Touch of Steel: A Novel of the Clockwork Agents

Praise for

Heart of Brass

“Fabulously entertaining—a great romance in an inventive, believable steampunk world!”

—Stephanie Laurens,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae

“
Heart of Brass
is riveting! I couldn’t put it down. I can’t wait for the next book. Kate Cross is fabulous!”

—Victoria Alexander, #1
New York Times
bestselling author of
My Wicked Little Lies

“A delightfully adventurous steampunk filled with riveting action, wicked spies, steamy romance, and an all-star cast. Lush world building transports us to an exciting time where carriages and automatons are beheld side by side. . . . I recommend Kate Cross’s newest steampunk series if you enjoy strong protagonists, witty dialogue, delish romance, and exciting adventure.”

— Smexy Books Romance Reviews

“An engrossing and enjoyable read.”

—That’s What I’m Talking About

“A great tale that deftly blends a solid mystery, enemy spy–versus-spy espionage excitement, and a potentially lethal romance.”

—Genre Go Round Reviews

“A very developed, complicated book.”

—Fiction Vixen Book Reviews

“A fascinating steampunk spy novel complete with a heartwarming reunion.”

—Dark Faerie Tales

“Rip-roaring . . . [a] thrilling tale set in steam-powered London. Cross layers her exciting romantic tale with mystery, treachery, and even a serial killer. Riveting from beginning to end, this book is an exceptional launch to a series.”

—
RT Book Reviews
(4½ stars)

Also by Kate Cross

e="-1" face="Palatino LT Std">The Clockwork Agents Series

Heart of Brass

A
N
OVEL OF THE
C
LOCKWORK
A
GENTS

KATE CROSS

SIGNET
ECLIPSE

Published by New American Library, a division of

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014, USA

Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Copyright © Kathryn Smith, 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

ned~PUBLISHER’S NOTE

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

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

This book is for the steampunk community, not only for all the enthusiasm and support I’ve been given but for being the most incredibly wonderful group of people I’ve ever met.

It’s also for Steve, for teaching me that friendship is the backbone of a successful marriage. You’re my BFF, babe.

Chapter 1

The only sound louder than the breath panting from her lungs was that of blood dripping onto the toe of her boot.

Claire Brooks crouched behind the grimy chimney stack and pressed her hand to her side. Wet seeped through the boning of her corset and the thin wool of her coat, warming her chilled fingers.

Her lungs burned and her gun hand was cramped, but she refused to set down her pistol. She refused to give u<Ǖp the chase. It would take more than a hole in her side to stop her now.

Across the roof, she heard Howard scurrying away like the rat he was. He could not escape, not when she had already chased him across five countries. Robert’s death could not go unavenged.

Gritting her teeth against the ungodly burning in her side, she braced her shoulder against the sooty brick and leaned hard as she dug her boot heel into the rough stone. She pushed herself to her feet, biting her lip to keep from crying out.

She lifted her gun, blinked the sweat out of her eyes, took aim and fired. The dark figure running toward the edge of the roof ducked as the aetheric blast sent bits of brick scattering near his shoulder.

Damn it. A miss. If her vision weren’t so blurry from sweat trickling into her eyes, she would have gotten him.

Still clutching her side—blood soaking her fingers now—she ran after him, every strike of her heels a new lesson in pain.

You’re not going to die just yet,
she told herself.
Not until you know for certain you’re going to take that bastard with you. He dies first.

She thought of Robert, of how there hadn’t been enough of him left for her to have a proper funeral for him, how he’d been betrayed by the organization to which he had pledged his life. The thought of seeing him again, whether in heaven or hell, wasn’t what pushed her forward. What kept her running despite the sheer agony of it was that she had sworn to send Howard to his judgment first.

Moonlight cut through the clouds as Howard leaped from the edge of the roof to the next. Claire didn’t hesitate, her stride easily bridging the narrow gap between buildings. A shot whizzed past her ear, and she pitched herself downward. She hit the roof hard, falling to her knees.

“Arrhh!” Lights danced before her eyes as agony ripped through her. Bile rose in her throat as darkness threatened to claim her. Ignoring the smell of burned hair, she swallowed and staggered to her feet. Howard was putting too much distance between them; he was already at the opposite side.

She raised her pistol and fired again. The sound cracked the night like the lash of a whip. Howard made a guttural cry. She’d hit the bastard. A grim smile tugged on her lips as she forced her legs to move faster. Her battered knees protested, but they did as she willed. Howard had stumbled when she shot him, and she was closing the gap between them.

This time he hesitated at the edge of the roof. He clutched his shoulder as he turned his head to look at her over his shoulder. Smoke drifted upward from between his fingers, the fabric of his coat smoldering from the blast. His face was different than the last time she had seen him, but then his face was different every time. He was a master of disguise, and Claire doubted that even the higher-ups at the Company knew his true countenance. When she killed him, she would peel back the layers of his disguise and see the real him for herself.

He raised his hand—she had winged his gun arm—and waved before dropping over the ledge.

Claire froze, but only for a second.
What the hell?
She ran to the edge, her gaze searching the distance between the ledge and the next building. There waherng. Thes no sign of him. Realization crashed through her skull just as something closed around her ankle. She looked down.

How could she be so stupid?

Stanton Howard grinned up at her from where he hung on a crude rope ladder. Just a split second before he yanked her off balance, she realized it was his hand wrapped around her leg. She raised her gun, but it was too late—she was already plummeting toward the alley below.

She twisted her body so that her back was to the ground, raised the gun at the man climbing back to the roof and fired. He jerked, and—

She hit with teeth-jarring force. Pain embraced her entire body, and everything went black.

* * *

She woke up to the low murmur of nearby voices. Fog swam thick in her brain, and her limbs were heavy—almost as heavy as her tongue felt in her mouth.

Not dead then.

A dull, faint ache radiated across the back of her skull. Her back was sore and her side burned, but none of these complaints bothered her as much as not knowing the location of her gun.

Opium. They had given her opium—whoever “they” were. They had drugged her and taken her weapon—her clothes, too. Damn it, that meant she was in a hospital.

Why wasn’t she dead? Howard couldn’t have allowed her to live out of the kindness of his traitorous heart. She remembered falling toward the street . . . a carriage stopping below her . . . men with guns appearing just as she yanked her body around. That carriage had stopped her fall. It had saved her.

Opening her eye took every ounce of strength she possessed. The room was a blur of motion and colors, and her lids felt as though they’d been lined with sand.

“She’s waking up.” The voice was female, the accent a strange, melodic mix of Irish and that of some exotic land.

Slowly, her eyes righted themselves and began to focus. Claire blinked. Standing before her were a dusky-skinned woman so strikingly beautiful she probably had very few female friends and a tall, stern-looking man with a very British nose. The two of them looked very official, but neither of them had the constabulary look.

“How do you feel?” the woman inquired.

“Like I was shot and fell off a roof,” Claire replied. The words came out as “thot” and “rooth.”

The woman actually smiled a little. “I imagine so.” She came closer to the side of the bed. Claire watched warily as she poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the tray of a small, squat automaton, its engine whirling with a sound much like a kitten’s purr. Then she bent at the waist and wound a large key on the side of the bed. A few seconds later the bed gave a tiny but still-painful lurch. Slowly, as the mechanism ground into use, gears churning and clicking, the upper part of the bed rose, until Claire was almost upright. There was an audible “click,” and then all went still.

The cool lip of the cup pressed against Claire’s parched lips. “Drink wips. “,” the woman instructed.

Claire did not need to be told twice. She gulped greedily, closing her eyes in pleasure as the cold water ran over her thick tongue and down her parched throat. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d tasted anything so delicious.

And then she realized it wasn’t the opium that made it impossible to lift her arms—her wrists were strapped to the bed frame.

When the cup ran dry, the woman refilled it and held it for her once again. This time as she drank, Claire allowed her gaze to roam around the sterile ward. Her heart threatened to pound, but she kept herself calm. She’d been in worse situations before.

There were two other patients in the room. One was a man several beds away. His face was a mask of bandages, and one of his legs was encased in a brass boot that extended above his knee. Wait. That wasn’t a boot at all. That was his leg! The prosthesis looked like a boot, but the knee was reticulated, not encased in brass like the rest. That there was no flesh beneath it was the only way Claire could tell that it was a false limb.

It was impossible to determine whether the other occupant was male or female. Its entire length was wrapped like an Egyptian mummy she’d once seen on display. Carrying fluids in and out, tubes and wires ran out of the body, stimulating the muscles with a low aetheric pulse so that they moved and twitched beneath the bandages. Metal braces kept the body still, and a large bellows above the bed kept the person breathing.

It was a terrifying sight. Surely death would be preferable.

Obviously neither of these patients was the reason for the heavily armed guard at the door. There was no chance of either of them escaping any time soon. And if the guard was there for their protection, he would be watching the door, not the patients.

Damn. The weapon in his hands—a Baker scatter rifle—was used to kill rather than simply injure or maim. It was very effective as well, the casings of the bullets designed to fragment and burrow once inside the body like little metal predators.

That gun was meant for her.

“Who are you?” she asked the woman.

“I’m Dr. Evelyn Stone.” The doctor took the cup and set it on the bedside table. The automaton had shuffled off to assist a nurse tending to the “mummy.” “You are a very fortunate woman. If that carriage hadn’t broken your fall, you might have ended up in far worse shape than you are now.”

Yes, like the person four beds away. “Where am I?” And where the hell was her gun?

It was the man who answered. “You’re in Warden custody, Miss Brooks.”

The Wardens. Hell’s bells. She wished Howard had killed her. Claire kept her face blank—it wasn’t difficult, given the heaviness of her muscles. Opiates were the very devil as far as she was concerned. She’d rather have pain than helpless oblivion. “Is that supposed to frighten me?”

The man stared down his imperious nose at her. He embodied everything pretentious and controlling the Wardens of the Realm stood for with their empire and monarchy. “If you are not afraid, you are clearly less inim.arly letelligent than most Company agents. I wouldn’t aspire to such a claim.”

Arrogant British bastard. What did he know of fear? He probably spent his days behind a desk; the most worrisome thing he ever had to face was his undoubtedly bitter wife.

“If you wanted me dead, I’d be dead,” she responded, words slurring around her lazy tongue. “That means you’ve actually deluded yourself into thinking you’ll get information out of me. Which one of us is lacking in intelligence now, Mr. Idiot?”

A dull flush flooded his muttonchop-covered cheeks. He looked as though he had scrub brushes bolted to the side of his face, the things were so bushy. “I would be happy to put you in an interrogation chair.” Yes, he looked as though the idea of putting her in what was essentially a torture device pleased him greatly. “Whether or not you cooperate is entirely up to you, Miss Brooks, just as whether or not you live or die is up to me.”

Dr. Stone shot him a dark look, her striking features downright intimidating. “You mean it’s up to the director, Ashford.”

“Yes, well . . .” He sniffed. “She’s not here right now, is she? And during her absence and Wolfred’s leave, I am acting director.”

Aw, hell. She had to go and piss on the boots of a man filled to the brim with his own importance. Being locked up or killed was not going to help her find Howard. Time was already against her. He was undoubtedly on his way north by now. Every moment put more distance between them. At least she knew where he was headed.

She had not come this far to let him slip away. She could not let Robert’s death go unanswered. He was all the family she had left, and now she was alone in the world. She had no one to lean on. No one to tell her when she was wrong or when she had gone too far—when she was too reckless for sense. Not that Robert had been around when she could have benefited from any of those things. Still, just knowing he’d been out there, that she wasn’t alone in the world, had been enough most times.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, lifting her gaze past that beak of a nose. There was no use in wallowing in self-pity. This vulture would use it against her if he thought he could. He’d probably peck out her liver while he was at it.

Cold eyes brightened with a malicious gleam. If she had full control of her limbs, she’d stab him in the neck with his own cravat pin. “I want to know why you’re in London. I want to know whatever Company secrets you have in that pretty little head of yours. I want the names of every enemy agent here on British soil.”

And she wanted her brother back. “I can’t give you all of that.”

“You’ll give me something or I’ll see you hang.”

Dr. Stone grabbed him by the arm. “I’ll report you.”

He shook her off. “What will it be, Miss Brooks?”

She had to get out of there and soon. This bastard wasn’t about to let her go. She needed an ally—someone who knew her, who could provide a little protection until she could figure out how to escape. Her luck hadn’t quite forsaken her, not yet.

“I want something in return.”

He made a scoffing noise. “You’re not in any position to bargain, girlie.”

Claire clenched her jaw. “Then you may as well hang me,
laddie.
” She affected a bad British accent on the word. “Then you can explain to your director how the Wardens missed out on capturing Stanton Howard.”

What color the man had in his pasty cheeks drained. “Stanton Howard?”

She grinned. “Prepared to bargain now?”

He cleared his throat, glaring at her as though she were a bug he’d dearly like to grind beneath his heel. “What do you want?”

There was only one person she could trust in all of London. “Lucas Grey,” she replied. “I want to talk to Lucas Grey.”