The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel

Praise for the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences novels

D
AWN’S
E
ARLY
L
IGHT

“A good bet for steampunk fans.”

—
Library Journal

“Ballantine and Morris’s third entry in the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences raises the bar for the entire series—and for urban fantasy as a genre. Extensive world-building, multifaceted characters, fast-paced action, and an engaging plot all make for a thrilling, absorbing read . . . [An] expertly woven story.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“
Dawn’s Early Light
does not disappoint. It’s full of action, explosions, and deceit.”

—
Seattle Geekly

“Cute and charming, interspersed with sequences of dire peril and explosive action . . . You don’t want to miss a delicious moment of the story.”

—
Kings River Life Magazine

“Richly detailed, complex, and full of action . . . [Books and Braun] make an amazing team . . . Another great tale in the amazingly creative and entertaining Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences series.”

—
That’s What I’m Talking About

T
HE
J
ANUS
A
FFAIR

“An amazing read, filled with wonderful characters, detailed world-building, and an intriguing plot . . . I cannot wait for the next installment.”

—
Badass Book Reviews

“A fun romp through a London featuring housekeepers with mechanical legs, automated bartenders, hypersteam trains, and restaurants on airships.”

—
Steampunk Chronicle

“Action, mystery, undercurrents of a personal nature, and a pace that is sure to keep a reader’s interest.”

—
Night Owl Reviews

P
HOENIX
R
ISING

“[A] thrilling and labyrinth[ine] detective romp laced with humor, feminine moxie, and mayhem. The prose is Dickens on steroids, yet it somehow grips the reader . . . A dark and twisted roller coaster of a read for those fond of elegant vernacular and bizarre weaponry.”

—
Fangoria

“Dramatic, filled with heart-stopping action . . . A wonderful beginning to what looks to be an exciting addition to the steampunk genre.”

—
Smexy Books

“A strong first book . . . Anyone who was a fan of the adventure in the Blades of the Rose series and the dynamic in the Sherlock Holmes movie might want to check this series out.”

—
Fiction Vixen

“This is steampunk done right, down to every last detail . . . Action-packed with edge-of-your-seat excitement.”

—
Badass Book Reviews

Ace Books by Pip Ballantine and Tee Morris

The Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novels

DAWN’S EARLY LIGHT

THE DIAMOND CONSPIRACY

Ace Books by Philippa Ballantine

The Books of the Order

GEIST

SPECTYR

WRAYTH

HARBINGER

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

THE DIAMOND CONSPIRACY

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the authors

Copyright © 2015 by Pip Ballantine and Tee Morris.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62146-2

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Ace mass-market edition / April 2015

Cover art by Dominick Finelle.

Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To the talented authors we have worked with on
Tales from the Archives
and
Ministry Protocol.

And to the equally talented curators and fact finders of the International Spy Museum in Washington, DC. This is our tip of the bowler hat to what you do.

Like Ministry agents, we rely on our backup team in the field, so it would be churlish not to mention the assistance we received for this book.

Thanks to Danielle Stockley and Susan Allison for guiding us on the path with the Ministry and keeping us free of the House of Usher.

Appreciation to our agent, Laurie McLean, and the talented team at Fuse Literary for providing logistical support in the field.

We thank Mildred Cady, Marie Bilodeau, and Marcus Gilman for help with languages beyond our reach, so we didn’t put our foot in the cultural divide.

Our temporary intern of Awesome, K. T. Bryski earned our thanks for providing cover while we were under fire of deadlines and promotion.

And finally to all the fans and readers who have supported us with cosplay, fanart, comments, and hurrahs along the way, thank you for your support.

Wherein Miss Braun and Mr. Books Come to an Understanding

“W
elly, would you please listen to me for just a moment?”

“Why is it that you just cannot admit that my mind is much like my word in this—final!”

“There’s no reason to snap at me!”

Wellington Thornhill Books, Esquire, knew he was still exhausted, even after a brief rest he and his partner, Eliza D. Braun, took upon their hurried departure from California. Considering the past thirty-six hours, an extension of the previous eighty-four, their harrowing adventure had simply led straight onto another assignment from their director at the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. It was, indeed, hard to grasp that only four days prior to their present altitude over the Atlantic, they were in the Arizona Territories, held at gunpoint by a female priest who apparently doubled as a bounty hunter. A gunfight and shared deduction around his analytical engine later, they were giving his masterpiece of engineering a field test of the highest order. The motorcar, an unexpected boon from Doctor Sound, who had apparently found the means to have it expedited to Lakehurst, New Jersey, Eliza had dubbed the
Ares: Mark I
. It was a designation he found a tad melodramatic . . .

. . . but now, after inspecting and servicing the mechanical wonder, Wellington considered it quite catchy.

So even though he was bone weary, and therefore slightly short-tempered, he could not understand why she was pressing the matter. “Miss Braun, let us agree that I have a far more intimate understanding of my motorca—”

“The
Ares
,” she corrected him.

“All right, yes, very well, the
Ares
.” Eliza crooked an eyebrow at him which took him a moment to interpret, but not as long as the previous one. He gave a heavy sigh, and added, “
Mark One
.”

“By giving your motorcar a name and designation,” she began, “you will have more of a bond with the weapon, a relationship, if you will. The better a relationship you have with your sidearms and weapon of choice, the more efficient and proficient you will become with them.”

“Really?” Wellington gave a dry laugh. “As if you have given your own arsenal such personality.”

“But I have,” she insisted. “My
pounamu
pistols for example. Heinemoa and Tutanekai.”

He blinked at her. “Are you telling me—” He shook his head. “You can’t tell the two apart.”

“Of course I can,” Eliza said in a very sharp manner. “Heinemoa shoots better. Longer range, I tend to favour her over Tutanekai.”

“Well now there’s a surprise.” He pursed his lips tight. “But when it comes to”—he glanced at Eliza—“
Ares
, I know its schematics and internal mechanics far better than you.”

“And when it comes to weapons, I know some things better than you.” Wellington went to counter, but she held up a hand between them. “I’m not saying I’m a better shot. I’m going to concede to that . . . for the time being.” She approached him, standing well within kissing distance. “The Gatling guns in the headlights are impressive. Deliciously so, I would add. Your problem isn’t firepower. It’s weight.”

“Weight?” Wellington asked, crossing his arms in what he knew was a defensive gesture. He had taken into consideration all aspects of wear and tear the field could muster.

At least, he
thought
he had.

“Yes. Weight. We were able to manoeuvre quite deftly against
Edison’s motortrucks, but they were lumbering behemoths to begin with. What about the motorcar that came straight at us at the Montara Light? There was no way we could out-manoeuvre something like that. You did stop it with a rocket, yes. One of two. Wouldn’t it have been ducky if you could have allowed for more of those little firecrackers?”

“No space was available,” Wellington insisted. “I had two Gatling guns in the front and—”

“And one under the tumble seat.” Eliza gave him a light slap on the forehead. “
Ares
needs to be a swift attack vehicle, not a bloody tank!”

Wellington opened his mouth to protest, but paused. Had he really been in the Archives for so long that he had never considered his motorcar as anything other than an armoured juggernaut?

Still, the forward guns needed stopping power. “So what do you propose for a replacement?”

“Swap them out for the new Maxims. More compact design.”

The Maxim design was a tad more streamlined.
Dashitall,
he thought to himself. “The .303 calibre shells are a slight drop,” he countered.

“Welly, you’re shooting up to six hundred rounds per minute, and that is before you modify them. Which I know you will.” And she was right. Again. “You’re going to do damage either way, even going with a lower calibre bullet.”

“But recommending a lower calibre?” He shook his head. This couldn’t be happening. “You?”

Eliza sighed. “Instead of making some crass joke about size, I will simply say this—the Maxims are good enough for the Avro five-tens tethered on this magnificent transatlantic cruiser. They will be good enough for
Ares
.”

“Indeed.”

Eliza grinned, and even with the grease smudges and grit in her skin, she looked positively stunning. “See? You’re already losing arguments to me. You’re getting the hang of this relationship. Well done!”

With a chuckle, Wellington stole a quick kiss from her lips. In the corridor, no less, where anyone could see them. He actually found the gesture quite liberating.

“Did I happen to mention,” Eliza said, her voice lowering
into a most intimate tone, “I am so damn happy to be on this transatlantic flight with you and hours of nothing to do but to”—she leaned forwards to whisper in his ear—“stay in bed?”

The images that raced through his brain quite unhinged whatever witty comment he might have flung back. By the time Wellington had recovered, Eliza had turned a little to the long window that revealed the grand expanse that was the Atlantic Ocean, the sky around them clinging to sparse sunlight. Soon it would be night. Dinner, no doubt, with the stars providing atmosphere along with the
Atlantic Angel
’s in-flight musicians. With dusk quickly falling and their own airship driving into the night, they could both enjoy a leisurely meal. Tonight appeared to be shaping up as their first opportunity to take a breath and enjoy one another’s company. All night long.

Finally.

“It was quite the jaunt, but I am ready to go home,” Eliza said. When she faced him again, she slipped her hand under his arm and against his side. She clearly didn’t care if they were improper between their appearance and public behaviour, because truthfully he was having rather improper thoughts. Why were they not having this conversation alone, in their quarters, while getting undressed? “But I do have one little question: are you still going to call me ‘Miss Braun’?” Eliza gave a little shrug but this tiny detail rattled her without question. “Not that I don’t find it charming and all, but there are limits.”

The archivist looked into her eyes, and did his best to deal a smile that would pin her to the spot. This time he would not shy away, make an excuse, or say anything that would pull them apart. Instead, with his own grease-and-grime-stained fingers, he traced along her jawline with the back of his fingers—right there, in public. Between this and the quick kiss he had stolen from her earlier, she must have thought him very forward. Good.

“No,” he said softly, “I shall only call you ‘Miss Braun’ when we are on the Ministry’s time. In all else, I shall call you Eliza, Rose of the Southern Hemisphere, Athena of Aotearoa, Avenging Angel of Her Majesty’s Empire . . .” He paused as her cheeks coloured from repressed laughter. “. . . and anything else that springs to mind.”

On this journey, not the one home but this personal one with Eliza at his side, Wellington anticipated many moments like this. Moments of discovery, and he found himself wanting to discover even more. She leaned into his hand, even as her eyes darted around the viewing promenade. This was in earnest the first time they had a moment’s tranquillity. The last airship out of Oakland followed the chaos and calamity that had befallen San Francisco so closely, the tension was palpable. For their own selves, this tension did little to prevent them from surrendering to fatigue. They lost most of the following day, as well, catching up on well-earned, desperately needed rest, awakening to their new orders, hurried travel arrangements, and—on catching at Station Lakehurst the connecting flight arranged by Doctor Sound—replenishing
Ares’
arsenal and carrying out a few in-flight modifications. With their own chariot of the heavens continuing into the night, the sudden peace and quiet they found unsettling.

Eliza smiled sideways at her partner, now the gesture meaning something more to him. “We have a few days to pass the time, and for once I think the Maestro, the Ministry, and even the director himself won’t be popping up to spoil the damn moment.”

As she leaned closer to him, he heard his own breath catch in his throat, and he could see that pleased her. This was such undiscovered country for him, but it was nice to know that he could make her smile so brightly with such a simple thing as being surprised. Eliza squeezed his hand. “I seem to recall that once you helped me out of my corset. Do you think you could do the same again?”

This time, when he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against him, she gasped. It was a rather satisfying sound. “Eliza, last time I cut you loose from your corset, that was out of concern for a fellow agent. Right now, we are no longer serving at Her Majesty’s behest. Therefore, I want to take my time.”

They walked hand in hand back towards their stateroom. Wellington glanced at the temporary nameplate on the door. They were travelling under the names Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence, honeymooning in the United States and returning home to London. Once upon a time, Wellington considered, the cost
for such luxury would have come out of his own pocket, even with the suite being the only room available at such short notice. However, as active agents, they were given appropriate lodging for their cover.

The bottle of champagne chilling in their stateroom, ordered while they were working on the
Ares
, was his offering, though. He could hardly be expected to have the Ministry director compensate such an extravagance.

Wellington had let her go in ahead of him; but after he shut the door, they collided like two objects hurled at each other. Her lips were strong and firm, and there was no single sign of hesitation. Hardly ladylike or of a fashion that the circles he grew up in would have approved of, but he hardly cared about such decorum now. That life was now a distant memory. From the way her hands roamed about his body, tore away at his coat and braces, she needed him as much as he needed her. Burying her hands in his hair, she pulled him against her as his own hands busied themselves pulling her clothing loose. Even her corset proved to be no hindrance.

Somehow they managed to pull themselves free of the wall and tumble back onto the bed, their lips and hands never losing contact. Quite the triumph.

Soon enough they found themselves taking full advantage of both the luxury of time with each other, and their stateroom’s shower. He felt as if he were finally ridding himself of the dust, grime, and grit of his first sanctioned mission in the field as a Ministry agent, and at last able to show Eliza how much she truly meant to him. It had to be the longest shower Wellington had ever taken. Even when it came to the rare times he would indulge in a bath, he would never linger like he did presently. There was too much to do, too much to tend to.

Perhaps it was an illusion of the moment, not that he minded, but the water tasted sweeter off her skin. He could tell he was surprising Eliza, and could not help but smile when their lips locked. He not only needed to keep artefacts organised for the Ministry, it also fell upon him to keep the records, know the facts, understand the nuances of a case. That, coupled with his father’s insistence on intimately knowing human physiology—presumably to make him a more efficient killer—offered him a rather sound foundation for intimacy.

The water, the soap, their hands exploring one another’s bodies, it all became such a succulent medley of sensations that they allowed themselves surrender. If this was, in fact, what field agents did to unwind after a mission, Wellington could understand why Eliza was so desperate to return to it.

Eventually they abandoned the water, and tumbled into bed, giggling and breathless. The long line of her muscled back under his hands issued the most sensual ripples of lust throughout him, and he pulled her close, far closer than he had ever dared to possibly imagine. They traced each other’s scrapes and bruises from this jaunt across the United States, lying tangled, warm, and cosy in the sheets.

“Quite the most dangerous woman I have known,” he quipped, planting a series of little kisses across her ribs where the skin was purple and red.

“Considering your past with Sophia del Morte I will choose to take that as a compliment.” She rolled over onto her front and traced her fingers down his chest.