Touch of Steel: A Novel of the Clockwork Agents (20 page)

Alastair tugged on his boots. “I’m not going to give up that easily.”

Hell’s bells, he broke her heart. “What can you do? They’re not going to let me go, Alastair. And even if they did, it wouldn’t be long before the Company sent an assassin after me. You have to let me go.”

He turned to face her, dropping to a crouch in front of where she sat on the side of the bed so that they were eye to eye. She was chilled, but she didn’t move—she was pinned by that thundercloud gaze of his.

“If the Wardens did let you go, would you want to be with me?”

She shook her head. He was a stubborn fool. “Alastair . . .”

He caught her face in his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I don’t care if you think it’s a lost cause, or foolish. I don’t care that we’ve spent only a handful of days in each other’s company. Tell me honestly. If you were free, would you choose to be with me?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her throat so tight she could scarcely draw breath. She had to be insane to admit it, but God help her, she couldn’t lie. And what harm was the truth when it could never be? “Yes, I would choose to be with you.”

The smile that lit his face was so bright, it hurt to look upon, and it changed him from a weary man to an exuberant boy in a split second. Claire’s eyes burned at the sight of it. He kissed her then, hard and relentless—a branding of his lips upon hers.

“I will see you tomorrow,” he informed her when he lifted his head.

Claire stared at him, dazed, as he rose to his feet and snatched his greatcoat from the footboard. She pulled the quilt up around her shoulders. “Tomorrow?” He was going to come back? What point did that serve but to torture them both?

He pounded on the door for ttheto comehe guard. “I’m a stubborn man, Claire, especially when I want something. And make no mistake, I want you.”

The door opened, and he swept through it, flashing her a triumphant grin over his shoulder. She could only stare at him, a sharp pain under her breastbone. It was hope, and it hurt like hell.

* * *

Alastair made good on his promise. He did come back the next day—just in time for lunch. He brought her chocolate-dipped cherries and fed them to her as they played cards on the bed. As they played, he told her stories about his childhood and asked about hers. She told him the happy memories she had, and about her mother. She did not speak of Robert or her father.

On the second day he came in the afternoon, and he had tea brought in. They had tiny little sandwiches with no crusts and scones with strawberry preserves and clotted cream. He told her about how he met Luke and about becoming a Warden. She told him about her and Robert’s being recruited by the Company after their parents’ death when a high-ranking agent saw them both in a tiny stage production. It was a story few people knew. And he was certainly one of the few people who knew how poor she and Robert had been, sharing a room above a seamstress’s shop.

On the third day, he came for dinner and brought her flowers and a cylinder-playing Victrola. They danced the waltz in her cell and had sex on the windowsill. Afterward, he confided how he’d felt about his father when he thought the man was a traitor, and he told her how the truth had made him see his mother in a different light. She had gotten tangled up in an intrigue with a person she hadn’t known was a double agent until it was too late. His father had done what he had to in order to protect her, and he had allowed his own reputation to be questioned—for love.

She told him about her father and why she was afraid of small spaces. And she told him that she had promised herself she would never be caged again.

He’d looked at her then. “I was going to let you escape.”

She went completely still. Only her heart continued to move, pounding violently against her ribs. “I beg your pardon?”

“That night on the ship. I was going to tell them you got away. I thought I’d give you the submersible, or find a place for you to hide until the ship reached New York.”

He had planned to betray his agency—his country. For her. She didn’t deserve such devotion. “I was going to kill him, you know. Stanton Howard. Robert. I never intended to let the Wardens have him.”

Alastair nodded. “I know. I wouldn’t have blamed you for ending him.”

“But I would have ruined your mission.”

“The Wardens would have been happy enough with the information I found in his room. We had the Doctor after all. I would have told them I had to kill him.”

Claire was actually shaking. “I wouldn’t have let you do that.”

His smile was sad. “Doesn’t really matter now, anyway.”

That was a subdued night for both of them after that. Buaftletely t still he came back the next day, and the day after that. He was with her when Evie came to check on her and when the director came to question her about yet more Company secrets. He asked his own questions as well, and all of her answers were recorded by a machine that etched the sound of her voice into a brass cylinder. She talked until she was hoarse, and then they came back the next day and asked even more questions. It was as though they gleaned every detail of her life in the Company from her.

And then they came with Lady Huntley with them—Luke’s wife. She had a strange helmet in a box that had wires and knobs attached to it. “It stores memories,” she explained to Claire. “We’d like you to wear it while you tell us about a few important events.”

Claire turned to Alastair, who smiled. Was it her imagination, or did he seem suddenly very tired? “It will be all right. Lady Huntley’s machines almost always work as they ought.”

Claire started. Lady Huntley shot him a filthy look. “Your faith in me is astounding.” Then to Claire, she said, “There is no danger to you, I swear.”

The woman reminded her of a schoolteacher she’d once had, so dry and clipped. She glanced at Alastair. He nodded, a slight smile curving his lips. “You’ll be fine.”

His assurance was the only reason she let them put the damn thing on her. They asked several questions about Robert—some of them painful to answer. She didn’t know when her brother had lost his sense of decency, but she told them what she did know. It was strange thinking the memories of those moments were being lifted from her mind as she thought of them. Not stolen, but . . . borrowed.

They also asked her to talk again about how she came to join the Company, and she explained that they had approached Robert first. He refused to go without her. She recounted as much as she could remember about the few times they worked together, and about how she’d been led to believe that the Company was behind his “death.”

“I realize now that Robert wanted it to look like the Company had betrayed him by hiring a killer. Senior officers would be too busy looking for who gave the order to look too closely at his ‘death.’ And no one would be surprised when Stanton Howard disappeared. They’d assume he either was in hiding or had been killed by the people who hired him.”

“And he would have gotten away with it—and sold Company secrets as well as sensitive information from other agencies if you hadn’t gone after him,” Alastair remarked. The director shot him a pointed gaze, which he met with a slightly smug smile. What was he playing at?

“Why these marathon interrogations?” she asked. “And why now? You people didn’t hound me this hard when you first caught me.”

The director cleared her throat. Between her, Lady Huntley and Evie, Claire was beginning to feel as pretty and intelligent as swamp water. “Next week you will appear before the upper echelon of Warden officers, who will listen to all the evidence you’ve given us, plus ask you questions of their own. They will decide whether or not you remain a prisoner here, or whether you are set free.”

The thought of freedom flipped her heart like a hotcake on a grill. “Toss me to the wolves, will you?” They all knew what would happen to her if she was set free. Ths shought oe Company would be on her before she made it to the street. Odd, but a few weeks ago that thought wouldn’t have bothered her at all. Now she found death wasn’t so appealing, and it was all because of the man sitting a few feet away, watching her as though he would trade places with her if he could.

She loved him for that. The realization hit her hard. Love?

“No,” Alastair said in a tone that brooked no refusal. “You will not be tossed to the wolves. Trust me.”

And she did. That was the cruelest part of all. She trusted him with her life, even her heart. But she couldn’t say these things in front of the director and Luke’s wife, so she only nodded, letting her faith in him smother the fear in her heart. He was only going to be disappointed. Or worse. If the Company came for her, they would come for him as well, and she couldn’t bear the thought of his death—it robbed all breath from her lungs.

He stayed for a few minutes after the women left. He took both of her hands in his and met her gaze with his own unflinching one. “I have to go away for a few days. I’ll be back in time for the trial; I promise.”

Was this the moment where he finally recovered his wits and walked away from her? No, he wouldn’t be that smart, or cruel. He was going to stay with her until the bitter end; she knew that. She was even reconciled to it.

“Where are you going?”

“Paris.”

“You poor thing,” she drawled. “What a hardship for you to have to go to such an exciting city.” She was only a little jealous that he could just up and leave whenever he wanted. She would probably never see Paris again. And she would so like to see it with him. That was what really bothered her—that he was going to the city of love and she wouldn’t be able to share it with
him.

One corner of his mouth lifted, deepening the groove in his cheek. She adored that little smile, halfhearted as it was. “We all have to make sacrifices.”

“You don’t. I don’t want you to sacrifice anything for me. You’ve already done so much. . . .”

He cut her off with a kiss. “I do those things because I want to. Now, be a good girl and say good-bye to me properly. I’ll be back before you know it.”

So she did. She said good-bye with her mouth and hands and body. They didn’t even remove all of their clothing—just the necessary items. She straddled him as he sat in the chair and took him inside with a fierce shove of her hips. It was fast and frenzied, and entirely too fraught with emotion, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed just as desperate for her as she was for him. And when he finally left her, Claire told herself she would see him again. He would come back for her.

But not even all that damn hope he had given her could make her believe it.

Chapter 18

He promised Claire he’d be back in time for the trial, and Alastair intended to keep that promise even if it killed him.

It almost did.

“Damn it, man,” Luke snarled when he met him at the docks. Alastair had just climbed out of the submersible. The little thing was proving to be worth every penny he paid for it. “Promise me that after this you’ll go a full year without almost dying.”

“I promise,” Alastair replied, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

It hadn’t been that close a call, and for that he was grateful. In Paris he’d gone into a social club known as a Company favorite. A couple of young bucks had thought they’d make themselves a name by killing him. One pulled a gun; the other a knife. At the end of it, the one with the gun had been shot in the foot and the one with the blade had a broken wrist and a shattered jaw. Not bad, considering what he could have done to them, but he’d let them live in a gesture of good faith, and it had earned him a little respect from the man he’d gone to that club to see.

“Were you successful at least?” Luke asked as they walked, timbers creaking beneath their feet.

“Yes.” Alastair patted the left side of his jacket, the lining of which concealed a packet of papers. “Very successful.”

“I am glad to hear it. I hope to hell you know what you’re doing.”

It was said with just enough humor that Alastair grinned. “So do I, my friend. How much time do we have?”

Luke consulted his pocket watch—it was one of Arden’s designs, so lord only knew what else the bloody thing did. It probably turned into a carriage if looked at the right way. “Proceedings start in thirty minutes.”

“No going home to change first, then. Do I look all right?”

His friend glanced at him and chuckled. “You look like a man who just walked into the lion’s den and lived to tell the tale, as I’m certain you’re well aware. You should make quite an impression, on the conclave as well as on Claire. She won’t thank you for this; you know that.”

Alastair nodded. It was a cool, foggy morning, and he pulled the collar of his greatcoat closer. He could use a coffee. “I don’t want her gratitude.”

“No, and that’s a good thing in this situation.” Luke shot him a sideways glance. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing or getting yourself into?”

“Yes, and I’m jumping in with both feet regardless.”

Luke shrugged a shoulder. “I felt the same way when I met Arden again. Didn’t matter if it was right or not. In the end I couldn’t stop myself.”

“You don’t think it’s odd that I’ve known her only a couple of weeks at best?”

“What did I tell you the night I first met Arden?”

Alastair frowned. “I don’t remember.”

“I do.” And that was a miracle unto itself, as much of Luke’s memory had yet to return. “I told you she was the girl I intended to marry. So no, I don’t think all this fuss is odd at all. A tad dramatic, perhaps . . .” His words trailed off into a grin.

Alastair smiled back. At the end of the dock sat two Velocycles—Luke’s and his own.

“How did you get it here?” he asked.

“Carried it over my shoulder.” Luke chuckled at Alastair’s dry glance. “I drove it. She drove mine.”

As if on cue, Arden popped up from behind one of the machines. “Hello, Alastair. I was just looking at some of the modifications you’ve made. I’m impressed.”

“Praise indeed,” he replied lightly, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She looked tired, but she had that glow about her that happy expectant mothers tended to have. “I’m surprised your husband let you ride.”

“You try telling her no,” Luke shot back. “You’d better get going if you intend to be at Downing Street in time.”

Alastair swung one leg over the Velocycle. “Thank you both for your help.”

Arden put her hand on his as he gripped the steering bars. “I’m so happy for you, dearest. I hope it all turns out as you want.”

He looked into her wide brown eyes and was touched by the depth of sincerity he saw there. She was such a love. He felt only friendship for her now. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it—even though she had a smear of dirt on her glove from fiddling with his Velocycle. “Thank you.”

He pulled on his goggles, kicked the stability bar up, revved the engine and took off toward the exit of the dockyards. The damp wind sliced through his hair and stung his cheeks. Half circles of moisture beaded on the inside of his goggles, but they didn’t interfere with his vision, so he didn’t care. Bent low over the steering bars, he whipped the two-wheeled vehicle in and out of traffic, weaving around steam carriages and omnibuses, horses and wagons—both mechanical and organic.

Traffic thinned slightly the farther west he went. While shops and businesses were open for business—their automaton employees sweeping steps and washing windows—it was still a little early for those who lived in the west end to be up and about, and then many of the aristocracy were in the country.

He arrived at number 13 Downing Street with six minutes to spare. He parked the Velocycle in the concealed underground lot that was explicitly for official Warden use, then made his way into the building from a secret stairwell that only he and a few others knew about. It was one of the director’s private entrances. There was another off street level for agents, but he hadn’t time to run up there. Fortunately, the lift came almost immediately after he pressed the button for it. He rode it up two floors, practically tearing the gate off its hinges in his hurry to get to his destination.

Punch cards gave him access to the doors. At the final one he had to prick his finger on a spindle. He wasn’t quite certain of how the device sorted one person’s blood from another’s, but somehow it knew his when it tasted it, and that was all that mattered. He inserted his card into the lock, and the door slid open.

The conclave—of which he sometimes was a part—met in a subterranean chamber just one level below ground, in one of the vast sections of number 13 that spread beneath the street. It was a large chamber with a long ebony table around whablamber juich conclave members sat. Chosen from senior agents and officials, they generally met in numbers of seven or greater. Today, given the gravity of the matter, there were thirteen members gathered around the table. He would not be one of them, given his involvement in the proceedings.

Dhanya sat at the head of the table. She shot him a sharp glance as he walked in, chastising him for his last-moment arrival. He shrugged, then seated himself in the small box used to house agents who were to give testimony during the trial. He was astounded when Luke entered the room a moment after him and joined him in the box.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Alastair demanded.

Luke shrugged. “We were about to leave the docks when Arden received a wireless communication from Dhanya requesting my presence. I suppose they want to ask me about Claire’s involvement in the Company.”

Every curse Alastair knew sprang to his lips. This was not going to be good. And there was nothing he could do about it now. He glared at Dhanya. She’d known about this and hadn’t warned him.

The director stared back at him, thin brow arched, as though she had no idea what had him so pissed.

Evie joined them in the box. They both stood at her arrival but hardly had time to say hello—again—before the clock on the wall chimed the hour, and Dhanya called the trial to order.

“My fellow Wardens. Today you are here to decide the fate of Claire Brooks, the former Company operative known as the Dove.” Low murmurs greeted the code name. “I ask that you put all personal bias behind you and base your decision solely on the information provided at this trial. Do you swear?”

Every Warden at the table raised his or her right hand and said, “Aye.” That was when Alastair noticed a familiar face at the table—too familiar. It was his mother. What the hell was she doing there? In that moment he forgot his anger at Dhanya. She’d purposefully put his mother on the conclave. He could kiss her.

“Bring the prisoner in,” Dhanya instructed the guards.

Alastair’s breath seized in his chest as the door in the back of the chamber opened. Claire came into the room, flanked by two guards. She wore a pair of black trousers, tucked into high black boots, and a violet shirt under a black waistcoat; her hair was pinned up in a loose knot. She looked thin and tired, but she was still so beautiful, the sight of her shoved his heart into his throat. Her large green eyes looked up, widening when they caught sight of him. Had she thought he’d lied? That he wouldn’t come?

The flicker of hope in her expression cut him to the quick. This had to work. He’d break her out of the damn place if he had to. He’d dig her out with a spoon and a butter knife if need be.

Claire was put in a chair separate from the conclave table. A metal man stood on either side of her, but she wasn’t restrained. That was a good sign—he hoped. The automatons were standard human-sized models with visual sensors set around their heads, and a voice box. They weren’t sentient—thank God—but they were programmed so meticulously, and by such incredible minds, that they unsettled many people with their humanlike behavior.

The proceedings began with Dhanyaan s, that t addressing Claire. “Miss Brooks, you understand that this meeting has been called to decide whether or not you are to remain in Warden custody or be set free, yes?”

Claire nodded. “I do.”

“Then you understand the importance of truth during this trial? And you swear to give it?” One of the guards held a Bible in front of Claire’s chest as the other clamped a leather and brass glove over her hand and wrist. The glove was attached to a box that looked like the bottom of a phonograph, but it held a large pad of paper rather than a brass cylinder.

“That’s one of mine,” Arden whispered. She might as well have been yelling, so close was she to Alastair’s augmented ear. “It detects changes in body chemistry and pulse rate to determine if a person is lying or telling the truth.”

Alastair glanced at her, trying not to grin at her excited expression. The machine was already scratching on the paper. “I know.” It would help their case if the conclave had proof of Claire’s truthfulness.

God help them if she lied.

Claire placed her hand on the Bible. “I swear.” The machine drew another series of arcs on the pad.

“Good. Then we can begin. Miss Brooks, how long have you been a Company operative?”

“My brother and I were recruited when I was fifteen years old. Thirteen years ago.”

Fifteen. And Alastair’s father had told him that seventeen was too young.

“Did you want to join the Company?” Dhanya asked.

Claire shrugged. “We were poor and had no family. Robert—my brother—said we’d be taken care of, that it would be like being onstage all the time. I didn’t care what we did so long as we ate.”

It was easy to tell how uncomfortable she was being so candid in front of these strangers, and Alastair could have kissed her for it. Dhanya asked a few more questions, the answers to which all painted Claire in a sympathetic light.

“How many Wardens have you killed, Miss Brooks?” asked Lord Ashford, the man who had stood in as director while Dhanya was gone. He was a crusty old Whig who looked as though he’d died five years ago but hadn’t had the courtesy to leave his body. Bastard.

“I don’t know,” Claire replied calmly. “I’ve never counted.”

Ashford lifted his hooked nose and stared down it at her.

Alastair clenched his jaw, feeling the weight of Luke’s gaze upon him. He didn’t dare glance at his friend. Instead, he looked at Claire.

“I’m told the count is somewhere between six and a dozen, Miss Brooks.” Ashford sniffed. All that disdain must have been clogging his nasal passages.

“I’m sure I’d remember killing that many people, my lord, and I don’t.”

“Their deaths may have been caused by your actions.”

Claire kept her gaze on the old man, her expression blank. “And in nk.e="Palatinyour day, sir, how many people died because of your doing what you considered your duty?”

Ashford’s lips tightened, but he didn’t ask any more questions. Claire had made her point, but Ashford had done his damage as well.

The questioning of Claire went on for an hour, culminating with the events that had brought her and Alastair together. They were a long way from finished, but Claire looked ready to drop. Dhanya noticed as well, because she instructed one of the guards to bring her some tea. Then the trial resumed.

“Miss Brooks,” Dhanya asked, “what did you plan to do to Stanton Howard when you found him?”

“I was going to kill him,” Claire replied. “I blamed him for the murder of my brother, and I wanted revenge. I chased him to London, but he shot me and pulled me off a building. Then I was captured by the Wardens.”

“He tried to kill you, even though he knew what you did not—that you were his sister?”

A flicker of pain crossed Claire’s face. “Yes.”

Evie made a soft sound of sympathy, and Alastair gave her hand a squeeze. She squeezed back.

Dhanya continued. “You volunteered to lead our agents to Howard and Reginald DeVane, the man known as the Doctor?”

“Yes. I knew they were headed north to a house party. I wanted to see them both pay for what they’d done.”