The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel (2 page)

Wellington tilted his head back. “Don’t remind me. I am quite anxious enough sharing this bed with you. I would rather not be distracted by the thought she is somewhere out in the darkness, unattended.” He rolled his eyes, giving a dry chortle as he added, “God be with any man to whom she has tethered herself.”

“I don’t think I like you talking about her while you are in bed with me,” Eliza mused. She nipped at his neck. “And there is no need for you to be anxious, nervous, or even slightly unnerved in sharing a bed with me. I’m your partner. Your safety comes first.”

“No need to hold back on my account.” He twisted under her, pinning her to the bed in a nice bit of wrestling. “I assure you, my darling Eliza, I am most capable of—”

He suddenly felt something wrap around his waist and toss him to one side. By the time he had realised it was her leg that had slipped in the modest space between their torsos, hooked against his side, and then used his overconfidence as leverage—dear Lord, but Eliza was flexible!—he was flat on his back with this formidable agent now pinning him to the bed.

“—getting rather full of yourself?” she purred, her eyes dancing in the warm light of their suite.

His tactical mind wanted to know how she was managing to pin him so effectively to their bed, but the rest of him decided not to bother. This was a particularly lovely place to be at present.

“As we have nowhere else to be but here, Wellington Thornhill Books, let us enjoy tonight. No Italian assassins. No mechanised maniacs. Just us. How does that sound?”

“As my senior agent, I yield to your better judgement.”

Her laugh was breathy. When she smiled at him, Wellington was hers. “Lesson One: The Art of Taking Your Time.”

She took another kiss from him, merely the soft pressing of lips against each other. The hunger and lust were not there, but the want and passion were. He didn’t need to ask her to know that for her—as it was for him—this was more than a mere tumble in the hay.

Looking into her eyes, Wellington shook his head, for once quite without words. Her long red-brown hair provided a curtain around their faces, sealing off the world—which was just as he wanted it.

As he fell deeper into her erotic embrace he could only wish their airship would encounter a headwind.
Yes,
he thought languidly to himself,
this is how it should be. For a moment, let the Empire and those within it fend for themselves.

Wherein the Arrogance of Youthful Friends Proves Costly

W
ith Miss Eliza D. Braun currently out of the country, the Ministry Seven fell short of its lofty ideals and what Miss Eliza called “ethics.” Christopher realised that, even as he held open the tiny kitchen window for Serena to crawl through. Liam was the one who had given her the boost, and slippery as an eel, the youngest of the gang was granted entry to these fashionable apartments. Miss Eliza may have accepted what he and the rest of the Ministry Seven did in order to survive, but there was a difference between acceptance and approval.

A little larceny Christopher justified here as a good way to keep their skills honed, as well as their reputation on the street intact. Much as it would disappoint her, it would not do to have Miss Eliza come back to find them accustomed to toasted muffins and clean clothes. Even with their misleading name, the Ministry Seven were her eyes and ears in the City, and this meant that all eight of them would need to dabble in the odd confidence game, a bit of tooling, or—as it was tonight—helping themselves to a toffken.

Just thinking of Miss Eliza and Mr. Harry—God rest his
soul—brought a smile to Christopher’s face. Yet, lurking in the back of his mind was one rotten thought: even the ones with good intentions like Miss Eliza could go missing, especially with what her chosen profession demanded. This world devoured people, good and bad but usually it was the good ones first, leaving nothing except memories to remember them by. His own people had been mudlarks, and been lost to the Thames years before. Christopher hadn’t been prepared for that.

Then there’d be Verity Fitzroy, their leader and guardian before Eliza. She’d taken care of them, and then she “grew up.” That was when Christopher became their leader.

We have to be ready for the worst,
Christopher thought.
Take whatever chances Miss Eliza gave them, but always be ready to go back to screwing and the jolly.

“You coming or what?” Liam whispered, and Christopher spun around to see that Serena had already opened the door to the fancy doctor’s house. He blushed red. Kidsmen shouldn’t be caught daydreaming like right nitwits.

It was only five of them on this job. The twins were on another lark down in the West End, and Eric had a hacking cough that would have given the game away immediately. So he was back being nursed by Alice, which also turned out to be a nice way to keep her busy. Having spent time in the workhouse like the rest of them, she knew the game pretty well, and was actually harder to fool than Miss Eliza. She was a sharp one.

At least with one of them being sick, that appeared to soothe those crazy mothering instincts of hers. Alice could not have forced them to stay at Miss Eliza’s apartments, but the maid would be mightily annoyed if she knew that they were taking the opportunity to rumble a doctor’s house. No doubt hot baths and scrubbing brushes for all would have been a consequence. She did insist on far too many hot baths.

“See,” Serena said, shutting the door silently behind her. “You come see if I ain’t right—this gent is well-off.”

Christopher raised his eyebrow, tucked his hands into his pockets and strolled into the quarters. “So you and Callum did a reconnoitre of the house then?” He liked using some of those fancy words Verity had taught him now and then. It made him look educated . . . which in these surroundings he felt he needed.

Serena followed on his heels. “Sure did. Today is the maid’s day off, and master of the house hasn’t been around.”

“What d’ya mean he’s not been around?”

“Normally, the good doctor’s up at the palace like clockwork before a sparrow’s fart, but past few days, we’ve not seen hide nor hair of him. Just been the maid.”

He was impressed, though he didn’t say so. Callum and Serena had been trying to show him despite being the youngest they were ready for jobs of their own. It was, he admitted to himself, not a bad wee score.

Liam and Colin were scoping out upstairs while Callum kept watch at the window, just in case the good doctor decided to stroll home early. Serena led Christopher into the front office, and he let out a long whistle. His gaze first alighted on a burnished oak desk and fancy green leather chair set in a grand room of scarlet and gold. He took it all in. The massive library. The fine couches. The grandest of grandfather clocks. And—

Why would a doctor have a map of the world, then? Seemed a little out of place for this plush study.

“So what’s this doctor do exactly?” he asked, while following with his eyes the line of books out to the bay window overlooking a little garden in need of tending. Could that window serve as an entry point if they wanted to stage something grander than this quick haul?

Serena shrugged. “Not sure really. Something with the toffs. Think he has another office for taking their money on Harley Street, but he ain’t never gone down to the East End, that’s for sure.”

She was a smart kid; Christopher had to give her marks for understanding what he was thinking. Though the Ministry Seven weren’t much for doctors, he harboured a small respect for those rich doctoring folk that dared the industrial parts of London town, got their hands dirty, and risked catching God knows what. He had seen his own fair share of those bastards what gave the idea they cared about the Queen’s lesser subjects, but it was nothing more than a toff’s flam. The doctors of this district working in the rookery, though, all had a different look about them. Something in the eyes, which Christopher noticed. So it was right quick that Serena had sized up
this mark as someone that didn’t do that, otherwise it felt like stealing from their own.

The only childhood story he could still remember his mother telling him before he was on his own had been Robin Hood. Robbing from the rich and giving to the poor. That was the kind of larceny he felt was his gang’s speciality. Stealing from their own kind felt too much like cannibalism.

“Fair mark then,” he said, shooting Serena a quick smile. “Go check out the parlour for anything easy to fence. I’ll turn the office over.”

Once the girl scampered out, Christopher cast his practised eye over the library again, not really expecting to understand any of the titles butting against one another. The line of books was all leather-bound and luxurious, and if reading had been a better practise for Christopher, he might have answered his earlier question to Serena—what kind of doctor was this mark? First Verity and then Eliza had taught him the basics; because of that, he knew what he was looking for.

There were a few that had creases and marks on their spines, showing wear and tear in being pulled out and put back in on a regular basis. Then his eyes fell on a particular book that had what appeared to be a perfectly fine, unmarred spine, save for the cracking at the top—and only the top—of the binding.

Christopher flicked that one out, and immediately knew it was not all it claimed to be. Doctors took money from rich clients, and sometimes they tried to outsmart what they considered the ignorant folk. The weight was off, and sure enough, only its cover opened to reveal a hollowed-out centre holding a few precious gold coins and a small wad of notes—a treasure for the Seven. Quickly pocketing them to be divided up later, the young man returned the empty peter back to the shelves, and resumed his search through the books. If there was one, there had to be more.

On a shelf just above where he had found the bounty he saw another book and it seemed odd to be there shelved amongst words common for a toff.

“
Through the Looking-Glass
?” he whispered to himself as he reached up for it.

“Find anything?” a voice blurted from behind him.

Christopher practically leapt out of his coat, spinning on his feet to face Callum, the other mastermind behind this break-in.

“Cor’ blimey, Callum!” Christopher swore. He took in a breath, shaking his head as if just yanking it free from a cold bucket of water. “That’s the kind of fright what I don’t need, ya prick!”

“Wot? You want me makin’ noise like a great brass band then?” the lad snapped back at him. “We are wanting to rob the place without the crushers knowin’, right?”

The boy had a point. They were supposed to be quiet, and the fact he hadn’t heard Callum sneak up on him was a credit to his skill.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the crow?” Christopher asked.

“Got bored. Besides, we’ve been watching. Not likely the doctor’s coming home at this time o’ night.”

“Maybe, but we need to watch for all sorts of surprises here,” he said, turning back to the oddly placed book. “Think we might have another peter or two in this libra—”

This time the book did not leave the shelf. He had only pulled it towards him by an inch or two before unseen latches clicked, clacked, and disengaged. This particular copy of
Through the Looking-Glass
was attached to something within the wall behind the bookcase. From across where they stood, another shelf of books lifted upward, disappearing into the low ceiling. Where the books had been was an opening leading deeper into the far wall.

Callum gave Christopher a rap against his chest with the back of the hand. “Pair of cracksmen we are, eh, Christopher?”

The older boy nodded, but he really didn’t feel like celebrating.

Following Callum, each step going against his instincts, Christopher left the plush parlour of books for a slightly dimmer room. This chamber offered the same warmth and comfort of the larger office, but was more sparse in its decoration. Instead of a grand desk or a posh chair where a master would preside, a workbench served as the central piece of furniture here. Odd metallic clamps and magnifying lenses all fastened and suspended by jointed supports seemed to silently wait for something to study in detail. Christopher would have, at first,
believed it to be a tinker’s desk but instead of machinations of any sort, he saw bloody kerchiefs cradling syringes, a small burner still heating a suspended solution that bubbled steadily into glass tubes that worked in a small web over the desk to other glass containers of various sizes and shapes.

This laboratory was not without its comforts, though. There was a lovely, plush fainting couch, as well as a high-back leather chair that was even grander than the one in the main library. This secret room also had a single bookcase, and in the dim light Christopher could see these books had been read many times over, well-worn from the looks of them.

“Now will ya take a butcher’s at this,” Callum whispered, daring the far end of the lab. The shadows were thicker there, keeping Christopher close to the entrance.

Callum fed the lamp a hint more gas, revealing something like a jail cell, but more light exposed four arches all reaching a single, central point at the top. Giving a little chuckle, the boy walked into the middle of this structure, staring at the juncture which hummed and glowed with a strange blue light.

Something felt very, very wrong to Christopher. Not just with this job, but this place. That boiling potion for one thing meant that the master of the house would be returning soon, but they had been watching this place all night. No one had come or gone. Not even housekeepers.

That curiosity had now become something more like a powerful dread—far worse than peelers emerging from fog. “Get out from that thing, Callum. Now!”

That wasn’t what he wanted to say. He wanted to say,
“We got to get out of here. Now!”

“Wassa matter, Chrissy?” the boy mocked. “Something got ya knickers in a knot, ay?”

Normally, that sort of talk would send him into a fury, but Christopher just wanted to snatch whatever valuables he could see in the open and get the hell out of here. He could deal with Callum later at Miss Eliza’s.

“Look, I’m just thinkin’ this ain’t right,” he blurted out to the young boy. “The doctor’s got something brewin’ here an—”

“An’ Serena and I kept a good watch on this place, I tolds ya. Good doctor’s not been seen for a time, so we should be fine. Not a worry.” Callum stepped out of the structure,
moving deeper into the room. “Toff’s got his fair share of trinkets,” he muttered as he looked over a table of devices that Christopher couldn’t quite make out.

His hand brushed the corner of an open book, causing him to tear his eyes away from Callum. With those basics of reading and writing Verity and Miss Eliza had taught him, Christopher knew something important when he saw it. What gave him an unnerving concern on turning the tome around to face him were words he did recognise: names. Lords and ladies of England, all high muckety-mucks, their names accompanied by strange symbols and squiggles he couldn’t understand. They burned into his brain. Perhaps later he could decipher them with some help from that toff Books.

He turned the page, and suddenly his throat went dry. “We have to go.”

Callum snorted. “Chrissy’s all nervous at the sight of blood and pointy things?” he snickered, flicking his fingers against a rather menacing contraption. It looked like a gun, but with a large needle, similar to the bloody syringes on the tray next to the fainting couch.

“If’n I say we go,” Christopher insisted, tucking the ledger under his arm, “I say we go!” He then stepped out of the secret chamber and chirped three shrill whistles.