Touch of Steel: A Novel of the Clockwork Agents (5 page)

The woman was positively white in the face—not difficult given how fair she already was. “Why would you say something like that?”

“Because it’s what I think, and I have a tendency to say what’s on my mind. It’s not as if it hurt me to say it.”

They stared at each other, unblinking. It didn’t matter what the other woman might see in her eyes, either. Claire didn’t care. In another life they might have actually been friends, which was an odd concept for her to begin with, let alone trying to fathom it with the wife of her former lover.

“Most women would have tried to take my eyes out by now, or would have dissolved into tears.”

The redhead made a face—as if tasting sour milk. “I find I don’t make tears as easily as some women. And you will need your eyes to assist Alastair. That is more important than any desire to make you less beautiful. Never mind that it wouldn’t change that you know my husband in a most intimate manner. I will simply have to accept that and carry on.”

Claire stared at her, an unwanted feeling of appreciation coming over her. She admired Lady Huntley. No wonder the Company hadn’t been able to remove her completely from her husband’s mind.

“I told Wolfred you must be quite the woman for Huntley to be so loyal. I said it with malice, but I was right. You are.”

Arden Grey smiled—it seemed a mix of amusement, irony and regret. “Funny. I said the same about you.”

* * *

“What the devil were you thinking?” Alastair raked a hand through his hair as he regarded Arden. They were in the parlor of Huntley House, having tea. Only he was on his feet now, unable to sit still any longer. He whirled around to confront Luke. “How could you let this happen?”

His friend’s brow lifted. “I didn’t ‘let’ anything happen. My wife is quite capable of making her own decisions.”

They were mad—the pair of them. Mad as a bag of cats. “She met with a dangerous enemy agent. By herself.”

“She did what either you or I would have done when wanting to assess a situation. Dr. Stone was present, and it’s not as though Claire would harm Arden.”

“Because she’s so very trustworthy?” Sarcasm dripped from his words. Honestly, he understood Arden’s jealousy, but this was beyond sense. And now she actually
felt
for the woman.

Luke scowled. “Because it wouldn’t be in her best interest to hurt my wife, not when I’m the only friend she’s got.”

“I don’t understand how you can call yourself her friend. She’s a Company agent, for Christ’s sake. Forgive me, Arden.”

She made a face at him. “The fact that you seem to find me incredibly stupid offends me more than your language, Alastair.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but Luke cut him off. “You cannot be so naive as to see the world in such drastic black and white, my friend. The Company is really not that different from the Wardens. Both sides think their way is the right way and would die—or kill—to protect that way of thinking.”

“The Company is made up of anarchists determined to reshape the world into their ideal. They talk of freedom from oppression, but they want to enslave us all under a large dictatorship. Their manifesto goes against everything I believe in—everything you once believed in.”

“I still believe in those things.” He could punch Luke for sounding so bloody calm. “I simply acknowledge that the entire world doesn’t necessarily agree.”

“I was not without weapons,” Arden spoke up, “and Dhanya asked me to consult with Miss Brooks in regard to Company scientific advancements.”

“Dhanya had no right asking you to see that woman.” He’d been glad that his friend was back from her leave, but obviously her judgment was impaired.

“On the contrary, she had every right. I’m still employed by the Wardens as a gadgeteer.” She looked at him and sighed. “If I’d been in any danger whatsoever, Luke would have never allowed me to go alone. You know that.”

Alastair grunted and looked away. Honestly, he agreed with her, but the whole thing made him inexplicably angry.

“Actually, I somewhat liked her.”

He scowled. “You have got to be joking! Are you mad?”

“Have a care, Wolfred. That’s my wife you’re speaking to.” Luke wore an expression that promised an altercation if Alastair’s familiarity continued. He’d been so accustomed to speaking however he wanted to Arden when Luke was gone that he’d forgotten she wasn’t just another one of his cronies.

When had he stopped thinking of her as the woman he wanted to live out the rest of his days with, and started thinking of her as simply an old and dear friend?

“My apologies to you both,” he said, sincere though still annoyed. Brooks was a master at subterfuge, and he had no doubt that she could charm the wings off a fly if she set her mind to it. She was the sort of woman entirely too accustomed to having everything her way and everyone tripping over themselves to please her—especially men.

She was duplicitous, a trait he personally abhorred, despite being something of an expert in it himself.

“Your concern does you credit,” Arden told him with a gentle smile, “but I am fine. She did not hurt me in any way. In fact, she made me feel rather better about the situation.”

“Rather better?” Incredulity had his voice an octave higher at the end of the remark. “How so?”

Arden cast a glance Kast atat her husband, who gazed back at her. Why did they insist on sharing these intimate moments in his presence? It was bloody uncomfortable and time-consuming. “She said some things that make me understand what Luke went through while under Company control.”

Ah. She was trying to come to terms with her husband’s unfaithfulness. Yes, it had to be deuced uncomfortable to come face-to-face with “the other woman,” especially when that woman looked like Claire Brooks. Even with her hair mussed and dirty, and pain clouding her mossy green eyes, she was an incredible-looking woman, the sort that could make a man’s heart stop. But there was a hardness to her, a certain strength that would make her intimidating to other women—hell, to many men!

Alastair did not find her intimidating, but he would think twice before turning his back on her.

Despite her being the embodiment of almost everything he disdained, she had something intriguing about her—something challenging. He was almost looking forward to working with her.

What the hell was wrong with him? The woman was poison, no way around it, and already he was curious about her. Had he not learned any lesson from almost dying? Had his life not had enough two-faced people mucking about in it?

“You don’t think this is a trap?” Alastair turned to Luke, who could barely look away from his wife. “Could Brooks turn on me once we find the Doctor or Howard?”

“Not unless she’s a completely different woman than the one I used to know. She’s turned on
them
, my friend. There’s no way she’d do this otherwise. I’ve seen her withstand torture that would have broken many men.”

Arden frowned. “Were you tortured as well?”

Luke shifted in his chair. “Yes.”

“By whom?”

Oh hell,
Alastair thought. “Wardens.” He had a fairly decent idea of what that torture entailed, having doled it out on a few Company agents himself. If she hadn’t cracked under that, then either she had indeed turned her back on the agency as she had claimed, or she was playing them all.

His friend nodded. “I believe so.” A humorless smile curved his lips. “So you see why I don’t think the Company and the W.O.R. are all that dissimilar. Both want power and will stop at nothing to defend their ideals.”

“Yes,” Alastair replied. “I can see it.” He also saw the pain in Arden’s expression as she regarded her husband. This was quickly about to become one of those intimate moments he no longer wished to be a part of.

“I should be on my way.” He rose to his feet. “I must prepare for the journey ahead.”

His friends also rose. “You’ll keep me informed?” Luke asked.

“As much as I’m able.” Luke was his best friend and a former agent, but the mission he was about to undertake was a sensitive one, and Alastair couldn’t jeopardize it by discussing it with unauthorized persons.

Luke extended his hand. “Good luck. Punch that Doctor in the bollocks for me.”

Alastair accepted the handshake and clapped him on the shoulder with his other hand. “I’ll bring him back so you can do it yourself.”

He hugged Arden and took his leave, grateful to be away from the oppressive force of their affection. He did not begrudge them their love. In fact, he often envied it, but hell and blast, it took up so much of their lives! It was all well and good to adore one’s spouse, but Luke and Arden rarely spent any time apart. Occasionally Luke would come to the club, or they’d take their Velocycles for a ride out of the city, but Luke inevitably would end up in a rush to get home to his wife. And he’d seen Arden cease work on a device for the Wardens simply because she felt as though she hadn’t spent enough time with Luke that day. She resumed work only when her husband joined her in her workroom.

If that was the sort of behavior one could expect once married, then Alastair reckoned he’d do well to remain a bachelor.

He left Huntley House and climbed into his touring carriage parked in the drive. It was a damp night, and he was thankful for the oilskin canopy that kept the vehicle dry. The steam engine added more moisture to the air, but it also provided a little warmth, so that by the time he reached his own Mayfair address a few minutes later, he was only slightly chilled. He’d barely opened the door when one of his men from the stables ran up to take the carriage away, driving it behind the house to the building where it was kept.

Being a Warden made him cautious; hence the two security locks on his front door. One was a regular lock-and-key affair, while the other required the right combination of numbers to be selected on its dial. Only once those numbers had been entered would the locking mechanism disengage with a sharp clink, allowing the door to be opened. He alone knew the code for this particular door. The servants’ entrance had its own code, which only the housekeeper and butler were privy to. Any employee out after dark—or who had left the house for whatever reason—would have to ring for admittance or remain out.

Alastair stepped into the foyer of his family home, absently rubbing his right hand as he often did whenever a problem perplexed him. He would run his fingers over his own palm, over the back of his knuckles, squeezing each joint. It was the joints that reminded him that he was no longer an ordinary human. The metal “bones” in his hand behaved as they ought, but they were stronger than he could have ever imagined. The knuckles felt hard beneath his fingers; yet they were almost delicate by design. Because of them he could drive his fist through a brick wall and feel only surface pain.

Tonight’s problem was Claire Brooks. He couldn’t seem to quite shake the thought of her. She was there, in the back of his mind, even when he was engaged elsewhere.

He told himself that his reaction to her was normal, that she had been trained in the arts of subterfuge and seduction to the point of being an expert. She could probably seduce an archangel if she put her mind to it. No, being attracted to her—or rather, intrigued by her—was not a problem. It would become a problem only if he lost his damn mind as he had with Sascha.

He was not going to be that foolish ever again. He’d rather sleep with a viper than share his sheets with Claire Brooks.

Well, perhaps not a viper, but something nasty regardless.

When he re Kd">s nached his bedroom, he entered it to find the bed turned down and a glass of whiskey sitting on the bedside table. A little nip before retiring always helped him sleep. He took the glass with him to what looked like an ordinary armoire, and opened the doors. Inside was an aether engine—a large device with a typewriting machine keyboard for typing in commands and requests, and a specially crafted glass screen that allowed him to see images. This model was connected to the W.O.R. engine via a transmitter antenna on the roof of the house designed to intercept and interpret as well as send aetheric transmissions.

Alastair took a sip of the whiskey before sitting down in front of the contraption; then he turned the key on the front of the cherrywood housing. The guts of the machine came to life with a click of gears and a gentle chug. He waited until the engine fully engaged and the inquiry box appeared on the screen to type “Claire Brooks.” He struck the
SEARCH
key. Within moments, the Warden databank returned several images and articles for him to read.

Claire Brooks stared at him, a study in gray on the screen. He moved the handle on the machine so that it brought up the next page of evidence, only it brought up another photo—this one of Brooks dressed as a cancan dancer. “Sweet Jesus,” Alastair whispered, taking another drink. “That should not be allowed.”

Once he got beyond the photographs, he was able to begin reading all the information the Wardens had ever acquired about the attractive spy. She was skilled in combat, was known for her ruthlessness and determination, and had once killed a man with a pair of sugar tongs. Her main alias was Claire Clarke, and apparently she was well known under it as an American actress. It was a good cover, and judging from the photograph of her in the scanty dancer costume, a thoroughly distracting one.

It made for fascinating reading. And he was going to read it all, regardless of how long it took. Luke might trust Claire Brooks, but he did not. There was a glimmer of desperation in her eyes that unsettled him.