Touch of Steel: A Novel of the Clockwork Agents (6 page)

Luke said there wasn’t much difference between the Company and the W.O.R. Brooks had supposedly been a loyal agent—as loyal as Alastair himself was to the Wardens. So what would make someone such as himself turn against his agency? Nothing but the deepest of betrayals would sway him to forsake his vows of duty and obligation. Perhaps the Company had been responsible for her brother’s death after all.

Still, she was a little too eager and agreeable for his liking. She was planning something; he could feel it in his bones, so he would prepare as best he could. He would learn all he could about Claire Brooks, because she was as much his enemy as the Doctor and Stanton Howard.

He flexed his augmented hand and ran his thumb along the faint scars softened by a pinpoint ray of aetherically particalized light. He could easily crush a man’s throat with that hand—even a skull
. He did not need Arden’s fancy weapons to get himself out of a bad situation.
He
was a weapon.

So when Claire Brooks eventually turned on him—and he knew she would—Alastair would be ready.

Chapter 5

It was nothing short of a miracle.

Claire rotated her tors Nd">s LT Std"o, stretched and bent. There was little to no discomfort, despite her having been torn open by an aether blast just days ago.

“You should sell that concoction,” she told Dr. Stone as she soaked in the bath the good woman had prepared for her. “You could make a fortune.”

The doctor smiled. “That’s not why I invented it. You’ve soaked long enough. The salts in the water are designed to reinvigorate. Too much and you’ll feel as though you have ants under your skin. To your feet now.”

Dutifully, Claire stood, not the least bit embarrassed about her own nudity. “Isn’t this a little beneath you? Helping a prisoner bathe?”

“It’s part of your recovery, which is my responsibility. One I take very seriously, thank you.” There was surprisingly little censure behind the words. She still couldn’t figure out why the doctor didn’t dislike her, no matter what was said. “Here, dry yourself.”

Claire accepted the towel and began rubbing at her wet skin. There was a fire in the grate, and hot steam circulating through the pipes warmed the room, but a chill caressed her naked shoulders regardless, reminding her of winters back home when the water would freeze in the washbasin.

She dried off quickly and stepped into the clean clothing Dr. Stone handed her item by item. Her eyelids fluttered as she pulled on the trousers. Having been heated over the pipes, they instantly infused her chilled flesh with warmth. She shivered in delight. “Thank you.”

“You seem so surprised whenever I show you kindness,” the doctor observed. “Not all of us here are like Ashford, the man who was the acting director when you were brought in.”

“Yes, where is that dear man? I haven’t seen him since I first woke up.”

The other woman’s full lips tilted. “One too many complaints against him. The actual director decided to return from leave early.”

“Would you know anything about those complaints?” Claire asked as she pulled a fine linen shirt over her head and tucked it into her trousers.

“Of course not.” But there was just enough false protest that she knew the doctor lied. “The man’s a tosser. He never should have been in charge.”

Claire had no idea what a tosser was, but it certainly wasn’t a compliment. “Why was he?”

“Because Alastair wasn’t available.”

“Payne? He fills in for your director?” Hell’s bells, and this was the man they paired her with? Why not just hand her over to the damn queen? Or at least to the Prince of Wales.

It was obvious from the other woman’s face that she believed she’d said too much. “Yes. On occasion.”

“But not this one.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He was still on leave himself. He’d been injured in the line of duty.”

“I remember hearing about that. A coupl Sthainjured e of Company agents left him for dead in Spain. I suppose he has you to thank for such a good and speedy recovery?”

“Me and his own determination. When I went to Spain to care for him, he was already recovering. It helped that he was in excellent physical shape to begin with.”

“Yes, there’s nothing wrong with his shape,” Claire agreed. She drew on a boned waistcoat that also served as a corset and began tightening the laces in the front. “Have you and he ever . . . ?”

Dr. Stone laughed. “God help me, no! Lord Wolfred is fine, to be sure, but I learned a long time ago not to shag where I eat, if you catch my meaning.”

“I understand you perfectly. I wish someone had given me such sound advice; then I might have faced Lady Huntley with a less guilty conscience.”

“You wouldn’t have bedded him if you’d known? Even though he didn’t?”

She tied the laces into a bow and began rolling up her sleeves. “No, I wouldn’t have. There are some things that just aren’t right, and sleeping with a married man simply because he doesn’t know he has a wife is one of them. How do I look?”

Dr. Stone cast a critical eye from her head to her toe. “Like a pirate. Would you like me to pin your hair?”

No one had pinned her hair since her mother died. “Yes . . . thank you.”

There wasn’t a mirror in the room—too easy to break and use as a weapon, she supposed. Or perhaps they thought she might use a shard to take her own life. “I’m going to trust you not to make me look atrocious.”

“On my honor,” the doctor replied. “Sit.”

Claire did as she was told. As the other woman brushed her hair—she’d forgotten how delightful that could feel—she let her mind wander a bit. Perhaps she had spent too much time in the bath, because she did feel jumpy, although that was probably anticipation. Soon she would be back on Howard’s trail. If luck was on her side, she’d be standing over his corpse in a day or two.

Hopefully Wolfred would give her a moment to savor her victory before killing her. If she was very fortunate, he’d bring her back to London to face execution. She might really be able to savor Howard’s death then.

“He won’t hurt you.”

Claire’s head jerked up. “What?”

Nimble hands coiled a plait on the back of her head. “Wolfred. You have no reason to fear being alone with him. He’s very honorable.” The way she said it made it sound as though Dr. Stone had known her share of dishonorable men. Hadn’t they both.

“Yes, he seems very honorable.” And proper. And righteous. And brave. Those traits only agitated her.

“Anyway, you won’t have to worry about him harming you or taking advantage.”

Claire laughed. “That man wouldn’t touch me with a yardstick unless it was the only weapon at his disposal.”

“You un Std"ino derestimate your appeal.”

“No, you underestimate
him
.” Wolfred was rich, noble and gorgeous. The idea of forcing a woman was more alien to him than it was even to her. No doubt he had ladies pitching themselves at his feet every time he stepped out of his house. “He should be here soon, should he not?” She’d been told they would be leaving on a northbound train that evening, in the hopes of catching up to Howard the next day.

“Yes. Soon.” Another pin pushed against her scalp. “There. You look lovely.”

Claire flushed. “Thank you.” Such compliments often came to her from men, but rarely from another woman, and never in such a sincere tone. Of course, Dr. Stone was as exotic as Cleopatra herself, and she was hardly likely to be intimidated by another pretty face. Claire didn’t claim to be a great beauty, but she knew the extent of her charms. It would be a weakness not to.

“Lord Wolfred will have your new clothing, and whatever devices Lady Huntley has provided.”

Claire turned in her chair. “Will he give me my gun?”

“I don’t know. They don’t tell me these things. I’m not usually this . . . involved with prisoners.”

“You’re the closest thing I’ve had to a friend in a long time,” Claire confided, despite how pathetic she knew it must sound. “Thank you for being so kind.”

“I find in the world of intrigue a little kindness is much more effective than many weapons.” She patted Claire’s shoulder. “I have to get back to work. I’ll have the guards take away the bath.”

Claire stood. “Will I see you again before I leave?”

Dr. Stone shook her head. “Probably not, no. But I’ll be here when you return.”

A lump formed in Claire’s throat. If she came back to this place, the doctor wasn’t likely to be this nice to her. “Until then.” She offered her hand.

The other woman looked at it, chuckled and then put her arms around Claire instead. Claire stood there, frozen, uncertain what to do with her own arms. Finally she closed them around the doctor and patted her awkwardly on the back as her eyes began to burn.

She was not a sentimental woman. It was only because she could practically see the end of her life that she was being so . . . vulnerable. Before the tears could come, she was released. The darker woman gave her a smile. “Until then.”

Claire watched her leave and felt the clank of the lock in her bones as the door closed behind her. She had not missed the company of another female since she had been a young girl.

But then she’d never felt her own mortality so deeply as she did at that moment. Being adventurous and reckless had always left a sensation of being so alive, but this mission—this last mission—would be the death of her, one way or another. Knowing one’s clock was slowly winding down was sobering, to say the least.

Fortunately she was not left to melancholy for long. Approximately thirty-three insanely long minutes later, there came a knock upon her door, immediately follow Siatolyed by the clanging, hissing and thumping of the locking mechanism. When the heavy slab swung open, two guards stood at the threshold.

“Time to go, miss,” the smaller of the two informed her.

How formal and polite these Englishmen were. Were she a man, would they call her “sir”? Or was it some unshakeable sense of chivalry that made them defer to her, even though she was a prisoner?

It hardly mattered. Claire rose to her feet, gathered up what few items she had and stood quietly while one of them locked shackles over her boots. Not so polite now, she thought. Then the other guard took the bag with her belongings in it from her hands. “I’ll carry that, miss.”

Remembering her own manners, Claire thanked him. Each guard took hold of one of her arms—her wrists shackled in front—and led her from the cell.

The corridor looked like something out of an upscale hotel fallen on hard times. The carpet was of good quality but a little shabby. The wood could have used a good buff and polish. She’d lived in worse.

They took her to an ascension room—or lift, as she’d heard them called over here. Inside, one of them inserted a punch card into a slot located in a box near the gate. Once they were shut in, the enclosure jerked into motion and carried them upward.

Three floors later, the lift finally lurched to a stop. The guard opened the gate, and the two of them escorted her into a vestibule that reminded her of the waiting area of a doctor’s office. There were a couple of chairs and a sofa, a scuffed coffee table—did they call them tea tables here?—and a small sideboard with a pot of water sitting on a heating coil, and all the necessary items to make a cup of tea.

But Claire didn’t care about tea, or the decor. Her attention was riveted on the man who rose from the sofa as she was led toward him. Alastair Payne. Her heart stuttered at the sight of him—one of the few men who didn’t look at her as though they’d been hit in the face with a brick, or as though they thought they might smugly charm their way into her bed. His handsome, rugged face was void of any sort of reaction as she approached—a fact that only made him that much more interesting in her eyes.

His thick, wavy hair shone with copper highlights, and his storm-cloud eyes looked all the more intense when paired with a dark teal tailcoat—a hue only redheads could wear and look good. The coat appeared to be new, and it fit his broad shoulders perfectly. His waist and hips were narrow—perhaps a little too narrow—but his trousers were snug enough to make any warm-blooded woman regard his backside with appreciation. There was nothing as disappointing as a handsome man with an unfortunate arse.

He was as pretty as a peacock, and she felt as drab as a hen.

“Take the shackles off,” he commanded with a scowl at the restraints.

“But she’s the Dove, my lord!” one of the guards replied.

Claire smiled at the man. “Flatterer.”

The guard flushed and turned back to Wolfred, who looked at him even more fiercely. “I said
take them off
.”

Good lord, he was stern. “Or S stled at th you could just give me the key and I’ll do it myself.”

Gray eyes locked with hers, and the smile faltered on her lips. Not since her father had any man made her feel so completely put in her place with little more than a look.

“Give me the key.” He held out his palm. Claire noted that he had faint calluses on his fingers. No idle nobleman was he.

The guard removed the heavy iron key from one on his belt and placed it in Wolfred’s hand.

The earl knelt before her, one booted foot still on the floor. The supple leather was polished so well that it shone. His gleaming hair—almost cinnamon in the light—blocked her from watching, but she felt a tug on the iron around her ankles, and she heard the clang and clunk as they slid to the floor.

“Are you certain that’s a good idea?” she asked him. He was in the perfect position to get the heel of her boot in the chin.

Wolfred lifted his face to look up at her. The sight of him, kneeling at her feet, so close, seemingly supplicant but so obviously in control . . . Damnation, but it made her tremble inside. She wanted to grab him by that gorgeous hair, pull his head back . . .

“Are you an animal, Miss Brooks?”

Claire blinked. She didn’t flush because she was not embarrassed—even if he did appear to be a mind reader. “What’s that?”

“I asked if you were an animal. Are you so ignorant and lacking in rational thought that you need to be restrained? Or are you intelligent enough to know that striking out at me would be a mistake?”

Damn, but he was arrogant. He regarded her so casually and without concern that she wanted to kick him just to prove that she was a little bit of an animal, yes.