Lady of Devices

chapter 12



Friday brought two more depressing confirmations that governessing was not the career for which she was destined, and Claire began to give serious consideration to returning, hat in hand, to the British Museum. But that, she thought, glancing at the twilight sky, would have to wait until Monday. She ought to just make it home before the street lamps came on.

As she made the turn off Grosvenor Crescent into Wilton Crescent, she heard the same roar as before—as though hundreds of voices were expressing their outrage—at Hyde Park Corner. Pulling into the mews behind Carrick House, she released the landau’s steam and listened.

Birds, singing their adieux before dark.

The clash of cutlery from the town house next door, whose kitchen windows were open.

And in the background the roar of a huge crowd, getting louder.

Footsteps. No, an all-out sprint, booted feet slapping on the cobbles, coming down Wilton Crescent as though—

Gorse pelted into the mews, his driver’s cap gone and his coat unbuttoned. “Miss! Lady Claire—oh, thank God. They’re coming, miss. You must take the landau and run to Miss Emilie’s without delay.”

Automatically, her hands began the ignition sequence. “What is happening, Gorse? Tell me!”

“It’s a huge demonstration at Hyde Park,” he panted, the words coming out in chunks. “The Arabian Bubble investors. They’re rioting, miss. They swear to loot Carrick House. To get something out of their investment. Now. They’re coming here now.”

The landau clattered to life and she made sure the brake was set. “Help me get my trunk out of the house. And Mrs. Morven. We’ve got to get her out, too.”

“Miss, there isn’t time for possessions!”

“Come on, Gorse!”

But Mrs. Morven had left a note that she had gone to take victuals to the Foundlings’ Home. Thank goodness for that. “Gorse, you’ll have to go over there and prevent her return.”

“As soon as you’re away, miss.”

They pounded up the stairs. The house was practically naked, with the china, plate, and paintings already on their way down to Cornwall on a dray. The looters would have a tricky time getting the heavy furniture out the doors. With Gorse in front and Claire in the rear, they lugged her trunk and traveling case down the stairs. With a pang, she thought of her pretty bookcases and all her books, which she hadn’t got around to packing quite yet. Maybe someday she would come upon them in a stall in Portobello Road, once the looters lost interest in books about biology and engineering.

Wedging themselves through the kitchen door with the trunk, they could hear the sounds of individual voices at the curve of Wilton Crescent. “Hurry, miss. Go and don’t look back.”

“But you’re coming with me!”

“No, miss. I’m going to send a fast tube to Sir Robert Peel’s policing force and try to hold them off at the door. If I can’t do that, I’ll take to my heels after Mrs. Morven.”

“Gorse!”

“No arguments, miss. Mrs. Morven and I shall see you at Miss Emilie’s.” He secured her trunk to the rear with a pair of leather straps, and slapped it twice. “Now, miss! Quickly!”

The first of the rioters poured into the mews and gave a great shout of triumph when they caught sight of the landau. Claire’s heart leaped in her chest and she pushed the steering lever out as far as it would go. The rioters closed the forty feet between them in less time than it took to gasp, so that by the time the landau had completed the turn, they were already on her. She gave it some steam and the landau took off like a racehorse at Ascot, bumping over something she didn’t want to think about and eliciting a scream of rage. Hands and fingernails scraped at the landau’s shiny exterior, sliding off in a cacophony of frustration.

She did not stop to check the damage—or to look both ways at the corner. Behind her, a window broke with a crash and she heard Gorse’s distinctive voice turn the air blue as he mounted his resistance. The landau careened into Belgrave Square, causing a pair of roans to shy and paw the air while their coachman shouted obscenities at her, and she swung a quick right, heading for Cadogan Square and Emilie’s house. She did not stop at Lowndes Street either, rocketing across it with the throttle wide open and the speed indicator buried at the bottom of its arc.

Heart racing, hands shaking so badly she could hardly grip the steering lever, she slowed to a respectable ten miles per hour in Cadogan Square and coasted to a stop in front of Number 42. After she set the brake and climbed down, she paused. She didn’t like to leave the landau in the open street. First order of business was to secure safety with Emilie, she thought as she marched to the door. The second thing would be to find a place in the stable to hide it before some stray looter recognized it and they brought the hounds of hell down on the Fragonards.

A maid answered her ring. “Good evening, Gwennie. I’m here to see Miss Emilie on a matter of extreme urgency, please.”

The maid invited her into the hall and vanished upstairs. A moment later she heard the sharp sound of a voice, quickly muffled, a door slamming in the far reaches of the house, and then the swish of skirts descending the staircase.

“Lady Claire,” Mrs. Fragonard said from the final turn of the staircase, in tones so civil they practically cracked and shattered on the marble floor.

Claire looked up. “Mrs. Fragonard, I apologize with all my heart for descending on you like this, but I must see Emilie.”

“On what errand?”

Claire paused and looked at her more closely. Emilie’s mother had never been a beauty, but she had a kind heart and Claire had been a guest at her table many times. What was the reason for this carefully schooled neutrality of feature? This coldness of tone?

“I’m afraid I find myself at your mercy, ma’am. It seems that a host of—of investors have taken it on themselves to importune an empty house, and I’m unable to go home this evening. I have my trunk with me, and I was hoping to beg your hospitality just for tonight.”

Not a very gracious speech, but it would have to do. In her memory, Claire heard her mother’s opinion of it. Well, her mother was safely in Cornwall and only a fool would have stood on the step begging the rioters not to make such a fuss.

“My hospitality? After the snub your family dealt my daughter?”

Claire stared at her, lost. “I’m sorry?”

“Do not imagine I don’t know how difficult it was to obtain Lady St. Ives’ permission to invite Emilie to your graduation party.”

Claire’s mouth opened and closed. Then she took a breath and tried again. “Ma’am, I assure you no offense was meant by my mother, and I was very glad to see Emilie there. She has been a wonderful friend to me, especially during these past weeks. I beg you accept my apology for anything my family may have done.”

Even this pathetic but sincere appeal had no effect. “What they’ve done? You obviously have no idea how much the Arabian Bubble has cost this family, young lady.”

Claire’s eyes widened. “You invested, too?”

“We did, and now we are paying for it. I am no penniless rioter, however. If I were, I would also be tempted to, as you say, importune an empty house.”

“Mrs. Fragonard, please—if you’d just let me speak to Emilie—”

“Emilie is unable to receive guests at present. I have no personal animosity toward you, Lady Claire, but your parents have my undying disdain. I cannot let my daughter retain her connections with such a family. In this day and age, it is too dangerous. Good evening to you. Gwennie will see you out.”

Mrs. Fragonard, who had not left her lofty perch on the staircase, turned and made her way up it again. When the maid opened the door, Claire passed her like an automaton. Even when she heard a frantic pounding on one of the upstairs windows, she did not look up. She could not. If she met her friend’s eyes, she would break down in the middle of the street, and there was no time. She simply ignited the landau and released the brake.

Yet another sin to lay at her father’s door. Her mother’s too, if she were honest. How had Mrs. Fragonard found out that Claire had to practically beg Lady St. Ives to invite Emilie to the party? And what a reason to refuse someone a night’s shelter! In such dangerous times as these, people should band together to help each other, not throw their friends to the wolves. But then, her father had played the wolf often enough in Parliament, if the papers were to be believed, voting down the rights of prisoners and those being deported to the Antipodes. Human nature would not pause a moment to turn the tables on him and his, as she was witnessing this very evening.

Was Gorse all right? If he came to find her here, what would they tell him? That they had turned her away? Claire cast a glance over her shoulder as she bowled down the square. Should she wait? She must find shelter before it was fully dark, but where would she go? Wellesley House? Astor Place?

Not likely. Then she blinked as an idea struck.

Who would be most likely to take up the cause of the downtrodden and homeless? Why, Mrs. Stanley Churchill, of course. If she could not find shelter with Emilie, maybe Peony would be the better choice. Yes, that was it. She would go to Chelsea immediately, and send a tube from there to Cadogan Square for Gorse. Surely they would give it to him when he arrived. After all, he had done nothing to offend.