Imperial Clock

CHAPTER Ten

Peahens for Peacocks



‘Pacific Rim Island Destroyed By Blast. Is Man or Nature to Blame?’

As Meredith negotiated her way between the crowded tables of the Boadicea’s restaurant section, she glimpsed the various headlines on the front pages of assorted newspapers, each illustrated by the exact same dramatic photograph. Curiously, all the leading British journals appeared to agree that the blast was a massively violent volcanic eruption: ‘New Krakatoa Captured Mid-Blast: Read Full Eyewitness Report Inside’; ‘Biggest Eruption Ever Caught on Film!’; ‘Island Sinks Under Volcanic Power: Huge Wave Hits Orient’.

Meanwhile, the small presses—those that regularly reported world events—saw a different story. ‘Second Catastrophic Weapons Test Destroys Island. Will You Be next?’ ‘Paradise Lost: Warmongers Strike Again.’

Father had always maintained the Leviacrum was to blame for the Norwegian disaster last year, for the cataclysmic wave that had very nearly ended her world. Weapons testing? What in God’s name could blast an entire island apart? Would they—could they—ever use something like that on a civilian population? The Leviacrum’s influence had always been insidious: political, financial, industrial, nothing any adversarial power could pinpoint and decry publicly as illegal practice. At least not without betraying a galloping hypocrisy. But if the Leviacrum alone controlled weaponry on this scale, their aspirations need no longer be disguised. They could demand whatever they wanted, openly, and none could dare oppose them.

For the first time Meredith grasped the importance of the Coalition.

It was a counter-balance, a rogue chess piece of equal weight and resolve—it was the only thing keeping the Leviacrum from lording it over the entire world.

But unless the Coalition had a weapon to contend with this island-killer, it was surely check-mate.

Good God.

She dodged a full cavalry charge by the food trolley corps, pardoned herself for clipping the last one with her arm—the smoothest purloining of a cream scone in all her years of practice—and spied her chaperone by one of the port observation windows. Cathy, as Lady Catarina now insisted Meredith call her, had baited an unpromising young catch, a fresh-faced, oily-haired lad of no more than twenty. He held one arm against the small of his back, gesticulated confidently in front with the other. Oh, how he oozed confidence and ambition and sophistication and, well, all the other things rich boys were taught to ooze. Someone, somewhere had to bottle that stuff and dole it out by the jarful at male boarding schools.

“Miss Meredith McEwan, might I present Mr. Anthony Bowles, just arrived from Port Lisbon on business. His father, Sir Alfred Bowles, owns the Bowles-Etcheverria cargo shipping line, and is an acquaintance of mine.” Was there any man of influence in the English-speaking world Cathy was not acquainted with?

The oily Mr. Bowles snapped into a bow. “Delighted, Miss McEwan.” A musical nasal voice which, together with his olive skin, lent him an almost cartoonish foreign air, as though he were a very bad Portuguese actor attempting to play an English aristo.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Oil...I mean Mr. Bowles. My apologies.” Clocking Cathy’s narrowing of the eyes—practically a scream of disapproval from her, she was so poised—reminded Meredith of her promise, that in exchange for being provided with lodgings during her stay in London, she would agree to attend a variety of social functions and do her utmost to encourage any interested male parties she, in turn, might be interested in.

Yes, that gave her a great deal of latitude, complete, in fact, for one’s taste in men was not something that could be disproved. But Cathy was no duck egg; she’d know if Meredith were deliberately repelling suitors. To stay in London and retain her sponsor, then, Meredith had to walk a fine line between coquette and ice maiden. “So what do you think of Lady Catarina? Isn’t she beautiful?”

The lad cleared his throat. “Um, yes, beautiful. Extremely.” Poor fellow didn’t know where to look, and even through his olive tan a raspberry flush lit his cheeks. “And if you don’t mind me saying so, Miss McEwan, you aren’t far behind.”

“But behind, nonetheless?”

“Eh? Oh, I simply meant you’ve yet to fully come of age, and when you do, you will be equally as...yes, equally as...”

“As...?”

“Say, isn’t that Mowett?” He waved to a thick-set young man over at the bar. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I must have a word about our rugby final.” Off like a shot, Mr. Bowles almost bowled over a waitress and her trolley as he made his escape.

“Cruel, Meredith, very cruel. But you saw the chink in his armour right away—impressive, and that’s one way to control the conversation. I take it you’ve had practice?”

“Plenty. Boys are all the same. Get them to talk like a girl and they’re all at sea, in Sonja’s parlance.” Meredith stuffed half the scone into her mouth.

“Boys, maybe. I can see we’re going to have to find you someone a little more...mature, then?”

“Mmm.” She swallowed the delicious scone only partially chewed, wiped a blob of cream from her chin. “But not too mature. I’d like him to still be living when the meeting ends.”

“What do you think of Sonja’s beau, Mr. Auric?”

“Not my type. Too...I don’t know. He’s just not my type.”

“Who do you like?” Cathy roved her flat gloved hand over the bustling cabin. “Point him out, so I can be more discerning next time.”

“Really? And you call me cruel.” Meredith flushed, then slouched defiantly in the manner of her sister as she scanned the room, spotting several men whom she found attractive. Only one made her gasp, however. He was a valet of some sort, standing watch over a skinny, bespectacled heir—the coat of arms embroidered on the junior aristo’s waistcoat was a giveaway. The latter fiddled with what appeared to be a metal boomerang attached to a brass contraption on his belt. A new sport?

Cathy would never consent to arranging an introduction with a man-servant, so Meredith pointed out Boomerang Boy instead. “The intense one wearing spectacles. He looks interesting.” And not hard on the eyes. Someone Sonja might fall for, if he was as intelligent as he appeared.

“Ah, yes. You’ve surprised me there. I rather thought you’d go for someone more mature. My money was on the tall lieutenant by the piano, or one of the delectable sportsmen dressed all in white over—”

“Maybe we ought to swap roles here, Cathy.” Her lovely chaperone imploded into a silent, frame-quivering giggle. “Seriously, is this something we need to devote some time to? What say I arrange a few introductions—soldiers and cricketers all right for you?”

Cathy dabbed beads of happy tears from the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief. “Oh, you’re so like your sister. Wicked good fun. I’m going to enjoy this season, I can tell.”

“Me too.”

“Let’s make a start then, shall we?” Cathy took her by the arm and led her across to Boomerang Boy.

“Should we not wait?”

“Said the bird who didn’t get the worm.”

Meredith failed to see the promise of romance in that analogy, but it was a fair point. With so many peahens doing the rounds in this one airship alone, dozens of the creatures, in fact, and all high-born, the prized peacocks were well and truly clucked. Closer to, she realised Boomerang Boy was very young indeed; his oversized tweed suit wore him, while his wrists and hands were pitifully small.

“Good afternoon.” Cathy’s greeting elicited only a snappish glance from the boy, who chose to resume his tinkering rather than engage her. “What an interesting gadget. My friend here was marvelling over it just now, said it must be for a new sport of some kind. Is she right?”

Again no response, only a more hurried fiddling with the intricate gears and springs, even though the lad clearly didn’t know a hinge from a harlot’s... Meredith was about to ask the valet if the boy was deaf when Cathy gave her arm a tug, as if she’d discovered something.

“If you’ll excuse us, ladies, my master isn’t feeling well today. He means no disrespect.” The valet’s accent seemed to be a combination of Irish and Cockney. Meredith hadn’t noticed his stubble before, nor the granite cane he held flat next to a pint of Guinness on the bar. Suddenly she didn’t think he was a valet at all—no indentured servant would dare go so unshaven in public or drink in the company of his master. Which in turn cast suspicion on the boy. Unusually tiny, delicate hands, such a smooth face, eyebrows plucked, and he was wearing clothes too old and too big for him. This was no boy!

“You mean she means no disrespect. Why, I can—”

“Wow, wow, hold it there just a minute, miss.” The non-valet darted in front of Meredith. She recoiled, held onto Cathy.

“What the devil—How dare you, sir!” Cathy spun Meredith around the back of her, squaring up to the mystery man, who in turn shielded his young charge. “Explain yourself.”

Non-valet put a finger to his lips, pleading for them not to make a scene. He then whispered something to the puzzled youngster, and promptly held up his hands in surrender to Cathy and Meredith. “Easy, ladies, please, play it easy now, I beg you. My name’s Donnelly—” He plucked a business card from his inside pocket, “—Freelance Investigator, Personal Bodyguard, trouble-shooter for hire. You’ve already clocked my client, who speaks no English, I’m afraid. She’s dressed this way for her own protection, until I can get her safely where she needs to go. The private cabins were all booked up, so I’ve had to hide her in plain-sight, not too successfully, I gather. Don’t say a word to anyone now.”

“No, of course not. I beg your pardon, Mr. Donnelly. It’s certainly none of our business.”

Meredith snatched the business card from Cathy. “Will you be for hire in London, Mr. Donnelly?”

He looked her up and down, then glanced away. Well, she liked what she saw, at least, even if he was likely a good decade older than she’d assumed from a distance. Probably early to mid-thirties. “As a matter of fact I will,” he replied. “The day after tomorrow. Any particular assignment the young lady has in mind?”

“Meredith?”

“Yes. I’ll contact you with the details, sir. Your telephone number is—”

“On the back of the card.”

“Well, thank you.”

He held his dazzled gaze upon Cathy. “My pleasure, Miss...” Only at the last second did he look at Meredith.

“McEwan.” Jealousy fizzed inside her as he kept looking at Lady Bloody Catarina. “I’ll be in touch, then?”

“Looking forward to it,” he said. “By the way, that gadget you were interested in, it’s a fly-mech, a sort of mechanized slingshot, used in a French sport called Joute du Cuivre. The latest thing over there.”

“Not dangerous, I hope.”

“Not without springs.” He winked at Meredith, and she shivered with delight.

“How can I get one?” Not that she gave a fig for sports.

“Easily enough. I’ll bring one by if you’d like?”

“Only if you teach me how to use it.”

“At no extra charge.”

She thanked him and said she’d telephone him in a day or two. As they left, Cathy leaned in and whispered to her, “So that’s who you had in mind.”

“Uh-huh. For your future reference.”

“I underestimated you. I see I’ll have to sharpen my game next time.”

“Do your worst.”

“There’s worse than sweet-talking an underage cross-dresser?”

“I don’t know,” said Meredith. “We are descending into London.”