Mission: Nutcracker

Chapter 7

7

Terminus, 17 December 1871

After Devon left, Fiona helped Tessa clean up the tea, or what remained of it, but rather than allowing her to throw out the rest of the now-lukewarm pot, Fiona took it and her cup to her room. Tessa arrived soon after and helped Fiona change into one of her work dresses, a plain gray wool serge she had left over from partial mourning. Not that she really wanted to be reminded of Connor and everything they’d lost, but she also knew her father’s workshop—one of the few places in the house only he was allowed—would likely not be clean.

“Is she asleep?” Fiona asked as Tessa took down her hair and wove it into a plain braid, which she then coiled and pinned in place. Fiona preferred her hair out of her face if she was to be working. Or searching.

“Yes, although she made me give her a detailed recounting of the visit, at least while I was there.”

What would Fiona’s mother have thought of Devon’s pronouncement that he had no intention of marrying her? She probably would have emerged from her bedroom and chased the poor man out with a broom. And then gone out to the street and found another eligible-looking young man and chased him inside with the same implement.

Fiona caught the quirk of her lips, a small smile, in the mirror, and banished it. She didn’t need to entertain herself with flights of fancy, as funny as they may be. She had work to do.

Tessa left Fiona alone, and Fiona counted to a hundred before peering out of her bedroom. She knew she had chores, but they could wait.

She slipped down the stairs and to a room behind the kitchen, which had steam pipes running through it. She was surprised when the door opened easily. Her father never left his office unlocked, but she wouldn’t question the gift of the opportunity to peek inside. Although small, it held a workbench, a stool, and several lengths of pipe that screwed into the steam and gas systems on the wall, which resembled a network of tubes of varying metals. Terminus had been outfitted with steam and gas systems during the war in preparation for the Southern states to take their place as a technologically progressive and socially conservative country once the war was over. Never mind that since they’d been installed, there was no guarantee they’d actually work.

Meanwhile, the South had fallen behind in weaponry. Fiona’s greatest dream was to meet Claire McPhee, the woman behind La Reine, the weapon that had ended the war. While her neighbors, most of whom had sympathized with the South, moaned and groaned, Fiona had inwardly cheered. Of course a woman would be required to birth peace. Men had been mucking it up for a decade.

Fiona set her teacup and pot on the workbench and looked around. Where had the nutcracker doll gone? Or, again, had she even seen it to begin with? There were certainly plenty of places for something that size to hide here. Wooden shelves and cubbies along the red brick walls were filled with barely organized odds and ends, or at least that’s how it looked.

Fiona frowned, trying to remember who had been at the party. It had been difficult to tell with everyone in costume and masked. She picked up a teacup from the other set the family used. It had been there a while—the brown liquid at the bottom had congealed and then dried, and a few flecks of leaf remained stuck to it. It was the set that her father used when working with his friends, who didn’t seem to mind the weak tea.

Right, his friends. The previous week, Bryan Telfair had welcomed two other tinkerers into his home for a meeting, and they’d come straight back to the workshop. She could hardly imagine more than one person in the room—her father was not a skinny man—but sometimes they required darkness and relative quiet, and the Telfair kitchen didn’t get much demand with just the three of them. Not like when Connor had been home with his teenage boy appetite.

And now there were two. What had Bryan been doing with the other two tinkerers? They’d been whispering frantically as Bryan had brought them in, and Fiona had caught a few words. Aether, frequency, animation… All as expected, but had there been something else? Her own thoughts of how unfair it had been for her to be shut out had kept interfering with her determined eavesdropping, but he’d said it was too dangerous for her to be involved yet.

Dangerous. That was the other word. But how? Sure, aether had plenty of not-so-nice uses such as concentrated as a weapon, but what else?

Emotion. They had said something about emotion.

Fiona rubbed her eyes, but the memory dissipated like the heat from her tea. Emotion. What did feelings have to do with anything? Machines didn’t have them. She clenched her fist—why hadn’t she thought of that when Devon had asked her about life? Or teased her, rather? She could never tell with him whether their conversation was serious or a jest. Well, not most of the time. He’d seemed serious enough about recovering the lost tinkerers.

So who had her father been meeting with? The leader of the Tinkerer’s Guild, Master Thaddeus Lillet, and his assistant, who had been freed with the peace, Hollowell. He hadn’t chosen a second name yet. Fiona liked both men, although she was intimidated by Master Lillet.

And she was pretty sure she’d seen each of them at the ball. Master Lillet was easy to spot due to his tall, gaunt physique, and Hollowell because he was never far away.

Fiona looked through drawers and the one small cabinet in the room for notes, drawings, or anything else that would give her a clue as to what they’d been working on but turned up nothing. If her father had kept any notes, he’d hidden them well.

She drummed her fingers on the table. She needed to talk to the Lillet household to see if she could look at Thaddeus’s work, although she doubted he’d been careless with it. To ask for access to his notes would be presumptuous—she wasn’t even an apprentice yet. Or maybe she could have Devon help her.

No, she couldn’t rely on him for help. If the recent experience with her father’s poor judgment and family finances showed anything, it was that she couldn’t rely on men to aid her and keep her best interests at heart. She would tell Devon afterward and see what he came up with on his end. They ran in different circles, so they could use that to their advantage.

And if she wasn’t marriage material, that was all for the better. She didn’t need—or want—someone to stand up for her, worry about her, or otherwise inhibit her ability to be an independent woman. Her mother wouldn’t be cooperative, so Fiona knew she had to find her father.

Worry stabbed her through the chest every time she thought about his perilous situation, but there was always an echo of frustration at losing the one parent who understood and supported her.

She decided her next step should be a visit to the Lillet household. Even if they couldn’t get to Thaddeus’s and Hollowell’s notes, perhaps Lucy could shed some light on Fiona’s father’s work and collaborations.

Devon tucked the telegram into his pocket and stiffened at a knock on the door. Crenshaw poked his head around before Devon could respond.

“Sir? Ah, good, you’re home. Did you manage to evade Miss Bollington?”

“No.” Devon placed his hands palm-down on the table. “What in the deuces was she doing here? I saw the article in the paper this morning. It was full of fluff and nonsense, so I’m guessing she wanted the real story.”

Crenshaw shrugged. “I don’t know, Sir, but I’m sorry. I sent her out of the servants’ delivery exit so she wouldn’t waylay you.”

Devon sighed. He didn’t want to give away that he’d been using that exit to evade the family and upstairs servants, but he suspected that the butler knew better. Had he been in on the arrangement for Devon to encounter Bollington?

Devon rubbed his eyes. Now he was getting paranoid about his own household. “What business awaits me today?”

“The sheriff is in the receiving parlor. Says he wants a statement from last night. He also wishes to discuss a personal matter.” Crenshaw raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know what that could be.” And indeed Devon didn’t. “Give me ten minutes, oh, and a cup of coffee, and I’ll see him”

“Yes, sir.”

The butler disappeared, shutting the door behind him without a sound. Devon couldn’t complain. The man ran the household with such amazing efficiency that they hadn’t had to hire a maid. Or, rather, under Crenshaw’s capable direction, his wife served well enough as head maid even though she hadn’t ever held such a position before.

So now it was time to face the sheriff. The thought gave Devon some worry, although he hadn’t done anything wrong. But he knew Jim Blair from other arenas of his life. Jim had his own estate and fortune, but he’d decided to run for sheriff after the war to help ensure that things wouldn’t change too much. And he was one of the planters who thought Devon and Pierce were cowards, Devon more so than Pierce, who at least had returned to run the family business. Although Devon didn’t like Blair, he knew what to expect.

Unlike from Fiona. Every time he thought he knew what she would do or say, she surprised him. An admirable trait in a woman. Too bad they couldn’t ever make a match.

Suddenly Devon wondered if that personal matter could have something to do with Jim Blair’s oldest daughter Meribelle, who was of marriageable age. She had the connections… But she also had no spark. He shook his head. Spark didn’t matter. His legacy and his sister’s welfare did.

Soon Crenshaw had brought Devon some coffee and “a teaspoon of laudanum, courtesy of Master Pierce.” Pierce had guessed Devon’s ankle may be bothering him after his errands. Indeed it did, but Devon didn’t put the laudanum, measured in a thimble-sized glass, into his coffee. Although Pierce’s stuff seemed to not cloud his judgment, he dared not test its merits or demerits, as the case may be.

A sharp rap heralded the appearance of Jim Blair. His belly, which strained the buttons of his waistcoat, preceded him into the room, and his pocket watch draped with tight desperation. Was the man ill? Devon had encountered some people whose large guts were a sign of ill health rather than prosperity, and Jim’s round face appeared flushed under his light brown hair, of which much had fled. He wore the star on his coat and kept running his thumbnail over one corner of it.

Devon wanted to ask him to stop, but instead said, “Good morning, Sheriff. I guess I know what brings you here.”

Blair half-grinned as though moving his jowls was too much of an effort. “Part of it, I reckon. But yes, what is your recollection of last night’s events at the Tinkerer’s Ball?” He shook his head. “I warned them that they’d been getting too uppity with their inventions and that they’d attract the wrong sort of attention.”

“The wrong sort of attention from whom?” Devon asked, concealing the excitement behind his words. This was what he and Fiona had been talking about.

“From the wrong sort of people.” Blair hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. “Now, what do you remember about the ball last night?”

Resigned that the direct approach wouldn’t work to get the information he wanted, Devon gave him the sparse but strictly factual account of the ball. Blair listened and nodded, seemingly bored until Devon got to the part about escorting Fiona out.

“And so you ran from the danger?”

Devon bit back the defensive comment he wanted to make. Instead, he took a deep breath and said, “I helped others from the burning room.”

“And who was that young lady, again?” Blair interrupted.

“Fiona Telfair, daughter of Bryan Telfair. I believe he held some sort of office in the Guild. Holds rather—I’m assuming he’s not dead.”

“We’re not assuming anything,” Blair said vaguely. “But yes, we hope those who were kidnapped are still alive.”

“I’m sure their families would be happy to have them back,” Devon agreed, careful to appear as harmless as he could. “There had to be what, a dozen?”

“Two dozen, most like.” Blair’s nod said he enjoyed correcting Devon. “At least that we know of. We’re still talking to the servants of the house.”

“Right.” Two dozen? What did the kidnappers want with all those tinkerers and their families?

“But getting back to Miss Telfair… Was her father there?”

“Yes, but he said he had to get back to a couple of the other men and find them. I don’t remember who,” he added before Blair could ask. He would ask Fiona—after the astute observations she’d shared, he guessed she remembered the incident much better than he. And he also wanted to punch Blair in the face when he thought of the odious sheriff interviewing her. He had no doubt she could hold her own, but—

“So then what happened?”

Devon related their flight and leaving Fiona with some of the latecomers. He thought he’d seen Thaddeus Lillet’s wife and daughters, although why they’d arrived after he did…

Wait, Thaddeus was the Guildmaster, so it made sense that he’d have to be there early and would have gone ahead to allow his womenfolk to have more time to prepare. He then told Blair about going to talk to the servants after ensuring that they’d have the medical help they needed.

“You didn’t trust the ambulance men?” Blair asked, his jaw hardening.

Devon tried to think of a way to answer the question without alienating the sheriff. “They were exhausted and overwhelmed,” he said. “I’m sure they were about to go back there when I encouraged them.”

Blair nodded, but his eyes remained narrowed. “Did you see or find anything suspicious after you walked around the house?”

Devon sat back and steepled his fingers. Could the sheriff know about the clockwork creature? Or had someone seen Thom giving it to him and Pierce? Impossible—it had been too dark.

“No, only a bunch of distressed people.”

Blair nodded again, a jerk of his head up and down once. “Good. Thank you. This has been helpful.”

“I wish I could give you more,” Devon said and spread his hands, again trying to convey a helpful and harmless impression. “I just wish I knew who would do such a brazen and hurtful thing. So many of the families have already lost so much.” He thought about the portrait of the young man over the fireplace in Fiona’s parlor.

Blair’s face closed like a mask, and Devon realized he’d gone too far.

“We’re following every lead we can. I’m going to talk to Miss Telfair next. Do you have any advice on getting her to talk? I understand she’s very shy.”

“Go through her mother. They’re very close.” Devon hid his smile at the thought of the encounter. All right, perhaps that was mean of him, but he would pay to see Jim Blair versus Margie Telfair in a battle of words and wits. He honestly didn’t know who was the thicker-headed.

“All right, thank you for that.” Blair rocked on his feet, and for the first time, he looked anxious. “Now, I have something else I’d like to ask you about.”

“Ask away.” Devon made an expansive gesture. “I’m all ears.”

Blair sat for the first time during the interview and put himself eye-to-eye with Devon. “Well, as you know, I have a couple of daughters.”

“I knew of one of them. What’s her name, Meribelle?”

The sheriff gave Devon what looked like a genuine smile. “Yes, and Meribelle is getting to be of an age where she’s thinking of finding a nice young man. Settling down, you know.”

Devon nodded. He wasn’t going to appear too eager, but could this be his chance to be redeemed in the face of Southern hostility?

“And anyways,” Blair said and ran a finger under his collar, “you’re a nice young man, making a good living, and I’m thinking you must be considering something similar, a wife and family, like.”

Devon smiled. After what felt like months of effort—all right, it had only been weeks—the marriage mart was opening to him. He didn’t think that Meribelle Blair was his type, and he definitely couldn’t imagine sitting across from Jim Blair during holidays and Sunday dinners, but he hoped this would be the first of many hopeful fathers bringing potential suits and feeling him out.

“It’s crossed my mind, “Devon admitted. “But I hadn’t gotten as far as thinking about which young lady would suit me best.”

“Well, when you do, I think you should consider my Meribelle.” Blair made his decisive head-jerk motion again, as though his chin could stamp approval on his idea. “She’s sweet, pretty—takes after her mother, thank goodness—and knows how to run a large household.” He waved his hand, and Devon could practically see him salivating at the thought of his daughter as mistress of the unnamed mansion. Devon had hesitated to give the estate a new name, knowing that the opportunity to name the place would be a way to attract interest in potential wives. His wayward mind questioned what Fiona would call it. Not that she was the type of woman he’d consider, either. No dowry or connections to think of.

Blair continued, “Well, I’ll leave you to think on it. And let me know if you recall anything else about the ball and the kidnappings. Even if you don’t think it’s relevant, don’t worry. Just tell me, and I’ll determine whether it’s useful. Oh, and let me give you a warning—stay away from the Telfair family.”

Devon’s eyebrows slid up his forehead before he could rein in his surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Saw you coming from their house this morning. I can’t tell you much, just that Bryan Telfair was mixed up in some things he oughtn’t have been.”

“What things?” Devon clenched his fists beneath his desk. He understood taking risks for one’s business, but not if it endangered one’s family. Was that how the Telfair household had fallen into poverty?

“Can’t say. Government business. Not the sort of thing I could share with an acquaintance.” He winked, and Devon got the gist. While Blair may not share confidences with someone he didn’t know well, he’d be more open with a son-in-law.

“Thank you for your visit,” Devon said and stood. Blair did likewise. “I’ll have Crenshaw see you out.”

“Thank you for your time,” Blair, ever the Southern gentleman, drawled. “And let me know once you’ve made a decision on my offer. You’ll find that we’re not the wealthiest family in town, but I’ve made generous arrangements for my daughters, and everybody likes them. You won’t lack for invitations.”

“I’ll consider it. Thank you again.”

Crenshaw appeared, and Devon watched the back of Jim Blair vanish through the door with relief. A sheriff shouldn’t be sharing information with anyone outside the investigation—another reason Devon didn’t like him—but what had Blair been hinting at? Or had he been making vague accusations to keep Devon from being distracted by Fiona, who was definitely the prettiest girl he’d seen in Terminus thus far? Hence why he’d kept trying to talk to her even though she seemed unable or unwilling to talk to him. At least not until the talk turned to technical matters. But still, what kind of life would that be, only speaking of puzzles and problems?

Devon put his head in his hands. He didn’t need to be thinking about Fiona. He needed to find the missing tinkerers and get his own household in order.

But still, a little spark of hope made his heart feel lighter—could the Southern planters finally be forgiving him?