Scarlet Devices (7 page)

They ought to be
thanking
her. Not refusing her a box of cold chicken and soggy bread.

When she returned to Matthew, Barnabas was still lying with his head on Matthew's lap, but he seemed to have regained some lucidity. He clutched Matthew's wrist and spoke to him in the gravest tones his hoarse voice would allow.

“I know you can't find him. Gone west, they never come back. But promise me, Matthew.”

“I promise.”

“Promise me you'll look.”

“Everywhere I go, Barnabas,” he reassured his friend, clasping his arm. “If he's there to be found, I'll find him. At least news of him.”

Eliza knew Lord Smith-Grenville was unlikely to die. He was young and strong, and would be given all the care he needed. His fever made him overwrought, though, and the delirium surely didn't help calm him. He seemed to think he was done for. Then she realized that, as least as far as the race and his current search for his brother were concerned, he
was
done for. She sent a grateful glance to Matthew, for his kind words to the sick man. Whether or not he found Phineas Smith-Grenville, he was at least attempting to ease his friend's concerns.

Pence looked up and met her gaze, catching Eliza off guard. His odd green gray eyes looked eldritch and wonderful in the sunlight, like uncut gemstones in some fairy palace. His brow was furrowed but he spared her a quick smile, and Eliza felt the flush deepen on her cheeks. Not shame this time.

A clanging bell and raised voices broke the spell. “Make way! Clear a path! Pardon, miss!”

She rushed to one side to avoid the men running in advance of the ambulance, an old-fashioned horse-drawn conveyance whose team of two were sweating already. Clearly they had wasted no time in getting to the fairground.

It seemed a matter of seconds for the attendants to scoop Barnabas onto a stretcher and load him into the vehicle. Then, with more clanging and rattling and shouts, the ambulance disappeared from the once-festive field and took any lingering air of celebration with it.

“Oh, dear!” One of the lunchbox ladies uttered into the ensuing horrible silence. “But now who will advise Mr. Pence about his poor fandangulator?”

No one had an answer for her.

Fifteen competitors had entered the field of the Harrisburg Academy. Fourteen would proceed out of it. That first day was supposed to be an easy drive, but Eliza couldn't help noticing that nearly a quarter of the racers were already out of the running before they'd even reached their first official checkpoint at Pittsburgh.

“Four gone already, out of eighteen. At this rate,” she whispered to Matthew as Barnabas was driven away, “there won't be anyone left for the airship legs.”

“I'm trying not to count those first three drivers.” He slid the brushed metal flower from his pocket, gave it a deft flick and turned it into a knife to cut the string from his lunchbox. Eliza decided she wanted one of the gadgets for herself. “They never started, after all. Think of it as just one of fifteen gone. It doesn't seem nearly as bad then, even if it is poor Smith-Grenville.”

“But why wouldn't you count them? It was sabotage aimed at the racers, surely the intent was to eliminate some of the competitors.”

He examined the contents of the box, poking at a piece of fruit and lifting the paper from a cut of cold meat. At least the bread was also wrapped and didn't appear as soggy as Eliza had feared. “I don't count them because it doesn't seem nearly as bad then. I wonder if these boxes are all the same. Did you get an apricot as well?”

The racers were called to their cars, ending the conversation. As Eliza took to the long, curving drive that led on and off the field, she saw a tractor chugging over to Barnabas's car, a hitch being attached so they could haul it away.

“One gone, fourteen left,” she whispered, finding Matthew was right. It didn't seem as bad when she thought of it that way. She told herself it was merely less competition to worry about.

And to her delight, she discovered her box lunch did not contain an apricot at all, but strawberries.

T
HE DRIVE TO
Pittsburgh was more of the same bucolic loveliness, the odd distant fortress across fields interspersed with charming roadside villages and towns. The city itself welcomed them with more bunting, more speeches, in the floodlit central square. Armed guards were set to watch the vehicles while the competitors dined and slept in the best hotel, after being fêted by the cream of Pittsburgh society.

Nobody else took ill. No glaring women in odd lapel pins ruined the festive mood. The drivers rested, the cars were protected and all of them set off safely the next morning bound for the Northern Dominion and Meridian City. But Matthew was still edgy, unsettled. The whole enterprise felt wrong with Smith-Grenville gone, and even Eliza appeared oddly subdued.

As usual, though, driving relaxed him. Matthew relished the speed and freedom, and the stretch of unfamiliar road was a tonic. His steam car performed as flawlessly as it had in trials, efficient and enduring. It eased his mind further to see which vehicles and drivers were able to match his pace.

Van der Grouten's silver shark of a car, of course. He and Matthew swapped places for miles—the German always stony-faced when he swept ahead, Matthew grinning and waving cheekily when it was his turn.

Moreau, Whitcombe and Cantlebury formed the next wave, along with Miss Lavinia Speck, another British competitor. One of those four was ever within sight when Matthew looked back. Lazaris, the lone Greek competitor, and two of the other Dominion drivers made occasional appearances throughout the day.

But ahead, except when Van der Grouten pulled forward, the view was always the same. Amaranth red, gleaming in the sun. Matthew was tempted to give Dexter Hardison's engineering all the credit, and it was true Eliza's steamer was one of the best-built vehicles he'd ever had the pleasure to see. But it took skill, nerve and stamina to drive as hard as Eliza did to keep the lead, not to mention determination.

The weather was clear, the roads were still solid and Matthew arrived in Meridian, in the heart of the Northern Dominion, shortly before dusk. He found the city much like Pittsburgh—a somewhat larger version of Harrisburg, but all of them hamlets compared to New York City. A bit of a letdown.

Decent food at the hotel, though, he had to admit. And the press had been stopped outside the lobby for the drivers' privacy.

“The wine is more than acceptable too,” Eliza pointed out to Matthew at dinner that evening. Then she looked to her right again, where one of the back-of-the-pack Dominion drivers was busy monopolizing her attention. Beau Parnell, a self-professed cowboy from the wilds of Victoria, did not let his lackluster driving impede his love for racing or his impression of himself as a master of the steam car. He clearly also fancied himself a playboy.

“But see, when you slide that coupling bracket onto that hose,” he smarmed at Eliza, “that lard keeps the whole operation smooth and easy. Everything lasts longer too. You don't want that rubber to get all dry and neglected-like.”

Matthew nearly snapped the stem off his wineglass watching the gestures with which Parnell illustrated his words. Did Eliza have any idea how inappropriate the man was being? She couldn't. Could she? Surely not.

Eliza sipped her wine and hummed with appreciation before responding. “Why, Mr. Parnell, what a . . . passion you seem to have for mechanical equipment.” Then she turned her attention across the table to respond to a question from Lazaris, leaving Parnell to guess whether she'd understood him or not.

For Matthew, the question was not whether she'd understood Parnell, but whether she knew how precarious her position was. Too precarious to play the flirt or to lob double entendres back and forth with strangers who wanted to best her in the rally. Two stops ago, the good townswomen had somehow been primed to shun her. She was an innocent, still in need of guidance. In need of protection from men like Parnell, who might get the wrong impression entirely. Matthew frowned into his steak au poivre and pondered his best course of action. What would Dexter advise, were he here? Matthew could only guess, and hope his instincts were correct.

To the shock of the staff, the women stayed in the private dining room for port. Jeanette Barsteau, the French driver whose sleek forest green roadster still sported an old-fashioned tug-along for coal, even indulged in a cigar. When Parnell and his crony Johnston expressed their surprise—and obvious disapproval—she dismissed them with a toss of her fading ginger curls.

“I survived the war. I pioneered the Paris-Rouen rally. I have been driving since before some of you were born. I have earned the right to enjoy a cigar as well as any of you. Better than most,” she added, with a pointed look at a few of the younger gentlemen. A smoke ring competition ensued, and the formidable lady seemed in line to win that too, with Eliza and several others cheering her on.

When Whitcombe and Cantlebury launched into a round of off-color jokes, however, Matthew decided enough was enough.

“Eliza, I think it's time you retired.”

“Sorry, I didn't catch that? Oh,
bravissima
, Madame Barsteau!”

“
Eliza
. This isn't appropriate.” He clasped her wrist, holding on firmly when she tried to shake him off. “It's time to take your leave.”

The look she leveled at him could have boiled a frozen Alpine lake in midwinter. “I'm sure I can't have heard you correctly, Mr. Pence.”

He glared right back, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. “Parnell is looking down your dress. So is Madame Barsteau, by the way. And Cantlebury's next anecdote, if his repertoire hasn't changed since Oxford, involves nuns and a pony. No young woman should be in the room when he tells that one. Please come with me now.”

“A pony? Really?” She made little attempt to lower her voice, and Cantlebury heard her clearly.

“Oh, I could tell you a tale about a pony,” he volunteered to the general approbation of the group. “And some nuns!”

A cheer went up, and Matthew used the noise as cover for another fiercely whispered admonition. “Your cousin would skin me alive if he found out you'd been a party to this sort of thing and I did nothing to stop it.”

Her expression turned sweet. Poisonously so. “Matthew, if you're not having any fun, I suggest you go elsewhere and find some. But you should know better than to try to spoil it for other people. I am staying.” Distracting him with a condescending pat to his cheek, she twisted her other wrist sharply against his thumb to break his hold, then turned one slim shoulder to him, giving all her attention to the end of the table where Whitcombe was taking up Madame Barsteau's challenge to another round of smoke rings, and Cantlebury was launching into the pony story with his usual gusto.

Worn out from the drive and his day's worth of worry over Barnabas, Matthew growled in frustration and rose abruptly from the table just as the waiter was passing by to pour another round of port. Physics and coincidence mated with spectacular results, and Eliza shrieked as half a bottle of port burbled down her cleavage.

“What in the—good
lord
, that's cold!” She stood, worsening matters. The port that had pooled in her lap began to soak all the way down her skirt, dripping to the floor.

“Begging your pardon! Begging your pardon, miss! I'll get—I'll fetch a—I'll—” The poor young waiter fled the room before finishing his utterance, leaving Matthew and the others to fling napkins Eliza's way to try to soak up the worst of it.

“Well, now I've completely lost my train of thought,” quipped Cantlebury, who didn't seem terribly upset. He leaned forward, in fact, seeming to enjoy the unexpected entertainment.

“It was a lovely ensemble,” Madame Barsteau lamented. “
Qu'elle dommage
.”

“Perhaps it can be salvaged,” Matthew offered dubiously. None of them had changed from their driving clothes before dining—it was the wild frontier, after all—and Eliza was still in a midnight blue skirt that could probably be cleaned. But she'd removed her smart bolero jacket to attend the meal, and the deep red wine had clearly ruined the delicate silk blouse she'd worn beneath.

Delicate, and now rather transparent. Her chemise and the lines of her corset were visible through the sodden fabric.

If Dexter would flay him for letting her hear the pony story, Matthew couldn't begin to imagine what the man would do for letting Eliza display her undergarments in public. “Let me help you to your room, Miss Hardison.”

“Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?” She snapped over a sudden lull in the babble around the small room. Anyone whose attention hadn't already been riveted on the spectacle of the spilled port was now fully engaged in minding Miss Hardison's business. “That may have been an accident, but it was certainly a convenient one for you.”

Matthew pulled his jacket off, mourning the potential loss of the fine linen even as he slung it around Eliza's shoulders. Settling it into place, he realized she was trembling. With rage, embarrassment or something else, he couldn't tell. It didn't matter.

“Please have a bath and a maid sent to Miss Hardison's room immediately,” he instructed the flustered waiter, who had just dashed back into the dining room with the maître d' close behind. Matthew offered Eliza his arm and sighed with relief when she took it. They left to a chorus of apologies and “right away, sir” and so forth from the staff.

He'd stopped the pony story in its filthy tracks and gotten Eliza out of the room, all in one fell accidental swoop. As far as Matthew was concerned, the unfortunate incident with the port was a godsend. Eliza obviously held a different perspective on matters.

As soon as they'd entered the relative privacy of the elevator, Eliza flung Matthew's jacket off and slapped it into his chest. Her silent glare spoke volumes. The elderly lift attendant never so much as looked their way.

“Were you aware,” Matthew said as calmly as he could manage, while trying not to look at the area in question, “that your shirt and chemise have been rendered somewhat transparent?”

She dropped her head to look, then gasped and snatched the jacket back, clutching it to her bosom. Her lips tightened, and he was treated to another few seconds of silence.

“Thank you,” she finally blurted, as though it pained her. She shrugged the jacket back over her shoulders.

“You're most welcome.” Matthew was in a different kind of pain, himself. He hadn't been able to avoid looking entirely. He was only human after all, only a mortal man, scarcely able to control himself in the presence of the divine—which Eliza's figure was, even when not outlined in filmy port-soaked cloth. He'd caught a glimpse, just a fraction of a second of a peek, and seen that the cold had hardened her nipples. Now he felt light-headed and stupid with longing to look again.

Instead, he stared hard at the ancient lift attendant's bony shoulder blades under their dark red livery and tried not to let the color remind him of port.

 • • • 

E
IZ COULDN'T QUITE
find the word to describe how she felt.
Mortified
, though apt enough, seemed somehow inadequate.
Frustrated
, certainly.
Aggravated
and
chagrined
. Highly displeased at the loss of her shirt and the permanent staining of what had been a favorite chemise and a nearly new set of stays.

She was also angry with Matthew, for being so condescending . . . and with herself, for her churlish behavior in the face of what had turned out to be his chivalry.

The elevator clattered to a halt at Eliza's floor, opening to an empty corridor with bland, tasteful wallpaper and thick carpeting. It was nice, but hardly what she was used to. And it might be their last night in anything like decent conditions before they reached Colorado Springs. Meridian City was relatively civilized, but certainly not New York. They would camp the next night, after they passed St. Louis and crossed into the vast Victoria Dominion. Assuming they made it farther, who knew what ramshackle amenities the frontier towns of Westport and Dodge City might offer? And between those two points was a two day span of driving, on wagon tracks if they were lucky, straight across the barely charted middle of Victoria.

It suddenly seemed so far, so alien and daunting. All that distance, at breakneck speed, possibly risking her life and for what? To prove a point to herself, or to a man she didn't even like?

Fingering Matthew's jacket as they neared her door, Eliza realized that was no longer true. Not really. Her opinion of him . . . was in flux and had been for some time. She wasn't sure what she thought of him at the moment, but she liked the way his warmth conveyed itself via the jacket's lining. She found it rich that Matthew had bristled at Parnell looking down her dress when she'd caught him doing essentially the same thing several times himself. But if she was being honest with herself, she rather liked that too. It gave her an odd thrill to be observed that way, to know that at least in one respect he apparently no longer saw her as a child.