Scarlet Devices Read Free Page A

know you had writing aspirations, those must be new.”
    With a final yank to the boiler cover’s handle, Eliza cranked the engine until it kicked into life, then stalked back to the velocimobile’s seat where she stowed the half-empty water jug and funnel before she strapped herself in. “It’s a monograph on worker-landowner negotiation inequities and the impact of subliminal psychological manipulation by authority figures on common laborers.”
    Grinning at Pence’s look of dismayed astonishment, she released the handbrake and engaged the gears simultaneously, triggering the start capacitor.
    â€œReady, steady, go, Matthew!” she called back to him, as he belatedly ran for his steam car.

T WO

    T HE MINX HAD beaten him to Hardison House quite handily. Matthew allowed himself a brief sulk as he arrived in Hardison’s forecourt to see Eliza’s scruffy velocimobile already parked between a large steam coach and a venerable carriage.
    Waving off the footman who approached to take his driving coat and goggles, Pence instead dumped his things on his vehicle’s front seat before dusting off and heading in search of a drink to cool his parched throat. He found an underbutler with a tray of chilled champagne the moment he stepped through the parlor onto the terrace.
    â€œBless you,” he murmured at the servant, knocking back one glass immediately, then taking another before the tray could be carried out of reach. Scanning the gardens, Matthew marveled at the changes the past few years had brought to the place, so much more noticeable here than in the house proper. Inside, the baroness had made some alterations, tidied things up, provided a woman’s touch here and there, but the decor still showed strong signs of the Hardison mens’ obsessions—the fantastical clockwork left visible through some of the wall panels, exposing the workings of the estate’s elaborate chronometric communication system, and also more mundane items like a half-disassembled engine on an oilcloth, spread over the floor of a library that was probably meant to be closed to public view. In niches along the walls, where one might expect statuettes or other bibelot, polished specimen machines and masterfully tooled components were highlighted by tiny, carefully positioned lamps. Each piece was artwork in its way.
    The perfect blend of elegance and industry: a house where one could entertain royalty or magnates of trade but still not worry overly much about getting grease spots on the Aubusson. And the people . . . Matthew knew he ought to find it vulgar, the way the adults indulged the children laughing and playing in the midst of the garden gathering. His family would find it horrifying, particularly his father, who was always so conscious of propriety. But Matthew didn’t. They looked so
happy
, all of them. He wished he could have grown up one of those joyful, energetic children.
    â€œWhere’s Hardison?” he asked the hovering underbutler, once sufficiently lubricated.
    The young man frowned. “
The Baron
is in the rose pavilion, sir.”
    Matthew nodded and strode off, restraining another sigh at the servant’s poorly hidden sneer. Another change wrought by the new Lady Hardison had been the addition of traditionally trained household staff to a manor that had done without them for years. None of the new servants had any truck with their master’s preference to forego his title; a baron they worked for, and a baron they would call him, even if he was flagrantly involved in trade. Nor were they particularly thrilled at the dubious proclivities displayed by Sir Paul Pence’s wayward son, who ought to know better than to dirty his hands tinkering about with the innards of motorcars and firearms and such.
    â€œMatthew!” a flutelike soprano called. “You’re here at last!”
    Entering the delicately outlined framework of the so-called