Delphine Dryden - Gossamer Wing

“I was younger, and less set in my ways.”

NONE OF THIS is what it seems . Martin avoided drawing conclusions too early in the game; he preferred to wait for the evidence to unfold. This, though, was an objective assessment he couldn’t avoid. He reviewed the transcript of their conversation, still not sure he would believe these words if he hadn’t chanced to hear them for himself.

It was she, the widow of his old enemy, as he had suspected. Martin supposed a younger version of himself might have experienced remorse while listening to her brave, loving reminiscence about the man he had poisoned.

Martin of the current day experienced only curiosity. His minions had reported the new baroness to be flighty, an overage ingénue of that tiresome American variety, as empty of thought as she was beautiful to look at. This profile comported with his perception of the Makesmith Baron as a man who would appreciate an ornamental wife, one who could entertain and charm his business associates and bear him attractive children.

The people he’d listened to in that hotel room didn’t match their reports. The woman was no empty vessel, and the man no dilettante industrialist. Furthermore, Lady Hardison was evidently not just the widow but also the daughter of a spy. What might his superiors in French intelligence have made of that, Martin wondered? Viscount Darmont a spy all these years? It would have explained quite a few things. They would never know it now, and Martin supposed it wasn’t important. The daughter was, however. He would bet his life she was following in her father’s and dead husband’s footsteps. He still wasn’t sure what to make of the new husband.

Why had they come to France? Was it only to meet with Murcheson and scheme to undercut the steamrail bid, as Dubois suspected? Nothing to do with politics, except as it impacted on matters of business?

Impossible. If Martin had learned anything in his many years of working in the private sector for Companie Dubois, it was never to trust Dubois’s assumptions about people and their motivations. Whatever professional assistance the American might need from Murcheson, Murcheson certainly didn’t need the American to strengthen his own position. Yet he’d invited Hardison to tour his factory, and spent a cordial few hours away from his office just to chat with the man. Therefore, Hardison must have some other reason for being here, and so must his bride, who seemed unlikely to have chosen a honeymoon in France. Martin might work for Dubois now, and dwell on stifling competition and stealing trade secrets, but that didn’t mean he’d forgotten every instinct of intelligence work. Industrial espionage wasn’t so very far from spying for the government, after all. Trade secrets were trade secrets, no matter the business.

Martin handed the notebook back to the twitchy youngster monitoring the hotel room. “They travel to Paris soon. Have Claude find out where they plan to stay so we can prepare their room well in advance.”

“ Oui, monsieur,” the boy said, practically jumping out of his chair in his eagerness to distance himself from the frightening Coeur de Fer.

Martin smiled. It was the sort of smile that might make the angels despair. He tapped the desk with one metal finger as he pondered the tasks before him.

“Why are you here, Lady Hardison?” he whispered, tracing the outline of a feminine profile on the wooden surface. “Who are you, when you’re not pretending to be somebody else?”

THE FACTORY WAS a wonder. Murcheson billed it as such, “Murcheson’s Modern Wonderworks.”

“The finest craftsmen in Europa or the world, if you don’t mind my saying so, Hardison.”

Dexter let the remark pass. Charlotte could tell he was impressed, perhaps not so much with the quality of the work as with its sheer scale. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of journeymen and apprentices plied their trades on the factory floors of the large complex. Woodworkers and clockmakers toiled side by side with machinists and metallurgists, all focused on producing more goods for the newly expanded European trade.

Dexter kept his thoughts on all of it to himself for the most part, though he was quick to point out at least one item of interest.

“Look, sugarplum. They’re assembling one of your curio boxes.”

A team of aproned, goggled workers hunched over a broad table, one of hundreds spread out over the vast main factory floor. As one finished assembling an intricate system of tiny gears, another inserted the mechanism into the appropriate place within the unfinished wooden framework. The completed boxes would, when activated, spring open to reveal a unique collection of drawers, compartments, spinning display surfaces. Some played music. Most had secret storage areas. All were works of art as much as craft.

“Oh, you’re right, sweetiekins! How charming they are already! Mr. Murcheson, will we see any of the finished boxes?”

“Of course, Lady Hardison,” he assured her. He kept an admirably straight face, Charlotte thought, in the face of the escalating war of endearments. “I thought Lord Hardison might be interested in seeing the ironworks first.”

They continued to another building, an enormous hangar of a structure, to see a great deal of molten metal. Charlotte could have done without that stop on the tour. Even staying on the platform near the entrance, far from the actual equipment, the heat in the forge was literally breathtaking. She tried to focus on the conversation between Murcheson and Dexter, but it quickly surpassed her comprehension when they began to discuss technical specifications and metallurgy. The reinforced leather and steel panels that turned her corset into stealthy armor hardly helped.

The spark-laden air was swimming in front of her by the time Dexter took her arm with a look of concern. “I think we should continue the tour and find something a bit cooler. The heat doesn’t agree with the Baroness.”

She leaned on his arm, grateful for the support, and reveled in the splash of cooler air once they left the demonic building.

“Time for the final stop on our review of the facilities, I think,” Murcheson said cheerfully. He waved off the assistant who had been following him throughout their tour. “I won’t need you, Tom. Just going to show them the warehouse and then back to my office. I believe I’ll be a bit late tonight, would you be a good fellow and get a message to my wife?”

When the other man had scuttled away, Murcheson nodded to Charlotte and Dexter, who followed him quickly. They walked in the direction of the warehouse, but Murcheson took a sharp turn between two buildings before they arrived, and glanced all around before opening an unobtrusive door and ushering them into what appeared to be an unused storeroom. A few boxes stood against one wall, looking like losers in a fight against nesting rodents. Beside them, a chair missing one leg leaned in a corner. The grubby window let in barely enough light to make out even that much detail.

Along the wall opposite the door, Murcheson quickly located a panel that Charlotte hadn’t even discerned in the faded gray woodwork. He pressed one hand there, opening a hidden doorway, and again ushered them through. The little space they entered was a gleaming brass frame with a floor of highly polished mahogany, and a bright lantern hanging from the ceiling. But the walls . . .

“Windows?” Charlotte stepped closer to the nearest wall and pressed her fingers to the surface, trying to peer past the glass into the darkness beyond, as Murcheson turned a key and they started to descend.

ATLANTIS STATION, BENEATH THE ENGLISH CHANNEL

DEXTER’S FIRST THOUGHT as he saw the rock walls sliding past was a single word that carried a great weight of concern.