Kate Cross - Touch of Steel

But not even all that damn hope he had given her could make her believe it.

He promised Claire he’d be back in time for the trial, and Alastair intended to keep that promise even if it killed him.

It almost did.

“Damn it, man,” Luke snarled when he met him at the docks. Alastair had just climbed out of the submersible. The little thing was proving to be worth every penny he paid for it. “Promise me that after this you’ll go a full year without almost dying.”

“I promise,” Alastair replied, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

It hadn’t been that close a call, and for that he was grateful. In Paris he’d gone into a social club known as a Company favorite. A couple of young bucks had thought they’d make themselves a name by killing him. One pulled a gun; the other a knife. At the end of it, the one with the gun had been shot in the foot and the one with the blade had a broken wrist and a shattered jaw. Not bad, considering what he could have done to them, but he’d let them live in a gesture of good faith, and it had earned him a little respect from the man he’d gone to that club to see.

“Were you successful at least?” Luke asked as they walked, timbers creaking beneath their feet.

“Yes.” Alastair patted the left side of his jacket, the lining of which concealed a packet of papers. “Very successful.”

“I am glad to hear it. I hope to hell you know what you’re doing.”

It was said with just enough humor that Alastair grinned. “So do I, my friend. How much time do we have?”

Luke consulted his pocket watch—it was one of Arden’s designs, so lord only knew what else the bloody thing did. It probably turned into a carriage if looked at the right way. “Proceedings start in thirty minutes.”

“No going home to change first, then. Do I look all right?”

His friend glanced at him and chuckled. “You look like a man who just walked into the lion’s den and lived to tell the tale, as I’m certain you’re well aware. You should make quite an impression, on the conclave as well as on Claire. She won’t thank you for this; you know that.”

Alastair nodded. It was a cool, foggy morning, and he pulled the collar of his greatcoat closer. He could use a coffee. “I don’t want her gratitude.”

“No, and that’s a good thing in this situation.” Luke shot him a sideways glance. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing or getting yourself into?”

“Yes, and I’m jumping in with both feet regardless.”

Luke shrugged a shoulder. “I felt the same way when I met Arden again. Didn’t matter if it was right or not. In the end I couldn’t stop myself.”

“You don’t think it’s odd that I’ve known her only a couple of weeks at best?”

“What did I tell you the night I first met Arden?”

Alastair frowned. “I don’t remember.”

“I do.” And that was a miracle unto itself, as much of Luke’s memory had yet to return. “I told you she was the girl I intended to marry. So no, I don’t think all this fuss is odd at all. A tad dramatic, perhaps . . .” His words trailed off into a grin.

Alastair smiled back. At the end of the dock sat two Velocycles—Luke’s and his own.

“How did you get it here?” he asked.

“Carried it over my shoulder.” Luke chuckled at Alastair’s dry glance. “I drove it. She drove mine.”

As if on cue, Arden popped up from behind one of the machines. “Hello, Alastair. I was just looking at some of the modifications you’ve made. I’m impressed.”

“Praise indeed,” he replied lightly, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She looked tired, but she had that glow about her that happy expectant mothers tended to have. “I’m surprised your husband let you ride.”

“You try telling her no,” Luke shot back. “You’d better get going if you intend to be at Downing Street in time.”

Alastair swung one leg over the Velocycle. “Thank you both for your help.”

Arden put her hand on his as he gripped the steering bars. “I’m so happy for you, dearest. I hope it all turns out as you want.”

He looked into her wide brown eyes and was touched by the depth of sincerity he saw there. She was such a love. He felt only friendship for her now. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it—even though she had a smear of dirt on her glove from fiddling with his Velocycle. “Thank you.”

He pulled on his goggles, kicked the stability bar up, revved the engine and took off toward the exit of the dockyards. The damp wind sliced through his hair and stung his cheeks. Half circles of moisture beaded on the inside of his goggles, but they didn’t interfere with his vision, so he didn’t care. Bent low over the steering bars, he whipped the two-wheeled vehicle in and out of traffic, weaving around steam carriages and omnibuses, horses and wagons—both mechanical and organic.

Traffic thinned slightly the farther west he went. While shops and businesses were open for business—their automaton employees sweeping steps and washing windows—it was still a little early for those who lived in the west end to be up and about, and then many of the aristocracy were in the country.

He arrived at number 13 Downing Street with six minutes to spare. He parked the Velocycle in the concealed underground lot that was explicitly for official Warden use, then made his way into the building from a secret stairwell that only he and a few others knew about. It was one of the director’s private entrances. There was another off street level for agents, but he hadn’t time to run up there. Fortunately, the lift came almost immediately after he pressed the button for it. He rode it up two floors, practically tearing the gate off its hinges in his hurry to get to his destination.

Punch cards gave him access to the doors. At the final one he had to prick his finger on a spindle. He wasn’t quite certain of how the device sorted one person’s blood from another’s, but somehow it knew his when it tasted it, and that was all that mattered. He inserted his card into the lock, and the door slid open.

The conclave—of which he sometimes was a part—met in a subterranean chamber just one level below ground, in one of the vast sections of number 13 that spread beneath the street. It was a large chamber with a long ebony table around whablamber juich conclave members sat. Chosen from senior agents and officials, they generally met in numbers of seven or greater. Today, given the gravity of the matter, there were thirteen members gathered around the table. He would not be one of them, given his involvement in the proceedings.

Dhanya sat at the head of the table. She shot him a sharp glance as he walked in, chastising him for his last-moment arrival. He shrugged, then seated himself in the small box used to house agents who were to give testimony during the trial. He was astounded when Luke entered the room a moment after him and joined him in the box.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Alastair demanded.

Luke shrugged. “We were about to leave the docks when Arden received a wireless communication from Dhanya requesting my presence. I suppose they want to ask me about Claire’s involvement in the Company.”

Every curse Alastair knew sprang to his lips. This was not going to be good. And there was nothing he could do about it now. He glared at Dhanya. She’d known about this and hadn’t warned him.

The director stared back at him, thin brow arched, as though she had no idea what had him so pissed.

Evie joined them in the box. They both stood at her arrival but hardly had time to say hello—again—before the clock on the wall chimed the hour, and Dhanya called the trial to order.

“My fellow Wardens. Today you are here to decide the fate of Claire Brooks, the former Company operative known as the Dove.” Low murmurs greeted the code name. “I ask that you put all personal bias behind you and base your decision solely on the information provided at this trial. Do you swear?”