, and gave her the lightest of shakes. “So you'll wait for your partner, and then get out of here?”

The younger woman nodded and Eliza made for the door. She heard Molly whisper to her, “Thank you, whoever you are.”

Eliza could still hear the operatic groans of the Phoenix Society flitting up from downstairs. Perhaps it was the outpouring of emotion from Molly the Journalist that gave her a pang of conscience for Constance, Devane's niece. The young girl had pulled Eliza close and kissed her, hard and hungrily. Eliza had to quash the urge to wrench herself free of the erotic greeting. Constance's tongue tasted heavy of laudanum. It was when Devane lost himself in the fresh pleasures of his niece that Eliza made her exit. Had she tarried a heartbeat longer, she would have most assuredly been his next prey.

The downward spiral, Harry's mates had called this. After watching a demonstration of what the Queen was suggesting would become the RIA, the Royal Imperial Aerocorps, Harry and she joined at the airfield's pub two dapper gents still wearing the grime and soot from their aero-riders. They had talked about the “downward spiral” which was a term used for when one of their craft failed, and both pilot and gunner would be trapped by incredible forces that would pin them to their seats, and their world would spiral into nothingness.

That was what she was feeling now. The downward spiral. Wellington, Constance. Molly. This was a descent into madness, and now she—not Harry—had to be the stalwart lighthouse providing a beacon of hope. Molly had a chance, slim at best but still a chance. Constance? The poor girl would probably find solace in the laudanum, no doubt supplied by Auntie Olivia.

Wellington,
she thought as she reached her door.
What about Wellington?

She remembered asking one of Harry's flyboy mates, “So how do you pull out of a downward spiral?”

He had laughed and answered, “You ride the spiral and hope God grants you a miracle.”

Eliza could still feel the spinning even after she found her bed. Next to her, Wellington slept. She felt a new pang in her heart now, this one more selfish and needy. She needed a man's embrace. She wanted Harry more than ever, of course; but that was an opportunity lost. Now, all she had was Wellington Books. A man of the very elite that they had infiltrated. An agent completely void of field experience. A man that seemed immune to her charms. And yet, if he were to simply roll over and hold her, keep her safe, that would make everything better.

A rumble escaped from the figure slumbering far away from her.

Eliza covered her eyes.

Yes, this was the downward spiral. She would ride it out, and she—Eliza Braun, not God on high—would see them all through.

As she slipped towards exhausted sleep, she held onto that belief. Wellington's snoring should have kept her awake, but instead she felt the darkness slip around her. The darkness, and a dreadful sense of vertigo. Eliza spared a fleeting thought, perhaps it was a prayer, for her dreams to be merciful. It had been a full day, and rest—not an evening of worst situations and failing those who counted on her—was what she needed. If she did face such dreams, then her evening would be far from over.

Instead she became acutely aware of sunlight and the bed trembling underneath her. Eliza was now being awakened by Wellington Books. It only felt as scant moments, but there it was: morning. She had made it through the night.

Her eyes flicked open, and she could make through the blur of receding sleep her partner slipping behind the screen to get dressed.

Oh so modest, Mr. Books
, she thought to herself,
even if we spent the night under the same sheets!

The space between the two of them in the grand bed would have been difficult to explain to any early morning maid. Even Wellington had been unable to deny the sensible necessity of sharing a bed.

It wasn't what was worrying her however. Eliza instead found herself wondering what he thought had happened the previous evening. He was most likely imagining far worse than the reality. Assumption or no, Eliza felt resentment swell in her. She would be damned if it would fall upon
her
to relieve him of his notions.

Let him think her a strumpet if he liked. It was of no matter to her.

Wasn't it?

Regardless of Wellington's cast aspersions, she knew she had done a good thing last night. The foolish journalists would be on their way back to London, and it mattered little what they ended up writing. By the time any of that happened, she and Wellington would have closed the case.

If her acting skills had passed muster, then Mr. and Mrs. St. John would be found acceptable to this vile little secret society. With a sigh, Eliza rolled over, turning her back to the screen where Wellington was still carrying on his charade of manners. He was so stuck in his ways, and yet proving remarkably adept in his role. That gave her pause, and at the same time intrigued her.

Shoving back the bedclothes from around her shoulders, she peered around. Today was the hunting party, and Eliza was determined to keep playing the role Wellington had pushed her into. A gun in her hands though—that was going to prove to be a challenge. Especially with the person who had ordered Harry's killing only a bullet away from her.

Wellington emerged from the shadow of the screen, dressed in green tweed, his short pant legs tucked into long worsted socks. The morning light gleamed in his beard and for a second he looked like one of those silhouettes that hung on the wall of every middle-class family: a model of English normality. It was obvious that he wasn't aware she was awake. It was a skill Eliza had learned back home, and had proved one of the skills necessary for survival at school.

So it gave her some time to observe Wellington tiptoeing around the room. This moment where he did not know he was being watched was charming—he appeared genuinely relaxed, even as he stood at the dresser and adjusted his cravat. Curious, considering the situation they were in.

From under her eyelashes Eliza conducted an experiment. When she groaned softly, as if she was waking and rolled over in the bed, Wellington immediately snapped upright. Could it be that he was intimidated by women—or was it just her?

She sat up in bed, in what she considered a modest linen shift, but his gaze darted away as if she were stark naked. It wasn't as if she was even backlit by the sun, and most men would have taken the chance to see as much as possible. Harry certainly had at every opportunity.