The Zeppelin Deception Read online

  Grayling was nowhere in sight.

  Miss Stoker

  ~ Of Crying, Shrieking, and General Upset ~

  My eyes were dry and gritty when I opened them next morning. I blamed that on the angry tears I’d cried well into the night. But the reason for opening them at all was because Florence was shrieking my name from downstairs.

  She sounded even more irate than she’d been last night.

  That was not good.

  It started when I returned home after my visit to Scotland Yard. Yes, it was well after dinner. Yes, I’d been gone for more than five hours. Yes, I’d left word where I was going.

  But that didn’t matter, because Ned’s carriage was parked in front of the house when I finally returned after nine. Apparently, he’d been waiting for me for almost an hour.

  It didn’t help that I was mildly bedraggled due to the weather and various trips in and out of my carriage, around Mina’s house, and over her back gate. Florence swooped down on me the moment I set foot on the threshold of the house.

  “Where have you been?” She fairly yanked me into the vestibule then began to propel me upstairs.

  I couldn’t ever remember seeing her that angry, at least with me. “I was having tea with Lady Cosgrove-Pi—”

  “I know that you weren’t,” she hissed, glancing over her shoulder toward the parlor as she marched up the stairs behind me. I assumed that was where Ned was waiting. “Look at you. You’re filthy and your hair is falling down…” She bit out the words as if she were chopping them—violently. Pepper was already in my bedchamber, preparing to set me to rights.

  “I certainly was,” I replied. But my indignation was muffled as my maid and my sister-in-law began to drag off my day dress and unpin my hair.

  “I sent word, Evaline,” Florence snapped. “To Cosgrove Terrace, when Mr. Oligary arrived to see you. Lady Cosgrove-Pitt wasn’t at home.”

  I struggled to remain upright as the two women “set me to rights” in a very ungentle manner. I didn’t even notice what frock Florence had chosen for me, let alone have a choice in it. Pepper met my eyes sympathetically in the mirror when Flo knelt to straighten my petticoats.

  “Don’t have time to change them,” she muttered, obviously seeing the damp, dirty hems. “Blast it, Evaline, if you ruin this engagement, I’ll—” She stood abruptly, snapping off the words as she looked at me. Her color was high and her eyes flashed as she surveyed me. “Good. You look presentable. We will talk about your lie later. To the parlor. Now.”

  My eyes stung with fury as I descended the stairs. I fought to keep the tears from coming by blinking rapidly. I held my breath in the old trick to help a blush dissipate quickly—I knew my face was red with emotion.

  How dare she treat me like I was a child? How dare she speak to me that way? I was doing this wedding thing for her and Bram, wasn’t I?

  I paused outside the door of the parlor, composed myself, then went in.

  “Evaline.” Ned rose and immediately came to me. He took my hands, which were gloved, of course, and drew me to him for a kiss on the cheek. This had become his usual way to greet me: a chaste kiss on the cheek.

  That didn’t mean we hadn’t shared other kisses in more private settings.

  As I said: they were nice, those other kisses.

  At twenty-seven, Ned was nearly a decade older than me. He had brown hair and a trimmed mustache and sideburns. He was always dressed at the height of fashion in expensive, well-tailored clothing. Today he sported a coat of luxurious mahogany velvet with a gold and mahogany paisley waistcoat beneath it. A complicated expanding timepiece made from bronze, gold, and copper was tucked into the pocket of his vest, and its chain hung in a casual, glittering arc from there to where it was attached to his clothing.

  “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” I said, still feeling stiff and out of sorts.

  “I wasn’t aware that you had an engagement today.” His voice sounded stiff and out of sorts.

  “I was asked to tea at Cosgrove Terrace,” I replied. “It was an unexpected invitation. As a matter of fact, when I was leaving, I saw your brother arrive.”

  Ned looked at me skeptically. “You think Emmett was visiting Cosgrove Terrace? Impossible. He told me he was leaving for Paris this evening.”

  I hesitated. I was certain it had been the elder Oligary’s steam-car, but I might have been wrong. And I hadn’t had a good look at the occupant. “I thought it was him.”

  “He was on his way to Paris.” Ned settled back into his seat, still looking at me doubtfully. “You were mistaken. Did you have a nice time at tea with Lady Cosgrove-Pitt? You seemed to be there for an exceptionally long while.”

  I felt my cheeks warm, and I didn’t know why. I had been at Cosgrove Terrace. It wasn’t a lie. But clearly Ned was fishing for other information. Could he believe I’d gone somewhere else? Was he suspicious about me? Even if he was, he didn’t have anything to be suspicious about.

  “It was a lovely tea.” Except when she invited me to join her murderous “alliance.” “But Lady Isabella seems to be very bored, being confined to her house while in mourning.”

  He lifted his brows. “Deep mourning is only appropriate in her situation, Evaline. Don’t you agree?”

  “Of course. But I can certainly understand why she might…well, get bored. Especially someone like Lady Isabella, with all of her normal social obligations.”

  “Everyone understands that she is required to avoid social occasions right now,” Ned said. I felt like he was patting me on the head as he spoke. “And I don’t think it’s quite proper for you to refer to her as Lady Isabella, Evaline.”

  I clamped my jaw closed. In fact, the woman had once told me to address her as Lady Bella. It took every ounce of control I had for me not to respond.

  “Her year of mourning will be over before she realizes it,” he continued. “Until then, everyone understands the need for her to be cloistered away.”

  “I don’t suppose that makes it any easier for her, whether other people understand or not. Being shut away in one’s house for a year would be very trying.”

  Why was I defending Lady Isabella? I didn’t even like the woman. She was a criminal. A murderer.

  My stomach suddenly flipped as I realized I liked another person who was (probably) (possibly) a murderer. What was wrong with me?

  “It’s the way things are. Ladies must follow the example of Her Majesty. It’s the proper thing to do.” He narrowed his eyes, looking carefully at me. “Surely you agree.”

  “It just seems that when you’re grieving over someone, it might be more difficult to be left alone. Because then all you can do is think about it.” I gave a little smile and tilted my head. “I think it would be very lonely.”

  In spite of what I’d thought (hoped) was compassion and a little bit of charm, it didn’t affect Ned the way I’d intended. “Evaline, when someone dies—especially a close family member—a person mourns. It’s required.”

  I looked at him, my brows drawing together. I’d tried to remain prudent and ladylike, but now my patience was frayed. “Required? By whom?”

  His eyes flared with irritation. “By society, of course. And the model of Her Majesty. Evaline, I’m not certain I approve of the way this conversation is going. Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

  I’m not certain what had gotten into me, but I did not feel like being circumspect. “I simply don’t understand why ‘society’ gets to tell a person how to mourn, or what to wear, or—or what they can do. Or can’t do. It’s not fair.”

  His annoyance turned to bemusement, which was worse. “Oh, darling Evaline, you are quite adorable.” The corners of his eyes crinkled in a way that I often thought was charming, but did not find it so at that moment. “If we didn’t have societal strictures, what sort of civilization would we be?” He took my hand. “Now, enough of this banal topic of conversation. You were quite long at Cosgrove Terrace—surely you had more than merely te
a? Were there other people there as well?”

  “It was only Lady Isabella and myself,” I told him, stubbornly using the more casual form of address. “And it was fine. The tea was just fine.” I didn’t feel like talking about that either, so I changed the subject. “What did you do today?”

  Ned seemed mildly surprised by my question, but that didn’t stop him from launching into an explanation that was so detailed it would have put Mina and her lectures to shame. He began with how his valet had awakened him at half-eleven with the newspapers and a small pot of coffee (the beans had just arrived from Brazil and had been very expensive), and went on to describe how they’d selected his waistcoat (did I not like it?) and what he’d had for breakfast (kippers, eggs, and headcheese, along with a tomato muffin).

  I must have dozed off, for it was the mention of “that Edison Smith fellow” that had me jolting to attention.

  “…present for an initial court hearing.” Ned didn’t seem to notice I’d not been listening. “The trial will begin next week. Probably be over in a day or two. Won’t be too soon to see the bloke hanged for his crime, I vow.”

  My fingers suddenly felt cold and numb. My head felt as if it were separating from my body.

  Hanged? Pix?

  I hadn’t really thought about that. Until now.

  “Cold-blooded murderer,” Ned continued, his mouth twisting unpleasantly. “Deserves the noose—unless they implement the steam-injection process before then. Supposedly more humane.” He didn’t seem happy about that.

  “But there will be a trial,” I managed to say. I tucked my icy hands into the folds of my skirts. “Maybe he didn’t do it.”

  Ned laughed and reached to pat my hand. “I’m sorry, darling Evaline. I know I shouldn’t mention such uncivil topics. I can imagine how upsetting it must be to you to think of Edison Smith hanging.”

  I caught my breath and my body went shockingly cold. The room tilted a little and my vision darkened.

  Did he know? Could he know? How could he?

  Of course he didn’t.

  Blooming Pete, I hoped he didn’t. Surely he couldn’t know how I felt—used to feel—about Pix.

  “Women shouldn’t be exposed to such unpleasantries, and I apologize for even raising the topic. I’m certain you must still be having nightmares over the death of Lord Cosgrove-Pitt.” He reached to pat my hand again, but I moved it away. “I remember how overset you were, being a witness to that horrible event. Remember how you were so horrified you stumbled into that man? Knocked him to the ground?”

  Saved his life, you mean?

  “Never fear—you’re not the only one, my darling. Mrs. Bennington says her daughters still wake up in the night, screaming over it.”

  I was still trying to breathe normally again, but these last comments made me want to roll my eyes. The Benningtons were ninnies of the highest order. I fixed my gaze demurely on the froth of skirts in my lap.

  “Well, soon enough I’ll be there if you awaken, terrified in the night,” Ned said brightly. “Only three more weeks, Evaline.”

  Blooming fish. My lungs stopped working again.

  He changed topics, and none too soon. “I suppose it’s too late for us to go for a drive and to dinner, as I’d intended when I arrived more than an hour ago.” There was a hint of petulance in his voice. “Perhaps tomorrow night—unless you have another engagement with the lonely Lady Cosgrove-Pitt?” He gave a short, teasing laugh that didn’t really sound teasing.

  “No, of course not,” I replied. What else could I say?

  I would go to dinner with him tomorrow night. And in less than a month, I’d be dining with him every night. Living in his house. Sharing adjoining bedchambers.

  Sharing a bed.

  But it wasn’t that conversation with Ned that made me sob into the night and awaken with dry, gritty eyes.

  It was Florence’s talk with me after that did it.

  And when I say “talk with,” I actually mean “talk at.”

  Mina Holmes has nothing on Florence Stoker when she’s in the mood to lecture.

  “You simply can’t ruin this,” my sister-in-law said for at least the dozenth time after she’d railed at me for being gone all afternoon. “Marrying into the Oligary family is the most important thing you’ll ever do.”

  I nearly shouted back at her, to tell her all of the other more important things I’d already done—like saving a few lives by killing vampires and stopping evil villainesses like the Ankh—and that there were a lot more other important things I could still do if I weren’t going to be hampered by a husband…but I didn’t.

  All I could do was stare down at my fingers, flexing, flexing, flexing, and force myself to remember that Florence loved me. That she was worried. And frightened.

  But it really didn’t help. Not when she kept going and going and going…

  “Look at what happened to that Landers girl—there were all those on dits about her in the society pages, and she had to retire to the country and become an old maid. Those gossip journalists are bloodthirsty, and they don’t care who they ruin!” Her breath heaved with emotion as I wondered how a person would “become” an old maid. Was it something that happened overnight? One day you were a marriage prospect and the next you were an old maid?

  “Now tell me where you really were, Evaline. And I want the truth.”

  When I looked up, Florence was glittering and wavery because of the angry tears in my eyes. Somehow I managed to keep my voice steady. “I went to tea at Cosgrove Terrace. I was there for quite a while. After that, I asked Middy to drive past Scotland Yard and the British Museum. There was a carriage accident and it caused a big delay. The weather was awfully bad as well. It took much longer than I thought.”

  “You should have come straight home,” Florence said. “Driving around in this weather. What if you catch a fever? Or pneumonia? Then what will happen to your wedding?”

  That was it. I snapped.

  “I don’t bloody care what happens to my wedding!” I erupted from the divan on which I’d been sitting. “I don’t want to get married in the first place!” I’d snatched up a decorative pillow with me. I was so angry that I pulled at it with both hands. The cushion tore, its stuffing exploding into the parlor.

  I tossed it aside, heedless of Florence’s shocked face as I raged on. “I’m only doing this for you and Bram. And if I get a chill or a fever, I bloody well hope it’s my health you’re worried about, not whether my blooming wedding will happen!”

  “Evaline Eustacia Stoker!” Florence shrieked at me. She was standing in the midst of floating cushion stuffing, some of which had settled in her hair. Her face was beet-red and her eyes bulged. “I’ll not have you talk to me in that tone! How dare you!”

  “You won’t listen to me any other time I talk,” I shot back. “If this is the only way I can get you to listen—”

  “Go to your room.” Her voice was terrible. “Go to your room, or by heaven, I vow I’ll—I’ll— Just go to your room.”

  I fled. Not because she frightened me, but because all I wanted was to be away from her, from the topic of my wedding, from everything.

  Everything.

  Why did I have to sacrifice myself—my life—for them? Why did I have to save them from their problems? No, I didn’t want to be tossed out of Grantworth House, but surely there were other options besides selling me off like a horse.

  And why did Ned Oligary want to marry me, anyway? He hardly knew me. I was no great beauty, and we Stokers were hardly the crème of society.

  I didn’t understand how this had all happened so blasted quickly—and without my agreement.

  I threw myself onto the bed and sobbed furiously. The pillow was perfect to muffle the sound and wipe up my tears and snot.

  I must have fallen asleep that way, facedown into the pillow, for when I was awakened the next morning by Florence’s furious shouting, I was still dressed. Pepper had either been too frightened to come in, or had been or
dered otherwise.

  I dragged myself upright as Florence’s pounding feet raged up the stairs. I caught a glimpse of myself in the dressing table mirror and almost didn’t recognize my face.

  Creases from the pillow, puffy eyes, straggly hair, and my normal dusky complexion now off-color and sallow made me look hideous.

  Maybe if Ned saw me this way, he wouldn’t want to marry me.

  I didn’t have the opportunity to ponder this, for my bedchamber door flew open and smacked into the wall.

  “This. This.” Florence all but threw the newspaper at me, and I had a moment of gratitude that it wasn’t on a mechanical reader. That would have hurt. “I knew you were lying. I knew it!”

  She was hysterical. If anyone had seen her at the moment, they would have carted her off to the nearest asylum. “You’re going to ruin us all, Evaline!”

  I picked up the paper. What had gotten her so upset—

  Oh. Blast it.

  The headline jumped out at me: A Matter for the Police? Oligary Fiancée Secretly Visits the Met.

  There was a photograph of me walking into Scotland Yard. I didn’t look secretive at all. And I had no idea how they’d managed to get such a clear, unmistakable picture of me on a dreary day filled with sleet. That is one of the reasons I dislike and distrust modern technology.

  Florence raged, stomping around my room. She wailed about what would people think, why was I consorting with prisoners (how would she even know that?) (because I hadn’t been) (not really), what would Mr. Oligary (I wasn’t certain if she meant Ned or Sir Emmett) think, how would she ever show her face in public again, and what would happen to them.

  Them, meaning her and Bram and their son Noel.

  I read the article—barely three lines long—which, in my mind, was nothing to be concerned about. Yes, it was on the society page, tucked in the back, where all the on dits usually were—but what did it matter? The headline was meant to attract attention, but all the article said was that I’d walked into Scotland Yard and exited more than thirty minutes later. Someone had glimpsed a policeman (Grayling, of course) bidding me farewell at the door, but they gave no identifying characteristics of him.