The Janus Affair: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel (20 page)

“Loss of the lifestyle he has become accustomed to.”

The red eye flared again. “A strong motivator.”

Sussex allowed himself a smile. “There is something my man has eluded to. It could prove of value to your own agenda. There is something the Ministry is hiding within the Archives.”

“I know.”

His reply caught in his throat. “Maestro?”

“What I want is in the Archives. It is a device of unimaginable potential, and I must have it under my control. Otherwise, it will continue to stand against me. The weapon we have recently commissioned is nearing completion. Once in our possession and the Ministry disbanded, I will be able to help myself to what I desire.”

“Why not send Pearson after it? I know the Archives are tended by only two agents.”

A hiss of steam, and the eye appeared to take on the semblance of fire. “Ask
Signorina
del Morte about their head archivist, and what happened to the House of Usher on attempting direct interference.” He took in a hollow breath, and added, “We must proceed covertly, and therefore I need you, Peter.”

Sussex nodded, his fear slipping away, surrendering to a brief moment of hope. The Maestro was fixated on something in the Archives, evidently something gathered and catalogued within the numerous shelves Campbell had told him about.

This meant that the secret of the Restricted Area could be used. A secret that eluded the Maestro could prove to be a means of escape for Sussex.

“That need keeps you alive, Peter. I hope you do not take that for granted.”

“Of course not, Maestro.” He let his eyes drop for a moment, as if to study the barrier of darkness between where he sat and where the monster remained hidden. “I believe the man under my employment is growing closer. You will have the fall of the Ministry before the end of March.”

A soft hiss from the darkness was his only reply. The red eye remained constant as the North Star.

“Maestro, I know you would prefer—”

“I insist that you produce results before the end of this month.”

Two weeks. Sussex felt his muscles seize, his heartbeat quicken. “Maestro, please . . .”

“Now, Peter,” the monster chided from the darkness, “you know how I find grovelling common.”

The Duke shut his mouth with a light snap.

“What I need to progress further is kept within the Ministry, and I will not allow this artifact to simply gather dust and rot in the Archives. I suggest that your colonial pushes, finds what evidence you need to denounce Sound, and then takes action.” A rush of air and a pop of pistons, and then the Maestro continued, “I am counting on you to succeed. If you cannot, then I am afraid I will have no further need of you.”

“Maestro—”

“I would also advise you to manage your time carefully. While my desires are certainly a priority, I would suggest you make time for your sons. If, by some misfortune, you are quick to depart this mortal coil”—and then the eye began to pulse, mimicking the beat of a heart, but accompanied instead by a cold, metallic
click-click
undulating—“they will have fond memories of their father in his final days. Good night, Peter.”

Sussex leaned forward in his chair, his mouth opening as if to speak; but the red eye had disappeared into the dark.

When the light above him went out, Sussex let out a small yelp.

Before childhood terrors he had once long forgotten could threaten to resurrect themselves, Sussex heard a creaking from behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see the door slowly swinging open.

“Good night, Peter,” the shadows whispered again companionably.

It would never be good again as far as the Duke was concerned.

Chapter Thirteen

In Which Mr. Wellington Thornhill Books Takes a Role in the Racket

“T
his is the house of Diamond Dottie, the scourge of upper-class London?” Wellington looked from across the street at the white stone building, with its Doric columns, on a tree-lined street in Mayfair. “Are you absolutely sure, Miss Braun?”

Eliza shrugged. “She has delusions of grandeur, and thanks to the success of her thieves she can afford it.” She was glancing up and down the street, looking as he was for the Ministry Seven. “You’re not going to back out on me now, are you—just because we’re in a nice neighbourhood?”

“This isn’t any common or garden area,” Wellington hissed. “For goodness sake we are only streets away from where several peers of the realm reside. I cannot believe the queen of the London underworld is nearly rubbing shoulders with them.”

“Believe it, Mr. Books,” a little voice piped up from behind them.

Both agents spun around and saw no one.

Then they looked down.

Neither of them had observed Serena coming since the street urchin appeared totally unlike her usual self. In the first place, she was clean and washed. Secondly, she was wearing a charming little blue dress, complete with bonnet and fine wool coat. She looked like some child of the aristocracy that had momentarily slipped away from her nanny. The only oddity was a tin case she carried. Its contents, Books wondered, could have been anything from a sandwich to a severed hand. No one could really tell with that little scamp. When Wellington tried to get a closer look at the item, Serena shot him a wicked look that did not help put his mind at ease.

Instead he examined her clothing more closely. “Goodness gracious, what has happened to you?”

Serena inclined her head to one side, her eyebrow taking a very purposeful arch. “I can hardly go turning up ’round here like I usually do. Bloody peelers would be on me before you can say Jack Sprat.”

The Archivist could see the sense in that, but knew somewhere a privileged child was looking for their pretty bonnet, dress and coat. He wondered if they had received a black eye in exchange.

Meanwhile the child took Wellington’s hand, who instinctually recoiled at Serena’s proximity, but the girl held fast.

She glared up at him. “We’ve got to hurry,” Serena began. “The shop is opening soon, and we don’t want to be seen legging it along the street. It has to look all natural like.” Her brown eyes bore into him as she said, “So act like a
proper
daddy.”

Wellington glanced over at Eliza, who had nothing to offer but a shrug. “I’d listen to her if I were you. She’s the child with the plan.”

“You cannot be serious.” His eyes returned to Serena. “Oh dear Lord.” Switching his glare from the street urchin to his partner, Wellington whispered tersely, “You failed to mention this part of the plan!”

“Which part, Welly?”

“The part where the toddler is in charge!”

“Watch it, ya toff!” Serena hissed back.

Assuming the role of a family on a morning’s stroll, the three of them slipped into the shared park. As there was only a slight nip in the air, many of the couples and families from the surrounding homes were also taking in a short walk before lunch. So Wellington found himself out amongst the elite, pretending to be father and husband. As they proceeded in this charming fashion around the square, he could feel they were drawing glances. A pair of old women, bundled up in furs, smiled at them. A chimney sweep crossing between the streets tipped his hat and wished them a fine day. Even a policeman walking his beat couldn’t help grinning. Though Serena stiffened a little at this last one, apparently they made quite a convincing family.

This scheme was getting more and more outlandish. “Now that I know this idea is that of a child—no offence intended, Serena, I assure you—may I once more voice my displeasure.”

“Welly, I and the elder boys are handling Dottie’s home. The longer you keep her preoccupied the more time I have to find out her interest in disappearing suffragists.” Eliza looked over to Wellington as a couple walked by, bidding them good morning. She returned the salutation, and then continued in her light, casual tone. “Just follow Serena’s lead, and you should be fine.”

“Follow
Serena’s
lead?” Wellington asked, struggling to maintain his composure.

“Just as it says in the Good Book.” Serena offered her “father” a wide smile. “About the child leading and all.”

Wellington took in a long, slow breath as they proceeded through a private garden between luxurious townhouses. He had to trust Eliza. She knew these children.

To calm his nerves, he took in the vignette the three of them created; and for a moment he considered what he had never had: walking down a street, the hand of a little girl in his, a beautiful woman on her other side. Glancing across at Eliza, he wondered if she was feeling the very same thing.

Their eyes met. She was playing the part. It was his presumption that Eliza did not want to have children, but now, catching a glimpse of the small smile on her face, he began to wonder if that had been far too bold of an assumption.

She lifted a single eyebrow at him, and he suddenly realised that was where Serena had picked up the mannerism. “And what are you smiling at, Wellington Thornhill Books?”

A hotness flared in his cheeks, and he cleared his throat, turning away from her gaze and catching the child’s. She too was preserving the illusion; but behind her sweet, innocent eyes was a silent mandate.
Don’t cock this up, guv.

Ahead was a narrow alleyway where a dapper young man in a fine morning coat and top hat waited. Around his neck a pair of brass-rimmed goggles dangled.
Christopher?!
Wellington thought quickly as Eliza spoke, “And here is where I must part company with you.”

“Have a care,” Wellington urged. Colin was far from the most careful, and something about those goggles made him a little nervous. The idea that any of the Seven were tinkers had never crossed his mind.

“Now where is the fun in that?” And with a devil-may-care of a wink, Eliza followed Colin into the shadows. Wellington fought the urge to watch her disappear, but attracting attention to that alleyway was the last thing she needed.

He felt a tiny pressure against his right hand, and he was again looking into Serena’s eyes.

“Mummy will be fine.”

Mummy?
Wellington thought, then he realised she was keeping up the façade far better than he was.

“Of course . . . sweetling . . .” That didn’t sound right at all in reference to this savvy street urchin. “I cannot help to worry about Mis—er, Mummy.”

“I worry too, Father.” And that sounded even more peculiar, coming from Serena. “But Mummy can take care of herself. She is a very special lady.”

“That she is,” he replied.

“I love Mummy very, very much.”

“As do I.”

They proceeded for a few steps in silence, until Serena whispered, “I knew it.”

The Archivist glanced down. She looked as if she were the happiest child in all of Christendom. Wellington didn’t quite know what to say, so he hurried the girl on.

Ahead, a shop window was being loaded with a variety of breads and rolls, and the baker’s assistant looked most familiar.

Liam?

Now Wellington’s gaze swept across the street. Jonathan or Jeremy had to be nearby. Then again, would he even see the twins? Their talents, after all, were infiltration.

He then caught the flash of a young boy in a smart pea green suit with a dandy’s top hat adorning his fresh face. Jeremy (or perhaps Jonathan?) was looking left and right. When he met Wellington’s gaze, he loosed a wink.

Perhaps it was for the best that the Archivist did not know the particulars of Serena’s confidence game.

Obviously, they had arrived at the place. Wellington checked his watch. It was quarter to ten o’clock in the morning. Before he could ask, Serena pulled at his hand, urging Wellington down to her eye level. The child’s finger fussed on her bow, a subtle cue for Wellington to “do something fatherly.” Her expression turned sour as Wellington, visibly flustered, wiped at her cheek. Presently, he was as comfortable with this ruse as he had been when Eliza had invited him for a weekend with the Phoenix Society.

Serena actually rolled her eyes, but then stopped mid-huff to stare at something behind Wellington. He didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know their objective had been spotted. A calm washed through his body, and when their eyes met, it was not father and child nor Archivist and street urchin. They were now fellow operatives.

“Get ready,” Serena whispered.

He should have felt his heart skip on that, but Wellington was ready. Perhaps he was growing accustomed to this lifestyle Eliza was introducing to him.

He had finished fluffing one side of the bow on Serena’s dress when the little girl darted around him. Wellington spun about to see the blur of blue and white heading for a footman securing the door of a rather ornate coach. The mêlée that ensued looked positively awful from Wellington’s point of view. The footman toppled over Serena in a most spectacular fashion; arms flailed and legs lifting from underneath him, giving the tall man the semblance of a child’s rag toy being tossed in the wind. Serena’s own entanglement with the footman looked as if broken bones or at least a skinned knee would have resulted. The Archivist winced in sympathy.

Then, in a strange, surreal moment, Wellington caught the grin on the girl’s face just before hitting the ground. This was apparently not an unfamiliar trick.

That realisation provided comfort as cold and bitter as a winter across the Yorkshire moors though, when the shrill piercing cry of a child drowned out the drone of morning activity and shattered the peace of Mayfair.

Serena’s scream could have come out from a banshee; and though he would have usually stuck a finger in each ear to shut out the sound, the Archivist instead shouted the first name that came to his mind.

“Angela!” he called out, pushing people aside, “Angela, sweetling!”

Of all the names,
a voice in his head hissed,
you chose hers?

That particular ghost, had it anything more to add, went unheard as Wellington finally reached Serena. All the blood had run out of his face, and Wellington felt the icy hand of panic grip his heart. What would he need to do if she really had injured herself? Should he take her in his arms? No, no—wait. He recalled in his Ministry training that he wasn’t supposed to move a fallen agent until the injuries were diagnosed properly, otherwise he could cause—

Oh sod it all, this was a child! Children are supposed to be more resilient, but they are still human, though much smaller, for that matter, making them more susceptible to—

As his head buzzed with thought over interrupted thought, Wellington grew increasingly aware of how totally inexperienced he was in the ways of childish wounds.

Serena’s wailing increased in ferocity and volume, a true triumph to abilities that should have attracted a stage manager or choir director from the London Opera; but in her petite fury, Serena spared a fleeting, frustrated glance at Wellington.
I can’t carry this tune forever, Mr. Books. You better join in.

Yes, even if she never did birth children, Eliza D. Braun would leave her mark on the next generation.

“Sweet Angela! What happened?” Serena began to cry into his shoulder. Placing his walking stick by the child, he gently started rocking her back and forth. She wailed even louder into his coat as he held her. “Daddy’s here.”

“Shove off!” a voice barked from above them.

His head shot up to look at the footman, covered in dirt and muck from the streets, towering above. He was uninjured but showed no concern whatsoever for either child or father.

Wellington heard over Serena’s sobs the mutterings of the growing crowd. Could inciting an angry mob be this easy?

“Are you the cad that did this to my sweet little girl?” Wellington bellowed. He knew from shouting commands in the battlefield that his voice could carry; but in the serenity of Mayfair, he wondered if anyone in Ipswich heard him at present.

“The brat ran into me!” he barked back.

“Brat?!” Wellington was on his feet now, bringing Serena up to her feet as well. “I’ll have you know, sir . . .” and then he felt a nudge at his side. Serena was still continuing her cadence of crying, while simultaneously handing Wellington his walking stick. He stopped, took the cane in his hands, and now wielded it as an extension of his arm, emphasising his points as he raged. “I’ll have you know, sir, that my little Angela here is my light. She is all I have since her mother abandoned us for a life in the arts, chasing the coattails of that illusionist Angier!” The gasps from the audience he found most satisfying. “Yes, we have faced hardships, but we are honest folk.” He pointed his silver-tipped walking stick at the footman, shouting, “I saw you
push
my sweet Angela!”

Show concern for the child.

Give onlookers a tragic story of adversity.