Touch of Steel: A Novel of the Clockwork Agents (3 page)

“I would think, given the circumstances, you would be the last man to question anyone’s judgment.”

Alastair straightened. This conversation was becoming far too heated. “That’s why I question you. I know how attachment can cloud a man’s sense.”

Luke scowled at him. “Claire and I worked together, and occasionally we slept together. It was not an attachment.”

“What exactly was it, then?” came a crisp voice from the door. “And why does it matter now?”

Alastair closed his eyes. He did not want to be part of this. Arden, Luke’s wife, was his friend as well, but this was none of his business.

He set his glass on a small table beside the sofa. “I’ll give the two of you some privacy.”

“Stay.” Arden had come into the study and now stood on the richly patterned carpet. Her pale cheeks sported high splotches of red, and her whiskey brown eyes glittered in the lamplight. In her hand she held what appeared to be a compass, but Alastair knew it was nothing so mundane. It was her sentimentometer, and she was going to use it to ascertain her husband’s—and likely his—emotions. All she had to do was point the bloody thing at either of them. “What’s going on, Luke?”

Luke, to his credit, didn’t look the least bit guilty. He faced his auburn-haired wife with a regretful but sincere expression. “The W.O.R. captured a Company spy—Claire Brooks, also known as the Dove. We often worked together when I was under the Company’s control.”

His wife obviously wasn’t familiar with the name, or she didn’t care that one of the Company’s most dangerous and successful operatives was now in custody. “You slept with her.”

Luke nodded. “I didn’t know about you then, Arden. I didn’t know I had a wife; otherwise it never would have happened.”

“I know.” Arden didn’t even consult the gadget in her palm, a fact that did not escape Alastair’s notice. He would have looked. He would have
had
to look. She had that much faith in her husband that she had no doubt of his sincerity.

Alastair frowned. What must it be like to trust so completely? He hadn’t really loved Sascha. He’d never loved anyone
that
much. The realization was like a kick to the chest. Had he been Arden, he wouldn’t have taken Luke at his word any more than he would the word of that damn American. There was nothing wrong with being cautious. Better safe than sorry.

He’d already had enough sorry to last a lifetime.

His friends stared at each other. Both radiated regret, but there was tension as well—tension that would remain as long as he stood there, a reluctant bystander.

“I really must go,” he announced, already walking toward the door. “The two of you need to discuss this, and I do not wish to bear witness.”

“Alastair.” It was Arden who stopped him.

He turned slightly. He really just wanted to be gone. “Yes?”

Her face was pale, but there was nothing waifish in her expression. If there was one woman who could handle this sort of situation with grace, it was Arden. She rarely listened to her heart without consulting her brain first. Though at times that was just as frustrating as an emotional response.

“This woman. Is she pretty?”

She was the most incredible-looking woman he’d ever seen—even pale and bruised. A man would go a long way for such seductive green eyes and a thoroughly kissable pout. “Passably,” he lied.

Arden’s shrewd gaze narrowed. “And is she a skilled agent?”

She was the bloody Dove—and like the bird Noah sent out from the ark, she did not return until her job was done, and she always returned victorious. Despite being dangerouhaning dansly feminine, she was hard as iron, and she fought her way out of trouble as often as she used her charms. She’d outmaneuvered several W.O.R. agents over the years and had made them look as capable as children. “Not skilled enough to avoid capture.” They never would have caught her had she not been wounded and unconscious. She’d escaped capture several times in the past.

“Damn and blast.” Arden’s hands went to her hips. “The next time you speak to her, I will be present. I’m obviously the only one who will see past her reputation and looks.” Her gaze moved to her husband. “Do you trust her?”

Luke nodded, his expression both resolute and wary. “I do. If she says she’s no longer with the Company, I believe it.”

“And you want the man who took control of your mind,” Alastair reminded him. He regretted the words as soon as Luke looked at him. If it were possible to stare daggers at someone, he’d have been on the floor bleeding from several lethal wounds.

Astonishment lit Arden’s features. “The Doctor? She knows where to find him?”

The man called the Doctor, who invented the procedure and mechanisms with which the Company was able to overtake Luke’s mind, had escaped after Luke started to get his memories back. The Wardens hadn’t been able to find him, despite extensive searching. All they had was a bag of his implements that Luke had managed to steal during their last encounter. The man was as twisted as they came.

“She says she knows where he is,” Luke informed his wife. “She’s even offered to lead us to a high-ranking Company operative here in Britain.”

“What does she want in exchange?”

“To avenge her brother. Her freedom.”

“Of course she wants her freedom,” Arden said with an unladylike snort. “They all want that. You know Dhanya won’t give it to her.”

Dhanya Withering was the director of the W.O.R. She wasn’t exactly known for acquiescing to enemy demands. In fact, when Luke had returned, she had made it clear to Arden that if he was determined to be a liability, she would have her husband executed. Ashford was acting in her stead while Dhanya was on personal leave, but she would be back in charge of things in a few days.

Luke’s brow pinched. “I know.”

Alastair had to admire the bastard. He shook his head as Arden’s expression softened into sympathy. With those two words, declaring his loyalty to her and the W.O.R., Luke had diffused a situation that very easily could have become worthy of a Shakespearean tragedy.

“She wants me to be her liaison with the Wardens.”

And then he ruined it. Alastair swallowed a curse and reached for the doorknob. He most assuredly did not want to be present for this.

“No.” Arden’s voice was quiet, but it was as effective as a slamming door.

Luke sighed. “I know this is difficult, but it will only be for a little while, until she feels she can trust them.”

“She can’t trust them,” Alastair reminded him. Why wTod him. as he still there? More important, why was he jumping in on the side of a woman he’d like to see rot in a cell for all she’d done? There was Warden blood on her long, slender hands. He had known two agents who died in pursuit of her, and she had ruined at least two operations, one of which resulted in the freedom of Victor Erlich. Lucas was taken and sent home by Erlich’s brother to kill Arden, his wife, to avenge Victor’s death at Arden’s hands.

Both Arden and Luke ignored him. “We promised each other no more intrigue.” Arden folded her arms over her chest. “We promised we would only do jobs for the W.O.R. that we could do together or from home. If the Company finds out we have her, they’ll send someone to kill her, and you will be right in the middle of it.”

“I have to do this,” her husband insisted. “It’s the only way they can find out what she knows. Arden, this is my chance to alleviate any misgivings the W.O.R. has about me.”

“I said no.” Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright.

“You’re being irrational.”

Luke said something else, but Alastair was trying very hard not to listen. He turned the knob and slowly nudged the heavy oak open. He could just sneak out. . . .

“I’m pregnant.”

He froze on the threshold, heart jacked up beneath his ribs. Arden was pregnant?

There had been a time when he’d once entertained the thought of being the man with whom she had a family. He’d loved her for years, but she’d clung to the belief that Luke was alive. She’d been right, and his heart had broken for it. He loved her still, but no longer in that manner. She was better with Luke, and vice versa. They belonged together. Christ, Luke had even gotten a tattoo similar to Arden’s when he was so far under the Company’s spell that he didn’t know who he was, let alone that he had a wife. The two of them were made for each other.

They were the only things in Alistair’s life that made it worth living, which was why he turned to them. He could not ignore the myriad emotions playing over both their faces: shock, joy, regret, worry, love. He tried to look between them rather than directly at them.

“I’ll do it,” he promised. “I’ll be the liaison. And if the American spy doesn’t like it, she can rot.” Awkwardly he added, “Congratulations.”

And then he finally crossed the damn threshold and went the hell home—alone.

Chapter 3

They moved her to a cell.

They called it a cell, but it had a four-poster bed, thick rugs on the floor and steam circulating in the iron heating pipes. She was comfortable and cozy. It was nicer than some of the places she’d holed up while working for the Company. They even gave her a lovely beef dish and a glass of red wine for dinner.

Claire didn’t fool herself that the Wardens were somehow better than the agency she now betrayed. The W.O.R. was treating her this well because she was of use to them. The oh-so-very-polite British believed in encouraging cooperation through kindness rarokther than violence.

Of course, if she hadn’t proved useful, they would have shot her in the head and left her in just the right place to send the right message to the right people.

There were no windows, so she had no idea what time of day it was. She knew that they had brought her underground after wheeling her from the hospital ward in an invalid chair. They’d strapped her in with shackles and used a large key to wind a mechanism in the back of the chair that caused a wire and metal dome to close up over the front of the chair. It had been disconcerting, but Dr. Stone explained that it was not only to protect them from her, but to protect her in case anyone tried to kill her.

Apparently word had gotten out that the Wardens had “the Dove” in custody.

It was such a hideous name, but every agent had to have a code name. She’d been given hers because Robert had made some stupid joke about how many doves were at the funeral for a Napoleon-type character she’d sent to his maker. She wasn’t supposed to kill him, but he’d shot a child in front of her, just because he wanted to make a point. She’d done the world a favor by disposing of him in kind. He’d gotten off easy; she had planned to let the child’s father have him.

And then there was that silly rumor that she’d earned the moniker because she was like the dove sent out by Noah, but that was just a fanciful story.

She picked up the tin cup the guard had brought her tea in. It was still warm. She wasn’t a big fan of tea, but it gave her something to do. She could read one of the books on the shelf, but that would require moving, and her entire body felt as though . . . well, as though it had been shot and had then fallen off a roof.

The clock was ticking. She had to get back on Howard’s trail. He’d be at that country party a few days at best before moving on to the next phase of his plan. Even if they let her go tomorrow—in Five’s custody—she was in no condition to travel hell-bent for leather. It was going to take longer than she wanted to catch up to the bastard.

She’d seen the look on Payne’s face when she offered up information on Company operatives. He wanted what she knew, but he was disgusted with her for turning on her former comrades so easily, even though she’d explained what happened to Robert. All her strength had gone into showing as little emotion as possible as she talked about her brother, and that ginger-headed bastard looked at her as if she were dog excrement on the bottom of his shiny boot.

Claire would have looked upon herself with the same expression once upon a time. Now she didn’t care what anyone thought of her or how anyone looked at her. She didn’t even care that what she was about to do was tantamount to putting nails in her own coffin. She was going to make certain Stanton Howard paid for her brother’s life. If that satisfaction cost her own life as well, then so be it.

She took another sip of tea. She was going to have to make her way to the toilet soon. It was hand-painted porcelain that swept waste away with the pull of a chain. Back home in New York, they’d had chamber pots. Apparently England believed even her enemies needed posh pots to piss in.

There was no fighting it any longer. Claire pushed herself to her feet with a throat-ripping growl of pain and clung to the bedside C th>

By the time she finished her business and began her return to the bed, her legs were trembling and cold sweat clung to her hairline. It was of course at that moment that a rap sounded at her door, followed by a key in the lock. She heard the grinding of gears as the locking mechanism disengaged, then a solid “thunk” before the door eased open. Claire looked up, expecting to see Dr. Stone.

It was Payne.

Had he come to kill her? She’d heard of such things happening to Company agents in W.O.R. custody. They were taken and never heard of again. Or had Huntley changed his mind about helping her? That would be unlike the man she used to know, but then he wasn’t that man anymore.

“What do you want?” she demanded. Why did he have to show up when she was in need of a bath and trembling like a leaf in the wind? She had to look a fright, and her looks had always been something she used to her advantage. Men—and some women—generally found her very attractive.

Payne was obviously not one of those men. “I came to talk,” he replied in that voice that reminded her of velvet rubbed the wrong way—rich and rough. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

There was no advantage to lying. “The loo,” she informed him, using a word she’d heard other Brits use. “Seems I wasn’t quite up to the task.”

His cinnamon brows pulled low into a scowl as he stomped toward her. Was he swearing under his breath? Claire might have laughed had he not seized her by the arm and slung it over his shoulders as he bent low and put his own arm around her waist. “Lean on me.”

She’d rather stick her face in a wasp’s nest, but she did as she was told and was grateful for his support. He practically carried her to the bed, then set her upon the mattress with surprising tenderness. It still hurt like the devil, but not as much as it would have if she’d done it on her own.

“Thank you.”

The earl seemed to understand how difficult those words were for her to say. He gave a curt nod and pulled the chair she’d abandoned closer to the bed so that he might sit. He could have remained standing to intimidate her, but he didn’t. She would not assume it was out of chivalry. The Earl of Wolfred didn’t need to stand to be intimidating. The man was built like a prizefighter, albeit a rangy one, and he had a gaze as cold and hard as steel.

He braced his forearms on his thighs and leaned toward her. His black greatcoat pulled across his back, the fine wool stretching to accommodate the movement. Normally she would love that he put himself so close, as it would make it all the easier for her to strike him in the throat or crotch, but right now she was painfully aware of just how little of a threat to his safety she was in her current condition. He was no doubt aware of it as well.

“Are you going to tell me why you are here, or are you going to stare at me all night?”

He didn’t so much as blink at her words. “It m Cordht?ust be difficult for you to be locked up.”

“Yes, because these are such spartan conditions,” she replied drily. As if she would ever confide just how confined she truly felt. How vulnerable. Were the room any smaller or the ceiling any lower, she’d be sitting in a corner, foaming at the mouth, mindless.

He arched a brow. “Indeed. Still, it must wound your pride as the Dove to have been so easily delivered into Warden custody. That’s an absolutely rubbish code name, by the way.”

Claire drew back. It hurt, and she winced. That would teach her to react. “I didn’t choose it,” she informed him—why, she had no idea. It wasn’t any of his business. “Will you tell me what they call you?”

“Reynard.”

She frowned. “As in the trickster fox?”

He looked impressed. What, did he think because she was female she was ignorant? Or perhaps it was because she was American. “That’s somewhat insipid, isn’t it?” She might have put more sarcasm behind it, but she had heard stories of Reynard, and being in the same room as him—within striking distance—bothered her. The man was augmented with metal “bones” and supposedly incredibly sharp eyes that . . .
glowed
when they caught the light.

Good God. It was
true
. He had the eyesight of a cat.

“No more than calling a dangerous woman ‘Dove.’”

Whatever her reputation, this man’s was just as formidable—or worse. The last woman to cross him—a sympathizer sleeping with a Company agent—had left him for dead beneath an overturned carriage. He not only survived; he was part of the team that tracked down the woman and her lover.

No one knew what happened to the pair after he captured them.

“You came here for a reason,” she said, all bravado. “Either tell me what it is, or leave.”

Something flickered in his eyes—something would have made her squirm were it not that it would hurt too much. “You’re hardly in the position to order me about.”

“Where’s Five? Huntley?” She’d never get used to calling him by that name.

“At home with his beautiful wife.”

Ah. Claire smirked. “She must be quite the woman if her jealousy was enough to send you here in his stead.”

“The countess is not the least bit jealous of you.” He couldn’t have sounded any more disdainful if he’d stepped in dog dung as he said it. “Lord Huntley no longer works for the W.O.R, and therefore is in no position to hear or answer any demands or requests you might have.”

“Then I have nothing to say. You may as well kill me now.”

“We don’t kill people, Miss Brooks.”

“Of course you do.”

That eerily glowing gaze of his met hers. “Sometimes we leave them to rot until the entire world forgets they ever existed.”

That struck real fear in her heart. She wasn’t afraid to die. Hell, she had embraced the notion the day she set off after Howard. No, dying held no sway over her, but living out the rest of her days in this box with no windows or sunshine . . .

“And here I thought you English gentlemen were supposed to be so very charming.”

He let out a short breath. “Either you work with me or you don’t work at all. That’s the only choice you have at the moment.”

She didn’t know this man. She certainly didn’t trust him, but when she looked at him, she knew he might be the one person who wanted Howard as much as she did. Not because he had a personal stake, but because it was his duty. She might not be able to trust him with her life, but she could trust him to hunt the blackguard to the ends of the earth once she put him on the right trail.

And she was running out of time.

“Fine.” The word left a bad taste in her mouth. She wanted Howard’s blood more than anything, but agreeing to work with the Wardens went against everything she and Robert believed in.

She’d joined the Company with her brother shortly after their parents’ death. They fought against enemies of the United States before journeying to Europe for missions on that continent. The Company didn’t pledge allegiance to any one country, though it had cells all around the globe. No, the Company was everywhere, fighting against dictatorships, monarchies—any system that kept the common man in the dirt while the wealthy made yet more gold off his back.

The man sitting across from her embodied everything the Company stood against, such as monarchy, class systems and oppression of the people. And she—for lack of a better term—was about to sell her soul to him. The real kick in the arse was that she found him terribly attractive. In other circumstances she might have seduced him, or allowed him to think he was seducing her.

Instead, she was left with an odd respect for him.

“Do we have an understanding?” he asked. “You work with me, and I speak to the director on your behalf once we have Howard and the Doctor in custody.”

Claire shrugged. “Why not?” The lie rolled off her tongue with practiced ease. It didn’t matter if she liked him, or wondered for a brief second what it would be like to rub her naked skin all over his. It didn’t matter because she had no illusions about surviving this. If Howard didn’t kill her, the Company or the W.O.R. would once they knew she’d betrayed them. Howard wasn’t going to be anyone’s prisoner or bargaining chip.

Stanton Howard was going to die—by her hand. And if Payne got in her way, she’d have to kill him, too.

* * *

On street level, number 13 Downing Street did not exist. It was merely a door absorbed into other buildings near the “official” residence of the prime minister. Of course, the PM lived in a much grander residence than the rather nondescript brick town house tucked behind a wrought-iron gate. Alastair wasn’t there to see Salisbury, however. He was there at the request of the director.

Last evening he’d unlocked the same door, crossed to the same gated lift and entered the correct punch card that would operate the lift and, after dropping it a couple of floors like a discarded toy, pushed it backward, deep below the street. There was a slight variation in this series of events, as he was here to see an entirely different sort of woman than he had the night before when he’d been there to see Claire Brooks.

He had gone to his club after that meeting, where he’d hoped to meet up with Luke, but his friend hadn’t made an appearance. Probably he was with Arden—and that was a drama Alastair wanted no more part of. It was bad enough he was being forced to work with that
woman
Claire Brooks
.
Better him than Luke, though. Luke was too easily convinced of her honor, whereas Alastair was certain she had none.