Steam & Sorcery (20 page)

Obediently, Merrick gave an expurgated version of the events leading up to him having a houseful of children and a part-sidhe governess. “He’s a good lad,” he said at the end. “Strong, protective of the others, wicked smart. He won’t make the same mistakes Malcolm did—I can promise that.”

Sir Andrew nodded. “Good, good. Are you planning to keep him?”

Merrick winced. “All of them, actually. Aunt Dorothy’s grown quite attached to the little hellions. They’re all gifted in one way or another—or most of them, at least. Furthermore, they’re fiercely devoted to one another—utterly refuse to be separated.”

The older man blinked rapidly and swallowed hard. “Well, if the boy is my grandson—and I think he may well be—I’m in no position to care for him. Would you foster him for me, Merrick? As a favor to an old man?”

Merrick was forced to choke back a lump in his throat. “Of course, Sir Andrew. It would be my honor.”

“He’ll have my fortune, so you won’t have to pay his way. The house goes with the title, of course, but I don’t think that will be a problem. Still have a few favors to call in at Whitehall and Buckingham.”

Merrick wasn’t sure that even royal favors would be enough to elevate a bastard to the baronetcy, though stranger things had happened. Acknowledgement would, however, cement Tommy’s future place in the Order, and the money would certainly help secure the boy’s future, though Merrick had more than enough to support a dozen children in reasonable comfort.

The manservant returned with a large brown envelope, which he reluctantly handed to Sir Andrew. “Are you feeling better, sir? Shall I summon your physician?”

“I’m as well as I’ve been in years, or am likely to be again, Sykes. Now bring me that table.”

The man lifted a small round table and set it between Merrick and Devere. Devere laid the envelope on the table and tried to open it, but his hands shook too heavily to work the clasp. He pushed it across to Merrick. “Open it. Please.”

Merrick complied and drew out a thick sheaf of documents. On top was a birth certificate for one Malcolm Allen Devere. Below was a baptismal certificate, then a painted miniature of a young boy, who did bear a strong resemblance to Tommy.

“Toward the very end.”

Merrick turned the stack over, and began flipping through from the bottom. Malcolm’s will, then a death certificate. The next piece of parchment was a marriage license. “Malcolm Devere and Lucinda Porter,” he read. It was dated less than a week before Malcolm’s death. “Good God, man, he married her? Tommy could be your legitimate heir?”

“Well, now, it may be so. I had Bow Street do an investigation after his death. Never found the wench. And that parson’s signature doesn’t match any known ordained ministers in London at the time. But it may be enough to get the Queen to acknowledge a marriage—don’t suppose the lad has a certificate of birth or baptism?”

“I doubt it. All his belongings fit into one bag no bigger than this when he came to me.” Merrick nudged his small satchel with one boot. “And I can’t understand why his mother wouldn’t have told him about the marriage, if it’s the same Lucy Porter.”

“Hmm. Good questions. Still, we’ll get Trowbridge on this, and my solicitors. Might as well use up all those favors, anyway. I won’t be around much longer.”

Merrick didn’t even try to make a polite denial—they’d have both known it for a lie. Sir Andrew’s days were certainly numbered.

“I’ll write a letter now, and you can take it to Trowbridge when you return to London. He can move things from there. And Merrick—bring the boy to see me? I know it won’t be fun for the lad, but it would do my heart a world of good, to see him once before I go.”

“I think he’s made of strong enough stuff, sir. I’ll bring him.”

A short while later, Merrick shook Sir Andrew’s hand and took his hired carriage back to the dirigible field. He carried two letters in his satchel, one for the Duke of Trowbridge, and one for the Queen. He couldn’t help wondering what Caroline would make of this new information.

As part of their bribe for not sneaking along on last night’s adventure, Caroline had agreed that today was to be a school holiday, highlighted by a trip to the British museum to see the second analytical engine ever built by Lord Babbage himself—the first was still at his home, in his private collection. And the mummies. While Wink couldn’t wait to see the engine, the boys couldn’t care less and only wanted to view the dead bodies. Nell was mostly looking forward to the promised stop for ice cream.

“Hurry, Miss Caro,” Wink urged, barely restraining herself from running ahead of the others once they’d alighted from the carriage and the doors of the museum came into sight. “You’re slow today.”

“Am I?” Of course she was. She knew her stride wasn’t her usual brisk pace. Who’d have thought she’d be sore this morning? Despite the rapidity with which she usually healed, she was distinctly tender in certain portions of her anatomy, and walking was a bit of a chore. Thank heavens today wasn’t to have been riding lessons. That, she was sure she couldn’t have faced. It was bad enough that one of the maids changed Caro’s sheets while she was in the bath this morning. Shortly afterward, Mrs. Granger herself had come in with a tea tray, complete with buttered scones and a fresh daisy in a little vase.

“Anything you need, miss? I put a bit of willow bark in the tea. Should help take away any aches and pains. Being a woman is full of those now, isn’t it?” She’d hurried out again before Caroline could speak.

Well, at least the woman seemed to believe Caroline was having her courses. What she’d think when it happened again in just two weeks, Caroline would worry about then, though of course the same was true now—she’d gone through her cycle a fortnight ago. Well, hopefully, no one responsible for laundry could be bothered to count. For now Caroline focused on walking without wincing. The willow bark had helped, as had the hot bath, but after a bumpy carriage ride, most of the aches had returned.

Sally, Johnson and Constable McCullough, in plainclothes suited to a wealthy young buck, accompanied them into the museum. Liam McCullough, a handsome man in his early twenties, admitted to Caroline that although his father was a peer, he preferred to make his own way, hence his position as a mere constable. They both smiled, having found something in common. Apparently, unable to trust anyone in his own organization, Merrick had turned to his friend, an inspector at Scotland Yard, who had sent over his handsome young assistant to act as a bodyguard for Caroline and the children. No chances were being taken with safety—all of the adults carried weapons. Even Sally and Caroline had pocket pistols tucked into their skirts.

They’d agreed to start with the mummies. The boys were thrilled. Wink was busy gazing at Constable McCullough with all the rapt adoration a fifteen-year-old girl could muster, while he pretended not to notice. Nell stood in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest.

“What’s the matter, dear?” Caroline stood beside her and laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder.

Nell shook her head. “So many ghosts. They’re unhappy, Miss Caro. They want to go home.”

Lord, she hadn’t even thought that taking the girl to an exhibit of ancient artifacts would be distressing. She’d grown used to Nell chatting with invisible strangers in the park from time to time, but here, yes, even Caroline could feel the weight in the atmosphere of the room.

“Perhaps you and I should go look at something less disturbing,” Caroline offered. “I think there are some butterflies and birds from the tropics on display in another room.”

“Alive?” Nell looked up hopefully.

Caroline shook her head. “No dear. Preserved.”

Nell’s dark gaze dropped back to the floor. “No thank you.”

“Well, why don’t we just wait out here in the hallway?”

The look of relief on the young face was palpable. “Thank you, miss.”

They found a bench in the corridor, but near enough that Constable McCullough, standing by the door, could see both them and the boys. It was so foreign, to have to be guarded. Caroline could only hope Merrick and his colleagues found the guilty parties as soon as possible. When Nell laid her head on Caroline’s shoulder, Caroline’s arm automatically wrapped around the girl’s waist, holding her close. She dropped a comforting kiss on Nell’s black hair.

“Is your daughter ill, madam? Is there anything you need?” A young curatorial assistant hurried down the corridor with a clipboard, but paused to notice Caroline and Nell on the bench.

Caroline smiled at the friendly young man, his red hair sticking up in six different directions as if he ran his fingers through it often. “No, she’s just not comfortable with the mummies.”
Or their ghosts.

The assistant smiled, bid them good afternoon and went on his way. Caroline stared at his retreating, white-coated back.
Daughter?
Did she really not look like a governess? In her new finery, Caroline supposed she didn’t—she was as well dressed as the children. When had she stopped wearing her false spectacles?

Oh, this was bad. She was the worst governess in the world. Not only had she fallen in love with her employer, but she’d fallen in love with her charges too. When her affair with Merrick ended and she was forced to leave, it was going to break her heart.

A little later, they stood in the gallery devoted to modern invention and technology, and Nell relaxed. Most of the objects in here were too new to have ghosts attached to them. Caroline remembered Merrick’s concern about the Babbage engines, so when Wink said, “There’s something wrong with this,” Caroline hurried over to look.

“I’m sure they have it displayed in working order.” Caroline was somewhat amazed that Wink had ceased gazing at Constable McCullough long enough to notice the machine at all. Still, if Wink said something was wrong, it probably was. Caroline peered into the exhibit. “At least that’s what the sign says.” There was a large explanatory card affixed to the glass case.

Wink shook her head. “I don’t care what it says. This machine won’t work. Several of the important gears are missing.” She pointed to the places where, apparently, in her eyes there ought to be gears or cylinders, or some other part Caroline couldn’t quite fathom.

“We should tell Sir Merrick,” Caroline murmured. “As soon as we get home.” Did this mean anything for his investigation? All she knew is she suddenly felt chilled, as if she’d walked right through one of Nell’s ghosts.

Merrick gritted his teeth all through dinner. Dorothy had invited Gideon MacKay, had seated him next to Caro and seemed to be actively pushing the two younger people together. Caro flirted with MacKay, nothing significant, but enough to make Merrick want to beat the other man to a pulp, or beat his own chest and shriek, “Mine!”

Wink and Tommy rolled their eyes at Gideon’s open fawning, ignoring him as much as possible while remaining polite. That they didn’t care for the man was curious, but more and more Merrick found himself agreeing with their taste. Surely Caro could see through MacKay’s blatant flattery?

After dinner, Merrick said good-night to Gideon and asked Caro to meet him in his study whenever it was convenient. He’d wrestled all afternoon with the question of how to tell Tommy about his possible grandfather, and he wanted to hear her opinion on the subject.

To his relief, she didn’t linger with MacKay, but joined him right away. Before he could begin though, she informed him of Wink’s observations regarding the Babbage engine at the museum.

He nodded. “I believe her. There are parts missing from both Oxford and Cambridge too. It’s probable that rather than stealing a complete engine, our opponent is trying to assemble his own.”

He’d asked to speak to her here, hoping he would be less inclined to kiss her if the width of his desk stood between them. It wasn’t working. While practical concerns still occupied his brain, his body wanted to do nothing more than drag her across the desk. “Caro, there’s something else I need to tell you, and it’s important, though unrelated to this investigation.”

He took great care to leave nothing out in his explanation. He told her more about the Order than was strictly allowed, including the issues of heredity that led him to believe Tommy’s father had been a Knight, and his reasoning for suspecting Malcolm Devere.

Caro absorbed the information with her usual thoughtful gravity and smiled when Merrick finished by telling her about the marriage certificate. “That’s wonderful. Have you told him yet? What did he say?”

Merrick grimaced. “I haven’t. There’s still the possibility that he isn’t a Devere. And I still can’t understand why his mother wouldn’t have told him about the wedding, given him his father’s name.”

“Maybe Tommy can answer that.” Caro nibbled on her lower lip as she pondered. “But what if you can’t prove it either way? What will it take to satisfy Sir Andrew?”

That question, Merrick could answer. “There are spells that can be used. I’ve already requested that a sorcerer accompany us when I take Tommy to meet Sir Andrew. It won’t be a long reunion, I’m afraid. Sir Andrew is a dying man.”

“That’s a shame. So doesn’t that mean you should talk to Tommy as soon as possible?” Caro clenched and unclenched her fingers on her lap, as if she, too, was having trouble keeping her hands to herself.

“I’d like you to come with us.” He hadn’t intended to ask, but once the words were out, he knew he meant them, deeply.

“Shouldn’t it be Mr. Berry? I haven’t spent that much time with Tommy.” She twisted her hands again. Clearly, she wanted to come.

“I can’t ask the other children along. They’d be too disruptive in a sickroom. But Tommy connects you with them, with the family he’s made for himself. I think he’d appreciate your support.” Merrick knew
he
certainly would.

“That would be fine. Let me know when I’m needed.” She stood to leave.

“Caro, wait.” He didn’t want to let her go, especially if she was returning to visit with Gideon. No, that wasn’t entirely true. He didn’t want her to leave—not ever, really. When he’d told the servants this morning he intended to marry her, he’d meant every word. He hadn’t planned to wed, but Caroline Bristol, or Buckman, or whatever the hell name she used, was made of sturdier stuff than Merrick’s mother. She’d survive as the wife of a Knight—he was sure of it. And she’d hold this odd little family together if something happened to him. He didn’t know anything about love, but he wanted her in his life, in his home. In his bed.