Touch of Steel: A Novel of the Clockwork Agents (17 page)

“And if I were?”

Claire swallowed. Her throat was suddenly very tight and dry. She took a sip of the wine Alastair had procured for her earlier. “What’s the point? After tonight we’ll never see each other again.” Hell, that hurt more than it ought to.

“The night’s not over yet, and for the remainder of it you’re mine.”

A shiver curled down her spine. Hesitantly she lifted her gaze to his. This was what women meant when they said a man made their insides melt. One look into Alastair’s rainy-day eyes and she was a candle with a too-longithshe wick. Images flashed through her mind of the two of them entwined, moving together like they were one creature. He’d made sure she climaxed every time—and more. Her pleasure seemed to be more important than his own.

Any minute now she’d be nothing but a satin-wrapped puddle on the floor.

“All right,” she replied, so softly only his augmented ear would ever hear her. “I’m yours. And you are mine.”

He took her free hand in his and raised it to his mouth. His warm lips pressed hard against her knuckles. Claire blinked. Never mind melting; she was going to dissolve in a puddle of tears. Damn the man. Why did she have to meet him now, when her path was laid out before her? It was life’s last cruel joke that she would find the one man she might adore above all others when there wasn’t any future for them.

Then again, if not for Howard, she might not have met Alastair at all.

His declaration put everything in perspective for her and allowed her to actually focus on the task at hand. She would enjoy what time they had left, but she would also concentrate on what needed to be done. She would get information out of Howard before she killed him. Her gift to Alastair, other than giving him reason to despise her, would be that information.

Better that he hate her than wonder what might have been. She told herself it was true. She told herself to believe it.

A little while later, Alastair took her hand and led her out onto the center of the floor, which had been cleared for dancing to avoid having to move everyone to the ballroom.

Claire kept her eye on the room as they went through the various steps and figures of the dance. It was a little bit of fun for the both of them while they took turns keeping an eye on Howard and the doctor. They weren’t the only ones watching. Another woman—dressed in the height of French fashion, wearing a very good blond wig—watched the pair as well.

“Is that La Bohème?” she asked Alastair as they circled each other.

“Sophie Chevalier,” he replied. “I don’t know why she chose that awful name.”

She arched brow as a smile threatened. “Yes, it’s so silly compared to Dove or Reynard.”

He made a face that made her chuckle. “Touché. Yes, that is she. I wonder if she is the other agent Howard plans to meet.”

“If she is, her life is in danger.” Part of her honestly didn’t care. She’d had enough run-ins with the French during some of her missions to think of them all as a giant butter-drenched pain in her ass. But the woman was only doing her job, same as Alastair. Same as that poor Russian.

The same as Robert had been. Chevalier didn’t deserve to die because Howard was a dishonorable bastard.

Alastair turned his attention away from the French woman. “Keep an eye on her. We don’t want her turning on us, but we may convince her to turn on Howard.”

“Agreed.” Of course she wasn’t going to argue with him. One way or another, she’d handle Chevalier—even if it meant knocking the woman out and locking her in a closet. No on clwase was going to stand between her and Howard. If she was going to spend the rest of her life in a Warden prison, or die at the hands of a Warden executioner or Company assassin, then she was going to make certain it was worth it.

“Stephens is approaching her,” she said, barely moving her lips as she watched the doctor weave through the tables and bodies toward the woman.

“Howard’s using him to make contact. He probably doesn’t know that we’re aware of his connection to the doctor.”

If it weren’t for his mother, they probably still wouldn’t know, and Dr. Stephens would just be a gentleman interested in a pretty woman he met on a trip to America.

They finished their dance, continuing to watch Dr. Stephens and his companion. A few minutes later, he made his way to the other side of the room, where he stood drinking a glass of champagne. Finally Howard joined him.

“Think they’re setting up a meet?” she asked, taking a sip from her own glass as they stood, their shoulders to the wall so they could each watch the unfolding intrigue.

“Most likely he’s confirming that Chevalier will meet Howard at some previously determined time and location. As soon as it looks as though they’re about to get together, I’m going to head to Howard’s stateroom. Whatever he’s peddling, he doesn’t have it on him.”

“How can you tell?” She couldn’t look at him for fear he’d see her intentions in her eyes.

“He’s far too relaxed. He’s got it hidden somewhere secure.”

Claire had told herself she was going to enjoy the evening as much as she could since it would be her last in the free world—her last with Alastair—but enjoyment was the last thing she experienced. She was agitated and anxious, and she was wishing Howard had never managed to overtake her on that roof. If she’d just been a little smarter, a little quicker, none of this would have happened.

But she never would have met Alastair.

Alastair stepped in front of her. Her eyes began to burn. Hell’s bells. She would not cry. She would not.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” she replied. “Just a little antsy. Don’t worry, I can do the job.”

He smiled. “I know you can.” For a moment she thought she saw something in his eyes, but it had to be her guilty conscience playing with her mind. In that moment she could have sworn that he knew what she was up to, that he knew exactly what she intended to do.

But then he brushed a stray strand of hair back from her face. Something hard pushed into her ear. “It’s a communication device,” he murmured. “It uses aetheric waves, and it is specifically attuned with my ear.”

“Yes, I’ve used one before.” She pretended she was also smoothing her hair and adjusted the little metal gadget so that it fit snugly.

“Of course you have.” He looked at her as if she were a temperamental child, but he didn’t chastise her.

“Oce="Palatino LT Std">She wanted to kick him or punch him—force him to anger so he’d feel just a fraction of her agitation. “He’s moving.” Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Howard straighten his cuffs and set off across the dining room.

Alastair didn’t even look. “Right. I’m off. If anything happens, or if it looks as though Howard is returning to his room, give me as much warning as possible.”

“I will.”

He reached down and squeezed her hand, then left the dining room. Alone, Claire turned her gaze toward her prey. Howard nodded to Chevalier as he walked past her, and then set off in the direction of the doors to the deck.

Claire set her jaw as he slipped outside. She waited a few seconds and then approached Chevalier.

“Sophie,” she said.

The woman looked at her blankly. “Pardon?”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Don’t bother, sweetheart. Or should I call you La Bohème?”

The woman’s blue eyes darkened. “Who are you?”

“The Dove,” she replied without cringing. “The man you’re about to meet is going to double-cross you.”

“I am supposed to believe you? Go away. You know nothing.”

Ah, French charm. It was legendary. “I know he was behind that Russian’s death this morning.”

Chevalier went still, her eyes narrowing. “You are certain?”

Claire stepped closer. “The Wardens are closing in on him. You do not want to get caught in this.”

One penciled brow rose. “As you have?”

She didn’t respond, just stared at the woman until she sighed. “Fine. I suppose I should thank you.”

“Thank me by walking away.”

The woman bowed her head. “As you wish.” And then she turned on one sharp little heel and did just that.

A click sounded in her ear. It was followed by Alastair’s low, rough voice urging her to be careful. Howard was most likely armed.

“You, too,” she replied, lowering her head so no one could hear. “Find what you need and get out of there.”

Claire turned to the exit. How long she stood there she didn’t know. Beyond the glass it was dark. Was Howard out there, watching? Waiting? There was only one way to find out.

She opened the door and walked out into the night.

Chapter 15

Alastair didn’t have much time. Any minute now he expected his mother’s voice to crackle in his ear telling him that Claire had gone after Howard. That was when the trouble would start. His first priority had to be finding the information Howard was selling, but his anxiety focused solely on Claire.

He’d run all the way to stateroom A18. It took him only a few seconds at full speed. He should have brought Claire with him, but they needed to keep watch, and one of them had to approach Chevalier. In no conceivable scenario would he ask his mother to do that. She was already more involved than he liked.

If Claire was going to kill Howard, she was going to do it. He couldn’t stop her. He might delay her, but she would find a way to do it. Either he trusted her or he didn’t.

He
wanted
to trust her, but if the situation were reversed, he would kill Howard, and trust had nothing to do with it.

From inside his jacket he withdrew a thin piece of metal about the size of a playing card, with a woven pattern of thin lengths of metal in its center and a square aetheric battery on one end. He inserted the thin part into the punch card reader on the door’s locking mechanism. The metal card was a lock-picking device that quickly sorted through the different combinations of punches by manipulating the woven bits of metal so that they either allowed a punch or didn’t, until the device found the correct one. The block on the end contained a small engine that sped up the process.

Locks like these weren’t terribly complex, but picking them without such a device was very difficult and time-consuming, and some punch locks were very intricate indeed—like the one on his house. These sorts of machines were not available to the public. Arden had made this one, and it had done its job in the length of time it took him to remember the look on Claire’s face when they’d shagged earlier.

Shag. That sounded so crude, but “making love” sounded ridiculous. He didn’t know what to call what they had done, other than bloody marvelous. Even that was a tad flowery for his liking.

He plucked the device from the lock and slipped it back into his coat with one hand as he opened the door with the other. Now was not the time to be distracted by thoughts of Claire. Like she said, whatever there was between them, it would be over after tonight. There was nothing either of them could do about it.

Howard’s room was shrouded in darkness, but lights on the ship’s exterior, and the moon high in the sky, provided more than enough for him to see by. His eyes didn’t need much illumination. If anyone walked in, he’d most likely scare the person half to death.

The room was neat—tidy to the point of obsession. Obviously Howard had a place for everything and demanded everything be in its place.

The closet contained several suits and shirts, as well as two small trunks. Alastair opened both to find cosmetics and appliances for disguise—false noses, wigs and facial hair, rubbery bits for warts and moles, padding for the face and mouth. There were even special filaments that fit over a person’s eye to change the color of the iris, and things to put in shoes to change the way he walked and stood. The man was obviously a master.

Next he looked under the bed, eyes adjusting to the dimmer light accordingly, and found another trunk—one that looked like a salesman’s sample case. In that he found a collection of blades, pistols and other weapons that no ordinary gentleman would ever need. There were two empty spaces in the case, so he could only assume Howard had them.

“If you can> we hear me,” he murmured, pressing the switch to activate his communicator, “Howard is armed. Be careful, Claire.”

“Don’t worry about me,” she replied. Her words did little to alleviate his concern. “Careful” and “Claire” were not synonymous. There was something in her tone that made him wonder whether she was already on the move.

Alastair slid the weapon case back underneath the bed and inspected the underside of the mattress, as well as under the blankets and the pillows. Nothing. He went through the dressers and nightstands, and was headed for the bath when he heard his mother say, “Claire just went out onto the deck after your man.”

“Did she speak to anyone?”

“A blond woman.”

Chevalier. At least she warned the woman. She probably saved her life. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Do you want me to follow her?”

Damnation, that was the last thing he wanted or needed. “Mother, you stay exactly where you are.”

She harrumphed but didn’t argue, for which he was grateful. He had to work fast if he had any hope of stopping Claire and apprehending Howard. She wouldn’t kill the bastard right away. She’d want answers. And she’d want to kill him slowly in revenge for her brother. Plus, her conscience would be bothering her right about now, and she’d probably try to get as much information out of Howard as she could—for him.

Little fool.

He peeled back the rugs and peered beneath the chairs. Finally, beneath the writing desk, stuck to the underside, he found a small packet, about the size of a ledger. Alastair inspected it first, to make certain it wasn’t booby trapped, and then carefully removed it from the desk.

Inside he found not only Russian documents, but Turkish and Spanish as well. There were even bits of sensitive information about two Warden operations going on in India at the moment, as well as several pages of detailed Company secrets—and the plans for what appeared to be some sort of narrow cannon. His gaze skimmed over the device until he saw the words “Centralized Aetheric Death Beam.”

The machine appeared to have borrowed from the research and designs of not only Nikola Tesla but also Frederick Chillingham—Arden’s father. Combining their research resulted in a device that could gather aetheric energy, route it into a single stream, and direct it at a target, resulting in mechanical failure, physical destruction and death. The cannon would be easily transported, and it could be used in conjunction with several such devices for an even more powerful strike. It was like an aether pistol, but easily several hundred times more deadly.

“Damn it all,” he whispered. No wonder Howard had meetings with so many agencies. Such a weapon would command a fortune. Had the blackguard approached the Wardens? he wondered.

He paused, an unpleasant thought taking hold. Did Dhanya already know about this? Was he on Howard’s trail to prevent him from selling this device, or was he there to procure it for the W.O.R. so they didn’t have to make an offer for it?

It didn’t matter. The important thing was kee ththe ping this out of dangerous hands. He closed the packet and slipped it inside his jacket. Then he left the cabin and went to his mother’s stateroom, where he hid the packet inside the false bottom of a hatbox.

“Alastair?” It was his mother. “Where are you?”

“Second location,” he replied, choosing to be cryptic because hearing from her again meant something was wrong. “Why?”

“Dr. Stephens and that lovely blond woman just left the party.”

Claire was supposed to have warned Chevalier off. Had the Frenchwoman told Stephens about Claire? Or was Stephens plotting to sell her the plans himself? No, Howard would never have revealed his hiding spot. The most likely scenario was that Stephens had been assigned to “deal” with Chevalier—get the payment from her and then kill her.

He couldn’t let the woman die, but he had to get to Claire.

Jaw set, he took off running down the corridor. Doors whizzed by. His hair blew back from his face, he ran so fast. When he spotted Stephens and Chevalier about to enter another stateroom, he intercepted them. Stephens pulled a pistol from his coat. Chevalier drew back, going for her own weapon.

Alastair struck, using the speed of his own body for momentum, and punched Stephens in the jaw. He had to hold back so as not to kill the man, but he felt the bones of Stephens’s face crack under the force of the blow.

The doctor made a strangled, guttural sound, then fell to the carpet, unconscious.

“W.O.R. agents will be here soon,” he told Chevalier. “They may offer leniency in exchange for information.”

She smiled coyly. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about me, chéri. I won’t be here when they arrive.”

Alastair really didn’t care one way or another. He nodded at her and then bolted for the nearest deck door. He had to find Claire and Howard.

Hopefully he wouldn’t be too late.

* * *

“Miss
Clarke
, I didn’t expect to see you out here.” If mockery were a sauce, it would have been running down Howard’s chin.

Claire stopped a few feet away from where he leaned against the deck rail. The ship’s lanterns cast him in sinister relief, but she was strangely calm as she faced him. “Of course you did, Howard. I should probably thank you for making it as easy for me as you have.”

“I had hoped our paths might cross again one day.” He flashed an indolent smirk. “You look surprisingly well for someone who was shot and then fell off a building.”

“You don’t look half bad yourself. I assume you had some help with that.”

“Indeed. Very similar to your own treatment, I wager.” He reached into his jacket, and Claire’s hand went to the holster in her bustle, every muscle tensed. . . .

He withdrew a silver cheroot case and opened it. “Care for one?”

When she was younger, Claire occasionally smoked with Robert. She never quite got the appeal of it, but it was a happy memory and she would never besmirch it. “No.”

Howard shrugged. “Suit yourself.” A match struck, flared and lit the tip of the thin cigar as he held it between his teeth. He shook the match until the flame died and flicked it over the rail. He’d even stolen the way her brother flicked his wrist. “So what now? You put a bullet between my eyes? Maybe carve me up with that wicked fan of yours?”

How did he know about her fan? “Maybe. What are you up to, Howard? Why all the deals and double crosses?”

Exhaling a stream of smoke, the spy laughed. It was Robert’s laughter—the bastard. “You don’t really think I’m just going to confess to you, do you? Good lord, woman, have you lost your wits? Here’s what I’d like to know—when did you start fucking Wardens? I could forgive you Huntley because you didn’t know, but that ginger Reynard? Have you no pride?”

He sounded sincerely perplexed—and angry. She hadn’t expected him to confess. She might have to torture him for that. More’s the pity. Claire kept her fingers curled around the handle of her pistol beneath the bustle of her gown. “What is it to you?

He shrugged. “Just looking out for you.”

“Don’t. You killed the only man who ever had that responsibility.”

“Did I?” Surely he wasn’t going to play that game with her? “Are you quite certain?”

Claire pulled her pistol free and pointed it at Howard. “I’ve had enough of your games. You killed my brother, and I’m going to make certain you pay for it.”

He didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by having a pistol drawn on him, though she thought there was perhaps a pinch of wariness around his eyes. He looked at her as if she were a joke. She’d seen the same look often enough on her father’s face, when he’d hit the bottom of a bottle, before he’d tell her how useless she was or took a swing at Robert.

This wasn’t the first time she’d compared him to her father. She’d never seen him in any enemy before, so what was it about Howard that made her think of him?

“Careful with that thing, Claire-a-bell. You might hurt someone.”

Claire stiffened, her blood turning to ice and freezing her in place. “What did you just call me?”

“Claire-a-bell. That was what your brother called you, wasn’t it?”

She pulled back the hammer, aiming at his right shin. “You don’t get to talk about him.”

A thin stream of fragrant smoke drifted from his lips. “No? Don’t you want to know what happened that night? Wouldn’t you like to know about your brother’s last moments?”

She would. He was toying with her. “You’re just stalling.”

“We’re in the middle of the ocean. What difference will a few minutes make? Or would you rather I spent the time waiting for your fox to arrive telling you all thong fox to arse boring secrets I’ve been collecting?” He smiled coldly as he raised the cheroot. “Come now, I’ll tell you all about the night I killed Robert Brooks.”

She pulled the trigger. In the dark, the aetheric stream looked like a bolt of lightning. Howard screamed as it struck his shin, burning his trouser leg and the flesh beneath, cauterizing its own wound. His cheroot flew over the rail.

Claire braced herself for the smell. “I don’t care how you killed him. I just want to know why.”

“You bitch!” he cried. “You fucking shot me.”

She raised the pistol, this time pointing it at his right shoulder. “And I’ll do it again if you don’t tell me what I want to know.”

“All of this for Robert Brooks?” Disbelief colored the words he ground between his teeth.

“My brother.”

He started to laugh, leaning hard on the rail. His trouser leg had stopped smoking and it now flapped around the scorched skin of his leg in the breeze. The cold tried to permeate her skin, but rage kept her warm.

“There’s nothing amusing about this situation,” she reminded him.