“You’d think that, wouldn’t you? But it’s only a little poppy milk and valerian. Much stronger than that and they figure out they’ve been drugged. You have to use a light touch or they get suspicious.
Plus it makes some men unable to—ah—perform, and the dangerous ones are likely to get violent if that happens.”
Shane made a wordless sound of protest. She took pity on him. “The job is the job, Shane. We need that information. And you’ve a job of your own, since you’ll be accompanying me as far as the door.”
The blush fled and was replaced with stark white. He stared at her, the ice blue of his eyes almost swallowed up by black, and then he straightened and put his shoulders back. “Yes. Of course. If there is a chance that you will be in danger, I must be nearby.”
“Within shouting distance, anyway.” She rose to her feet. “But you’ll have another job. While I’m keeping him busy, you’re going to be investigating his papers so I know what and what not to bother with.”
“Of course. Anything you require. Just tell me what you need me to do.”
SEDUCING Maltrevor was so easy that you could hardly call it seduction. He not only did all the work, he made it seem like his idea. Marguerite found the Baron at one of the endless gatherings, arranged to bump into him, and he brought up his clockwork collection without so much as a leading question.
“Oh, the most marvelous things,” he said. “A golden grasshopper that hops about, and a beetle that flies on its own. Even a dog that rolls over when you snap your fingers.” He squeezed her hand tightly.
“I do like things that roll over when I snap my fingers,” murmured Marguerite.
“Naughty girl!” He waved a finger at her. “But truly this is something extraordinary. Clockwork animals are nothing new, of course—though I fancy these are particularly fine—but ones that respond to sound! That is quite out of the ordinary way.”
“It really is.” That wasn’t even a lie. Having grown up in Anuket City, Marguerite was familiar with many clockwork creations, not to mention all the ways that they could go horribly wrong.
(Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it was an explosion. The hundredth time, it ran amok and stabbed innocent bystanders, and the artificer would be left standing there saying, “But I had to put blades on it, or how would it rake the leaves?” while the gutters filled up with blood.) Little clockwork creatures were one of the more commercially viable things to come out of the Artificer’s District. Marguerite had brokered more than one shipping deal involving them, and sabotaged more than one as well. But she’d never heard of any that responded to sound. Clearly there had been significant advances since she’d fled the city. Hmm, if Magnus is responsible for that, there may be another opportunity there as well…I wonder what price they would fetch, and if Magnus has a dedicated agent yet?
“I would love to see this clockwork,” she told Maltrevor, with perfect honesty.
Baron Maltrevor licked his lips, and didn’t even bother to hide the look he tipped down her
cleavage. Marguerite resigned herself to an evening of being pawed and pretending to enjoy it. All in a good cause.
“Well, my dear,” he said, patting her hand again, “I’m sure that can be arranged.”
WREN WAS in an excellent mood that evening, which was good, because Shane looked as if he had swallowed a live porcupine and the spines were starting to work their way outward. At least someone’s happy.
Marguerite herself looked forward to the evening in much the same way that one might look forward to digging a new pit for the outhouse—hard work, not exactly fun, possibly with some mildly disgusting bits. But, much like digging the pit, worthwhile in the end.
Wren twisted in the chair, put her feet up, and gazed into the middle distance with a vague, silly smile on her face.
“Seen your young man again?” asked Marguerite, amused.
Wren flushed. “He’s not my young man,” she said. “He’s not…I mean…we haven’t…”
A growl from the corner seemed to indicate that Shane’s porcupine was not agreeing with him.
“But he has sought you out? Repeatedly?” Marguerite asked.
Wren nodded, the smile still on her lips. “He always finds me.”
“Well, I can’t speak to his background, but in the Court, that’s certainly considered meaningful.”
Among a group like the Hundred Houses, that would be tantamount to a proposal, but without knowing where this Ian was from, Marguerite couldn’t be sure.
“He might just be friendly,” Wren said, apparently determined to bring herself back down to earth.
“I mean, it’s hard to make friends here, and I’m not very threatening. He could just want to talk.”
“Uh-huh,” said Marguerite. There were certainly young men in the world who simply wanted a friendly chat with a young woman. She had met at least five of them. The other three or four hundred, on the other hand… “Does he kiss your hand? Lingering looks? You glance over at him and he’s looking straight at you?”
“Nmmmff,” said Wren, turning scarlet.
The porcupine was definitely proving indigestible. Marguerite ignored the grumbling from the corner. “Does he ask you about you or talk about himself?”
Wren dug her shoulder blades deeper into the chair. “He wanted to know all about my life back home. And he asked me to go down to the lake with him, where all the shorebirds are nesting.”
Is looking at shorebirds a euphemism now? Did I just miss it? “And did you see them?”
“The shorebirds? Yes. There’s a spot where they all nest, so if you walk down the path, suddenly there’s a dozen adult birds trying to convince you that they have a broken wing and running in all directions. It was completely ridiculous.”
Regardless of Ian’s intentions, Marguerite was pretty sure that Wren was infatuated with the man,
if she was willing to risk the elevator just to look at strange birds. “You’ll have to bring him by some time,” she said. “I see the merchants more than the nobility.”
“Except for Maltrevor,” said Shane darkly.
“Yes, well. He isn’t terribly welcome among the nobility with marriageable daughters, so he slums it with the merchants. Speaking of which…” She glanced at the water clock. “Probably time to get moving.” She went into her bedroom, slipped into something that, while not terribly comfortable, was certainly minimal, then pulled a cloak on over it.
Wren took one look at her and started laughing. “Oh my god!”
“Subtle, isn’t it?” Marguerite struck a pose. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Shane turn the color of an overexcited tomato.
“Those shoes!” said Wren, sitting up.
“Dreadful, aren’t they?” She bent down and rubbed her heel. “Fortunately there are no steep staircases between here and there, or I’d probably break an ankle.”
Shane finally regained the power of speech and said, “You cannot—you can’t possibly—you don’t mean to—to—”
“To?” She pivoted to face him.
“Go out dressed like that!” He tried to demonstrate what he meant with his hands, ended up tracing an exaggerated hourglass figure, and turned, if possible, even redder.