by Amanda Quick
He watched hungrily as Bertram removed one of the metal canisters from the bag.
“Show me how it works,” he said.
Bertram pointed. “You simply press here. The valve will open and the gas will be released immediately. The vapor is quite potent and spreads rapidly into the atmosphere. Whoever employs these devices should be advised to cover his nose and mouth with a thick cloth and stay well clear of the fumes until they have evaporated.”
“Excellent.” Luttrell picked up the canister and turned it in his hands. “I believe this will be a very handy tool, indeed.”
Luttrell was pleased. Hulsey decided to take advantage of the moment. As he always did when he was feeling anxious, he took off his glasses and started to polish them with his dingy handkerchief.
“About the new microscope, Mr. Luttrell,” he said cautiously.
“Yes, yes, go ahead and purchase it,” Luttrell said. He smiled his reptilian smile. “I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of scientific progress.”
“We also require some new chemicals and herbs,” Hulsey added.
“Make up a list and give it to Thacker, as usual. He is here to run errands for you.”
Luttrell signaled the enforcer to pick up the canvas bags and then led the way out of the laboratory.
Hulsey watched the pair leave. When the door closed behind them Bertram heaved a deep sigh of resignation.
“I cannot believe that we are working for one of the city’s most powerful master criminals,” he said.
“Once again we are obliged to create dangerous toys for a patron who has no true appreciation for the Great Work.” Hulsey positioned his glasses back on his nose. “But that seems to be the price of scientific discovery in the modern age.”
“One can only hope that, in the future, there will be more respect paid to those of us committed to serious paranormal research,” Bertram said.
16
FIVE DAYS LATER, DELBERT STOOD AT THE KITCHEN WINDOW, drinking the rich hot chocolate that Mrs. Trevelyan had prepared. He contemplated the scene in the garden. The Boss was sitting with Mrs. Pyne on a green wrought-iron garden bench. They were examining the old leather-bound journal that the Boss always kept close. The dogs sprawled at their feet. It was a peaceful scene. But nothing about the Boss was peaceful these days. Never had been, come to that, Delbert thought.
“What do you think they are talking about?” he asked.
Mrs. Trevelyan did not look up from the mound of bread dough that she was kneading.
“And just how would I know the answer to that question?” she asked.
Delbert studied the couple in the garden. He had known Griffin Winters for two decades, had watched the younger man grow up hard and fast on the streets. There had always been a woman somewhere in the background. The Boss liked women. But the word background was the key. That was where all the females in his life had remained until now.
But Mrs. Pyne was different. The Boss had never been like this with any other female, not even his wife. There was something in the atmosphere around the two people sitting on the bench, some sort of invisible energy. When he was in the same room as the pair, Delbert thought, he swore he could almost see little flashes of lightning.
He turned around to watch Mrs. Trevelyan work the dough. It was a pleasant sight. Her full bosom heaved against the apron as she leaned into her task.
“How did you come by your post in Mrs. Pyne’s household?” he queried.
“The agency sent me around,” she said. “I don’t mind telling you, I was a bit desperate by the time she interviewed me. My old employer died a while back without bothering to leave me a reference, let alone a pension. Very hard to get a position in a respectable household without a good character, you know.”
“I wouldn’t know. Never tried to obtain a position in a respectable household.”
She gave him a single head-to-toe glance. “Yes, well, judging by your very fine boots and your gold- framed spectacles and that ring you wear I expect you’ve made a good deal more in your post here than I’ll ever see in a lifetime.”
Susan Trevelyan was a fine, handsome woman, he thought, not for the first time. Her broad, rounded thighs and full breasts put him in mind of a statue of some ancient goddess. She was strong and energetic, too. She hoisted the heavy iron cooking pots as though they were made of paper. It occurred to him that she might be equally vigorous in bed.
“Go on with your tale,” he said.
“The agency hoped that, since Mrs. Pyne was recently arrived from America, the Wild West, no less, she might not be too particular in the matter of a character reference,” Mrs. Trevelyan said.
“I’ve heard they’re a bit odd out there in the West.”
“I believe so. In any event, Mrs. Pyne interviewed me and hired me straight off. She never asked for a character reference, thank goodness.”
“Does she ever talk about her time in America?”
“Sometimes.” Mrs. Trevelyan settled the dough into a pan.
“Always been curious about the place, myself,” Delbert said. “They make excellent guns.”
Mrs. Trevelyan opened the oven door and inserted the pan of bread dough. “I think Mrs. Pyne gets a bit lonesome for the West at times. She had friends there and a great many adventures as well.”
“Did she say why she came back to England?”
“No. I don’t think she knows, herself, why she returned. To tell you the truth, until recently I thought she had made a mistake. I kept expecting her to book passage back to America.”
“Why do you say that?”
“There was a strange restlessness in her spirits. Oh, she was always busy enough, what with her charity work and all, but it was as if some part of her was waiting for something to happen.”
“Such as?”
“I had no notion and I don’t think she did, either. Not until recently, that is.” Mrs. Trevelyan wiped her hands on a towel and angled her head toward the scene in the garden. “A social reformer and a crime lord. Who would have believed it?”
Delbert smiled. “Who would have believed that a respectable woman like yourself would end up cooking for the Director of the Consortium and his lieutenants?”
She gave a gentle snort of laughter.
“Makes for an interesting change,” she allowed.
There was a light sheen of sweat on her noble brow. Somehow it made her even more attractive.
“You’re an unusual woman, Mrs. Trevelyan,” he said.
“You are not quite what I expected in a member of the criminal class, yourself, sir. How long have you been with Mr. Winters?”
“Since the first days he arrived on the streets. He was just a boy. Barely sixteen years old and he’d been raised in a respectable home. He knew nothing about what he was facing but he learned fast. It was like he’d been born to create the Consortium.”
“Consortium.” Mrs. Trevelyan took a stew pot down from the wall. “Sounds more like a respectable investment firm than an underworld gang.”
“That is exactly what the Boss said.”
17
ADELAIDE MARKED HER PLACE AND CLOSED THE LEATHER-BOUND volume. “No offense, sir, but your ancestor was a peculiar individual.”
“By all accounts, I take after him,” Griffin said. “You’ve seen the portrait in the library. When I look at it, it is as if I am viewing my own reflection.”
It was very pleasant sitting out here in the garden with Adelaide, he thought. A brief, tantalizing glimpse of what his life might have been like if his past had taken a different turn, if he were not who and what he was, if he had been free to marry and start a family.
“You do bear a striking resemblance to Nicholas Winters, but you are not at all the same man,” Adelaide said.
The ringing certainty in her voice made him raise his brows.
“Why do you say that?” he asked. “The resemblance, both physical and psychical, is obvious.”
“I’ve spent over a decade wit
h that lamp,” she reminded him. “Believe me when I tell you that I know every nuance of the heavy dreamprints on it. You are certainly a descendant of Nicholas Winters but you are your own man.”
He sensed that there would be no arguing with her on the subject, so he let it drop.
“What else do the dreamprints on the lamp tell you?” he asked instead.
“Among other things, there was a very strong bond between Winters and the dreamlight reader, Eleanor Fleming.” Adelaide hesitated a second before adding, “It was a bond of passion.”
“I told you, they were lovers. She bore him a son. He betrayed her. She wanted revenge. It is an old and oft-told tale to be sure. The only thing that marks it as different from other such stories is that instead of trying to murder Nicholas, Eleanor used the energy of the lamp to destroy all of his talent.”
“It was a harsh vengeance and she paid for it with her life,” Adelaide said. “The energy unleashed by the lamp killed Eleanor, even as it shattered Nicholas’s senses.”
“Yes.”
“She was a fool to trust him.” Adelaide shook her head. “Nicholas Winters would have betrayed any woman. His real mistress was his obsession with power. Acquiring it was all he cared about until, at the end, he took up a new obsession.”
“Revenge against the entire line of Sylvester Jones.”
“Yes.” She tapped the journal. “It is all here. Nicholas is nothing if not clear about his intention to destroy everything that Jones hoped to create even if it took generations upon generations to do so.”
“Never let it be said that my ancestor did not make grandiose plans.”
“He knew when he went to confront Sylvester for the last time that he would not survive the encounter,” Adelaide continued. “Judging by what he wrote, I think he wanted Jones to kill him. It was a form of suicide.”
“His senses were deteriorating rapidly because of what Eleanor Fleming had done with the lamp. He was sinking into insanity. Death was all that was left for him.”
“Or so he believed.”
Griffin looked at her. “When will you work the lamp for me?”
She glanced uneasily at the journal. “There is a great deal here that is not explained.”
“You noticed that, did you? I told you, the old bastard was an alchemist. He was obsessed with secrecy. I did my best to decipher the code that he used in that journal, but it is possible I missed some vital element. I will never know for certain until you work the lamp.”
“Do you have any idea what he meant when he wrote about the key in the lock?”
“I assume it’s a warning. If things go wrong, there will be hell to pay.”
She opened the journal and read aloud: “The third talent is the most powerful and the most dangerous. If the key is Not turned properly in the lock, this last psychical ability will prove lethal, bringing on first insanity and then death.” She looked up. “He seems to be convinced that those of his line who inherit his powers will be able to handle the third talent but only if it is unlocked properly.”
Griffin contemplated the pond. “Never forget that he was likely already quite mad when he wrote that.”
“Or so legend has it.” Adelaide closed the book again.
“As far as I’m concerned, the critical line in the journal is the one concerning a woman who can work dreamlight energy,” he said. “Only such a female can halt or reverse the transformation once it has begun.”
“He didn’t like that, did he?”
“Knowing that the powers of the lamp cannot be accessed without the help of a woman who can manipulate dreamlight? No. He did not like that bit at all.”
“It was his own fault. He’s the one who created the device.”
Griffin almost smiled. “True.”
“No doubt he assumed that he could control the woman whose assistance he required.”
“Nicholas may have been a psychical genius but he did not know much about women.” Griffin looked at her. “Well, Adelaide? Do you think you can manipulate the power of the Burning Lamp?”
“Oh, yes.”
Anticipation flashed through him.
“You can reverse the transformation?” he asked.
“I’m not at all certain about that aspect of the thing.”
He exhaled heavily. “I hesitate to say this because you already think me inclined toward melodrama, but the truth is, you are my only hope.”
Her intelligent, captivating face was shadowed and solemn. “If ever there was a situation that called for melodrama, this may be it. You do realize that if I work the lamp, it is quite possible that I will kill you in the process?”
“Yes.”
“Do you truly wish to take that risk, sir?”
“I find it preferable to the alternative.”
“You are so certain that you are destined to become mad if the transformation continues?”
He glanced at the journal. “All I have to go on is what Nicholas wrote in his notes and the legend as my father told it to me. You see my predicament, Adelaide.”
“Yes,” she said. “I understand.”
“Well, then?”
“Tonight,” she said. “Dreamlight energy is more powerful during the nighttime hours.”
18
SHORTLY BEFORE MIDNIGHT ADELAIDE TUCKED THE JOURNAL into the crook of her arm and went to the door of her bedroom. She let herself out into the hall. The ancient stone walls seemed unnaturally still around her. Mrs. Trevelyan had retired to her bedroom after dinner and was presumably fast asleep. Delbert, Leggett and Jed were also abed.
After so many nights spent in the Abbey, Adelaide was now familiar with the evening rituals of the household. They all involved protection. Like sorcerers setting magical wards against supernatural forces, the three enforcers walked through the very modern locks and elaborately designed alarms. The dogs, the first line of defense, according to Jed, were turned loose in the garden.
She went down the shadowed staircase. When she reached the front hall she turned and made her way to the library.
Griffin was waiting for her. He stood in front of a low-burning fire, one hand on the mantel. Energy shifted in the atmosphere around him. It seemed to her that she could literally feel tendrils of his power reaching out to encircle her and draw her to him. The sensation stirred her senses. She had to suppress a sudden, nearly overwhelming desire to run to him.
Her fingers tightened on the journal. She must remain fully in control tonight, for both their sakes.
Griffin was dressed in dark trousers and a white linen shirt. The collar of the shirt was unfastened and the sleeves were rolled up on his forearms. He had not cloaked himself in his talent, yet there was a sense of darkness and shadow around him, as though he were about to go into a battle, which was, she thought, uncomfortably close to the truth.
But there were other powerful currents in the room, freighted with sexual awareness. Impossible though it seemed, Adelaide got the strange feeling that the wavelengths of desire were somehow resonating with the ominous energy leaking out of the Burning Lamp. The realization brought her to a halt just inside the doorway.
Griffin looked at her. “Come in, Adelaide.”
That was all he said, but the husky sensuality in his voice sent a rush of excitement through her. He had never made any attempt to hide the fact that he was physically attracted to her, but even if he had tried to do so, she would have known. Just as he was surely aware of her desire for him, she thought. Such strong, primal forces generated a great amount of energy across the entire spectrum. Even people without much talent could usually sense the hot currents of passion. When such energy resonated between two individuals endowed with strong psychical sensitivities, it was impossible to conceal.
But that did not mean that one abandoned oneself willy-nilly to such elemental, potentially dangerous emotions, she reminded herself. She straightened her shoulders, closed the door and walked resolutely into the center of the room.
The heavy c
urtains were drawn closed against the night. Only a single gas lamp was turned up, leaving most of the library drenched in flickering shadows cast by the fire.
The artifact stood on a small round table in the center of the space. The gold-toned metal gleamed dully in the light. The crystals in the rim were cloudy.
“I have left instructions with the men that we are not to be disturbed under any circumstances,” Griffin said.
For some reason that unnerved her as nothing else had. “They know we are meeting here tonight?”
“Yes.”
“You told them what we planned to do with the lamp?”
“No, of course not,” Griffin said. “I did not want to alarm them with talk of psychical experiments.”
“Then what on earth will they think we are about?”
In spite of the tension in the room, he was amused. “What do you imagine they will conclude?”
She flushed. “Yes, of course. How . . . awkward.”
“It is only natural that they believe us to be lovers, Adelaide.” Impatience edged his tone. “They know full well that I have never before brought a woman into this house.”
“Why not?” she asked before she could stop herself.
“Because this house holds far too many secrets.”
She nodded, understanding at once. “You allow no one inside who cannot be trusted.”
“The rule tends to limit houseguests quite dramatically.”
“No doubt.” She paused. “But you brought me here. And I summoned Mrs. Trevelyan.”
The corner of his mouth kicked up in grim amusement. “And the next thing I know I’ve got a Jones under my roof: Mrs. Lucinda Bromley Jones, noted poisoner and one of the founders of Arcane’s new psychical detective agency. You see what happens when the rules are broken?”
“I thought we had agreed that Jones and Jones was not an immediate threat.”