The Lion and the Mouse: A Steampunk Romance Read online

  She tied the laces of her walking shoes and fished the purse she’d kept close to her (and away from her uncle) from the reticule and added it to a satchel, along with a change of clothes. Her cape settled around her with the promise of escape.

  If only it was a cloak of invisibility.

  But luck was with her. She paused at the top of the stairs. The servants seemed fully occupied in their quarters—probably gossiping about the strange marriage and stranger bride.

  Hurt struck her. She’d seen Mr. Truitt’s disparaging assessment. He thought he’d married a poor excuse for a woman. Well, and what about her? Sold by her uncle. Mr. Truitt needn’t think he was any prize.

  She tiptoed down the hallway and put a hand to the front door, taking a moment to study the locking mechanism. Unappreciative he might be about most modern conveniences—and that did explain the horse-drawn carriage—but Mr. Truitt had invested in an ingenious Lapperlin Lock.

  However, Lapperlin Locks were designed to keep people out, not in. Anthea turned the lion’s head ninety degrees and the door clicked open. Cautiously, she closed it and hurried down the short path to the street.

  She had to force herself not to run and attract attention. Within minutes she was diving down the steps to the Underground. She bought a ticket to London Victoria and let the crowd of humanity gather her up and move her in anonymity away from her husband and the life she couldn’t bear.

  Colin clicked his watch shut and shoved his hands in his pockets, contemplating his long legs stretched out before him in the hansom and the mud-splashed condition of his boots. At least he didn’t have to avoid Pete’s disapproving face. He’d sent his friend back to the office with a number of messages. There were things to be done. As of tomorrow, he’d set up his office at Fairleigh Dirigibles. Time enough for everyone to learn he’d be no distant owner.

  “Damn.” He caught himself opening his watch again and irritably released it. Checking the watch wouldn’t change the time. He was three hours late for his own wedding luncheon, an hour over the time he’d stated.

  His mouse of a bride would be having hysterics or fainting. Odds on, she’d be crying into yet another lace handkerchief.

  Crying because of him.

  The hansom stopped outside his house. He leapt down, paid the driver and strode up the path.

  Jones opened the front door with an alacrity that suggested he—or one of the maids—had been on the watch for the master of the house.

  “Don’t tell me.” Colin held up a hand. “I know I’m late. Tell Mrs. Jones I apologize. Is my wife.” He had to stop to clear his throat. It was such a mind-boggling word. “Is my wife in the dining room?”

  “No, sir. Mrs. Truitt is in her room. I shall send Nellie to inform of your return.”

  “Never mind. I’ll tell her myself.”

  Colin had a fleeting glimpse of Jones’s horrified expression before he started up the stairs. He took them two at a time. Perhaps a maid would have been a kinder messenger, but his wife had to get used to him some time.

  Nonetheless, Colin stopped at the closed door to her room. He adjusted his tie, remembered the lost collar button, cursed under his breath and knocked. An instant later he recalled his hat and whipped it off.

  The door remained closed.

  He scowled at it. Bedamned if he would knock again or call to his wife with Jones listening from the hallway. He tried the handle, and when it moved, he pushed the door open. “Mrs. Truitt? Anthea?”

  The room was empty, a fire dying on the hearth.

  “What the hell?” He stepped into the room and slammed the door behind him.

  His bride’s wedding dress lay in shreds in front of the dressing table.

  Anthea sat on the hard, wooden chair beside the narrow bed in the small room she’d paid for in one of Brighton’s many boardinghouses. The summer season hadn’t started yet and rooms were plentiful. By instinct she’d avoided the large seaside hotels and sought sanctuary in a modest house set back higher on the hill.

  Dinner, the gimlet-eyed landlady had informed her, would be served in two hours. Anthea didn’t mind the unfashionably early hour. The analytical part of her mind diagnosed shock. Not simply at being wedded, but at her own temerity in running from her new husband.

  She simply sat and stared at the framed sampler hung on the wall above the bed. In patriotic red and blue wool someone had worked the pious statement, “In God we trust”.

  Well, God hadn’t stopped her wedding. Though Reverend Thorpe had seemed worried enough about it. Perhaps even God wasn’t powerful enough to stop Colin Truitt once the man set his mind to something.

  She closed her eyes, not wanting to lose the comforting mental fog that had enveloped her in the train ride from London to Brighton. To one accustomed to the freedom of dirigible travel, the journey had been endless and crowded. She’d stared out the grimy window, wanting only to be ignored by the other women in the Ladies carriage.

  A painful smile twisted her mouth. Even she recognized how pathetic her wish was. To want only to be ignored, overlooked and forgotten. That wasn’t what most heiresses dreamed of. But there was freedom in being a nonentity. When people didn’t see you, you could act how you pleased.

  “You needn’t announce me.” Colin Truitt’s voice roared through the boardinghouse. “My wife is expecting me.”

  Chapter Three

  “There you are.” Colin Truitt filled the doorway, scanning the bare room before focusing his attention on Anthea. Behind him, the landlady squeaked impotently. He ignored her with all the arrogance of a stallion tolerating a fly. “Hurry up. The dirigible is waiting.”

  A dirigible explained how he’d caught up with her so quickly. Anthea stood slowly, assimilating her husband’s unexpected presence, and couldn’t help her step back when he stooped to pick up her satchel.

  A flash of what might have been anger—or regret—passed over his face. He straightened with her satchel in one large hand. With his free hand, he gripped her elbow.

  She went with him, as docile as a twenty year prisoner. Fleeing had taken all her courage. It was almost a relief not to have to decide what to do next.

  “I take it you won’t be wanting dinner, then.” The landlady followed them down the uncarpeted stairs.

  “No, she won’t. Cabbage soup and bacon rind. Bah.” He strode through the open front door and at the gig, lifted her bodily into it.

  She gasped. She’d known he was strong, but feeling herself helpless in his hold added a new terror. Just for an instant, her position in the gig and his on the ground, left her staring down at him. Their eyes met and held.

  Then he moved away abruptly, unhitching the old horse and climbing into the gig. The narrow seat meant their shoulders and thighs touched, no matter how she shrank away.

  “Are you that scared of me?” he asked as the horse ambled towards the airfield. “I thought at first that you’d run away to be with a lover.”

  She stared at him, appalled.

  The hard line of his mouth relaxed a fraction. “No. Not likely, I agree. You’re too mousey to risk everything for a man. But it wasn’t much more pleasing to realize marriage to me scared you into witless flight.”

  “I’m sorry.” She looked down at her hands.

  “So am I.” He sighed.

  She risked a glance at him and saw lines of tiredness in his face. She hadn’t noticed them before; too terrified of the proud nose and aggressive jaw, the bold dark eyes and too-long black hair. “I know you married me for Farleigh Dirigibles.”

  “I had to.” One powerful hand clenched and relaxed. “Lord Looster—”

  “I’m aware of his schemes. He wishes to drive your Dirigible Journeys out of business. He wants to control all air travel in Britain and beyond.”

  He stared at her with unflattering surprise.

  “I might be a coward, but I’m not stupid.”

  He grinned. “Well, now.” But they were at the airfield and there was no time to hear what
he might have said.

  A lad took charge of the gig, while her husband hustled her over to a familiar Fairleigh Dirigibles maroon and silver ship. It was one of the private hires, built for speed and comfort. She climbed the ladder easily, well-accustomed to managing awkward skirts in such an ascent. A short but broad man waited at the top and extended a leather-gloved hand to help her aboard.

  “Good evening, Mr. Evans.” She recognized the middle-aged man. He’d worked his whole life in her father’s company, from apprentice to engineer, adapting as dirigibles were invented and refined.

  Beneath the peak of his cap, he scowled. “How are you, Miss Fairleigh?”

  “She’s Mrs. Truitt.” Colin Truitt climbed aboard and instantly dominated the space. “And she’s fine.”

  Evans spat tobacco juice over the side of the ship and retreated to the furnace room.

  “Lift off immediately,” Colin’s voice pursued him.

  The engineer’s shoulders twitched, but his head ducked once in acknowledgement of the order.

  An apprentice darted starboard and prepared the anchor for retraction.

  Coal smoke and steam mixed with the salt tang of the seaside. A whistle blew sharply as a descending dirigible sought a landing space.

  Colin took her elbow and propelled her past the luxuriously fitted out lounge with its maroon velvet curtains and upholstery. “I’m piloting the ship myself and since I can’t trust you out of my sight…” He pushed her gently into the cabin. “You’ll sit up here with me.”

  He shut the door and the toughened glass cocoon that was the captain’s cabin closed around them.

  “Engines, ready?” The speaking tube carried his voice to the furnace room.

  “Aye.”

  “Full steam,” Colin said. He switched the two anchor controls and the winches clanked into action. He held the dirigible steady against the rocking motion of the anchors’ retraction. As soon as they stopped, he thrust the throttle down and the dirigible surged upward. It was a war pilot’s launch, abrupt and nearly vertical. Passenger ships tended to rise with leisurely grace. “Course set. Maintain full steam.” He reached out and thumbed off the speaking tube. “I want to be home sometime today.”

  The sea and Brighton vanished behind them. Once clear of the town, he fished under the control board and pulled out a wicker basket. “Mrs. Jones packed sandwiches. I told her to let the staff eat our wedding luncheon.”

  Anthea blushed at the sardonic comment. “I’m not hungry, thank you.”

  “Eat anyway.” He held the basket out. “You look like a thistle.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Like a strong breeze would blow you away. The cheese sandwiches are good.”

  She took one reluctantly and bit into it when it was obvious he’d continue to stare at her until she ate.

  “There should be a thermos in here.” He checked their course, then dug again through the basket. “Ah. Here it is. Hot tea with plenty of sugar.”

  She realized slowly that he was as uncertain as she. It was a novel thought. He seemed large and brash, unstoppable. She accepted the cup of tea, no longer hot but still minimally warm. She ate and sipped and watched him pilot the ship and devour two sandwiches.

  “I’ll have some tea if you’re finished.”

  She poured it carefully from the thermos and handed the cup to him. It was surprisingly intimate, watching him drink from the same cup.

  “Mrs. Jones will have a hot dinner waiting at home. You can stow the basket away if you’re done with it.” A pause. “You’re very quiet.”

  “Yes.” She struggled a moment, but could find no more words.

  “Is it fear of me or are you always quiet?”

  It helped that he didn’t look at her, but studied the sky and compass, keeping the ship on course. She took the time to offer him the truth. “Both, perhaps. I am shy with people I don’t know.”

  “And you don’t know your husband,” he said heavily. “If you’re aware of Lord Looster’s activities, you must realize that Farleigh Dirigibles was my only chance to acquire sufficient new ships to keep Dirigible Journeys flying and expanding to compete with Looster’s fleet. When your uncle approached me with a way of acquiring Farleigh Dirigibles—”

  “You had no choice but to agree to buy me, marry me and take over the business.”

  He looked at her and nodded.

  “Where did you find the money to pay Uncle George?”

  She’d finally surprised him. His eyebrows flew up, then V’d down in suspicion. “What do you know of my financial situation?”

  “Enough. Enough to know it’s more than the ships that you need. Farleigh Dirigibles has a fat bank account. One my trustees kept from Uncle George. Did you buy me with my own inheritance?” Her hands gripped the edges of the stool she sat on so tightly that its pattern cut into her palms.

  “Not shy and not naïve. You are an interesting bride, Mrs. Truitt.”

  She stared at him, needing the answer to her question.

  “I mortgaged my townhouse,” he said abruptly.

  A sigh escaped her. She released her death grip on the seat.

  “If I’d had to, I would have bought you with your father’s money. I’m no gentleman.” A warning laced his voice.

  “I don’t need a gentleman for a husband.”

  “If you had your choice, I suspect you wouldn’t have a husband at all,” he said with grim amusement.

  “True. But then, would you have married without the need for more ships?”

  “No.”

  She nodded. “I met Lord Looster once. It was at an airshow.”

  “A shame he’s already married. If your uncle had sold you to him, you’d be Lady Looster.”

  He hadn’t understood. The savage sarcasm bit at her. She hesitated, wanting to retreat, and yet—she’d already run once today and what good had that done her? “I would never marry Lord Looster. He has flat cold eyes, like something from under a rock, and the cleaning women who work at Farleigh Dirigibles they say…”

  “They say what?”

  “They say he visits prostitutes and beats them. One girl died.”

  Colin swiveled around to stare at her.

  She bit her lip till it bled, but she managed to meet his eyes steadily. “You scare me, Mr. Truitt, but not like Lord Looster. He terrifies me. And I understand why you married me. Anything is better than letting someone like him take over your business. You have to protect the people who work for you.”

  Chapter Four

  Colin walked through the offices of Farleigh Dirigibles with its chief clerk, Archibald Hague, trotting after him. He was grimly aware that even before Looster had launched his campaign against Dirigible Journeys, it had never exhibited the tidy efficiency Farleigh’s operation displayed. Wherever he went through the rambling brick building, all was exemplary. Windows shone, brass gleamed, wood held a polish.

  His earlier tour of the airfield and engineering works had shown the same high standards.

  It was all very annoying. Whichever way he looked at it, his marriage to Anthea Farleigh had won him a treasure. All she got was him.

  “Ha.” He snorted and strode on down a new passage. “What’s this room?”

  “A museum, sir.” Hague was frankly panting and falling further and further behind. “Early models Mr. Farleigh designed are displayed there, along with…”

  Colin strode on. “And this room?” The door was solidly closed.

  Hague pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. He patted his upper lip. “My goodness. That is to say.”

  “Never mind.” Colin had had enough dawdling. He twisted the handle.

  “It’s Miss Farleigh’s room.” Hague’s voice rose to a shriek.

  Too late.

  Colin pushed the door wide and found himself staring across the room at his wife.

  She sat, very much at home, in a swivel chair behind a large desk and was clearly fascinated by a tiny fan at which she pump
ed a pair of bellows.

  “Mr. Truitt!” She dropped the bellows.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Farleigh. He insisted on seeing everything. I didn’t think he’d get this far or I’d have sent a lad with a message.”

  “Her name is Mrs. Truitt,” Colin gritted. He might have slept alone last night, but to the outside world, Anthea was his. And what was his, he held.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hague,” Anthea said quietly, her gaze on Colin.

  The chief clerk bowed, eyed him uncertainly and backed out of the room. The door closed behind him.

  “Your room, madam?”

  It was a pleasant room, but not a woman’s room. There were no frilly fabrics, no lace, no coy cupid statues or needlework scattered about. There was a tiny vase of violets on the corner of the desk, but for the most part the room was that of a well-organized inventor. Sections of engines lay on shelves and on a large worktable beneath the window. One wall was lined with books and a leather armchair stood in front of it with a foot stool beside it. A hot plate and kettle indicated that the inner man—or woman—was not forgotten.

  Anthea watched him prowl around it.

  As always, her silence frustrated him. “Well, was this your father’s room? Did you take it over when he died?”

  “Father’s room is now the museum. It is next door. He gave me this room, near his, when I showed an aptitude for engineering.”

  “An aptitude for engineering?”

  “Yes.”

  “Woman, you are frustrating.”

  “I’m sorry. You needn’t worry. I try to keep my engineering interests a secret. I won’t embarrass you.”

  He glared at her and dropped down into the armchair. It was quite comfortable. “Did I say I disapproved of you studying engineering? I am not your uncle.”

  “Uncle George never minded me disappearing here.”

  “That old sot,” he muttered. “And I asked if you’d like a sewing room.” He shook his head, disgusted with himself.