Rough Surrender (14 page)

Faith sucked at her lip. “I registered at the aerodrome yesterday. I’m getting a loan of a plane just the once, tomorrow morning. To try out the winds and get the feel of the place.”

They strolled in through the doors side by side. There she was, her airplane, sitting up on the two white-walled bicycle wheels. Twenty-six foot wingspan. A neat structure of piano wire, cable, canvas and spruce. The tang of shaved timber sweetened the air. There weren’t too many sheds with doors that could take one of these and she was grateful to Mr. Meisner for letting her use his. Though, of course, he had ulterior motives. She shut away the feelings that threatened to arise, stepped up to the Bleriot and admired the curve of the wing structure. Compared to the bulky Voisyn, the Bleriot was a marvel of simplicity and elegance.

“She’s pretty, ain’t she, miss?”

“Yes.” She reached up and ran her palm over the leading wing edge. “The wing-warping controls all check out?”

“Yes. Good as you can get ’er. We’ll take the wings off for transport to the flying field.”

“Excellent.” Yet the sight of the airplane without an engine only sent a sinking feeling to her stomach. What was the point in coming all this way only to miss out on flying in the meet? She sighed, and dug her fingernails into her palms.

Two other men who had been lounging on the empty crates sprang to their feet and ducked their heads.

“Thank you, gentleman, for helping Jimmy with this.”

They nodded and waited there, obviously uncomfortable in her presence.

“That all, miss?” Jimmy scratched at his neck. “Anything else you’d like me to do?”

“Well. Yes.” She turned to him and put hands on hips. “Maybe we need a fresh eye and ear. Do some investigating. I know Mr. Meisner is doing this also, but I’d like you to see if you can track the whereabouts of that missing crate. Start at the docks.”

“The steamer’s gone. Might be hard without the local lingo. But...I can hire a translator?” His forehead corrugated in query.

“Yes. Do that. Whatever it takes. And thank you, Jimmy.”

“Sure. Sure.” He grinned. “Jimmy Whitrod, private investigator at your service.”

She grinned back at him. Maybe there was hope yet.

Chapter 14

Leonhardt shaded his face with a hand across his brow, peering at the scene a few hundred yards away. The man whipped away the chocks from under the wheels of the Bleriot and the little airplane accelerated up the line of the landing strip and purred into the air. Faith looked so small and fragile perched on top of the thing. His other hand stayed pointing straight along the crease of his trousers despite his urge to clutch something.

For the next ten minutes he remained standing among a row of young trees, watching the maneuvers of the craft as she tested it out in slow flat figures of eight. A long way up off the ground but perhaps the thing was safer than reports had indicated?

As she came in to land, a mild breeze ruffled his shirt at the last moment. The plane slid sideways and careered toward the opposite side of the strip with two men sprinting out after it. By the time it slewed to a halt Faith had nearly ploughed into an opposite row of shrubs. One of the two wheels collapsed, canting it to one side and sending up a screeching racket. Faith leaped out and, as the craft tilted, she grabbed a wing to steady the machine.

“Oh my lord.” He took a half step. The Bleriot tipped farther and Faith, still holding the wing, was whisked fifteen feet or more into the air. Only the fast response of one of the men grabbing the opposite wing tip brought her back down to earth before she could fall.

“Damn! Damnable contraption.” He frowned, watching her casually dust herself off.

Was it as bad as it appeared? He needed to be sure. With what he had in mind to do, he really needed to be sure. If he could help it, he never left anything to chance, and he never fudged the figures.

Well, if she could do it, so could he.

Within the hour, he’d arranged for a lesson. Enough money could buy almost anything. A spare machine belonging to the French team had been bought for a short flight.

The Frenchman, a tall mustached gentleman wearing a gray beret and work clothes, rested his forearm on the wing, caressing the canvas and looking doubtful, as if Leonhardt were about to molest his favorite pet. “Very well, monsieur. You must listen to what I say, yes?”

“Of course.” Leonhardt climbed the little ladder and heaved himself into the pilot’s seat. The thing was far higher than he’d thought. He looked down past the bedstead frame and propeller.
Damn this seems dangerous. One hour of instruction and now I get to fly?

“A taxi up the strip, and a leetle lift off the ground, yes?” The Frenchman stood on the ladder and waggled his eyebrows under his cap.

“Yes.” Leonhardt wiggled on his gloves, made sure every finger was in the right spot then pulled his goggles down to cover his eyes. His heart was trying to escape to somewhere safe, judging from the heaviness of its thuds. He did not blame it at all. Madness. Why was he doing this? To stop Faith killing herself? Heavens, he was mad, himself.

“I shall prepare for you then. The coil.” He reached in, fiddled, the other man at the front turned the propeller once or twice. “
Bon
. The oil, the retard, and we do this.” Thumbs-up was signaled to his partner.

The front man sang out, “Contact!” and swung on the prop. The engine coughed then roared into life, the propeller spun again under its own power. Wind and oil smacked into Leonhardt’s face. The goggles darkened with specks of oil.

“
Bon
!
Bon
!” With a last slap on Leonhardt’s back, the man jumped down the ladder and hauled it away. “Remember! Listen to my instructions, monsieur!”

“Yes!” He grabbed hold of the little steering wheel, remembering that the stupid thing didn’t precisely steer.

“Listen to me!”

As the machine trundled forward, he gripped the wheel ever tighter. Faster and faster, the ground blurred past, with the bumps from the wheels sending awful shudders up through his behind. Even faster again, and she lifted off the ground.

No more bumping, just sheer abominable fear, and an engine vibrating so out of balance it blurred before his eyes. More oil splattered him, whipped back by the wind.

“Move it right.”

“Lessen the throttle!”

“Use the foot pedal, monsieur! The rudder!”

The yelled words from the man running alongside, and by another fellow pedaling a bicycle, seemed completely irrelevant, yet by striving, by utterly ignoring his emotions, Leonhardt managed to bring the machine thumping back to earth and to a halt. The small fire that broke out as the engine hissed to a stop was the icing, so to speak, on the cake.

Done. On the blessed ground. He didn’t kiss it, though he understood why others felt the need.

There was a mark where the wheel had dug into his skin through the gloves. It took ten minutes to go away. The oil all over his face took another ten minutes to wipe off but that gave him something to do while the tremor in his right leg wore off.

“Never again,” he muttered as he strode toward the edge of the field. “The woman is quite insane.”

The note he’d kept in his pocket since the morning he and Faith had shared breakfast at the Heliopolis Hotel would burn a hole in his pocket no longer. The engine could stay where he’d stored it. From what he’d seen, the chance of her killing herself in her airplane was high. Let others do themselves mortal injuries. She wasn’t going to be allowed to. Not if he had any say, at all.

* * * *

Helen, Mr. Meisner’s servant, was a quiet woman. The tall mirror showed Helen hovering behind her with mouth pursed and brow lined in concentration. At least thirty-five years in age, thought Faith. The dove-gray dress, thin face and harshly pinned-up bun of brown hair helped make her look austere and distant. Still, Helen said nothing as she pulled the ties tight at the back of Faith’s corset then helped her put on the rest of her attire–the long, flowing gold, black-and-red dress, the stockings, the shoes–and to style her hair into a mountainous pile high just above her nape. The earrings and bracelets came last.

“Are you well, Helen?”

“What? Oh, excuse me, miss. You startled me.”

All day while they’d explored and shopped in Cairo–whether outdoor market or exclusive indoor seamstress, Helen had carried herself with the same stoical air. By the end of the day Faith had a supply of drawers more suited to her sheath-like Poiret dresses, one of the newer girdles, and an urge to somehow change Helen’s dismal expression.

“I’m sorry. You just look...unhappy.”

Helen sighed and stepped back. “No. I’m perfectly fine, miss. Just not used to talking to my superiors.” She wrung her hands then ducked her head. “Erm. Miss. Beg pardon for mentioning, but...there seems to be an item missing.”

Well. She guessed it would have to be said. Helen had noticed anyway. Blood heated her cheeks. And here she was trying to get the woman talking.

“The drawers? I’ll not be wearing them tonight.” At the last moment she’d decided to do as he’d asked her.

Face still, Helen said, “Be careful outside then, miss. The winds can pick up at night.”

Dash it. If the woman wouldn’t say it, she would. It’d clear the air and, besides, who better to question than his servant. “Mr. Meisner requested it.”

“I did guess that, Miss. T’ain’t none of my business. Just as neither is the writing elsewhere. I’m right proud to be in his employ.” Oh, the look in Helen’s eye was icy.

Faith sighed, went to the bed and sat. “Do you despise me? Don’t worry about bothering me. I can take being despised. I just would like to know where we stand.”

“I’m only a servant–”

“No,” snapped Faith. “You are you. Where I was brought up, servants still had a say in life. Fact is, most of the time, we didn’t have servants as such. So...answer me, please.”

The quiet in the room ballooned into deathly silence then Helen took a deep breath. “No. I don’t hold it against you, miss. I know sir’s tastes. I don’t despise you. I...I just don’t like to see him hurt.”

Him?” Faith squeaked. “Him? You couldn’t dent the man with a brick.” She put both hands on the bed, to either side, and leaned back.

Helen frowned. “I disagree, miss. This last year since leaving London and coming here, well, he’s been most out of sorts. But now–”

“Yes?” Surely she’d not made him unhappy? How could that be?

“He’s smiling again. Which means, if I ain’t mistaken, that he’s ripe for an arrow straight in the heart.”

“Ah. I see. I promise you I have no intention of aiming for Mr. Meisner’s heart, with arrows, or anything else. I’m not toying with him.” What nonsense, if anything the man was toying with her.

“Thank you, miss.” Helen smiled a little. “I appreciate knowing that.”

“He’s lucky to have someone like you in his employ, Helen.” And, she realized, rolling the idea around in her head, the reverse was true–to have earned Helen’s loyalty, he must be an admirable man. Strange, how glad that made her. “How long has Mr. Meisner been here...in Cairo?”

“While you ask me questions, perhaps I could do the jewels in your hair? Pardon me for sayin’ but the time is getting late.”

“Of course.” She went and stood before the mirror again. At least now Helen didn’t look as if she’d swallowed a lemon.

“He and Mr. Henleyson came out together about a year ago.” Helen waved a gold hairpin in emphasis. “You’re well shot of him.”

Who?
“Mr. Henleyson? Mr. Jeremy Henleyson? I don’t understand.”

“Yes. Him. Mr. Meisner brought him out here to get him away from the whores. Wouldn’t think it would you to look at him?” At that Helen blushed. “Oops, sorry. You caught me there. I should not have said that. My lips are sealed.”

Jeremy was addicted to whores? Well, she’d never have imagined that. The revelation only made her more determined to make Mr. Meisner see sense. Marriage was not something she could contemplate just for
form
’s sake. Let the other women fall at men’s feet in a rush to be tied to them for life, not her.

She had found freedom in her everyday life and would die a spinster if no one precisely right came along. No matter how much she craved seduction at Mr. Meisner’s hands...and, oh, just the thought made her shiver...no matter, she’d not marry him purely because he wanted her to.

“And pardon me again, Miss, but you make sure you stick close to Mr. Meisner tonight, what with that murder near here. Can’t be too careful and the lass was whisked away when she’d only left the house for a stroll in the garden. Awful thing that.”

“Yes. It was. I’ll make sure I stay close. Thank you for your concern.”

“It was nothing, miss. Nothing ’t all.”

After that, Helen stayed silent, but what she had said was enough to keep Faith’s mind whirling.

* * * *

She found Mr. Meisner waiting downstairs in the hotel’s grand reception area. In silver-gray greatcoat, hat, gloves and black leather shoes, his large frame seemed heavier and squarer. She hesitated ever so slightly before walking to where he stood near the concierge.