Touch of Steel: A Novel of the Clockwork Agents (10 page)

“I want you to know I would never take advantage of you,” he said, though he wanted to. He really, really wanted nothing more than to take advantage of her right there, on the table.

Her lips twisted—a little bitterly, he thought. “No, of course you wouldn’t. You are an honorable man, after all, and despite my being a Company whore, I am your prisoner. Wouldn’t want to abuse your power. Would you excuse me? I should really get cleaned up and dressed if we’re going to venture on to the house party as planned.”

He barely had time to stand before she leaped up from the table, grabbed her things from the bed, and bolted to the bath. The door closed firmly behind her.

Alastair slumped into the chair. He’d certainly mucked this up well and good. Perhaps it was time for him to give up being a Warden. He certainly didn’t seem to be very good at it anymore, at least not where Company females were concerned.

Sighing, he stood and went to a case sitting on top of his baggage. From it, he withdrew a small brass and leather box that had seen better days, and returned to the table with it. He might be an idiot, but he was still hungry, and not about to let all this food go to waste. He ate two slices of bacon and a piece of toast as he opened the box and set the machine to working order.

It had to be used near a window or outside for the best aetheric reception, and it always behaved better on clear days such as this one. He pressed several keys on the small typew ce sethriting keys, struck the carriage return and then waited. From the bath he heard the sound of water filling the tub.

The small, circular screen flickered and crackled with static; then a grainy image appeared—a face Alastair had heard several ladies describe as terribly handsome, though he didn’t see it. “I’ve been waiting on you, Wolfred.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a knot, Blackstone. This is the first chance I’ve had to make contact. You’re an aristocrat; you shouldn’t be up yet regardless.”

“There was a hunting party this morning. I had to plead a hangover.” Declan Frost, Lord Blackstone, was not the type of man who drank to excess, and Alastair doubted the man would know a hangover if one chose to cosh him over the head.

“Is Howard with the party?”

“How the devil should I know? I haven’t been downstairs. If he’s the bloke I think he is, then he talked as though he wouldn’t miss the chance to shed a little blood on the hunt. That odd friend of his is going to join the party for the midday meal. Are you certain he’s the Doctor?”

“That’s what our intelligence tells us. They’ll be out for a little while longer at least. We should be there before luncheon.”

“We?”

“I have a traveling companion with me.” It was ridiculous, but he didn’t want to tell this man about Claire; he didn’t want him to know the truth about her.

Blackstone’s eyes twinkled—or it might have been more static. The aether was being temperamental today. “Good to hear. For a while there was speculation that you might never bother with a woman again.”

“Indeed,” he remarked drily. He shouldn’t be surprised. He’d taken part in similar speculation regarding other agents over the years—it wasn’t that different from the betting books at the clubs—but he’d rarely been the object of such wagering before. “I hope you didn’t bet against me.”

“Never. All right, get your arse dressed and up here. I’ll meet you when you arrive.”

“Excellent. Make certain you’re armed. See you soon.” He flicked the switch to disconnect communication and packed up the machine once more. He’d just set it in his bag when there was a knock on the door.

His fingers closed around the handle of a scatter pistol, but he left his hand inside the luggage, out of sight. “Come in.”

It was a maid, carrying a freshly pressed purple lady’s day gown. She curtsied to him and carefully avoided his gaze. “Begging your pardon, my lord. I’m just returning the lady’s clothing.”

“Thank you.” He let go of the pistol, and dug a couple of coins out of his change purse. He gave the silver to the girl. “Excellent work.”

She flushed. “Excuse me, sir, but will the lady need any assistance? I can come back.”

Alastair glanced at the closed bath door. Who the hell knew what Claire needed? “We’ll ring if we need you.”

The girl bobbed anot cl b? her curtsy and exited. Alastair had to let her out because of the lock bieng used to keep Claire in. He hung the gown on a nearby hook on the wall. It was a lovely color. Whoever did the shopping for the W.O.R. had excellent taste. It was probably the work of Madame Cherie, popular seamstress and W.O.R. agent. The dress was quality without being pretentious. Fashionable but not fussy, it was exactly the sort of thing one would expect of a woman who knew she needed little adornment.

He finished his breakfast while he dressed, putting on dark gray trousers, a white shirt, a dark gray brocade waistcoat, a dark green cravat and a dark gray jacket. The drab color of his own ensemble would make Claire stand out even more, and they needed her to attract attention. It was the only way to draw Howard out into the open.

She would draw Howard to her, and when the bastard made his move, Alastair and Blackstone would be there to capture him. Then he’d return to London with Howard, the Doctor and Claire in custody. As far as the Wardens would be concerned, he would have proved that he had his balls back, and he would be out of his father’s shadow once and for all. Life would go back to how it had been before.

And Claire Brooks would rot in a W.O.R. prison cell. If she gave them enough information, they might let her go eventually, but not until she was too old to be of use to either agency.

That one kiss would haunt him until the end of his days, as would the woman herself.

He stood in front of the mirror, tying his cravat. Claire was fortunate Howard hadn’t killed her that night. He’d made the mistake of thinking the fall would do her in.

Or had he? He must have seen the carriage below. If he truly wanted to protect himself, he should have put a bullet in her brain just to make sure she didn’t get up from the fall.

Her situation wasn’t like his own, was it? Had Howard let her live because he had feelings for her, just as Claire claimed Sascha had for him? She could be after him for a little lover’s revenge.

No. It didn’t make sense—not just because he thought she’d have better taste in men, but because he couldn’t believe any man would walk away from Claire.

Alastair glanced at the bath door. He could hear water draining out of the tub. She’d be in there, naked and wet, her body slick. . . . He swallowed. He’d known her only a few days, and she already had him by the wedding tackle. Jesus, he needed a wife or a mistress—someone to occupy his body and encourage his affections. Then he wouldn’t sniff around every unsuitable woman like a randy hound.

Though he couldn’t imagine any Englishwoman, mistress or wife, demanding that he “do it” as Claire had.

He was packing his toiletries when she emerged from the bath. “Did the maid bring my gown?”

“It’s on the wall,” he replied, not looking up. “She said she’d return to assist you in dressing if you needed her help.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

He looked up just in time to see her standing there in a chemise, drawers, stockings and corset. The drawers were short and lacy, giving him a view of thigh above her garter and stocking. She cstoa chem had long legs—shapely and strong. It was too easy to imagine them wrapped around him. The corset nipped in her waist and pushed up her breasts so that they swelled over the low neckline of the chemise, which was so thin he could make out the faint blush of a nipple.

She didn’t notice him staring—thank God—or the obvious interest his crotch had in the proceedings. She simply pulled the purple gown over her head and began buttoning the multitude of fabric-covered buttons that ran up the front.

“Did Lady Huntley send my fan?” she asked as she worked.

Alastair’s gaze jerked up to meet hers. “Yes.”

She arched a brow. “May I have it?”

He turned to retrieve it. He was such an idiot—acting as if he’d never seen breasts before, while she was cool and collected, as though she almost devoured a man every day.

Perhaps she did. Perhaps she flirted and reacted the way she did with him to keep him off balance and keep him from asking the wrong questions.

Well, he’d damn well ask them anyway. “Was Howard your lover?”

She went perfectly still—like a doe at the end of a hunter’s sights. She looked up from shoving the fan in her reticule and met his gaze with one that burned and snapped like wildfire. Her fingers tightened on the item, and for a moment he wondered if she’d whip it open and use it on him.

“I would never let that man touch me. And if you ever again insinuate that I would, I’ll make it impossible for you to ever jerk yourself off again.”

Her words should have shamed him, but they didn’t. They made him angry, but they also ignited his lust for her. Even the most skilled of actresses could not put that much truth into a performance. She was not in league with Howard; she never had been.

He wanted to go to her, turn her to the wall, throw up those skirts and shag her until she screamed. He wouldn’t care if she lined her cunny with razor blades and lye; he’d still want to be inside her.

But he was a “good” man, and he’d never force himself on a woman, though he reckoned there would be little force involved. She was more than a match for him. He was also trying to be a smart man, and that was what kept him from acting on his desires.

“It will be difficult to do that from inside a prison cell,” he informed her coolly. “But duly noted. My apologies for offending you.”

She nodded stiffly and went back to her reticule, leveling an uncomfortable and thick silence between them.

A short time later, they’d packed up their things, had the baggage taken to their carriage and began the short journey to the Dunrich estate, just outside of Ayr.

“How did you procure an invitation to this party?” Claire asked as the carriage rumbled along, putting them closer and closer to their target.

She deigned to speak to him again? In his experience it generally took much longer than this for a woman to forgive a lesser slight. “I’m an earl. I get invited to many of these sorts of things. Once the s cs. ook much eason is over, it’s assumed that gentlemen and ladies of the aristocracy are bored and have nothing better to do than go live in someone else’s house for weeks at a time.”

“Not everyone shares your dedication to the Crown, I take it?”

“No, though it would make the Company’s job easier if some idiots did.” He avoided her gaze, not wanting to decipher what he saw there when she looked at him.

“Howard must be masquerading as nobility then,” she surmised. “Or at least as someone important.”

“Most likely he’d pretend to be foreign. Debrett’s Peerage is required reading amongst my set.”

She said something about wagering that the Wardens required their agents to know just as much about the ruling classes of every European country and went back to staring out the window.

Alastair stared at the countryside as well. Things wouldn’t be nearly so tense between them if he hadn’t kissed her. If he hadn’t finally wondered why Howard hadn’t killed her and asked a stupid question. But he had, and it was just as well. He’d rather have coldness between them than lust. Lust led to mistakes and regrets. Coldness was much better in regard to self-preservation.

They arrived at the Dunrich estate forty minutes later. It was a large, stately structure built at least two centuries earlier, but outfitted with modern conveniences. The gate at the end of the drive worked on punch cards, which each guest was sent along with an invitation. For the duration of the party, the code carried by the cards would allow access to various parts of the estate. After the party, the code would be changed. Guests were also given similar cards to access their rooms.

Their driver pulled the carriage right up to the front door, which had a long flight of shallow stone steps leading up to it. As his door opened, Alastair saw Blackstone practically running down the steps toward him. What the hell . . . ? The man was usually a much more discreet operative.

“Blackstone, what
’s going on?” he demanded, stepping to the ground.

The man regarded him with an agitated expression. “Howard and the Doctor. They’re gone. They’re sailing from Ayr in half an hour.”

“To where?” Alastair demanded, ignoring Claire’s sharp intake of breath.

Blackstone shook his head, his expression turning to resignation. “I have no bloody idea.”

Chapter 8

“No.” Disbelief seized Claire with icy fingers. “He can’t get away. He can’t.” She didn’t care that Alastair watched her with curious eyes, or that his friend looked at her as though she were a lunatic. He was obviously a W.O.R. agent, there to provide support if they needed it.

Why the hell hadn’t he stopped Howard? If he’d known they were leaving, he should have stopped him. What sort of Warden allowed not one but two Company agents to simply wander away?

As though reading her mind—something that seemed to be another Warden talent—the man loo fidth="1emked from Alastair to her and back again. “I didn’t find out until after they’d already left. I would have tried to delay them if I could.”

For all the good it did them.

Claire grabbed Alastair by the coat, shoving him toward their vehicle. “Get back in the carriage. We have to go after him.”

“Claire . . .”

“Get in the damn carriage!” She knew her eyes had to be as wild as a cornered animal’s and didn’t care. Robert’s killer was not going to slip through her fingers, not after she got herself captured. Spending the rest of her days in a cage would be worth it only if she could relish the specter of Howard’s blood on her hands.

Something in her insanity must have gotten through to him. He turned to the other man. “Send word to the director. Let her know we’re in pursuit.”

The man nodded. “I will. Be careful, Wolfred.” He cast a wary glance at Claire. “Miss.”

Claire didn’t wait for him to turn his back on them before jumping into the carriage. She grabbed Alastair by the arm and pulled. “Come on, we have to go!” She hit her fist on the roof of the carriage, signaling the driver to move on.

Alastair climbed in and grabbed her wrists with his fingers. She could feel the difference in strength between his hands. One was much stronger than the other. His eyes weren’t the only part of him that was augmented then. “Claire, calm down.”

“How can I calm down when Howard is getting away?” she demanded, and pounded on the roof again. “Move the damn carriage!”

Alastair pushed a button on the wall. There was a tiny ornophone horn next to it. “West toward Ayr, Tavish. We need to get to the city docks as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, my lord,” came the reply, and the carriage jerked into motion, the steam engine wheezing.

Claire released a breath. “Now he decides to move.” She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger. This wouldn’t have happened if she and Alastair hadn’t wasted time sparring with each other—kissing each other. She had lost sight of her purpose—vengeance for Robert—and this was the price.

The steam engine chugged faster, carrying the carriage along at a faster pace. By the time they reached the end of the drive, they were tearing along at full speed. Claire watched the ground whip past, convinced she might run faster than the carriage if she jumped out. It was idiotic, of course, but anxiety sat heavy in her chest, making her restless.

She could feel Alastair’s gaze upon her, curious and suspicious. It had been a mistake, letting him see her agitation, but it couldn’t be taken back now.

As if on cue, his voice cut through the sound of the engine and wheels. “Why didn’t Howard kill you?”

Of all the things he might have asked—such as whether or not she was insane—
this
was what he chose?

She turned from the window. This was a distraction both welcome and frightening. If she said k If/p>

“But you lived. He must have known you weren’t dead.”

“I would expect there might have been too many witnesses. The people in the carriage got out.” She looked him dead in the eye. “Why do you think he left me alive?”

“I have no bloody idea, but something about it’s not right.” He glanced at her and saw the glint in her eye. “Don’t look at me as though you’d like to kill me if you don’t have the guts to just do it.”

“You don’t know what I have the guts to do. Stanton Howard knows what happened to my brother—why he was killed. I’ve chased him all over Europe for the answer, and I’m not going to stop until I find him. If that means slitting your pretty throat, I’ll do it.”

Alastair had no doubt she would do just that if provoked. Oddly enough, it only served to make him like her more. There seemed to be no guile about her at all; yet he couldn’t escape the feeling that she wasn’t being completely honest with him. He really oughtn’t be so surprised that she trusted him so little. It wasn’t as though he trusted her.

“How did he look at you before he pulled you off the roof?”

“What do you mean?”

“What was his expression?”

“I couldn’t tell. He was wearing a disguise that made it difficult to discern his true features.”

“How do you know it was really him?”

“I know.”

He watched her for a moment, and she could tell he was trying to figure out whether or not to believe her. “Alastair, I may not be the brightest of candles, but I know Stanton Howard. Maybe not immediately, but I will find him. He has eyes as cold as a Siberian winter, and he is as heartless as anyone ever could be. He is a monster, and I would know him by smell.”

“By smell?”

“He often smells of stage makeup. And spirit gum. I think anyone with theatrical knowledge would know him. My brother once said he thought Howard must have been a professional actor at one time, because he is so talented with disguise.”

“And the two of you, having theater backgrounds, recognized this.”

“Yes. It’s not a common smell, though I doubt many outside of the theater would be able to identify it.”

“You do realize there’s a slight chance we won’t catch up with him.”

“We have to.” Her vehemence was almost as unsettling as the wildness of her expression. He’d seen it before when an agent got too involved in an assignment and began to make something personal out of it.

“Listen, I know you want justice for your brother, but you have to accept . . .”

“I don’t have to accept anything. We are going to catch this bastard, and we’re going to bring him to justice. He w kjusface=ill pay for what he did to Robert, and we’re going to catch the Doctor and make him pay for everything he has ever done. Are you listening to me? I did not come all this way to lose him now.”

For what
he
did to Robert? Damn. She gave herself away.

“What are you planning to do to him, Claire?” Alastair asked in a low, careful tone.

“Give him to Warden custody, of course.” She met his gaze evenly, praying he couldn’t see the lie in her soul. If she told him she planned to kill Howard, he’d have her on the next train to England, with an armed guard. “I want justice, Alastair. I don’t want my brother’s murder to go unnoticed. The Wardens will make certain it doesn’t.” She didn’t believe that for a moment, but he did.

“The Company won’t look fondly on your betrayal.”

“I don’t look too fondly on the Company right now, either, so that should make us even.”

“There’s a good chance they’ll send assassins after you.”

“I realize that as well. I should be relatively safe in Warden custody, should I not?” For a moment, she wondered if he knew that she had already resigned herself to her fate of life imprisonment or death. If she was going to die, she was going to make certain Howard went first.

“Yes, the Wardens will do whatever they can to ensure your safety.”

“Perhaps the Doctor will teach Dr. Stone how to change a person’s features through surgery. Think of all the spies and witnesses you could protect then. The Company would never be able to find them.”

“We’ll never find Howard if he goes through such a procedure.”

“No. That’s why we have to find him now, Alastair. We have to catch him before he gets on that ship, or he’ll be lost. And my brother will have died for nothing.” The admission, that almost complete baring of her soul, left a heavy feeling in her chest.

“Why did Howard kill him?”

She could lie, but now was the time for truth. She knew enough about Alastair Payne to suss out that he had a weakness for damsels in distress—or women who he believed needed him. She did need him. She wouldn’t catch Howard without him. Not now.

“I’m not sure. I believe it was because Robert figured out that Howard planned to double-cross the Company. He apparently stole some documents of a sensitive nature—documents he planned to sell to the highest bidder at a private auction. Robert followed the bastard to a warehouse where he planned to meet a potential buyer. Next thing you knew, the building went up in a jet of fire and smoke. There wasn’t enough left of my brother for me to identify his body. I buried an empty coffin.”

“I am sorry.”

“It was hardly your fault, unless you are Stanton Howard.”

He didn’t laugh, and for one split second, she wondered if she had been mistakenly, horribly right. She’d seen stranger things in her career.

His lips twitched, and she almost sighed aloud i kighstrn relief. “I’m not Howard, no. I’m sorry for your loss, is what I meant to say.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it. You know what it’s like to lose people you care about to this line of work. You expect it to happen, but when it does finally occur, you can’t seem to believe that it actually happened.”

“You expect it to be part of a ruse, or maybe an assignment. Any moment they’ll walk through the door and explain it was all for show, and apologize for not being able to tell you all about it in the beginning.”

“Exactly. I keep hoping he’ll send a note, or show up somewhere in a crowd and tell me it was all a mistake.”

“And then he’ll break you out of Warden custody, I suppose?” There was a little amusement in his tone, but not the mocking kind.

“Yes. He’ll be masquerading as a guard and take me away from all of this.”

“And then what? In your imagination, what do you and your brother do when you’ve managed to escape it all? Do you go back to the Company?”

She gave him a disgusted look. “Never. We buy a little house in the country and retire there. It’s in upstate New York, where there’s nothing but lakes and trees. It’s peaceful, and there’s no one trying to kill you every time you turn around. You have to drive a couple miles into town, and every once in a while you go to a dance or some community event, and no one cares what you used to do; they just offer you a drink and food and friendship.”

“It sounds lovely.”

“It is.” She laughed. “We’d be bored out of our minds within a week, and we’d probably start a fight at a church supper.”

He laughed as well, and she was glad of it. It made sense that he understood. He probably felt the same way. “I reckon that’s why people like us get into this line of work. We’re bored by life.”

“Not bored. Dissatisfied. I was never comfortable watching bad things happen to people, or sitting back and putting all my trust into a government that seemed to have money in mind more than the interests of its people. I joined the Company because my brother joined, and because I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“My father and grandfather were both Wardens. It’s in my blood. I suppose I inherited a position in it. It was certainly expected of me—just like actually sitting in my chair in the House of Lords.”

“Yes, I’d heard that your parliament was made up of many nobles. Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?”

“Not if you’re a noble. Tell me about your brother. This talk of governments and duty—true as it might be—bores me. I want to hear about something worthy.”

His words brought a strange burning sensation to her eyes. With that simple request he had honored Robert more than any of the Company agents she spoke to after his death. “You don’t have to ask me about it. It’s all right.”

“I mean it. I want to know, and it will help pass the anxious moments until we reach the dock. Tell me. What did you love most about your brother?”

ous mome="-1" face="Palatino LT Std">“His bravery. His quick thinking. I’ve seen him get into situations that I think are utterly inescapable. The next thing I know, he’s escaped. He was always the smartest and fastest, winning accolades and honors. Before our parents died, he wanted to be a lawyer. He would have been brilliant at it. If not for the accident that killed them, he could have realized that dream instead of getting caught up with the Company and Stanton Howard.”

“Perhaps he believed he could achieve more through the Company. Howard may have played on your brother’s desire to make the world a better place. He more than likely pretended to be a friend.”

“Maybe, but Robert was really good at judging people. He seemed to have a knack for knowing the heart of a person.”

“The two of you had that in common. You obviously admired him very much.”

“I did. I wanted to be more like him. He was so smart. Funny, too. He could do so many things. I’m sure the Company must have been disappointed with me. I’m sure they expected me to be more like Robert. He had an excellent service record.”

“Your reputation does well by you. You are two different people. There is no comparison.”

“Maybe not, but I can’t help but think one was made. The only distinction I have is that I am better with weapons than he was.”