Phoenix Rising (36 page)

Wellington grinned, noting with a quick glance how Bartholomew's once pallid complexion was now scarlet. “To keep a factory running, one must have machines. To keep the factory running efficiently, it is good to know how these machines work. To keep the factory profitable, it is essential to know how to improve upon the current technologies.”

“So you get your hands dirty, do you?”

“On occasion, yes.” Wellington heard someone snort at the other end of the table. “But while others are tending to their managers when mills encounter mechanical failure, I am solving matters and improving upon the situation.”

“Fascinating,” Havelock whispered with reverence, casting a glance down the table. A throat cleared, and then he continued. “Do you have any patents pending on these advancements?”

“Do you?” Wellington shot back. Eliza's grip tightened further on his leg, but he remained steady. “Why, Doctor Havelock, would I want to share my advantages with the world?” He reached for the wine, swirled it slightly in the glass, sampled its bouquet, and added, “Not yet. When I am ready to sell the company, then I will sell my ideas to the highest bidder. Not before. When the world is ready. When
I
am ready.”

“That sounds like good business sense,” Havelock replied.

“But, Doctor, you are evading the question.” Wellington took a sip of his wine.

“Under the table,” their host said with a smile.

Wellington removed his hand from Eliza's and felt the table's unseen surface. He chuckled, causing the men to scoot away and crane down to look underneath the table as well. Wellington's fingers traced the heated coils to various points of the table, making certain not to touch the copper for too long. The coils all led to what felt like large metal plates. One was wide enough to cover where his plate was while another was located just underneath his wineglass.

“Your heating element?”

“The manor was built on the site of a geothermal fissure, a rather large one as a matter of fact.” Havelock fixed him with a satisfied smirk. “It provides ample power for the pressure pads built into the table, the wireless that the
Mechamen
are in constant contact with, and the plumbing here in the house.”

Wellington nodded in approval. “So when the weight on the table changes—the plate itself, the setting, or the amount of wine in one's glass—your wireless sends commands to the—”

“Mechamen,” he said, his pride quite powerful.

“Mechamen,” Wellington repeated, nodding slowly as he looked about the table. “But to calibrate the movements and timing to fill a glass or—”

A memory from the previous night struck him. It had been a fleeting moment, the tiniest of details that could have easily been overlooked, falling into place as the Mechamen stood in waiting, their gears and cogs ticking rhythmically as would a metronome.

Wellington beamed. “That is ingenious.”

“Thank you, Richard,” Havelock stated.

Wellington looked around him. While Devane's own gaze remained dark and malicious, the Brethren and Initiates stared at him. Some appeared curious. Others impatient.

“Did you notice how Doctor Havelock kept an eye on the time with his house staff?” he asked the table. “He was not timing their performance, but merely noting the timing of their actions, watching for consistencies, and it was the average mean of their performance times he used to set the internal clocks of the Mechamen.” Wellington raised his glass to Doctor Havelock. “Bravo, Doctor.”

He simply raised a hand in response, perhaps an attempt at modesty? “Tosh, I am no artist.”

“These Mechamen are brilliant,” Wellington retorted. “An incredible achievement.”

“Oh, Richard,” Havelock rose slowly from his table. “What you have seen—” He then took his eyes to everyone at the table, “What you all have seen is merely the tip of the iceberg, that which is visible. You have no idea what lurks underneath the surface.”

That was the verbal cue to the one human servant in attendance, Pearson, who started turning the ornate valve set in the wall. As he was the only one there, he had to weave past the Mechamen to the opposite valve which also hissed as he released the pressure. The wall, as it had the previous evening, slid back, revealing not a collection of intertwined bodies but several targets. Standing inside two archery targets secured to bails of hay were bamboo representations of men—men dressed in what appeared to be uniforms of the British Empire. Wellington glanced to Pembroke who showed no revulsion or distaste. In fact, his mouth seemed to twitch into the lightest of grins.

“Allow me to demonstrate,” Havelock said, motioning to his manservant to tend to his creations, “the full potential of my Mechamen.”

Pearson now went to each automaton and threw the small switch within their forearms from the far right to the far left. He then wasted no time excusing himself from the room with extra long strides as the giants began emitting a soft whine, a whine that grew louder with each second. The luminescent mist that filled their faceplates turned from deep green to a deep red, their internal whine now subsiding to the ticking sound of their cogs at double their earlier pace. Their arms snapped downward, and the panels covering certain gearworks started turning and sliding up and back, making room for a pair of cylinders sliding out of the shoulders' chassis. When these new features locked into place, Wellington felt his throat tighten. The cold, icy demeanour fell to the wayside as he slapped Eliza on the shoulder and then plugged his ears with his fingers. Without question Eliza did the same.

When the Mechamen moved this time, the floor trembled, the ceiling and wall chandeliers tinkled. Dinner guests recoiled even though the brass leviathans did not even look in their respective directions. They were now taking positions within the ballroom, their prearranged targets far on the other side of it. The Mechamen's arms swung up and then bent at a hinge where a man's elbow would be. With a sharp, loud sting of metal, the arms again locked fast.

That was when the cylinders started spinning.

If any of the women were screaming, their caterwauling was drowned out by the gunfire. The Gatling guns were obviously smaller than even the army had; but the noise was far louder in the small space. Bullet shells bounced and sprayed everywhere as the Mechamen let fly against the archery targets. Once the structures holding them in place collapsed, the bamboo figures were next. They did not remain standing for long as the guns tore through the durable wood as if it were tissue paper.

Then the flames protruding from the arms of the Mech-amen vanished. The roar of artillery had ceased. The smoke surrounding them hung heavily, its scent causing the ladies—all save Eliza—to cover their mouths with their husbands' kerchiefs. The ballroom's chandelier remained intact, but the display's sound had knocked out a few panes of glass from the bay windows. Everyone started as the Mechamen suddenly stood up to their full height, their arms slowly extending outward and then lowering to their sides. Their faceplates still radiated red, but the glow was much softer now.

Wellington and Eliza lowered their fingers and shared a glance with each other.

“Good God,” Bartholomew said, “these things are—”

“Merely the beginning,” interrupted Havelock.

“Incredible,” came another voice. “Doctor Havelock, this is truly an amazing achievement on your part.”

“Thank you, Charles,” he beamed in reply, “but I certainly cannot take all the credit for it. I needed a good weapons master to consult with me on these Mechamen.”

Havelock then turned to the doorway, and that was when Wellington saw Pearson there, waiting dutifully. How long had he been there? When this tall butler moved, he was as silent as the softest whisper. Pearson gave a single nod, and then motioned in the direction of the foyer.

“Imagine my surprise when that master was, in actuality, a
mistress
.” He chuckled.

The woman entering the room brought smiles to the faces of the men. She possessed a bosom rivaling Eliza's, however, the ebony evening dress she wore made her appear menacing and yet ethereal. Wellington swallowed, feeling the sudden dryness in his throat; and with all the wine he had drunk he was now in desperate need of a water closet. Certainly he knew her—how could he forget
her
?

A sharp laugh tore his gaze away from the woman in black. Devane was not making any attempt to hide his contempt for this new arrival, even with Olivia stepping closer to him. Lady Devane looked as if she might faint. His arm around her was the first sign of affection he had displayed for his wife since arriving to the estate. This woman, at least to the Devane household, was some sort of common ground.

Then came the sound of a breath—someone taking a long, deep breath. Wellington turned to Eliza, and was surprised to find she looked ready to go on a rampage. She motioned with her eyes to the newcomer, her jaw tightening as she was no doubt fighting to unleash some savage battle cry. Wellington furrowed his brow. He understood his reaction, but not hers.

“Brethren, those who serve, and welcome Initiates,” Havelock began, “may I introduce
Signora
Sophia del Morte, a woman of many talents who does serve the Phoenix Society admirably.”

“Good Doctor,” she cooed, her Italian accent seeming to steal the men's breaths quite easily, much to the chagrin of their accompanying wives. “You flatter me. I work for the Society so admirably because you, my dear Doctor, pay me so admirably.”

The laughter was generous from the assembled party, all except for the Devanes who remained silent.

“I believe you know most of the assembled here,” Havelock said, motioning to everyone.

“I do,” she said, bestowing a pleasant smile to those she made eye contact with.

There was no escape. None whatsoever.

“Wellington!” she cooed, walking slowly towards him, the Society giving her a wide berth. “I had no idea you would be here! If I did I would have worn my hair as on the day we first met.”

The only one not quiet was the chortling Bartholomew Devane. “You daft dago,” he spat. “What are you on about? Are you saying you know Richard St. John of Wessex? Seeing as all you wear is black, I doubt if you are a frequent patron of the textile industry.”

Good Lord,
Wellington thought,
but you are thick, Devane.

“Eloquent as always, Lord Devane, but still not so bright,” she mocked as she now stood in front of Wellington. “Ladies and gentlemen, I wonder if you have been formerly introduced to
Signor
Wellington Books, Esquire, humble servant to the Queen, Country, and Empire.”

“I beg your pardon?” Devane asked, his mirth slipping away.

“Another client asked me to retrieve this rather knowledgeable man, for whatever reason. I did not know or care. Perhaps the only mark I have been asked to bring back alive.” She smiled, apparently indulging in a memory. “So, I enjoyed myself,” she teased, brushing the tip of his nose.

When Wellington flinched, her eyes then landed on Eliza. “And
signorina
! So good to see you again. I have not enjoyed such an entertaining opponent before—surely, worthy of a repeat performance.”

Now it was Doctor Havelock's voice. “Wait a moment. St. John's wife—”

“Good Doctor, I do not know what these people have told you,” she said, slowly backing away from them both, “but from what I know of Wellington and how that woman fights, I would say without question or challenge you all have been spending the weekend with a pair of British spies.”

The clicks that rose into the air were not from the Mechamen, but from the pistols that appeared suddenly in Eliza's hands. The gentlemen of the Society, however, possessed the wherewithal to make concealed weapons part of the dress code for the evening dinner party. Some of the guns were reminiscent of Eliza's vanity pistols while others were simple deadly weapons. Wellington's eyes widened slightly at three of the Brethren's wives also sporting tiny Derringer pistols, their stance and hold of the miniature firearms just as steady as Eliza's.

Once silence fell over the group again, Wellington and Eliza looked around them, taking stock of the barrels that all held within them their final fate.

“Right then,” Eliza spoke, startling everyone save for Wellington and Sophia. “I have two pistols, twelve bullets total. Who wants to be first to die?” She continued to retrain her pistols on members of the Society. When she brought one gun around to Sophia, Eliza went still as she promised the woman, “I have one specially set aside for you though. Have no worry.”

“My God, you can talk!” Bartholomew gasped.

“That's right, mate,” she bit back, all the pride of New Zealand behind her words. “Thought you'd find my accent too damn alluring to resist.”

Havelock took a step forward, his eyes trained on Wellington. His face revealed nothing.

“Well now,” Wellington began, “this is truly an awkward spot. However, I will say that this has been a delightful evening. Fine wine. Fantastic food. An impressive display of the applied sciences. Truly inspiring. So if you all do not mind—”