Her Own Devices (5 page)

What was the difference?

Electricks had never harmed anyone. They were strictly for domestic and industrial use. The glass tube had got hot, but the current itself was not dangerous.

Then why had one blast from this rifle been able to kill a man?

Was it hundreds of times stronger than ordinary electricks? Or was it a different kind altogether—something only the builder of this weapon knew?

She needed to lay the rifle before Andrew Malvern and ask these questions. She needed to know what the difference in color and power signified—and more important, how it was created. The cell in the rifle did not seem any different than those that powered household items like the mother’s helper, which cleaned the floors using kinetick energy.

What made this so different? So lethal?

Andrew would—

No. She could not bring this to Andrew. While he might not know who Lightning Luke was or how he’d come by his moniker, he would certainly know that gently reared ladies of Blood families did not go about with deadly weapons in their soft, gloved hands.

Claire set her teeth.

Blast it all. She needed to know.

Just how much was she going to allow convention to dictate her behavior when it clearly obstructed the path to knowledge?

Tigg managed to control his impatience long enough for her to climb out of the landau and join him at the door, but once inside, he bounded across the warehouse floor. Andrew had already arrived and was just removing the collar from the glass tube.

“Did it work, sir?” he asked as Claire removed her duster.

“You mustn’t expect anything to work the first time, Tigg,” Andrew said as Claire joined them. “Give me a hand with this, will you?”

Together they set the tube on the floor and Andrew reached in for a handful of coal.

“Looks ezackly the same as when we put it in, sir.”

Andrew looked crestfallen. “You’re quite correct.” With a hammer, he tapped the coal and it broke into several pieces. “There is no difference. It is neither harder nor more brittle. It just ... is.” He sighed. “Well, such is the nature of science. I must turn my mind to a different approach, that’s all.”

“What if the nature of the electricks is the trouble?” Claire asked from behind them.

Andrew and Tigg turned, as if surprised to see her there. “The nature of them?” Andrew repeated.

“Is there not a different kind of electrick you might apply? One that is ... stronger, perhaps?”

“I’m afraid the City of London can’t supply anything stronger,” Andrew said. “In fact, along with the steam engine that powers it, I have a number of converters in the system of this chamber that would not be, er, approved by our good Commissioner of Works, because they increase the current to a point that is too dangerous for ordinary use. Hence the glass chamber. I do not want my laboratory burning down.”

“Mr. Malvern ...” She stopped. She must tread carefully. “What might it mean if an electrick current were not yellow or green, but blue-white?”

Tigg looked at her strangely, but to his credit, said not a word.

“Where have you seen such a thing?” Andrew frowned at her in a most disconcerting way. “Even Mr. Tesla’s cells do not produce blue-white current. They are always yellow.”

“But what would it mean?”

“Why, it would mean a stronger concentration of power than any I’ve ever seen.”

Strong enough to kill a man on contact.

“In fact, I read a paper once about a device that could generate such a current, but the engineering was a cross between genius and fantasy. Even if such a device existed any longer, it would be so dangerous that no one could work with it for fear of being killed.”

“It did exist at one time?”

“It must have. One must submit one’s inventions to the Royal Society of Engineers and have them vetted in order to have one’s papers published.”

“Do you know who might have written it?” A name would give her a place to start in mining his office for that paper.

Andrew laughed. “I do, but it won’t do any of us any good. You heard me say it was a combination of fantasy and genius?”

“The genius part might be interesting to us.”

“There is a fine line between genius and madness in some people, I’m afraid. The author of this particular paper is no longer with us.”

Claire’s shoulders wilted in disappointment. “He’s dead, then?”

“She. And no, she’s not dead. She is in Bedlam.”

“A scientist in Bedlam, sir? Insane?” Even Tigg sounded shocked.

“I’m afraid so. She was committed years ago, when she attacked Sir George Longmont, the Chief Engineer, at a meeting of the Royal Society. I was not present—being still a schoolboy then—but the old-timers told me it was a horrific scene. She had been one of the very first women admitted to the Society, you see. When she was committed, it set the Wits back twenty years.”

Claire suppressed a shudder. If the lady had been committed to the Bethlehem Royal Hospital years ago, it meant she was housed in the Incurable ward. Most people were cured and released in a year or less. Only the truly insane were locked away for their own good and that of society.

Andrew gazed at the coal in his hand. “Such a waste of an amazing mind. The electricks were all destroyed, for safety. Or almost all. A few went missing but they’ve never turned up. I supposed we’d know it if they did—it would be difficult to miss explosions or buildings suddenly burning down.”

Goosebumps prickled on Claire’s shoulders. “What would happen if one did turn up?”

Andrew laughed. “The likelihood of anyone knowing what to do with such a thing would be low.”

“I knew a man once,” Tigg said. “’E’s dead now, o’course, but they say ’e got into college afore ’e frew it all away an’ turned to a life of crime. Handy wiv electricks, ’e was.” Tigg studiously avoided looking at Claire.

“I wouldn’t like to see one of these devices in the hands of a criminal,” Andrew said slowly. “Fortunately, they were small. Dr. Craig—that was the scientist’s name, Rosemary Craig—could carry one in her reticule and still have room for stamps and a pocketbook.”

“But if there was a big ’un?” Tigg asked. “What then?”

Andrew gazed at his chamber. “From what I remember, even a small cell could probably power this chamber.”

“Could you build one?” Claire asked. “If you could find that paper?”

He shook his head. “Not if the order was given to destroy them. Once the Society makes that decision, it’s final. Every copy of the paper in their archives would have been destroyed. Now that I recall, it was that order that triggered the attack on the Chief Engineer. Dr. Craig simply snapped.”

Claire wondered if she might not do the same in that unfortunate lady’s position. Imagine devoting your life to a magnificent device, creating it, demonstrating it—and then being told that it was dangerous and every example of it would be destroyed. Flying at the Chief Engineer, it seemed to her, would be a fairly reasonable response.

But perhaps every example had not been destroyed.

The lightning rifle
. Could it really be that it contained one of Rosemary Craig’s lost devices? And if it did, how could Claire find a way to use it to help Andrew in his endeavors?

The trouble was, she did not know enough about electricks. She could show the rifle to him, but then she would run into the troublesome problem of telling him where she’d got it. And that was impossible.

No. She needed to learn more about Rosemary Craig and what she had created.

But how? Where?

Claire went upstairs and began work on the piles of treatises, formulae, and measurements to one side of the desk. As she sorted, she began to see patterns—in the paperwork, in names, and in the nature of Andrew’s experiments. And in the back of her mind, a resolution formed.

Dr. Craig must have had a family. And if it were a respectable family, no one would know more about them than their staff.

And no one knew more people among the servants in the great houses than Mrs. Morven, the Trevelyans’ former cook at Wilton Crescent.

She was now employed by Lord James Selwyn at Hanover Square, but Claire would not allow that to dissuade her. Lord James was away, and there was nothing to prevent her from visiting a well-loved former employee, now, was there?

*

Mrs. Morven opened the door so fast that Claire was sure she’d been waiting behind it for her to knock. “My dear Lady Claire!” She had never been given to displays of affection, but she swept Claire into a hug against her vast chest and kissed her soundly on both cheeks.

Claire kissed her back, adjusted her hat, and stepped inside Lord James’s home. It smelled of carnations and furniture polish. “It’s very good to see you, Mrs. Morven. Lord James is treating you well?”

As she spoke, she took in every detail. Parquet floor in the hall. Ah, there were the carnations, in the front parlor, which was tastefully decorated in Wedgewood blue and Nile green. Not a speck of dust lay anywhere, from walls painted cream to the furniture and woodwork. Whoever was keeping house for him was a paragon. Claire thought of her own rough-and-tumble lot in the cottage, its table stained from chemical experiments, its floors coated with drying mud no matter how often they swept.

Never mind. It was full of life, not this dignified silence that spoke of the absence of both master and friends.

“Yes, my lady, he treats the staff very well. Always courteous, always a gentleman. It’s very quiet, though, I must say. Not as much life as on Wilton Crescent. I wonder how the little viscount, your brother, is getting on?”

“He is well,” Claire said, hoping it was the truth. “My mother owes me a letter, so I’ll have news of him shortly, I’m sure.”

“And her ladyship?”

“Also well.”
You didn’t happen to see an advertisement with my face on it, did you?
Never mind. It would be better not to ask.

“Come into my parlor.” Mrs. Morven waved her into a cozy little room down the stairs, opposite her office, where tea was already set out. “When I got your tube this morning, I was glad I’d done a little baking. I hope you still like orange chiffon cakes.”

Claire nearly swooned. Beside the cook’s lemon souffle, the little orange cakes iced in melted chocolate were her favorite. “You must have the second sight. I believe I dreamed about these last night.”

Pleased, Mrs. Morven poured tea for them both and handed her a cup. “Now, miss—er, I mean, Lady Claire—I must say it’s glad I am to be seeing you safe and well. After the riots I had my doubts about your safety. That one little note you sent wasn’t very comforting.”

“I am very well. In fact, I had lunch yesterday in Piccadilly and met Peony Churchill at the restaurant. She remarked upon the same thing.”

“Gorse was inquiring after you, too. I’m glad I can tell him I’ve seen you with my own eyes, and you’re hale and hearty.”

“Do give him my best regards, and let him know I have a student of mechanics now myself who will be every bit his equal when he grows up. Is Gorse ... happy at Wellesley House?” Claire hoped so. But in her mind, even the joys of a four-piston landau in the mews would not make up for having to work for Julia Wellesley’s family.
Insufferable Blood arrogance
did not do them justice.

“He seems so. But then, his heart being away down there in Cornwall, I don’t suppose he cares much where the rest of him is.”

Poor Gorse. “I still don’t understand why he didn’t toss the second footman off the Flying Dutchman and go with Silvie, if he’s in love with her.”

Mrs. Morven smiled at her fondly. “Ah, the young. You think that love is worth throwing over a good situation and the prospects of a stable life. Gorse is old enough to know he must be able to provide a home for Silvie. Working at Wellesley House will let him do that. Working in the carriage house at Gwynn Place, your lady mother’s circumstances being what they are, would not.”

“I know.” Claire sighed. “You’re quite right. I shall look forward to a wedding in any case.” If her mother would ever let Silvie go. A French lady’s maid who could detect every whiff of fashion that came out of Paris and duplicate it with materials on hand was not easy to come by.

“So, miss, now that I know you’re well and you know that we’re well, perhaps you can tell me what that mysterious line in your note was all about? You wanted to ‘mine my memories,’ or some such.”

“I did.” Claire placed her teacup in its saucer, noting that it was none other than the third best set from Wilton Crescent. At least some of their things had survived the riots. “I would like to know if you know anything of the Craig family—specifically, the family of a scientist called Rosemary Craig, who I am given to understand is one of the unfortunates in Bedlam.”

Mrs. Morven took a long sip of tea and rocked herself gently in her chair. “A sad story, that.”

“I have heard some of it. Do you know the family?”

“I did once. My cousin was engaged to their butler, back when they could afford him.”

“And now?” Claire prompted, hoping that was not the end of it.

“Well, they did wind up getting married, but not until he took another situation. After Miss Craig was committed, the family withdrew from society. Shame, too. Apparently there was a sister about to make her come-out, and when that didn’t happen, the story is she went a little mad herself.”

“I can’t imagine driving oneself mad over missing a debut.”

“Begging your pardon, miss, but you aren’t like most young ladies in town. You know as well as me that some prepare their entire lives for their Season.”

That was true enough. If Julia Wellesley had put half as much energy into improving her mind as she did in improving her appearance, she might have gained a man’s respect instead of settling for his admiration. “Perhaps there was more to it. Is the family still in town?”

“Oh, aye. Last I heard from my cousin, they had taken a house in Chelsea. They’re a little more bohemian down there.”

Madness in the family being a social advantage to that lot
, Claire heard as clearly as if she’d said it. Mrs. Morven would die sooner than take employment anywhere outside the black iron fences of Belgravia or Kensington.