Romulus Buckle & the Engines of War (29 page)

“He was in hospital for a while,” Sabrina said. Sometimes the importance of such details escaped Holly when it came to love affairs.

“Yes—I have marzipan in my hair. Oh, dear,” Holly grumbled, snatching up the brush and jerking it in and out of a lock of her hair. “But I went to see Ivan—I called on him three
times—every Monday, and he refused to see me. I was, I am, still desperately vexed by his behavior.”

“Have…have you seen Ivan since his wounding?” Sabrina asked gently.

“At a near distance, of course, once he was released from Doctor Lee’s care,” Holly replied, returning to the corset strings. “I attempted to approach him and he avoided me like the carbuncle plague.”

“And his injuries have not caused you to pause?”

“Oh, dear, do you really think so little of me? No, quite the contrary—his bumps have endeared him to me even more.”

“It was an unkind question, forgive me,” Sabrina said. “Ivan’s medical clockworkings are only temporary, but he is self-conscious about them. I think he fears that this new shyness has made him appear to you to be an uncaring lout, which is the opposite of his true feelings.”

“Does he not know that I understand? I wish everyone would think more highly of me.”

Sabrina watched Holly’s reflection as she pulled tightly on the drawstrings of her corset. The tugging moved higher, above her stomach. Sabrina coughed under the squeeze, the tops of her breasts plumping upward with each cinch. She eyed the freckles under the hollow of her throat, leading down into her cleavage in a pitter-patter pattern; the ones on her nose could be considered cute, but she disliked the freckles there.

“Though, of course, you barely know him,” Sabrina said.

“That is true, but one can have a sense about a man in the beginning—one must, must one not? Or why would we ever even deign to go on with the entire procedure?”

Sabrina nodded. She did not doubt Holly’s true feelings, but when it came to Ivan, she felt protective. “He is a bit of an odd bird, though,” Sabrina said.

“Crazy Ivan, yes, but he is darling. And I have a soft spot for inventors—they fascinate me. And he is, or was, exceptionally persistent. I find persistence to be an underrated quality in a man.”

“You do make something of an odd pairing, though.”

“In what way?”

“Well, I mean to say, he is of the odd, antisocial engineering sort, and you are a much sought-after town beauty. It is obviously an offbeat pairing.”

“Oh…beauty and the beast, is it?” Holly laughed when she said the words, but Sabrina caught the tone of indignity playing under it. “And a mangled beast at that? Oh, who could love such an ugly brute, even if he was a daring sky dog?”

Sabrina gulped—a difficult task inside the corset—and shook her head. “No, I simply mean that you are an odd pairing. But such matches often work out for the best, do they not?”

“I do not require a swashbuckler, dear friend, nor even a man lacking scars,” Holly said, smiling. “And I do admire your protectiveness concerning your brother. But he has a good heart. I am enamored most by a good heart. The other details are unexplainable, except by love. I fully intend to adore him, if he lets me.”

With the last word, Holly drew the top drawstrings of Sabrina’s corset with a powerful yank, making Sabrina grunt as her rib cage threatened to crack.

“Yes,” Sabrina replied, her voice a tight squeak.

They both laughed.

YOUNG MEN, SQUARE-RIGGED

“Y
ES
, I
VAN
,
YES
—
YOU ARE GOING
to talk to her,” Buckle said to Ivan, mildly annoyed, as Burgess Sibley, leaning in under Buckle’s chin, attempted for the third time to properly tie his white silk cravat.

“Please stop moving around, Mister Buckle,” Sibley moaned.

“I’m not moving, Sibley,” Buckle answered, realizing that he had turned his neck as he was speaking.

Ivan was at the other end of Buckle’s bedchamber, pacing back and forth in front of an amused Ryder, who was leaning against the wall, wearing his finest traveling clothes, his steamer trunk at the door.

“You cannot escape Holly Churchill, you know, brother,” Ryder chuckled.

Flustered, Ivan stopped and repeatedly tried to light a pipe. He was mostly dressed, except for his waistcoat and frock. His hair, his unruly hair, stuck out in spikes from beneath his old, singed ushanka, which he refused to take off. His metal arm and goggle gleamed in the last of the afternoon light coming through the window, and when he turned, they reflected the amber glow of the wall lantern. Ivan had talked profusely for the last few days, unusual for him, about his latest experiment, a chemical analysis of women’s tears—though his progress had been hampered by his
inability to get women to cry for him. Buckle knew that Ivan was worried, not about his injuries but about what Holly Churchill might think once she saw him, maimed and patched up with clockwork devices. Ivan had avoided Holly for the near month since their return to the stronghold, even refusing her requests to visit him in the hospital. And once Lee released him, he had dashed into the depths of the
Pneumatic Zeppelin
in her repair dock, and had barely poked his ghastly head out since then.

But tonight Ivan was required to attend the ball, and Holly was going to see him, and he had screwed it all up anyway. He was quite nervous about it.

“I cannot engage with her,” Ivan muttered, still poking a lit match unsuccessfully in his pipe bowl. “I really cannot.”

“Why not?” Buckle grumbled, giving Ivan a sharp look as his cravat collapsed in Sibley’s hands. Sibley sighed and started over. Buckle shrugged his shoulders a hair—his clothes fit nicely, the trousers tailored to a proper length over his leather shoes, but the starched shirt chafed under the waistcoat. His red cummerbund flashed its color about his slender waist, the gold chain of his pocket watch looped just so, and his black dress frock hung on a peg at his shoulder, a dark crimson cloudflower tucked into the buttonhole.

“Obviously, she is furious with me,” Ivan said, jamming the unlit pipe into his shirt pocket and extinguishing the match with a sharp wave of his arm.

“That is not what I have heard,” Ryder said.

“It is the truth. It is,” Ivan muttered. “And let us just leave it at that.”

Buckle laughed. “Holly is no wallflower, lad—she is going to march across that dance floor and claim you as her prize, despite your boorishness.”

Ryder laughed. Ivan snorted. Sibley quickly finished Buckle’s cravat knot, patting it once with both hands, and backed up to give it a satisfied glance. “Well done, sir,” Sibley said.

“Very good. Thank you, Sibley,” Buckle replied, turning to Ivan. “Look here—I am all gussied up. And now we need to get you ready.”

Ivan held up his hands. “What? Polish up my head? It’s no use, brother.”

Sibley flung his finger at Ivan’s breast pocket, where the pipe tobacco had stained a brown splotch through the white linen. “What is that, sir?” Sibley groaned.

“Do not worry, Sibley, it shall be obscured,” Buckle said, picking up Ivan’s black waistcoat and holding it open. “Turn around, Ivan. Give me your left arm first.”

“I said it is pointless,” Ivan grumped.

“Stop being such a wart!” Ryder said, jumping forward and easing Ivan around. Ivan sighed dutifully as Buckle, Ryder, and Sibley worked the armhole over the bulk of the clockwork machinery and into position on his shoulder.

“There—not so terrible. Other arm, if you please,” Buckle said.

“I am sorry to miss the party,” Ryder lamented as he tugged at the cloth. “It is a bit of a lemon if you ask me, with all the hungry young ladies about and me unattached, as I am.”

“More for the rest of us, then,” Buckle said.

Ivan, grunting, was able to ram his good arm through the right waistcoat armhole. Buckle yanked the front waistcoat flaps toward each other, but they would not come close enough together to be buttoned.

“Oh, well,” Buckle said, leaving the waistcoat unbuttoned and patting it smooth on Ivan’s chest. “You are going to look jaunty.”

“As long as it hides the stain, sir,” Sibley muttered.

“Does it really matter so much, Sibley?” Ryder asked, returning to his rum. “He will have four more stains on him in the first fifteen minutes—you know he will.”

Ivan shook his head, despair shimmering in his good eye. “It is no matter. I am a fine mess as it is. The only reason I am attending at all is because Father has ordered me to.”

“Stop fobbing on about it, Gorky!” Ryder blurted. “Do you forget that we have heard you moon on and on about the girl, over and over? All of your bruises are going to heal. I demand that you ask her to dance tonight and refrain from breaking her heart any further. She is beautiful. For the Oracle’s sake, boy, wake up.” Ryder handed Ivan a glass of rum. “Right, Sibley?”

There was an easy, rum-stilled pause as Sibley brushed the shoulders of Buckle’s jacket. Buckle could hear the gentle whir of Ivan’s machinery; it should have been soothing to him, but it wasn’t. Inside, he was anxious. Lieutenant Windermere had yet to arrive, and he was bringing the latest status report from the
Pneumatic Zeppelin
with him. Buckle eyed Sibley and Ryder, and his unease was suddenly injected with a shot of anger. If they knew—if they knew of the woman whom their father was keeping. “Doctor Lee informed me that Father was stricken last night,” he said.

Ryder’s eyes widened a bit. “Yes. It was a difficult episode. But he has recovered as he always does. Must we raise such an unpleasant topic in the midst of these pleasant proceedings?”

“What episode?” Ivan asked.

“Father experienced a series of convulsions late last night,” Ryder said. “We had to rouse Doctor Lee to look in on him.”

“He looks fine now,” Ivan muttered, sipping his rum.

“Yes, he does,” Ryder replied. His eyes stayed on Buckle, warning him not to pursue the matter any further.

Buckle pursued the matter.

“Who was with him?” Buckle asked. Ryder did not flinch, but Sibley, the weaker of the two, glanced furtively at Ryder.

“Who was with him?” Ryder repeated, a barely perceptible surliness in his tone. Buckle knew he was stalling, figuring out his answer. “We were all with him.” Sibley’s jaw quivered.

“A woman was in his bedchamber with him last night,” Buckle pressed. “Was there not?”

Ryder’s eyes flashed. “Yes.”

“What?” Ivan gasped, smiling. “The old fox is back in the saddle? Good for him.”

“Who is this woman?” Buckle asked. He felt like punching Ivan.

“That is Father’s private affair,” Ryder replied.

“You will not tell me?” Buckle asked. His response was a silent glare from Ryder. Buckle was suddenly certain that the woman in question was the governess, Catherine Flick, a young-looking woman of forty-six, with dirty-blond hair pinned back under a white kerchief and the ampleness of bosom expected of her trade. She was pretty, in a domestic sort of way, and it would be easy for her to find her way into Balthazar’s bed.

“Who cares, the old fox,” Ivan laughed, draining his rum glass.

Buckle wanted to toss Ivan out the window. He turned to Sibley, who looked like a dog knowing it was about to be hit. “Sibley, old fellow, name the woman.”

“Sir, I would rather not say, please,” Sibley replied, his tone a hair more defiant than Buckle would have expected. “It is a privacy matter, sir.”

Anger surged through Buckle and he allowed it to pass. “I am his son. Is it Catherine?”

Knuckles rapped on the open door, bludgeoning the tension aside. Sedgwick Watts, a young diplomatic aide-de-camp, peered in at Ryder. “Ambassador Crankshaft, the Tinskins are ready to depart.”

It was time for Ryder to go.

“One moment,” Buckle said, grabbing the rum bottle. “One snort before your journey, then.”

“Of course,” Ryder said.

Buckle quickly poured five glasses full, handing them around to Ivan, Ryder, Sedgwick, and Sibley, who did not seem to know what to do with his. Buckle raised his shot. “To Ryder. He shall do our clan proud.” Buckle swallowed his rum with the others, but it was a tad bitter going down for some reason.

“I shall win the Steamweavers to our side,” Ryder said. “I shall follow Father’s advice. Offer no concessions. Impress upon them the advantages of a mutual defense.”

Buckle grinned. “You are one of the young lions, my brother. Our future is secure with you.”

Ryder plunked his glass on the windowsill. “I shall see you soon. And good luck with Spartak, brother,” he said to Buckle with a wink.

“And do not dally with Alhambra Cortez,” Buckle said. Ryder could never resist a pretty face, Tinskin or not, and the woman surely had wiles.

“Worry not,” Ryder said as he strode toward the door. “Old Sedgwick here will keep me out of trouble. Right, Sedgwick?”

“Yes, sir. Is this all you have as far as traps, sir?” Sedgwick asked, grunting as he lifted the heavy steamer trunk in the doorway.

“That’s the lot,” Ryder chuckled. “We travel light!”

Ryder and Sedgwick strode out into the corridor, followed by Sibley. Buckle felt sorry for Sibley. As much as he wanted answers regarding his father’s new mistress, he would not press the loyal old servant—for now.