Gilded Lily (11 page)

“That is the last thing we should do. Oh, hell.” He wrapped his arms around her waist, lifted her and staggered to the bed. They climbed up together, ending in a messy tangle of limbs and night rail with Freddie on top.

She had officially ventured beyond her previous experience around the time of the bottom-fondling, so she was now operating purely on instinct and guesswork. Shoving her voluminous skirts out of the way, she straddled his hips and sat up to assess things.

“Perhaps it's a bit like riding a horse?” When she moved experimentally, Barnabas bucked, not unhorselike, beneath her. Except it was somehow absolutely nothing like a horse, and it made her light-headed with wanting more.

“Your legs . . .” He ran his hands from her knees to her thighs until his fingers disappeared beneath layers of cotton voile and lace. And then he kept going. “You're not wearing drawers.”

“You've gone past my legs,” she gasped, at the feel of his hands on the bare skin of her hips. He gripped and pulled her down as he rose again, and Freddie felt a blush begin to spread from her face down to her chest. Overheated, overcome, she tugged at the ribbon that closed the neck of her night rail, and unbuttoned the top button so she could breathe more comfortably.

He arched his hips into hers again. “Like riding a horse.”

“This is nothing at all like riding a horse and you know it.” Was that her voice, low and breathless? She could hardly recognize it, hardly recognize herself in this wanton creature she'd become. But she liked that woman. She could
be
that woman. Fearless, taking what she wanted. Once she learned what that was, at least. She moved her hips, scraping her most sensitive flesh against the fine wool of his trousers and bearing down just so, seeking the spot that needed the pressure most and groaning in appreciation when she found it.

Barnabas freed one of his hands and unhooked more of her buttons, until a draft ran down the center of her chest. Then his fingers disappeared again, finding her breast beneath the ridiculous nightclothes. It was good, almost too good to bear, when he brushed close to her nipple and squeezed. Freddie stopped moving for a moment and he gripped tighter on her hip, reminding her of their tempo.

When he finally stopped teasing around its periphery and plucked at her nipple, her body experienced a confusing rush of too-much-to-sort-out, all the sensations overwhelming her. Then the heat between her legs and the tingling ache of her breast met somewhere in the middle and Freddie exploded, whimpering helplessly as the pleasure took over. Hot, wet, then wetter still as Barnabas cried out and froze beneath her, gasping.

She collapsed to his chest, nose buried in his neck, embarrassed now that the moment was over to know that he'd seen her lose herself like that. Barnabas's arms encircled her, holding her tight, as their breathing slowly settled back to something approaching normal.

Somehow this hadn't been quite what she expected. Though she was no longer sure what she had been expecting, nor was she sure what to call what had just happened. Finally, the silence grew too thick and she took it on herself to break it.

“What did we just do?” she mumbled into the warm, salty skin of his throat.

Barnabas kissed her forehead. The gesture was so sweet that tears sprang to Freddie's eyes. “I'm not sure, but I'm fairly certain I've ruined you. It seemed quite ruinous. Delightfully so.”

“If anything, I ruined you. But nobody saw us. Ruining requires a witness, I think.”

“You think? Aren't young ladies supposed to know these things?”

“My mother is French,” she reminded him. “Different set of rules.”

When he laughed, she loved the way his body moved under hers, solid and reassuring. She snuggled closer as he spoke. “I'm certain her rules still wouldn't allow for . . . that, whatever that was.”

“But it wasn't . . . the thing itself? The primary activity that—”

“I know what thing you meant, and no. It most certainly was not.”

“Are you sure? Have you ever done . . . that?”

“Gentlemen don't speak of these things. But I am quite sure.”

“So you have.”

“I—yes, if you must know. A few times.”

She lifted up, bracing herself on her arms so she could see him. His face was flushed, hair at his forehead slightly damp as if he'd just run a race. He looked quite happy and peaceful, and more than a little sleepy.

“I should go back to my room.”

“You should have stayed in your room to begin with,” he chided her gently. But he was stroking her thighs again, up and down in slow, easy passes, not as if he minded at all that she'd behaved in such a shocking manner. “And you should go back soon, it's true.”

Irrationally, she wanted him to beg or command her to stay, express an inability to survive the rest of the night without her and the consequences be damned. She definitely hadn't come with that sort of thinking in mind, and suspected it was a product of the same strange emotional weight that seemed to accompany this . . . whatever they'd just done.

Now that their bodies were cooling off, things were growing sticky and unpleasant between them. Peeling herself away, Freddie slipped off the bed, settling her night rail down around her and smoothing it out as best she could with her hands.

“I didn't mean you had to go right this second,” he protested, following her off the bed. He dropped his braces from his shoulders as he did so, tugging his shirttails out to let them hang. Covering up the evidence, Freddie realized, because his trousers were probably a mess.

“Too many long afternoons and late nights recently. We both need our rest.” She reached into the trunk and pulled out the uniform pieces she thought were most promising, bundling them in her arms and holding them in front of her like a shield as she faced him again.

“You really mean to go through with this, Freddie? Walking right into that station—assuming it's there to begin with—and leaving in a submersible?”

“With or without you,” she confirmed.

He grimaced, then pried the wad of clothing from her and tucked it firmly under one arm, pulling her closer with the other. “With me. God help me.”

He kissed her forehead again—sweet, why was that so inexpressibly sweet?—then her nose, then finally her lips. The heat wasn't spent, and they both left the kiss reluctantly.

Barnabas escorted her to the door, checked the hallway, and pressed the bundle back into her arms before pressing a final swift kiss to her mouth.

“Tomorrow, we'll plot. Tonight, we sleep.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak without her voice breaking.

“Good night, Freddie.”

A whisper wouldn't give her away. “Good night, Barnabas.”

She had planned to make it back to her room before letting herself cry. But as soon as his door was closed, the tears began to fall.

“Y
OU'RE MAD, MISS.”

Dan had said it before, but this time he seemed to mean it literally. There was not a touch of admiration in his voice, and Freddie heard more than a little fear.

She fingered the tips of her newly bobbed hair as she settled into the barouche for the short drive home. The curls sprang back against her touch, surprisingly strong and resilient. Sophie had
tsk
ed and her maid Angelica had wept as she cut it, but even she had to admit the end result was charming and at the very vanguard of fashion.

“You don't like my new hairstyle?”

“What? Oh, I see. You've gone and whacked your hair off. No, I'm not one for bobbed hair on women. I wasn't talking about that and you know it.” He chucked to the horses, who started a lazy, ambling trot down the tree-lined street. Freddie leaned forward to avoid shouting their conversation. The pony trap was so much more convenient for talking, as they could sit beside one another, but the barouche was required for a proper daylight visit to Lady Sophronia's. At least the horses were quieter than a steam engine, and the route from the front of the house was infinitely more scenic.

“Do you mean the uniform?”

“You can't have any good use for it. And you've gone and dragged my mum into this. Trousers are one thing, an officer's uniform is another. She can't explain that away if somebody sees her with it. And you're putting Lady Sophie at risk to boot. I don't like it, Fred, not one bit.”

The big man didn't like her doing much of what she did, but he'd always come around to her side before. He was fiercely protective of his family, however, and she hadn't considered the possibility that his mother might be at greater risk because of the uniform. While she'd been having her hair cropped, Dan had been delivering the garments to his mother. The threat must have occurred to him then.

“I'm sorry, I didn't think. Retrieve the uniform tonight, please, with my apologies to your mother. I can find somebody else to cut it down.”

“Oh, your pet fop knows a good tailor, does he? You'll waltz yourself straight up to Savile Row to have it done?”

While Freddie thought Barnabas had probably patronized at least one good tailor on Savile Row in his lifetime, she also suspected Dan's anger had little to do with tailoring.

“I would hardly call Lord Smith-Grenville a fop. His taste in garments is utterly bland and conventional.” She might have said the same about the man himself a few days ago. Now, she blushed to recall their encounter of the night before, the delicious madness and the unaccountable melancholy that had followed. She still had no good explanation for that and was almost glad she'd been able to avoid having to see him today by arranging this open visit to Sophie's. Hard as it had been to leave his room last night, she was confused at her hesitation to confront him now. It wasn't as if she were ashamed, and heaven knew he hadn't seemed unduly upset by the evening's occurrences.

“He's a limp-wristed milksop and you're not safe with him.”

“What on earth do you mean?” Why would Dan think she wasn't safe with Barnabas? Had he somehow spotted her sneaking about the house last night?

“I let you out of my sight with him for a quarter of an hour, and a bloomin' earthquake happens. Now you're up to some new foolishness with these Navy costumes, which means it's back to the docks unless I miss my guess. What will it be this time, a typhoon?”

Oh.

“Typhoons do not occur in the English Channel. Dan, you're being quite unreasonable, and more than a little unfair. Smith-Grenville didn't
cause
the earthquake. And he didn't even want to accompany me. He
has
to stay with me. My father hired him, after all.”

Was that it, the source of her strange uneasiness regarding Smith-Grenville? She couldn't still think of him as her father's man, not after last night. And yet . . . money and power were strong motivators. Strong enough to make her father destroy the livelihoods of countless fisher folk, apparently without a backward glance. Was Barnabas so different?

“Your father hired him to look after you and report if you seemed to be getting into trouble. He hasn't done that, has he?”

“Well, no. Not that it's any fault of his own. I'm the one to blame, if anything. You know I always find my father's men out.”

After a moment of silence, Dan ventured, “But this one's different. Isn't that right, miss?”

They turned onto Freddie's street, which meant their talk was nearly over. She wasn't sure if it was perfect or terrible timing. “Oh, big brother Dan. Is that what has you so worried? My virtue?”

Dan snorted. “You can do as you like with
that
. What you and me have done, tinkering and all, that's been a lark. What you're doing with this lord, this ain't no lark. And I don't mean anything to do with that virtue. There's talk, bad talk down around the docklands. Folk have been hurt. Folk have been . . . murdered, miss. No nice way to put it. You don't want to go messing in this business. Especially not when you have your mind on other things. Love makes you blind.”

“
Love?
Who said anything about love? Don't be ridiculous.”
Pfft. Love.

Dan shook his head, drawing to a halt at the carriage block. He leaped down as a boy took the reins, and beat the footman to the barouche's door to hand Freddie out. His neatly gloved hand dwarfed hers. In his midnight blue livery, he looked enormous, and Freddie wondered if that was part of his hesitation at allowing Barnabas to take his place as her escort and bodyguard. Dan relied on his physical strength so much he would naturally be leery of other competencies.

“Safe home, miss.” He tipped his hat, reminding Freddie of her need for a new disguise hat now that she no longer needed the gigantic top hat to stuff her hair into. A cap, perhaps. It would be so light and easy to wear.

“Thank you, Daniel.”

He kept her hand a moment longer, giving her a stern look before he made a quick bow to excuse his lingering. “Makes you blind, miss,” he murmured.

“I shall keep that in consideration, Daniel.”

She was inside the house before realizing she didn't know the final outcome of the uniform issue. With any luck, Mrs. Pinkerton would make the changes quickly and have it back to her with nobody the wiser, relieving Freddie's and Dan's minds.

 • • • 

F
OR DECADES BEFORE
the long war devastated their economy, the French had set the standard for large-scale nautical construction. Ironically, many of the ships in the British fleet had been commissioned from French shipyards. The flagship of the Lord of Gold's submersible fleet hailed from that earlier, glorious time, and it was Rollo Furneval's favorite spot for imagining he was the Lord Admiral of his own sinister, clandestine navy.

“Steady as she goes, Mr. O'Brien. Keep an even keel, Mr. Finn.”

“Aye aye, cap'n,” Finn replied. It always sounded so automatic from Finn, all that jackspeak. As if he'd been a real sailor at some point in his life. Rollo had no idea what any of it meant, but that hardly mattered because this wasn't the Navy and the chaps he employed could bloody well pilot the submersible with or without him.

“Ballast . . . ho. We need to get deeper, O'Brien; stay close to the channel floor.”

O'Brien grunted and turned a valve on the baffling collection of pipes in front of him. Something creaked out a ticking groan, and Rollo's ears tightened as the slender sixteen-man craft dove.

All about him was brass and curved beams of wood, most of it in need of a polish. He'd had one of the lads maintain the commanding officer's chair in the cockpit, however, and the glowing gold of the brass rivets and fittings gleamed from the dark teak frame. His undersea throne. They were running dark this trip, even the work lights covered with red cloths to limit glare from the portholes, all in hopes they could avoid attracting the squid's attention. In the dim, ruddy light, his throne looked like the helm of hell. Smelled a bit like it too, Rollo noted with a grimace. Too many fearful bodies in too small a space.

“There's something off the port bow.” Mordecai Nesdin, the hydrophone operator, fiddled with his spectacles in the jerky, fitful way he always did when excited, then blurted out a bearing. It must have made sense to Finn, who pulled on some levers and adjusted a few dials. The sub turned, its sonic sensor array drifting more slowly to sway before the cockpit window like tendrils.

Or tentacles. Like seeking like, perhaps. Mordecai paddled from one foot to the other, holding his glasses in place as he watched his instruments. “Large. And moving. No, there are . . . Roland, Roland! There are more than one! One, two, three—”

“Don't call me Roland. You know that, Mord. What the hell do you mean there are more than one?” He had known Mordecai since they were both boys. Mord, the tutor's simple-yet-sometimes-brilliant son, and he the evil genius who could always turn Mord's talents to his own uses.

“Rollo, Rollo, Rollo! Things out there! Seven, eight, nine, teneleventwelvethirteen twenty-nine, there are twenty-nine
things
out there, Rollo.”

“Fuck.”

The real Navy would have somebody sane to do the counting, somebody entirely unlike sad Mordecai with his fidgeting and his undeniable genius with machinery. Somebody who wouldn't engage in self-polluting practices over said machinery more than once, requiring intervention from Rollo to prevent the devices from being lubricated in untoward ways and Mordecai from having his bits ground to bits.

“Count them again, Mord.”

“Twenty-nine!” His childhood friend crowed out the number in delight. “It's a prime, Roland!”

He knew how Mordecai felt about prime numbers and declined to comment on that. “Let's come to a halt here, lads.”

Finn and the others moved their controls smoothly, proving their worth. The submersible slowed, halted, and Rollo approached the cockpit window to survey the aquatic landscape beyond with his own eyes. Sometimes he simply trusted those more than all the fancy instruments in the world.

He saw . . . seaweed. Rocks, crusted with barnacles or something like that. Murk, and more murk, and—there, darting across the vista as quick as lightning, a shape that went from dark and speckled to a flashing ghostly pale, and a wash of inky black that dissipated quickly in the current but accomplished its purpose quite well. By the time Rollo could see again, the creature that had left the ink was gone.

“What the bloody hell—”

“Cuttlefish?” whispered Mordecai, fingering his bottom lip with one hand and his spectacles earpiece with the other. Then he held up his hands before his face, counting to ten. “Octopus? No, no. Cuttlefish?”

If it could be learned from a book, if it had a classification of some kind, Mordecai knew it. Rollo turned his attention to the savant, rounding the captain's seat and crossing the narrow cockpit to his side. “What d'you suppose it is, Mord? Where's it fit?”

“Too big,” Mordecai replied. “Cuttlefish are little, little fish. Not fish. Cephalopods. Phylum: Mollusca. Order: Cephalopoda. But . . . decapodiform? Eight legs, two tentacles, that's ten. And it was camouflaged in the coral before it moved. Then pulsing. I saw it change. Direct observation. So it
must
be a cuttlefish. But a giant one. Something new.”

“What's a cuttlefish?”

Mord turned his head and aimed a scornful glare at Rollo. “A squid, like. Only a squid with eight legs and also two arm sort of things. And can do . . . camouflage. Even more than a squid. And can flash, like light on the surface of the water.”

“Camouflage? What's that, then? Sounds French.”

“Blowing smoke. Hiding. Disguises. Disguises . . . guises . . .”

Mord lowered himself to a crouch and started to rock. Once he was rocking, Rollo knew, there was no point asking him further questions unless you wanted to trigger an explosion.

“And there are twenty-nine of those bastards out there.” He glanced at the notes Mordecai had taken as he listened to his device, interpreting the pings and echoes into a picture made from sound. He'd ended with crude X shapes but at the start he'd created a shockingly accurate picture of something. If it wasn't an octopus or a sea monster, Rollo didn't know what it was. Some unholy combination of the two. “Tentacles. Tom Hill wasn't lying about that.”

“Sir?”

He looked up to see Finn watching him, awaiting orders. The rest had lost interest, it seemed. O'Brien was picking his nose with a contemplative air, and the other two lads were arm wrestling on one of the control consoles. Useless, the lot of them. Except for poor Mordecai, and perhaps young Finn.

“Take us home, Finn.”

The young man nodded and roused his companions, and together they twirled valves and flipped switches and brought the submersible about with a sickening lurch, pointing it toward what Rollo could only assume was the direction of the home port.