Clockwork Victoria

By Barbara Russell

Catching her is only the beginning.

 

Being a Maori cat-burglar in a corset isn't easy for Beatrice. When she gets caught red-handed, pilfering from famous steam-car racer Lord Alexander, she's sure she's in for it. But instead of turning Beatrice over to the bobbies, Alexander offers her a job: recovering a stolen blueprint of a boiler from his rival racer, Lord William.

 

Soon Beatrice wonders if her steam-powered gadgets and street smarts will keep her alive long enough to find the darn blueprint. And the worst part? She can't deny her attraction for Alexander.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Feb 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781897261026

Barbara Russell

Dragons, short-tempered archdemons, and hysterical damned souls—Shax is used to dealing with all that. He’s a young fire demon and lives in Hell, after all. What he’s not used to is being possessed by a human. A very good human and a pretty girl at that: sixteen-year-old Tolis. Despite still having control of his body most of the time, Shax can hear Tolis’s voice inside his head and feels what she feels constantly.Shax’s mentor claims that Tolis hides an ancient, powerful grimoire, a book of spells, and proposes a deal: if Shax finds it, he’ll help Shax get work as a dragon keeper—Shax’s dream job. Tolis swears she doesn’t have the grimoire and asks Shax to help her father, whose soul is turning evil by the minute. Unless Tolis does something, her dad’s soul will end in Hell. Hoping to convince her to give him the grimoire, and not because Shax cares about the man’s soul, he agrees to help.Goodness is overrated. Since Shax decided to help Tolis, his life has turned into a hurdle race. Thugs chase him, the scientists in Hell want to prod and examine the first possessed demon in history, and he can’t find the darn grimoire.And the worst part? Due to the unavoidable presence of Tolis, who keeps intruding into his evil thoughts, Shax discovers an almost decent side of himself. In no time at all, he catches himself doing actual good deeds. Is he becoming—yuck—good?

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A picture containing text, book Description automatically generated

Clockwork Victoria

BARBARA RUSSELL

CHAMPAGNE BOOK GROUP

Clockwork Victoria

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Published by Champagne Book Group

2373 NE Evergreen Avenue, Albany OR 97321 U.S.A.

~~~

First Edition 2020

eISBN: 978-1-897261-02-6

Copyright © 2020 Barbara Russell All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Melody Pond

Champagne Book Group supports copyright which encourages creativity and diverse voices, creates a rich culture, and promotes free speech. Thank you by complying by not scanning, uploading, and distributing this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher. Your purchase of an authorized electronic edition supports the author’s rights and hard work and allows Champagne Book Group to continue to bring readers fiction at its finest.

www.champagnebooks.com

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If everything seemed under control, then you just

aren’t going fast enough

—Mario Andretti, racing driver

Chapter One

Auckland, 1884

The civilization of the British Empire had not left behind the torment of the Dark Ages. Anyone who claimed that had never worn a corset.

Standing on the footpath of Queen Street, Beatrice tugged at the cursed contraption from underneath her bodice, failing to gain more room for her ribcage. Nothing more comfortless or hideous could be found in a lady’s wardrobe. What repressed beard-splitter of a Frenchman had the brilliant idea to sell this apparatus as a healthy accessory for women? A ‘stay’? Meant to support the weaker sex? It only added insult to injury.

She shifted her weight from one foot to another and squinted into the chilly southerly wind slapping her face. Gentlemen in long frockcoats and ladies in swaying bustles hurried along the street despite it was well past dinner time.

Tonight will be a sheer nightmare, she said to her chaperon, Zenzer.

The massive ginger cat, perched on a stone fence, didn’t stir. His emerald gaze scanned the crowd that hurried up and down the footpath. He was seated on his hind legs, meaning the cold didn’t bother him, but then, Beatrice fed him well, so Zenzer had a nice layer of fat under that silky coat. He also had a clockwork brain-enhancer, something she’d designed herself. When she’d found the poor Zenzer, he’d been seriously injured in the head. He would’ve died if she hadn’t replaced some of his body parts with machine. The result was almost invisible thanks to the thick fur that hid gears and scars, but Zenzer’s brain would give any scientist a run for their money.

She caressed his head, inhaling the sea breeze wafting from Auckland’s harbor. Mr. Chester should be here.

At the name, Zenzer hissed, baring his fangs. Some of them were in titanium like a few of his nails.

And mind your cattitude, Beatrice scolded him. Don’t attack him as you did last time.

She opened her silk purse. A few sovereigns lay scattered on the bottom. The money was barely enough to pay a fraction of what she owed Mr. Chester for his service. What a disaster.

On top of that, the thought of her lost locket gnawed at the back of her mind. How could she have been so careless? If the Bobbies found it, they’d search for her. She rolled a golden coin between her fingers, and the engraving of Queen Victoria caught the light of a gas streetlamp.

Zenzer meowed softly and unsheathed his claws. His left paw was missing a nail, courtesy of a rival male, giving him a tougher air.

A steam engine’s rumble echoed down the street, and Beatrice peered up. A sleek and shiny blue steam-car pulled over a few yards from her. Its flat bonnet ended with discreet gas headlights, designed not to ruin the car’s line. The dark tires had a strong tread, still intact, and the leather of the seats gleamed.

Beatrice’s mouth slackened at the magnificence of the machine.

A brand-new de Dion Seine could reach sixty miles per hour. Yes, admittedly, the Frenchmen knew more about cars than women’s clothing. How would it feel touring at that refreshing speed?

Unfortunately, instead of roaring, the engine gurgled like an infant that had sucked too much milk. At the steering wheel, Mr. Chester struggled to keep the car going. The de Dion jerked forward, and he rocked back and forth.

Beatrice shook her head. What an incompetent driver. He hadn’t followed the starting sequence properly. As a Pinkerton man, Mr. Chester could easily afford something expensive, but why couldn’t he drive?

The car jolted, and Mr. Chester almost sprawled on the dashboard. Bloody hell!

Manners, young man, a passing old lady said, shrinking away from him.

Beatrice stifled a laugh. That served him right. He should learn to interrupt the flow of steam before releasing the steam pedal.

Mr. Chester pushed his goggles above his head and swatted his dark duster, lifting a cloud of dirt.

She took a deep, calming breath. The corset’s strips gripped her already tiny waist into a crushing embrace, making her gasp.

Mr. Chester approached her, flashing a lopsided smile, his gaze roaming her body.

Beatrice stiffened. Not that he could peek through her blue frockcoat, silky shawl, and the layers of her thick petticoats, still, his penetrating stare unnerved her.

She cleared her voice, forcing it to sound sweet as she said, Mr. Chester, you’re awfully late, it’s a pleasure to see you again.

I’m sure it is. He removed his leather gloves. A bump underneath his duster revealed that he was carrying a pistol. "The traffic around the harbor was heavy because of a commotion. A group of your people were having an argument with the local dockers."

Be polite. Beatrice’s fists nearly shot up, and she bit down an angry remark. Yes, she was a Maori, well, actually a half one, and every time they met, Mr. Chester felt compelled to say something stupid about her people.

No need to scowl at me, Miss Dashwood. Among all the savages I’ve met across the British Empire, I find the natives of New Zealand the most intriguing.

Never a rifle when I need one. How charming of you.

He checked her once again then glared at Zenzer as he took a step backward. You look very elegant, Miss Dashwood. A special occasion?

She brushed her silk bodice. Would she have worn this dress if it hadn’t been for a special occasion? A ball in the house of Lord Alexander, Earl of Grosvenor, although she hadn’t been invited, officially or otherwise. No one invited a thief to their home. Do you have any information that might interest me?

He sighed. Alas, not good news. I’ve investigated every address you gave me, orphanage, charity house and hospital, but still I haven’t found any trace of Lawry.

There. Antares didn’t grant Beatrice’s wish. What about Dunedin? Have you traveled there?

I took an airship to Dunedin last week and searched the city high and low. Dead end.

But you said that Dunedin’s police gave a description of a street boy who perfectly matched Lawry’s features.

Yes, but unfortunately, it turned out it was a fifteen-year-old boy and not a thirteen-year-old.

Oh, Lawry, where are you? Lawry was like a brother to her, and he was out there, alone and scared, and she could do nothing to help him. No playing cricket with him on Sunday, or working together on one of her devices, or watching the sharks swimming in the harbor. A child can’t just disappear. Someone must have seen him.

Mr. Chester chuckled, and a new hiss came from Zenzer.

Honestly, Mr. Chester said, do you think the disappearance of an orphan would raise any interest? Orphans vanish every day.

He shouldn’t try so hard to comfort her.

Please, keep searching. He’s been missing for almost two months, but I refuse to believe that he… She inhaled. Please, keep searching.

I will, of course. Don’t lose faith. I have a good lead on Christchurch. How is your own search among the natives going?

Pretty well, thanks. Her voice raised an octave.

Maori didn’t fully trust her. Her skin wasn’t as dark as theirs. More like milky coffee, and her eyes were almost blue. Bottom line, she was a mulatto. Neither white, nor black. Neither British, nor Maori. She spoke their language but, being an orphan herself and raised in a charity house, she didn’t know her ancestors, which meant having no roots. In two months of asking around Maori’s iwis—the tribes—she had only drawn a blank.

Excellent. Mr. Chester stood in front of her, adjusting the goggles on the top of his head and then he fidgeted with his gloves, tapping a foot on the pavement.

Oh, of course. His compensation. Without a word, Beatrice opened her purse and fished out five sovereigns. Scraping the bottom of her bag, she found a half shilling. A hundred pounds sterling was a nice sum even for the most glorified Pinkerton man of Auckland, but those coins were everything she had at the moment.

Mr. Chester’s brow rose. I believe there’s a mistake here.

Ahem, Mr. Chester. Beatrice wrung the hem of her bodice under her restless fingers. A sickening lump crawled in her throat. She batted her lashes. I’m sorry to tell you that, after some very unfortunate events, I don’t have enough money to pay you.

Unfortunate events?

I had the money, but I was robbed. Which was ironic. In a few days, maybe, I’ll be able to—

A few days? He bared his teeth. Miss Dashwood, you do realize that what I did for you isn’t exactly legal, don’t you? The law forbids sniffing around police archives and reports. You have access to classified information, thanks to me. The job is extremely dangerous.

I appreciate your help, but I find myself in a bad financial position. That had lasted since she was born, thus for nearly seventeen years.

If this is your idea of a joke, it isn’t funny. I want my money now. Mr. Chester strode closer.

Beatrice leapt backward, but Zenzer was faster. He jumped off the wall, titanium claws unsheathed and eager to be used, and tore at Mr. Chester. A quick slash and bloody stripes, matching Zenzer’s claw pattern, appeared on the back of his un-gloved hand.

With a cry of pain, Mr. Chester grasped his bleeding hand. He might get scars.

Zenzer! Beatrice shouted.

Mr. Chester balled a fist toward Zenzer, his dark eyes glinting.

She bent and scooped up the still hissing Zenzer up in her arms. You wouldn’t hurt a poor animal, would you?

Tiny rivulets of blood dripped down Mr. Chester’s wrist from Zenzer’s signature. I want my money in five days. Are we clear? His tone sounded clipped.

Very. She clenched Zenzer to her chest.

He struggled against her grip, ready to pounce at Mr. Chester again.

Don’t disappoint me. Mr. Chester adjusted his duster and strode to his de Dion.

He activated the boiler but started the ignition sequence in the wrong order. He should have begun from the water feed control and then adjust the burner, otherwise…

A spray of boiling water missed Mr. Chester’s face by inches, and another flow of Bloody hell, rushed from his mouth.

Should she have warned him? No. After all, she was a woman and a Maori mulatto. Mr. Chester wouldn’t appreciate her advice on his own steam-car.

The de Dion hiccupped and proceeded forward with awkward jolts. The car blended into the light traffic of Queen Street that included both steam-cars and horse-drawn carriages.

Beatrice released Zenzer and put her gloves on. Let’s go, Zenzer. We have to infiltrate a ball of British aristocrats.

Ten minutes later, the steam-powered hansom cab stopped in front of Auckland Domain’s entrance on Grafton Road. Beatrice climbed off the tall seat and paid the driver with her last two sovereigns. She let go of Zenzer, blew warm air onto her hands as she let a hurrying couple pass her by.

Lord Alexander Grosvenor’s mansion was a block farther, well concealed by a curtain of tall kauri trees. Even at a distance, the glow of its lights shed a golden hue against the night sky.

Beatrice’s silk and brocade gown with a long train and a bustle wasn’t comfortable. The cheap flannel of the petticoat chafed her skin, and the tools concealed in its fold weighed her down. It was part of her disguise.

From the Domain, the scent of wet soil, freshly mowed grass, and sweet manuka flowers wafted.

She began to march to Grosvenor Mansion when a newsboy shrilled the titles of the latest issue of the New Zealand Herald.

The Moth strikes again. Lady Marquand’s precious diamond bracelet stolen. Police force ridiculed.

"Read the Herald. The Moth crushes police’s advanced devices," the boy shouted.

Beatrice smiled. Advanced devices? Hardly.

Police lacked imagination when it came to preventing a robbery. Her hand went to her chest, searching out of habit for her lost brass locket. Hopefully, the police hadn’t found it in the last house she robbed.

The nickname they gave her sounded fancy, though. One Inspector Donnelly had made it up because she was nocturnal and discreet as a moth. There was some poetry in it.

Pity that now Lady Marquand wouldn’t show off her voluminous and ridiculously heavy bracelet at any other ball. Just like, very soon, dear Lord Alexander Grosvenor would say goodbye to his Witch’s Eye, the biggest and purest emerald in the world.

Chapter Two

Lord Alexander Grosvenor wasn’t in the mood for a party. Not even for one he’d organized in his own mansion, but he couldn’t hide in the drawing room all night. Trent, his butler, had already come twice to ask him if he was ready to join the guests.

Tarnation.

A storm during a steam-car race would be better than attending an evening ball.

Alexander gripped the doorknob and grimaced in pain. His fingers hurt like hell after he cut them with a screwdriver in his workshop. Smoothing his black tailcoat and adjusting the silk necktie, he slogged out of the drawing room. A cup of hot tea and a moment to read Mr. Louis’s novel would be wonderful.

Dragging himself into the ballroom, he groaned at the crowd. The chatter, the music and the clanking of toasting glasses assaulted his nerves. Too many people and too much perfume and noise.

The scents of rose, lavender and sandalwood, mixed with roast beef, champagne, and coriander hit his nostrils. The absurd mix of the multi-colored ladies’ gowns made him queasy. Red, green and yellow should never, ever mingle.

Peers milled around dancing, drinking, and eating. La crème de la crème of Auckland society, the people who spent too much money buying things they didn’t need to impress others they didn’t care about.

Alexander straightened his back. He shouldn’t be so bitter. After all, he’d invited these British lords and ladies.

The small red lamp mounted on the ballroom’s doorframe made using the recently developed electrix was turned off. He wasn’t an expert in electrix and preferred the much more reliable steam power. Let the Moth sneak inside his manor to steal his Witch’s Eye. The alarm would go off, turning the light on. Would the Moth come tonight? It was a wild guess, but hopefully, the party would draw her in. Crowded places and busy domestics aided a thief’s job. The police believed the Moth was a man. He chuckled. He’d been lucky enough to see the Moth in action, more or less, and the most wanted thief in Auckland was all feminine.

Trent strode toward him, the tails of his black uniform trailing behind. The heads of the ladies followed the passage of the tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed butler.

Sir, Trent said. There’s a problem with the electrix system.

What? What problem?

I think something called a false contact. The device to chill the champagne isn’t working properly. I’m afraid our Dom Pérignon isn’t as cold as it should be, and we don’t have enough ice.

Screw the champagne. His plan was more important. I’ll check the panel. Alexander rushed toward the door.

But, sir, I can take care of it if you give me the panel key. There’s no need for you…

Whatever Trent was blathering about, it died down as soon as Alexander reached the hallway. A waiter, holding a tray of sherry, hurried toward the ballroom, almost bumping into him. Alexander jumped to the side. His lungs burned, and his hands trembled. The fear of being touched nearly overwhelmed him.

Sorry, sir. The waiter gave a quick bow before scurrying away.

Alexander loosened his collar. Calm down. Nothing happened. He didn’t even brush you.

In his haste to run to his workshop, he’d tripped on the carpet, hit the wall, and bumped his head against a pillar.

Hellfire.

He massaged his forehead. Unless he regained control of himself, he wouldn’t solve this problem. What if the alarm hadn’t worked and the Moth had already come and gone? Stupid electrix!

The click-clack of feminine heels echoed from the other side of the corridor. Lady Marquand trotted in his direction, focused on rummaging in her purse. Her generous bosom bobbed up and down in the constricted space of her bodice.

Damn. She was between him and the door to the workshop. An escape. He needed a gateway before Lady Marquand spotted him and started prattling about how lovely and well-mannered her niece Emily was. A true gem, so subservient and quiet. The perfect wife. Yes, for whom? A foolish chap?

Alexander spun, almost sprawling against the wall, then he opened the library door and slid inside. A girlish giggle and the swish of fabric startled him. In a corner of the library, a pretty, fair-haired girl adjusted her bodice while a familiar, broad-shouldered man smoothed down his jacket.

Excuse me, sir. The girl walked to the door, securing a wayward lock of hair.

Alexander flattened himself against the wall to avoid any contact with the hurrying girl. The scent of vanilla filled the air.

She winked at the man. See you later, Jacob.

Jacob smiled wickedly and brushed off his dark hair from his forehead. Later, Michelle.

Giselle. The girl pouted then slammed the door behind her.

Alexander raised a brow at his friend. Tsk-tsk. Inspector Jacob Donnelly caught dirty-puzzling while on duty. Honestly, and you can’t even remember the girl’s name?

Jacob fixed his cravat. Bloody French names all sound the same, and I’m entitled to half an hour break every four hours.

What about your superintendent? Didn’t he tell you to settle down or he wouldn’t promote you?

Jacob jutted his chin toward Alexander. What are you doing here?

Me? This is my home. What about you? Aren’t you supposed to coordinate your constables to protect my manor from anarchists and thieves?

Jacob grimaced, a guilty expression on his face. I’m just trying to avoid Lady Marquand.

Alexander laughed. Me too.

After the Moth robbed her, and the bloody anarchists blew up her steamship, she stares at me as if she wants to stab me with her fan or strangle me with her corset.

Jacob, manners! Alexander scowled.

Only Jacob could be so bold to mention a lady’s undergarment out loud. Alexander’s mother would’ve slapped him on the back of the head.

Would the anarchist of the anti-technology league attack even Grosvenor Manor? So far, Alexander had been lucky, but the anarchists were becoming bolder by the minute.

I need to catch this chap, the Moth. Jacob’s jaw clenched.

Alexander grinned. Jacob thought the Moth was a man. Good. He peeked out of the door. Hellfire. Lady Marquand was still in the corridor. Even worse, Emily had joined her, and now they were gossiping, their heads close together.

So, no clue about who the Moth might be? Alexander asked.

Only this stupid locket.

Alexander forgot about the electrix. Was Jacob about to discover the Moth’s identity? Oh, please, not now. He would arrest her. A locket?

Jacob showed him a plain brass locket with tiny leaves engraved on it. I found it in Lady Marquand’s garden. None of Lady Marquand’s servants or members of her family claimed it. It doesn’t contain any picture. The style is quite plain. Nothing to indicate it belongs to a man or a woman. He hid the locket underneath his shirt. My superintendent thinks it’s wasted time, so I’m investigating on my own. I’ll ask every single jeweler in town and see what I find.

Alexander exhaled. So he didn’t know yet. Why carry it with you?

This thing between the Moth and me, it’s personal. Jacob narrowed his eyes in an expression that had everything to do with being an officer and nothing to do with being his friend. Why this ball? You avoid parties. Although, considering your dancing skills, the ladies should be happy you don’t attend them.

Why, thank you for your honesty. Alexander pushed the switch of an electrix lamp. Nothing. The bulb didn’t light. Trent was right. Something was wrong with the electrix system.

You’re planning something. Is this about finding a suitable wife? About time. The most glorified steam-car racer and you are still a bachelor at one and twenty. How many ladies are you trying to trap with your charm tonight?

Only one. The ball is a therapy of sort. For my…antisocial behavior. My physician suggested spending more time in a comfortable environment with other people.

Jacob cocked his head. Well, the therapy won’t work if you’re hiding with me in the library.

Alexander tried another switch. Not a fizz.

Jacob huffed. What now? Another one of your manias? Do you have to touch all the switches of the house before going to the ballroom?

I have to go. Lady Marquand or not, Alexander needed to reach his workshop. He flung the door open and marched outside.

Where are you going? Jacob followed him.

Lady Marquand poked Emily in the ribs and beamed at Alexander, showing her large white teeth. Lord Alexander, what a pleasure.

He bowed his head. My ladies.

Have I introduced you to my niece, Emily? Lady Marquand gently pushed Emily forward.

Emily curtsied, her gaze downcast in modesty.

Quite a dozen times. He bowed from the waist and went to hold Emily’s hand but was too anxious to endure any contact. Of course, but it’s always a pleasure to see Miss Emily.

You should come and visit us in our manor in the North Shore, Lady Marquand said.

That manor with that red floor? Not bloody likely. Alexander squirmed at the thought.

Well, I’m sure you would like to dance with Emily. She fanned herself.

Emily fluttered her long blonde eyelashes, her cheeks flushing red. That would be lovely. She extended a gloved hand toward him.

Alexander shrank backward. Sorry. Champagne emergency. I’m in a hurry. He strode past them, ignoring Lady Marquand’s and Emily’s astonished faces.

Inspector Jacob. Lady Marquand’s shrill voice rang out from behind as Alexander opened the basement door. May I have a word with you?

He started down the stairs to the workshop. He turned on a gas lamp then opened the control panel door, using the key in his pocket. No one would mess around in his workshop aside from himself and Jacob.

The intricate tangle of different colored wires resembled a plate of Italian spaghetti. There. A few wires were disconnected. Alexander scratched his head. It seemed like a rat had chewed the cables. How weird. Traps surrounded the workshop. Anyway, he was prepared for any emergency. It’d take a moment to fix the problem. A tiny electrix sparkle bit his finger. The electrix didn’t play nice.

He finished connecting the cable. The bolts and plugs were fine. Then he tried an electrix lamp. The bulb cast a yellow beam on the floor. Yes! The current was back again.

He grinned at a picture on a shelf of him with a short, thin young man.

He tapped the frame. I’ll catch the Moth, Ian. I’m doing this for you, my friend.

It seemed only yesterday that he and Ian had graduated from Cambridge. They’d spent years designing and building steam-cars together, and now Ian was dead.

Alexander closed the panel door before he climbed the stairs toward the ground floor. Emily couldn’t possibly still be there. For sure, another gentleman would’ve invited her. She’d be in the ballroom twirling at the rhythm of a waltz.

No. She stood in the corridor, batting eyelashes, sharing a timid smile between rosy cheeks.

She gracefully sauntered to him. Our dance? Her stubborn hand hovered before him.

He swallowed the hard ball of fear in his throat as he prepared himself for the touch. Maybe the glove-to-glove contact would make it easier. Besides, to her credit, Emily’s dress had a soothing white and pink pattern. If he focused on it while dancing, he might survive.

My lady. He offered his crooked arm, and she grabbed it.

The shock of the contact was as if Alexander had just finished a boxing match with his heart hammering against his chest and sweat trickling down his spine. He snapped his arm back. The urge to run away was so strong his feet twitched.

Are you feeling ill? she asked.

She stepped back, scowling, and Alexander slackened in relief. I’m fine. Shall we go? He forced a smile, heading toward the dancefloor.

If catching the Moth meant having to dance then so be it.

Chapter Three

Beatrice strode along the outside wall of Grosvenor Mansion. Zenzer strolled beside her as if he had all the time in the world. She stopped in a dark corner at the back of the manor where a tall tawa tree grew. Its dark green leaves released a fresh scent similar to bay leaves.

A line of barbed wire topped the mansion’s nondescript stone wall. She grinned. In a large section, the wire was missing. She studied the bald spot. No alarms or reinforcements protected it. An open invitation for the Moth.

In a city that had transformed itself in less than a