The Transference Engine (4 page)

Twisting and turning, I managed the top two hooks at my nape and the bottom three up to my waist. After that, the strictures of the corset kept me from stretching further. I almost wished for my boring gray serge costume that fastened in front—or the bulletproof corset that laced up the front. But that one was too heavy and added bulk to my figure rather than compressing it.

Nothing for it but to hope someone “friendly” was the first to arrive. Perhaps Sir Andrew Fitzandrew?

Heavy treads on the outside stairs set my heart pounding. I took up a regal posture along my lounge, disguising the incomplete fastening of my gown from casual view.

Fortunately, Sir Drew was the first to arrive. Taller than me by a full two inches, with trim waist, broad shoulders and long, long legs, he and I had been friends for years.

Five minutes later I was properly laced and fastened into my ensemble for the evening.

“You know I'd rather be taking this gown off of you than fastening it before your audience arrives,” he chuckled as his knuckles ran the length of my spine. A frisson of delight followed his touch, even though I knew he merely checked that all the fastenings were in place. “Shall I set my groom to minding your side door and private stair?” he asked, arching one auburn eyebrow. Then he kissed my cheek and lingered long enough I wanted more.

“The assistance of your groom
at the door
would be most helpful. I have no idea why Violet has not returned.”

“Or if she will?” he replied more seriously.

“What do you know?” I whirled to face him, needing to read his eyes and posture, not just his voice. The clock bonged a full-throated half hour. I'd run out of time.

“Rumors only. Young women and street boys disappearing in batches of three or four. My sources are not as reliable as yours.”

I studied him for a long moment. He hid nothing from me. At least on this subject.

“Are you certain your necromancer friends aren't behind this?” I teased, running a delicate fingernail along his cheek with affection. A second son of a wealthy baron, Drew had too much money with little to occupy his mind or his energy. So he sought thrills, skirting the edges of the law with obsessions such as magic, the occult, and now necromancy.

He grew rigid and cold, face going blank, hiding all emotion. “I have no
friends
who are necromancers.”

“Colleagues? Mentors? Teachers?” I offered, on guard as well. If I didn't need to understand every nuance of his posture, I'd turn away and fuss with my accessories. I still needed to affix a gaudy arrangement of red-and-black feathers bound to a ruby-and-jet brooch—a gift from Sir Drew—into my hair and the matching necklace around my throat.

Then he shook himself, and a veil of strong control lifted from his face. “Doubtful. I am but a married dilettante whose wife affects invalidism, so I distract myself with arcane puzzles—and you. Heaven help me if Victoria gives me a baronetcy and I actually have the responsibility of a title beyond the knighthood Father bought for me from King William upon his coronation. Beside, none of
my
colleagues, mentors, or teachers would know what to do with kidnapped street urchins, other than throw them into a bathtub with a bar of soap and orders to scrub.” He laughed. It sounded hollow.

Before I could ask him to fasten the necklace, he trooped off down the stairs to set his groom in place.

Chapter Three

L
ONDON'S “NOBS” ARE A cautious bunch. They constantly watch the others of their class, making certain that their prestige (within specific parameters of wealth and lineage) is never lessened by the rise of another and that their manners can never, ever be called into question. What they do behind closed doors is another matter.

Therefore, each of them must make an entrance to an assembled crowd. To arrive before a certain quantity of people have already gathered makes them timid and anxious to please, rather than established. To arrive at a salon too late is pompous. Thus, they tend to arrive
en masse
one carefully measured hour after the announced invitation.

When I began hosting a salon and extended invitations to learned scholars in mathematics, science, and language, to budding politicians, and wealthy philanthropists, to artists and performers who could discuss more than their own subject, I knew that if I invited them for eight of the clock, they'd arrive at nine. If I invited them for nine, they'd not show their faces before ten. Since I had to open the café with coffee brewed and sugar buns baked at seven in the morning, I called them all together at seven in the evening, knowing they'd all arrive by eight and depart to more fashionable gatherings before midnight, most by ten.

Oblivious to the perceptions of polite society, my Lady Ada arrived at the stroke of seven thirty. She and her newly belted earl of a husband saw themselves up the grand staircase from the heart of the café—wider and less creaky than the back stairs from the kitchen, and carpeted but otherwise quite ordinary—and greeted me with the affection of long familiarity.

“My Lord and Lady.” I dipped a proper curtsy before embracing my girl. “You are still too thin and pale,” I whispered as we touched cheeks.

“I agree,” Lord William replied. He had extraordinary hearing, honed on the hunting course. “Ada should not have ventured out so soon after rising from her sickbed.”

“Nonsense, Billy.” She was the only one who got away with using the casual nickname to his face. “I have been stuck in my sickbed for nearly a year.” She may have been ensconced in her bed, but she hadn't been idle. Her nimble mind had played mathematical games and come up with new inventions. “'Tis time I saw the world again and the world glimpses the new first Earl and Countess of Lovelace.” She squeezed my arms in reassurance as she withdrew.

I bit my tongue, hard, to keep from noting aloud that my Lady Ada had taken ill after the birth of her second child in two years and arisen the day after our new queen had granted the lofty titles—honors granted in return for foiling a kidnapping plot three years ago.

I suspected other reasons for her invalidism. More than the strain of bearing children so close together. After a difficult birth with heavy bleeding she'd taken a full year to recover.

Lady Byron, Ada's mother, and her two special friends had moved into Ada's household to “manage” the servants while Ada recovered. Diligently they used Romany charms of herbs and incense and something more I could not imitate to protect her from magical attack. We'd nicknamed the companions “The Furies” long ago. For many reasons. The likes of a necromancer, even one as potent as Lord Byron, could not breech a house they protected.

To separate my flamboyant image from Ada's respectability we made choices and saw little of each other in public. Where my gown dipped, hers were restrained and covered. Where my skirts flipped and flirted over three petticoats, her cautious bell with two petticoats swayed in discreet lilts. I wore bright jewel tones with lots of lace and accessories; she kept to more sober and pale earth tones. My sleeves were wispy puffs on the upper arms, leaving my shoulders bare. Hers covered her arms from collarbone to elbow.

Even here in my private parlor, she and I maintained opposite public images.

Drew rejoined the salon hard on the heels of the Lovelace family's arrival. As second son of a minor baron with only two generations of heritage, Drew needed to pay his respects to higher nobility and maintain his unofficial duties as my companion and co-host.

Oh, the public face among the nobs can be a very entertaining dance. And since I lived on the edge of this society, slightly outré, I could do as I pleased, watching them jockey for position. Though I'm not sure this race
could
be won.

“Still no sign of Violet,” Drew said under his breath as he placed a tray of delicacies on the sideboard and expertly poured wine for the four of us.

“Violet? Where is Violet?” Ada asked. She flipped and fumbled with her pearls in agitation. “You brought her into my household five years ago. Hopeless in the kitchen but very organized and efficient. She cleaned up the pantry and linen closets, even labeling each shelf so the others could put everything back where it belonged.”

“I had errands today away from home. She used her half day off to visit her mother. As she usually does. She has not returned,” I replied quietly.

“Her mother lives in Southwark,” Lord Billy said blandly. “I'm surprised she has not gone missing before. Robbed and murdered, kidnapped into white slavery are the least of the dangers there. The place should be burned to the ground and rebuilt properly to eliminate the criminal element.”

I actually bit my tongue that time. And Drew nearly swallowed his own. New housing would only encourage the criminal element to prey upon a better class of victims.

“We shall be outrageously casual tonight,” I pronounced. “We will serve ourselves as and when we wish. We shall laugh and talk and debate with freedom as there are no servants in the room or listening at the door to later spread gossip about us.” I flung out my arms in a grand gesture.

“Only you could get away with this,” Drew said on a laugh. He took my empty wineglass (how had I drunk it dry without noting?) and filled it nearly to the brim with my favorite Madeira.

“Ah, Charles has come after all,” Ada interrupted our exchange, turning to face her business partner and scientific colleague, Charles Babbage. He invented the Difference Engine, proving machines capable of complex mathematical calculations. Lady Ada had corrected his designs and made the machine work.

That invention had led to the Analytical Engine that took the process ten steps further, a machine that could “think” (within the limitations of a stack of thin gold cards punched in precise patterns). My Ada and Mr. Babbage were rapidly becoming extremely wealthy; producing gadgets that performed menial tasks, enhanced factory production, and soon, I was promised, would make a locomotive no longer dependent upon rails to move people and goods about the country.

Something about a special processing of rubber to encapsulate wheels . . .

To my mind, their best project was the steam-and-clockwork–powered book catalog that shifted and rotated, spat out books appropriate to a specific search, and became the heart of the Book View Café.

The day of my grand opening flashed before my memory as if it had happened that morning.

I remembered pacing before the front door for what seemed like hours, the last five minutes before I should officially unlock the doors.

A crowd began gathering in front of the sign that announced free coffee with the purchase of a pastry. Peering through the updated window lights, I recognized a few faces, but only a few. I hoped the others would become familiar and welcome clients.

Behind me, Violet fussed with the steaming coffee maker. She clattered and banged about, unsure of the safety of the loud machine that forced steam through expensive coffee grounds. Coffee she could manage, keeping all the scones together, and the sugar buns on the far side, biscuits in the middle and cream tarts behind the counter, in sight but more expensive and so protected from pilfering. I'd been baking for days.

Finally I could contain my anxiety no more and threw open the latch.

My Ada and her betrothed were first through the door. She wore a lovely sprigged muslin gown that matched her bright smile in spring loveliness. I accepted her hug and Sir William's pressing of my hands. Then I had to smile and greet a dozen others, directing them to tables and the pastries, and suggesting blends of coffee to match their selections. They found their own way to the racks of international newspapers and popular books.

After that first flurry of business, Sir William stood and clapped his hands for attention. When the room quieted, he cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, you may have noticed the reading material available for your perusal. But what you cannot see is an extensive library of odd, rare, and imaginative books hidden between the walls. I would now like to request a book search of Madame Magdala to show you just what you may find to satisfy every whim of curiosity.” He delved a hand into his pocket and brought forth one shilling and two pence. He walked majestically toward the carousel in the middle of the café where he slapped the coins on the curved counter.

“You don't have to pay,” I whispered to him as I scooted through the gap in the circular barrier. I closed the solid gate so that it completed the circular counter once more. The newly installed latch clicked into place. No one, except possibly Ada, should follow me into the arcane control center for the machine.

“Madame Magdala, would you find for me any references to King William's first naval battle?”

I had to swallow the lump in my throat and stare at him a moment. This was not the volume I'd instructed him to request. I had to think carefully about the codes to key into the system for this request.

Then Ada whispered to me, “Navy, battles, spell out the name, then a notch at the top to indicate a first.”

Right. She'd developed the code to make Mr. Babbage's machine work.

Gears ground, a cutting tool worked upon the large brass key. Noise of metal grinding metal filled the gaps in the pleasant tones of speculative conversation. In moments, I had a shiny, newly minted key as long as my palm. After holding it up for inspection I paraded over to another counter backed by more equipment. The key fit precisely into its designated slot. Then I pulled a lever and twisted the key.

Deep in the bowels of the building, the boiler pushed forth live steam to engage the first of many gears and ratchets and levers; shelves of books rotated up and down, and then it all paused, awaiting more instructions. Another twist of the key while pushing it deeper into its slot. I pulled the lever. It resisted, but I mastered it. More grinding of gears; more shelves slid up and down, across and up again.

My customers gasped.

And then . . . and then a slender volume bound in plain beige, heavy paper with a few lines of print on the cover clunked and thunked and whooshed down a chute into my waiting hands.

Gasps all around, then a round of applause as I held up the volume, the title clearly visible:
A Brief History of Naval Skirmishes in the North Sea Against French Revolutionaries
.

Miss Ada clapped the loudest, beaming with pride at the success of her invention. And, I hoped, respectful of me for having thought of the device.

But the device was not perfect. A second volume, bound in black leather had slid down the chute along with the requested book. This one showed up every time I used and tested the machine.

It was a secretly published collection of poems idealizing death, longing for death, fascinated by death—in others, not for the poet himself. The name of the author, Harold Childress, was a
nom de plume
for none other than Lord Byron himself. The book demanded to be read. I presumed the enthralling magic spell woven into the poetry pushed the book into the chute no matter where I shelved it.

I stood in front of the chute so no one else could see that book before I could hide it again.

Maybe I should burn it. But then I'd never have the arcane knowledge Byron hid between the words.