Excerpt

As promised, the next day was fine and bright. Lavinia spent rather more time than was strictly necessary adjusting the tilt of her hat before she went down to meet Mr. Jones, but still she wasn't more than five minutes late.

He apparently had not been quite as concerned with appearances as she, for he wore an ill-fitting tweed hacking coat and scarred riding boots. But his shirt was at least white and well-starched, the cravat at his throat well-knotted enough. And his buckskin breeches showed all too clearly the strong muscles of the legs beneath.

Somehow she managed to drag her gaze upward, although his face was distracting enough as well. "Shall we?"

"Of course," he replied, and offered her his arm.

Simple courtesy, of course, but she was all too glad to be able to lay her hand on his, even though the gloves they wore did not encourage much intimacy. He led her outdoors to the courtyard, where two horses had been saddled and were waiting for them.

"I fear we have no side-saddle in the castle," he told her in apologetic tones, after casting a worried look at her elegantly draped riding skirts.

Oh, bother. She had ridden astride once — on a dare from Freddie when they were both just twelve years old — but it was certainly nothing a lady should be expected to do. For a second she had half a mind to call the whole thing off. However, she did not want Mr. Jones to think she was some sheltered miss who wouldn't dare to do anything outside the bounds of her training.

She summoned a smile and replied, "Not to worry, Mr. Jones. I shall manage well enough."

The smile slipped a bit when she saw the restive dun gelding he apparently intended her to ride. She was not an indifferent horsewoman, but it had been awhile since she'd done anything more challenging than trot around Hyde Park.

"Your uncle's horse," he explained. "He's more biddable than he looks, and I fear Ajax here — " he gestured toward a rangy dapple-grey on the other side of the dun gelding " — doesn't allow anyone but me to ride him. Let me assist you."

Before she could demur, could say that she would manage just fine on her own, Mr. Jones offered her his hand. To ignore it would be rude. Besides, she guessed she would need his assistance to climb up into the unfamiliar saddle.

That turned out to be the case, and she found herself gripping his fingers with the one hand as she grasped the pommel with the other. And was that him reaching under her boot, giving her the push she needed to swing her leg over the horse's back and settle herself astride the gelding?

Apparently he had no idea it was not the thing at all to touch a lady so, for he only smiled up at her and nodded, then went over to his own horse and climbed into the saddle with far more grace than she had exhibited. She couldn't even find it within her to be affronted. Indeed, she'd enjoyed the feel of his touch a good deal more than any lady should.

"Ready?" he asked then, and she found herself unable to do much more than nod.

They rode out of the courtyard and into the green morning, the air cool but rich with the scent of dark earth and fresh grass. Mr. Jones seemed to realize she was not quite in her element, riding astride as she was, and appeared to take care that they rode over gentle paths. He sat his horse with quite as much elegance as any of the young gentlemen of her acquaintance, and she found herself paying far more attention to the sound of his voice or the way the sunlight caught in his fair hair than the little landmarks he called out from time to time.

Is this why Uncle Malcolm asked me to come here? she wondered. To meet Mr. Jones?

The thought seemed ludicrous the very second she considered it, and she shook her head at herself. Her Uncle Malcolm was a man of many accomplishments, but matchmaker certainly could not be numbered among them. No, he most likely had no idea as to the effect his handsome young assistant might have on his niece. Truly, she could not quite explain it herself. Mr. Jones was very handsome, and seemed intelligent and charming in his own way, but she had met many young men in society, some of them quite handsome and accomplished, and yet she had not found herself drawn to any of them the way she was with Joshua Jones. It was all very exceptional.

When he glanced at his pocket watch and announced it was time to ride back, she experienced an inexplicable sensation of relief. She'd found it more and more difficult to keep herself from staring at Mr. Jones, and she thought some time in the company of others would be an effective remedy, especially if luncheon was as good as their dinner of the night before. That would be just the ticket; no doubt she'd feel more herself and ready for an airship ride once she had taken her noon meal.

The stables were located at the rear of the castle. Neither Marius nor Stefan appeared to be in evidence, and Lavinia frowned as she climbed down from her borrowed horse, not waiting for any assistance from Mr. Jones. At the moment, she thought she'd do better if she could avoid having him take her hand for a little while.

"Shouldn't one of the servants be here?" she inquired of him.

He had also just dismounted, and shrugged. "Not necessarily. Stefan often goes to assist Marius in the gardens if there isn't much need for him in the stables."

And he bent and began unbuckling the girths of her horse's saddle. Once it was undone, he lifted it away and placed it on a block, and proceeded to remove the gelding's bridle. While Lavinia waited, he performed the same duties with his own mount, and gave each one a quick rub-down before leading them to their stalls.

She didn't bother to protest the delay. Lacking Marius or Stefan, Mr. Jones needed to take care of the horses. A wait of a few more minutes for her noon meal didn't seem too taxing. Soon enough he returned, then said, "Ready?"

Of course she was ready — and had been for some time — but she merely nodded. "Lead on."

He took her through a back entrance into the castle, one she hadn't yet seen. Then again, the place was huge. Her tour with her uncle the afternoon before had only revealed perhaps a quarter of its rooms. She wondered what, if anything, might be found in the chambers he hadn't yet shown her.

Without Mr. Jones she would have been hopelessly lost, but of course he had made his home here for the past several years, and so obviously knew each twist and turn of the ancient building's passageways. She trotted along behind him, the skirt of her riding habit caught up in one hand so as not to impede her progress, and couldn't help thinking that possibly he made such haste in an effort to avoid conversation with her. Perhaps he had noticed her unladylike regard, and been made awkward by it.

But then he stopped suddenly at the doorway to her uncle's study, so suddenly that she ran full force into him.

"What on earth — " she began, even as she reached up to straighten her riding hat, which had been knocked sadly awry.

"My God," Mr. Jones murmured, in tones of such horror that she let off fussing with her hat and peered over his shoulder.

Her first impression was that a whirlwind had struck the room. Books, papers, journals — all now lay scattered about in utter disorder. Even the map that had been displayed on the far wall hung in shreds. Then her gaze traveled from the chaos of printed material to the two forms that lay huddled on the floor.

Her mind didn't seem quite able to focus on the meaning of those two shapes. It wasn't until she noticed the blood pooling under each that she understood what she saw.

Her uncle and her maid were both quite dead. No one could have lost so much blood and lived. Even worse, though, was the wide, white-eyed stare that had perpetually fixed itself on Edith Burns's features. It seemed to reproach Lavinia for being alive, for still drawing breath while Edith now lay dead on the stone floor.

Lavinia's knees buckled, and if it hadn't been for Mr. Jones's swift grasp on her wrist, she would have collapsed. Her stays were too tight. Suddenly it seemed as if she couldn't breathe.

"Stay with me, Lavinia," he said urgently. "Don't look anymore."

That sounded like good advice. She shut her eyes, blotting out the study, the limp bodies, Edith's accusing dead stare. A little strength returned to her limbs, and she straightened.

"I'm all right," she told him. Perhaps not; her voice shook as she uttered the words.

He gave her a single, penetrating look, then nodded, as if reassuring himself.

"What happened?" she asked.

In response, he took a few steps into the room and paused. "Don't come any closer. They've been — well, they've been shot."

"By whom?"

"How on earth would I know?" He shook his head, as if scolding himself for the abrupt words. "My pardon. This is — this is dreadful." The color had drained from his face, and his mouth was very grim. "But it appears someone was looking for something."

"Looking for what?"

He would not meet her gaze. "I have no idea."

In that instant she knew he must be lying to her, but why, she had no idea. And standing here and arguing over the bodies of her uncle and poor Edith Burns seemed the height of poor taste. "We must get some assistance. There must be someone in town — a constable, or a magistrate — "

Lavinia broke off then, for coming down the hallway toward them she heard the sound of rough shouts, and curses in a language she couldn't understand.

Mr. Jones's head came up then, like a hound scenting the wolf at the door. "Follow me," he said, then more urgently, "Run!"

For once she didn't bother with any questions. He bolted across the study and flung open a door she hadn't noticed hitherto, one that had been cleverly concealed within the ranks of bookcases. A narrow corridor followed, and then an equally narrow set of stairs. At one point she stumbled, the heel of her boot catching on the jagged stonework. She flung out a hand to keep herself from crashing into him, and winced as she felt the delicate bones in her wrist jam together.

No time to worry about that. They emerged in what she recognized as the large unused hall downstairs. To her surprise, Mr. Jones went immediately to the baize-covered shape of the pianoforte, and lifted one end of the dust cloth.

"What on earth are you doing?" she demanded, gritting her teeth against the pain in her wrist. Very likely it had been sprained.

"Taking the one thing we can't leave behind," he responded, then lifted from the interior of the pianoforte's mechanism a large brass-bound box. He tucked it under one arm. "Let's go."

Questions would have to wait. From upstairs she heard the pounding of heavy feet, and he turned at once and led her down another corridor, this one culminating in the small courtyard where she'd driven the trap only yesterday.

Running now that they had reached open ground, Mr. Jones ranged several paces ahead of her. Never in her life had Lavinia forced her legs to move like this, pounding down the gravel driveway even as her heart thudded against the constricting corset. She didn't dare look behind her. She could only keep her gaze fixed on his back, on those long legs that ate up the ground so much more quickly than her own did. But it was all right if he were several lengths ahead of her, as long as she kept him in her line of sight.

His destination appeared to be a low stone outbuilding a few hundred yards from the stables. At first she couldn't comprehend why he would be headed there, but as he swerved around to the left and she changed course to follow, she suddenly understood.

Outlined against the surrounding trees was the graceful oval shape of an airship, albeit one much smaller than any she had yet seen. The wooden gondola beneath the silvery balloon seemed only large enough to take three or four adults at the most. But, gloriously, it stood ready, the gangplank down, the craft itself pulling gently at its mooring cables.

Of course it was ready. No doubt her uncle had overseen its preparation earlier that morning while she was off riding with Mr. Jones. She thanked heaven for that small stroke of luck.

"Get in," he commanded. "I'm going to cast off. And take this with you." He shoved the wooden box he carried into her arms. It was heavier than she had expected.

Lavinia took the gangplank steps two at a time and found herself in a small but luxurious cabin, one fitted with brass-encircled portholes and four upholstered seats. A door immediately ahead of her led to the captain's compartment, where an elegant mahogany steering wheel stood surrounded by gleaming brass instruments.

The ship shuddered beneath her, and she grasped the back of one of the passenger seats to keep herself from stumbling. The wooden box slipped from her fingers, but with rare good luck it landed on one of the seats and appeared to take no harm. Outside the portholes, the landscape began to drift by. Then she felt another shudder, a larger one this time, followed by a loud thud, which seemed to signal the hatchway door had been closed.

Sure enough, Mr. Jones entered the cabin and then brushed past her, going at once to the steering wheel, even as he grasped a brass lever to his right and pushed it all the way forward. At once the little airship began to move ahead, and its altitude slowly began to increase.

A blur of dark movement outside one of the portholes caught Lavinia's eyes, and she gasped. Four men, running at top speed toward them. And one had lifted his arm to reveal the ominous outline of a pistol.

"They're going to shoot!" she cried.

Mr. Jones did not look back, but instead did something complicated to one of the control mechanisms. "We're metal-clad. They'd have to get a direct hit to do any real damage."

Improbably, her first thought was, But I read that metal-clads were impossible!

Lavinia shook her head. Obviously they weren't, or she wouldn't be riding in one.

A high-pitched ping! sounded almost immediately overhead, and she winced. "Can't we go any faster?"

"No, Lavinia, we cannot. I already have the engine at full power." He hesitated, then said, "Come and take the wheel."

Although she had just yesterday daydreamed about such a moment, now she could only look at him, aghast. "Whatever for?"

From inside his coat pocket he produced a gleaming silver-chased pistol. "Because I believe you'd prefer to man the helm rather than take a defensive position."

She stared at the pistol, then started as another ping! hit the airship's fragile metal skin. "I'll take the helm."

"I rather thought you would."

They traded places, Mr. Jones going to the hatch even as she moved forward and took the wheel in her gloved hands. A meadow sloped downward before her, bordered on either side by stands of evergreens, and the sun blazed down from almost directly overhead. It would have been a lovely picture, under different circumstances. Now she could only bite her lip and keep the airship moving forward, centered between the forest outcroppings.

She heard his pistol go off, and a quantity of white smoke filled the cabin. Almost at once there was another bang, followed by several of those ominous pings. But the little ship seemed to hold, and Lavinia murmured a quiet thanks under her breath for her uncle's apparent engineering prowess.

Her uncle. In the flight from the castle, she'd almost forgotten about the lifeless forms of her uncle and her maid, but now the hideous scene came rushing back into her mind. A hot little dry ache began to form somewhere at the base of her throat, and she swallowed. The sunny landscape shimmered behind a veil of tears.

Lavinia blinked, and maintained her death grip on the helm. All she had to do was focus on the hard shape of the wheel biting into her hands, on keeping the ship pointing forward. Best not to think of anything else.

A moment later, Mr. Jones stood beside her. In silence, he reached out and very gently unwrapped her fingers from the polished mahogany wheel.

"We're away," he said. He seemed unable to look at her directly.

Incapable of doing anything more than nodding silently, she stumbled out of the pilot's cabin and back into the airship's main chamber, where she sank down onto one of the overstuffed seats. She wouldn't allow herself to sob, but tears overflowed her cheeks as she stared out into the bright, blurred landscape outside.

She and Joshua Jones were safe for the moment, but her uncle and Edith were gone forever.

Lavinia wondered if she would ever know why.