SorchaMowbray

London, June 1848, Victorian Era

The actual act of killing someone had long ago ceased to bother Miss Louisa Stanton, or Lou to her friends.

But something about the man stalking through the grand entry hall of The Market, who she knew instinctively was there to deliver a kill order, caused a chill to slither across her skin. Though he was perfectly turned out, there was a hardness in his eyes and a grim set to his mouth which said he would kill you as soon as look at you.

One word came to mind. Ominous.

Lou shivered, yet despite her discomfort, she had been duly informed of his arrival when he had presented his coin at the door.

Now she had a role to play and a brothel full of guests as her audience.

After all, as ‘Madame LaRoux’, the owner of one of the most exclusive houses of pleasure in all of London, Lou could never let them see her perspire, no matter how much fate turned the steam up.

No sweating, and no crying. The last time she’d shed tears had been when her parents’ died…

Lou tracked the incongruous gentleman from beneath lowered lashes and found herself grateful that she always wore a mask when at The Market. It made it easier to retain her composure in moments such as these.

Her Crown-sponsored customers were not typically challenging to spot, especially for someone of her specific skill set, though they at least blended in with her customers—mostly. Her current guest moved with intention, whereas most of her patrons ambled about with an insouciance born of both their privilege and their wealth, as evidenced by their butter-soft leather and gold telescoping monocles and goggles. But this man stuck out like a cog without a wheel with his simple attire and grim countenance.

Regardless, his presence made it clear she would be required to kill again. And soon.

The Market had long provided guest coins to trusted members; in part to allow potential new members to sample their offerings, and in part as a cover for her communications with her government handler. When her services were required, he did not bother with the modern clacks or even a written note—he sent an unsuspecting messenger with a specially designed coin. It was a safer, low-tech solution in their high-tech world full of steam powered vehicles, vocal amplifiers, and automatons. Queen Victoria had inherited a country divided between the Free Steam Consortium of Tinkers and the Steam Control Movement, often called the Voltacrats—steam and electricity supporters, respectively. In a world of two sides, Lou had learned to survive in the grey areas between Tinkers and Voltacrats.

One day at a time.

Taking a deep breath in fortification, Lou glided down the steps to welcome her newest customer. He glanced up at the first rustle of her dress and waited for her to descend.

Early in her career, she had learned an entrance was a calculated study in sensuality, every movement to be practiced with the express purpose of stoking a man’s desires. The short fringe of ruffles guarded the apex of her thighs but left every tantalizing inch of her silk clad legs exposed until they disappeared into her brass buttoned calf boots. A purposeful—and practical—display that by all accounts left the man’s frigid stare unmoved.

Not a flicker of desire. Interesting.

She suspected the differences between this man and the usual oblivious messengers would only continue from there. Normally they stood there waiting for her, nervous and a little twitchy with excitement. She would arrive in front of them and they would stammer and stare as they presented her the token. Hands warm and clammy, the metal disc would transfer from their palm to hers.

Should she expect this cold man’s hands to be warm and clammy as he handed over the disc? Would the aura of excitement be palpable when he came into proximity?

No, not this man.

This time they had sent her someone who knew what he was doing; knew he was initiating a chain reaction which would result in a life being snuffed out—and he could not have been more indifferent to the whole situation.

Arriving in the foyer, Lou strode across the half-filled space, allowing her confidence to outshine the flickering gas lamps. Conversations ceased as men turned to watch her progress. She would not allow him—any of the men, really—to sense her fear of him…or more correctly, her fear of his indifference.

“Good evening, monsieur. I understand you wished to speak with me?” Her fake French accent laced her words.

“Madame LaRoux, it is a pleasure to meet you. I was told upon presentation of this token I would be treated as a member of The Market for the evening.” His voice sounded like it barely scraped free of his throat. He extended a long slim arm and presented the coin pinched between two talon-like fingers.

A shiver skittered along her spine.

Lou extended her palm, letting the metal disc drop into her hand while avoiding touching him in any way. Despite his frozen mien, the coin was warm, which startled her.

Now she would have to determine which of her girls could handle this man. Indifference was dangerous in a man seeking the company of a woman; she should choose a girl strong enough to manage him without getting herself into trouble.

There was only one available girl she could trust: Katerina. Accomplished in both the sexual arts of a courtesan, and the more lethal arts of an assassin, Kat could deal with this man and extricate herself if required.

“I believe I have the perfect lady for you, monsieur. Please follow me.” Lou allowed her long lashes to dip and shield her masked eyes from his probing gaze.

“Of course, I defer to your expertise, madame.” The man bowed and held out his arm for her to take.

Placing her hand in the crook of his elbow, Lou suppressed the urge to shudder as she led him into the main salon. “La, monsieur, you must tell me your name.”

“You may call me Mr. Xavier.”

She nodded, easily accepting what she knew was likely a false name. Reading people was part of her daily business life, whether working as an assassin or arranging a client for one of her girls. “The ladies of The Market are some of the most beautiful in London, in Paris—maybe even all of Europe.” The man made no response, merely continued walking, so she pressed on. “Though that may be my overweening pride.”

The gas lights sprinkled about the main salon cast a soft glow around the room, illuminating the ladies in the most artful way. Katerina sat near the fire, allowing the orange flames to catch the golden flecks of her blonde hair and highlighting the flattering fall of silk over one shoulder. Her blue eyes slanted up at the corners, not unlike Lou’s own, and were framed by kohl smudged lashes that were the envy of every woman in London. Even with a black mask obscuring her face, she was a beautiful woman.

Lou led Mr. Xavier over to Katerina and made the introductions. Casually fluttering her fingers at her neck as she spoke, Lou indicated to Katerina, using their private signal, that this one was to be treated carefully. He was a wild card and not to be trusted.

The gentleman joined the blonde on the couch where they began to converse intimately. Lou departed quietly, letting the pair go about their business. With the heavy token searing her palm like a brand, she made her way upstairs to change her clothes for her emergent meeting.

Her services were required by Queen and country.

Lou divested herself of her mask, dress, corset, and dainty boots. The tweed trousers she preferred for riding encased her legs and she topped them with a simple black cotton blouse, a leather holster that strapped over her shoulders and under her bust to cover her midriff with slots for her assortment of knives, and a dark brown leather skirted coat. Cordelia, her longtime maid, unpinned her hair from the fancy coiffeur and braided it back into a neat braid that was then folded up and tied off with two lengths of brown velvet ribbon. She completed her ensemble with her knee-high buckled boots and a newsboy’s cap. She much preferred the freedom of trousers to corsets and silk skirts, but she must look the part of the brothel owner when entertaining.

“Cordelia, please tell Walter I shall be going out on business tonight and require my steam cycle prepared for me by the rear entrance.”

“It’s too much, the way you gad about dressed as a boy and doing dangerous things. I should lock you in this room and keep you out of trouble,” Cordelia strode over to the door with a harrumph of worry, her face pinched.

Lou waved off her fretting maid, sending her downstairs. Cordelia had a tendency to fuss and fidget in ways that often exasperated Lou, but she was the best—and most discreet—hairdresser and lady's maid in London—had been for nearly three decades, the last half of which had been spent in her employ. Afterall, a woman of Lou’s chameleon nature needed the best to ensure she was turned out expertly, no matter how eccentric her attire.

Once Cordelia had disappeared, Lou loaded her two favorite Kukri knives into her holster along with a series of smaller throwing knives. The Kukri was the weapon of choice of the Gurkhas—soldiers from the Gorkha Kingdom who fought in the British military—and sported a wicked seventeen-inch blade which hooked about midway along with two little notches at the base near the handle which allowed blood to drip off before reaching the rosewood handle. It was heralded for its all-around utility, most notably as a hunting weapon good for chopping and slicing…which made the blades the perfect weapons for Lou’s needs.

This might be just a meeting to discuss her target, but when you killed for a living, you learned to be prepared for any and all eventualities. Lou did not leave home unarmed, not even when attending a ball, and certainly not when meeting her handler.

Everything in place, she slipped down the back stairs. It would be a disaster to run into any of her patrons dressed as she was. Having reached the rear of the house without any issues, she was pleased to see her steam cycle waited at the backdoor with Walter beside it. While she still enjoyed a thunderous ride across a park on horseback, the sleek power of her steam cycle spoke to another side of her. A tinker side of her.

“Good evening, Walter.” She nodded to her mechanic-cum-stablemaster. The man was a miracle worker with both her steam cycle and her horses.

“Good evening, ma’am. I checked on the coughing noise you reported after you last took her out. I’ve increased the mix of steam-vapor in the engine.” He pulled a rag out of his pocket and wiped down the beast of the engine between them. The steam cycle was a maze of black metal and brass elements, with a condensed steam engine powering the two-wheeled contraption. The cog-like inner wheels had a rubber coating on the edges that allowed it to roll smoothly over the cobbled streets of London. A black cut down saddle, less the stirrups, perched atop the tangled beauty. “And I polished the saddle.”

“Thank you, Walter. I’ll report back on how she runs tonight.” Sliding her goggles into place over her cap and tugging the brim low on her brow, Lou straddled the machine and revved its engine with relish. Steam shot out the tailpipe as it reached full capacity. A gentle shift of gears and hiss of the pneumatic steam-brakes had her shooting forward into the beckoning night.

The wind rushed past her billowing the skirt of her coat out where it was not secured under her bottom on the saddle. She pressed on the accelerator and shifted gears, causing steam to shoot out the back in response to her demand for more power. The cycle jolted forward, barreling down the half-empty streets as she resisted the urge to yell out with the thrill of the speed.

Despite the lateness of the hour, London’s streets still trickled with foot traffic. Prostitutes hocking their wares, men and women alike seeking to drown the drudgery of daily life in spirits or vice. Steam tech had offered many improvements to London life, but some things remained the same. The city’s cobblestone streets glistened with moisture as people came and went, heads down. With the growing tension between Tinkers and Voltacrats, most inhabitants of the more fashionable areas would not be caught dead utilizing steam technology, but despite the snubbing of steam tech, most folks minded their business and ignored her as she flew past.

Outside of a dockside warehouse, she tucked her machine into a dark alley next to the building and donned her ever-present, yet simple, black mask. The heavy fog and constant lapping of the water against the wharf muffled almost all sounds, even the rumble of her steam cycle as she’d pulled up.

The side door off the alley sat ajar, revealing a sliver of light. She eased up to it and slipped inside to hide in the darkest clump of shadows she could find. Two men stood in the middle of the open loading area under a gas light which dangled from the twenty-foot high warehouse ceiling.

The two men, dressed in well-worn but once nice clothing, seemed to be concerned that she wasn’t coming.

“How much longer must we wait?” The tall, skinny one looked at his pocket watch.

“Until they come. We were told to wait until the Clockwork Cecaelia came.” The shorter, stocky man paced back and forth, careful to stay within the circle of light.

Clockwork Cecaelia, indeed. These government types liked their fancy codenames and shadow games. If Lou could find a way out of government service, she would take it in two ticks of a clock. But fifteen years ago, when she’d signed on for this, it seemed a better alternative to her uncle’s way of life—assassin for hire by the highest bidder. Now? The desire to retire some place peaceful—maybe a cottage by the sea—grew with every moment she remained under the boulder of her job. However, one did not tell the Queen—or more aptly, the Under-Secretary of Enforcement for the Bureau of Modern Technology—that one’s services were no longer available. Not without good cause.

And what happened to her usual contact, Holt? These two were new, and that was never a good sign in her line of business.

Holt’s absence raised her suspicions of the situation, so Lou hugged the dark depths of the stacks of goods and worked her way around the perimeter.

Normally she would stride across the space to meet Holt, but wary of the two strangers, she stuck to the shadows until she was forced to make a choice. Stay hidden and see if anyone else appeared—it could be a trap of some kind. Step from the shadows and discover what the pair had to say. Or ease back through the shadows and leave altogether.

“Do you think she’ll really come?” the shorter of the two asked his companion.

“They said she’d come once the token was delivered.” The taller one shrugged, and for a moment Lou thought the seam of his worn leather coat might pull apart with the movement. “I hope she does. I wonder if she’s as terrifying in person as she’s rumored to be?”

Assured the pair were not a real threat, she found an opening in the stacks of goods and stepped up to the edge of the circle of light.

“Did yer mams not teach ye’ tis bad manners to discuss someone in their absence?” Lou strove for more guttersnipe and less cultured lady since she had an unknown quantity in the mix. It certainly wouldn’t do to speak in her natural, dulcet tones.

The two men jumped, startled by her sudden appearance. After a moment of awkward throat clearing, the short one stammered, “Y-Y-You’re the Clockwork Cecaelia?”

Still hovering in the shadows, Lou grinned. “I’m here, ain’t I?”

The tall, skinny one edged forward and held out a leather portfolio with brass fittings and a lock. She allowed her gloved hand to appear in the light long enough to take the case but without another word, she slipped back into the shadows and exited the building. The last thing Lou needed was two cog-grinders getting a look at her face—even with the mask.

And where the devil was Holt? Holton Walker was her handler, the man who perennially showed with the details. To be sure, he’d continually told her it wouldn’t always be him dropping off the file, but then it had always been him. So why was this time different? Between Holt being missing and the disturbingly sinister Mr. Xavier activating her, something was decidedly off.

Safely in the alley again, Lou tucked the case into the back of her trousers under her jacket and removed her mask. Clearly her assignment was important, or perhaps just unique? She would sort it out later as she reviewed the details she’d been given. For now, she needed to disappear.

Finding her cycle still tucked away where she left it, she hopped on and cranked the engine. With a gush of steam and a soft chugging sound, she pulled out of the shadows and into the night before the engine fully roared to life.

Two streets over from The Market, Lou caught the flash of a light in her rear-view looking glasses and heard the chug-chug of an old steam carriage. Bloody hell! She needed to get back and look at the information on her mark, but first she had to lose her tail. There was no telling how soon The Crown wanted her to take action. Some orders came with more urgency than others.

Hooking a right at the next lane, she circled back around a few streets over and dropped in behind her unwanted company. Keeping a suitable distance between herself and their rather unsubtle conveyance—who followed an assassin in an old, and very loud, steam-coach?—she watched them drive past her business slowly, as though looking for someone, then speed up to disappear into the night.

With a shrug, Lou drove past the brothel’s front entrance, circled around through some of the side streets to be safe, and finally pulled up through the back mews that housed her horses and carriage, as well as her steam cycle. Keeping in favor with the aristocracy—the Voltacrats, who favored electricity and more antiquated conveyances—meant she still kept a fine stallion for leisure rides and used the horse and carriage as Madame LaRoux. It wouldn’t be good for business to appear to take sides in the war between steam and electricity. But as an assassin she used her steam cycle—she knew the value of the speed and reliability that came with well-maintained technology.

Wheeling her cycle into its parking space, Lou wiped the leather saddle down and checked all the fluids before retiring for the night. Once again she crept up the back stairs, looking to avoid any wandering patrons. It was rather ridiculous that she must sneak about in her own establishment, but secrets were secrets, and while Society had come to accept prostitution as a legitimate industry with regulations and oversight, they hadn’t gone quite so far as to make her true profession acceptable.

Nor should they.

There were days she hated what she had become. Like most girls, Lou had dreamed of her wedding, of the man she would marry, and of the children they would have together. She had wanted all of those things and more…until the night her parents had been killed.

Being an assassin was an honest line of work, in truth. Governments were going to kill people, other people were going to kill people. Why shouldn’t she provide that service for the government and get rich while doing her patriotic duty? It was capitalism at its finest—and in the middle of the Industrial Revolution turned technology war, well…there were plenty of people who the government wanted eliminated. Business had been brisk.

Locking her chamber door behind her, Lou breathed a sigh of relief as she slipped off her leather riding coat and draped it over a chair. Curiosity about her assignment propelled her over to her bed, where she pulled the case out of the waist of her trousers and sank onto the mattress. Behind the headboard, she pressed a small lever that released a panel covering a secret compartment. In the small hidey-hole lay a chain with a key attached. It looked like a traditional key, but the top of the key actually snapped into the lock of the case to open it. She and Holt were the only two people with these keys…which meant the men had presumably been sent by him.

It was the first bit of good news so far. Or at least, she hoped it was. If he hadn’t sent them, then who else had a copy of their supposedly unique key?

Besides the key, the only objects inside the alcove were a scrap of fabric and a hair comb which had belonged to her mother, and a coin she’d found with her father the day before he’d been killed. Refusing to look too closely at the mementos, she closed the door by pressing the lever again and turned to unlock the case—but a knock at her door interrupted her. She slipped the case under the mattress and the key around her neck, then unbolted her door.

Cordelia bustled in carrying a tray laden with a cold supper and a pot of tea. “I heard you come in and had Cook put some food together. You need to eat more than you do,” she said as she set the tray on a small table near the window.

“Thank you. I could use a bite.” Lou followed her maid over to the food and sat as a cup of tea was prepared.

“I do not understand why some women have this fascination with men’s clothing.” Cordelia looked pointedly at Lou’s trousers, her green gaze snapping with disapproval, then turned and left the room as Lou snorted.

Her maid might tolerate some of her quirks, but she had always drawn the line at menswear. It put her off her chump every time Lou donned trousers. Maybe it was because when she wore the men’s clothes, Cordelia knew she was going out to work as an assassin? That fact about herself obviously wasn’t something she had been able to hide from the woman after the first time she came home wounded. Perhaps her long-time maid cared more than either of them wanted to admit? Lou smiled softly, but pushed the sentiment aside for now. She had more important things to think about.

Alone again, she jumped up and grabbed the case from its hiding place then sat down with her tea at the table. She slipped the metal shard into place and turned it in the lock. The latch released with a soft click and a hiss of steam which would have brought joy to any tinker’s heart. She smiled and reached in to slide out the papers held within. As odd as the entire night had been—with Mr. Xavier’s unsettling presence, Holt’s absence, and then possibly being followed—she should not have found it unusual that the file on her mark was thinner than normal, yet she did.

The first page was a daguerreosteam—a newer invention that leveraged steam to quickly develop a lifelike image—of a group of three men, with one individual circled. They looked pleased with themselves, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. Lou’s curiosity had her peeking past the daguerreosteam to learn the mark’s name.

Lord John Griffin, Earl of Melton.

He was the one who was circled: a handsome man, devastatingly handsome in person, she would guess. His sculpted cheekbones and pale-colored hair caused her body to flush warm as she stared at the silvery black and white image. She couldn’t help but wonder what color his eyes were. It seemed wrong somehow to snuff out the life of such a fine specimen of manhood, but it would suggest he was not such a fine specimen if he was in a case that had been handed to her.

The next page documented his physical specifics. Hair: blond. Eyes: blue-grey. Height: approximately six feet. Then came a list of places he could be found, his home, club, boxing saloon, and his favorite spot to ride. The following page lightly sketched his daily movements—and this section would normally be pages long. That was odd. Holt normally took such care with the details she required to do her job. Without a comprehensive view of the target, this job might prove challenging. Unease skittered over her skin like a thousand little pricks of warning.

The last page held her instructions. The Crown wanted him dead, and they didn’t care how it looked. Murder, suicide, accident, whatever expedient method presented itself was acceptable, as long as he was eliminated.

In the margin of this page, she noticed a bit of stray text. She inspected the two words: to Inverkeithing. That was strange, not to mention very sloppy on the part of whoever had drafted the document. Was it pertinent to the dossier? Or perhaps a stray bit of another document, wholly unrelated? She sighed as annoyance reared its head.

She couldn’t possibly know and had no one she could ask. It wasn’t as though she could easily send Holt a message. The man was always elusive, but never more so than when he’d just delivered a new dossier to her. Lou’s frustration and unease mounted. Holt worked very hard to keep her identity a secret, which meant that once an order had been delivered, all contact was cut off until after the job was done.

Normally she would have quickly reviewed the details with him and asked any questions at their meeting, but since he had sent two cog-grinders with the information, she hadn’t wanted to stay and chat.

With a sigh, Lou moved on to the remainder of the document for specifics she knew pertained to the assignment. She was given until the twenty-fourth of March to complete the job. Less than a week, a brief window to allow her to track him and find a suitable opportunity…almost too short. She’d accomplished such assignments in two weeks before, but she normally had more information in those situations.

Lou stuffed the pages back into the briefcase and locked it with the key which still hung around her neck. Sipping her lukewarm tea, she picked up a slice of bread and butter to nibble. She considered her options for getting close to him, and how publicly she wished to make the kill. He was unmarried, according to his dossier, with apparently no mistress or current lover. That meant there would be no opportunity while he was…indisposed. Perhaps she could manage to infiltrate his club? No one but herself and whoever sent her orders—she had her doubts about Holt’s knowledge of the situation—would know a woman had not only entered a bastion of male superiority, but killed one of its occupants.

She would enjoy having that knowledge. It was worth considering.

Lou ate a few more bites of bread, a slice of cheese, and some cold chicken before deciding she’d had enough. Abandoning the fare, she took the briefcase over to her dressing room. Inside, she crouched down to push the long gowns to the side, exposing her safe. Three quick spins in alternating directions and a twist of the handle released the door. The briefcase safely stowed inside, she closed then locked the heavy steel door and straightened up. Dresses once again hanging to the floor, she stripped off her shirt and trousers.

Naked, except for the key that dangled between her breasts, Lou walked back into the bedchamber and poured some water into the basin. Many buildings had running water now, even hers, but she hadn’t been willing to give up all the old ways. She’d never considered the question of why too closely. Perhaps they helped her stay connected to her past in the least emotional way possible? But keeping an ewer of water and a basin in her room—her mother had always had one—was a comfortable habit of a lifetime at the ripe old age of five and thirty, despite having installed a water closet only steps away.

Taking a cloth and dipping it into the water, she cleaned herself luxuriously, then headed over to the bed. Lou had long ago given up trying to sleep in a nightgown. They always twisted around her legs, making her feel vulnerable and restricted…not really an acceptable situation for an assassin. She slid between the cool sheets, enjoying the soothing scent of lavender which wafted up from the fabric. Then she turned and tripped the lever again, exposing the compartment. She placed the key back inside and closed the panel.

Reaching over, Lou doused the gas lamp that sat on her nightstand and tried to sleep. A muted burst of laughter carried up the three stories to her chamber. She rolled over, drawing in a deep breath and releasing it slowly. As the darkness swept over her, she saw flashes of a pair of intriguing blue-grey eyes.