Infernal Devices - KW Jeter [65]
A woman, younger than Sir Charles, and of considerable beauty and startling décolletage, stepped from beside him for a closer look. "Yes," Mrs Wroth said huskily, reaching up to run a silk-gloved hand down the side of my face. "Very… lifelike." Her hand trembled as it smoothed the curve of my shoulder; her eyes, limpid cerulean, narrowed in the manner I had observed before in Miss McThane. J could not speak for the sudden congestion of my pulse in my throat; Sir Charles seemed oblivious to the evident nature of her interest in me.
"I congratulate your maker – or I would, if he were still alive." Sir Charles served himself and his wife from a tray of claret brought around by one of Bendray's staff. "Superb workmanship – simply superb. I look forward to tonight's performance."
Mrs Wroth took a sip of wine; the tip of her tongue caught a red drop at the corner of her mouth. Her elegant hands toyed with the stem of her glass as she gazed at me. "Yes," she said. "It should be… very moving." She looked round at Miss McThane; the two women exchanged venomous glances.
Scape strode over to me and grabbed me by the arm. "Needs some minor adjustments, however, folks." He smiled and gave a small wave with his free hand, as he tugged me away from the others. "Drink up… you know, kick back… we'll see you in a little bit." He forced his smile even wider. "Show time, right?" To me he whispered under his breath: "Come on. Don't blow it now."
"What is the meaning of all this nonsense?" I demanded as soon as Scape had pulled shut a door between us and those in the banqueting room. "What was he talking about – "superb workmanship" and all that–"
"Hey! I can explain." Scape made a pacifying gesture with the palms of his hands outward. "It's nothing to get worked up over – Sir Charles just happens to believe that you're… um… made out of clockwork. That's all."
I stared at him. "What?"
"Clockwork. You know – like machines. Like your father built. Sir Charles thinks you're a machine. Simple, huh?"
The absurdity of the explanation nettled me. "That may well be; however, I see no point in letting him go on suffering this misapprehension."
"Well…" Scape sucked his breath in through his teeth. "Actually, there is."
"If you expect me to help perpetrate some fraud upon this gentleman, for the benefit of your criminal enterprise–"
"Hey." He spread his hands farther apart. "It ain't just my ass on the line here, sucker. Sir Charles is a heavy dude in the Royal Anti-Society. They don't all take as kindly to somebody sailing in under false pretences as ol' Bendray did. I mean, they're a kick-ass bunch. They haven't lasted for a couple of hundred years by being all sweetness and light. They've had people snuffed for less."
"Snuffed…" I had a mental image of a candle flame being extinguished between a thumb and forefinger. "You mean, killed?"
"Way to go – you get the cigar."
"You told me they were a harmless bunch of old men!" Scape shrugged. "Harmless, shmarmless; you don't screw with them and you won't get harmed. All right? And if you do what I tell you to do, you'll be okay."
I glanced nervously over my shoulder, concerned that the others might have heard our rising voices through the door. "What do I have to do?" I whispered. The threat of violence had dissipated my earlier resolve.
"Piece of cake." Scape took an elongated leather case from a sideboard and laid it on the table in front of me. He snapped it open and withdrew a violin and bow, which he then held out to me. "All you gotta do is… play a little."
"Pardon?" I looked at the instrument in his hands. "You mean – play the violin?"
"What's it look like, a friggin' trumpet? Yeah, the violin. Go on, take it." He thrust it towards me.
I shrank back from it. "But why?"
He sighed with exaggerated patience. "Look. Sir Charles thinks… that you… are a device… created by your father. Called the Paganinicon–"
"The what–"
"Listen