The Reunion Page 13

“Oh?” Maggie questioned as she lifted her rickety old body out of the chair. “I was not aware he was a client of yours.”

  “Of course, he is,” Christopher grumbled irritably. “Now off with you.”

  Pierce gathered that the poor old thing had forgotten. It was painfully obvious the lawyer couldn’t afford anyone other than an elderly lady to be his secretary. He felt pity toward Maggie, having to work for the likes of him.

  Pierce didn’t want to stay another minute. He needed to return to Fan’s place before nine. He shook hands with the lawyer and thanked him for his time before helping Maggie down the stairs. He was relieved, and although the outcome wasn’t what he had expected, at least he had successfully gotten what he needed from the lawyer.

  As Pierce headed for the train station on Victoria Street, he passed by billboards plastered to a brick wall. There were many of them, mostly advertisements. Others were anti-slavery posters, and a few were wanted posters. Pierce smirked at his own. One billboard, however, caught his eye. The graphics were hand-drawn gears and tools, and set in the center in bold text, it read:

  Contribute to The Age of the Machine!

  Enroll Today at Ernest University!

  The Age of the Machine. The phrase had been drifting around the world since Pierce could remember. The Age of the Machine was predicted to be an era of wondrous innovations. A testament to mankind’s great mechanical achievements. As the years of innovation rolled on and the population reaped the benefits of modern technologies, the excitement for this upcoming age was growing. Universities such as Ernest University were beginning to crop up everywhere, offering to teach the skills required for someone to prosper in the future. Engineers, welders, metal craftsmen, tinkerers, scientists, chemists—those were now the job trades desired by employers wanting to cash in on the craze. Anyone with mechanical skills was dubbed a Contributor. Contributors were inventors from all over the globe, helping to bring about this new era by building all sorts of things. Juan Fan had bought her dispensers from a Contributor some time ago. It was all the rage, and people were either attending these universities or building their own machines and inventions. Whatever might come of it, Pierce was rather curious himself to see what would come next.

  He arrived at the train station and waited under the building’s long, wrought iron and glass ceiling. He enjoyed being able to move amongst the public so openly. For the first time in a while, he got a glimpse of what it was like to travel freely instead of lurking about. Granted he was in disguise, but bloody beggars couldn’t be choosers. He was simply another face in the crowd. In fact, he tipped his hat to a group of young ladies looking at him alluringly as they boarded a full-size steam locomotive. His trip was a short one, and so, he got in on an open carriage train that seated eight people per car. The engine itself was a stubby Puffing Billy that reassembled a cask pieced together by plates of shiny cast iron connected by thick rivets. There were two vertical cylinders to either side of its boiler, and its smokestack jutted out pure black smoke as the engineer shoveled coal into the firebox.

  Pierce had ridden the train a few times before. None of them, especially the Puffing Billy, traveled fast, but it got people to where they needed to go, all the same. After all, innovation took time.

  Chapter Ten

  The Netherlands

  “I’m sorry you have to leave us so soon,” Queen Victoria said to Archie near the front palace entrance.

  “I know, My Queen, but Clover has become suddenly ill.”

  Clover played her part well. She had allowed Eilidh to whiten her completion with makeup and against Archie’s wishes, Clover even went as far as to sprinkle a dash of pepper into her eyes to irritate them.

  “She looks a fright,” the Queen remarked. “Perhaps our physician should tend to you.”

  “I do not mean to offend you, Your Highness,” Clover said weakly, “but I only trust my physician. I’ve been acquainted with him my entire life.” To gain more empathy she added, “He cared for my late mother.”

  The Queen’s expression melted into sorrow.

  “Oh, my dear sweet little Clover. No offense taken. I completely understand. At least accept some remedy for the journey.”

  His sister coughed and said softly, “Thank you, My Queen.”

  As they spoke, Archie spotted Lieutenant Darius Javan walking up the stairs toward them. He recognized the Persian instantly. He was back in uniform and very tired looking. As the lieutenant walked by, the two made eye contact. Archie’s lack of sleep had fogged his good judgment, and so he stared at him a bit too long.

  Everything worked smoothly, and before Archie knew it, their belongings were being loaded onto his stagecoach. As Archie stood outside, watching, he let out a deep yawn.

  Lieutenant Javan suddenly appeared beside him. “You are Archie Norwich, son of Tarquin Norwich, yes?”

  Archie turned to him and fixed a grin.

  “I am. And you are?” he requested as if he didn’t already know the man’s name.

  “Lieutenant Darius Javan, at your service.”

  Archie bowed his head slightly while the lieutenant bowed deeply to him.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant.”

  Archie’s demeanor was causal. He wasn’t worried the lieutenant would discover he had assisted in the escape of the fugitive he hunted.

  Lieutenant Javan must have noted the dark circles under his eyes and seen him yawning. “Did you not sleep well, My Lord?”

  “Pardon? Oh. I’m afraid not. My sister became ill late last night, and I stayed awake with her.”

  “I am sorry to hear that, My Lord. I do hope she feels better soon.”

  “Many thanks, sir.”

  Lieutenant Javan sniffed a couple of times as if smelling something on him. He bowed again humbly. “I wanted to offer my condolences for both your father and brother.”

  “Your commiseration is very much appreciated, good sir.”

  The Persian rose to his full height and looked Archie dead in the eye for a few heartbeats.

  “Safe journey home, my lord,” he said at length before stepping away.

  Once all their belongings were loaded onto the stagecoach, Archie got his family seated and off they went.

  “Do you think we can take them to safety without endangering the rest of us?” Eilidh asked warily.

  Archie understood her concern.

  “Everything will be fine. We will be fine,” he assured her. “No one suspects a thing.”

  * * *

  Christopher Ainsworth returned to his office utterly defeated. He had lost yet another case. He had been losing more these days, and people were taking notice. Soon, no one would come to him seeking re-presentation.

  When he entered the building, Maggie greeted him. “Oh. Hello, Mr. Ainsworth. How did the trial go?”

  “I lost,” he grumbled, hanging his hat on the rack. “Simons is going to prison, I’m afraid.”

  “What a pity. About your loss, that is. Mr. Simons was quite guilty, after all.”

  Sometimes he forgot how much the old crow overhead.

  His client, Donald Simons, had paid a visit to him right after murdering his landlord for threatening to toss him out for not paying rent. He had admitted his crime outright to Christopher. Shortly afterward, he was arrested. Christopher was surprised the idiot hadn’t tried running. Simons had trusted that his lawyer could help him beat the charges. Apparently, he thought wrong.

  “Is he here?” he asked Maggie.

  “Sorry?” she said forgetfully. “Oh, erm, Mr. Swansea? Yes. He’s waiting in your office.”

  He walked down the short hall with cigar smoke filling his nostrils along the way. The clickety-clack sound reached his ears.

  “Counselor,” greeted the bounty hunter, sitting behind his desk and punching in keys randomly on the typewriter with a single finger. “You look miserable. Lost another one, did ya?”

  “Shut it,” Christopher snapped petulantly, closing the door.


  “Don’t be sore, mate. Can’t win ’em all, or, in your case—any,” Swansea quipped sardonically in his deep Lancashire accent.

  He stabbed his finger down on another key with a loud click-clack.

  “Stop that,” Christopher commanded. “It belongs to a client.”

  “With your bad streak, mate, you’d do better selling this thing.”

  Rupert Swansea was what some might have considered an attractive man. Despite his hard lifestyle, the bounty hunter had managed to maintain a smooth face that hadn’t been scarred by accidents or tarnished by premature aging. Even his teeth were in fairly good condition. His features were mysterious, such as his taupe-colored eyes, short black hair, and thin mustache. He had skin nearly as dark as any Spaniard. He also wore dark clothing—nice tailor-made suits such as the one he wore at present. Christopher met him when Swansea was arrested after Lord Tarquin Norwich disbanded his British Guardians. Many were prosecuted for their brutal behavior. Christopher had represented Swansea during one of Christopher’s brief times living in England.

  “What’s the big hurry, eh? Why did I need to scurry on up here like a rat on a sinkin’ ship?”

  Despite Swansea’s charming looks, he spoke like an uneducated lout.

  Christopher approached the chair where his clients usually sat and took a seat. He was too exhausted to try reclaiming his own chair.

  “Remember the inheritance?”

  “Yeah. I take it Mrs. Fey came to collect it?”

  “Not her, but a young Frenchman claiming to be her son. He told me he understood what the clue means.”

  “Ah. Then it begins, eh?” He took a puff of his cigar. “Tell me. Was he a handsome Frenchman? It’s been awhile since I’ve had me one of those.”

  Christopher cringed. He feared he’d ask something of that nature. Swansea, for lack of a better word, was a savage rapist who had his way with most of the catches he fancied, men and women alike. It was to keep them under his control, he once told Christopher when he had sent Swansea off to find a client for not paying his bill. When he had dragged the poor bastard in, the man couldn’t even sit down. For the most part, Christopher overlooked the nasty issue. They worked well together. Swansea would hunt down and bring in fugitives who had money, or who had connection to someone with money. As soon as they were brought to the authorities, Christopher would appear and offer his services for an upfront flat fee. After they paid him, Christopher represented them, but usually lost due to his subsequently ill-prepared performance.

  “Don’t,” Christopher warned. “You can have at him once he leads us to the inheritance. After, you understand?”

  Swansea threw his hands up, smoke following the burning lit end of the cigar.

  “Only inquiring.” He flicked ashes on the floor.

  If Christopher weren’t utterly spent, he would have said something about it. He shared Maggie’s uneasiness when around Swansea. A danger lurked inside the bounty hunter that made him do many unspeakable things other than rape. Some of his catches had their fingers or toes severed. Sometimes, the wounds would still be bleeding after Swansea delivered his prisoners to the law. A man even had his eye plucked out. It was a rare occurrence, but it happened enough for Christopher to be wary.

  “How quickly can you reach the cemetery?”

  Swansea puffed on his cigar. “Faster than the Frenchman.”

  “Do you remember the grave?”

  “Aye. Some bloke named Bert.”

  “Joubert,” he corrected. “Joubert. Write it down, if you have to. When you arrive, wait for the Frenchman and then follow him to the next clue.”

  “Where are you going to be?”

  “In Bunschoten. I am assuming this little hunt will end somewhere around there. If I’m wrong, however, inform me immediately. I’ll give you the address to the Bunschoten train station. Send me a telegraph whenever you come across a railway station or post office.”

  Christopher wished he could do this alone, but he simply had no tracking experience, and he failed to possess the knack to tail any one undetected. Although he didn’t fully trust him, he still needed Swansea. The only thing Christopher had over the psychopath that kept him from running off with the money was that he could contact someone from the bounty hunter’s past far deadlier than Swansea.

  “Ah. I do all the grunt work, eh?”

  “You’ll receive ten thousand francs and the Frenchman.”

  “So, he is dashing, eh? I do have my standards.”

  Christopher rolled his eyes. “Pack your things and be off.”

  Swansea stood while blowing out a large cloud of smoke. He strutted out, leaving a trail of it behind him.

  * * *

  Pierce was greeted with a hefty slap across the face. The hit was so hard, it knocked the fake facial hair halfway off.

  “Ouch,” he complained mildly, although the hit left quite a sting.

  “You went without me?” his mother shouted angrily. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  Her sour mood was also because she had recently awakened from the laudanum spell and hadn’t drunk her morning tea yet. Pierce remembered how grumpy she could be without it.

  “We agreed, Pierce! Something could have happened to you.”

  “And if it did, it would have happened to you, too,” he pointed out, holding up the clue. “But nothing did, and I got what I needed from the lawyer.”

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” she demanded, snatching the paper from him.

  “It’s a clue. Your brother apparently bequeathed twenty thousand francs to you for us to collect if we follow clues throughout the Netherlands.”

  “Twenty thousand?” his father gasped.

  “The Netherlands?” Nona uttered, looking down at the clue. “Why has François done this?”

  “He wants you to learn more about where you come from,” Pierce explained, peeling the rest of the facial hair off.

  “About where I come from?” she wondered. “This is a game.”

  “One worth playing,” Pierce contested. “Mum, I’ll follow the clues. Let my mate, Archie, take you, Dad, and Taisia to safety.”

  He expected her to argue. In truth, it would be wiser to have her join him, seeing as how this journey was meant for her. If he came across another clue that only she could understand, he’d be utterly stuck. There was no more fight in her, however. A month locked inside Newgate Prison had extinguished a lot of her fire. She was a wanderer, used to traveling long ways nonstop, but the years were catching up, and after a lengthily time in captivity, she needed rest more than a mission.

  “It’s so dangerous,” she said, looking up at him. “I just got you back. I don’t want to lose you again.”

  “Once I reach the Netherlands, I’ll be safe. Haven’t gotten into trouble over there before.”

  “Are you sure about that, son?” his dad said jocularly.

  Pierce smiled at him. “Pretty sure.”

  Jasper joked, but the worry was also there. Regardless, it had always been easy to add levity to serious moments with his dad. Mum, on the other hand, kept such matters grounded and to the forefront.

  “We should stay together,” she insisted. “Flee. We don’t need the money.”

  Pierce begged to differ.

  “It’ll be all right, Mum. Arch is on his way. Ask him to take you to an old friend of mine, Indigo Peachtree. No one will find you there. I’ll return in a week. Two, tops.”

  He was wearing her down, for he had plenty of spunk left, and he was itching to get underway.

  “Please, Mum. I want to do this.”

  Seeing he had no intention of backing down, she sighed infuriatingly. “All right. Just be safe.”

  Pierce was ecstatic.

  “Oi! Brilliant! Go have your tea. I’ll inform Taisia and be off, eh?”

  “She’s trying on dresses in the other bedroom down the hall,” his father explained as Pierce practically skipped away.

  Pierce passed the threshold, stopp
ed, and turned around on his heel. “Oh, when I come back, can you tell me what the clue means?”

  Nona shot him a disapproving look, reminding him of how she felt toward this whole thing.

  “Erm, merci,” he said, vanishing from sight.

  He darted to the other bedroom and knocked.

  “Shì?” Fan called from within the room.

  “It’s Pierce. Can I come in?”

  “Yes,” Taisia granted with excitement.

  Pierce reckoned she was eager to hear about the inheritance. He entered and found Taisia in front of a standing mirror, wearing a simple, but exquisite, two-piece gown. She wore a long white blouse with black threads crisscrossing up the sleeves with an even longer burnt umber vest falling down to her knees behind her. Around her waist was a deep red, leather, double-buckled belt with a storage pouch that hung from her hip. The rosewood skirt reached her ankles, and laced-boots lay underneath. The collar of the blouse arched down a few inches below her lovely collarbone.

  The sight of her in such an outfit stunned him stupid, and before he could stop himself, he said, “You look beautiful.”

  “Really?” she asked, glancing down to hide her blushing cheeks.

  “Bah!” Fan groaned. “She’d look better if she would wear the corset.”

  Taisia smiled at her and turned to Pierce. “I prefer comfort over style.”

  He thought she looked striking, corset or not.

  Fan turned to him. “What happened with the lawyer?”

  “Sorry?” he said, snapping out of his trance. “Oh, I’m going to the Netherlands to collect the inheritance.” To Taisia he said, “Archie is on his way to take you and my parents some place safe until I return, Tai.”

  “The Netherlands? Pierce, wait,” Taisia called before he darted off.

  He stopped and waited while she approached him. His heart banged so hard it knocked in his throat. He did his best to remain poised.

  “I feel horrible for what I did.”

  He gave her a dismissive wave. “No worries, love. I managed to get out of it. You’re completely forgiven.”