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Authors: Pip Ballantine

Phoenix Rising (27 page)

BOOK: Phoenix Rising
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“Do the
Ministry Seven
know about Raj and your other exploits for Queen and Country, Miss Braun?”

“Oh Welly, I am not that foolish. They are a fine resource and I tell them enough but not so much that they are in any danger. They know they are serving the Crown in their own way when they assist me in cases.”

Wellington clicked his tongue in disapproval, feeling his neck growing tender from so much head shaking.

“Besides, the children are not privy to all my secrets,” she said with a wry grin, “as you were this morning.”

“That is quite enough, Miss Braun,” Wellington said, his cheeks burning as he waved for a cab. “I cannot be held accountable for your lack of modesty. I am an English gentleman, raised as such, and you do seem to want to take advantage of that.”

“I see,” she replied curtly, accepting Wellington's hand as he assisted her into the hansom, “and here I was, worried your gentlemanly sensitivities would be tested on seeing those six battle scars across my back.”

“Seven.”

Eliza looked back at him, her eyebrow crooked. “Precisely.”

Wellington paused, and then lifted himself into the hansom. This was a bad omen for the weekend ahead of them.

INTERLUDE
In Which a Mysterious Woman
of Past Transgressions Shows
No Honour Amongst Thieves

T
he sound of silverware scraping against a porcelain plate was the only sound to interrupt Sophia's dinner. Her lifestyle was one of perilous pursuits and outcomes, but the payment assured her of living well and boarding in places that guaranteed many amenities. One of the most appealing for a woman of her profession: silence. Even in the bustling city of London, there were corners of the great city that knew luxury and solitude. Two things most assuredly in her top three favourite things in life.

She enjoyed the mutton served at this establishment. It was, perhaps, the finest dinner she had ever enjoyed. Not as succulent as lamb, mutton could still, with proper spices, sauces, preparation, and cooking times and temperatures, melt in your mouth.

This was such a recipe. Each bite improved on the previous one. And after the week she had endured, this was a well-earned, well-deserved reward. From this corner of her suite, her eyes able to sweep across and take in all of the spacious lodgings, she savoured her late dinner, allowing herself a precious moment to relax.

However, her next bite was interrupted by the sudden rattling of windowpanes. It could have been the wind, had weather conditions not been so still all day long. Sophia shook her head in disgust and cleaned the fork of her dinner before setting it to one side. Dabbing the corners of her mouth with the napkin, she rose, crossed to the offending window and unlocked it. She then reached underneath the windowsill and retrieved a small box she herself had placed there. She considered its lid adornment—a bird in flight emerging from a field of fire—before turning the tiny sculpture four times. Sophia glanced out of the window, paused, and turned the figurine an additional two times before gently placing the box on the sill against the break between the two windows. It played a soft, gentle song as the bird slowly rotated. The curtain she drew closed effectively deadened the music box's tune. She was thankful for that. At first she found music from such boxes charming, but on a fourth refrain, music boxes became something of a grating noise created by a brass comb scraping against a cylinder.

The knock came next. She had expected it to be more forceful.

Her skirts rustled as she crossed the room, the fabric surrendering to silence on stopping by the coat rack where she retrieved her cape. With a final look at her ensemble, just to be certain she was presentable, she opened the door to reveal her contact.
Previous
contact would have been a more precise description, but this unannounced appointment was hardly unexpected. Particularly after the previous evening's events.


Mademoiselle
,” he said, his natural baritone so very pleasing to her ears.

Pity he was speaking French. He was well aware of how much she detested that language.

“So formal, Alexander,” she chided, masking her distaste for his chosen tongue. She craned her neck to see the four men, all similarly attired, watching him and listening intently.

He motioned to her cape. “Going somewhere at this late hour?”

“Actually, yes,” she stated. “I have business to tend to.”

“Indeed,” he said, closing in on her. He seemed to relish being so forward. “You do.”

Sophia nodded and took a step back, motioning to her parlour. “Would you and your associates care to come in then? No need to cause a scene in the hallway.”


Merci
,” Alexander said, motioning for the others to follow him into the suite. “I would imagine you would be done with causing scenes for quite some time.”

She smiled. “So you heard?”

“We have contacts at the newspapers that includes opera critics.”

“And is that how you found me? Your network of contacts?”

“Oh no,” he said, his smile wide. “I know your taste in lodgings, remember?”

Yes, Sophia did remember. She also remembered how in this very parlour he tried to charm his way into her bed while briefing her on his private airship's travel times. That attempt to mix their business with his pleasure she had found quite comical.

“It was remiss of me to forget that.” Her reply was tinged with the tiniest of laughs.

Her door's lock sounded like a whip crack. She watched Alexander's associates turn away from the door and lock a steely gaze on her. In the light of her apartments she now got a better look at her contact's associates, and regretted it. Two of the men flanking him looked as if they had come from an evening of boxing. Apparently, they had lost.

“I can spare you some time, Alexander,” she stated, pushing back the folds of her cape, “but only a few moments, and then I must be on my way. What brings you and your companions here to my lodgings tonight?”

“The Lord of the Manor sent me,” he said, his tone a touch louder now that they were in closed quarters.

Sophia rolled her eyes. “The Lord of the Manor? I swear, I do not know why you bother to follow that
pezzo di merda
.”

Alexander's glance over his shoulder kept his four compatriots still. He switched his attention to the cuffs of his black overcoat, adjusting them meticulously as he spoke. “
Mademoiselle
,” he said with a grin, “if you show such disdain for the Lord of the Manor, why do you continue to work for the House?”

“You know the old saying, concerning fools and money,” she retorted. “If fools wish to spend their money upon my person, I will not object. He was foolish to underestimate the opposition.”

Alexander crooked an eyebrow. “And just how much do you know of the opposition?”

“A branch of your Monarch's government, it would seem, has been thwarting your organisation's agenda of late. I think that is enough to know of your enemy.” She laughed as she returned to her dinner in the far corner of the suite. She took her wine in hand and spoke as she turned to the men in black. “You have employed me on a variety of operations, all of them successful as the goals were crystal clear. At least for me. One target. Eliminate. Disappear. Very little room for error.

“This time, you ask of me to bring back my target
alive
. This target, so my orientation led me to believe, was nothing more than a librarian for a ministry of your Crown's government. It was my own research that enlightened me on this ministry, or at least what little is known about them. What I did find out is they are the only people who have ever stood in your way, Alexander. They are, judging by the very encounters you've had with them, resourceful, insightful, and most of all, tenacious.” She finished the wine and gingerly placed the empty glass on a small end table by a settee. “Did you really expect they would simply let the keeper of their secrets disappear without a trace?”

She felt a tiny rush of elation at watching his jaw twitch. Alexander's henchmen, for the lack of a better term, were standing in identical poses; and as they were all wearing fashionable black suits—and a good thing their shared tailor could work wonders with black lest they appeared to be a small convention of undertakers—Alexander and his hired thugs popped out against the cheerful, bright surroundings of her parlour as cutouts. She crossed to Alexander's right and smiled widely. Now she could see all of them.

“Perhaps it was a . . .” he paused, looking over his shoulder once again at the minion closest to him, and then continued, “. . . miscalculation on the part of the Lord of the Manor.”

“Miscalculation?” She laughed. “You exposed your base of operations in Antartica!”

“We can rebuild.”

“Not if they are watching Antarctica now.”

Alexander's frown deepened. “It is a big place.”

“And as you build, your construction will create disturbances that will appear far too rhythmic to be dismissed as tremors.” She clicked her tongue, sighing with feigned remorse. “Your esteemed House have tipped their hand, my dear.”

“Be that as it may,” and he stepped forward, his grin somewhat unsettling, “your job remains unfinished.”

How she hated surprises. “I beg your pardon?”

“The House of Usher hired you to obtain the Ministry's Archivist,” he replied, his grin now a very satisfied smile. “As far as we are concerned, you are still on our payroll.”

She nodded. “Apart from the attempt at Charing Cross, did you try again?” His reply was silence. Suddenly his associates' injuries made perfect sense to her. She looked at the fresh-faced gent by the door. “
Signor
, it was most fortunate for you that your dance card was engaged that day.” Her eyes flicked back to Alexander. “My condolences for the loss of your man. Hopefully, he was not a blood relation.”


Mademoiselle
, if you please,” Alexander said, motioning to the door.

Her eyes narrowed. “Really? Well, Alexander, as far as
I
am concerned, the job was completed the moment I delivered him to your Antarctic base.”

“The job was to deliver the archivist, alive, to the House of Usher.” He gave a light shrug, spreading his arms wide. “The House of Usher is still waiting.”

“English may be my second language, but you believe that is enough for you to best me in a game of semantics?” She took a moment to gather her wits, and then continued in a calmer tone. “I delivered him. You lost him. This matter is strictly your concern and,” she said, motioning to the injured associates, “it would seem that while your House staff is proving ineffective, their confidence levels have hardly abated.” She sighed and said, “
Se all'inizio non hai successo, ritenta ancora.

“The Lord of the Manor insists you return to our employment immediately.”

On those words, the two bandaged thugs stepped forward.

How sweet.

She then heard the music box, the tune now playing in a key a note higher than before. The final refrain.

Alexander went to speak, but the small explosion from the concealed window caused him to start. The scream from outside was drowned out by a successive ringing of metal against metal, and then Sophia's hands shot out from underneath her half-cloak. The gear wheels split into two after passing Alexander. Two lodged in throats and a third buried itself deep in the chest of another henchmen. The last man tending to the door had a moment's luck as the lethal disc embedded itself in his shoulder. (She thought he had moved a step to the left, and chastised herself for not compensating.) His luck lasted only a moment as a bullet entered from underneath his jaw.

Her second pistol was trained on Alexander's forehead. She kept him rooted to the floor as she approached, her thumb pulling back the pistol's hammer.

“We were discussing semantics,” she said, her voice still steady and charming—as if she were serving him Amaretto at her villa.

“Now, now,
Signora
. . .” He chuckled, his eyes never leaving the end of her pistol.

Italian. Finally.

“Alexander,” she cooed, her accent giving her disdain an even harder edge, “I am so sorry our business has come to this impasse.”

“I do think you should take a moment to reconsider your course of action—”

She raised one eyebrow. “Says the man on the dangerous end of a gun.”

“Are you certain you wish to dismiss the House so quickly, considering your compensation in the past?”

“You think I am acting rashly? Look around you.” She sighed, her weapon showing no signs of faltering. “The House has been outbid.”

He lowered his hands slowly, “
Signora
, think of your reputa—”

When the bullet struck his forehead, it snapped his head back, not lifting him off his feet but sending him back a couple of steps.

He had just started to fall when she strode over to the singed curtains. Sophia turned her face away as she parted them, airing out the acrid smoke from the token courtesy of her current employer. While the glass had merely cracked, it had been the heavy metal windowpanes that had blown outward, knocking the Usher associate on her ledge off balance. She looked down to the city street to see his twisted corpse. The would-be assassin would have most likely crept into her suite and dispatched her while she slept or some similar setting where she would find herself in a rare moment of vulnerability. The House of Usher could not be faulted for their valiant efforts.

In the distance the shrill of a policeman's whistle sounded. Soon enough, Scotland Yard would be pounding into the hotel. She needed to leave now.

Her bags waited by the door. She placed the dark hat on her head and secured its ribbons underneath her chin. In the mirror she glanced at the table where she had been enjoying her dinner. Her mouth watered slightly.

It was such a shame that she would leave this particular hotel. The chef here was truly a master.

BOOK: Phoenix Rising
6.38Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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