A Gentleman of Means (20 page)

Gloria lay upon her bed, fully clothed and wide awake, her head turned upon the pillow so that she could see the moon rise through the tall windows. She couldn’t remember ever caring about where the moon was prior to this, but tonight, she had opened the drapes the maid had so carefully closed, every nerve strung taut as she waited for the slow silvering of the sky that would tell her it was time.

Saturday night, when the moon was full, just as the crinkled invitation under her pillow had said.

In the meanwhile, her brain ran riot, running over every possible scenario for rescue.

For it was a distressing fact that while she knew the
when
of a rescue, she did not know the
how
. Even though she knew it was ridiculous, she had waited through dinner and the interminable evening that followed with bated breath, in case they decided the bold approach was best, and came dressed in evening clothes, ready to introduce themselves and sit down for a game of cowboy poker.

But they had not. So that left a few other options.

Would they come by road, in the landau? Certainly not—they would be spotted before they drove halfway through the park.

From the windows at the back of the house, she had seen walkers and hunters in the hills, the former somehow managing not to be shot by the latter in their pursuit of game. Perhaps her friends might disguise themselves and come that way, pretending injury so that they would be admitted to the kitchen, from whence they would promptly lose themselves in the house until they located her.

To her knowledge, that had not occurred either.

And so she lay there, wondering what other plan Claire and Ian might come up with. But every option seemed impossible. After the mysterious gunman’s single shot, more gentlemen from the Walsingham Office had arrived to scour the estate. They had found nothing save a flattened space in the grass under the trees opposite the house, where presumably he had lain to take his shot. Subsequently they had not seen so much as a hair of him, which made her even more certain it must have been a poacher with terrible aim, who had frightened himself so badly he was probably in Ireland by now. If it had not been for the patch on the drawing-room wall where the portrait had been removed and the plaster repaired, she might have thought she had dreamed the entire incident.

If only she could shimmy down the wistaria vines and run! But Barnaby had taken her at her word—every window was guarded, every door had a man posted next to it. Nameless, pleasant men whom one would forget instantly if one were not forever tripping over them in passages.

Her very soul yearned toward the hills in the south—to fly over tree and wall and garden and land in some nameless village where she could buy a ticket on the milk train and disappear. Or perhaps she would simply fly to London, while she was at it, and—

Gloria caught her breath, sat up abruptly, and flung her feet over the side of the bed.

Fly.
Of course.

Claire flew an airship, didn’t she? That’s how they’d come to Venice. How they’d come to England. And very likely how they’d come to Hollys Park, for who would drive on roads as poor as the ones in England?

Every man Jack in this house was watching doors and windows, bushes and trees, waiting for her father to arrive. No one was looking up. No one was guarding the roof.

No one had been more surprised than Gloria to see the note that had come by pigeon this morning, in response to the letter she had written a few days ago.

He never signed his letters
Dad
like a normal person. He always signed them with his full name, as though she had never met him before in her life.

He had not turned up on schedule, but that did not fuss her much. With any luck, he had been arrested in Bath, which would save Barnaby and the pleasant men some exertion. She did not care. As far as she was concerned, she had become an orphan the moment she learned about the French invasion of England.

So she had put him through utter hell, had she? Say rather that, like the Famiglia Rosa, he did not allow anyone to take what was his. The only emotion he likely felt was outrage, not love or fear for her safety. Even his reply had been about his rage and his money, not about her happiness or well-being.

Well, she had disappeared quite successfully against her will. She would disappear even more successfully under her own steam, and despite all his millions and his seemingly endless supply of men and ships and guns, he would not be able to find her then, either. Perhaps Claire would help her find work to keep a roof over her head, and then she could live her own life instead of pretending to be content as a mere appendage—or inconvenience—to his.

The house slept, as much as the pleasant men working their rotating watches could be said to do. Having no coat, since she had not been out of doors since she arrived in her suit and shirtwaist, she pulled a woolen blanket from the back of the chair next to her bed and wound it about herself as a shawl. Her rings and her little bit of money were already tucked into her corset.

She crept into the corridor, which was carpeted, and up the back stairs, which were not. The servants had gone to bed, so there was no one to see her slip up a set of stairs so narrow they practically formed a ladder. A short corridor served several storerooms, which she only knew because she had prowled about up here the other day for want of anything better to do. She did not dare light a lamp, for the guards posted outside in the garden would surely see it glimmering in the topmost row of windows under the roof, and send someone to investigate.

The door to the roof was in a tower so short it was more like a human-sized barrel, so she unlatched it by feel and stepped out, closing it carefully behind her.

Air! Sky! Freedom!

Gloria dragged lungfuls of frigid air deep into her lungs, then scanned the sky for anything resembling an airship. But nothing crossed the sky but banks of woolly clouds, moving in from the north. It felt like snow.

Surely they would come soon. Surely she would not have to retreat to her room, half frozen, and spend the rest of the night contemplating yet another day of imprisonment.

Claire, are you out there? Are you really coming?

Please don’t leave me here.

*

“We must leave soon, or she will think we are not coming.” Cautiously, Claire leaned out of the basket, craning upward as she attempted to see Andrew in the touring balloon’s rigging. Except that it was not really a touring balloon anymore. It was something quite new.

“There—that’s got it,” came Andrew’s voice from above. “Ignite her, Claire, and we shall see if this will work.” Nimbly as any midshipman, he climbed down the rigging and landed in the basket beside her. “I had the Membrane laid out in the sun all day and its energy clusters are fully charged—how fortunate the weather has cooperated until now.”

“Let us hope all these cobbled-together parts will cooperate with one another, as well,” she observed, her hands moving quickly from switch to lever. “It has been so long since I ignited a vessel without Seven that I have quite forgotten how—to say nothing of the fact that we have no coal or fire.”

“It seems strange, I agree. And—now.”

He pushed forward the final lever and to her immense satisfaction, the power stored in the Membrane made its way to the automaton clusters, each of which featured a small, modified version of one of Dr. Craig’s power cells, and thence to the makeshift gondola. The propellers began to turn.

She clutched Andrew’s arm. “It works!”

He caught her against him in a hug of triumph, and kissed her soundly.

“Now, now,” said a voice from below. “None of that out in full view.”

Claire detached herself from Andrew and leaned over the rim of the basket. “That will be enough of your impertinence, Jake Fletcher McTavish,” she said, smiling. “You may cast off.”

“Sure you don’t want one of us along?” Tigg said. He hadn’t been happy about this excursion from the moment he’d learned that Claire and Andrew would attempt it alone.

“I want both of you along,” she said, “but as you can see, the addition of Gloria’s weight on the return journey will be as much as this poor old wreck can manage. You know your part. I count on you to carry it out.”

She had every confidence that they would, for she had no confidence at all that the ancient touring balloon would survive the journey. Jake and Tigg were to follow as best they could in the landau, keeping them in view as much as possible during the ten miles between Hollys Park and Captain Hayes’s house, in case something went wrong and the little vessel went down. Claire was not afraid of an outright crash, for unless the gasbag ruptured altogether, it would behave as larger ships did, and land on a long, slow approach. The part she did not relish was being stranded in some farmer’s field and having to abandon their precious Membrane, with miles to walk and Gerald Meriwether-Astor who knew where in the neighborhood.

Jake and Tigg released the ropes, and the touring balloon with its silvery cover rose gracefully into the sky. As the ground fell away beneath them, Claire controlled the amount of energy going to the propellers and the homemade vanes, while Andrew did his best to steer by controlling the propellers’ direction.

Awkward, yes. Inefficient, certainly. But they were flying!

One mile, two, and Claire caught a glimpse of the road and the double glow of the landau’s running lamps far below. So far, so good. Four miles. Five. Eight …

And there it was.

Andrew patted her arm, since he couldn’t be heard over the beating of the propellers, and made a downward motion with one hand. Claire nodded, and leaned on the lever that throttled back the energy. The balloon sank toward the house.

Now came the tricky part.

She could feel the balloon’s trajectory as Andrew controlled vanes and propellers with both hands and one foot. The still night was perfect for flying—with one difficulty. They were too loud. Which was why speed and accuracy would be paramount, and she must judge this very carefully …

Now
. She pulled back again on the lever and the propellers fell silent, still turning for a last few rotations as the balloon drifted toward the roof. The large square area in the middle, near the short tower, might have seemed enormous to someone standing on it, but for them, it was a bull’s eye all too small, and they had only one shot.

Someone stepped out of the shadow of the tower—a bulky, shapeless mass—and Claire’s heart nearly failed in her chest.

But it was too late now. They must land. With her free hand, she unfastened the strap of the lightning rifle in its holster on her back.

The bottom of the basket scraped on the gravel of the roof. Andrew leaped out to hold it steady, his body positioned protectively between her and the unknown person. Claire thumbed the switch of the rifle and it began to hum.

The person hurried toward them, tearing something from its head—a blanket! The moonlight struck—

“Claire! Andrew! Thank God!” Gloria said with a gasp, and flung herself upon Andrew in a hug.

“Gloria—yes—no, wait—”

Claire leaped from the basket and pulled her away, then both she and Andrew whirled to catch at the ropes before the whole rig floated away, unmoored, into the sky.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Gloria clapped her hands over her mouth until they moored it to one of the crenellations of the parapet. “I’m just so awfully glad to see you—alive—well!”

Claire turned and wrapped her arms about her in joy. “And we are equally glad to see you. Come. We will have only a moment once the propellers begin to turn. Someone will hear.”

“You’re quite right. The place is crawling in government men,” Gloria said.

Andrew held the basket while she and Claire clambered in, then ran to untie the rope. “What possessed you to come up here?” Claire whispered. “I had thought I would be searching the house in evening dress.” She indicated her ensemble under her coat—which Ian had unearthed from a trunk in the attic, made in the fashion of a hundred years before.

“I’ve been waiting all day, and finally concluded that you would come by air. Anything else would be too risky.”

“There is no shortage of risk even yet.” Rope in hand, Andrew barrel-rolled over the side of the basket and the balloon began to float upward. “Claire, ignition, please, quickly.”

Again the ignition procedure, her chilled hands moving with difficulty now, on switches and levers.

“Halt right there!”

Gloria gasped and Claire lost her balance for a moment on the tilting floor of the basket.

Below, several men emerged from the tower and fanned out on the roof. One leaped for the bottom of the basket, his fingers barely scraping its wicker floor under their feet. “Stop, in Her Majesty’s name!”

Claire braced her feet and flung her weight against the lever, and power flowed to the propellers. They sputtered into action, and Andrew threw the vanes full vertical.