Read Online Heart of Brass by Kate Cross - Free Book Online

“Good day, Lady Huntley.”
    “Hello, Mr. Chiler. Is she in?”
    “Of course. Allow me to inquire if she is able to accept visitors.” The young man rose to his feet and moved to the door. The hand he lifted to knock was almost skeletal-looking—but bones didn’t have rivets and bolts. Mr. Chiler’s fingers could crush a normal man’s hand with very little effort. Arden knew this because she had seen it happen.
    A voice called out for him to enter, and he slipped into the office, closing the door softly behind him. All Arden could do was wait for his return. The Director would either have time for her or she wouldn’t. There was never any hidden agenda, not here.
    Seconds ticked past on the large clocks on the wall. One was set to London time, another to New York, another to Berlin, and one to St. Petersburg. There were others, but before Arden could glance at them, the door to the director’s office opened and Mr. Chiler reappeared.
    “You may go on in, Lady Huntley,” he said in his soothing baritone.
    “Thank you.” Arden brushed past him to cross the threshold into the inner sanctum.
    The room was large, decorated in muted shades of violet, burnt orange, gold and rich fuchsia. Plush sofas and chairs were topped with thick, colorful cushions. Swaths of silk draped the walls, brightened by the light of the lamps. Paintings of India adorned the walls, their bold colors contrasting with the monochromatic photographs of London that hung alongside them.
    A large desk sat at the back of the room—a thick slab of ebony atop the backs of four hand-carved elephants, each different in appearance, painted to look as though they should be carrying a rajah through the streets of town.
    The woman standing in front of the desk was by far the most exotic part of the room. A little taller than Arden’s own above-average height, she was built like an hourglass in black trousers tucked in knee-high black boots, and a fitted dark-purple waistcoat that was boned and laced like a corset. Her thick black hair was coiled into a large, heavy bun at the base of her skull, and large, piercing amber eyes stared out of a face that was just a little too dark and exotic to be wholly English.
    Dhanya Withering was rumored to be the illegitimate granddaughter of Queen Victoria, though no one had ever seen any evidence to prove this theory. Her mother was from India and ran a successful bakery in the West End where Arden often went when she had a craving for something delicious and sweet. She had developed quite a taste for cardamom thanks to Dhanya’s mama.
    “I hear you had some excitement at your home a few nights ago,” Dhanya said in lieu of greeting. Her faintly accented English sounded lyrical and exotic to Arden’s ears.
    “I did,” she replied. “Zoe seems to think the Company wants to see me eliminated.”
    One already incredibly arched brow quirked as the darker woman gestured for her to sit. “I had heard a similar rumor, yes. The price of having the satisfaction of dispatching Victor Erlich to his just reward, no doubt.”
    Arden wouldn’t describe having to kill a man to save herself as satisfying in any degree, but she didn’t voice that. It was the only time she’d ever harmed another person. Her talents normally kept her out of harm’s way, inventing gadgets and weapons for W.O.R. agents. With God’s grace it would be the last time she ever had to take a life. She still dreamed of Erlich on occasion—his wine-soaked breath and grasping fingers.
    The director didn’t seem to notice her suddenly reflective state—or she chose to ignore it. “I also heard that you believe the man who snuck into your home was none other than your errant husband.”
    Was she surprised Dhanya had already heard this? No.
    “Indeed I do.” Arden seated herself in a violet wingback chair, watching her friend and superior W.O.R. member as she poured them each a cup of chai tea and placed several sweets on a plate. Arden didn’t