Touch of Steel: A Novel of the Clockwork Agents (13 page)

A good one,
a voice in her head whispered, and Claire snarled silently at it to shut up. She wasn’t so self-ignorant that she didn’t know some of these thoughts were fueled by a {e f Cla guilty conscience. But it wouldn’t say much for her character, either, if she gave up avenging her brother just because it might hurt Alastair’s feelings.

To make matters worse, they were forced to share a suite. Of course, she hadn’t expected they would have separate cabins, but separate bedrooms would have been nice. Instead, she was forced to share a horribly romantic setting with the one man to have ever made her stop and wish her life had been different.

Because he seemed to be the one man who liked her despite knowing exactly what she was. Granted, Luke had liked her well enough, but at the time, they had been two cogs in the same machine. Alastair started off seeing her as his enemy. Even so, he had been willing to trust her, and she took full advantage of it.

Either he was very gullible or he didn’t see her as much of a threat. Since she knew of his reputation and had seen him dangle the Doctor as if he were nothing more than a rag doll, she was inclined to believe the latter.

She’d known him a matter of days, and he was under her skin like a splinter.

But worse than all that was the fact that he hadn’t even commented on how good she looked this evening. She was pretty—she knew this because she’d been told as much her entire life. Men often made idiots of themselves for her attention, and that proved a useful thing many times in her career. Tonight she had sat at a proper vanity table and artfully arranged her hair into a crown of twists and curls, secured with pins that dug into her scalp. She’d painted her face with a subtle blend of cosmetics that brightened her skin, emphasized her eyes and gave a rosy tint to her lips and cheeks. She wore a fashionable gown that was understated and elegant, in a rich chocolate velvet that made her skin look like ivory and darkened the green of her eyes. She’d even laced herself into a tight corset that diminished her waist and made her hips and breasts seem impossibly full and inviting.

Alastair Payne had looked at her, smiled and offered his arm. He hadn’t said a damn word except to ask if she was ready. He wasn’t her suitor and there was no reason for him to comment on her appearance, but would it have killed him to tell her she looked nice?

And now he sat across from her, with no idea how handsome he was or how lovely he looked when he laughed. Though he needed a haircut, a good night’s sleep and to gain a few pounds, she thought he was the most perfect specimen of manhood she’d ever seen.

He had seen her almost at her worst today—when she’d entertained the notion of ripping out the Doctor’s eyes. Then he’d seen her at her weakest in the submersible. And she had yet to see him at anything other than his patriotic best.

If only she could loathe him. But loathing him, as easy as it should be, proved to be as difficult as finding Stanton Howard in this glittering crowd.

“Would you like another glass of wine, madam?” a waiter asked from just over her shoulder.

“Why not?” She flashed him her most beguiling smile. His polite expression didn’t waver. Perhaps she was losing her touch.

He refilled her glass and went off to serve the rest of the table. The captain dined at the front of the large dining room, where everyone could see her and her guests and she could see a {e cestll of them in turn. It was the perfect vantage point from which to survey the room.

Not one man—or woman—stood out as someone who could be Stanton Howard. Had she truly thought it would be that easy? That she’d glance around once and spot him instantly? He was a master of disguise. For that matter, he might not even be in the dining room.

It would have been so much easier to find him if he’d brought the Doctor with him as they originally suspected he would. Perhaps that was why he’d left the other man behind, or perhaps he was simply keeping to form and betrayed the Doctor as he betrayed everyone he met.

They had that in common, she and Howard.

“More wine, my lord?”

She glanced over as the waiter spoke to Alastair. The Earl of Wolfred flashed that lopsided, rakish grin of his, and the young man practically melted at his feet. “Of course.”

Ugh. Did the man not know how to
not
flirt? All he had to do was turn on that bloody British charm of his and people turned into drooling idiots, panting all over themselves for a scrap of his attention.

“Miss Clarke.”

Claire turned her head, grateful for the distraction, and smiled to the woman on her right. She and Alastair had been given the very sought-after seats at the head of the table. “Yes, Captain?”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you how much I enjoyed seeing you perform in Boston when you appeared in
Much Ado About Nothing
.”

Claire almost made a face. Shakespeare, of course. She didn’t understand the appeal, but people seemed to like his works, and she’d gotten good reviews as well as a decent paycheck for the role. “Thank you. It’s always so lovely to know that one’s work has been appreciated. It gives me a feeling of great pride to know I brought a character to life for someone.”

She caught Alastair glancing at her out of the corner of her eye. He seemed surprised to hear her talk. She was an actress, by trades both true and false. Did he think she didn’t know how to speak in a proper fashion? Or was he surprised to hear such sincerity in her voice? She didn’t have to pretend at that. She’d wanted to be an actress long before she ever became a spy.

The Company had been a great, dangerous rehearsal.

Alastair was still staring. She fought the urge to stick her tongue out at him and ignored him instead, keeping her attention focused on the one person who actually seemed impressed with
her
.

The captain continued to talk about various plays and performances, many with which Claire was familiar. They were in the middle of discussing Oscar Wilde, one of Claire’s personal favorites, when an older woman, tall and pale with graying red hair and clear gray eyes, approached. She wore a striking gown of russet silk and a matching hat trimmed with dyed ostrich feathers. She was regal and imperious. She was not beautiful, but she was handsome, with the sort of features that begged to be studied and committed to memory.

There was something strangely familiar about her face. . . . “Wolfred? Is that you? Whatever are you doing here?”
>

Alastair rose to his feet, the color draining from his face. The woman kissed his left cheek, then his right, smiling at him with such adoration that Claire felt guilty for witnessing it.

The woman didn’t even seem to notice that he hadn’t spoken. He looked as though someone had punched him hard in the stomach. “Darling, you look marvelous. I heard that you had a certain young lady with you, and I had to come see for myself.”

Uh-oh. Claire stared at the older woman. She certainly seemed to like Alastair, but there was an expression in her eyes that plainly said this situation could go sour fast—and that Alastair had better tell her what she wanted to hear.

Alastair turned his head to look at her. He looked as though he wanted to apologize. There was also no denying that he expected her to play along. That was when she saw the resemblance.

Oh hell.

He smiled, transforming his expression to one of manly adoration. He was a better actor than she. “Mother, you remember Claire, my . . . fiancée.”

Chapter 11

“Claire, darling!”

Alastair could only stand and watch as his mother—Amelia Payne, the dowager Countess Wolfred—engulfed Claire in a rose-scented embrace. To her credit, Claire looked every inch the delighted fiancée, rather than a woman caught in a huge lie.

“Lady Wolfred,” she cooed with a smile. “How wonderful to see you again.”

“As it is to see you.” His mother beamed at Claire. He almost believed they truly knew and adored each other. It was as disconcerting as it was impressive. How was a man to ever know if either of them was lying? “But I am so sorry to interrupt your meal. We shall catch up later, of course?” This was directed at Alastair, and with both of them looking at him with murder in their eyes, he knew he didn’t have a choice.

And he knew they weren’t lying.

He swallowed. This was the last thing he needed. “Of course, Mother.”

She swept away with all the grace of a queen. He drew a breath, and barely had time to plaster a smile on his face before people at the table began congratulating him—and Claire—on their impending nuptials.

“You are a lucky woman, Miss Clarke,” Mrs. Neilson, the woman sitting next to him gushed at Claire. If any of them cared about the fact that she was an actress and American, while he was an earl, none of them showed it.

Great liars, all of them. Now he understood what Dhanya had meant when she referred to Britain as a “nation of spies.”

Claire smiled. It looked sincere, but it reminded Alastair of a lioness baring her fangs. “Indeed I am.” Her gaze shifted, locking with his. He refused to back down. He’d done what he had to do to save both her and his mother any embarrassment, and he refused to apologize for it. The scandal of marrying “beneath” him would be far less than introducing his mother to his supposed mistress.

Though he had no doubt both of them would make him regret it before the night was over.

It would be a small price to pay to have the trip continue on with as little drama as possible. They were there to apprehend Howard, not play at house. Besides, when this was over, he would be the one suffering, as word would get out that he’d been jilted and he’d have to play the part.

And he hadn’t his mother’s thespian skills.

For the remainder of dinner, they made polite conversation with the rest of the table and put on a good show of being a devoted couple. Afterward, when the ship’s orchestra—half a dozen automatons designed to look like beautiful lords and ladies of the previous century—began to play, couples took to the floor to dance.

The machines fascinated him. He liked mechanical things, and this modern age was rife with them, such wonders. The automatons looked like a new design by Les Enfants Magnifiques
in France. Each
androide
had a series of slots in its back where punch cards could be inserted. The cards told the automatons how to move, so that they actually played the instruments in front of them. Occasionally one of the lady machines would stop playing and do a little twirl, skirts flaring around her delicate ankles. Their hands and faces looked incredibly lifelike until one got close enough to see hinged fingers and eyes only painted to look real.

“You’re more interested in those machines than your fiancée,” came a voice beside him.

He turned his head and met Claire’s amused gaze. “I am a cad,” he replied.

“Indeed, but a clever one.”

“It was the only thing I could think of to save both you and my mother from embarrassment.”

She smiled a little, full lips curving so invitingly. “I understand all about the English obsession with decorum and propriety. I don’t care about me, but I would not want to cause you or your mother any discomfort.”

“I appreciate that.” It sounded trite, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

She turned her attention to the musical machines. “They make my flesh creep.”

“Really? I think they’re wonderful.”

“They remind me of corpses.”

Alastair frowned. She was right. “Now you’ve ruined it for me as well.”

“Really?” She cast a surprised glance in his direction.

“No.” He grinned. “I think they look like big dolls.”

“Dangerous dolls. All someone would have to do is tamper with their operational cards or their logic engine, and they could easily become deadly weapons.”

He’d seen it happen. “I doubt that will happen here, and those instruments are secured to them. I think it would be deuced difficult to kill someone with a violin bow.”

Claire arched a teasing brow. “Clearly you’ve never been to Berlin.”

A chuckle pushed past his lips at the absurd statement. “I think you saw a different side of Berlin than I did.”

“I don’t doubt that. Are you going to dance with me, or do we let people think you have some infirmity that keeps you from taking your betrothed for a whirl on the floor?”

He held out his hand. “It would be my honor.” Her fingers slipped into his, and he escorted her into the middle of the dance floor.

“Do you see him?” he asked after a few moments.

She frowned. “Don’t rush me. If he’s in this room, he’s no doubt in disguise. I haven’t seen anyone who even remotely reminded me of him all evening.”

He smiled down at her—just like a doting fiancé should. “Keep looking. And try not to frown, will you? We may be watched, and we don’t want our cover questioned.”

“We are being watched,” she retorted with a bright smile—it was more like a baring of teeth. “By your
mother
and everyone else in the room.”

“I have faith in your acting abilities, my dear.” He twirled her around. “And my mother is not watching us; she’s watching out for us. There’s a difference.”

Arched brows lifted slightly. “Is your mother a Warden?” she asked in a low tone.

Alastair replied just as softly, “Once upon a time, yes.”

“So she knows you’re on a mission.”

“Most likely, yes.”

Claire swore. “Is she going to be a problem?”

Alastair slanted his gaze at her. “What do you mean?”

She looked as though the answer should be obvious. “Is she going to interfere with our work?”

“No. She’s smart enough not to do that.”

“Thank God.”

He would not react. He would not snap. “Just what the hell is that supposed to mean? My mother’s been doing this since before you could walk. I would be honored to have her assistance in any assignment. She is a countess, an incredibly strong woman, and she has saved more lives than you or I ever will. You will show her the proper respect.”

“Or what?” she challenged, eyes glinting.

“You can return to the submersible for the duration of this mission and I’ll find Howard on my own.”

It was a cruel threat, but one he would follow through on.

“Fine,” she snapped, but her cheeks were pink. Obviously she felt chastised. Good.

“I know this is important to you. It’s important to me as well, but my family is more important.”

Her gaze lifted to his, bright with anger. “It’s important because Howard killed the only family I had left.”

His heart broke for her, but she didn’t want or need his sympathy. “Then stop turning your anger on me and on my mother, and find Howard.”

“I would if you’d stop making me behave irrationally.”

He almost stumbled over his own feet. She probably had no idea how much she had just revealed to him with that simple, emotional retort. What a fine pair they were. It would have been better if Luke had accompanied her. There’d be none of this foolishness. Luke would have claimed Claire as his sister or some other relation. Hell, Luke could have claimed her as his mistress, not that Alastair wanted to think about that.

He turned her around in time to the music. “Take your time. Look at every face.”

That was all the urging she needed. He steered them around the dance floor, making certain they turned at the right time so that she could study every person in the room.

“Nothing,” she said finally, shoulders slumping in defeat. It was an odd effect, because she smiled at him as she spoke, keeping up the pretense. “What if he’s not on the boat?”

“He is. The Doctor was all too happy to give Howard up. Seems he promised to take the Doctor with him, pay him for his services and keep him out of the Company’s reach. Surprise, Howard lied.”

“He certainly doesn’t seem to care about making enemies.”

“Why should he? If what we’ve heard is true, he plans to have a new face crafted for himself shortly after arriving in America. No one will ever recognize him then.”

Their gazes locked. Claire’s expression of wonder was a mirror of his own. “A doctor,” she said. “If he left one behind, he must have another with him—he wouldn’t trust his new face to someone he didn’t know.”

Alastair nodded. It was a sound assumption, provided Howard hadn’t made arrangements with an American doctor. “We need to find out if there are any doctors on board. If Howard wants a new face, he’s got to have someone he can trust to do the procedure.”

“And tend his wound,” she said, eyes widening. “Alastair, I shot him. He’s wounded. Unless he had a serum like Dr. Stone’s, he should still be in a degree of pain.”

“You shot him, and you’re just telling me now?” Chances were that Howard did have access to some healing compounds, but probably not anything like what Evie concocted.

“I forgot.” She seemed almost as surprised as he was. “How could I have forgotten?”

“Many people lose bits of the events leading up to an injury. It was weeks before I remembered what happened to me, and even still some of it has never come back.”

She didn’t look comforted. “Let’s find the captain. If she doesn’t know whether there’s a doctor on board, she’ll be able to tell us how to find out.”

They returned to the table only to find that the captain had retired for the night. It took all of Alastair’s resolve not to kick something in frustration or put his fist through the top of the table. But he held himself in check because he was English and that sort of btha’s rehavior was rude.

“What now?” Claire asked.

He looked around the room. There were so many rich women and men milling about, so many bored people looking for a fresh face to interrogate. “We mingle. Ask a few discreet questions.”

Mingling proved a lesson in futility—and a study in patience. Everyone they spoke to had heard of their “engagement” and had far more interest in asking questions than answering them. No one had met a doctor—of course they didn’t get to talk to everyone—or they assumed either Alastair or Claire was under the weather and suggested the ship’s doctor. Eventually they had to give up. Even his mother, who had demanded he come by her cabin, told him she’d see him in the morning instead.

He and Claire had no choice but to retire as well.

“That was brilliant,” he remarked drily as he removed his cravat in their cabin. “I’ve never talked about myself so much in my life.”

“They all think we’re going to be married.”

He had wondered how long it would take her to come back to this. “What did you want me to do—tell my mother you were my mistress? That would have humiliated her in front of all those people.”

“Don’t you think that was what she assumed?”

“If she assumed that, she never would have publicly approached. Mother has more sense than that.”

“Too bad you didn’t inherit any of it.”

They were both exhausted and vexed, and old enough to know better than to have a conversation when what they wanted was a fight.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I put you in an uncomfortable situation? Forgive me, Miss Brooks, for not wanting to cause my mother pain. Forgive me for not wanting to embarrass you. When this is over and I have to tell people we’re not engaged, I will have to be the one left, you understand. That never looks good for any man, certainly not one with any degree of honor. I will be the one who will have a broken engagement attached to my name, because unlike Claire Clarke, I actually goddamn exist!”

She blinked. “This is the 1890s. Surely no one would have thought twice at your traveling with a lover.”

“You’re welcome!” he yelled before stomping to the small bar in the corner of the cabin. He poured himself a measure of scotch and downed it in one fiery gulp. Then he poured another. Christ, he couldn’t even get twenty feet away from her.

“Did—did you really not want to embarrass me?”

He scowled at her before taking a drink. “Of course I didn’t. No one deserves to be humiliated like that.” Like he had been by Sascha and her lover.

She came to him, cupped his face in her hands, and held tight when he tried to pull away. He frowned. “What?”

Claire sighed, looking at him with sad green eyes. “No one has ever cared about my feelings. You are
such
a good man.” She came up on her toes and pressed her lips briefly to his.

It wasn’t enough, yet it was more than sufficient to make his body stand to attention. “No,” he murmured. “I’m not.”

Her smooth brow wrinkled. “Why would you say that?”