Chapter Twelve
To say that Lucas slept poorly that night would be a massive understatement.
He tossed, he turned, he thumped his pillow until feathers flew out of it, grunted, groaned, and finally, after maybe an hour or so of sleep, he gave up.
He sincerely hoped Verity was doing the same thing, since it was all her fault.
Well, all right. Some of it was his. He probably shouldn’t have kissed her in the first place, but there was something there between them, some...connection that transcended anything he’d experience with other women.
She was brilliant, without question. Her abilities to grasp the principles of his financial system had astounded him. And her gentle curves, soft skin, and grey eyes...they’d enchanted him.
Which conclusion did him no good at all.
However, since the sun was rising, he decided to put the matter to one side for the moment.
He didn’t plan on going anywhere until their investigations had concluded.
Thus he had some time yet before decisions were required, and during that time he could evaluate whether his reactions to Verity were those of a typical male in close contact with a desirable female, or something else.
His practical mind nodded at that sensible conclusion. The rest of him slumped in one corner, helpless with laughter.
Sighing, Lucas slid out of bed, and as if waiting for the sound of his feet to hit the floor, Edgar tapped on the door and peered around it, then trundled in with a tray bearing a hot cup of tea.
“Good morning, Mr Lucas. Lovely day today. Sun’s shining, birds are singing...” He put his burden down on Lucas’s bedside table.
“What the hell’s gotten into you?” Lucas stared.
“Nothing, sir, just the pleasure of a delightful morning. A harbinger, if you will, of the day ahead.” Edgar carefully poured a dash of milk into the cup and presented it to his master. “Here we are, then, sir. Just as you like it. A little cream, no sugar.”
Lucas took the cup, eyeing his tickerkin suspiciously. “Thank you.” He sipped and nodded. “It’s good. So tell me, Edgar, what did you do?”
If a cast bronze tickerkin shaped like an eagle could possibly raise his eyebrows, then Edgar did just that. “Me? I did nothing, sir. Nothing at all.”
“You are unreasonably cheerful this morning. What’s going on?”
“Why nothing at all, sir. I just assumed...”
“You assumed what?”
“Well, sir,” Edgar rolled backward a little, away from his master, “I collected your clothing last night, as always. Just to give it a brush and make sure it was creaseless.”
“And?”
“I...er...well...” His words trailed off as Lucas’s gaze remained fixed on his face.
“You what?”
“I made what might have been a hasty assumption, sir.”
A dark eyebrow rose as tickerkin and master stared at each other.
“And that assumption was...?”
“Well, sir, I—I—as you know, I pride myself on making sure you are correctly garbed, sir. So as I was straightening the garments you wore yesterday, I couldn’t help noticing...”
“What?”
“They smelled of lily of the valley.”
Lucas groaned. “Edgar. Go away. I shall finish my tea, prepare myself for the day, and then make the decision as to whether to remove any of your working parts.”
“Very good, sir.” Another rumble of gears and wheels accompanied the tickerkin’s departure from Lucas’s room, beak high and an amused look on its face that his master couldn’t see.
Admonishing himself for the visions that drifted through his mind after Edgar’s words, Lucas walked straight into his bathroom and took a bracing cold shower. He was not usually given to such self-flagellation, but he hoped the brutal shock would rattle his mind back into some sort of order.
Pleased to notice that his house was looking more and more like he remembered, he dressed and turned his mind firmly away from lilies of the valley, and back to the problem that had brought him to Arcvale in the first place.
And that was now expanding, it would seem.
Time to access his mirror-engine.
“Edgar...” He yelled. “Come here a minute...”
The obedient tickerkin rolled to his side. “Yes sir?”
“Has anyone opened this door since I left?” He pointed at what looked like a panel on the wall of his study, similar to all the other panels.
Edgar blinked several times as he ran through his mechanical recollections. “No sir. As you saw when you arrived, Ashcombe Cottage had been almost deserted. Only myself and an annual cleaning crew had access. And certainly not in here.”
“Good.” Lucas nodded, then walked to the panel. “Let’s see if I remember this, and if it works...” He turned. “Edgar, would you mind leaving, please? And close the door after you?”
“Of course, sir.”
The tickerkin did as he was bid and the door clicked shut, leaving Lucas alone in his study. He reached toward the panel, smiling a little at the smoothly familiar feel of the carved decoration that matched the ones on every other panel in the room.
This one, however, if one were to examine it closely, betrayed a tiny shining spot. It was to this exact spot that Lucas applied the tip of his forefinger, at the identical moment his left foot pressed on the floor tile in front of it.
And with a creak and a bit of a groan, the panel swung open.
He sighed with pleasure as he observed the machine still waiting within.
Had anyone actually managed to open the panel by mistake, all they would see was an exquisite piece of furniture resembling a tall bureau, with several drawers and cupboards symmetrically arranged around a slightly slanted surface, and a mirror on top.
Stroking it possessively, Lucas sighed as he recalled the hours he’d spent building it and then using it as his access point to the Arcvale bank and the PBIC.
He had one very similar in Sectorvale that he’d connected to this one, and between them, he’d had chance to keep an eye on the financial world that was usually hidden from public eyes.
The next test would be to see if it worked as well with a human touch. After ten years without any maintenance, getting any kind of response to his personal commands would be wonderful. Reviving it to full working order? Well, the word ‘miracle’ crossed Lucas’s mind.
Taking a breath, and wiping his hands on his jacket, he carefully opened the left-hand cupboard and flipped one of the switches inside.
Holding his breath, he then pressed the button immediately beneath.
With a tiny shudder, a soft buzz, and then a firm beep, lights began to illuminate, and the soft whirl of gears filled the room.
Lucas’s mirror-engine was fully up and running happily for its master once again.
In less than half-an-hour, he shut it down. His worst fears had just been confirmed by a series of numbers displayed on the small viewer tucked beneath the now-open lid of the desk. He had copied them onto several sheets of paper.
This was definitely some sort of attack on the entire system. But not one of brute force or obvious manipulations. Someone had learned how to whisper to it.
And that realisation scared the daylights out of Lucas.
*~~*~~*
That gentleman probably would have been pleased to know that someone else had passed a restless night.
Verity had managed to sleep more than he had, but it was a restless kind of sleep, plagued with images and sensual dreams. The kind of dreams that stirred and confused her, made her ache for more, and left her half-awake and wishing for things she knew were impossible.
So she too had begun her day early, following a routine that was as normal as she could make it.
Sprocket had made breakfast and laid out her clothing for the day, so she’d prepared herself to face whatever came next as best she could.
Her dress was a sensible navy blue, her jacket the same colour, trimmed with light blue and white embroidery.
She loved the soft lace blouse with the ruffled neck and the corset, featuring the same embroidery as the jacket, completed the image of a sensible and stylish woman of good standing.
The lily of the valley perfume she lightly misted around her neck? Well, it was her favourite fragrance. That was the only reason she used it.
After acknowledging that she was lying to herself, she sighed, and walked to the hall, where Sprocket had just received a few notes and messages along with the morning paper.
“And don’t you look a picture this morning, my Lady.” Her tickerkin gave her an approving nod. “That’s the perfect ensemble for this day, since it’s bright and sunny.”
“Good,” Verity nodded. “Anything interesting there? I’ll take them in if you’d make me a cup of tea?”
“It’s all ready, my Lady. Go along and I’ll set the pot to steeping.”
Verity idly glanced at the notes and then took a quick peep at the newspaper headlines.
“The Forge produces Miracle Nail Clippers” screamed one headline, making her chuckle. They must have been very low on news to dig that one up.
Setting the paper aside, Verity buttered a piece of toast and turned to the notes, perusing them as she ate.
“An invitation to tea”, she wrinkled her nose. “Miss Stansby. I don’t think so. She’s yet to learn that men don’t always like young ladies who gush, and her Mama is even worse.”
“Miss Stansby?” Sprocket entered in time to hear the last of Verity’s comment to herself.
“How did you guess?”
“When it comes to gushing young ladies, Miss Stansby wins by a mile.”
“Hmm. Can’t disagree with you there. So ‘no’ on that one. How about this...I’m invited to a small dedication ceremony. A new trammelbuggy station is opening, named after someone from the Forge, who—I assume—did something amazingly brilliant. Not sure who or what, it doesn’t say.”
“Not a well-written invitation,” said Sprocket, nose in the air. “They should know better down at the Forge.”
“They probably do. But heaven knows who wrote the invitations. Anyway, ‘no’ on that one as well.”
She opened the next one and chuckled. “Oh my. A special pre-opening opening.” She blinked.
“I swear that’s what it says, Sprocket. Here look.
..” she held out the card. “See? A pre-opening opening...and for our dear friend Albermarle de Montclair. Goodness, he’s even going to be there in person to sign his art for the lucky attendees who reserve pieces for themselves. ”
“Reserve pieces?” Sprocket sounded puzzled.
“Yep. Reserve pieces. It means you can pre-buy a painting at the pre-opening. Stay with me here, Sprocket. By purchasing the painting up front, nobody else can buy it, but it can still be on display so that other art-lovers can be impressed by its magnificence and immediately desire one of their own.”
Her tickerkin considered that. “It’s...it’s an odd way of doing business, wouldn’t you say, my Lady?”
“Albermarle de Montclair is an odd sort of artist. And his paintings? Let’s just say I wouldn’t hang one in a trammelbuggy station, and that’s being generous.”
“So a polite no on that one as well, I would imagine?”
“Let me think about it. Beatrice is one of the people behind it, apparently, so I’ll consider it.”
She opened the second to last note. “Oh, this sounds more like it. Mrs. Ardmore is co-hosting a talk by one of the academics from Arcvale university, a history professor, on some of the items they discovered during excavations around the Forge. I’ll wager that’s going to be interesting.”
She sighed. “Right then, last note.” Tearing open the envelope, she removed one sheet of paper and unfolded it. Then she stilled. “Ah, from Mrs Monroe.” Re-reading the note, she swallowed and for a brief moment stood silent, her mind spinning rapidly.
“I’ll take care of this one, Sprocket. Tabby has some questions for me about a charity.” She refolded the note and tucked it away in her pocket.
“I see. Mrs Monroe is very helpful, my Lady, if you’ll excuse the personal comment. Lady Beatrice too.”
“You’re absolutely right. Anyway, I’m depending on you to keep all this straight for me and make sure you remind me the day before the art thing, Sprocket. I have things going on at the moment that are somewhat distracting.”
“I can only imagine, my Lady. He is quite a distraction.”
“What?” Verity prayed she wasn’t blushing. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh...nothing. Nothing at all.” The airy comment floated in silence.
“Sprocket?”
“My Lady?”
Verity rolled her eyes. “Oh never mind. Just make sure these are dealt with, if you would?” She passed the envelopes to her tickerkin, just as the knocker on her front door banged loudly. “I’ll get that, since I’m heading that way.”
Outside, a young and smartly dressed messenger stood, politely holding out a sealed envelope. “For Lady Verity Turner-Yardley,” he bowed, presenting her with the paper. After she accepted it, he turned and left, without another word.
“Hmm. Odd,” muttered Verity.
But then she opened the envelope, and a chill ran down her spine. It was a polite request for her to join her friends at Pembroke Hill, ‘to discuss a matter of great interest.’
Something had happened.
Overnight, something had changed. Alastair wouldn’t have risked an open message like this, were it not important.
She took a breath. “Sprocket, I must be on my way. I doubt I’ll be back in time for lunch, so if anyone should call or ask for me, tell them...um....tell them...”
“I shall tell them that you are unavailable at this time, and that if they leave their cards, you will contact them soon.”
“Bless you, dearest Sprocket.” Verity gathered her reticule, glanced inside to make sure she had everything she might need, and then walked to the door, taking her bonnet off the stand beside it. “I don’t know when I’ll return, so don’t fuss about meals.”
At the mention of meals, her mind darted back to last night’s meal...and other things. Her heart missed a beat as she realised who might well be joining her at Pembroke Hill.
“Sprocket, would you fetch my cologne?”
“Yes, my Lady.”
Verity put down her reticule and turned to the mirror on the wall, settling her bonnet securely on the soft curls she’d pinned up this morning.
“Here we are, my Lady.”
“Thank you.” She held her finger over the top, tipped the bottle and then dabbed the liquid behind her ears. The air around her absorbed the fragrance...lily of the valley.