The Eidolon Page 13

  The Duke polished off the last of his food. After several moments, he spoke stiffly, “Very well. I concede your foppish ways, Alec. I will allow you to work with Lady Ambrose to plan the wedding. But she will have final say on all of it, you understand?”

  Alec nodded. Only Veronica saw the surprise in the loosening of his jaw.

  “But you are to stay away from the track during all of this or I will reverse my decision.” With that, the Duke swept from the room in his measured, military strides.

  Veronica instantly turned to her brother. “Alec—”

  He waved his napkin like a dainty handkerchief. “For you, my Peanut, I will restrain myself. Besides, I will have no time! We have a wedding to plan. For once, you will have to listen to my advice on your wardrobe—”

  She reached over and hugged him tightly. He laughed once and returned her embrace.

  It had taken much for Alec to concede ground to their Papá. She’d never seen Alec do so since his return. If Alec dared speak, his Papá would not hear it, no matter the subject. Papá made it clear he did not care for gurney races or the latest gossip at White’s. After a while Alec ceased talking, and the only noise at mealtimes came in the form of orders, given from a general to his men, without a response required.

  The glimmer had grown into a full beam of light that warmed Veronica down to her toes.

  “Together?” he asked quietly.

  She laid her head on his chest, smashing his perfectly tied waterfall. “Always,” she whispered the response she’d given dozens of times over the years. But the words felt false as they left her mouth. As much as she appreciated Alec’s intervention, she would still be leaving as soon as she could. She hated the thought—Alec with the wedding dangling in ruins, and their Papá’s meager trust in him with it. Particularly now when the darkness surrounding him lifted momentarily, revealing an Alec that might have been without the cold, suppressing hand of their papá.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The day after

  As he rapped on the front door of the Richmond home, Emil told himself to focus on the task ahead, and not on the escapades of a gentleman who had, of all things, a nickname. Yet he couldn’t help himself.

  Three beers in, Giles had opened up. Wept in fact, over the Eidolon’s work rescuing children. Admitted how powerless he and the wife felt to do anything. Lamented his guilt about how he lived, when so many had so little. Sobbed over how much his own two children had compared to the orphans trapped in the Grave.

  Emil and Rosseau discussed the contrasting opinions—Giles and Carter. They both agreed that the different sentiments that existed in the Grave and the Merchant District, where the Lighthouse lay, were alarming. When they read Lloyds this morning, Emil knew everything would change.

  One thousand pounds. Pennies to steam barons like Grillett, but life changing for a man in the Grave and the dozens of workhouses dotting the south end of London, making only enough to feed and clothe himself. How many were there, men and women, who would now unclog their stuffed ears and scrub the film from their weary eyes to find out what they could of the Eidolon? Who would now awaken within them some kind of frantic hope that they alone would be the one to find him?

  They would not hesitate to turn against the one man who’d not only recognized their plight, but also stood up to their oppressor.

  Emil should know. He’d seen it happen in France. Parts of Italy. Need, in the end, would always trump the defense of anything, good or evil. Even, perhaps, for Giles and his family.

  A hunched butler in an impeccable uniform opened the door. His eyes traveled upward. And upward. When they reached Emil’s scarf, he said in a bland manner, “I see. Your name and purpose, sir.” His words suggested the answer would not matter, as a man like Emil did not deserve entrance.

  “Mr. Marcovic. Here to collect Lady Richmond for her outing today with His Royal Highness, Prince Durad Jurinic of Sombor,” Emil answered, making sure to exaggerate his accent.

  The butler stared, the heavy wrinkles around his eyes unmoving. He blinked once. And said, “I apologize. Your words are muffled through that scarf. Her fiancé you say?”

  Emil nodded slowly as though the man were daft.

  The butler opened the door and led Emil across a shiny marble foyer and into a dark drawing room. He left without a word, closing the double doors behind him.

  Emil settled into a comfortable leather chair near the fireplace and glanced about the room. A roll-top desk with nothing on it, no papers, pens, correspondence. Several framed portraits of notable airship battles, most of her Majesty’s victory over Germany, when Lord Richmond was the key player. The colors were all sober and muted, very masculine. It appeared to Emil as though no female lived here, or had influence here. Surely this would be the place Lady Richmond received visitors, callers. Where were the bright sprigs of flowers? The delicate settee and other such furniture that baffled men?

  Surely she did receive. A lady of her standing…

  “Mr. Marcovic. How kind of you to pay me a visit this morning.” Lady Richmond entered the room, skirts the color of rotten green apples swishing about. She wore that same idiotic smile she’d featured so prominently the night before at Almacks.

  He didn’t bother rising. “My lady. The Prince requests your illustrious presence this morning at the SteamTech Expo. He would be oh so delighted if you would join him.” He delivered the promised invitation in a flat voice.

  Slight color rose in her cheeks and her eyes widened most vacuously. “Yes, yes of course I accept. I’ve been hoping he meant it. When he said he wanted me to show him London.” She giggled.

  He gagged. “I have his majesty’s conveyance here, if that would suit you?”

  “I’m sure it’s quite grand! Just allow me to get my wrap and call for Matilda.” She turned in a flurry and was gone.

  Her wrap? So she was planning on going out in public in the rotten apple dress. He supposed she had already established her tenacity at this role she played.

  He noticed he was tapping his foot, as though impatient for her return. He stopped.

  In a matter of moments she was back, her “wrap” looked like it had been washed too many times and the color scrubbed out of it. It might have been yellow once he supposed. Emil couldn’t help staring.

  She offered her hand to him, her chin lifted in confidence, as though she wore the very height of fashion. He extended his forearm in exaggerated diffidence. Lady Veronica placed her hand on him, the strength of her grip surprising him.

  He felt a smile grow beneath his scarf at how she exacted her revenge for his coldness as they exited the Richmond townhome and headed toward the royal steam carriage. She squeezed his arm with each step they descended. He might actually bruise. Matilda followed them silently, not nearly as outrageous as her employer in a sensible muslin.

  Lady Richmond paused in front of the machine. It wasn’t what she would be expecting—the design was wholly original, Durad’s idea. The engine and the driver’s box were the same as a traditional machine, but the cabin had been placed above the driver. Draped with curtains and filled with pillows instead of benches, it rather looked like something that would have been carried on the shoulders of massive slaves in Egypt. It had been made in one of Sombor’s own factories, staffed by legitimate workers, and would never be mistaken for Grillett’s work.

  Emil loved it.

  He led Lady Richmond around the back, where a staircase with a rail wound up to the cabin.

  “My lady.” He gestured for her to ascend. She squeezed his arm one last time before gathering her skirts and climbing up. Matilda tilted her head sideways, like the concept baffled her, before following her employer.

  Emil bounded up behind them, rubbing his arm. He found the two ladies looking quite lost.

  Lady Richmond pursed her mouth and asked, “Where are we to sit? There are no benches, sir.”

  He sank down onto one of the cushions, his black robes lifting slightly as he did so.
He cocked his head, waiting for them to do the same.

  Her ladyship smiled and copied his position, crossing her ankles and adjusting her skirts.

  Emil was glad she could not see his grin as he tapped on the floor and shouted at the driver to go in Turkish. The carriage lurched forward. Lady Richmond near fell into his lap, for her hand was not wrapped around the rail as his was. Her side brushed his. The scent of roses assaulted him.

  She threw an elbow into his stomach and said, “Oh my apologies, Mr. Marcovic! I’m not used to the movement of this conveyance as of yet.” She lowered goggles onto her face and turned away.

  He oomphed. This woman would leave him more damaged than any of his missions so far. Still, some part of him wanted the driver to continue to have an unsteady hand at the wheel, forcing her back into his arms.

  Rather than bother with what was sure to be the most inane conversation he’d ever had—for the lady proved she wouldn’t drop her veneer for him—Emil faced the street and enjoyed the view of London’s streets from their exemplary height. Durad’s vehicle kept them out of the fog and away from the continual bursts of steam from passing carriages. Thin streams of air occasionally tickled his face from the jutting pipes of tall buildings, but not enough to annoy him.

  They passed older townhomes now converted into steel-plated structures with swags of iron décor. As with anything new, Emil wondered where it had been made. As far as he knew, Grillett was the only supplier of such things in London. He was actually looking forward to this Steam Expo, where they were headed this morning, to learn if there were other players in this game that children never won.

  When they arrived at the Crystal Palace, the Expo venue not far from Hyde Park, Emil rapped once more on the floor, and the carriage stopped at the front steps. A large banner hung across the door—not made of fabric, but of a thin steel. The letters hammered into the material proclaimed this to be the, “20th Century Steam Expo.” Several large corkscrews held it in place, though it appeared precarious to Emil.

  What caught his attention, though, was a group of raggedly dressed urchins shouting from across the street—her Majesty’s soldiers kept them there—“Nick the Eidolon! Kill the bloody toff!” Women, faces thick with grime, spit on the ground and joined in just as loudly as the men. Some men brandished clubs as they spoke, waving them about as they chanted and raved. Emil thought he recognized Dutton among them, ragged and filthy.

  “Good heavens,” Matilda said. Her already pale face appeared as white as freshly fallen snow.

  Lady Richmond said nothing. She stared at the group, her expression completely unreadable, except that her eyes no longer held the wide witlessness he’d seen all day. The glow inspired by the prospect of meeting Durad had vanished, replaced by a dullness he saw most often on the faces of factory children.

  Emil watched her closely. Her facade had slipped, revealing the woman from the masque. One of her eyes twitched and she rolled her shoulders back as if preparing for battle. Her face flooded with color all at once, making her invisible no longer. Whatever regard she felt for the Eidolon animated the society corpse.

  Emil waited. Watched. Had an impulse to take her hands, as she had his at the masque. He did nothing, of course. But he wanted to.

  Matilda whispered something to her lady and pulled her gently up the stairs of the Palace. After finally tearing her eyes from the spectacle, Lady Richmond followed. With each step she took, she seemed to shake off her heavy thoughts. By the time she reached the front doors, the real Veronica was gone.

  Emil waved the carriage away and followed them inside. Whether Lady Richmond simply admired the Eidolon, or knew the fellow personally, he would find out.

  When they entered the exhibition hall, they joined a crowd of gentleman and ladies gawking at the sight before them. The ceiling soared several stories high, made entirely of glass, lighting the room with the bright sun and making him feel as though he weren’t actually inside. Several platforms supported by steel girders rose in each corner, one atop another.

  In the center of the room, anchored in place, floated a dirigible the likes of which Emil had never seen. The bottom half of the ship appeared to be of traditional construction, with several glass portholes. But the top was encased entirely in a sturdy-looking glass. As he stared, a man inside the machine cranked a lever and the glass retracted back inside the ship, leaving it as open as Emil’s frigate.

  “Oh my,” Lady Richmond said softly. He glanced sideways at her but her face did not show the same sense of wonder as her tone. In fact, she looked venomous for a moment, before her features smoothed. Her hands clutched and unclutched, mangling her hideous wrap.

  “Quite a sight, isn’t it my lady?” he asked.

  “What a simply gorgeous craft. I cannot wait to have a ride!” She fluttered lashes at him. “Do you think Durad would ever buy such a vessel?”

  And there she was again, the imbecile. He thought his eyes might be crossed from how quickly she changed from one moment to the next.

  He nearly denied her right off. Durad would never buy such a monstrosity. Then he reconsidered. Would he? He could, this new Durad, who refused to speak of where they’d been and what they’d always wanted to do.

  “I’m certain he would do whatever his, er, beautiful lady wished,” he replied, fluffing her wrap with his hand.

  She turned away quickly but he thought he might have seen a smile.

  Lady Richmond stepped forward, rising on her toes. “Where’s Durad? Is he here yet? Can I see him?”

  “He’s to meet us at the booth of the fellow that invented the dirigible. Some German who went loony during the wars. Hooch or something.”

  “Dr. Hoch?” Matilda asked immediately.

  Emil pulled out a timepiece. “I believe so. In a quarter hour. Shall I take you ladies to see that magnificent … thing in the meantime?” He gestured toward the dirigible.

  Lady Richmond flashed him the simpleton smile, though it seemed harder around the edges. He enjoyed seeing the other side of her so much more. From here on out, he’d do everything he could to goad her out of Lady Crackers and into the passionate woman he met the night of the masque.

  “What a marvelous idea,” she said.

  He raised a brow and offered his arm, uncaring that she might not be gentle. He simply wanted to feel her touch.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The day after

  Veronica shot glances at Mr. Marcovic, focusing her thoughts on how much better he’d look on the other end of her sword. She tried not to think about what she’d seen outside, how the very people she’d helped had so thoroughly turned on her. She was their one champion, was she not? Who else but the Eidolon did something about Grillet’s factories?

  At that moment, Grillett himself appeared on the deck of his new dirigible. His golden armor caught the light at every angle, nearly blinding her. He removed a plumed helmet, revealing white hair pulled back and fastened at the nape of his neck with a metal clip. A red cape attached to his shoulder plates swayed as he raised one hand into the air.

  It was the fellow from Almacks the other night, the one with the gearwoman.

  Cheers, so loud they might have shattered the glass enclosure above their heads, assailed her ears. She glanced at Mr. Marcovic, silent and stiff beside her, before applauding in a proper, reserved manner. She watched her hands, wishing they didn’t have to betray her, as each moment of this abominable display made the pressure in her chest ache more fiercely.

  Clap, clap. I wish I had my Tesla-ray right now. Clap, clap.

  Finally. Finally Grillett lowered his hand. The crowd hushed as though it were Christmas Mass, and the Pope himself stood before them, about to sermonize. Veronica wanted to snort. And shoot him.

  “Together as a nation we’ve accomplished great things. We beat the Germans back when they thought us too weak to fight their slow and weapon-laden dirigibles. We proved that speed and bravery are more important than firepower time and again. We showe
d them who we are.”

  Smart. Implying that any of these people here had something to do with England’s victory. Pat their backs, now tell them what they deserve. Veronica wished at that moment for Mr. Marcovic’s scarf so that she might let her mask slip for a moment, and show how she truly felt about this man.

  “And who are we? We are the smartest steamtech engineers the world has to offer. We are the highest producing factories. We invest in our future and in the defense of our borders.

  “My team continues to design a faster, stronger fleet of airships. Of course the first models go out to our military, as always, and now I’m proud to offer you the benefits of your continued support. Named after the patron of soldiers himself, I give you the Saint George.”

  Amidst nauseating cheers, Grillett’s men stepped forward holding a large panel of glass. They stood in between Grillett and the crowd.

  He held up a hand and dropped it, silencing the masses once again. “This may appear only to be a vessel of pleasure, made to enjoy the skies in any weather. But it does serve another purpose. This glass is the same we’ve installed on all our new dirigibles.”

  He whipped out a Smith & Wesson and fired at the glass. As one, the entire mass of people flinched and ducked, gasping. Some ladies screamed, while several appeared to swoon. But the bullet ricocheted, leaving a small chip on the glass, and appeared to lodge into the deck in front of Grillett. Veronica couldn’t see clearly from her viewpoint. She produced a fan from her reticule and waved it in front of her face as she made what she hoped were incoherent sounds of fear.

  A glass strong enough to repel bullets. How in the devil had Grillett managed to manufacture such a thing?

  The concept was frighteningly clever. These dirigibles could transport any type of cargo without fear. Most airships had long since abandoned heavy artillery, opting for deck-mounted semi-automatic rifles, or slings to launch explosives. As the Germans had so aptly demonstrated, weight could be trumped by speed.