Midsummer Moon (2 page)

"Vast. And I shall donate a copy to each of the various lending libraries, of course, as well as the universities."

"Shall you? Indeed! Why—Oh, that is a—Oh, my, I don't know what to say!"

He looked down at her. Really, it was too pathetically easy. The joy on her face made him want to ask for another twelve or thirteen dozen. She took an excited little hop backward and knocked the unidentified object over again. The hall rang to a discordant clatter. She bent hastily, picking up the mysterious framework.

"Sorry.” She colored a little, clutching the contraption and peering at him from under her eyelashes with a tentative smile. “Perhaps when I see it in better light I can recall what it is."

And His Grace the Duke of Damerell, the scourge of Whigs, the advisor of princes, the ambassador, minister, man-of-the world, looked down at her and found himself smiling back.

Merlin's problem, Theodore and Thaddeus had always told her, was that she thought too hard.

Uncle Dorian had violently disagreed, of course. Concentration was her best quality, he'd always said. Uncle Dorian had been sure she could accomplish anything. His last words to her had been, “Keep thinking, Merlin. You can fly. The answer is..."

The answer is ...
what?

How like Uncle Dorian to forget what he was going to say.

For five years that unfinished sentence had haunted her. It seemed she didn't know
any
answers, though she tried and tried to build a machine that could fly. Uncle Dorian's dream seemed so close, sometimes, so near her grasp, and then a test wing collapsed or a propellant gave a vicious pop and her model was left in tatters on the ground. The corridor was lined with pieces of her failures.

She tripped on a discarded orrery, making the wheel-works that moved the miniature solar system ring. A white blur moved quickly near her ear as the duke caught a tottering axle-rod in his gloved hand before it descended on her head.

"Careful,” he said sharply.

Merlin ducked and apologized.

The Duke of Damerell, she repeated to herself. Or was it the Duke of Falconer? He seemed excessively sensitive over the difference. But she couldn't seem to focus on anything about him, except his face and his height. Her cursed concentration again, which caught hold of a thought or an image and would not let go. Just now, she could picture him in exquisite detail as she had just seen him, when first she had opened the door. She could see his thick brown hair beneath his hat, ruthlessly trained into neatness, and the dark eyebrows just as fiercely tamed. His eyes had looked yellow-green in the dappled shade outside, and his nose and mouth as elegant and wild as a gyrfalcon's fine-drawn markings. Perhaps that was why they had picked him as the Duke of Falconer. He looked uncannily like a smiling hawk.

She stumbled on something that fell with a dull thump and heard him utter a muffled oath behind her as his hands steadied her shoulders. “Sorry,” she said miserably. He kept his hand beneath her elbow as she negotiated the last of the dim-lit passage and turned aside into the central hall.

One look at the jumble that filled the large room made her realize it was no place to entertain a visitor. Merlin knew she was no housekeeper, but when had she let things come to this? A rested steam boiler, the fraying basket of a hot-air balloon, a discarded vacuum pump, and a damaged paddle—in the pale sunlight through grimy windows the place looked like a battlefield. She picked her way through the silent confusion, bending to slip beneath the massive sweep of a broken wing that cast a shadow across the narrow path like a great, weary bat.

The duke came behind her. He made no comment on the chaos, but she sensed his opinion in the way he inspected the caked grease that had smeared across his glove from the falling axle-rod.

The short flight of stairs to the solar was clear, at least, if only because it provided the single passage from her laboratory to this ... storage. “Put it in storage,” she'd said a thousand times to Theodore or Thaddeus, and never looked to see where the item had gone. Well, now she knew. It had gone to the great-hall and been dumped, and if she'd always been too preoccupied before to notice the accumulating mass, she certainly saw it now.

The solar was a slight improvement. Only half the size of the great-hall, it contained crowded laboratory tables and smaller pieces of equipment, roils of wire and cases of glass beakers, and hundreds of leather-bound books strewn about in a mild degree of organization. At least she knew where a chair was. Under two feet of journals, which required several moments of exertion to remove.

She stood back from her labors, panting slightly, and offered him a seat.

"Thank you,” he said. “I prefer to stand."

Merlin blinked at him. “Oh. Forgive me. I suppose you must have rheumatism?"

A fine curve appeared at the corner of his mouth and quivered there as he said solemnly, “I enjoy the best of health, thank you. But I was taught by a formidable nanny that a gentleman does not sit in the presence of a lady."

Merlin, lost in rapt contemplation of that intriguing masculine dimple, took a moment to realize that by “a lady,” he meant her. “Oh,” she said, and sat down.

He tilted his head, surveying the cluttered room. His gaze lingered on a large wooden crate from which a tangle of wires led to a set of wheels and pulleys. He stared at the object a moment and then looked down at her with that odd half-smile. In the sidelight from the window his hair danced with gold and red. “It is
Miss
Lambourne, then, whom I have the pleasure of addressing?"

Merlin nodded and hoped he wouldn't begin calling her “
Miss
Lambourne” in that soft and dignified way. She had a feeling that in one of her frequent reveries she would not answer to anything but a sharply enunciated “Miss Merlin, hey!,” which was what Theodore and Thaddeus had found to be moderately successful.

"You seem to be quite an inventress,” the duke said. “What is that object, if I may inquire?"

Merlin frowned at the wooden crate and wires. “It was to help me string the framework for my full-sized aviation machine. It didn't work."

"I see.” He looked around again, as if seeking something, and then at Merlin. His light eyes were alert and piercing. “And what have you made that
does
work?"

Her shoulders drew down. Of all the questions he might have asked, that one was the least welcome. She looked at his shiny boots amidst the dustballs on the floor. “Nothing, I'm afraid. It's very discouraging. I believe the whole problem is weight and propulsion. And stability, of course. The models are so difficult to upscale. The wooden struts are too heavy, you see, and that makes the wing proportions far too—"

"Quite,” he interrupted, just as she was gaining momentum in her explanation. “And you've had no progress in anything besides aviation?"

Merlin raised her eyes in surprise. “Oh, no. I've devoted all my thought to the flying machine. And truly, I have had
some
little success with my models—"

"Yes, of course.” He was frowning at various objects in turn around the room. “But nothing else? What is that, for instance?"

Merlin looked at the carved mahogany piece that had caught his attention. He was scrutinizing it with an intensity that suggested he hoped it might hold the secrets of the universe.

"Uncle Dorian's old wardrobe,” she said timidly. “I keep an extra cloak in it."

His mouth flattened into annoyance, and she added in hasty self-defense, “It gets quite cold in here in the winter."

"No doubt.” The duke lowered his brows, glowering at her in a way that made her feel quite giddy. “Miss Lambourne, I must be truthful with you. I've come here in the utmost secrecy on behalf of His Majesty and the Lords of the Admiralty. It has come to our attention that you are in possession of a device which could be invaluable in the defense of your country."

"I am?” Merlin asked in a small voice.

His half-smile returned, this time with a much more unpleasant hardness to it. “I had hoped that you would not be so foolish as to deny it. I can provide you with every necessary evidence of my identity and my position with the government, so you need not fear that you are dealing with the other side."

"Oh, no!” she said. “Of course not.” She put her forefinger to her lower lip, just remembering in time not to bite her nail. “What other side is that?"

His gaze lingered a moment on her hand. She quickly lowered it and folded her fingers in her lap.

"The French, Miss Lambourne. You are aware that we are at war?"

"Well, yes, I—” She met the cold disapproval in his eyes and added humbly, “I'm afraid I don't go out much."

"So I apprehend. Let me assure you that we are, indeed, at war and in need of every patriotic effort which our citizens can provide."

A heavy silence filled the room as Merlin tried very hard not to drop her gaze like a chastened child. She had a notion that the duke would not like such craven behavior. She wished that he would smile at her again as he had in the passageway below—an honest smile and not this ironic curl of his lips.

"Miss Lambourne,” he said, “will you not help us?” She swallowed and nodded. He looked at her expectantly. Another long pause followed while the waiting lift of his brows gradually drew down into another frown.

"Miss Lambourne, I beg you not to play games with me. Where is the invention?"

"The invention,” she repeated, her eyes widening in comprehension and distress. “
My
invention? Oh, dear, but it wouldn't be of any use to you at all. It's far from ready—the wings aren't at all satisfactory, and the body from the model won't work in full size. I have to put all the stabilizing and maneuvering equipment at the aeronaut's feet, and there's very little space. I haven't even tried it myself yet."

He gave a huff of impatience. “I don't mean your damned flying machine!” He swept the room again with a frustrated glare. “There must be something else—haven't you anything else?"

"No, no, I told you—I haven't wasted a minute! I've worked on the aviation machine since Uncle Dorian died. And I'm very close. Truly I am. I'd like to help you, but it's much too soon to experiment with a human being. Perhaps if you could wait another few months—"

He leaned over her suddenly with one hand on the back of her chair and the other covering her fingers in a hard grip. “Miss Lambourne—my dear Miss Lambourne—please try to understand. This is no trifling matter. A week ago a man was found dead. His throat cut. He was trying to reach my office with messages of the greatest importance. They were in cipher, Miss Lambourne, but one of them mentioned you and this—invention. It is very possible—probable—that the code was broken."

He looked at her with an intensity that made her feel hopelessly stupid. “Is that very bad?"

With a harsh laugh he let go of her. “Only if you value your life and your country. I intend to remove you and this invention of yours to a safe place, Miss Lambourne. Immediately."

"Remove me! Oh, I'm afraid that is impossible, Mr.—um—"

"Duke,” he suggested. “Please don't tax your mind with trivialities. Just gather your things and let us be on our way to a safer place."

She stared at him. “You cannot be serious. I can't leave now, just on the verge of perfecting my wing!"

"For God's sake, we'll take your wing with us. In fact, we'll take everything with us. I don't know what my agent meant by a revolutionary despatch apparatus, but he was no fool. I'll swear it wasn't a bloody fantastical flying machine."

Merlin rose instantly in defense of her dream. “I'm sure that was exactly what he meant, sir! What better way to deliver despatches than by air? Why, if it is military despatches you have in mind, just think! You could have orders across the Channel in a matter of hours."

"Nonsense,” he said. “More likely I could have a broken head in a matter of seconds."

Merlin stood up, deeply affronted. Finding herself nose-to-chest with his muscular form was somewhat daunting, so instead of tossing him on his ear as she had desired to do, she said coolly, “Shall I see you out?"

"I'm not going anywhere, Miss Lambourne. Not without you."

"But that's—But you—” She spread her hands. “Oh, this is quite stupid. There is only the aviation machine. Why should you insist on my going with you if you think it's worthless?"

He leaned against the cluttered laboratory table and crossed his arms with a casualness that aggravated her temper. “Disabuse yourself of the notion that it was your flying machine which so impressed my late colleague. I don't employ agents who are prone to hyperbole. If man had been meant to fly—"

"Thank you very much, Mr. Duke, but you needn't repeat that old adage. I'm familiar with the sentiment."

"Falconer,” he said.

"Pardon me?"

"Ransom Falconer. Fourth Duke of Damerell. Most people call me Your Grace, but really, I believe I could come to like Mr. Duke just as well. Shall you ring for tea while I take a look round?"

Merlin drew in a dignified breath. He appeared to have every intention of standing there against her laboratory table forever. With what she considered to be freezing politeness, she said, “Please look all you like, but you will have to move aside a step if you would like tea."