The Transference Engine (8 page)

“There's a petition going round,” a man of middling years said to his companion, an older man. They came to my café for coffee and foreign newspapers about once a month. I couldn't say I truly knew them, only recognized them.

“The one that's going to be handed to Archbishop Howley when he comes to town for the coronation?”

“Aye, that one. The people want to make necromancy illegal.”

“Not only illegal but a higher crime than murder, a crime akin to both treason and heresy.”

But necromancy is already illegal, via the Great Reform
, I thought.

A chill wind blasted in from the door, banishing any heat from the boilers that leaked up from the cellars.

The archbishop again. A pattern was developing. I needed to stir a cup of coffee or tea into a whirlpool and consult the images I conjured.

But the world remained firmly fixed in place.

I couldn't go out to listen to the city or gather my tribe of childish spies for consultation that night. I'd promised to join Drew in his box at the opera to hear Madame Pendereé perform.

Perhaps Howley would attend the gala performance, and I could watch the dance of those seeking to court his patronage.

Drew sent his carriage for me. And he sat within rather than wait for me at the theater in his box, as discretion would have suggested.

Within the shadowy privacy of the closed carriage, he kissed me thoroughly—without mussing the braids encircling my head or the bobbing feathers on my turban. “Later?” he asked, his hand lingering in delicious places.

“Of course.”

Chapter Seven

A
NY BOX AT THE THEATER gave only illusions of privacy, as I knew all too well. The opera was a place to see and be seen, as well as a stage for enthralling music. Usually the upper tiers provided open balcony seating for less elite performances. For audiences at a special gala opera mere weeks prior to the coronation when
everyone
was in town, folding doors secreted in thick pillars—the new alloys allowed a hollow column big enough to hold the hinged wall sections—slid out of their pockets to form side walls that connected with the flimsy barrier between the seating and the corridor. A lockable door in that wall was only an illusion. A hatpin could defeat the latch in a matter of moments.

Gaslights, painted wooden sets, and steam boilers all make for a magnificent recipe for fire. This theater had burned and been rebuilt many times in the last century, most recently seven years before when William IV was newly king. The owners kept to a naval theme in honor of our sailor king. Dark blue curtains with gold fringe and tie ropes enclosed the stage. Rich looking veneer paneling in exotic woods covered the box's interior walls and the corridors behind the boxes. The carpeting had been updated more recently but still reflected the blue-and-gold color scheme in the feather-and-fan design.

Three tiers of boxes/balconies encircled the floor seating in a giant horseshoe. The lowest, and most prestigious tier contained only eight boxes, including a permanent one on each end. These had more substantial walls and doors with limited access from the rest of the theater. Ten boxes filled the second level, and twelve on our level. Before the performance, people mingled and shifted up and down, back and forth, exchanging greetings, and enjoying light hors d'oeuvres and champagne toasts. The Royal Box, the largest of all, closest to stage left on the first tier, remained determinedly closed. Brightly uniformed members of the Bow Street Runners stood staunchly in the way in the corridor behind The Box, and the private entrance stair. We all surmised that Her Majesty was most likely to appear at some point in the evening.

Don Giovanni
was on the playlist. I had not seen it produced in many years and looked forward to the breathtaking music.

All of London seemed to be here, major and minor nobility and their favored retainers filled every box, often two or three groups crowding together. Lord William and Lady Ada had their own box above the royal enclosure and hosted Charles Babbage as well as Lady Byron and her two friends; women Ada had grown up with, and from whom she had learned caution and self-defense. Lady Byron was never seen in public without them.

If Archbishop Howley was here, I could not find him in the crush.

Even Sir Drew's minor box needed to host his friends and relatives. At nearly the last moment Charles Babbage's mysterious guest from the salon slipped through the door to our box. A footman brought one additional chair and we all had to shuffle closer together to accommodate him. As he pushed himself next to me, I leaned away from his sour, wine-soaked breath. I didn't need more light to see that his closely set, nearly colorless eyes did not focus easily. When I moved closer to Drew, keeping him from sitting between us, he frowned, bringing his narrow features into a foxlike pinch.

His retainer, the man with the perpetual black gloves, stationed himself against the wall in the back right corner, out of my line of sight. I could not politely catch his eye or engage him in conversation. In my mind I immediately labeled him a bodyguard, higher than a footman, lower than a companion.

Queen Victoria's mother, the Duchess of Kent and her lover . . . er, officially her comptroller and private secretary, John Conroy, seemed the only people missing. Our attention remained on the Royal Box where blue curtains remained closed, shielding the occupants from view. While the orchestra tuned instruments in the pit, a flutter of the blue curtains across from us, two tiers down, and two rooms closer to the stage arrested all attention in the packed house. Even the timpani and cello silenced. The actors lined up on stage and the director took the center. “Ladies and gentlemen, Her Majesty, Queen Victoria,” he pronounced in tones meant to reach the farthest corners.

We all stood. Unseen hands drew the elegant curtains aside. A delighted gasp rippled around the theater as our young queen stood before us, short, slim, with dark hair neatly parted at the center and drawn up in a simple chignon. She wore a crown made up of fresh spring flowers in shades of white and pale blue to match her simple gown with delicate Nottingham lace and tiny blue glass bead accents.

As one, all attendees curtsied or bowed to her.

I had met her before, but only briefly at an intimate musicale evening when I still chaperoned Lady Ada. Most of England had seen very little of Victoria until the death of her uncle William IV last year. Her mother had raised her more strictly than a nun—actually, some of the nuns I knew on the continent lived lazy and pampered lives in comparison. Her efforts and her attempts to get Victoria to sign a regency agreement until she turned twenty-five had cost her; she was now
persona non grata
at court.

On this night, the queen smiled graciously at the audience, waved politely to the performers, and sat regally, surrounded by her Prime Minister and other political dignitaries. Obediently and respectfully, we remained standing until she settled in her chair and nodded to the director to begin.

“I'd heard she might come,” Drew whispered under the sounds of people shifting and fluttering printed programs. “Always a nice surprise for our monarch to venture out among her people.”

“I wonder if she needs a translator,” I mused, trying to figure a polite way to offer my services and thus join her in her box. Then I noticed a tall woman of proud carriage and Mediterranean coloring perched on the edge of a seat directly behind the thronelike chair. Victoria had brought her own linguist.

My gaze continued to rove from box to box, high and low. I couldn't retain any respectability if I leaned out to observe the adjacent seating, but those across the theater offered many opportunities to collect information. I noted various royal and semi-royal (i.e. multiple illegitimate children of Victoria's uncles) cousins with wives or mistresses. Politicians preened and the nobility looked bored. A few had set their chairs back from the openings where shadows masked their faces, but they could still see out.

Then, as the gaslights came up and the conductor raised his baton to begin the overture, a darkly swathed figure directly across from me leaned forward. My attention riveted on the black veil and loose black clothing. Hard to determine build, size, or gender at this distance or in this lighting.

“Drew?” I whispered leaning close to him as if to exchange an intimate comment about the performance.

“Hmm?” His gaze shifted to the same direction as mine. He stilled. “Should I send a message to Inspector Witherspoon?”

“Not yet. I need to watch more closely.”

But so did Lord Ruthven. He did not bow to propriety and leaned over the balcony, calmly assessing the dark figure. He licked his lips in anticipation of . . . something.

But watch the crowd I could not. Mozart's masterpiece of opera entranced me. The staging and music flowed in a seamless event. Advances in mechanical sets and backdrop changes looked more real than any theatrical performance I'd seen. I hardly noticed the steam and clanking noise of their movements. That had become so much a part of everyday life, it faded into the background, unless it was timed to punctuate the music. That wonderful glorious music! Madame Penderée as Elvira, and Antonio Valdez as Leporello, her tenor, drew me into the action and emotion as if I participated in the complicated lives, deceptions, and revenge plots of the characters.

“Makes you wonder if Mozart knew in advance that his life would be short,” Lord Ruthven said on a long, awestruck exhale at the end of the first act. “I saw a similar production in Rome last year. His depictions of Hell are inspired. The moment of death and descent near prescient.”

Despite the heat from the constantly working steam and the early June evening, I grew cold at his avid licking of lips and narrow-eyed focus upon the closed curtain and the turn of his thoughts. He had much the same expression as Drew had when he described his fascination with necromancy.

Drew touched my hand to capture my attention. Gratefully, I turned to him, away from the pinched-face baron. A single thrust of Drew's chin to the box directly across from us and below one tier, above and to the side of the Royal Box. The figure heavily swathed in black had moved and looked to be working closer to the queen. If it leaned over the rail, it could shoot the queen, where she laughed gaily and flirted with the politicians surrounding her.

As if our minds were linked, Drew and I excused ourselves. Once in the long corridor behind the boxes, we set our strides to the same rapid pace, working our way relentlessly through the throngs. He touched the inside pocket of his coat to indicate he carried a pistol, but I already knew that from our lingering grope and kiss in his carriage. I touched my skirt about mid-thigh to let him know I carried a tiny pistol in my garter. He probably knew that as well. He didn't need to know about the Chinese throwing stars in my other garter, the long and sharp hatpin that could double as a dagger holding my turban in place, or the long, thin blade inserted in the busk of my corset, which for once was not laced too tightly. Then, too, my corded petticoat could be dismembered to produce yards and yards of rope to restrain someone.

We rounded the corner and hastened down the stairs to the more elite level. I was tempted to slide down the banister for greater speed, but too many people milled about for me to make that big a spectacle of myself. Then around to the other side of the theater. On this level, the nobility entertained inside their roomier boxes rather than in the corridor. We had a clear view and empty path to our destination. I lengthened my stride in my haste to assure myself of the queen's safety.

As we approached our goal, we slowed our pace, peering at closed doors and tight paneling for signs of intrusion, overt or clandestine. At the next to last of the boxes before we encountered a locked private stair, a door opened a crack and no more, as if someone peered out cautiously. I dropped my heels to slow my speed and nearly toppled over at the shift in momentum. We halted directly in front of the opening door. Drew placed himself with legs braced and gun in hand as I yanked the door open wide and out of the clasp of a delicate hand covered in lace gloves.

“What is the meaning of this!” a feminine voice hissed. Traces of a German accent left behind long ago, identified the lady as much as her face would, if she'd revealed it.

“Your Grace.” I dipped a curtsy, a convention not true respect.

Drew pocketed his weapon and bowed shortly and sharply.

“Out of my way,” the Duchess of Kent ordered. But she kept her voice low. A remnant of hesitancy told me all I needed to know.

“You will not be welcome in the Royal Box,” I said calmly, almost pitying the woman. Almost. I knew too much of the cruel strictures she'd placed on her daughter's life in order to keep her naïve and helpless, opening the door for Her Grace to become regent of England in Victoria's name long after the queen had reached adulthood.

Much as Lady Byron tried to rule Ada's household. Different methods, similar object, control and power over the daughters in order to protect them. Prestige? Maybe, more likely control. Both women might say they did what they did for love of their offspring. I knew Lady Byron loved Ada, and needed to protect her. I wasn't so sure about the duchess.

“Welcome or not, I must see my daughter. I must separate her from those greedy men who want nothing but to suck away her power and then discard her. As all men do.”

That explained much. Lady Byron had the same opinion of men and had forsaken their company for her female Furies. That didn't explain why the queen's mother had fallen under the spell of her . . . comptroller.