Lady of Devices

chapter 13



Claire had never been to Peony’s home, but she knew it was on Elm Park Road in Chelsea. Once she located the street, finding the house was just a matter of making inquiries—and even that proved unnecessary. Only the house of Mrs. Stanley Churchill would have a band of—Claire peered through the twilight—wild Indians on the front steps?

She parked the landau and made her way up the walk, sidling past the group of children playing on the railings of the white Georgian house. Not Indians. But definitely something wild, as their boots appeared to be made of animal skins. She rang the bell and waited.

To her astonishment, Peony herself peeked through the nine-paned glass and answered the door. “Why ... Claire Trevelyan. What a surprise.”

“I’m so sorry to arrive unannounced like this, but I’m in rather a fix and I was hoping to ask a favor of you.”

“As long as it doesn’t involve funding of any sort, I’m all ears. Come along into the drawing room.” Over her shoulder, she tossed a string of unintelligible syllables that made two of the children laugh.

“No, no funding. Who are those children?”

“They are Esquimaux, from the Canadas. Far north of the Canadas, actually. Their band hunts on the land where Her Majesty wishes to mine diamonds. They are here to plead their case before the House, with my mother’s help, or they face starvation. Her Majesty wants to boot them off, you see. They’re in the way.”

“Goodness,” Claire said faintly as she seated herself on a striped divan. “And they have brought their children too?”

“They’re not very old,” Peony pointed out. “Can’t very well leave them sitting on an ice floe with a sandwich, can they?”

“I suppose not.”

“So what has brought you to us this evening? But first, allow me to offer my condolences on your loss, Claire. I should have said so right away instead of babbling on.”

“Thank you.”

“How are you managing?”

Claire took a breath and plunged in. “Not well, I’m afraid. My mother has taken my brother down to Cornwall just in time. There was a riot on Hyde Park Corner tonight, and a crowd of vandals attacked Carrick House.”

Peony’s red lips fell open. “Good heavens!”

“They’re investors, apparently, determined to get something out of my father’s estate. As I fled, I heard glass breaking. I hope they find joy in our furniture.”

“They’ll make a bonfire in the street with it to make their point, more like,” Peony said with such world-weary practicality that Claire’s skin pebbled with goosebumps. What must this girl have seen in her life? Far more than herself, that was evident. “I’m very thankful that you got away.”

“Which brings me to the reason I’m here. You wouldn’t have an extra bed for tonight, would you?”

Peony’s eyes filled with sympathy. “My dear, I wish we did. But A’Laqtiq and his family have filled all the bedrooms, to the point that the children you saw outside are sleeping under the dining-room table. The carpet is quite thick. All I have to offer you is the bath, I’m afraid. With a bit of ticking it would do in a pinch.”

Claire was almost tempted. But it was clear that there were important political issues transpiring in this house, aside from the fact that Mrs. Churchill and Peony probably had enough on their plates hosting an entire foreign delegation. “I couldn’t possibly impose on you to that extent, Peony.”

“You wouldn’t be, truly. Now, if you were to demand my bed and make me sleep in the bath myself, that would be an imposition.”

Claire grinned. “It won’t come to that. Do not worry on my account. I have friends yet to impose upon.”

“I know you do. A girl as nice as you probably has hosts of them, all without children under the dining-table. But if you need it, the offer of the bath still stands. Or I could go all out and find a table in a different room to stash you under.”

Claire rose, still smiling. “I may take you up on it. Please give my compliments to your mother. I admire her enormously.”

Peony took her outstretched hand. “I do, too. If I can be half the woman she is, I’ll do well.”

“Heaven help Her Majesty’s empire in that case.”

Peony laughed and escorted her to the door. “I hope to see you soon, Claire.” She hesitated. “I would like it if—well, never mind. You have enough to fill your thoughts at present.”

Claire could seize an opportunity as well as the next person. “I would like it if we could be friends, despite my mother’s opinions on the subject. And since she is eight hours away by train, I think it’s safe to say so.”

“Let’s shake on it. Friends it is.” Peony’s fingers felt cool and strong.

Claire went back down the walk glowing with warmth. Friends were not so thick on the ground that she would turn one down, especially in circumstances such as these. The loss of Carrick House was a disaster, to call a spade a spade, but in the midst of disaster the good Lord had sent her a blessing. She would never have guessed a month ago that Peony Churchill would offer friendship, unsolicited. But the bathtub notwithstanding, Claire was very glad she had.

In the meantime, here came the lamplighter, climbing down into the chamber under the walk that concealed the engine powering the lamps for this block. While she had been within, full dark had fallen, and Claire had exactly no experience in piloting the landau after dark. Carefully, she opened the switches to the headlamps, and ignited the engine.

Returning home was out of the question. So, the next question became, where should she go? Wellesley House was out. She would rather sleep in a bathtub with no ticking at all than endure Lady Julia’s suppressed smiles at her misfortunes. Perhaps she could go to St. Cecelia’s and beg the headmistress for a bed. But no, that would entail far too many questions and very likely public exposure of her plight.

There was nothing for it. She was going to have to go to her grand-aunts Beaton in Greenwich, wake them out of a dead sleep, and explain in as little detail as possible why she was there. They were elderly, excitable, and as ignorant as chickens about the affairs of the day. They actually believed that Papa had had an accident while cleaning his gun. Not that that was a bad thing. It was necessary for everyone to at least pretend to believe that, or Papa could not have been buried in hallowed ground. At the same time, giving credence to a lie galled her.

Very well. To Greenwich she would go, and as soon as she read in the papers that the Esquimaux delegation had been heard and were on their way back to their home in the frozen north, she would return to Peony’s and claim both friendship and a bed until she could find employment and rooms of her own.

She turned east and tried to visualize the best route. The difficulty with Greenwich was that it lay on the far side of the East End. She could either cross the river at Lambeth and circle around to the south, in which case she would arrive long after midnight, upsetting her grand-aunts even more, or she could stick to the well-populated roads in Town and hope that the speed and the sturdy brass skin of the landau would protect her until she got over the new London Bridge.

If only Gorse were here.

Then again, she thought with a snort as she motored down the Embankment at a respectable thirty miles per hour, she could always accept the offer of Lord James Selwyn’s regard. She had no doubt that a fiancée of his would not be chugging briskly through the night, homeless and alone. But then, a fiancée of his would have neither a landau nor a brain to call her own, either.

This cheered her immensely, and she turned her back on the Blackfriars Bridge and took the corner into Farringdon Street with aplomb. Now came the tricky part. The lamp lighters had obviously not come this far yet, leaving her dependent upon her own head lamps to keep her in the center of the thoroughfare. The mouths of the streets yawned black on either side. The sound of the landau’s engine bounced back at her from the brick and wood surfaces of the buildings and the cobbles of the street, making it sound as though she were three or four engines, not just one. She swerved to avoid men loading kegs on to a cart, and steered back the other way to avoid a knot of people who had clearly just come from the theater. Was she so close to Covent Garden? No, that couldn’t be right. She was supposed to be on Queen Victoria Street, away from the bank. What street was this, exactly?

Along with keeping track of the thoroughfare and unpredictable human bodies in her path, she now peered into the cone of dim light provided by the headlamps, seeking a street sign. How careless of the city fathers not to provide them. Etching the name of a street into the corner of a building did not help at all in the dark. Ahead, bright lights shone onto the sidewalk, and she heard the subterranean screech of a train.

A station. That would tell her where she was. In moments, she had come abreast of the station’s front.

Aldgate. Aldgate Station? That couldn’t be right. Why, that would mean she was blissfully driving down Whitechapel Street in the middle of the night. She was not on Queen Victoria Street at all!

Oh dear. Oh dear. She had to turn around and get out of here.

Claire steered to the far side of the street and pushed the steering lever all the way out. At the apex of the turn her front tire bumped up onto the sidewalk in front of the station, but there was no help for it. She couldn’t reverse unless she got out and pushed, and she was not getting out of this vehicle for all the tea in China. Not in Whitechapel, for the love of God.

Careful. Carefully now. The last thing you want is to dislodge the arrangement of the boiler when you bump back down onto the street. One wheel. Good. Now the oth—

With a communal howl of triumph, a crowd of black shapes pelted out of the mouth of the Underground station and surrounded the landau.

“Lookit this beauty, Snouts! We got a pretty ’ un this time, ent we?”

“And a pretty lady to boot. Whatsa matter, lady, want some help unsticking your carriage?”

“No, thank you,” Claire said as loudly as her desert-dry throat would allow. “Stand out of the way please.”

“Stand aht the way, please,” mimicked a high voice. “Am I in your way, lady? Wot’ll you give me and my mates to get aht the way?”

“I shall give you a penny. But you must move first.”

“Wot else you got, lady? I bet there’s more’n a penny in this pretty carriage.”

“Don’t touch that!”

“Lady, I wouldn’ say you was in a position to be dishin’ orders,” said a tall, thin shape with an enormous nose. “Give us what you got and then we’ll think about movin’.”

“Yeah! What’cha got, lady? Bet there’s plenty for me in here, eh?”

“Don’t open that! Don’t, I tell you—it’s boiling—”

Too late. The thug had popped open the landau’s side hood panel, probably thinking it was a repository for riches, and a cloud of steam billowed out of the boiler. With a scream, he fell back, writhing on the ground clutching his burned face with equally burned hands.

“You bloody rich witch!” screamed someone in the back. “You’ve hurt Jake!”

With a roar of fury, the entire pack descended on her. Claire just had time to feel her coat ripped from her shoulders when something hard whacked her on the side of the head, and the night whirled around her before she landed hard on the ground.