Grand Tour, page 1
PRAISE FOR THE BRASS QUEEN
“Rollicking fun and sharp as a brass tack, this book is everything steampunk should be.” — Cat Rambo, Nebula Award winner
“An intriguing alternate world, filled with sharply amusing dialog and lively characters. VERDICT: A delightful gaslamp fantasy that will please readers of Gail Carriger and Kate Locke.” — Library Journal
“I loved The Brass Queen: hilarious, with a very tongue-in-cheek dry wit and delightful imagery. One of those books that you don’t want to put down because they’re just so much fun.” — Genevieve Cogman, author of the Invisible Library series
“Razor-sharp wit and immaculate worldbuilding make this debut one to savor . . . a genre blockbuster.” — Leanna Renee Hieber, award-winning and bestselling author of The Spectral City
“With a satisfying bite, this steampunk venture includes an insightful twist on the British Empire . . . Best of all, Constance stays center stage: a feisty, lovable heroine who is capable of rescuing herself, thank you very much.” — Foreword Reviews
“At times wondrous, at times romantic, and very often gut-bustingly funny. Elizabeth Chatsworth . . . will be one of your new favorites!” — David Farland, New York Times bestselling author of The Runelords series
“Elizabeth Chatsworth infuses her writing with humor, charm, and adventure . . . I can’t wait to read more.” — Rebecca Moesta, New York Times bestselling author and award-winning coauthor of the Star Wars: Young Jedi Knights series
“A fun, frothy blend of fantasy and romance . . . Fans of humorous fantasy and headstrong heroines will be delighted.” — Publishers Weekly
“Simply a joy to read!” — James A. Owen, bestselling author of Here, There Be Dragons
“Lush, exciting, and endlessly inventive, The Brass Queen is a grand adventure of manners and espionage—perfect for readers who like a little magic in their retro science escapades.” — Cherie Priest, award-winning author of Boneshaker
“You’ll find yourself cheering for this heroic cowboy and his unexpected love for a jinxed red-head who is dead set on saving the world (as well as finding her place in it) all before teatime, of course . . . Stocked with whimsical gadgets, sky pirates, weird science, and mustachioed villains this race-against-the-clock adventure scratches the steampunk itch and leaves you wondering what will emerge from the aether next.” — A. L. Davroe, author of The Tricksters series
GRAND TOUR
THE BRASS QUEEN II
ELIZABETH CHATSWORTH
CONTENTS
Map
1. A Night at the Opera
2. Springtime in Paris
3. Mission Improbable
4. La Femme Électrique
5. Four Men, One Closet
6. Banshee on Board
7. The Captain’s Cabin
8. The Lady Penelope
9. The Fairy Godmother
10. A Dress to Impress
11. The Masquerade Ball
12. The Maze of Wonders
13. Into the Darkness
14. The War of the Roses
15. Into the Sun
16. A Bird’s Eye View
17. The Picnic
18. The Aetherscope
19. When in Rome
20. The Tower of the Winds
21. The Audience
22. A Snowy Day in Stockholm
23. The Plan With a Capital “P”
24. A Tale of Two Constances
25. The Jewel House
26. The Prisoner
27. What Lies Beneath
28. The Traitor
29. The Stone Gallery
30. The Lady in Red
31. The War of the Worlds
About the Author
Acknowledgments
More from CamCat Books
The Shabti
More Fantastic Reads from CamCat Books
CamCat Books
CamCat Publishing, LLC
Fort Collins, Colorado 80524
camcatpublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
© 2024 by Elizabeth Chatsworth
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, 1281 East Magnolia Street, #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524.
Hardcover ISBN 9780744306293
Paperback ISBN 9780744306309
Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744306262
eBook ISBN 9780744306217
Audiobook ISBN 9780744306712
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023946744
Cover design by Lena Young
Cover art and illustrations by James A. Owen
Book design by Olivia Croom Hammerman
5 3 1 2 4
DEDICATION
Amor da minha vida.
1
A NIGHT AT THE OPERA
SATURDAY, JUNE 5TH, 1897: PARIS, FRANCE, 7:15 P.M.
The grass was always greener in another dimension. Miss Constance Haltwhistle imagined that in a parallel world, the tall, dark, and almost-handsome American cowboy, Liberty Trusdale, would be thrilled to attend a night at the Parisian opera by her side. He’d put aside his trademark attire of a black leather duster, battered Stetson hat, and clunky Western boots to wear a bespoke ensemble that precisely coordinated with her own. His muscular six-two frame could only be enhanced by a top hat bedecked with shiny brass goggles, a white frilly shirt befitting a fashion-forward airship pirate, a green silk tailcoat embroidered with gamboling Yorkshire sheep, and the tightest calfskin jodhpurs his horseman’s thighs could take without drawing indecency charges from the French authorities. She’d sent this outfit to his hotel room along with a note apologizing for accidentally electrocuting him atop the Eiffel Tower at lunchtime. The same note requested Trusdale to don his new outfit and join her in her carriage at precisely seven o’clock, that she might sweep him away to the opera for a night of forgiveness and festivity.
So where the hell was he?
As the glass doors of the Grand Hotel du Louvre had yet to reveal a blue-eyed cowboy ripe for reconciliation, Constance drew back from the carriage door’s open window and settled her bustle upon its plush bench seat. She heaved as deep a sigh as her cruelly cinched corset allowed, absently tracing her fingertips over the faint tear stains on the seat’s gold silk cushion where she’d wept herself to sleep on her fourteenth birthday.
Her eyes closed, transporting her back through the years to the iron balcony that surrounded the rooftop observatory at Haltwhistle Hall. The setting sun had painted the heavens a dusky pink above the Hall’s crenellated towers, manicured rose gardens, well-stocked stables, and vast airship hanger. The hanger stood empty, as it had ever since Papa flew the Lady Penelope airship off to foreign climes on yet another hunt for alien relics. His obsession with scientific curiosities had grown exponentially since the death of her mother, his grief turning passion into mania.
But now, as the Hall’s clock tower rang its farewell to the day, an unknown vehicle approached her ancestral home. Young Constance gripped the balcony’s iron handrail, holding her breath as the mysterious carriage approached. The estate’s prize-winning sheep stopped chewing their cud, staring in alarm at the carved red-and-gold Japanese dragon that wrapped three times around the vehicle’s gilded frame. Seated within the dragon’s gaping jaws, the estate’s bald, green-liveried Master of the Horse, Hearn, pushed the four chestnut Arabian ponies drawing the carriage into a trot. Only Papa would arrive in such monstrous style. For once, it seemed her explorer-father had not forgotten her special day.
She’d practically flown down the grand staircase to greet him, clambering up the carriage stairs without waiting for a helping hand from her aged retainer, Cawley. She’d flung open the door with a crash, breaking the latch that to this day would release itself at inopportune moments. A gloriously painted mural decorated the interior of the carriage. From floor to ceiling, an elaborate battle between two samurai armies raged across fields of gold-leaf splendor. The warriors’ sacrifice stood as testament to the victories of the warlord empress who had originally commissioned the carriage to tour her newly conquered lands. Upon the golden bench seat, a note scrawled in Papa’s own hand on a page torn from an etiquette book told her he might be home by next Christmas, maybe.
That was the last time she’d ever shed a tear for Papa.
Naturally, she’d claimed the carriage was her birthday present. None of her governesses, servants, or irregularly visiting family members were bold enough to challenge her on the point. When Papa returned two years later, he’d forgotten the carriage existed.
If a man could forget an imperial dragon carriage, what hope could a mere daughter have of being remembered?
Constance bit her lip to stop it from committing a very un-British wobble and snapped her eyes open. The doorway to the hotel still lacked a square-jawed cowboy dressed for a night at the opera. It even lacked the selfsame cowboy dressed in his usual all-black Western garb, a gunfighter from every angle save for his lack of a six-gun.
Was she repeating the pattern of waiting for a man to grace her with his presence?
It was time to seize control of the situation to save both face and sanity.
Constance thumped the heel of her boot onto the floor of the carri
age. She yelled to her driver, “Hearn, circle the hotel’s immediate vicinity and return us to this very spot. We mustn’t give the impression that we’re waiting. In fact, let’s all concur that we’re running late to pick up Mr. Trusdale, who will be standing here upon our return, devastated that we left without him.”
“Very good, miss,” called back Hearn. The carriage lurched into motion as the four chestnut ponies out front surged into a spanking trot. The jolt caused the Yorkshire terrier puppy, Boo, curled into an impossibly small ball beside Constance’s thigh, to awake with a startled bark. On the opposite bench, Lord Wellington Pendelroy fumbled his copy of the French court circular, La Vue Royale. The pink printed pages fell from his grip to scatter gossip and intrigue across the carriage floor atop the samurai warriors’ heads.
“Wait, what are we concurring about?” asked Welli, tossing back his Byronic forelock with the panache that had earned him armies of admirers and scads of scandals, the latest of which were splashed across the court pages at his feet. After only two weeks in Paris, he was as sartorially resplendent as any continental count in his sky-blue silk tailcoat, pantaloons, and matching top hat so in vogue this season. He squinted down at his fallen newspaper as Constance rubbed Boo’s ears and cooed at her, sending the puppy into a tail-chasing whirl of joy upon the golden bench seat.
Constance grinned at the puppy’s antics. “We’re concurring that we’re not waiting any longer for Mr. Trusdale. Except that we are, in a roundabout manner. Don’t tell him that we circled the hotel. I know the two of you have become drinking companions as of late.” There was a wistfulness she hadn’t intended to share in her tone.
Welli quirked a perfectly plucked eyebrow at her. “Everyone I meet becomes a drinking companion at some point or another. Don’t worry, you haven’t missed out on any tasty details on our enigmatic cowboy. The man is more tight-lipped about his past than a burlesque dancer turned Mother Superior. I always seem to end up talking about myself when we’re sharing a beverage or two.” He held up one finger as she opened her mouth. “And before you make any cracks about me constantly talking about myself, consider how much you want me to concur with your ‘we weren’t waiting for you, Mr. Trusdale,’ story.”
She chuckled, her heart lifting at her cousin’s irrepressible joie de vivre. “You know me too well, cousin. Hold on, we’re coming up to the hotel steps again.” She perched on the edge of her seat and peered out the carriage window. The hotel’s glass doors still stubbornly refused to expel a cowboy clad in a lamb-bedecked tailcoat. She heaved a dramatic sigh, then called out, “Once more around the hotel, Hearn, very, very slowly.” The carriage reduced its speed to a sluggish creep along the cobblestoned street.
Welli groaned. “Really? All right, third time lucky. If he’s not standing here on the next drive by, we head straight for the opera, agreed?”
She furrowed her brow. “You don’t think he’s coming, do you?”
Welli shrugged. “That outfit you created for him could well be the straw that broke the cowboy’s back. Impressed as I am that you managed to bribe a French seamstress into knocking up a gentleman’s version of this monstrosity”—he waved a hand at her attire—“what makes you think he would wear it in public?”
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate the sentiment and care that I put into designing such an elaborate gift. As our complementary outfits evoke a landscape that is of great importance to me, I’m obviously telling him that he is important too.” She gazed down at her green gossamer ball gown, embroidered with innocent lambs and their ever-patient mothers on lush pastures enclosed by gray drystone walls. She could almost smell the moorland heather blooms that inspired the purple hue of her velvet hooded cloak, clasped by a bluebell brooch. Her bespoke ensemble showcased the bucolic hills and dales of Yorkshire to Paris, and well might the French be grateful for the view.
Welli sighed. “And as usual, you’ve overthought everything to a ludicrous degree. Is there any chance I can talk you into changing out of this crime against fashion before we head to the opera? Paris isn’t ready for your sartorial gall, and Europe as a whole will no doubt be appalled by your unique brand of English eccentricity. I suppose I should be grateful that you didn’t persuade the seamstress to include pigs on your attire.”
No, those she’d saved to decorate her bloomers. Beneath her petticoats, a joyous tumble of pink piglets scampered through an apple orchard. Constance tilted up her chin. “It’s British pastoral chic, a style that I just invented. I thought I should make a grand gesture to Mr. Trusdale, given the electrical unpleasantness at lunchtime. I assume, given that he was raised on a Kansas cattle ranch, that Mr. Trusdale adores farm animals as much as I do.”
Welli chuckled. “Ah, Connie. It’s your assumptions that get you into trouble. Like assuming that creating a fashion-forward farm ensemble is somehow better than making a face-to-face apology. Didn’t you set the poor man alight with that ridiculous lightning gauntlet you’re working on? He passed me heading out of the hotel at lunchtime in search of good whisky and I can only assume bad company. I swear his duster coat was still smoldering from your unprovoked attack.”
She blinked at her cousin. “Trusdale told you about our altercation? First of all, you should know that it’s our ridiculous lightning gauntlet. Mr. Trusdale and I are working on the Perambulating Kinetic Storm Battle Mitten #004 together, as equal partners. He wanted to take the device back to the drawing board due to its perilous instability. But due process takes forever, and I decided to do a few quick experiments of my own, to see if I could fix the problems.”
“In other words, you kept working on it behind his back so that you could stun him with your brilliance.”
“Was that so wrong?” She reached up to massage the tension from the back of her neck. “After doing him the favor of fixing the battle mitten’s main issues, I decided the best way to demonstrate the new safety features was to take it to a potentially problematic location—”
“Such as the top of a thousand-foot-high iron landmark in a rainstorm—”
“Exactly. The Eiffel Tower in a sudden shower was the perfect place to prove to Trusdale that my clandestine tweaks to the battle mitten had solved all our technical problems. Cawley was carrying a large carpet bag that secreted a leg of ham which I intended to use for target practice. Once perfectly cooked by the electrical gauntlet, the ham would have taken pride of place in a lovely picnic luncheon atop the tower, with Cawley’s extra-large polo umbrella providing us with shelter from the rain. We’d have perfect privacy, as no one goes up the tower in a storm. You know how skittish the continentals are about foul-weather picnics. Anyway, when I pulled back my lace sleeve to reveal the copper and brass glory of the battle mitten, the wretched thing went off and bang! Trusdale was blasted by a lightning bolt that shot him clear across the iron platform. Fortunately, he was only unconscious for a minute or so, and his leather coat saved him from any serious scorching. Once he regained the power to speak, he was perfectly fine, if a tad grumpy.”
Welli’s eyebrows grazed the brim of his top hat. “Only a tad?”
“Perhaps a little more than a tad.” She rubbed her throbbing temples as the headache she’d suffered for much of the last week pounded anew. “I can’t see why he was so upset. I’ve accidentally electrocuted myself with the gauntlet at least two dozen times this week, and does anyone hear me complain?”
