Touch of Steel: A Novel of the Clockwork Agents (4 page)

And yet he’d felt some compassion for her when he saw how much pain she was in. And he’d felt a little grudging respect when she stared defiantly down that pert nose of hers. Women—agents—like her normally turned on the seduction in an attempt to gain affection or trust. She hadn’t used her wiles against him at all. In fact, she seemed all too willing to do what he wanted. Why?

After the club, he returned home, and after a glass or several of whiskey, retired for the evening. Sleep had not come easy. He’d lain awake for hours, playing bits of the conversation with Brooks over in his mind, and one question remained.

How did such a woman become such a spy? She was beautiful and unusual enough to adorn the arm of any important man. Then again, beautiful women—women with presence—often made the best spies. And one might ask why he chose such a profession when he certainly wasn’t in need of it. Perhaps Claire Brooks thought she’d been doing the right thing when she joined the Company.

But being misguided was not something that was going to earn his sympathy. Everyone had decisions to make in the course of his or her life, and each of those decisions carried consequences.

He was about to face the consequences of his decision to keep Luke away from Claire Brooks.

The lift jerked to a stop, and the door slid open. Alastair opened the gate and walked out into the grand foyer of Warden headquarters. He’d heard others describe it as looking like the great hall of a country house with its columns and marble, but to him it was more like a gallery—ostentatious, pretentious and far too quiet. And that bizarre blue glow given off by the lamps on the wall always made him feel as if he’d just stepped into a fantasy world.

Armed guards dressed in black and gold—the colors of the Wardens—flanked the large oak double door that led into the inner sanctum. Alastair approached them with an easy stride, his hands loose at his side. He wanted to hold them behind his back, but that might present the misconception that he had a weapon he was prepared to use, and that would not be good.

“Alastair Payne, Lord Wolfred, to see the director,” he informed them. It was such a foolish procedure. These guards knew who he was, for pity’s sake.

Without the slightest change in expression, one of the guards continued to stare at a point over his shoulder, and with practiced movements, extended his arm and turned the handle. The door opened.

Alastair crossed the threshold, in Cthrndlto an interior that had always reminded him of a high-class brothel, though he would never voice that opinion aloud.

A pale carpet with a demure pattern covered the floor. The walls were papered in a delicate cream peppered with brightly colored exotic birds. The furniture was dark wood, upholstered in bloodred velvet. Clocks on the wall gave the time in several foreign cities, and behind an ornate desk sat a gentleman in his forties with a kind, round face and a receding hairline. He looked like a jovial sort, but Alastair knew for a fact the bloke would kill a man as soon as look at him.

“Good morning, Finchley,” Alastair said in greeting.

“Wolfred.” Even his voice sounded cheerful—cheerfully mad. “Bit late, aren’t you, old boy? Go on in. She’s expecting you.” Then he pressed a button on the ornophone box—a polished teak affair about the size of a cigar box with a small polished horn, like those on a Victrola, on top—and announced Alastair’s arrival.

He’d had less trouble getting an audience with Queen Victoria, even though this meeting was not his idea. Yes, it made sense after Dhanya’s last secretary turned out to be a Company agent, but it was still a pain in the arse.

Walking into the director’s office was like walking into a Bengal market with its silk-swathed walls and bright, richly colored decor. At the back of the room was a large desk formed of a huge slab of ebony on the back of four temple elephants. Behind it was Dhanya Withering, rumored to be the illegitimate granddaughter of Her Majesty, and director of the W.O.R. She was tall and shapely with long black hair coiled on the back of her head, dark eyes and a complexion that was a perfect blend of exotic and English. She wore her usual work uniform of snug trousers tucked into boots, white shirt and waistcoat—this one a rich violet.

“Alastair,” she said, using his Christian name as easily as his own mother. “Thank you for coming.”

As though he’d had a choice in the matter. He smiled. Part of Dhanya’s charm was that she was impossible to stay annoyed with. She was supposed to be on leave, but she had returned to work when she heard of Claire Brooks’s apprehension—and when Evie threatened to quit if Ashford wasn’t made to step down. “Finchley said I was late.”

Her lips tilted up on one side. “Mr. Finchley needs to have his pocket watch adjusted. Come sit. Tea? I have chai. It will put some color back in your cheeks.”

“Sleep could have done that,” he replied drily as he approached the desk.

She shot him a sideways glance from the sideboard where a teapot of hot water sat on an ornate warmer. “It is not my fault you cannot get to bed at a decent hour.”

Alastair flipped out the tails of his coat and sat down in one of the plush chairs in front of the desk. “The devil it’s not.”

“You were at your club into the wee hours. Is that my fault?”

How the hell did she know these things? “No, but the fact that I’m here before noon is.”

Dhanya returned with a tray carrying two cups of fragrant, milky chai and a plate of sweets that no doubt came from her mother’s bakery. The woman made a variety o Ce aps f edibles, but her traditional desserts simply had no equal. He immediately plucked a small, orange-colored square from the plate and popped it in his mouth. It was all he could do not to moan in delight.

“Poor thing,” she teased. “Having to actually get out of bed in the morning. How awful.”

This was not a debate he had any chance of winning. “Thank you for the chai.”

She smiled in that closed-lipped manner so many women seemed to employ when they knew something the man did not. “You are welcome. Now, shall we discuss why you are here?”

“Of course.” He crossed his legs. “I assume it has to do with the Dove.”

All trace of humor disappeared as Dhanya met his gaze with the fathomless gravity of her own. “She is quite the acquisition.”

“She’s a spy, not a pair of shoes.” Acquisitions couldn’t stab one in the throat. Or tremble because they were in so much pain.

Dhanya tilted her head, continuing to watch him as if she were an owl and he a damn mouse. “Quite. I’m told you wish to take responsibility for her rather than Lucas Grey.”

“Arden’s pregnant.” There was no point in saying anything other than the truth. Dhanya probably already knew.

The director nodded, the light reflecting off the dark of her hair. “Yes. And you still see yourself as her knight errant.”

Alastair smiled slightly. She did not know everything, Miss Withering. “No. I’m no knight. I simply think it would be wrong to separate Luke and his bride again. Last time it took him seven years to find his way back. Claire Brooks works for the people responsible for that.”

“She did work for them.”

“You believe she’s turned traitor, then?”

Dhanya nodded and took a sip of tea. “Huntley believes it, and I’m inclined to trust his judgment. He knows how to handle this woman, Alastair. You do not.”

He snorted. “I’m no stranger to women like her.”

“Precisely. The last one almost killed you. I’d hate for you to take any unresolved feelings you might have regarding that misfortune out on our prisoner.”

“You think I’d abuse her?” He couldn’t keep the indignation from his voice. He’d kill her if necessary, but he would never make sport of her—or any other woman. “I may be an idiot, but I am not cruel, Dhanya.”

“I would never suggest that you were. Only that . . . you’re not exactly an excellent judge of character when it comes to women.”

Carefully, Alastair set his cup and saucer on the desk. He leaned back and linked his hands over his stomach. He put every ounce of will into presenting a calm façade rather than tell his superior exactly what she could do with her opinion of his ability to judge character.

“Perhaps not, but I am an excellent friend. Lucas Grey no longer works in a professional capacity for this organization. He is entirely u Cis ut nsuitable for the task of guarding Brooks. I’ve volunteered my services. You do not have to accept them, but regardless, you will not
use
Luke.”

Brows as black as raven wings lowered over her eyes. “You do not make those decisions, Lord Wolfred.”

He leaned forward. “He’s a civilian. You have no dominion over him. Leave him alone, Dhanya.”

“Or what?”

“Or you’ll prove my judgment of women faulty indeed.”

They stared at each other a moment, and then she laughed. There wasn’t much humor in it, but there was enough to make him relax. “Well played, my lord. You let me walk right into that.”

He shrugged. “It would have been ungentlemanly of me to stand in your way. Are we agreed? Luke stays home, and I deal with Brooks?”

“We are. If you wish to have the assignment, it’s yours. But have a care, my lord. If this goes badly, I will hold you responsible. I want the Doctor, Stanton Howard and Claire Brooks delivered to me alive and ready to divulge all their secrets. Am I understood?”

“Perfectly.”

“Good.” She took another sip of tea. “Now have something else to eat. You are far too thin.”

Chapter 4

“Sweet hell! Are you trying to kill me?” Claire’s eyes watered as she glared at the woman hovering over her.

Dr. Stone shot her a dry glance. “Luvie, if I wanted you dead, you would be already. I’m trying to help you, so be a good girl and stay still—and quiet.”

Claire might have smiled or had a smart-ass remark in reply if the wound in her side didn’t hurt so damn much. “What is this for?” Two guards had “escorted” her to the hospital ward but hadn’t told her why she was going. She had assumed it was so Stone could check her wound, but now she wasn’t so certain that it wasn’t torture the good doctor had in mind.

“It’s to help your body heal faster.” The other woman removed from Claire’s torn flesh the tip of what had to be the largest syringe ever made. It had to been buried at least two inches inside her.

“I thought you gave me some of that already.”

“This recipe is better.”

“You mean it’s the stuff you give to your agents rather than your prisoners.”

The doctor didn’t even bother trying to look contrite as she covered the raw tissue with a fresh bandage. “Exactly. My employer wants you well quickly, so it’s my job to ensure you are ready for duty.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll escape and take this miracle serum of yours back to the Company?”

Large dark eyes turned to meet hers. “No.”

“You don’t think that’s a little naive?” No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t seem to irk Fis utontthe woman. It made her mood even darker.

Dr. Stone straightened and pointed at a long sideboard against the far wall. “Do you see those three bottles there?”

Claire pushed herself upright, swore at just how difficult movement still was, adjusted her shirt and looked. There were three glass bottles, each filled with a slightly pinkish liquid. “Yes. Is that what you used on me just now?”

“One of them is. And one of them is a synthetic toxin that could kill you instantly.”

“I could take a sample of all three with me.”

“The third is a compound so noxious, a whiff of it would burn the tissues of your nose and throat so badly, you would die a slow and agonizing death.”

No wonder the woman was so confident. “I could hold my breath.”

“Shall I tell you what it would do to your eyeballs?”

Claire stared at her. “You’re bluffing.”

Stone put her hands on her hips. “Go check for yourself.”

“I’m skeptical but not stupid, Doctor. Your formula is safe from me.”

Full lips lifted slightly. “No, ‘stupid’ is not a word I would use to describe you.”

“Though I was stupid enough to get caught.”

The other woman’s expression was guarded, but there was a shrewd glint in her eyes. “You don’t seem to have suffered so badly for it.”

“Except now I’m going to prove myself a traitor and work with a man who would kill me as easily as a dog.”

“Lord Payne would never hurt an animal.”

Claire stared at the doctor, fighting back a bark of unexpected laughter. The woman’s dark eyes sparkled with mirth. “Why don’t you hate me?”

Dr. Stone instantly sobered. “I’ve always thought hate a useless emotion.”

“Really?” Her tone was so dry, sand poured off her tongue.

The other woman began gathering up her medical supplies. “My mother was from Sierra Leone. Are you familiar with it?”

Claire shook her head. “I am not.”

“Many former slaves went there when the government abolished slavery. She was born free. My father was a doctor who went there as a young man. He met my mother, married her and eventually—when I was eleven—brought her back to England. Do you know that there are people here who despise me because of the color of my skin?”

Claire met her direct gaze. “There are many people in my country who would despise you for the same reason.” Slavery in America had been abolished before her birth, but there were people who still clung to the beliefs behind it.

“And it’s such a foolish reason. Did you believe you were doing the right thing when you joined the Company?”

“Of course.”

“Then I’m not going to hate you for it. You’ve done nothing to earn my dislike.” The doctor glanced up at the sound of the door opening. “I cannot speak for her, however.”

Claire glanced over her shoulder. Entering the surgical theater was a pretty woman of good height with rich auburn hair and skin the color of cream. She could hate this woman for her perfect complexion. What would the good doctor think of that?

“Who is she?” she asked, turning her attention back to the darker woman.

“Arden Grey,” came the low reply. “Lady Huntley. I believe you know her husband.” There was a wealth of implication behind that judgeless gaze.

“Hell.” And there she was with a hole in her side and no gun. “Is there going to be trouble?”

“Not in my house,” Dr. Stone replied. She went to greet the redhead, putting herself between Claire and the other woman. Something pinched in Claire’s chest—hard. She wasn’t afraid of Arden Grey. There wasn’t much in the world that scared her. No, what she felt was surprise. No one had ever put himself between her and a potential threat before. Not Five—Huntley—not her brother, not even her mother had ever stood at her defense.

If Evelyn Stone asked Claire to kill for her, she would do it without a blink. Did the woman have any idea of the loyalty she’d just earned with a simple confounding act?

Claire remained on the examination table but maneuvered her body so that she sat facing the women, watching. A lot could be learned from simply paying attention to how a person stood. Dr. Stone’s posture was relaxed, but she held her arms across her chest in an almost defensive manner. Arden Grey held a carpetbag in front of her like a shield, but her face was open and free of tension. Neither woman wanted trouble, but they were prepared for it.

And all because of little old her.

She didn’t blame the countess for coming. Were the situation reversed, she would also want to see the woman who had screwed her husband—just to see how she measured up. It was a little perverse, perhaps, but human nature.

The two women stopped talking and turned to walk toward her. Claire kept her expression neutral.

“Claire Brooks, this is Arden Grey, Countess Huntley. She’s here to discuss your upcoming assignment with Lord Wolfred.”

Of all the things she might have said, that was not one Claire had even entertained. “What of it?” she asked, directing her attention to the redhead.

Arden Grey wasn’t afraid of her, either. Good. It would be horribly disappointing to think of Fi . . . Huntley with a weak woman.

“Many of the weapons and equipment employed by W.O.R. agents are of my design,” the woman began in a voice that seemed better suited for a schoolmistress than a countess. “I’ve studied the items found on your person when you were brought into custody, and I would like to discuss them with you.” She drew her shoulders back, as though she expected Claire to refuse.

Ktindrew“What would you like to know?” She didn’t care if she gave away Company secrets. They’d lost her loyalty the moment they let her brother’s murderer escape. Nothing mattered except justice for Robert.

The countess set the carpetbag on a waist-high table beside her. She opened it and withdrew not only Claire’s gun, but several other familiar items. For a split second Claire imagined herself grabbing that gun and making a run for it. Foolish thinking, of course. The ravaged flesh around the bullet wound tingled—it was already healing—but not enough that she could move that quickly.

“I studied this pistol and its operation. I am correct in that it channels aether as ammunition?”

Claire nodded. The inlaid pearl handle had been molded for her grip. The wide barrel needed a bit of a polish, but it gleamed in the light, a few scratches on its surface. That gun had saved her ass more than once.

“It has a small aether absorption tube inside, and concentrates a tiny amount into a powerful blast. It refills almost instantly because the force of each use helps draw more aether into the tube. There’s a vacuum extension for the barrel that effectively silences the discharge. I shot a man in a lending library once, and no one heard anything until his head hit the table.”

“Effective.” She sounded genuinely impressed—by the weapon, not her. “And this?”

It looked like an ornate, heavy cuff bracelet made of gold. “Plated gregorite.” She didn’t need to tell this woman that gregorite was the strongest metal known to man. “If you press the large stone in the center once, it releases a length of spun gregorite wire suitable for a garrote. Twice releases a much longer length, and the cuff itself converts into a grappling hook.”

Arden pressed the stone. A length of wire not even as thick as a boot lace spilled out of the bracelet. “Genius. How does it retract?”

“Press the pearl.” The wire was sucked back in when she did.

They went through the rest of the gadgets—a locket with a secret compartment for cyanide, a ring that concealed a small device that, when swallowed, emitted an aetheric signature that could be tracked using a matching compass hidden within what appeared to be a pocket watch, and a fan that appeared demure but was actually made of wickedly sharp blades.

“These are good work,” Arden remarked when they were done. “Is there any chance the Company could also track the device in the ring?”

“I’m not certain, but probably.”

The redhead nodded. “I will have to alter the transmission frequency, then. These items will be returned to you when you depart on your mission with Alastair.”

Alastair, was it? Just how close was this woman with her husband’s best friend? “Even my gun?”

“Yes, though it will probably be trusted to Lord Wolfred’s care.”

“Of course,” Claire replied flatly.

“I will also have a few new devices for you, such as a pair of garters made with gregorite threads.”

She frowned. That sounded ridiculous. “So my stockings will be certain to stay up?”

Whiskey eyes met hers. This woman had to have been a schoolmarm in a former life, because Claire suddenly felt as though she should be cleaning a chalkboard in penance. “They can be used to slide across wire or beams without injuring your hands, and may also be used to bind an enemy’s wrists and ankles. I know one female agent who survived a particularly nasty gunshot wound simply by using a garter as a tourniquet.”

“A variety of uses, then. Excellent.”

The woman gathered up Claire’s weapons and placed them back in the carpetbag. Claire wanted to fight Arden for her gun, just so she could have its familiar metal—the comfort of it—in her hand.

“You’ll be traveling as husband and wife. The agency has seen to it that suitable clothing will be provided for you. Dr. Stone provided your measurements.”

Husband and wife? She and Reynard? “No one will believe we’re married.”

“Why not?”

“Because we can’t stand each other.”

“Oh no. That’s fairly commonplace amongst the English.”

Claire snorted, eliciting a small smile from her companion. She hadn’t noticed before, but now she could tell Dr. Stone was only pretending to work at her table. She was obviously listening and watching them and making sure no one got all riled up. Honestly, Huntley was one of the best men she’d had the privilege of knowing, but he wasn’t worth shedding blood—not to Claire.

Arden fastened the bag. “I understand you weren’t wearing one of the earpieces we’ve seen on several of your associates.”

“Those are used only on the ones they need to keep tabs on.” She watched the woman’s expression. Huntley had been outfitted with one of the devices.

“Ah. That makes sense.” She lifted the bag and turned to leave.

“Why did you come here?” Claire inquired. “Surely they could have sent someone else to discuss gadgetry and what’s expected of me. Why you?”

“I asked to come.”

“Of course you did.” She would have done the same. “Surely there’s more? Questions you want to ask? Don’t you want to hurt me a little?”

Arden lifted her slightly pointed chin. “I have no wish to hurt you. I simply wanted to see you with my own eyes.”

“And now that you have?”

The other woman stared at her, unflinching and a little detached. This wasn’t what Claire expected. She’d slept with more than one married man in the course of her life, mostly in the line of duty, or out of her own need to connect with a human who wouldn’t try to court her afterward. She’d never met any of the wives, until now. It wasn’t pleasant knowing she might have hurt this woman, or anyone else.

“I’m not jealous of you,” she was told. “Not in the way you might think. I waited for him. For seven Km. 1" facyears I waited, and he was shagging you. Living his life as though I didn’t exist. Can you comprehend how that makes me feel?”

“No. For what it’s worth, he tried to remember you. One night he said your name in his sleep. The next day he saw the Doctor and went back to being their good little machine.” That didn’t seem to make the other woman feel better. “I never loved him, and he never loved me. His mind might not have remembered you, but I think his heart did.”