Dawn's Early Light Read Online Free PDF Page A

Wellington chided. Then he reached into his coat pocket. “And that reminds me . . .”
    A ten-pound note appeared out of his wallet, and she recalled the bet he’d made that they would never be on assignment in America.
    â€œOh, that is not necessary, Welly . . .”
    â€œA wager is a wager.” And he extended the ten pounds to her again.
    Eliza snatched the note from his hand gleefully, debating whether she would be investing in a stunning new outfit from Paris, or a new long-range sniper rifle.
    She clambered down from the automobile, before her companion could offer a hand, and preceded Wellington into the tavern. The Artifice Club was an eclectic mix of patrons, ranging from true salt of the earth types to wide-eyed youngsters enjoying the late afternoon entertainment. One gent made eye contact with her, gave a slight nod in greeting, and then returned to his ale.
    In her survey of the pub, Eliza paused to watch the artist performing on the modest stage. The spectacled man was of considerable carriage, wearing a fine boater and impressive cravat, and behind him sat an even more impressive collection of beer, single malt scotch, and bourbon. Apparently, all for him. In front of him were three gramophones playing “Daisy Bell,” “Daddy Wouldn’t Buy Me a Bow Wow,” and “Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay,” all at the same time. Perhaps in the hands of a novice, this could have easily become an unforgiving onslaught of noise, but this gent possessed an intimate understanding of the three songs. Through a series of keys and cranks, the artist was altering tempo, and starting and stopping one or two of the music hall songs while the third continued, in effect creating one complete song.
    And it was quite the toe tapper coming from the stage.
    Wellington leaned in. “Exactly how is he doing that?”
    â€œHe’s mixing. Apparently, it’s all the rage here in the Americas.”
    He nodded, tipping his head askance as he watched the man work the gramophones. “And he’s wearing a lab coat because . . . ?”
    Eliza shrugged. “Everyone needs a signature style, I suppose.”
    As they walked farther in, she noticed a slight girl seated at a table at the rear of the pub. It was not just her purple petticoats and stripes that made her stand out, but also her tidiness, etiquette, and carriage. Eliza hated stripes—though they were all the fashion. Their contact also had a pair of sun spectacles balanced on the tip of her nose. Eliza could only surmise that was her notion of blending in.
    â€œI think we found our contact,” Eliza whispered to Wellington.
    She made to walk to the table when the archivist caught her arm. “We are supposed to meet at the bar,” he hissed.
    He wasn’t serious. Was he?
    It’s like dealing with a child,
Eliza thought, but she knew she had to pick and choose her battles. She forced a tight grin as she followed Wellington to the bar. He leaned against its weathered wood and motioned for the publican. The barkeep appeared, and his brow knotted as he looked the new arrivals over.
    Eliza realised that they stood out nearly as much as the woman in purple.
    â€œSir, a whiskey, if you please,” Wellington ordered in a tone far too loud and purposeful.
    â€œWelly,” Eliza whispered tersely, “perhaps you should just order a beer? Same effect.” She cast a wary glance at the woman who was trying, but failing, to blend in with her surroundings. So far she had pushed her sun spectacles up to the bridge of her nose, smoothed out her skirts, and then looked at the two of them, placing a hand upon her chest, as if noticing them for the first time.
    Bloody hell,
Eliza thought, burying her face in her hand.
It’s Amateur Night at the Alhambra.
    Through his clenched teeth, he replied, “All part of protocol. Just play along.” The shot glass was placed in front of him,