Destruction (Asylum for the Mechanically Insane Book 2) Page 7

  “How delightful to meet you, my Lord.” Vivienne curtseyed correctly. “It is most gracious of you to extend your hospitality to us. Thakur Sahib was saying earlier how lovely Harbury Hall is and how much he was looking forward to meeting you.”

  Kerala had moved silently to her side and although he’d already been introduced, he bowed slightly. “Mrs. Stanton-Foley is quite correct, Lord Harbury. Most gracious of you indeed.”

  Vivienne was pleased to see Harbury relaxing somewhat under the obsequiously effusive compliments he was receiving. Others gathered near and Vivienne caught a look of gratitude from Lady Alwynne.

  She let a tiny smile curve her lips, and then moved away a little, letting the gentlemen speak to each other.

  Del, she noticed, had not joined them. He was moving to her side, and smiling at Lady Alwynne.

  “I believe Lord Harbury is possessed of a treasure far greater than any housed in the Hall, my Lady.”

  She smiled back, her lips full, her eyes hungry. “And what would that be, Commander?”

  He took her hand, bowed over it and dropped a light kiss on the back. “Why yourself, of course.”

  She laughed aloud, tapped his cheek and disengaged her hand. “You are too charming for your own good, Commander. Take him away, Mrs. Stanton-Foley. He is a dangerous man. I trust you to keep him out of trouble.” She walked away, then looked back over her shoulder. “For now…”

  Vivienne breathed out a small breath, letting her shoulders relax slightly.

  “This is a very strange place,” Del whispered.

  She looked at the people in the room, Kerala, greedy for power, flaunting his wealth. Lord Harbury, arrogant, disfigured and if not mad now, well on the way. The professor, the engineer, the other women, background figures eager to become leading men in some endeavor or other. And Lady Alwynne, magnificent but beneath her beauty lay—what?

  She risked a quick glance at Del and saw his quizzical expression. She felt a bubble of amusement build and for once let a grin peep through her façade. “That, Fleet Commander, is a massive understatement.”

  Chapter 8

  Professor Ringwood worked harder than he’d ever worked before to finish his idea. His time was even more limited, since he had to attend one meeting about that stupid airship.

  In repayment of a major debt, Lady Harbury had offered him the Fleet Commander as a test subject, citing his injuries and the likelihood of his demise going unremarked as particularly useful.

  He’d agreed at the time, but this would be so much better. He didn’t give a fig for Moreton, no matter how damaged he was. If there had been no one else, then yes, he would definitely have used the man and thought no more about it.

  But now, this was a chance to explore a side of thonirium he’d not considered until that damned Indian had had the temerity to threaten him, and then give him more money than any one person should be able to give to another.

  It was a completely irrational response, he knew, this mix of disdain and anger. But it existed, and every time the Professor thought of Thakur Sahib, his lip curled and disgust swamped over him.

  So he labored late into the night, driven by a mixture of loathing, fury and the need to perfect his experiments, and was back at his work early the following morning. He had made an elaborate mold, taking his time to shape each curve and whorl precisely. Even now he was carefully twisting another piece of clay into a sensual swag, pressing various tools into its soft surface to achieve the look he desired.

  Frowning, he decided it wasn’t quite right. Thinking hard, he hurried from his lab, ran down the hallway and darted into the lift, heading upward, tapping his foot impatiently as the small device cranked from level to level.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he reached the kitchen level. Rushing through the salon and ignoring everyone there at breakfast, he burst in on Mr. ‘Enry.

  “You, Cook. I need a tool. A wood thing you use for obtaining juice from fruits?”

  The portly body rose slowly from the chair next to the table and one eyebrow rose quizzically. “Wot?”

  Ringwood nearly danced from one foot to the other with impatience. “You know, the wood thing. You stick it in an orange or something. It’s pointed and has carvings on it. You must have one. Come on, man. I’m in a hurry.”

  “I saw.” Mr. ‘Enry sauntered to a large sideboard and opened one drawer. He rummaged, mumbled, stood and scratched his bald head, then bent and rummaged again.

  “Ah. This?” He held up a flattened wooden spoon.

  “No, you fool.” Ringwood took a breath, lest his temper get the better of him. “Think carefully. You have a lemon. Lady Harbury wants lemon with her tea. How would you get the juice out?”

  “Squeeze it?”

  “Dammit…”

  “Wait up, sir, just pullin’ yer leg, like.” Mr. ‘Enry reached back into the drawer and removed a carved wooden peg with a pointed end.

  Ringwood squeaked, then cleared his throat. “That’s it, man. That’s it.”

  He snatched it away from the cook, turned it over and sighed with relief. “Perfect.”

  He was halfway to his laboratory before he realized he hadn’t even said thank you. But since when did one bother with thanking servants anyway.

  He rushed back to his workbench, clutching his prize and knowing that now he was close to the final act of his little drama.

  The thought made him chuckle.

  *~~*~~*

  “He’s a warlord, you know.”

  Vivienne was leaning on the ornamental balustrade ringing the terrace outside the dining room of Harbury Hall.

  Next to her, Del rested a hip on the stone and watched her face. He’d asked the question as they took a breath of air after dinner.

  “What kind of warlord?”

  She lowered her head and studied the flowers bordering her toes as they poked between the columns. “The worst kind. He’s very powerful, greedy, always looking for more power. He controls all of the tribes in his corner of the world, I’m told. And he’s amassed a fortune in one way or another, none of which I care to know about.”

  “Vivienne.” He reached out to touch her arm, disturbed by the slight tremor in her voice.

  “It’s all right. Really.” She moved enough to avoid him. “I have no illusions left, Del. I’ve done what was necessary with full knowledge and forethought.” She laughed—a sound devoid of mirth. “Isn’t that what the courts say? Full knowledge and forethought?”

  “Only if you’re on trial for something.”

  “I stand accused every day I look at myself in the mirror. Some days are worse than others. But as I said, I have no illusions. I know what I am now. What I always will be.”

  “You are Vivienne Stanton-Foley. A beautiful woman with a heart to match and a brilliant mind.”

  “And you, Commander, had a wee too much brandy after dinner.”

  “I didn’t have any at all. It’s you that’s intoxicating.”

  “Oh, very nice.” This time her laugh was genuine.

  Del grinned. “That’s better. I was wondering if you still smiled.”

  “I smile. All the time.”

  “No you don’t. You make your mouth curve, but there’s no joy in your eyes.” He looked out into the garden. “I’ve seen the joy there, Vivienne, so don’t lie to me. I know.”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “You’re right, of course. But I don’t look for joy, Del. I’ve told you. I’m surviving the best way I know how. It would be greedy of me to ask for happiness as well.”

  “No it wouldn’t.” He clenched his fists together, fighting the urge to reach for her, and hold her tightly against his chest while he ravaged her mouth with his. “I can give you joy, Vivienne. You know I can.”

  She was silent for a long moment, and he heard the sound of lazy crickets, slowing their chirps now as the autumn air began to pick up a chill. “Yes, Del. You can indeed.” She gave a little nod.

  “Then let me. Tonight. Co
me to me tonight.” He didn’t realize how much need was in his heart until he spoke the words. “I’m damaged goods, Viv. I’m grounded because of wounds that barely show, but I can’t fly. I have little left in my life. At least that’s what I thought until I saw you.”

  “Del.” She looked aghast. “What happened? Where are you wounded? Have you healed?” Her hands stirred, moving toward him without conscious thought. She caught herself though, and let her eyes tell him of her concern.

  “I’m all right. I have healed, although some said it was a miracle of sorts.”

  Voices grew louder and both Del and Vivienne moved away from each other instinctively.

  “Damn.” Del cursed. “This will be difficult.”

  “Leave it to me.” Vivienne smiled her calm, professional smile. “I shall retire soon. Expect me after midnight.”

  “It will be a long time until then.”

  “Mrs. Stanton-Foley.” Her name sounded harsh when uttered with a strong Indian accent.

  “I am out here, talking with Commander Moreton.” She turned and walked toward Thakur Sahib. “My apologies, Kerala. I was not aware your discussion had concluded.”

  Kerala glanced at the Commander and then back to Vivienne. “It is nothing. I am glad you were able to entertain Commander Moreton.”

  Del looked at him, the magnificent clothing and elegant demeanor doing little to conceal the harsh and savage man beneath. His throat constricted as he realized that Vivienne had put herself in this man’s thrall. And he was every bit as dangerous as the tigers that roamed his countryside.

  “Mrs. Stanton-Foley took pity on me. It was most kind of her to pass a few moments out here and tell me of some of my friends. It’s easy to lose contact with the past when devoted to one’s service and duty. As I’m sure you understand, sir.” He inclined his head.

  “Indeed you are correct, Commander.” Thakur Sahib walked out to the balustrade and surveyed the garden. Del noted that Vivienne had quietly withdrawn to the salon, and guessed this was her usual pattern of behavior when the Indian engaged another man in conversation.

  She was, without a doubt, the best kind of mistress, but by God he hated that word.

  “It is hard for men such as ourselves, warriors beneath the wool and linens, to adapt once more to the beauty of a quiet English evening.”

  Del nodded. “That is true.”

  “You were with a squadron during the Kashmiri action?”

  “Only at the tail end.” Del realized he was being gently questioned and slipped into what he thought of as his military mode. “Most of the time I was moving between divisions south of the Punjab. Beautiful country, by the way. Especially seen from the air.” He straightened and looked up. “Have you ever had chance to see the world from an airship, Thakur Sahib?”

  “I have not, I’m afraid.”

  “It is worth the time and effort. An experience you should not miss. If you’d like, I can speak with some of my London contacts…there is an airfield not far from here and I’m sure we could arrange a trip for you, should you be interested.”

  The other man blinked in surprise. “Well. I had not thought to—as a matter of fact, yes. Yes, I would like that most enthusiastically.”

  He was certainly caught off-guard, realized Del. His English was slipping and his accent emerging more strongly.

  “In that case, allow me to make inquiries. I should be able to arrange something for tomorrow perhaps.”

  “You are most kind.” Thakur bowed. “And now I must retire. I have prayers to complete before I sleep.”

  “Of course. Good evening.” Del bowed back.

  Vivienne followed the Indian as he quit the gathering. He had no idea whether she would attend his prayers or if she would be free once he retired, or what. He didn’t actually want to think about “what” at all.

  So he focused on the hours to come. She’d said she could be with him. He hoped she was right because otherwise he was going to pass a bloody miserable night alone.

  *~~*~~*

  Portia, in her guise as maidservant, had no idea of the lustful dreams or wishes being experienced in the grand salons and corridors of Harbury Hall proper. And to be fair, she probably wouldn’t have given a groat’s worth of time wondering about them even if she’d known, since she had her own pot to stir.

  She was learning that to be a maid was the next best thing to invisibility, because her appearance anywhere with a bucket or a mop, or even simply a feather duster, occasioned no comment whatsoever. It was as if she wasn’t there.

  Thus she had spent several happy hours going back and forth from a small storage room on the second level. Little more than an oversized cupboard, it had been neglected for what could have been centuries, judging by the amount of dust Portia found layered on everything in there.

  After half an hour sneezing her way through the worst of it, she’d managed to unearth several packages of very old papers, although what they were exactly, she had yet to determine.

  She’d diligently ferried them to her little room, tucked neatly in a bucket or two, and covered by an assortment of cloths. Indeed, the space was quite neat when she was done, so she felt justified in “borrowing” some of the contents to peruse at her leisure.

  Fortunately, she now had her room to herself. Originally she’d shared with another maid, but the lure of work in the main house had proved too exciting and no one had appeared to replace her. Which was perfect for Portia, who used the second bed as a sort of desk and repository for whatever she’d scrounged from various places.

  She was no scientist, of course, but her fascination with the various kinds of experiments her father had shared with her had never abated.

  And there was her very own secret weapon which she wore everywhere. Thankful her uniform had long sleeves—even though they were warm in the summer—she was never without her Jallai, a delicate network of copper and brass that would have been called a bracer in medieval times.

  Lightweight and a snug fit, she’d learned how to flex her arm muscle in such a way as to produce a beam of energy from the device. It had saved lives in a time of catastrophe and she knew it would do so again if need be. It used her energy as a source. How, she had no idea, but wearing it gave her both confidence and courage.

  As she washed the worst of the day’s dirt off her arms and face that evening, she reflected that she’d probably need to be exceedingly confident and very brave to accomplish her stated goals. Either that or damnably stupid.

  Sometimes, Portia knew, it was hard to distinguish between them.

  But for now, she had some late reading to do. She turned down the wick on the lamp to conserve the oil, wrapped herself in her nightrobe and began a journey backward in time.

  Chapter 9

  “This Fleet Commander. He knows you well?”

  Vivienne watched Kerala unravel the length of glorious silk that comprised his turban. The jeweled ornaments lay neatly aligned on his dresser, next to the heavily decorated dagger he always wore in his belt. Many thought it was simply a lavish part of his native costume, and in several ways they were correct.

  He was part of a family that always honored their traditions, and a weapon in the belt was one of them.

  However, this particular weapon had tasted blood many times over. Kerala was a warlord who had attained his position through intimidation, a Machiavellian cunning—and the ability to kill without a second thought.

  Vivienne had learned that by personal observation. It had changed her, made her close parts of herself off. That day, when she’d seen the young would-be robber lying behind some rubbish bins in a London alley with his throat slashed from ear to ear, she’d felt her heart stop. It started again, of course, but this time she was a different woman.

  She’d looked up at Kerala and seen the flush of the fight in his cheeks and the light of victory glowing in his eyes. The blood still dripped from the blade, his lips curled back from his teeth and the very wildness emanating from him in that m
oment sealed her resolve.

  She would never underestimate him, or allow him to even think she might have any emotions whatsoever. She would never forget this moment, either.

  It had been early enough in their relationship that her change went unnoticed. Kerala seemed to appreciate a quiet reserved Englishwoman, and that was exactly what she gave him.

  Even in bed, she was submissive, agreeable and completely silent. On those occasions where a scream was forced from her throat, she muffled it as best she could…

  “You have not answered my question.” He looked at her reflection in the tall cheval mirror as he began to unbutton his high-necked shirt.

  “It is as he told you. We met many years ago…it’s been perhaps nearly a decade. I was just beginning my second season, if I remember correctly, and he was just beginning his distinguished career. We shared some dances, flirted a little. We were very young, Kerala. It’s what young people do.”

  “And that is all?”

  “Of course. I was soon engaged to my husband. The Fleet Commander had long gone to his military duties.”

  She lifted her chin and calmly met the gaze of her protector. It was a gesture she’d perfected and his reaction had become predictable. Something about her calm and somber expression reassured him. “Very well. This is good. Did he mention his posting during your conversation? Why he is here?”

  “Not to me. Although he did say that he had been wounded. I received the impression that he has been recuperating here at Harbury. Which would make sense, since he is part of those airship design meetings. His superiors would be pleased to keep his expertise at their disposal, even if he is temporarily unable to serve physically.” She lifted her shoulders slightly. “Other than his mention of his health, our conversation was quite general.”

  Kerala nodded. “Good.” He turned away, shrugging from his shirt and revealing his strongly muscled shoulders and back. “However, he seems attracted to you. His eyes follow you.”

  “I had not noticed.”