Scarlet Devices Page 6

She started to respond, then gasped as his words and the attendant imagery registered. Matthew coughed into his gloved fist and looked away, but not before she saw the sparkle in his eye.

  “You’re strangely cheerful this morning.”

  “I’m excited,” he demurred.

  “I’m excited too. But aren’t you worried about the saboteur?”

  “Of course. Not as worried as I’ll be if he starts targeting drivers instead of vehicles, however. There’s always the chance the sabotage was meant to end with the . . . fertilizer. That was certainly bad enough to knock several cars out of the running. The fire might have been an unfortunate coincidence.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  He opened his mouth to reply and was cut off by the clanging bell that alerted the crowd it was time to meet the drivers. As the peals died down, Matthew turned toward Eliza and stepped closer, clasping her upper arms. “It’s true, I don’t believe that. I told myself I wouldn’t say this again, but as it’s my last opportunity, please don’t do this. It’s not worth the risk, Eliza.”

  She should have shrugged his hands off, or even slapped them away, but despite her anger she took comfort in the almost-embrace. Because she was anxious, doubly so since the sabotage, Pence’s words may have grated but his hands were gentle and warm. His eyes were cool, however, and almost glittering. Flecks of pale green and icy blue muddled the crystalline gray and seemed to catch the light. Why had she never noticed before how odd Pence’s eyes were? Not that it mattered in the slightest, she reminded herself firmly.

  “Why is it not worth the risk for me, but worth it for you, Matthew?”

  “Because you’re—”

  “Don’t.” Eliza lifted her chin, daring him to continue. He met her gaze with a stormy frown. “Think, really think about what you were going to say just then, Matthew. Think how if the roles were reversed, you would find it ridiculous, offensively ludicrous. And know that you sound every bit as ridiculous and offensive to me. I don’t need your condescension. I’m not your little sister.”

  His frown deepened, along with his voice. “You have no idea how aware I am that you are not my sister, Eliza. I’m perfectly aware that you’re—”

  “Drivers to the start,” a voice boomed over the loudspeakers outside, and Eliza yanked herself out of Matthew’s grip. She marched out of the building before he could recover his poise.

  • • •

  “A WOMAN,” MATTHEW finished as he watched Eliza walk out onto the red carpet that bisected the crowded square.

  It was what he would have said, but not what he meant. Had he thought about it, really thought, as she’d exhorted him to? Of course he had, but he couldn’t see any way around it. He wanted Eliza out of the race to protect her, not because she was a woman but because she was the woman.

  Matthew had always considered himself an enlightened sort of fellow, supporting universal suffrage, women’s property rights, equality in general. In theory, he believed in all those things. In practice, he now realized he believed them mostly with respect to theoretical women. Servants and millworkers and machinists, typists and cryptologists and doctors. Women other than Eliza, for whom he instead felt a protective urge so ferocious it alarmed him. His other urges toward her were at least an expected part of his physiology. He wanted to keep her safe so he could have her all to himself and do wicked things to her.

  He hadn’t recognized it four years ago, that instant and inappropriate reaction. He’d been too young and still too likely to react physically in the presence of any reasonably attractive female; all his other irrational responses to Eliza seemed only to stem from that root source. Those responses had bothered him, made him inclined to argue and fret, because he was normally easygoing, steady and reliable, and liked being so; he didn’t know what to do with all those unpredictable sensations and the prickles of guilt that so often accompanied them.

  She’d also been barely nineteen, his employer’s cousin, a shrill harpy obviously headed for a future as a domineering virago and determined to drive him mad with her insistence on playing with dangerous equipment every time his back was turned. Wholly out of the running for anything resembling romantic consideration. And yet . . . Eliza was a shrew, but a lissome one, and debating her got his blood roiling. So of course his heart pounded whenever she hove into view.

  Or so he’d reasoned back then. Now, with the perspective of a few more years and a bit more experience, he knew enough to be concerned that he still jumped like a green schoolboy when he caught a whiff of her perfume or spotted her across a room. He was mooning over the girl, and it just wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t do at all. She was not a woman over whom he could allow himself to moon.

  “Best of luck, Mr. Pence,” a smooth voice intoned at his shoulder as he finally made his way through the door. Squinting against the sudden sunlight, Matthew turned and caught a glare of gold on a lapel, a hazy impression of dark hair beneath a tall hat and a face that was too long and too smug to sit comfortably on anyone.

  “Lord Orm,” Matthew replied with a nod, never slowing his pace. The prickling sensation of wrongness struck him again, and he recalled the unease he’d felt the previous day at spotting Orm with one of the drivers. That driver was still in the race—his sponsor had been the one to come up with a last-minute replacement—but Orm still felt like an ill portent there behind Matthew, watching him as he approached his car to take his post position. Matthew resisted the urge to turn and see if the man really was following him with his gaze.

  The red carpet ended abruptly at the line of cars, two abreast, all stoked up and pointed west. Mechanics swarmed each vehicle, bristling with spanners and polishing cloths, a few with metallurgic lenses leaning close to boiler casings to assure themselves their precious steamers showed no signs of metal fatigue from previous adventures.

  The morning was crisp, a late spring chill nipping at Matthew’s face. But the cloud of heat from the double row of boilers surrounded him like a thick fog when he stepped between the cars and walked up the line. He passed Barnabas Smith-Grenville on the way and noted he looked slightly green around the gills. Nerves, probably. His shocking blue car had held up well to the previous night’s vigorous scrubbing. Waving, Matthew continued past his friend’s vehicle and toward his own. He had drawn a good position, third back on the right. He would be able to study the cars ahead to spot any adverse road conditions early, but still be ahead of the bulk of the field.

  And ahead of Eliza Hardison’s car by two ranks. At least he wouldn’t be distracted by the sight of her in front of him.

  This time he looked behind him to see if he was being watched, and he wasn’t disappointed. Eliza’s eyes met his for a long moment over the intervening vehicles before she gave him a solemn nod and turned away to consult with one of her mechanics—Brearley, the one who’d been so instrumental in stopping yesterday’s fire. Eliza was in good hands, then, but he thought she looked pale. Tense. Not quite as bad as Barnabas. Matthew knew he probably looked the same.

  And he probably hadn’t helped Eliza’s mood any, he realized, with his stubborn insistence on lecturing her. He’d known she was determined. He’d known she had the right, as any woman past the age of majority did these days, to choose her own course of action.

  His task now wasn’t to protect her, except in the sense that Dexter had charged him, to support her if she needed it and keep away any unwanted male attention. No, it was simply to defeat her. In order to prove himself in this brave new world of industry, to win enough capital to start his own enterprise and begin building his own future, he must defeat her. He must defeat them all, and Eliza was no exception.

  • • •

  HER HANDS COULDN’T tremble if she gripped the steering wheel hard enough. Eliza wound her fingers around the leather and hung on, forcing herself to breathe slowly. She hadn’t laced very tightly that morning, knowing she’d be sitting all day, bu
t the corset still prevented her from breathing as deeply as she had the urge to. It couldn’t be helped; she needed the corset in order to wear the crisp white military-cut driving suit with the burgundy trim, the only possible choice for this morning’s appearance. She would simply have to put up with the consequences of her fashion decision.

  “No time to be dizzy,” she admonished herself.

  “Sorry, miss?” the mechanic piped up. Eliza had forgotten the window was open.

  “Nothing, Mr. Brearley. Just starting-line jitters. Almost time for you all to step back now, the countdown will begin any moment.”

  Her voice, at least, was strong. The experience of delivering lectures in the face of scorn had trained her not to let her nerves affect her speech.

  “Copy of the ready checklist in the side pocket of yon balloon case, Miss Hardison.”

  “Yes, I remember.” She gave the usually steady Yorkshireman a smile. “You sound more nervous than I do, Brearley. Things will go fine. The steam car is sound, and you know the airship is in tip-top shape.”

  The loudspeaker boomed, and Brearley took a step away from the steamer’s door. “Aye, but I won’t be there to assure myself of that. You’ll keep the cases locked and the keys on your person until the air leg, miss?”

  “As I’ve promised both you and Lord Hardison more than once. Wish me luck, sir.”

  “Luck, miss!”

  The countdown had started, sixty seconds until the starter pistol would fire and the rally would begin. Mechanics scattered, clearing the raceway, and leaving the drivers alone with their thoughts as they waited out the final minute.

  Eliza’s thoughts ranged wildly, though she tried to keep them firmly on the day’s driving route.

  Pence meant well, for all he was a beast about it. He genuinely feared for her delicate self and spoke accordingly, seeming to forget that he hadn’t any business doing so. Usually Eliza was able to dismiss him, but this morning her bravado was pure flummery. Outside she might be brash, but inside was all butterflies the size of bats, threatening the equilibrium of her stomach and mind. She imagined the fluttering as actual bats and stifled a hysterical snort at the thought. Her hands felt melded to the wheel, knuckles white and aching.

  Thirty seconds to go. Eliza watched the hands on the enormous clock face that dominated the temporary arch through which the racers would drive. The arch and clock would remain for the rally’s duration, with a daily posting of the leaders and their times, for the benefit of those New Yorkers who were following the news. The posting marquee was empty still, and Eliza made herself envision her own name there, in letters large enough to see from a block away.

  Ten seconds. The crowd began to shout out the countdown, and Eliza readied her hand on the gear knob, her foot on the clutch. The car was warm, and it wouldn’t do to set off with an embarrassing lurch. Slow and steady would win the race.

  Five, four . . . well, perhaps not all that slow. But steady, at any rate.

  Then the starting pistol, a jolt of adrenaline and the anticlimax of having to wait and listen to the crowd’s wild roar as all the cars in front of her began to move. When she finally edged into motion, smooth as glass, she let herself exhale in relief. Her grip on the steering wheel loosened, her shoulders relaxed. The mechanics of driving were second nature to her, and she lost herself almost immediately in the delight of handling the finely made steam car and the joy of the beautifully clear road beneath her wheels.

  Manhattan proper had come to a halt for the rally’s start, and traffic was cleared from Tryon Square all the way across the Murray Bridge. Cheering crowds lined the streets, and policemen on horses and swift velocimobiles accompanied the racers to ensure security. Once over the bridge’s impressive span, the crowd thinned and the racers sped forward, soon leaving the city and the police escort far behind.

  • • •

  PERFECT DAY FOR it.

  That was Eliza’s main thought entering the fourth hour of her drive. She couldn’t have asked for better driving conditions. The sky was a clear, perfect, spring blue, with a few fluffy white clouds to the west for added interest. A recent spate of rainstorms had brightened the fresh green of the hedgerows and fields she drove past, but the road itself was dry and smooth. She knew not to take that for granted. The rally committee had paid for road repairs to the suggested route thoroughfares prior to the race, but only as far as St. Louis at the western edge of the Northern Dominion.

  Once they crossed into the Victoria Dominion, things would likely turn rockier, literally. The end of broad, well-maintained roads, the end of the steamrails. The beginning of catch-as-catch-can byways, wagon tracks and the jealously guarded domains of the petty lords who essentially ruled the continent’s interior. Eliza had heard that large swathes of Victoria and Louisiana might as well be medieval England, in terms of economics and the local methods of governance. She thought it sounded more like ancient Greece, and in her heart of hearts she’d feared Matthew Pence’s dire predictions for her safety would come true.

  But for now, sailing down the smooth stretch of road leading into Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, Eliza felt only optimism. The weather, the road, the fact that her car hadn’t been sullied by steer manure—good omens, all. There were a few race fans along the streets of the charming city, but nothing like she’d seen leaving New York. If anything, the lack of excitement was anticlimactic, though Eliza was embarrassed to think such a thing when she was only a few hours into what was meant to be a great adventure. The city itself looked the opposite of adventure, its tidy streets and domed capitol building the very picture of order and respectability. It seemed unpopulated, as well. The racers were shunted through the center of town but their route had been cordoned off, and the mounted police escort made sure no spectators drew close enough to hinder their progress.

  The crowds began again at the bridge over the Susquehanna, and Eliza heard the cheers as she geared down to join a short line of competitors creeping over the wide river while attempting to avoid hitting any careless pedestrians. The Watchmaker’s absurd spider-steamer was easy to spot, high above all the banners and placards. Eliza craned her neck and caught a glimpse of vivid green—Cantlebury’s car was anything but subtle—and Barnabas Smith-Grenville’s absurdly bullet-shaped royal blue vehicle. A black car she couldn’t place was directly in front of her. Behind her, the crowd had closed in, suggesting no other cars were close at her heels.

  No sign of gunmetal gray. Had Pence surged ahead or fallen behind along the way to this first stop, at the old Harrisburg Academy grounds? Not that it should matter, as Eliza was competing against the entire field of opponents, not Matthew alone. It was only a midday pause in the race, more a press opportunity than anything else, and of course all that really mattered was making it to Pittsburgh before midnight. But one of the race organizers was an alumnus of the Academy and had managed to leverage the opportunity for publicity to the school’s benefit. The cars would gather on a field near the campus, there was to be a speech by the mayor and box lunches would be provided for the competitors to take along with them. It seemed a shame for Matthew to miss out, that was all.

  Her boiler rattled, complaining about the stop-and-start pace along the bridge. Eliza frowned at the water and heat gauges, willing them to remain within safe parameters. She risked a quick tug at the pressure release handle, and chuckled as the crowd jumped at the sudden, sharp whistle blast.

  Naïve, perhaps, but at first she blamed the startling whistle for the ugly expressions a few of the crowd members turned toward her. There were three of them glaring at her, all women about her mother’s age, dark-clad and grim-faced. One of them looked her in the eye, giving a sort of enraged smirk as she called to the other two, who followed her lead while still keeping pace with the slowly moving mob. Manic fervor in their eyes, they neared the steam car, waving their placards and shouting something Eliza couldn’t hear over the general hubbub.<
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  Nonplussed, Eliza looked frantically ahead of her, focusing on the car she was trailing and noting with relief that they were almost across the bridge and the crowd had cleared from the main road ahead. As soon as she was off the bridge, she could speed up and shake the angry women off.

  Mere feet before Eliza’s car crossed onto the road proper, one of the women in black slammed a red-printed placard against her side window. Eliza shrieked, to her mortification, and accelerated sharply, almost slamming into the black car before she caught herself and braked. The heavy brown bulk of a police horse brushed by, the animal nickering as it literally jostled the car, and for a moment she had a perfect view of the mounted officer’s polished black boot and blue-clad pants leg. A wide satin stripe ran down the outside of his leg. The boot left a squeak of black against the window.

  And then he was gone, pushing her assailant along with him, and Eliza was on the relatively open road again.

  Through her hind mirror, she saw two of the women rushing to the third’s aid, and she saw the signs they were waving. It took her brain a moment to register the lettering, reading it backward and in quick glances as she was. That delay didn’t lessen the impact one bit.

  RALLY OF VICE, screamed one of the signs. The other, as best she could see as it faded from view behind her, proclaimed the drivers to be the DEVIL’S SPAWN IN DEVIL- STEAMERS.

  The third placard seemed to have been broken in the fray, but Eliza already knew what it said. The sight of it was burned into her memory from that terrifying few seconds of it slapped against her window.

  SCARLET DISGRACE TO WOMANKIND!

  Harrisburg seemed much less charming than it had before she crossed the bridge.

  SIX

  POLITE SMILES WERE the order of the day at the Harrisburg Academy grounds. A bunting-draped pavilion and bandstand had been set up, bright flags snapped in the breeze and the mayor was gladhanding the crowd with all the easy expertise of a veteran politician. Matthew conversed graciously with a group of beaming Ladies’ Auxiliary members as he watched the mayor tickle another baby, but his real attention was on the gravel drive leading to the field on which the festivities were being held.