Page 44 of From London, With Love
But what emerged from behind the shelves was not merely a drone, but the upper body of a mechanical man, welded to the bottom half of a spider. A bowler hat was welded to the creature’s head, and someone had put a coat and tie on him, but there was no disguising the long spars of the spider’s leg.
Even Kincaid’s eyebrows hit his hairline.
“What the hell is that?” Charlie asked.
“I ain’t ever seen the like.”
The drone’s mouth fell open. “Welcome to MacGregor’s House of Curiosities. Mr. MacGregor will be with you shortly.”
“I think it’s the reason the door is unlocked and yet the owner is unafraid any of his wares’ll go missing.” Quite frankly, Kincaid couldn’t take his eyes off the creature. He’d seen automatons programmed to respond to a series of set questions, but this thing actually appeared to be staring at him.
Both of them remained frozen.
“Do you think it can hear us?” Charlie hissed.
“Please take a seat,” the drone replied. “Mr. MacGregor will be with you shortly.”
Indeed, Kincaid could just make out footsteps climbing the old stairs in the back of the shop. “Mr. MacGregor?”
A pair of googly eyes emerged, surrounded by a cap of wiry hair. “Aye,” the fellow said, pushing his expanding goggles up on top of his head. “What you want?” He eyed them from top to toe. “You ain’t here to shop. I’ve paid me licenses, I have. Just last month.”
“We’re not regulators, Mr. MacGregor,” Charlie said, holding out a hand. “We’re investigators.”
“Nighthawks, eh?” MacGregor stomped behind his counter, pulling a flask out from beneath it and taking a mouthful. “What you want? I ain’t got nothin’ to hide.”
For a man with nothing to hide, he was certainly acting a little unhappy to see them, though Kincaid didn’t correct the Nighthawk presumption.
He pulled the wreckage of the scarab beacon out of his coat pocket. Half of it was melted into slag, but the rest was very clearly the ass end of the jewel, with half its wires hanging out.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about this little thing. And just how one of your devices ended up in a room where the queen was nearly killed.”
* * *
“Your Majesty.”
The words echoed through the portrait hall. Alexandra stilled. She’d been hoping to find her apartments and have a private cup of tea. Everywhere she looked these days, there was someone hounding her for attention.
“Prince Ivan,” she said, turning around slowly. Her ladies-in-waiting caught her eye, and she dismissed them with a nod. “What a pleasure.”
“You are well?” he demanded, striding toward her. “The Duke of Malloryn said someone tried to kill you. And they used my brooch to do it!”
“I am fine,” she told him. He always seemed so emotional, and she was growing a little weary of placating him. “We were lucky that the Duke of Malloryn was in the room with me and was able to defend me.”
He knelt at her feet. “I did not know, Your Majesty. I thought it was just a brooch. Just a gift. I did not realize I was being played for a fool.”
“Have you remembered who directed you to that particular jeweler?”
The prince looked up, a stricken cast to his face. “As I tell your duke, no. She was just another lady at court. I pay them little attention.”
He paid them enough attention, she had noticed, though she did not doubt the truth of his words. He wasn’t the sort of man to focus on a lady’s face when he was speaking to her.
“Please tell me you forgive me,” he begged, capturing her hand.
“Of course I forgive you,” she replied smoothly, wishing he would stand up. She was not given to such emotional displays.
He obeyed, surging to his feet with an alacrity that startled her, and took her hand. “I would never strike such a blow against you. I am here as an envoy from Russia, and I would never place my country’s fate in such jeopardy. Nor would I dare risk a hair on your head.”
“Of course not.”
