“Come, Mr. Noble, you can’t expect me to reveal all of my secrets. Besides, this is no time for a lecture on the wonders of engineering. We’ve a job to do. Now, would you be so kind as to hold my purse?”
Gaping like a codfish, Mr. Noble accepted her purse.
Without further ado, Margaret set to work. Rotating the handle of her lorgnette opera glasses, she disconnected the handle from the viewing binoculars. Next she twisted the handle itself, disassembling it into two separate pieces, which she then placed in her lap, before extending a hand to Mr. Noble. “Purse.”
The purse settled in Margaret’s palm. Unlatching the silver clasp, she opened the abalone-shell reticule that housed the automaton owl’s remote controller. One by one, she screwed the two handle pieces into the panel’s corresponding sockets, locking them into place as directional levers. The owl was now ready to operate. She’d best give Mr. Noble a brief explanation, lest he interrupt the operation with questions mid-flight. “I’m going to fly the owl to Mr. Flaversham’s house. Sounds picked up by the owl’s ears will be transmitted through my earrings. The lily of the valley pietra dura conceals the internal audio receptor whilst allowing sound through the tiny mosaic design’s fine gaps.”
“And how will you see to steer the owl?”
“By wearing the opera binoculars, of course. Once the owl has a good visual of our targets, you’ll wear the binoculars. I’ll need you to identify the Invention Factory employees.” Margaret removed the notepad and pencil from her skirt pocket, handing them over to Mr. Noble. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve an owl to fly.”
Picking up the opera binoculars, Margaret pressed a hidden button that deployed a retractable strap from the openingleft by the lorgnette handle. She pulled the strap, connecting it to a decorative loop on the other end, transforming the binoculars into goggles, which she promptly donned. The view out the carriage window, as framed by the owl’s round eyes, filled her vision. She took up the reticule controller and pressed a button, prompting the owl to alight.
Cresting the trees, Margaret navigated the owl by moonlight over the boundary wall into Innovation Park. Maneuvering the handle levers on the controller with her thumbs, she veered the owl to the right, following the map of the Park she’d committed to memory. Soon, the inventor housing came into view. Houses, poured into the same mold, formed a grid along the ground. Neat and orderly. Beginning a gentle descent, she noted the names and numbers labeling each of the houses until she found the one she sought.
Flaversham, number eighty-six.
Light glowed in the front of the house. Swooping under the eaves, Margaret guided the owl toward the light and landed it upon a window ledge. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the warm yellow glow coming through the window. Thankfully, one of the curtains was drawn, giving the owl a view of the room while allowing it to remain hidden behind the other curtain. At least a dozen men of middling years, and four more even older, were packed into a modest living quarters.
Removing the goggles, Margaret handed them to Mr. Noble. “Note anyone you recognize while we listen.” Mr. Noble strapped on the goggles and began to scribble on the notepad in his lap, and she edged closer to him so they could both hear through her earring.
Mr. Flaversham was in the middle of an impassioned speech. “We need to stand together if our work is to be acknowledged.”
Assorted male grunts of agreement.
“But we signed contracts.” This from Mr. Tinkerton. “How are we to get out of them?”
“We don’t need out of them.” Flaversham again. “The contracts we signed gave our intellectual rights to AlvanT. Harrison the company, not the man. If we form a union, the lawyer I consulted said he could persuade the British Inventors Society to back our demands for an amendment, giving us legal control of the company, return of our individual patent rights, and acknowledgment of our contributions on public record upon Harrison’s death. He’s without sons or a legal heir, so there’s no one to contest us but Harrison himself.”
“What’s to stop Harrison from just giving us the boot?” another inventor countered.
“You forget Harrison is ‘London’s most prolific inventor,’” an aged voice scoffed. “We, on the other hand, are a bunch of nobodies. Harrison won’t fire a workforce he can simply subdue by wielding his influence, societal connections, and fortune.”
Assorted male harrumphs ensued.
“Rest assured, if Harrison won’t concede to the union’s demands, I’ve a contingency plan in place.” Mr. Flaversham’s voice was now calmed by an unnerving resolution. “Harrison might have power and high society’s ear, but make no mistake, we are not without leverage.”
Chapter
26
“Gilbert and Sullivan, what does he mean by—”
Fingers clamped over Charles’ mouth, snapping his attention to Lady Margaret, who quite literally held him in the palm of her rather soft hand. Awareness of her proximity solidified his question into a lump in his throat. He gulped. Begoggled as he was—observing the scene unfolding in Flaversham’s residence through the automaton owl’s eyes—he’d not realized just how close Lady Margaret had drawn to his side. The woman was pressed right against him, and . . . she smelled of lilies.
“Just what do you mean by leverage, Flaversham?”
An older gentleman shifted beside Tinkerton on the living room sofa, tossing Charles an anchor to secure his wayward focus.
Flaversham hooked a thumb into his suspenders. “I’ll be keeping the details to myself for now. There’s risk in knowing what I stumbled across, and it don’t feel right to burdenothers with that risk. I’ll not see the whole union fall. Not if I can help it.” He shook his head with dogged resolve. “Suffice to say, the same money that makes a man’s fortune can just as easily spell his ruin.”
That pronouncement settled over the gathering with all the clarity of a fog rolling in at dusk, but it’s underlying timbre of consequence and credence seemed to satisfy the others. Exchanging nods, handshakes, and brisk farewells, the men began to take their leave.
Lady Margaret’s hand withdrew from Charles’ lips. “We’ll not be learning any more tonight.” She shifted away from him on their shared seat. “I’d better fly the surveillance automaton back to the carriage.”
Removing the goggles, Charles passed them back to Lady Margaret. She slipped them over her head, and taking up the purse controller, set about the business of retrieving her clockwork owl.
Assured of her attention being diverted, Charles raked a hand through his hair and tugged at his collar. The warmth of Lady Margaret’s touch lingered on his lips. A sensation he’d do well not to linger upon.
