Lady of Devices

chapter 18



Andrew Malvern had not known that James, always so hearty and hail-fellow-well-met, was a proud man. But it was quite plain that he possessed that vice, and that Lady Claire Trevelyan had injured it, whether she’d meant to or not. The fact that his partner struggled with a vice he did not didn’t bother him. After all, Andrew himself struggled with his temper and a tendency to fall into a glass of whiskey when he was tired and frustrated.

No, what bothered him was that because James considered himself snubbed by the young lady, he, Andrew, had lost the possibility of a fine assistant. How many gently bred young ladies, after all, were not only possessed of a landau and the skill to pilot it, but read scientific journals to boot? It galled him, frankly, and he was quite put out with his friend even now.

In fact, he was so put out that he couldn’t stay in his own laboratory, for fear that James would return and he would say more things he couldn’t take back. Instead of sending a tube to place another order of coal and chemicals, he had gone to the coal-yard himself, and then to the manufactory. He’d taken his evening meal with a glass of foamy beer at his mother’s cottage in Stratford, and watched the sun set over the smoke of London feeling full but not content.

He heard the whisper of her skirts upon the terrace a moment before she joined him. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you and young Lord James on the outs, Andrew. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“There is nothing you can do, Mother.”

“I can listen. It’s clear you need to get it off your chest, and you know it’ll go no further.”

That was true. A former lady’s maid, his mother had married a policeman who had advanced through the ranks to captain of his own detachment before he’d passed on. As confidante to both, she was the repository of secrets that even he was not permitted to know—such as what really caused the Duchess of Tavistock to divorce her husband, or what might have happened to the infant Lord Wilberforce Dunsmuir, who had disappeared two years ago from his bed under the very nose of his nurse. His mother had been employed in both households in her youth and in the latter case, still kept in contact with the nurse, sending the poor woman a basket of food every now and then to keep her from starvation.

“Very well.” He told her the whole story and ended with, “So there you have it. A woman’s come between us at last—but not in the way I might have expected.”

“The poor child,” his mother murmured. “Viscount St. Ives’s daughter, you say?”

“The very same. Now reduced to earning her bread like the rest of us—though I must say she doesn’t behave like your average Blood. She plans to put herself through university.”

“It will take more than the wages you can give her to do that.”

“I know, but I admire her for her ambition, at least. And there are scholarships to be had.”

“If one has the right connections.”

“Wit or Blood, I’m sure she does.”

His mother reached across the glass table for the newspaper that sat folded there. “I thought her name sounded familiar. Did you see this?” She opened the Evening Standard to the front page.



RIOT IN BELGRAVIA LEAVES BURNING QUESTIONS

Last evening the titled residents of Belgravia were treated to a shocking example of unbridled brigandry that prompted butlers up and down the tidy streets to lock doors and seek out the nearest fireplace poker. Carrick House was the focus of a mob of fifty or more, all of whom were whipped into an emotional frenzy by a speaker at Hyde Park Corner. The crowd adjourned to Wilton Crescent, where they converged upon the house of the late Viscount St. Ives, whom many are accusing of being the engineer behind the infamous Arabian Bubble. Whether this is true or not, the crowd obviously believed it to be so. With windows broken and furniture burned, this reporter was shocked to the core at such a public display of bad feeling.

A bystander said the uncontrollable mob was shouting about recouping its investments. “But that’s hardly reasonable when they made a bonfire in the street out of items they could have sold,” he said. “I feared for the lives of the remaining occupants of the house.”

Indeed, according to reports, the sister of the present viscount was believed to have been in residence at the time, along with one or two loyal retainers. Her whereabouts at present are not known.



“Great Scott.” Andrew held the paper up. “It says no one knows where she is.”

“So now I ask myself, is this tiff really over the young lady and Lord James, or the young lady and you, my dear boy?”

Andrew put the paper down and rose. “She is a young woman of intellect and spirit, Mother. This is not about a tiff at all—anyone would be concerned for a person of their acquaintance.”

“Certainly,” she agreed.

“Any gentleman with an ounce of humanity would be shocked at such a report.”

“Of course.”

“I shall take my leave now, Mother. Thank you for supper.”

“My compliments to Lord James when you make it up with him. And to the young lady when you find her.”

He paused in the act of putting on his bowler. “Mother.”

She made a gesture as though she were buttoning her lips, and smiled as she kissed him goodbye.

He caught an evening train into Victoria Station and walked the few blocks into Belgrave Square at a fast clip. The smell of burned, wet wood hung on the air as he rounded the corner into Wilton Crescent, and though he had never been to Carrick House, it wasn’t difficult to tell which had been Lady Claire’s home.

It was the only one on the crescent with no windows left on the ground floor. The white-painted Georgian exterior was smudged with black handprints, and the sidewalk in front had been trampled to the point that bricks had come loose, like teeth after a blow.

Dismayed, he stared from the house to the street, where dustmen were still loading the last charred and broken pieces of furniture into their wagon. One of them saw his face and paused to direct a stream of chewing tobacco into the still-smoking heap.

“Shame, innit?” he said affably.

“That it is.” Understatement of the year.

“Eejits, all of ’em. Her ladyship’ll not be able to get half the dosh she might’ve before. If they’re lookin’ for their money back, they just done themselves out of a bundle of it.”

“I daresay you are right.” Andrew scanned the house once more. “Her ladyship is not in residence?”

“Not that I know. Was supposed to be a daughter still ’ere but there’s been no sign of ’er, and I been ’ere since teatime. Prob’ly be an hour or so more, once t’lamps come on.”

Andrew dug in his breast pocket. “If you see her, could you give her my card?”

The dustman peered at it in the gloom. “Wot’re you, some sort of solicitor or summink?”

“No, just a—” Well, what was he, exactly? “A friend. A very concerned friend. I should like to know she’s safe, at the very least.”

“Can’t fault a man fer that.” The dustman pocketed the card. “S’a shame.”

It was as good an epitaph as any. Andrew thanked the man and began his walk back to Victoria Station. He had inherited his father’s aptitude for puzzles, and here was one that involved not only the brain, but also the sympathies of a gentleman. Lady Claire’s incursion into his life had been brief but brilliant, and he could not now walk away. He must apply his mind to finding her himself.