Gilded Lily (4 page)

She didn't know him well enough to know whether to laugh, but she found herself wanting to see
him
laugh. Or scowl, or do anything other than smile blandly and look polite. “Yes. Well. At least I wasn't spotted in the mechanic's stables, flat on my back on a crawler, sliding under a carriage to investigate a faulty steam pump.”

“In a ball gown? As if you could. Preposterous!”

“No, I mean at least I wasn't caught, the time I did that. The gown was ruined beyond repair, of course. I went straight to my carriage and home afterward and everybody just assumed I'd left the ball early with a headache. As I said, I'm not good with boredom. But I am usually quite good at not being found out.”

The emotions she'd been looking for on Smith-Grenville's face appeared like magic, a series of impressions that flicked from sudden insight through “surely not” to politely horrified certainty. His gaze traveled down to her midsection, below the level where men's eyes normally paused, then back up to her face. And just before he spoke, she remembered where and when she'd seen his unmemorable face. Only that afternoon, in fact, on a crowded street in a part of London that a young woman of quality shouldn't know existed.

“You're that tourist.”

“You're that
tinker
.”

T
HEY WERE BLACKMAILING
each other. Freddie tried to frame the dilemma in some other way but could find no other means to describe it. She had seen through Lord Smith-Grenville's cover instantly and could ruin his reputation with her father with a word. But Smith-Grenville knew of Freddie's secret identity as a seemingly male makesmith-tinker. He could rat her out at any time too.

Ratting Smith-Grenville out, however, would mean the end of his assignment, and who knows what her father would do if she tipped her hand and revealed she knew he was assigning operatives to watch her? Besides, the young lord was not entirely unpleasant company. Neither was he terribly hard on the eye, though not particularly compelling either. She could certainly suffer worse companions, and indeed she had suffered worse.

If she'd been able, she'd have quitted her father's household altogether. She made decent money with her tinkering, and while she couldn't have afforded anything like her current lifestyle, she probably could have survived. She might be destitute by the standards of her current set, but she'd be well-off compared to most of London. But at the cost of losing all contact with society, her few real friends, possibly her family as well. And there was the complication of her gender; if she struck out on her own, would she live as herself, or as Fred Merchant? She was so weary of pretense already; Freddie couldn't imagine an entire life spent as her alter ego.

So she would keep the mild pudding-man awhile longer, and meanwhile she would continue making her rounds whenever possible. Practicing the trade that society would deny her. As soon as she acquired another pair of trousers.

The London house was still candlelit instead of gas, and dim at night. Freddie had been raised there and knew all its secrets: the floorboards that tended to creak, the hinges that required oil. The likely timing of servants in the front hall and on the back stair. Tonight, an unexpected maid in the vestibule had sent a sneaking Freddie down a hallway to hide in her favorite discovery, a sort of priest's hole in the wall between the front parlor and her father's study.

What it had originally been used for, she couldn't begin to guess. But the narrow chamber was accessible from either room and the hallway, and the entries were cleverly concealed in the paneling. Only a chance draft had tipped her off, a brief and unexpected draw of air on an otherwise stagnant candle flame as she passed by one night in her early childhood.

That night, her father's study had been empty. Tonight, as she waited for the maid to finish her late tasks and clear the way, Freddie found herself privy to a conversation between Rutherford Murcheson and one of his associates. One of those nonindustrial associates, from the sound of it.

“We can't deploy further units until the testing is complete on the prototype,” the other man was saying as she carefully eased the panel closed behind her. “If you had given us a larger test vessel than the lily, we could be—”

“I don't need excuses, Hampton. I'm mothballing the lily; it's not sufficient for our needs. Tell Nealy I need a working unit on a full-sized armed submersible.
Now.
We can no longer assume the enemy is lagging behind. They must have something, some advantage, to have evaded our patrols for so long. And with this latest report from Ruckham's team, we've lost the luxury of time to catch them by conventional means.” Her father sounded more anxious than demanding, which was unusual for him. Freddie wondered what a lily had to do with testing an armed submersible.

“Quakes have always been a concern for—”

“Not like the one they're predicting. But they need more data, and with the sabotage, Ruckham is no longer even able to provide us accurate, timely warnings for these minor tremors. The glass octopus is all but useless in several quadrants, and I'm running short of men to run perimeter checks even to repair the legs that are still functional. I couldn't man a constant guard on them all, even if having men posted in those areas didn't defeat the purpose of the station in the first place. We want to avoid alerting people to our presence, not draw our enemies a map.”

Glass octopus?
Freddie tried to make sense of it but couldn't understand half of what her father was saying. Only that it sounded as though a significant earthquake was coming, and there might or might not be any warning for it.

“Can we be certain it isn't just luck, or good old-fashioned legwork, that's helping them avoid capture? Has your implant reported back?”

“Ess Gee is no longer operating in that capacity,” Murcheson grumbled. “He was a disappointment from the beginning, to be honest. Far from bold, and positively squeamish when it came to wet work. But attempting to establish a new implant at this juncture would be . . . impractical.”

Ess Gee. S-G? Smith-Grenville? A disappointment even to his employer.
Freddie had to stifle a “ha!” of satisfied suspicion.
I knew he wasn't to be trusted!

Lilies and octopi, submersibles and perimeters. It was all confusing but managed to be worrisome anyway. Thoughts of her client that afternoon nagged at her, along with a prickling sensation as she recalled the growing tension near the docks about missing fishing boats, and the strange changes in the local fish population. Could her father's men be frightening the fish away? Or perhaps this glass octopus was some new, predatory creature that devoured more than its share of cod and flounder.

“Nealy isn't going to listen to me on this, sir. Nor can I give you any assurances, not about changing the deployment timetable. I haven't the authority—”

“Blast! Why does he send you to me, then, Hampton? What is the point of all this? I should have never left Le Havre.” He slammed a drawer closed or something similar, from the sound of it. “I'll come back with you. There's only one tram operational this side, yes?”

“Yes, sir. The Admiral won't like it, sir.”

“The Admiral doesn't have to like it. Meet me in Tilbury in two hours, Hampton.”

“Aye, sir.”

The study door opened and closed, and footsteps rang down the hall and dwindled away. More slamming and knocking noises emanated from the study, as Murcheson vented his frustrations on his furniture.

Taking a risk, Freddie cracked the paneling door open and peered into the hallway, finding it empty. Quickly she darted from her hiding spot and past the half-open study door, and just as quickly sped down through the garden and carriage house, then out into the mews behind the house. Resting against the carriage block, she paused to catch her breath and consider what she'd heard. None of it made any more sense after careful consideration than it had on first hearing, but her plans for the night evolved.

She would meet with Dan and obtain trousers as they'd arranged. And then she would make her way to Tilbury to find out exactly what her father and Smith-Grenville were up to.

 • • • 

B
ARNABAS WAS TERRIBLE
at lurking. He stood on the pavement opposite the window he'd identified as Freddie's, which overlooked the side of the imposing corner house. He could see only that one side and the back of the mansion, which meant he was in trouble if she left via the front door. His money was on a back terrace window or through the carriage house, however. Murcheson had forbidden him from hanging about the stairs in the house itself, which Barnabas had thought the most logical approach.

He had already been greeted cheerfully by two neighborhood residents returning from a late dinner, and several passing servants, none of whom seemed to find him suspicious in the least. This, despite his dark attire and what he thought must be a fierce expression. He was trying hard to concentrate on the seriousness of his mission and how critical it was that he keep young Miss Murcheson from placing herself in harm's way. This was the only way he'd found to keep from despairing that he'd come all the way to London merely to keep a headstrong young woman from causing his employer any undue convenience or distress.

Or a young man, he reminded himself. He might be looking for a portly lad in a patched coat and overlarge hat.

It was a woman who appeared at the carriage block, however. Miss Murcheson wore a simple brown dress and a ghastly pink plaid shawl that clashed rather violently with her fiery hair. She carried a biggish satchel.

“For Crown and country,” he reminded himself in a whisper, as she glanced up the mews and then over to the park.

When she spotted him, her finger went to her lip immediately. Shushing. As if he might be foolish enough to call out and draw attention to the fact that she was attempting to escape.

Barnabas lifted a hand in silent acknowledgment as she moved off the step and toward him.

“At least you're smart enough not to start with the front door,” she complimented him when she was close enough to speak low and be heard.

“Isn't everyone?”

“No. It's rather sad, really. Some of them seem more keen to underestimate me than they are to keep their positions. ‘How can I possibly keep track of a woman with enough sense to sneak out the back door instead of marching out the front? How could anyone predict the actions of such a wild creature?' And that sort of thing.”

He wanted to resent this woman. He'd started out with the assumption that he would feel tremendous disdain for the object of his assignment. It was all so ignominious, after all, and she was just a foolish young thing who couldn't be trusted to keep herself safe. His attempt to place his ill will about the situation at her feet had not survived their first meeting, however. Then, as now, he found her too compelling to dislike even a little. Her face was so expressive, so animated when she spoke that he found himself losing track of what she said because he was fascinated with watching her say it.

“I'll do my best not to underestimate you,” he vowed. “But I'm afraid I must insist you return home, Miss Murcheson.”

She didn't even blink but simply replied, “No.” Then she turned and started briskly down the walk toward the high street.

“But—” Barnabas hesitated, then scurried to catch up to her. “But I caught you, fair and square. You have to go back.”

Freddie snorted, not bothering to look at him. “Or what?”

“Or . . . but I caught you.”

“That hardly creates any obligation on my part. This isn't a schoolyard, sir.”

“It's dangerous for you to be out alone.” That much was true, at least. Young ladies didn't belong out on the street at night, and that was that.

“Are you staying behind?”

“What? No, I have to go with you. Except—”

“Then I won't be alone.”

“Except you shouldn't be going anywhere.”

She strode toward a steam-pony trap, one he recognized from earlier that day. It seemed an age ago.

“Miss.” The hulking driver in coarse workman's clothes tipped his cap at Freddie and shot Barnabas a skeptical look. “And a good evening to you, sir.”

“Lord Barnabas Smith-Grenville,” Freddie piped up, settling herself on the seat next to the man and gesturing for Barnabas to climb into the open bed of the vehicle. He did so reluctantly, pushing equipment aside and hoping against hope that his suit would survive the incident free of oil stains. “Lord Smith-Grenville, this is Daniel Pinkerton.”

“A pleasure, Mr. Pinkerton.” The courtesy was automatic, if surreal given the circumstances.

“Likewise, m'lord. You're sure about this, Fred?”

“Absolutely. You said your mother knows anyway. I mean to thank her for all she's done. I'm not going to the butcher's yard afterward, however,” Freddie continued as Dan kicked the pony into gear and started down the road. “I have a more urgent errand. You needn't join me, though. Lord Smith-Grenville will be coming along, it seems.”

“What are you up to, Freddie?” It was clear from Pinkerton's tone that he was no stranger to Miss Murcheson's wayward tendencies. “Is this one of your ‘missions'? I'm not about to let you stroll into God only knows what, with only—meaning no offense, m'lord—some unknown toff to watch your back.”

“No offense taken, I'm sure,” Barnabas muttered. The dingy vehicle was poorly sprung, and he felt each cobble beneath the wheels as a separate insult to his tailbone. The pain was almost welcome, as it distracted him from the obvious insanity of going off with Miss Murcheson and this unknown scoundrel.

Freddie sighed, clearly exasperated. “Dan, you're not coming with me because I don't want you implicated if I'm caught. Lord Smith-Grenville is already implicated. Besides, he's a trained espionage agent of the Crown.”

“He is?” Pinkerton risked a glance over his shoulder at Barnabas, the spy. “Him? Really?”

Barnabas nodded unhappily. “They're probably going to hang me,” he volunteered.

“Wound up in it already, eh? She does that.” Pinkerton nodded, turning his attention back to the road. They were heading away from Belgravia, and without a map or compass Barnabas was already lost. “She does that. Say, don't I know you from somewhere, m'lord? Begging your pardon.”