Mission: Nutcracker

Chapter 17

17

Terminus, 20 December 1871

The next morning, the smells of bacon and sausage roused Fiona. She snuggled back into her sheets, thinking they must be a dream, that she’d gotten so hungry she now fantasized about food in her sleep. But then someone knocked at her door.

“Miss Fiona? Breakfast time.”

Fiona opened her eyes. The sunlight that filled the room seemed to be real, and the sheets and her night shift lay lightly against her skin. If this was a dream, then it was a darn vivid one.

“Tessa? We have food?” She stretched. “Oh, right, please come in.”

Tessa opened the door, her face split with a grin. “We have food, Miss Fiona. From that gentleman of yours. The man who brought it didn’t want to say where it came from, only that it was from a friend who wanted to help while they search for your father, but I recognized the groom from the Meriweather place.”

“He’s not my gentleman,” Fiona said. “I don’t want a gentleman.” It irked her that someone else was able to do what she couldn’t—help her family. If only she could join the Guild, even as an apprentice, she could sell her clockworks and make money.

Her stomach growled, a reproach that she should be more grateful. Tessa helped her dress in the gown that Therese had loaned her—more charity, but she had to admit it was the perfect color for her, even if it sat snug across her hips—and put up her hair. She walked downstairs to a feast and her mother’s shining countenance.

“He’s already providing for you,” she said. “What a good match this is! Do you think he’ll propose to you at the ball?”

Fiona gritted her teeth. “I’m sure he’s just being nice. We barely know each other.”

Margie huffed. “A man who isn’t interested wouldn’t send sausage.”

Fiona wasn’t sure why, but Tessa turned pink and wheeled around, her shoulders shaking with laughter. Ah, well, they were all giddy with the food. And coffee. Devon had sent both tea and coffee, and Tessa had brewed some of the latter. Fiona couldn’t remember the last time she’d had some, and there was even cream and sugar.

After she’d eaten, she went upstairs to practice her violin. When she reached for it, she caught sight of the krakatuk locket.

“That’s strange,” she murmured. In all the excitement, she’d all but forgotten about it. Or maybe she’d made herself forget so she wouldn’t have to consider selling it. But what was it doing out? Hadn’t she put it in her dressing table?

She picked it up and opened it, finding not pictures, but a jumble of letters and numbers, A through G and one through eight. What could they mean? With a shrug, she fastened the clasp, allowing the heavy weight of the strange metal to rest against her chest.

Where are you, Papa? It was now the third day since the kidnappings. Were the victims being cared for and fed? Why hadn’t there been a ransom demand? Or was Jim Blair keeping them in the dark since he, for some reason, didn’t like Fiona? And where had their savior, the strange woman from the day before, disappeared to? Fiona hoped she was all right.

She took out her violin and stuck to the repertoire her mother approved of, although she didn’t really want to. She wanted to play, to express her emotions. To allow the instrument to sing of her fear and frustration, her terror, and her pride at what she’d accomplished the day before. She’d flown that airship in spite of being kept from lessons and test flights. She’d managed to get her father’s friend out of there and navigate to the Meriweather mansion all on her own. She’d had moments of doubt and terror, sure, but she at least had been able to overcome them and do what she needed to do.

“Fee-OH-na!” Sniff. Her mother’s call cut through the melody, which had gone into her emotions. Fiona sighed.

“Yes, Mother?” She cringed, expecting a reprimand.

“Lucy and Posey are here.”

While Fiona’s spirits lifted at the thought of seeing the Lillet girls, her shoulders sagged, deflating from the elation of the music. But at least her mother wouldn’t fuss at her in front of them. She put her violin back in its case and went downstairs, where her friends waited in the parlor.

“I’ll bring some tea,” Tessa said, “and some scones if you’d like.”

“We don’t want to be any trouble,” Lucy told her. “We’ve just had breakfast. Oh, hello, Fiona.”

Hospitality warred with pride, so Fiona finally relented, feeling she could be honest with her friends. “It’s all right. We have tea.” Fiona smiled with what she hoped came across as reassurance.

“Oh?” Lucy asked, her eyebrows raised. “Then a pot would be lovely.”

After Tessa left, Lucy took Fiona’s hands. “I’m so glad your fortunes have changed. Have they found your father? Is mine with him?”

Fiona shook her head. “No, the Meriweathers sent some supplies to hold us over until the missing tinkerers are found.”

“Ohhh…” Lucy drew out the syllable. “The Meriweathers, huh? Would that include the handsome Devon Meriweather?”

“Yes, but not like that. We’re simply acquaintances working toward the same goal.”

Lucy and Posey exchanged a glance that told Fiona they didn’t believe a word she’d said. Oh, well. At least they’d be polite enough to not ask about the dress, which was out of style, so perhaps it looked convincingly hers.

Tessa brought and poured the tea, and the three girls sat in front of the fire, which blazed. Had Devon sent wood, too? Fiona both wanted to thank him and tell him it was too much, and people would talk. Indeed, her friends looked decidedly conspiratorial.

Once Tessa curtsied and left again, Lucy leaned forward, her teacup and saucer in hand. “So since you’re on good terms with Devon Meriweather, does that mean you’re invited to his ball?”

Fiona nodded. “Yes, are you?”

“Yes,” Posey said. “Everyone is talking about it. It’s quite the surprise, and it’s rumored that he’s hunting for a wife there, so all the eligible young women in town who’ve been invited, which is most of them, are going.”

“Including you two.”

“Yes,” Lucy replied, “though I suspect in our case that it’s a pity invite due to our father having been kidnapped. But it appears that your invitation was not out of pity.”

“It might be,” Fiona assured her. “He announced while sitting in that very chair that he has no intention of marrying me.”

Lucy looked at the chair as though it had offered Fiona an insult, which made Fiona smile. “When was this?”

“When he came two days ago, the morning after…” She swallowed. “After the Tinkerer’s Ball.”

“He visited you the morning after the ball? Oh, right, he’d escorted you out.” Lucy sipped her tea through her grin, making her look like she was scheming.

“Again, he said he’s not looking at me as a potential wife,” Fiona insisted.

“But that was three days ago. He could change his mind. Men often do in spite of insisting that we’re the capricious sex.”

Fiona shrugged, not sure what to say. “What are you wearing to the ball?” There. Fashion was often a safe topic of discussion.

Lucy put her cup and saucer on the small table that sat between them. “I’m not here about what I’m wearing. We’re here to discuss what to do at the ball. Or, more specifically, what we’re going to use the ball for.”

Fiona’s eyebrows raised with alarm. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Let’s be honest. Jim Blair is about as smart as that fireplace poker. And as useful—only for certain and specific things, but not anything that takes much initiative on its own behalf.”

Fiona coughed to hide her laugh. She couldn’t argue with that. “True. Has he given you any updates on the situation?”

Lucy shook her head. “No. Nor has he communicated anything to any of the other families who had loved ones taken by those awful nutcracker automatons.”

Fiona didn’t tell her that they hadn’t been automatons. She didn’t want to get into her adventures of the day before since it would lead to more speculation about Devon. And she definitely didn’t want to tell Lucy about the mysterious woman who’d saved them and fought off the non-automatons to help them escape. That would bring up more questions than she could answer.

“That seems rather irresponsible,” Fiona said. “He at least needs to tell us what’s going on with the investigation.”

Posey finished her tea and set her cup and saucer down as well. “Our thoughts exactly. We’ve taken the heading we extrapolated from all our memories and we came up with a plausible area for where the automatons were heading in their giant dirigible.”

“Where?” Fiona had to fold her hands since they’d started trembling. “And did you tell Blair about this?”

“No, but we did talk to a nice lady who works for the paper,” Posey said. “Her name is Bollington. Layla Bollington.”

“Oh, right. She’s a good reporter,” Fiona said. “She likes to write about facts, not speculation. So where was the dirigible heading, assuming it didn’t change direction?”

“We calculated a margin of error,” Lucy said and dismissed Fiona’s skepticism with a small wave of one graceful hand. “And guess where it leads?”

“Where?” Fiona didn’t sound too eager, stung by her friend’s dismissal of her concerns. She thought they all respected each other as scientists, and when one was basing conclusions on weak evidence and speculation, one had to consider the margin of error.

“Straight to the mountains. A little place called Foothills, in fact, where several of Terminus’s prominent families have summer homes and hunting lodges.”

“So…” Fiona asked, picking up her tea again. “Do you have any other conclusions?” She tried not to sound flippant.

“So,” Posey echoed, “yes. We need to find out which of the families have properties and who may want to collect a bunch of tinkerers.”

Fiona pondered. “We may want to see who’s on the Guild roster, even if they don’t attend meetings. They’d still know what was going on through the newsletter.”

“Or,” Lucy said, “we could go up there and see for ourselves.’

Fiona nearly dropped her tea service. “What?”

“After the ball, I’ve arranged for a carriage to take us to Foothills.” Lucy clapped her hands. “I’ve had enough of speculation and Jim Blair’s slowness. He has a place up there, too, by the way. He may be in on it.”

Fiona simultaneously felt breathless at the idea that they could leave so easily—hadn’t she been wanting to do just that?—and stifled by the possibility of everything that could go wrong. But they needed to do something. She couldn’t depend on the kindness of the Meriweathers forever.

“Tell me more about this plan.”

“Penny for your thoughts, dear brother?” Therese gently poked Devon with the tip of her butter knife. It didn’t hurt, but it got his attention.

“Nothing, dear sister,” he replied, although his thoughts had been far from nothing. He’d been sipping his coffee and imagining Fiona Telfair similarly drinking hers that morning. He hoped her maid had cooked the sausage correctly so it wasn’t underdone but also not tough and overdone. Would he think as much about his wife once he’d finally decided on one? He needed to do so quickly—the redheaded tinkerer’s daughter was occupying too much of his thoughts. But he couldn’t get the image of her flying the mini-airship, the one that still sat on his lawn, out of his head. He’d return it to the Tinkerer’s Guild once there were guild members to return it to. Perhaps Hollowell would know how to bring it back and restore it to its hiding place once he’d recovered.

“I think that nothing may have copper-colored hair, pretty green eyes, and a smile that lights up your heart,” Therese teased. “I like the girl, and I approve of the match.”

“Thank you, dear sister. I’m glad to know that you like her. However, I’m afraid I cannot marry her. You know I have to satisfy Father’s wishes for our family to establish our legacy in this new era and marry strategically.” He didn’t add so you don’t have to, which made him feel slightly better about how pompous his speech must have sounded.

Therese made a distinctly non-ladylike noise with her mouth. “Father would be more concerned about your happiness than our legacy.”

“But what if our legacy is my happiness?” he asked. “And my finding a woman with a good dowry and allowance will be good for both of us.” He hated to call attention to her frailty, but she was pushing him to do just that. He hoped she’d understand what he was trying so hard not to say.

But she persisted. “Devon, we have plenty of money. And I don’t intend to be a burden on you for forever. I have my own plans, although I haven’t thought to share them with you. I didn’t think it would be necessary. There’s something you need to know about me—”

Crenshaw knocked on the door, interrupting Therese’s speech, and poked his head around the lintel. “Sir, your cousin has arrived from the hunting lodge, and he’s injured.”

Devon and Therese both stood with a scraping of their chairs behind them. Devon caught Therese’s before it toppled over. “Where is he?”

“They’ve brought him to his chambers.”

“Stay here,” Devon told Therese, who had gone pale. Almost laudanum pale, but not quite. It was amazing she’d had the strength to almost knock over her chair. “I’ll let you know if he’s decent or fit to be seen.”

She nodded, her lips pressed in a tight line. Had she been about to tell him that she’d decided to accept Pierce’s suit, after all? Or that she’d determined to make a more strategic match? He would be fine either way—he trusted her judgment—although he would miss her quiet presence beside him. But if he were to take a wife, when he would take a wife, she would hopefully want to be Devon’s adviser and friend.

These thoughts played through his mind as he ascended the stairs and found Pierce in his room, his shoulder bandaged.

“What happened?” Devon asked.

Pierce lay on his bed on top of the covers. His features were crumpled in a grimace as a surgeon worked on his shoulder. Pierce’s groom stood beside him.

“We got too close to another hunting party,” the groom said, “and Mister Pierce was shot in the shoulder. By the time we made it back to the lodge, it was dark, so we dared not try to travel back until the bleeding slowed down.”

“Hurts like the devil,” Pierce ground out. “If I ever find out who did this…” He let the threat hang in the air.

Pierce’s anger relieved Devon. If he was angry, then he would fight whatever effects the injury might have on him.

“Almost got it, please hold still.” It was Chadwick Radcliffe, Henry Davidson’s associate. He must have been at Henry’s quarters when they’d brought Pierce in, and someone from the house had called for a physician. Indeed, Henry stood in the corner, as unobtrusive as always.

“Got it.” Radcliffe pulled out a slug with his forceps. “This doesn’t look like hunting ammunition. It’s from a handgun.”

“People use all sorts of things to shoot at critters,” Pierce said. He spoke dreamily, and Devon guessed that they’d dosed him thoroughly with laudanum. “Maybe someone hunting squirrels or possums.”

“Right.” Devon looked at Henry, who frowned. He would have to ask the man what he was thinking later.

Radcliffe looked at both of them, each in turn. “I need to cauterize this. It won’t be pleasant. I suggest that you wait outside the room.”

“Pierce?” Devon asked. He wanted to be there if his cousin needed him.

“Go.” Pierce waved Devon off with his other hand. “Do what you need to do, Doctor.”

Devon and Henry walked out of the room, but Devon didn’t want to go too far.

“What do you think?” Henry asked.

Devon frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Do you think he’s telling the truth about how he got injured?” Henry inclined his head toward the room. “It’s early for them to have returned all the way from the mountains, especially with him in that state.”

“The carriage he used has good cushioning to ensure minimal effect from rough ground. We had it specially made for Therese to travel in.” But Devon could see his point. It had been light for two hours, but the journey from their hunting lodge typically took a good five or six. They would have had to have left at four or five o’clock to have made it back. “But there aren’t many options for medical treatment up there this time of year.”

“Right.” Henry looked skeptical. “You trust your cousin?”

Devon nodded. “Yes, I’ve known him since we were children.”

“And you said he bought this house in your absence.”

“He was thinking of Therese and her condition. He was right—she’s doing much better now that we’re out of the city. My father was stubborn in wanting to stay in the townhouse as long as he did.”

“I see.”

What was Henry thinking? No, he knew, but Devon didn’t want to consider the possibility that his cousin could be in league with the kidnappers and had attacked him and Fiona the day before. What would his motivation possibly be? He voiced as much to Henry.

“I don’t know, but I have someone looking into it. Do you know much of what he was doing while you were out of the country?”

“He was in school in Massachusetts and then back down here running our family’s affairs.”

A scream came from inside the room, and Devon felt the agony echo through the center of his body. He found himself perversely angry at Davidson and his questioning.

“Whatever happened, he’s certainly paying for it now,” he said. “We can discuss this later.”

Henry bowed his head and walked down the hall.

Radcliffe emerged and said, “It’s done. I’ve dosed him pretty good with laudanum, but please have someone keep an eye on him and watch him for this list of things.” He handed Devon a list of symptoms that would indicate either fever or shock. Devon recognized them from his own training for the foreign service.

“I’ll make sure he’s watched over,” Devon said.

“Good.” Radcliffe punctuated his word with a nod. “And call me if anything happens.”

“I will.”

Devon watched Radcliffe walk away, then turned back to Pierce’s room. He hesitated before opening the door. Did Davidson really think his cousin had something to do with the kidnappings, or some other suspicious activity? He needed to sit down with Henry and discuss what he’d found so far and what, exactly, his team was doing. And then perhaps Devon would resign completely from that part of his life that put him too close to international affairs. Except for the business part, at least.

The groom stood by Pierce’s bed and watched his master sleeping. Devon couldn’t remember from where Pierce had hired the man. Had he been one of the servants who’d opted to stay with the house until they could find something better? Or had Pierce employed him for some other reason? Devon realized he hadn’t questioned Pierce or his decisions, just trusted him implicitly.

“How is he?” Devon asked.

The man startled as though waking from a dream. “He’s asleep thanks to the laudanum, sir. That was…” He shook his head.

“I know. It’s hard to watch. If you need to go get something to fortify yourself, go ahead. I’ll wait for you to return or bring someone else in.”

“No! I mean, no, thank you.” He swallowed, a sickly cast to his brown skin. “Mister Pierce didn’t want me to let anyone else watch over him.”

“All right, then, I’ll send someone up with some food and drink for you. You must be starving and exhausted.”

Now relief spread over the man’s face. “Thank you.” He wiped a hand over his face. “Tea would be good.”

Devon nodded, but internally questioned why Pierce only trusted this one valet. “Very well. And please watch him for these symptoms and let me know if he wakes or displays any of them.” He handed over the list Radcliffe had given him. “Do you know how to read?”

“Yes, sir. Mister Pierce made sure I learned.”

“Good. I’ll send someone up in a few minutes.”

When Devon left the room, he found Henry waiting for him.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” Devon told him. He didn’t want to know what Henry had to say, at least not right then. Too many questions swirled around in his brain.

“The man Hollowell has awakened and is asking for you.”