Touch of Steel: A Novel of the Clockwork Agents by Kate Cross Read Free Book Online Page A

mad. “Bit late, aren’t you, old boy? Go on in. She’s expecting you.” Then he pressed a button on the ornophone box—a polished teak affair about the size of a cigar box with a small polished horn, like those on a Victrola, on top—and announced Alastair’s arrival.
    He’d had less trouble getting an audience with Queen Victoria, even though this meeting was not his idea. Yes, it made sense after Dhanya’s last secretary turned out to be a Company agent, but it was still a pain in the arse.
    Walking into the director’s office was like walking into a Bengal market with its silk-swathed walls and bright, richly colored decor. At the back of the room was a large desk formed of a huge slab of ebony on the back of four temple elephants. Behind it was Dhanya Withering, rumored to be the illegitimate granddaughter of Her Majesty, and director of the W.O.R. She was tall and shapely with long black hair coiled on the back of her head, dark eyes and a complexion that was a perfect blend of exotic and English. She wore her usual work uniform of snug trousers tucked into boots, white shirt and waistcoat—this one a rich violet.
    “Alastair,” she said, using his Christian name as easily as his own mother. “Thank you for coming.”
    As though he’d had a choice in the matter. He smiled. Part of Dhanya’s charm was that she was impossible to stay annoyed with. She was supposed to be on leave, but she had returned to work when she heard of Claire Brooks’s apprehension—and when Evie threatened to quit if Ashford wasn’t made to step down. “Finchley said I was late.”
    Her lips tilted up on one side. “Mr. Finchley needs to have his pocket watch adjusted. Come sit. Tea? I have chai. It will put some color back in your cheeks.”
    “Sleep could have done that,” he replied drily as he approached the desk.
    She shot him a sideways glance from the sideboard where a teapot of hot water sat on an ornate warmer. “It is not my fault you cannot get to bed at a decent hour.”
    Alastair flipped out the tails of his coat and sat down in one of the plush chairs in front of the desk. “The devil it’s not.”
    “You were at your club into the wee hours. Is that my fault?”
    How the hell did she know these things? “No, but the fact that I’m here before noon is.”
    Dhanya returned with a tray carrying two cups of fragrant, milky chai and a plate of sweets that no doubt came from her mother’s bakery. The woman made a variety o Ce aps f edibles, but her traditional desserts simply had no equal. He immediately plucked a small, orange-colored square from the plate and popped it in his mouth. It was all he could do not to moan in delight.
    “Poor thing,” she teased. “Having to actually get out of bed in the morning. How awful.”
    This was not a debate he had any chance of winning. “Thank you for the chai.”
    She smiled in that closed-lipped manner so many women seemed to employ when they knew something the man did not. “You are welcome. Now, shall we discuss why you are here?”
    “Of course.” He crossed his legs. “I assume it has to do with the Dove.”
    All trace of humor disappeared as Dhanya met his gaze with the fathomless gravity of her own. “She is quite the acquisition.”
    “She’s a spy, not a pair of shoes.” Acquisitions couldn’t stab one in the throat. Or tremble because they were in so much pain.
    Dhanya tilted her head, continuing to watch him as if she were an owl and he a damn mouse. “Quite. I’m told you wish to take responsibility for her rather than Lucas Grey.”
    “Arden’s pregnant.” There was no point in saying anything other than the truth. Dhanya probably already knew.
    The director nodded, the light reflecting off the dark of her hair. “Yes. And you still see yourself as her knight errant.”
    Alastair smiled slightly. She did not know everything, Miss Withering. “No. I’m no knight. I simply think it would be wrong to separate Luke and his bride again.