The Janus Affair: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel (19 page)

As she watched him drive away she smiled herself. She did not want this evening to end.

Sadly, she had to remember where she was. Not Auckland or Wellington. But London. “You can come out now, Christopher.”

There was a moment of silence, and then the oldest member of the Ministry Seven appeared from behind a stack of barrels, looking deeply unhappy about being spotted. Eliza’s network of street urchins might be unkempt and living rough, but they also saw and penetrated a side of the city that even she could not. Christopher was perhaps fourteen years old, but he was a fine pick-pocket and knife fighter—if it came to that. He was not the best at concealment.

“And where’s Eric?” She tried now to hide her smile. “I know you two partner up most times, and he
is
a bit better at making himself invisible than you are.”

The younger boy popped up from under a stack of tarpaulins. Just how he had managed to wriggle in there without her noticing was the great unknown. His gap-toothed grin said he wouldn’t be revealing any secrets today.

“Blimey, miss—how long have you known?” Christopher grumbled.

She touched his shoulder. “I saw you slip on the back of a cart as we turned the corner in our carriage. But don’t feel ashamed . . . I was looking specifically for you.”

Eric darted up pulling off his cap. “But you didn’t see me, did you, miss? I was on the same cart, but underneath.”

His older colleague scowled even deeper and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“Now tell me.” Eliza’s voice grew sterner. “What are you doing following me?”

The boys shared a glance before Eric blurted out, “It was that bloke you was with, mum. We wanted to keep an eye on you—in case you got into trouble.”

“What? Douglas?”

“He comes in the middle of our meeting, giving out lollies and such.” Christopher then looked around and unsheathed the imposing hunting knife Douglas had bestowed upon him. “And do you have any idea what the bloody crushers would do if they found this on me?”

Eliza shook her head. “Lads, that is hardly a reason to distrust Mr. Sheppard.”

“What about his invitation after you agreed to work with Mr. Books tonight?” Eric asked. “We was thinking he had some sort of, you know, one of those peculiar devices what tinkers with your head.”

From the mouths of babes. She
had
promised Wellington to work with him this evening on the case.

“I tell you what, lads,” she said, dipping into her purse and pulling out a few shiny pennies. “I will make my apologies with Mr. Books first thing tomorrow, but this is for your trouble and assurance that you will not follow me in such a manner again. Agreed?”

The boys’ smiles were wide, and the coins were whisked away so quickly it was as if they had never been. “You’re the governor, Miss Eliza.” Christopher tipped his hat, in the same way Douglas had. Then the two members of the Ministry Seven disappeared into the darkness.

Eliza sighed. She had tried many times to get the urchins to move in with her, like Alice—but they loved the freedom of the street and were fiercely proud of their independence. She could understand that, but hated to imagine them enduring the daily dangers that London streets offered.

Still, that was where she was going; down into the dark after Diamond Dottie, Queen of the Thieves.

Interlude IV

Wherein Sussex Is Called Before the Maestro

B
y the time the second note arrived to remind him of his appointment, Sussex had almost convinced himself that his tormentor was in fact ready to leave him alone. He had taken luncheon with Her Majesty on Saturday, driven his boys to the ice skating in Regents Park immediately afterward, and even accompanied his wife to a totally dire dinner party at Lord Childs’ City apartments that evening.

That was until he was getting ready to retire for the day. Ivy had already retreated to her own rooms, complaining of her usual headache brought on by far too much exertion. His valet was unfastening a fine pair of silver cufflinks when Fenning knocked at the bedroom door. Valet and master shared a shocked look. Disturbing Sussex’s evening ritual was something that the redoubtable butler had never done before. A moment after that realisation, the Duke of Sussex immediately remembered the dreadful note.

Even before Fenning entered, Sussex had turned to his valet and demanded the return of his jacket. When the butler finally held out the silver tray with another little note sitting on it like a drop of poison, the Duke was so numb that he snatched it up without even a word to the butler.

Fenning was trying to explain, mumbling, stuttering. Something had terrified the old, experienced butler beyond his usual iron discipline. Sussex could see he was shaking.

“I am so sorry, m’lord”—Fenning’s eyes were wide—“this strumpet just came in the front door. James the footman tried to stop her, but . . .” He paused, and looked around the room as if he could find the right words lurking in the corner. “I have excused poor James for the rest of the evening. He’s not used to being manhandled by anyone—let alone a woman.”

Fenning kept talking, but Sussex was no longer listening. If the Maestro had sent her, then there was at least a chance for redemption.

Quickly he flicked open the note written on the most expensive embossed paper.

Best hurry. I don’t like waiting.

“Is she still downstairs?” he managed to croak out, as his valet slipped his jacket over the Duke’s shoulders.

“Yes, m’lord,” the butler rocked back on his heels. “But you cannot go down there. We can call for the other footmen, or the constabulary or both!”

“Go to hell, you doddering old fool,” Sussex growled, spittle flying between his clenched teeth and lips. “Long before that she will come up here and then we will all be dead. I’ll go down, and you won’t tell a soul what happened.” He then whirled on his valet, directing his building rage at the innocent. “If either of you do, I can assure neither of you will ever find another place in service.”

Both men dropped their gazes to their feet, their countenance like statues as Sussex strode from the room. Somewhere between passing Ivy’s chambers and the boys’ bedroom, he paused. The world seemed to teeter slowly. A buzzing sound rose in his ears. Sussex, recognising the attack, stopped and recalled his doctor’s commands: closed eyes, deep breaths, and images of serenity. The pounding in his head threatened to bring on the migraines that usually accompanied his fits, but the image of walking with his wife last spring through Hyde Park filled his mind’s eye. That was the serene moment he always counted on. Tonight, with the vivid memory of his darling Ivy looking at him, her smile simply perfect in the brilliant noonday sun, the memory restored his demeanour. His mind was still numb with this dreaded appointment before him, yet he managed to descend the stairs with his composure once more intact.

Then he felt it crumble slightly on seeing his unscheduled caller.

“There you are,” the woman standing in the entrance hall cooed. She was a pretty little thing with a sweet Italian accent. She should have, by rights, made him think of taking her to bed; but he knew what she was, and all she engendered in the breast of Lord Sussex was a deep and deadly fear. Taking a snake into his arms would have been the safer option.

For a start, her outfit was most outrageous. Her hair was tucked under a leather cap that a boy selling newspapers on the street might have owned, and every inch of her womanly curves was bundled up in a thick worsted jacket that was the twin for the one Sussex’s coachman wore. Around her neck was a pair of goggles that could have been stolen from an aviatrix and made no sense to the Duke at all. On her small hands was a pair of bright red gloves—not silk as a lady would have, but chunky leather. The whole affair was finished with a pair of stout workman boots and a pair of thick woollen trousers—only confirming her common nature. Though there was a little part of him that realised her delightful female form was thrown into stark relief by the very masculine nature of her attire.

For a moment he was struck dumb. The woman laughed, throwing back her head as if it were the greatest joke. When she stopped she fixed him with a sharp look, one that really should never have been seen on a woman’s face. “You didn’t think he had forgotten, did you? Or perhaps you believed if you pushed it out of your mind it wouldn’t happen?”

Sussex cleared his throat. He was most certainly not used to be talked to in such a common manner by a woman, in his own house. The trouble was, it was not the first time it had happened. Luckily his wife had never found this pert, attractive, yet completely unsuitable woman berating him thus. “Perhaps I hoped that,” he muttered, his voice hoarse from the anger that had torn at it earlier. “But it seems I am proven wrong.”

“Then we can go,” she gestured to the door, and followed up behind him as he made for it. “You know,” she commented in an offhand tone, “I do believe your footmen’s tooth ruined the knuckle of one of my gloves. I shall have to send you the bill for a new pair.”

Outside a dark carriage waited. It had no distinguishing features at all, and looked like a dozen other ones already on the street. However, there were two things that marked the scene as different. One was the hook-nosed imposing bulk of Pearson standing by its door, doing his usual glower that seemed to threaten violence at any moment. Sussex knew his name all too well from previous encounters. The other item was something of a mystery, it had two wheels, one in front of the other like a bicycle—but it was far bulkier than that. In between the wheels was a collection of valves, pistons, and flywheels. They were spinning and chuffing away, causing quite a racket on the elegant street. It was leaning to one side with a small iron bar acting as a third leg. More disturbing of all was a narrow tray at the bottom, tucked deep in the machine, that flickered with blue flame. It looked like something the devil himself might have invented.

Despite Pearson’s disapproving look, the Duke spared a moment to examine the contraption. He knew his lip was curling. He was all too happy with advances in modern life, as long as they stayed out of his. He’d flown on airships to the Continent, but that was about the sum of his use of what his father had always called “infernal contraptions.” They seemed so noisy, so insistent, and so damn inelegant to his eyes.

“Like my lococycle?” the woman’s voice purred with the kind of avarice he usually only heard from the fairer sex when diamonds were in the offing. She ran one finger over the bars at the front of the device, that resembled nothing as much as a pair of bull horns. Then the Italian wrapped her hands around them tightly. “Our employer is most generous with his gifts.” Her expression took on a touch of whimsy as she added, “And he can be just as generous with his punishments.” She let go of the bars long enough to apply a pair of bicycle clips around her trouser legs and pull her goggles up over her eyes. Then while the Duke watched in horror, she swung one leg over the device and sat upon it.

For a moment he was unable to move. He had seen ladies on push-bikes before, but they were genteel pursuits compared to this vision. She looked terrifying and arousing, clad in men’s attire, atop a hissing, chugging machine. “I’ll see you there, Your Grace,” she shouted over the roar of the machine, while examining the row of dials which now sat between her knees. “Don’t be tardy.”

Sussex, despite everything he knew about the woman and the machine, felt an embarrassing twitch within his evening trousers. A wave of guilt swept over him. Was he really so weak?

As a consequence he stood stock-still, while the Italian pumped the levers, kicked back the third leg, and sped away. She had to be going at least twenty miles an hour, considering how quickly she sped out of sight. Sussex and Pearson were left in a cloud of steam watching her. The manservant said nothing, but his gaze, like every man’s on the street, followed after her.

“She has her ways,” was the only comment Pearson made as he gestured Sussex into the carriage. He sounded almost admiring.

The Duke took his seat in the carriage without a reply. He was fighting to regain control of certain parts of his anatomy, but luckily, Pearson sat with the driver rather than in the carriage. For the second time this evening, Peter Lawson had to pull himself together and focus on the more pressing concerns of the Maestro.

Once they left Mayfair and began to roll into less salubrious parts of the capital, Sussex pulled the blinds down over the windows. Like last time, on the opposite seat he found a cloak waiting for him. Neither he nor the Maestro wanted it to be known what a peer of the realm would be doing in the East End.

Not that he would have been the first of his ilk to seek more debased pleasures there—but the Duke of Sussex had never been one of them. He wasn’t about to start now.

By the time they pulled up at their destination, Sussex had wrapped the cloak around himself and calmed his churning stomach as best he could. He had not heard the roar of the lococycle, so he was sure that the Italian had arrived in considerable advance of him.

Pearson opened the door, and the Duke, without looking at him entered the warehouse by the usual path. The backdoor was reserved for servants, so it was only fitting that was the way he went in. The strumpet was waiting inside, holding a lamp before her—the only light to be had in this cursed place.

With a smile and an inclination of her head, she handed it to Sussex. “He is waiting for you upstairs.” As he moved past her, the woman actually let her naked fingers drag lightly against the Duke’s cheek. It was an impertinence that nonetheless fired his loins again. The damned woman had done it for that very purpose—to unsettle him for what was to come.

After ascending the stairs, he opened the door into the room that had once been the warehouse’s office. It smelt musty and felt empty, yet unfortunately it was not.

A single light shone against a lonely chair. It was the type a schoolboy might use in a classroom. It was hardly fitting for the Lord Privy Counsellor to the Queen, but Sussex knew this was where he was meant to sit. There were only shadows surrounding the chair. He remained by the doorway, his grip tight on the knob.

“Sit down, Peter.”

The voice had come from every darkened corner around him. Even in its gentleness, the voice demanded compliance. He felt an invisible grip on his throat, but Sussex would not cry out, would not give in to the emotion that welled inside him. He swallowed back a sob, and shut the door behind him.

He was now trapped in the Maestro’s web. Completely.

Every step hurt. His calves and thighs stung; and the chair waiting for him drew more and more of his will away from him the closer he came to it. When he finally surrendered to it, there was no comfort to be had. He felt far too big for this rickety thing. It was a place meant for a disobedient, petulant child.

Then he understood.

And at that moment of comprehension, the single red eye flared to life in the darkness directly in front of him. It shone bright enough to catch a glare off the brass mask it was affixed to. Sussex felt his head swim in panic, but flight would have been pointless. He would have been cut down in a moment. Quickly. Cleanly.

The malevolent eye dimmed slightly, and Sussex forced himself to straighten.

“Peter,” the unseen monster wheezed, “you know why I have summoned you.”

“Yes, Maestro.”

Sussex thought his voice sounded off. It was detached somehow. The command and authority were gone. He cleared his throat, hoping it would help him sound less frail.

“Peter, why are you testing my patience?”

“I don’t mean to.” Clearing his throat had done little. His voice sounded pathetic in his own ears. “The man I have on the inside is not producing the results that I had anticipated.”

“Is this the colonial you employed?”

“Yes, Maestro.” Sussex ran his sweaty palms against his evening trousers and took in a deep breath before continuing. “My spy has recently assumed a role in the Ministry that should, in theory, get him closer to Doctor Sound. If this gambit plays true, I should have evidence to back my own suspicions.”

“Your suspicions matter very little to me.” Sussex tried not to flinch on hearing the gasps, the gears, and the quick
clickity-clack
of small pistons that allowed the Maestro to have a voice. “What does matter to me is the Ministry’s downfall. From what I have seen and heard, Doctor Sound still holds the Queen’s favour.”

Sussex felt his heart stop for a moment. “How do you know of the Queen’s mind?”

The harsh laugh caused him to shift in the child’s chair. “Do you believe I have ascended to my position without followers of influence? I know a good many things, and were it not for my present condition I would stand at the right hand of the crown. Until such a time, I must work in shadow.” He paused with a gentle hiss of steam. “Your colonial contact—what have you threatened him with should he fail?”