Shades Read online

  SHADES

  ©2020 AETHON BOOKS

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  ALSO IN THE SERIES

  Shades

  Echoes

  Speed

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  FROM THE PUBLISHER

  ALSO IN THE SERIES

  Chapter One

  Maker clenched his hands at his sides. He had been about to knock on the door of number seven, his neighbor’s door, but it had been pulled open before he could take the four steps from pavement to porch. Edwards, Professor Richards’ gentleman’s gentleman, gave his customary greeting. “Lord Fotheringham.”

  This time Maker’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t impressed by his own aristocracy and sometimes, like now, being reminded he was the fifth Earl of Umbria was more weight than he wanted to carry. But saying so would just be wasted breath.

  Tall and thin, Edwards stepped back, looking like a black clad pole beside the door. Not breaking his stride, Maker stepped in and handed the butler his hat.

  “Study?”

  “Yes, sir,” Edwards confirmed. “I’ll show yo—”

  “No.” Another formality Maker didn’t need. He knew where the study was.

  With a nod, the man closed the door before melting away. Not that Maker noticed, his attention was caught by the young woman standing at the console table on the left of the wide hallway. She was dressed in a black gown with purple stripes, the skirt held wide by a hooped petticoat. He could see from where he stood that the gown’s hem was fraying, some of the ribbons were loose and a seam or two were giving way. She wore the most hideous brooch he had ever had the misfortune to see, boxy with thin brass tubing, oversized and utterly out of place, its weight pulled at the fabric of her dress. Her pale skin was rainbow-colored from the ever moving aetheric light over which she was lowering some kind of lampshade. As the shade covered the light source, the light became a steady blue white. The girl smiled, apparently pleased with the supposedly impossible result.

  “How?” The word escaped him in his surprise. Aetheric light was readily available, but the colored tones made it less popular than gaslight. The issue was why gas pervaded and no solution had been found — until now, apparently.

  “Prismatic glass,” the girl explained as she faced him. “I’m not convinced it will make aetheric lighting more economical than gas, or safer, though it beats candlelight on both counts, but at least the single color makes it more useable.” Her direct gaze travelled from his eyes to his tie pin and back.

  “Amethyst.”

  Maker forced his gaze to stay on the young lady’s eyes as he offered her the stiff respect of a small bow. He didn’t need to check the jewel nestled in his perfectly tied cravat to know what stone it was. “Emerald,” he corrected.

  “No. My sister is Emerald. Your tie pin is emerald, as are your eyes, but I am Amethyst.” There was an amused twinkle in her expression that belied the plain nature of her features as she reached for and donned the simple black gentleman’s top hat that rested beside the lamp. “But I believe you were looking for Professor Richards. He’s in his study.”

  The young lady raised a gloved hand in the general direction of the room before offering an elegant curtsey and sweeping out of the Belgravia mansion.

  Unsure how to categorize the encounter, or understand why his heart was beating quite so quickly, Maker watched her departure.

  “Interesting girl, that one.”

  Too interesting. Maker controlled his features and turned towards the study.

  His friend and mentor was at the door, watching him. And wearing a crooked smile that spoke of amused indulgence and a spicy suggestion of something Maker didn’t dare think about.

  “Indeed.” Maker offered another bow in greeting, thinking that a top hat was as peculiar a finish for a female as that ugly brooch.

  “Oh relax, boy,” the older man said. “No need for such formality between friends. Come in, come in.”

  The leather soles of Maker’s boots clipped his precise step across the black and white marble of the foyer as he followed his friend, the sound changing as he entered the study with its parquet flooring. Most of the wood paneling of the room had been hidden by bookshelves. Professor Richards had been an avid reader from the moment he learned how to do it, and an academic life had done nothing to decrease that pleasure. He lived for books. The shelves would be full were the two desks in the room not covered with books that lay open, note pads and loose sheets covered in the old man’s shaky handwriting were spread over, between, beneath and around them. Some books were stacked in tall piles, others had even fallen to the floor. This habit was reflected in every other room of the house too.

  The mess made Maker’s skin crawl. How could any man work in such disarray? His own inclination was to a tidiness some called obsessive, others perverse; he considered it natural and useful. He knew where everything was and could quickly find whatever he wanted or needed. It was one of the few things about h
im of which his father had approved.

  “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?”

  “Message.” With the word, Maker produced a small vellum envelope. It had arrived at his door only two hours previously and he had responded precisely at the time on the invitation.

  The Professor momentarily recoiled, then casually reached out and took back the short note he had sent his friend. “Of course.” He flicked the note to his left; Maker blinked at the accuracy of it landing in the fire. “Now let’s forget about that, shall we?”

  Maker watched the paper blacken and curl. It wasn’t a roaring fire, but it was enough. So the Professor was hiding something. He turned back to the older man to try to decipher what it was.

  Richards had returned to his desk chair; the clattering told Maker that the Professor had again not concerned himself with his own sense of wellbeing or the physical world. He had obviously missed the chair seat and had to readjust, to focus to sit safely. The professor was nearly lost behind the mound of books, his half-moon glasses perched precariously on his forehead; almost as precariously as the oil lamp on the corner. Maker knew it was only his height that allowed him to see the man at all. A practiced move shifted the glasses from forehead to nose. One finger pushed them into place. The wire rims framing his wide eyes, and the sharp nose they rested on, made the Professor look like a myopic hawk.

  As Maker concentrated on the Professor, his glance must have been too sharp; the Professor flinched beneath it. They both turned to the door at the unexpected light knock.

  Amethyst entered the room as she spoke. “Sorry, Professor, I forgot the bag.” Following her gaze, Maker saw a battered brown leather bag containing something vaguely square but oddly lumpy. The construction was perhaps eighteen by twelve inches. The leather was being pushed out of shape. Age had softened the material and it was forgiving of the strange lumps and bumps beneath.

  “Of course, my dear.” The Professor stood as she picked up the bag.

  It made an odd clunking sound. Metal on metal. Tools striking together?

  “Miss Amethyst Forester.” The Professor raised a hand to her before sweeping it in Maker’s direction. “Benjamin Maker, Lord Fotheringham.”

  She offered Maker another curtsey, and he responded with a bow.

  “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Fotheringham.”

  Before Maker could respond, there was another knock at the door, then Edwards stepped in.

  “Professor, there’s a gentleman here to see you. Mr. Brown.”

  Maker noticed how Richards paled at the name, but the old man quickly rallied. Brown walked in without invitation. He glanced at Maker and Amethyst, then turned a forced neutral expression on Richards. Maker also knew Richards well enough to see the increased tension in his friend.

  “Were you not,” Richards said, turning to Maker, “about to take our friend to the exhibition?”

  “Exhibition?”

  Maker was a little surprised that the rough demand was Mr. Brown’s and not his own.

  “Paintings,” Amethyst said with a smile. She also stepped forward, walking between Brown and Richards as she reached for Maker’s arm, appearing to nestle her hand in the crook of his arm, when in fact she was grabbing hold to guide him out. “The Royal Academy just opened a new exhibition,” she explained. “I’ve been looking forward to it immensely. The public part anyway, I’ve not been fortunate enough to be invited to the private part. Not a member of the great or good.” She smiled in good humor.

  One look at Richards’ ostensibly convivial face, the feel of Amethyst’s tight grip, and Maker knew he needed to comply. For now. As he left the room and the building then strolled casually along the road, he noted she had a surprisingly long stride; he didn’t need to modify his own step to match hers. Now the distance was enough, he wanted answers.

  “Paintings?”

  “Yes.”

  Neither of them looked at the other as they walked.

  “We,” Amethyst told him quietly, “are to paint a picture of friends casually walking away from another friend’s home, to appear as if all is well and nothing strange or sinister is going on.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes.”

  Maker felt the muscles in his jaw clamping. Women are infuriating.

  “Explain,” he demanded under his breath as they strolled across the wide road, careful to avoid the still steaming gift a passing horse had left behind.

  She made no response until she had led him into the leafy shade of Belgravia Square Gardens. Only once they were along the path, shielded by the trees, did she stop and turn to face him. “I can’t really, I don’t exactly know myself.”

  But she looked worried. Studying her face, Maker could see Amethyst wasn’t trying to hide anything.

  “Explain.”

  Affront marked her expression at the imperious demand. Maker had been told he was too short with people, but it was simply his manner. No offence was intended.

  “What I mean, sir,” she said, her tone frosty, “is that I know something is unsettling Professor Richards, but I know not what. Good day, sir.”

  If the tone hadn’t stated so loudly that he’d upset her, the curt dismissal would have. Her corset clearly wasn’t the only thing keeping her spine ramrod straight. As she walked, the thing in her bag clanked again; it was clearly quite heavy. Forcing his jaw to relax, he moved after the young brunette.

  “Miss—” He cut himself off, she had only given him her Christian name, but it was too familiar to use on so short an acquaintance. He couldn’t remember what Richards had called her.

  She turned to face him. Silently challenging him. A few minutes of knowing her and already he was primed to grind his teeth.

  “Lord Fotheringham, was there something you wanted, or may I be on my way?”

  He was a good foot taller than her, but Maker had the distinct impression she was looking down her nose at him. The nose wasn’t overly pretty, nor especially little, but she was still managing to look down it.

  “Heading?”

  Her brows lowered, his curt tone not impressing her.

  “Kew.”

  That surprised him; Kew Gardens was more than seven, possibly eight miles away. It was a minimum two-hour walk. She shifted the bag again.

  “Sir, I have a long walk ahead, if you’ve no purpose—”

  He saw movement on the road, the approach of his carriage, the oncoming storm. Just what he didn’t need. “Hack.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  Amethyst looked insulted. He reached for her bag, but she pulled her arm back and out of his reach.

  “Cab,” he amended.

  “I can’t afford a cab.”

  “I can,” he grated. Unfortunately, Miss Forester — he finally remembered — wasn’t easily moved; she resisted.

  “Maker?”

  The imperious call came from behind and his spine stiffened with ice. It was too late to avoid a confrontation now. Dragging in a deep breath, he drew himself up to his full six feet two-inch height, then turned to the woman who had called his name. Lady Fotheringham; his wife. He tried not to sneer at that thought, even in his head. Controlling the thought controlled his expression.

  The tall cool blonde was delicate of feature, and fashionable of dress. Her hat always matched her gown, her bag was small and delicate. She was not impressed by the woman at his side, a fact made clear by the way her glacial look pored over Amethyst. Maker didn’t move, but his instincts were on alert, his body tense, the fight or flight response, and both options impossible. He faced the blonde, devoid of expression.

  “Well?” Lady Fotheringham demanded.

  The imperious tone came as no surprise to Maker, but he got the distinct impression that Amethyst was bristling. Maker turned slightly.

  “Miss Forester.” He noted her slightly raised brows that he had finally remembered her name. “My wife.”

  Amethyst offered a slight inclination of the he
ad. “Honor to meet you, Lady Fotheringham.”

  Violet did not look impressed. Miss Forester's grammar had been respectful, but incorrect, a fault Violet clearly had not missed. Thankfully, Miss Forester was saved from an outpouring of bile as Violet scowled at Maker. “You have a debate in Parliament to attend. You don’t have time to—” Her frosty blue eyes raked over Amethyst again. “—waste.”

  The debate was not forgotten, though he hadn't, till now, remembered telling Violet that his presence was required two hours before it actually was, just to have more time out of the house.

  “Well, I have no wish to hold anyone up.”

  Amethyst’s tone was even, but he saw the hardness in her eyes. Violet had wished to insult, and clearly had.

  “It was interesting to meet you.” This time Amethyst offered no curtsey before turning away.

  “Let’s hope we don’t have to repeat the experience.”

  Violet’s stage whisper was meant to carry and the falter in Amethyst’s step told him she had heard it.

  Maker turned to his wife. “Inside.” Taking her by the arm, he spurred her towards their house. He stopped listening to her complaints two steps on.

  Chapter Two

  Amethyst knew she shouldn’t be surprised that Lord Fotheringham was married, particularly not to a woman who matched him for looks, breeding and elegance. He looked to be somewhere in his early thirties; it would be unusual if he wasn’t married. Though she was surprised that he was married to a woman who appeared to outstrip him completely in coldness. She was amazed that was even possible. The pair of them were as perfect as carved white marble. And about as warm.