by Amanda Quick
The carriage door opened when Lucinda got close. A man dressed in a high-collared coat and a low-crowned hat kicked down the steps and got out. The heavy rain, combined with the hat, the coat and the fact that Delbert’s broad back and the bobbing umbrella were in the way, made it difficult to get a clear view of the gentleman. Adelaide was certain, however, that she was looking at the other half of Jones & Jones.
There was a subtle intimacy in the way Caleb Jones handed Lucinda up into the cab. It spoke volumes. Mr. Jones, Adelaide thought, was very much in love with his wife and she with him.
The carriage door closed and the vehicle rolled off into the rain. Adelaide opened her senses and looked at the prints that the Joneses had left on the pavement. Hot energy burned in the rain.
Delbert lumbered back up the steps, paused to shake out the umbrella and then moved into the hall. He closed the door and looked at Adelaide. Anxiety scrunched his broad features into a grim mask.
“Will the Boss really be all right, ma’am?” he asked.
“Yes,” Adelaide said. She was aware of the other two enforcers, Jed and Leggett, listening from the shadows of the hall. “Jed and I got the bleeding stopped very quickly and the doctor who was summoned appeared competent.”
“He bloody well better be competent. Owes the Boss a favor, and that’s a fact.”
“I see. Well, rest assured, I called in Mrs. Jones merely as a precaution against infection.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Delbert hesitated, glancing up the staircase. “It’s just that the Boss is sleeping so soundly. Has us a bit worried, if you want to know.”
“Why? Sleep is what he needs now.”
“The thing is, he hasn’t been sleeping well for some time. The way he is at the moment, it strikes us as a bit unnatural is all.”
“He’ll awaken soon,” she assured him. “When he does he will need some nourishing broth. Please ask Mrs. Trevelyan to send up a tray in an hour.”
Delbert squinted. “How do you know the Boss will be awake by then?”
“Trust me.”
She seized handfuls of her skirts and flew up the stairs. The last thing she and Mrs. Trevelyan needed just now was for Griffin’s enforcers to wonder whether she was trying to murder their boss.
10
CALEB WATCHED LUCINDA LOWER THE HOOD OF HER CLOAK. Her energy was a tonic to all of his senses. He still could not believe that he was married to this remarkable woman.
“Obviously you were not immediately thrown out of the house as I predicted,” he observed. “Winters must, indeed, be in a bad way if he allowed a woman named Jones to attend him.”
“Mr. Winters does not even know that I was summoned,” Lucinda said. “He did not awaken during the time I was in the house.”
Caleb whistled softly. “Well, that certainly explains why you got past the front door. I wonder what he’ll say when he wakes up and discovers that he was treated by you.” He paused a beat. “Always assuming that he will wake up, of course. How bad is it?”
“Not as bad as it could have been. Mr. Winters was shot in the shoulder. But it is clear that he did not lose a great amount of blood, nor did he slide too far into shock, thanks to the quick actions of Mrs. Pyne. The major danger now is, as always in such cases, infection. That is why I was summoned. Mr. Winters is fortunate in his nurse. Mrs. Pyne seems well versed in modern notions of sickroom hygiene and cleanliness.”
“Any clue to the identity of the man who shot him?”
“No, and I did not want to push the matter,” Lucinda said. “It is obvious that the household is on guard, however. There are three men inside. They are all carrying American-style revolvers under their coats. I also noticed two very large dogs.”
“There is nothing odd about the presence of armed guards in that household. As the Director of the Consortium, Winters has made a lot of enemies. I wonder which one got to him last night?”
“Do you think Jones and Jones should make some discreet inquiries?”
“I doubt if we would get far. Winters comes from a different world, my dear.”
“The criminal underworld, you mean.”
“It has its own rules, just as our world does. Winters’s connections on the streets of his world are infinitely more impressive than our own. He will not need our assistance to discover the name of the shooter, nor would he welcome it.”
Lucinda watched him very steadily. “What will happen when Mr. Winters discovers the identity of the man who tried to kill him?”
“I expect the would- be murderer will quietly disappear. I can also guarantee you that there will be no evidence left behind that could be traced back to the head of the Consortium. Winters is nothing if not subtle. Scotland Yard will never touch him. Spellar, I think, actually owes him a favor or two.”
Lucinda shivered. “Mr. Winters is a very dangerous man.”
“Yes, and possibly on the brink of becoming more so.”
“Do you know him well?”
“Our families are linked through some ancient history, as you know, but the Winters and the Jones clans have steadfastly avoided each other for generations. I have never met Griffin Winters. He is the last of his bloodline. If he does not marry and produce a son, the legend of the Burning Lamp will end with him.”
“He is not a young man,” Lucinda said. “Midthirties I would say. I’m surprised that he is not married. Most men are at his age.”
“He had a wife at one time. She died in childbirth. There was some speculation on the street to the effect that she was involved in an affair with one of his most trusted men. It was all very sordid. Shortly after the mother and babe died, the lover disappeared. Quietly.”
“In true Winters style?”
“Yes. There have been rumors of discreet liaisons with other women over the years but no indication of offspring.”
Lucinda’s fine brows shot up above the rims of her spectacles. “It appears that you have kept an eye on him.”
“We thought it wise.”
“We? You mean your family?”
“Within Arcane, some legends must be taken seriously.”
“I did notice one other odd thing in that household,” Lucinda said.
“What is that?”
“Mr. Winters was sleeping very peacefully and quite soundly. It was not the sort of restless sleep that one expects after a serious injury.”
“Perhaps the doctor gave him some opium or chloroform to dull the pain.”
“No. It transpires that Mrs. Pyne is a woman of talent, very strong talent, I believe.”
“Is she now?” Caleb asked softly. His intuition had stirred when the note requesting Lucinda’s services had arrived earlier that morning. The information about Adelaide Pyne’s talent caused it to surge like a fast-rising tide.
“She informed me that she has some ability to induce a healing state of sleep,” Lucinda said. “She employed her abilities to put Mr. Winters into a deep slumber.”
Caleb looked at her. “That is very interesting. I saw a woman in an apron standing in the doorway when we left a few minutes ago. She was not a housekeeper.”
“That was Adelaide Pyne. Evidently she knew about my herbal skills because her housekeeper is acquainted with Mrs. Shute.”
“So that is how she found you.”
“Yes.”
“Were Mrs. Pyne and Winters together at the theater last night? Are they lovers do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Lucinda said. “Mrs. Pyne seems to have felt some obligation to nurse him after the shooting, which implies they are quite close. Whether they are lovers, I cannot say.” She drummed her gloved fingers on the satchel. “But there is most certainly something between them, some powerful connection, I think.”
Caleb lounged back into the corner of the seat and looked out the window, absently searching for the patterns in the falling rain.
“There are a number of talents that can induce a sleeplike trance such as you describe,” he said. “But under the circu
mstances, one in particular springs to mind. I wonder if Mrs. Pyne can read and manipulate dreamlight?”
“What would that tell you?”
He exhaled slowly. “It would indicate that Griffin Winters has either inherited the family curse or fears that he is going to inherit it. He appears to have found himself a dreamlight reader. I wonder if he has also discovered the lamp.”
“Surely you are not going to sit there and tell me that you actually believe that Griffin Winters is in the process of transforming into a multitalent?” Lucinda was aghast. “That is nothing more than an old Arcane myth, Caleb.”
“It is difficult to deny all of the ancient Arcane legends given that I am the direct descendant of one.”
“Sylvester Jones.” Lucinda clasped her hands together in her lap. “True. Very well, then, what do you suggest?”
“We will do the only thing we can for now. We will watch and we will wait.”
“What, exactly, are we watching and waiting for?”
“Before I take this matter to Gabe I must have the answer to one more question.”
“What is that?” Lucinda asked.
“If Winters has found both a dreamlight reader and the lamp, there are only two possibilities. Either he is trying to save himself from the curse . . .”
“Or?” Lucinda prompted.
“He wants to try to fulfill the legend and become a true Cerberus.”
“That makes no sense,” Lucinda insisted. “Why on earth would he wish to take the risk of driving himself mad with too much psychical energy?”
“Power is always seductive, my love. Nicholas Winters was certainly convinced that he could handle all three talents. He never got the chance to prove it because Eleanor Fleming destroyed his senses the last time she worked the lamp for him. It is entirely possible that Griffin Winters believes that he can achieve what his ancestor failed to accomplish.”
“And if he does succeed?”
Caleb studied the intricate, glittering patterns created by the falling rain. “If he becomes the psychical monster that the Society has always believed to be the only possible outcome for a true multitalent, then Gabe and the Council will have no choice. They will conclude that Winters must be destroyed. Such a vicious madman cannot be allowed to prey upon the public.”
“The task will be assigned to Jones and Jones?”
“Yes.”
Lucinda pulled her cloak more snugly around herself.
“Dear heaven,” she whispered.
11
HE KNEW THAT SHE WAS IN THE ROOM. HER SCENT AND HER energy stirred his senses like a warm summer breeze. Another part of him stirred as well. The erection was reassuring on a number of levels, he concluded. For one thing it told him that he was still alive. The ache in his shoulder served the same purpose but it was not nearly so pleasant. He heard a low, muffled groan and realized it had come from his own throat. Getting shot always hurt like blazes.
“Bloody hell,” he mumbled.
Adelaide’s fingertips brushed his brow. The pain in his shoulder lessened. He sensed a deep, dreamless sleep creeping up on him, not for the first time.
He opened his eyes and looked at Adelaide.
“Put me under again, Mrs. Pyne, and I vow that the next time I wake up I will turn you over my knee.”
She gasped and took a quick step back. “Good grief, sir. You startled me. How do you feel?”
“As though I’ll most likely live.” He sat up cautiously, wincing against the discomfort in his shoulder. He thought about it and was slightly amazed that the pain was not a good deal worse than it was. “What time is it?”
“Noon. I was just going to feed you some more broth.”
Blurry images of previous awakenings flitted through his head. This was not the first time she had fed him broth. There were other vague recollections as well. He had some fleeting images of Delbert steadying him beside the bed while he made use of a chamber pot. He recalled Leggett and Jed helping him stagger weakly down the hall and back to the bedroom a few times.
After every awakening he had resisted sleep, knowing that the nightmares awaited him. But always Adelaide had reappeared to touch his brow. Each time he had tumbled back into the peaceful darkness. And there were no dreams.
No dreams.
“Maybe I should have asked what day is it?” he said.
“You were shot two nights ago,” Adelaide said.
“You kept me out for damn near three days?” Anger surged through him. “Who the hell gave you the right to do that?”
For a second or two he thought she looked hurt. He felt something that might have been a twinge of guilt. Before he could worry about it, however, Adelaide assumed her righteous air.
“It was for your own good, Mr. Winters,” she declared.
“Don’t you dare use that excuse.”
“Why not? I seem to recall you employing the very same reasoning when you told me that you would not help me raid Luttrell’s brothels.”
“That,” he said through his teeth, “is an entirely different matter.”
“Mr. Winters, allow me to inform you that I am not without experience in caring for those who have been injured. I discovered long ago that certain deep levels of sleep can be very beneficial when it comes to the healing process. In any event, you were not asleep the entire time. I let you wake up on several occasions. You needed food and a bit of exercise to stimulate the blood.”
It dawned on him that at least some of his irritation was fueled by the knowledge that he was embarrassed. Adelaide had seen him in such a pitiful condition. She had nursed him intimately. He was naked to the waist. Below that, someone—please God, one of his men—had dressed him in some fresh cotton drawers.
Good lord. She had seeN him in his drawers.
It was one thing to be naked with a woman while in the throes of passion. It was quite another to be in that condition when one was weak as a kitten.
He narrowed his eyes. “You may leave now, Mrs. Pyne, I want to take a bath and then I want to get dressed.”
“Of course.” She went toward the door. “I’ll send Delbert in to assist you.”
“I can manage on my own.”
She clicked her tongue. “Do you know, Mr. Winters, your manners improve greatly when you are asleep. Delbert will be along in a moment. Just in case.”
She opened the door.
He flexed his shoulder, testing uneasily for the heat and tenderness that signaled infection. There was pain, enough to make him suck in a harsh breath, but not the sort that was alarming.
“Mrs. Pyne?” he called after her.
She paused in the doorway and looked back at him. “What is it now?”
“Did the doctor take care to clean out the wound?”
“Rest assured, all precautions against infection have been taken. You are healing well. After your bath I will change the bandage again. I have some balm that promotes healing and ensures that the wound will not become feverish.”
“Where the devil did you learn so much about gunshot wounds, Mrs. Pyne?”
“Spend a few years traveling with Monty Moore’s Wild West Show and you, too, will learn a great deal about the subject. You would be amazed by the number of accidents that occur when there are a lot of guns lying about.”
She stepped out into the hall and closed the door very firmly behind her.
12
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, GRIFFIN EMERGED FROM THE bath just in time to see Adelaide coming down the hall with a tray of fresh bandages. She was wearing a fresh, crisp white apron over a plain housedress. Her hair was pinned up in a severe chignon.
Delbert was lounging against the wall. He did not notice Griffin behind him. His full attention was focused on Adelaide. He straightened quickly at the sight of her.
“I told the Boss that you wanted me to help him with his bath, Mrs. Pyne,” Delbert said, sounding anxious. “But he swore he could manage by himself.”
“It’s all right, Delbert.” She g
ave him a reassuring smile before switching her gaze to Griffin. “Obviously Mr. Winters survived.”
“I won’t claim that I feel like a new man,” Griffin said. “But I will say that I feel remarkably improved.”
He tightened the sash of the black, embroidered dressing gown, uncomfortably aware that he wore nothing under it but a pair of drawers.
“You do appear to be a good deal stronger,” Adelaide said, scrutinizing him closely.
He did not want her to look at him that way, he thought. The way a nurse looked at a patient. He wanted her to see him as a man: a fit, healthy man.
He inclined his head, taking refuge in the old, formal manners he had been taught as a boy.
“I believe that I owe you an apology for my display of temper earlier, Mrs. Pyne,” he said. He knew he still sounded like an annoyed bear.
“I quite understand. You were not yourself, sir.”
“If you say so. Could have sworn that was me snapping at you a short while ago but perhaps I was mistaken.”
To his amazement, she blushed. But her tone remained as starched as her apron.
“I will change your bandage now,” she said. She continued down the hall toward the bedroom. “Delbert will assist me. He has become quite expert.”
Delbert opened the door for her. “Mrs. Pyne is very skilled at this nursing business, sir. Very impressive, she is.”
Griffin followed Adelaide into the room. He watched her put down the tray.
“I agree, Delbert,” he said. “Very impressive, indeed. Maybe it’s the white apron. My very own Florence Nightingale.”
Adelaide turned coolly to face him and pointed to a chair. “If you will please sit we will clean the wound, apply more of the balm and then put on a fresh bandage.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He sat down obediently. “But do keep in mind the warning I gave you earlier, Mrs. Pyne. I will be more than a little irritated if I find myself waking up from another unexpected bout of sleep.”
“But the pain,” she said uneasily.