“Father’s melodramatic at times. My late husband was killed by a French agent five years ago. Poisoned. The spy had been posing as a steward on the riverboat we were traveling on down to New Orleans. It was our honeymoon, Mr. Hardison,” she explained. “We had been married for three days.”
What on earth did one say to that?
“Why?”
“His guard was down. He was off duty, distracted. No doubt still a bit exhausted from the events of the wedding weekend. It was the perfect time, really.”
“No, but why—”
“My husband was also with the Agency, Mr. Hardison. He was in Paris shortly before the Treaty of Calais was signed. Reginald recovered some information from a French agent, and he was attempting to get the intelligence back to his superiors. After the contretemps with the agent Reginald fled but managed to hide the packet, planning to return to the location later and retrieve it. Then the treaty was signed and our agents were officially recalled from France.
“Apparently the French thought Reginald had taken the information with him, or knew what it was at least, and they finally tracked him down. Or perhaps,” she said as a footman entered the room with a laden tea tray, “this particular agent simply wanted retribution. That’s always seemed more likely to me, as so much time had passed and they must have assumed Reginald had long since relayed the intelligence to Whitehall.”
Espionage, retribution, death . . . and tea. Never let it be said that the American Dominions had strayed too far from their English roots. Dexter noted that the lady poured with the same exquisite manner as any blueblood in London.
“No sugar, no milk,” he said, not waiting for the offer. He suspected she cared little for empty pleasantries, despite her manners. “So it’s your turn for vengeance now?”
She sipped at her tea, and his eyes were drawn to the perfect bow-shaped curve of her upper lip. Surprisingly full, those lips. She probably frowned in her mirror every morning, to see how pink and lush they were. So out of keeping with her somber garb, like a sweetheart bouquet bobbing atop a mourner’s hat.
Having evidently approved the tea, Lady Moncrieffe placed the cup down carefully on its saucer before returning both to the table between them. “I was very fond of my husband, sir. But as I said, my father has a penchant for melodrama. I am in the Agency as he is, and I wish to do my duty for the Crown. I didn’t trust the French before the treaty, and I do not trust them now. I have some rather special abilities that may allow me to be of service in France as Reginald once was, and I confess I hope this mission brings me some sense of completion. But one cannot avenge a death, not really. One can only try to honor the memory of the dead by furthering their life’s work to the best of one’s ability.”
“I think most people have a less . . . pronounced sense of duty, madam.”
“I don’t think it vain to say that I am not most people, Mr. Hardison.”
She wouldn’t think it vain, no. She would think it the simple truth, and he couldn’t argue with it.
“Perhaps if I explain some of the details of my mission,” she added, “you’ll understand better. None of the other agents can do what I can. I’m not being egotistical, merely pragmatic. It’s the weight, you see.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The weight, Mr. Hardison. I weigh easily a third less than the next smallest agent in the Agency. So I am the only one who can take the Gossamer Wing to the necessary altitude to ensure covert surveillance. Because of this, I may also be the only one who can retrieve the item the Agency is looking for, without being spotted doing so. The Agency also needs information on a particular man, an industrialist and military contractor with good security measures. Rumors are he’s looking to revive research on creating the same sort of weapon the British threatened to use, the one that ended the war. We must find out if those rumors are accurate, and whether he’s secured plans to make such a device. The Agency can’t get anyone close enough to him through conventional methods so they’ve decided to attempt an aerial mission as a last resort. France hasn’t really embraced air travel yet, so neither the government agents nor any interested private parties are likely to be on the alert for dirigibles. We’ve tried with several other agents, but with anyone heavier the engine must work too hard. It’s noisier then, you see. Useless for spying. But the Gossamer Wing is nearly silent for me.”
“I see. And the Gossamer Wing would be?”
“MY AIRSHIP, THE Gossamer Wing.” She gestured with shy pride to the pile of closed trunks standing just inside the open door of the stable. Across the central corridor, a long dappled gray nose peered out at them with placid curiosity. The scents of well-tended horses and leather mingled with the earthier aroma of any stable, and sunlight danced through motes of dust around the unassuming trunks.
At last, feeling compelled to say something, Dexter nodded at the nearest of the three cases. “Impressive.”
With a snort no lady should consider issuing, his companion hauled the case onto its side and flipped the latches open. “Here, help me with this, it’ll go more quickly with two.”
He helped Charlotte spread a lightweight tarpaulin on the dusty ground of the stable yard, then arrange a silk-covered blue pad and a confusing array of white leather straps. Beside this, from another case, came a rig he thought he recognized as a miniature version of a typical dirigible motor—but a version that looked more suited for a sugar egg than for any practical use. It was all frosted glass, enamel and silver, and so beautiful it took him a moment to see the sheer genius of the thing.
Camouflage. Of course. Once the propeller was in motion, and with the rigging obscured by the pale sky-blue silk below it—kept carefully clean by the tarpaulin until it was safely in the air—the whole thing would be nearly invisible. Even the pedestrian little gas canister had a tidy silk and leather wrapper to disguise it from eyes below. The slightly pearly sheen to it all would bounce back enough light to minimize the appearance of a shadow on the underside of the rigging.
The pièce de résistance was the blimp itself, and Dexter couldn’t help a gasp of delight as he helped Lady Moncrieffe free it from the last of the trunks.
“I’ve never seen anything like it. I knew there was a dirigible involved, of course, but I simply never imagined something like this. Is this . . . wood? Leather?” He felt at the seams and joints, the fragile-seeming skeleton he could feel within the opal-blue silk casing. Even his knowledgeable fingers had trouble identifying the light, sturdy substance that gave the thing structure and some shape before it was filled with gas or hot air.
“You’re no ladies’ man, are you, Mr. Hardison?”
She was staring him down, as cool as ever, but he somehow got the impression she was trying very hard not to laugh.
“A gentleman would never tell, madam.”
“A gentleman wouldn’t have to if he could identify corset boning when he runs his hands all over it.”
“Ah!”
“Ah, indeed.”
“That’s brilliant!”
The whole thing was brilliant.
It was also clearly made for her, and her alone. He could see enough to know the little engine would be temperamental if overloaded, too noisy for its task, not nearly efficient enough on gas, and liable to run too hot for safety. Hence the necessity for strict weight limits on her helmet, as there must be on every garment she wore while piloting the tiny jewel of a craft.
“It’s overcast today, and I’m not wearing proper clothing. But since I’m in breeches, at least, I can still demonstrate for you if you’d like?”