The Eidolon Read online

  The footman standing at the bottom of the stairs did not bow or acknowledge the new guests in any way—they simply stared after the gearwoman.

  Veronica couldn’t help smiling. Maybe the youth of the New Era did not care where their steamtech came from, but they had no problem flouting convention. Perhaps it was a step, albeit a strange one, toward change.

  The line started to move again, the gearman apparently recovered from the shock of a gearwoman.

  Veronica inevitably turned her own thoughts toward the prince. She could hardly credit that he would be different from the privileged men of her experience. He would most likely expect her to return to his homeland to live, since her feelings would not bear consideration. He might be old, wrinkled, ugly. Perhaps even so crude she could not bear his touch.

  But … what could she do if he were any of those things? Veronica had no recourse, save a vague idea to get out of this trap any way she could.

  When Hale steered them up to the entrance of Almacks, Veronica guessed at least two hundred people had already arrived. Her Papá, she knew, had left their town home long ago, always ready to discuss Russia’s newest airship strike or to stand like a giant sword beside the Queen.

  She leaned down and grasped Hale’s fingers tightly. Walking in The Dress took all of her concentration and at least some of his strength.

  He led her over to the steps and bowed. “You look quite … modest this evening, my lady.”

  Veronica glanced down ruefully. “By chance, can I interest you in some grease rags, Hale? After tonight, I believe I will be retiring this ensemble.”

  He chuckled. “I’d be the prettiest greaser on the block with that swag hanging from my belt.”

  “It would improve your appearance,” Matilda muttered.

  Hale tipped his hat to her and said, “You’ve been lookin, then’?” His amused gaze met her flushed one for a moment, and then he leapt up in the carriage and drove off.

  “Well. What a horrible man.” Matilda sniffed.

  Veronica attempted to gather her skirts and tackle the stairs. “Of course,” she said with a grin. One day, perhaps when Veronica didn’t need Matilda so much, Hale would step out of Matilda’s peripheral vision.

  Hale held the single exception to her rule about men. Of course, he had no title nor means to spoil his watchful, caring and genial disposition. But she wanted to believe that even if he did, he wouldn’t change. If she had to relinquish Matilda to a man’s care in the future, Veronica might not flinch at Hale.

  After tripping nearly a dozen times, Veronica finally made it inside the ballroom. She threaded her arm through Matilda’s. The crush of people made it difficult to move, let alone find her Papá. Yet some women, like the fashion goddess Lady Ambrose, still managed to float through the room in her colorful silk gown, much like a butterfly in a steel cage, wearing a diamond necklace whose value could feed all her orphans for a month. Some people could move like that—parting crowds as a breeze through tall grass.

  Veronica was not one of them.

  She and Matilda pushed their way past several debutantes, each holding court with men that elbowed each other as they vied for the prized girl’s attention. The suitors’ metal cuffs clinked, scuffing others as they jostled the weaker men out of the circle. Veronica glimpsed one man knock another’s goggles off his head and then apologize profusely as he “accidentally” stepped on them in the confusion. Thank heavens she’d never been the center of such a melee.

  Veronica stepped past them and promptly saw one member of the ton who embodied everything she despised. She groaned. “Hide me.”

  Matilda glanced over, “Not her! Criminey.”

  Though she attempted to shelter Veronica from view, the feat proved impossible, thanks to The Dress. Once Lady Clarissa spied Veronica, she leaned to her nearest companion and whispered. A chain of muttered conversation dispersed through the room like a foul wind. Noses crinkled. Eyes widened. Eyepieces fell from fingers. Hands flew up to cover open mouths.

  The mystical music coming from the odd-shaped guitar and the violin in the corner paused.

  Veronica took a deep breath and then smiled as though proud and a bit shy about wearing such a dress. She waved in a friendly fashion while Lady Clarissa approached, wishing someone, anyone else would engage her in conversation. Now. But Lady Clarissa wouldn’t be deterred. She thought tact a method of the weak, the dim-witted.

  Of course, Veronica had to remind herself Lady Clarissa had not been raised among the ton. Her father’s money bought her the hand of Lord Prine and a place in this overstuffed room.

  She fairly screeched to a halt in front of Veronica, her dragonfly necklace bouncing on her chest a few times before settling. “Has your seamstress taken ill, Lady Veronica?” she asked.

  Lady Sarah Hoover drifted close to Veronica, the cream silk on her dress fluttering about her neat figure as if imbued with the grace of its wearer.

  “Now Clarissa, I’m sure Veronica does not take your meaning,” she said. But her tone agreed with the other woman. As the daughter of one of the three sponsors of Almacks, she had learned early how to say something and mean another thing entirely.

  Veronica replied, “My Papá gave me this dress.” She twirled. “Isn’t it just divine?”

  “You’ll never catch a man with that hideous—” began Lady Clarissa.

  “Lady Veronica doesn’t need to marry,” Lady Sarah said with a placid, bitter smile. “Half of her Papá‘s fortune will pass to her. Her mother, you know.”

  “Is that right?” Lady Clarissa asked. “You just have to wear the ugly dresses your Papá likes and then you do not have to choose a husband?” She shot a glance at her own plain, husband, already well in his cups.

  Before Veronica could respond, Lady Sarah said, “Clarissa, dear, I mean she doesn’t have to play the bargaining game—”

  Veronica tucked her own butterfly necklace inside her gown, needing to feel the cool metal on her skin. The symbol reminded her not to forget who she really was, and to ignore the rising bile in her throat.

  Veronica spotted her papá standing by the queen on a raised dais and swallowed. “Please do excuse me, ladies,” she interrupted Lady Sarah. Lady Sarah paused mid-word and simply stared at Veronica. Like a true lady, her eyes said what she had not. That Veronica was an embarrassment, a ridiculous nitwit, and a waste. She not only wasted a night of Almacks on that dress, but a potential position of power as an heiress.

  Veronica grabbed Matilda’s arm and moved forward, each step echoing in her mind. She’d seen and overhead such nonsense a million times. Her disguise, every night, proved extremely tiresome. Yet some small part of her felt a sense of glee at so completely fooling them all.

  “Do you see him, my Lady? The prince?” Matilda asked.

  Veronica turned and scanned the room. She could not decide which was worse—wondering if the pot-bellied man in a sagging red turban or the baby-faced boy in over-large robes were her intended or actually meeting the man to whom she’d be tied for life. Before she could panic, Matilda pushed her gently forward.

  The Queen’s bulky guards moved aside to allow Matilda and Veronica to pass. Both of them curtseyed deeply before her Highness.

  “What a … fascinating dress, Veronica.” The Queen sounded thoroughly amused. “Richmond, is that your doing?”

  Veronica hid a surprised smile with her fan. She hoped whatever test the Duke intended this dress to be had just backfired on him.

  The Duke started to answer, his cheeks tinged with pink, but the Queen cut him short with a wave, her thick diamond bracelet reflecting shimmering light through the room as she moved.

  Her hand settled on the chair as she eyed Veronica with a gaze that performed the same such appraisal on a daily, perhaps even hourly basis. Her shrewd, brown eyes locked with Veronica’s. It felt like a blast from a Tesla-ray. There was power in those eyes, as though the Queen were something more than human—a higher intelligence, evolved through generations
of the fittest, the most attractive, the conquerors.

  The orchestra quieted. Dancers’ arms fluttered to their sides. Veronica’s knees quivered.

  The fact that the Queen was more than sixty did not weaken her effect, for even the youngest of men watched her as though bewitched. The women appeared to bristle at the men’s reaction but could not hide the awe in their submissive posture. Veronica simply wished the Queen would release her before she somehow pried into the dark vaults of her mind.

  Her majesty finally smiled the smile of one used to setting others at ease, lifting her cheeks and crinkling her eyes.

  “No matter,” she said. “I’m sure Durad will introduce her to the styles of Sombor soon enough.”

  The Duke bowed his head as though humbled.

  At least he would never again attempt to dress his only daughter.

  “Prince Durad, come!” her Majesty called out, her strong voice cutting through the chaos.

  The crowd parted to allow a broad-shouldered man through. Not the one with the belly, nor the youth. He wore a white turban wrapped around his head, covered in jewels and matching white robes, making him appear much larger and more imposing a man than Veronica had ever seen. He strolled through the crowd with purpose and bearing, his eyes fixed on the Queen. As he drew nearer, Veronica noticed he appeared not much older than her, perhaps in his mid-twenties, though his swarthy skin made it difficult to tell.

  A man dressed similarly, in a white turban and robes appeared at the Prince’s side, the bottom half of his face covered with a scarf. Veronica’s eyes fell to the sword at his side and guessed this was his Highness’s bodyguard.

  The Prince knelt before the Queen. “Your Majesty,” he said in a clipped, deep voice.

  Surprisingly, the Queen flushed and said, “Prince Durad, may I present your future bride, the Lady Veronica Richmond.” Her arm swept toward Veronica.

  The Prince straightened up and fixed his gaze on her. Deep brown piercing eyes widened at the dress but stopped at her face. He bowed and lifted her hand, placing a kiss on it she felt through her glove.

  “I am honored and very pleased to meet you at last,” he said.

  The sincerity in his tone and his manner startled her into simply replying, “Your highness.”

  He nodded with a grave expression.

  She stared, unable to move. This man was not old, nor wrinkly, nor ugly. In fact, even the Queen had nearly swooned.

  The accent. The charm. It couldn’t be.

  It was the man from the masque.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The day it started

  Emil’s pulse raced oddly as he followed the prince up to the dais. Why would he, Emil, be nervous? This was a mere girl, one many people considered crackers, not to mention the daughter of a man he knew to be an unconscionable killer. She held no significance save as a means to Richmond.

  So then why did he feel so hot? It must be these dress robes. Or this blasted scarf. He stifled the urge to rip it off and take deep breaths.

  The crowd of idiots parted, focused mainly on the strong figure of the prince. He’d slept off the effects of the night before, his eyes without shadow, his face unlined and smooth. Emil nearly smiled—no wine left Durad stumbling the next day. They’d tested this talent on many taverns. For a moment, Emil admired his friend, remembering why he’d followed him into a war. Strength, confidence, bearing—he’d always had these. Even at the end of a guard’s stick while operating a widget cutter for eleven hours.

  The prince’s turban made soft clinking sounds as he moved, the beads of his rank and his royalty proclaiming his status. Durad strolled toward the Queen as though he’d been born a royal, not earned it on the field of battle.

  At her majesty’s feet, below the raised dais, stood a girl in a blue dress as large as a small pond. The ripples, waves, and layers reminded Emil of one, as though her entire body were submerged, her head floating just above it. He recognized the lift of that chin, the shape of that face. But not the vacant expression.

  This woman might never cease to surprise him. What was she doing, wearing a thing like that when meeting her intended for the first time? She hadn’t dressed this way last night—her style had been arresting at the very least. He’d admired how her dress had shown more than a passing interest in the New Era movement, her figure displayed to its finest.

  But this thing, the pond dress, and her now blank face—what was she playing at? This had to be the reason society considered her “touched.”

  The Queen and Durad exchanged words, her Majesty quite obviously taken by Durad’s accent and his mysterious looks. Emil watched Lady Richmond during the exchange, searching for any sign of what she thought of her engagement.

  Her blank expression didn’t waver. For a moment, her shoulder twitched, along with a corner of her mouth, as though it caused her pain. Her companion, who stood next to her, cast a worried glance at her lady.

  Who was she?

  The enchanting woman from last night or the idiot debutant that stood before him?

  Last night she’d been indignant for a cause no one cared for. Angry at society. Compassionate to a damaged stranger. Now she was careful to hide whatever had injured her shoulder. Daring enough to wear a dress that the Ton would laugh at for an entire season. Nothing about Lady Richmond added up. Other than that she hid behind a mask as real as his.

  He couldn’t decide if that fascinated or repulsed him.

  When a man standing next to the Queen spoke, Emil glanced in his direction. The voice was strong, arrogant. Emil muttered several curses.

  You fool. It’s him—the Duke.

  Here he’d been giving Richmond’s daughter too much consideration, again, when he should’ve been watching her estimable Papá. He turned his full attention to the man, watching as he placed a steadying hand on the Queen’s shoulder, helping her from her chair. He leaned forward to speak into her ear while they paced slowly toward the exit.

  What a buffoon, playing with the devil.

  Emil glanced from Durad to the slowly disappearing Duke and back. He longed to follow them but he didn’t feel quite comfortable leaving the prince on his own. With the ballroom palpitating with hundreds of the youth of the New Era, along with the older matrons and gentleman of society, all most likely eager to meet their royal guest from Sombor, one knife could slip by unnoticed, or even a pistol, amidst all the steamtech dripping from men’s belts and strapped across their ample girths. Even women wore leather pouches large enough to hold a derringer.

  He cursed. He couldn’t follow the Duke. Not now.

  Durad offered Lady Trouble his arm and they headed toward the doors leading into the gardens. Emil remained close behind, placing himself near enough to deflect a blade or shot. Several ladies pressed in and Emil shoved them away without ceremony.

  Lady Trouble’s face appeared animated as she spoke with Durad, her body leaning toward the prince. She stumbled over her pond dress but he caught her easily. She flashed him a grateful expression.

  Emil realized his jaw had clenched tight and begun to ache. He’d now be forced to watch Durad spew charm all over this chit, and her turn to a cloying puddle at his feet. He should be going after the Duke! Why, Durad appeared to all the world as though he actually enjoyed talking to her. And if he knew his friend, he scented a hint of genuine interest.

  The affianced couple spoke together for the length of a full dirigible tour of London, engaged and animated. Emil kept to his shadow, listening to every word without hesitation. By the time Durad stood, Emil had a headache.

  How corking. Though the woman appeared to be in possession of fewer brains than any of his crew, Durad seemed not to mind. Her laugh felt like nails hammered into Emil’s ears, her voice high enough to shatter glass. How could his friend even stand to sit there and listen? Little wonder she was considered touched.

  Whatever she hid behind that tinny laugh and calculated clumsiness, Emil intended to find out. It was quite obviously somethin
g of great importance, perhaps even something that would embarrass or hopefully destroy her. Almack’s matrons were not very forgiving. A lover? No, that did not seem likely, not when she trembled so innocently at his touch last night. Debt? That could make sense, for who would expect a “nitwit” to understand money. No matter her secret, she’d gone to great lengths to conceal it. It had to be significant.

  Of course, disguises had their uses. He lifted his scarf and rubbed his face. No one saw him as the Hero of Sombor, or he would’ve been dead a long time ago.

  No one really saw Lady Veronica either. She made sure of that.

  He continued to watch. Observe. Catalog. As he did, his mind formed a picture—every gesture, every word illuminated another feature. It felt, just a little, like looking in a mirror.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The day it started

  “Lady Veronica’s papá, the Duke of Richmond,” the Queen said to the Prince, nodding to the uniformed man at her side.

  Veronica sighed as the entire room turned in rapture. There’d not been such great entertainment in London since Grillett unveiled the Terror of the Skies, the pride of the British airfleet, at last year’s Steam Expo. The Duke rarely ventured out in society, much less to an inconsequential place like Almacks. Not many had actually met him, though plenty claimed an acquaintance.

  It seemed no one had failed to hear the stories of the Duke’s impressive victories. Up until now that was all they had been—stories, legends. A collection of shocking tales told over whist tables or punch bowls. Plenty had asked Veronica about the Duke, only to give up in a few minutes when it became clear she never actually answered the question asked of her. Veronica preferred to change the subject entirely, bouncing from one topic to the next until her audience simply stomped off mid-sentence, utterly frustrated.

  Now here stood the hero of England before all in full red military dress, adorned with so many gleaming medals that she’d long ago stopped counting. Or caring. There were times she was tempted to steal one off his uniform, just to see if he counted them each night.