The Aviator (2 page)

“Are you sure you don’t want me to send up a doctor? I had orders to make sure that you saw one and—”

“No need, I assure you. A few bruises are nothing to worry about among such able warriors as we, are they? Joys of flight, I daresay. I could, however, be persuaded to take a little brandy.”

The Lieutenant’s eyes lit with sudden understanding. “I’ll arrange an informal reception for you in the Officer’s Lounge, presuming you feel up to it, of course.”

Not quite what she had in mind. “But surely—”

“The Duke will want to attend, along with the extra brass we’re carrying at the moment. They were all impressed with your daring tonight. We also have some able musicians among us and the cook can scratch up something special.”

Visions of sardine hors d’oeuvres sliding off scarred tables came to mind—but then, so did the thought of all the ‘extra brass’ that would be in attendance. She stepped inside her room, perusing its cramped walls in an attempt to look nonchalant. “Yes, I heard that Mr. Lanchard had hoped to meet with some important Navy officials over the next few days. I don’t suppose those meetings have taken place yet.”

“Ah.” The Lieutenant remained in the doorway, looking uncomfortable. He dropped his gaze to his feet, as if confused where he’d made his misstep. “I wouldn’t know that, your ladyship. Mr. Lanchard will be there too, I suppose, as there aren’t many other places to be in a storm. I’m sure he’ll apprise you of the developments he is free to discuss.”

Free to discuss.
Gilda struggled to keep her expression, and her language, ladylike. “Yes, of course. Well, that does sound rather pleasant, doesn’t it? Perhaps a small reception will offer a cheery distraction from the dreadful weather and those boorish battle plans.”

The Lieutenant brightened. “Yes. And you—”

“Would be delighted, and honored, most certainly.”

“It gratifies me to hear it. I will make the arrangements then.”

“Splendid.” She granted the dear man her most dazzling smile. “I’ll just make a few preparations. I don’t suppose you could have someone bring my trunk?”

“Your trunk?”

“In the wreckage. Probably in what is left of the rear cabin. I do believe I saw Mr. Lanchard out there. Do be so kind as to inform him that I need it.”

The Lieutenant was still considering his reply when she shut the door.

Some time in the early morning hours, the world righted itself. It might have happened in degrees, though Nathan hadn’t noticed it. At some point, he merely became aware of the unmistakable straightness of the metal table, the way his drink didn’t slant in its glass, his stomach didn’t roll into his ribcage or drop into his gut.

The storm had passed, but the ghost of its waves still seemed to rock the Officer’s Lounge, swaying with Gilda as she broke into another patriotic chorus of
Go with Thee, Bonnie Lad
, accompanied by the enthusiastic strings of a young ensign’s violin. They moved together, the gaunt musician jerking his chin with the wild sawing of the bow, leaning toward her as she straightened her shoulders and threw her head back, overtaken by the ascent from C minor to A flat.

This was classic Gilda. Enter wearing no bustle, no satin or sequins, no modest hats with pretty veils, fur trimmed cloaks or silk fans, and still manage to capture every heart in the room. It was her charm, her damnable confidence which allowed her to turn a tailored jacket, a slim skirt, and polished black leather boots into a challenge for independence, a modern woman in hero’s garb, flaunting her disdain for the old world by abandoning all of its elegance.

She had become quite a figure in that regard, accepting no chaperones, no guardians or matchmaking great aunts, no nods to polite society or the accepted practices of the gentler sex. When the mood struck, she drank like a man, swore like one, bedded whom she chose and didn’t give a damn what ruination came of it. She was shunned for this, of course, but only in the confines of the capital city, a maze of titles and palaces she hadn’t seen in at least a decade. Even there, public condemnation had somehow turned into private adoration, making her much more the celebrity than her well-natured cousins. The Mad Lady Sinclair, they called her.

And they didn’t know the half of it.

He finished off his scotch, wincing at its burn. Perhaps he knew too much, but that didn’t stop him from staring. He couldn’t look away from her. No one could. She sang from the heart, her voice rich and strong and unapologetic, hitting and extending every note, with the smallest waver forming just before a breath, a hint of vulnerability that held every man in the room transfixed, unable to breathe unless she did.

Her hair defied its pins, unruly blonde curls forming a petulant crown, her cheeks pink with song and champagne, her eyes bright and blue… a willful Pandora with her hand poised on man’s undoing.

But there was something else now, something different. A bruise just above her right eyebrow, a mark he’d earlier mistaken for shadows. Her shoulders too, some stiffness in the way she held them, perhaps.

So, not without a scratch after all.

He should have taken immense satisfaction in that. God knew, he wanted to. But he found himself concerned about the possibility of bruises he couldn’t see, damage he didn’t know about, and then despising himself for his own weakness. He was not her caretaker, after all. Not anymore.

Gilda finished her last note, letting the lyric thread gracefully in the air before she smiled, brought down to Earth by riotous whistling and crackling applause. Stone faced War Cabinet Officials, who had not smiled once during the prolonged negotiations of the past few days, were now grinning ear to ear like schoolboys.

They would give her anything she wanted, anything they could. Fortunately, the agreements he was after were already signed. She was too late, though she didn’t know it yet, and none of the men here were at liberty to tell her.

This too, he should take great satisfaction in. Signaling the attendant, he ordered another scotch. It was a night for celebrations, after all.

Gilda dropped onto the stiff metal bench and blew the curls from her eyes, still smiling as she met approving masculine nods from around the room. They were a strapping bunch, these all-important war chiefs, a group of good, strong men, by the look of it. One of them took her place by the violinist and broke into a bawdy song, with verses dedicated to raging seas and unpredictable women, in lively turns.

“You have a gifted voice, Lady Sinclair,” the Duke remarked from his bench seat on the opposite side of the table, amusement playing in his gaze. He wore a simple rose colored jacket and round spectacles at the end of his nose, his fingers circling a lit cigarette in the air as he spoke. “One wonders what you do with it when it comes to your father’s company.”

“I demurely withdraw, your grace,” Gilda said. “In thousands.”

His eyes warmed, a private joke and a good one. He put his cigarette to his lips and drew a harsh breath. “Sorry to have missed so much. I came in about fifteen minutes ago. More tedious briefings, I’m afraid.”

“The situation is serious?”

The Duke blew smoke through his teeth. “My dear, uniforms require a great deal of seriousness. If you’re wearing one, or listening to one, you cannot avoid it.”

“Well, you see? I came at the right moment to distract you.”

He sighed, considering the tip of his cigarette. “And yet, I suspect you’re less interested in me than in your runaway business partner.”

“Mr. Lanchard is here to meet with Navy officials. I came to deliver urgent medicine to the sick.”

The Duke chuckled. “What a truly selfless creature you are.”

“Has he met with them yet?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

The Duke cast a sidelong glance at Nathan, now talking with a pair of Naval officers, gesturing in repetitive arcs as he explained something of technical interest. “If he has, then he should no longer concern you.”

“He owns fifty-one percent of Sinclair Airship.”

“Well, of course, but if he has business with His Majesty’s Royal Navy, he will need to leave the running of things to you and the company managers. I doubt those withdrawals will be much affected.”

“But he’s our designer, you know that. My father trained him.”

“Hire another one. It’s an airship. It has a frame. It has a cloth hull and a collection of envelopes you fill with gas, a few propellers on either side. How hard can it be?”

“He belongs to Sinclair, not to the Royal Navy.”

The Duke looked confused. “My dear, one can never become too sentimental about people. Dogs, of course, and property too, but people invariably fail to understand who they belong to.”

“It is more complicated than that.”

“Ah…Now we come to the truth. I had heard that he was some kind of family member, some scandalous relative hidden from the light of day.”

“He’s not a blood relative, not a relative at all, in any biological sense. Nathan’s mother was a pretty widow from Blackburn. His father died on the frontlines when he was three. My father hired the young widow Lanchard to look after his Northern estates and you can imagine the rest.”

The Duke looked particularly disinterested. “I shall try not to.”

“She played the part of a good mistress for years, then died heroically of some consumptive illness, leaving my father to mourn her ad nauseam for the rest of his life. He took Nathan in like a son, the son he always wanted. The son he never had, poor fellow.”

“And left him fifty-one percent of your inheritance.”

“Probably would have left him all of it, if not for the fact that my mother forbade it. Nathan has always been an extremely good fake son. He and my father spent years huddled over drawing tables together.”

“A very good fake son,” the Duke agreed. “Tell me again why you don’t want him shipped out to sea?”

“And leave me with the hideous investor?”

“What hideous investor?”

“Whichever one he finds, of course. He shall have to sell his shares to leave for such an extended period of time because, despite the modern movements of our day, a woman still cannot control a company with active government contracts, which means that I will be left at the mercy of the managers and a banker in a bowler, for certain.”

“A grim thought.”

“All so that Nathan can build airships directly for the Royal Navy, thus undermining Sinclair’s position as their chief shipping contractor.”

“Do you honestly believe that is his plan? A bit Machiavellian for someone with so few social graces, is it not?”

“He builds airships. That’s what he does.”

“But surely—”

“I’ve thought it all through. Leaving Sinclair would only make sense if he were planning to destroy us, to build his airships for someone else and put us out of business altogether.”

“Rather exhausting.”

“He’s inexhaustible, I assure you.”

“I wasn’t actually referring to him.”

“Unless the Royal Navy wants Sinclair and all of its support flights to stop running immediately, they need to leave Nathan with me. They can find a designer of their own.”

“So this is a fight you expect to win?”

“Yes.”

“I do so admire ambition in a woman of means. It demonstrates an ability to ignore the usefulness of having everything one could ever want.”

“I’m not the only person of means on this ship, your grace.”

He conceded that with a resigned noise, something between a sigh and a groan. “True, but I have a rather vested interest in keeping the Sultans in their own hemisphere.”

“Which is?”

“Oh, dear girl, don’t you know? They cheat at cards. And I’m deathly allergic to tassels. They look terrible on me.”

They shared a warm look, a thinly disguised understanding that the danger was far more serious than either of them truly wanted to admit.

Gilda pursed her lips. “I’ll settle the matter of Nathan’s contract in no time at all. A few days, at the most. We’ll be flying as usual, ship shape at Sinclair, keeping everything in check. This will all be sorted out quickly.”

“What lovely resolve.” The Duke signaled the attendant. “We should christen such a bold battle plan with something far stronger than this watery champagne, don’t you agree?”