The Transference Engine by Julia Verne St. John Page A

it could shoot the queen, where she laughed gaily and flirted with the politicians surrounding her.
    As if our minds were linked, Drew and I excused ourselves. Once in the long corridor behind the boxes, we set our strides to the same rapid pace, working our way relentlessly through the throngs. He touched the inside pocket of his coat to indicate he carried a pistol, but I already knew that from our lingering grope and kiss in his carriage. I touched my skirt about mid-thigh to let him know I carried a tiny pistol in my garter. He probably knew that as well. He didn’t need to know about the Chinese throwing stars in my other garter, the long and sharp hatpin that could double as a dagger holding my turban in place, or the long, thin blade inserted in the busk of my corset, which for once was not laced too tightly. Then, too, my corded petticoat could be dismembered to produce yards and yards of rope to restrain someone.
    We rounded the corner and hastened down the stairs to the more elite level. I was tempted to slide down the banister for greater speed, but too many people milled about for me to make that big a spectacle of myself. Then around to the other side of the theater. On this level, the nobility entertained inside their roomier boxes rather than in the corridor. We had a clear view and empty path to our destination. I lengthened my stride in my haste to assure myself of the queen’s safety.
    As we approached our goal, we slowed our pace, peering at closed doors and tight paneling for signs of intrusion, overt or clandestine. At the next to last of the boxes before we encountered a locked private stair, a door opened a crack and no more, as if someone peered out cautiously. I dropped my heels to slow my speed and nearly toppled over at the shift in momentum. We halted directly in front of the opening door. Drew placed himself with legs braced and gun in hand as I yanked the door open wide and out of the clasp of a delicate hand covered in lace gloves.
    â€œWhat is the meaning of this!” a feminine voice hissed. Traces of a German accent left behind long ago, identified the lady as much as her face would, if she’d revealed it.
    â€œYour Grace.” I dipped a curtsy, a convention not true respect.
    Drew pocketed his weapon and bowed shortly and sharply.
    â€œOut of my way,” the Duchess of Kent ordered. But she kept her voice low. A remnant of hesitancy told me all I needed to know.
    â€œYou will not be welcome in the Royal Box,” I said calmly, almost pitying the woman. Almost. I knew too much of the cruel strictures she’d placed on her daughter’s life in order to keep her naïve and helpless, opening the door for Her Grace to become regent of England in Victoria’s name long after the queen had reached adulthood.
    Much as Lady Byron tried to rule Ada’s household. Different methods, similar object, control and power over the daughters in order to protect them. Prestige? Maybe, more likely control. Both women might say they did what they did for love of their offspring. I knew Lady Byron loved Ada, and needed to protect her. I wasn’t so sure about the duchess.
    â€œWelcome or not, I must see my daughter. I must separate her from those greedy men who want nothing but to suck away her power and then discard her. As all men do.”
    That explained much. Lady Byron had the same opinion of men and had forsaken their company for her female Furies. That didn’t explain why the queen’s mother had fallen under the spell of her . . . comptroller.
    I’d been betrayed by men. Starting with my father, followed shortly thereafter by Percy Shelley. But I’d learned to control my life and take pleasure from men, but never allow them to take more than that from me.
    She tried to sidle toward the private stair, leading to the Royal Box and nowhere else.
    Drew stepped in her way.
    â€œAs you would have done,” I accused the duchess. I could