“I wonder if we’ll be in the paper?” Bertrand said.
“What?”
“The newspapers. They’ll be reporting this. It’s one of the most important events of the Season, and there’s been a murder now, too. I wonder if we’ll get a mention? I don’t suppose we will, because of all these important people, but it would be nice to show Amy.”
Harriet stopped so abruptly she almost tripped Bertrand. The itch in her brain had erupted like a lizard-fox larva. “Bertrand. You’re brilliant!”
“I am?”
“Where’s the newspaper Mr. Strachan was carrying?”
“Um… In my room. Evidence, you know. I don’t suppose we need it now.”
Harriet pulled her hands free. “Thank you. I’ll be back.”
Ignoring the astonished looks and shocked comments, Harriet hurried from the ballroom and through the hotel, back to Bertrand’s room.
The evidence was gathered in a trunk that Bertrand had commandeered from the hotel. She scrambled past Miss Wright’s tools, past the carefully clipped articles that had led Bertrand inexorably to his conclusion, to Mr. Strachan’s belongings.
There, at the bottom, carefully placed in a leather folder, was a copy of the twelfth of April Tharsis Times, which Strachan had been carrying to identify himself. With shaking hands, Harriet unfolded it. The headline was the same, the lead articles were the same. The new manufactory. The crashed Mars-ship. Had she gotten this wrong? Was it just a stupid idea?
There! On page four. The scandal at Mrs. Parkinson’s birthday party.
She hurried over to the bed where the newspapers Bertrand had borrowed from the hotel were now stacked. He’d sorted them neatly in order.
Sorry, Bertrand. She pushed the top papers aside and pulled out the twelfth of April edition. She flicked to page four.
She had been right. Not Mrs. Parkinson. Mrs. Parker. It could have been a correction in a later edition, but now that she looked more carefully, there were other differences, too. Just a few altered words and numbers here and there, or an odd paragraph replaced. Nothing that anyone would notice. Except she had noticed, without realizing.
There was a code in the differences between the two newspapers. It was so obvious she wanted to kick herself. The newspaper wasn’t just the means of identifying her contact. It was the package itself, and now she had it.
Using her knife, she slit her jacket’s lining and slid the newspaper inside.
Now, she should grab Bertrand and get him to requisition a submersible and take her and the prisoner back to Tharsis City without delay. Better not even tell Reginald. She still didn’t know if she could trust him. She hurried out of her room, closing and locking the door.
“There you are!”
Harriet turned to see the red-haired young man looming just behind her. He grinned.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
“I don’t have time for this,” Harriet said, trying to step around him.
The man’s grin widened as he moved into her way. “Oh, I saw how you looked at me on the submersible and I’ve seen you looking at me since. I know exactly what you want.”
He took a step closer, blocking her in against the wall.
“Move away.”
The young man’s left hand alighted on her shoulder.
“Last warning.”
He ignored her.
Harriet looked him calmly in the eye. “Take your hand off me.”
The man’s other hand touched her waist and began to move upward beneath her jacket.
Harriet reached up, wrapped her hand around his little finger, and wrenched it back. The man screamed. Harriet didn’t let go. She kept pushing, driving him to the ground. As the man curled into a ball around his broken finger, he shouted, “Her jacket. It’s in her jacket!”
An answering shout came from around the corner. Harriet cursed.
She broke into a run, and almost tripped over her own legs. How was anyone supposed to run in a ridiculous dress like this? It was more like a waddle. Already she heard feet pounding down the hallway. Damnation. She bent over and, using both hands, tore the ball gown up one seam. That’s better. She took off toward the safety of the ballroom.
The man whose finger she had broken was coming after her, still half curled around his injury, but he had been joined by his equally red-headed brother and they were gaining.
Don’t fight if you don’t have to do. Getting the package to safety had to be her priority.
Another shout sounded as a third man came racing after the first two. That decided it. Her odds had suddenly dropped. She increased her pace.
Running in this stupid dress was still awkward, despite the torn seam. The blasted corset made it impossible to take real breaths. As for her stupid slippers, they flapped like a pair of carpet-fish strapped to her feet. Oh, well. She kicked them off.
The sound of the ball in full swing grew louder. Harriet pelted around the corner. There. Up ahead. The lights of the ball, the swirling crowds.
A hand flailed for her, catching her sleeve. Harriet stumbled, then wrenched free. She heard a curse right behind her and she forced extra speed into her trembling legs.
The butler looked up in alarm as Harriet sprinted toward him. He raised a hand, but Harriet ignored him.
The ball was a mass of dancing pairs surrounded by crowds talking loudly. Harriet dived into the chaos. Light flickered from the swooping mechanical bugs inside and the trails of photon-emission devices beyond the metal-and-glass dome.
An outraged shout behind her told her that her pursuers had not abandoned the chase. They had shoved the butler aside were peering and craning over people’s heads. One spotted her and pointed, and they came, shouldering their way past the guests.
Damn it! Where was Bertrand? Where was Reginald? She ducked away, but it was no good. The men spread out, stalking her. How was it so hard to find help?
One of the men rushed out of the crowd, bulling towards her. She twisted and sidestepped, letting his momentum carry him past and adding a shove. The man careered out of control into the wall and dropped, stunned.
A second man grabbed her, bending her arm behind her back and locking an elbow around her neck. She tried to slam her head back, but he was pressed too close. She scraped her heel down his leg, but without shoes it did no damage. She was starting to feel dizzy. The blood to her brain was shutting off. She couldn’t reach his eyes with her fingers.
A fist shot past her head, seemingly from nowhere, and slammed into the man’s face. He dropped, releasing Harriet. She blinked the blackness from her vision. Colonel Fitzpatrick stood over her unconscious attacker.
“What the devil is going on?” he demanded. Mrs. Fitzpatrick was staring from the crowd, her giant feathers swaying.
Harriet’s attackers had found reinforcements. Five tough-looking men formed a semicircle and closed in. Thugs for hire.
One of the men pointed a finger at her. “She’s a thief!”
Harriet’s jaw dropped. She looked up at the colonel. His cold eyes were taking in the scene, emotionless.
She shouldn’t do this. It was against every rule. She could be sacrificing her career. She didn’t even know whose side the colonel was on. But she couldn’t take on these thugs alone. Time for a gamble.
She wet her lips. “I am carrying a package for the British-Martian Intelligence Service,” she whispered. “These men must not get hold of it.”
The colonel’s eyes fixed on her for a second.
“Then they shall not.”
He stepped forward, sword sliding from its sheath.