Chapter Two: The Ape In The Jar
Edward had never had mixed feelings about anything so strongly in his life as he did concerning the prospect of returning to Tudley House. He had not only been "made", as his Uncle Pete would have said in underworld jargon, but his "mark" had his real name -- and knew what he was about. It was scant comfort that Lady Trey could not identify him from a proper police line-up. He knew with certainty she would be able to finger him the moment he opened his mouth. He had been lucky, he knew, to escape at all -- much less after such a pleasant and unexpected sexual encounter. To return was folly of the highest sort, the kind of misadventure only gullible fools would indulge in and seasoned professionals would shun. As he paced his small room in the village inn the next afternoon, he knew going back to Tudley House was the quickest route to ending his professional career -- not to mention his liberty -- before he had truly hit his stride. Best to catch the next train back to the city, or perhaps the Northlands, or even deplete his meager savings for the first airship headed to a foreign land.
And yet . . .
The mystery of the amazing silver hand beckoned to him, a tantalizing enigma. What odd occurrence had cost Lady Trey both her limb and her sight? There was a tale there, he knew, and his mind would not let go of that. All promise of reward or plunder aside, Edward's curiosity was piqued in a way it had never been. Even if he boarded a stratoliner bound for the Americas, and spent the rest of his life as a cobbler in some Godforsaken wasteland, the mystery would haunt him.
On the horns of a dilemma, he mentally summoned his best counselors in such matters. First, he tried to imagine what his Uncle Pete would say. While utterly pragmatic in how to break a house or crack a safe or any number of other skills essential to his trade, Pete was a Celt, and prone to lapsing into mysticism about such choices. Edward could just see him, broad unshaven face bleary with drink, nodding thoughtfully, weighing the situation carefully . . . and then finally pronouncing that a man who speaks to strange ladies is bound for adventure, riches, and an early grave, or something equally as helpful. Pete might have been a professional, but he ran his personal life with all the class of a crooked game of cards. Fortune had often made him Her fool, and he'd suffered accordingly.
That led him -- briefly -- to what his late, unlamented father might advise. That was much harder for him to visualize, owing to his short acquaintance with the man, but Edward could easily imagine the Brigadier would have long disowned him in shame for his turn in life. Something as complex as a blind noblewoman with a mechanical hand, a lusty nature and a mysterious secret would hardly be an issue. Nor would his Mother have anything useful to contribute, out of disinterest and lack of comprehension.
That brought him back to what his closest friend from school, Gideon Becker, might advise. Gid had befriended Edward their first year at college, and the two had been the nucleus of a popular knot of students for years. Gid was dashing, in a way Edward aspired to be but always feared he just couldn't manage; handsome, rich, adventurous, and damned with the best luck in the realm. His father, the Earl of Warrenton, held a strong interest in a number of air and ocean shipping companies, munitions, and a substantial amount of property, none of which Gid cared the slightest about. He was as happy passing out drunk behind a dockside brothel as he was sleeping in luxury.
In a way he was as much a vagabond as Edward. Only instead of turning to petty crime in the face of poverty, Gideon had rebelled against his family's aristocratic life and turned to crime that was anything
but
petty. He had used his honorary commission as a Captain in the Warrenton Fusiliers -- a purely ceremonial title -- to secure for himself the same rank in one of the mercenary armies that plied their trade in Africa, Asia, and the Americas for -- and sometimes against -- the interests of various Empires.
He had used the proceeds of his booty and the sale of an estate to purchase at auction an old airship liner from his father's own company, and then had converted it into a ship of war. The last time Edward had gotten a letter from his chum, a year ago, the rogue was part of a rag-tag airship squadron in some squalid civil war in the Americas. Gid was born to adventure and danger -- but he was also born to a substantial fortune. He would have been the first to encourage Edward to return to Tudley House -- if for no other reason than the adventure of taking another man's wife. The intrigue and the mystery would have quite overwhelmed him.
Edward continued to ponder his decision through tea, which he took by the river at a quaint little stand, through half of the Bridgeport Standard which he found abandoned there, and well on into supper (roasted lamb with potatoes and rosemary) at the inn -- after which he informed his host of his desire to check out on the morrow, and paid the shot in advance.
Dusk found him near the train station, but as the Evening Star made a rare appearance in the clear autumn sky he was walking briskly through the moor towards the manor, the tools of his trade packed in a leather messenger bag on his shoulder. Whatever came, he was as prepared for it as he was able to be.
He watched and waited for almost two hours until the maid and groundskeeper retired, then slipped in the back door as he had the night previous. As he did so he could not help but feel as if he were headed into a trap -- a conclusion, his reason insisted, that had no ready evidence to support it. There had been no signs of additional population at the manor, no police carriages or gangs of vengeful villagers outside. Edward reasoned that an attempt to capture him would entail something like that, and he was reasonably certain that nothing of the sort had occurred. Tudley House was as quiet as a tomb.
Of course, he had been reasonably certain that Tudley House was deserted the night before, too, and he did not forget how that had played out. A burglar lived and learned, or he didn't live free for long.
The back door opened silently, and Edward took one last deep breath, fought a war with his doubts one last time, and then ventured boldly into the darkness -- and directly into a chair the maid had apparently left near the back door. The resulting shout of surprise and string of curses that followed was only eclipsed by Edward stumbling into the pantry table and upsetting several large metal pots and pans. Stifling any further curses, he produced a torch from his bag and proceeded in a more dignified fashion.
"Considering your lack of stealth, Mr. Lane, I'm amazed you chose the profession you did," Lady Trey said dryly when he entered the parlor. Unlike the previous evening, the fire was well-stoked, and Lady Trey had managed to light a single candle for his benefit from it. Instead of being swaddled in quilts this evening, she was dressed in a stunning silk and satin gown in emerald green -- which complimented her lovely hair perfectly -- with a large emerald stone set within a silver necklace around her graceful neck. Her silver hand held a silver goblet as gracefully as any
ingénue.
"When I'm planning to rob a house, I tend to be quieter," he conceded. "When I come to bed a lady, I am usually preoccupied with other things than stealth."
"
Touche
