“Aside from Holly, you mean?” laughed Patterson. “He’s got a dark past with the good lady, though he won’t talk about it. He even proposed marriage, according to my sister. Come on, Holl. You’re amongst friends. The lady turned you down, didn’t she?”
“No comment. Let’s just get back to work, shall we?” Holloway insisted.
“Leave it, Pitt,” laughed Wentworth, gathering up his cigarette case and rucksack. “The Viscount Paynton keeps his love life close to the vest. You’ll get no answers out of him.”
As usual, Seth ignored their jokes. True, he did have a ‘past’ with Elizabeth, but he was too much of a gentleman to discuss it. With rich auburn hair that fell thickly across his forehead, laughing eyes, and a ready smile, the twenty-nine-year-old was young for a don. Of the three Cambridge men, Seth was the most serious about the project. Before joining Trinity’s Archaeological Sciences department, Dr. Seth James Edward Holloway was an experienced antiquarian and linguist, having spent most of his life digging in Egypt and the Levant with his parents.
For thirty-two years, his energetic father, the 7th Earl of Salter and his artist wife led teams into Assyria and Egypt, sponsored by the Palestine Exploration Fund. As heir to the Salter earldom, Seth had the right to use the courtesy title, Viscount Paynton, but generally didn’t, as it put off less affluent students. The amiable peer had grown up on these foreign digs, where he developed an appreciation for simple living and a strong work ethic. When he returned to England in ’82, Seth completed two advanced degrees: one in archaeology, the other in ancient languages and iconography. His expertise gave the Lion Hall project legitimacy, but he’d really joined the team to keep an eye on Blackstone’s mysterious representatives.
No one else knew of this assignment. To provide cover, Henry Montagu Butler, Master at Trinity (and a close friend to Seth’s father) told Albus Flint that a mystery benefactor had provided a scholarship to pay Holloway’s expenses and stipend. Butler further insisted that no Cambridge man would receive permission to join without the inclusion of Holloway on the team. As such, Seth never signed or even read the Society’s strange contract. His university comrades assumed the mystery sponsor’s identity was Seth’s father, or some other close family friend; most likely the duchess herself.
“It must sting that another man got there first,” Pitt dared tell Holloway as they packed up. “Though, it’s not the end of the line, you know. Marriages can fail, after all. Keep your hand in, and you may yet obtain the good lady’s charms, Holl.”
“That good lady is our hostess,” Seth warned Patterson. “And she is a dear friend. I will not hear her slandered.”
“Lovers often start as friends, old man,” teased Wentworth.
“If you’re implying anything untoward in our relationship, I consider it an insult to that gentle lady’s character,” rebuked the viscount angrily.
“You blue-bloods always stick together,” concluded Patterson with a grin.
Seth returned the food box to his rucksack, and then pulled the heavy canvas bag across his left shoulder. “We blue-bloods? You’re one to talk, Pitt! Your father’s a baron and an investment banker. It seems to me that the blue of one’s blood isn’t nearly as important as the gold in one’s pocket.”
“Come on, Holly, you’ve money to burn,” laughed Wentworth, his tone revealing a strong hint of jealousy. “Shall I help you with your heavy load, or can you manage it on your own, old man?”
“Old man? I’m only eight years older than you, Lionel,” answered Seth. “That hardly makes me old.”
“May as well be eighty, old chum. Enough idle talk, eh, chaps? I’ve the landlord’s maiden daughter to kiss come evening. Follow me, lads! It’s back to the salt mines for us.”
“Maybe we ought to call them the ‘Salter Mines’,” Patterson joked.
Seth found no humour at all in the pun, and he lagged behind his companions, turning to gaze one last time at the dirt road that ran alongside the ruins. Clark’s admonition to be done before dark was hardly based on superstition, and Holloway knew it.
He had a very bad feeling about this day.
A very, very bad feeling.
Chapter Seven
Main Library, Montmore House
The morning of the eighteenth began far differently for Dr. Henry Robert Stuart MacAlpin. The viscount was catching up on the week’s newspapers when his butler, Elias Saunders, appeared in the doorway.
“Sir, Miss Stuart asks to see you. Something about a distressing dream.”
The alienist drained the last of his coffee and set the china cup on a tray. “Mrs. Crossfield’s nightmares kept most of us awake last night, Saunders, and it’s likely Miss Stuart was affected by them. Oh, I very nearly forgot. Would you let Cook know that I’ll be eating breakfast elsewhere this morning? I’m meeting Lord Haimsbury in Kensington, and then there’s the Wychwright funeral at eleven, followed by the wake in Mayfair. I doubt I’ll be back before five at the earliest.”
“Not Lord Haimsbury, sir.”
“What? I don’t understand,” muttered Salperton. “Why not Lord Haimsbury?”
“I believe the proper title is now Duke of Haimsbury, sir,” the butler corrected his employer.
Henry laughed as he took to his feet. “So it is! I’d quite forgotten. It isn’t often a marquess is elevated to a duke. It’s a good sight you keep me on my toes, Saunders!”
“Happy to serve, sir,” the butler answered as he began clearing away the dishes.
The physician left the library and climbed to the first floor. Henry wound his way through a series of pleasant corridors towards an apartment decorated in cornflower blue and sunny yellow. Just inside, a woman with auburn hair and light brown eyes stood near the window of a small parlour. She appeared ill at ease, and dark circles shadowed her pale skin. Her hands twisted together in a washing motion as she spoke.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Dr. MacAlpin.”
“Talking with you is never a bother, Miss Stuart. How may I help you this morning? I understand you suffered a troubled night.”
“Can dreams be real?”
Henry responded gently. “I suppose they can seem quite real. Why do you ask?”
“I had an awful nightmare just before I awoke,” the American answered, “but I’m not sure if it’s something that’s already happened, or is yet to happen. There was a great fire near water. I can still smell the smoke, and I’m not sure if it’s real or not, but I can even hear men and women screaming.”
“Most likely someone’s burning refuse this morning; that’s all. And you probably did hear a woman call out last night. Mrs. Crossfield had another of her night terrors, but they’re only dreams, Miss Stuart. There is nothing to be alarmed about.”
“It seems so real,” she insisted. “You’re sure there wasn’t a fire overnight?”
Henry crossed to the east-facing window. He could see nothing amiss. No fire, no smoke, not even a hint at anything other than a typical mid-December morning.
“If someone has been burning refuse, the smoke must be blowing in another direction.” He opened the window, allowing the brisk air to enter. “I can smell nothing amiss, though I do perceive the scent of viburnum. The bushes are flowering just now. I always appreciate a bit of winter colour, don’t you, Miss Stuart?”
“Yes, but I can smell smoke as well,” she told him. “It has a pungent, dark sort of smell to it. Like oil mixed with kerosene. And there are children crying. It’s rather like an echo, though. Can’t you hear it, Dr. MacAlpin? Please, tell me you can hear it!”
Henry’s nut-brown eyes grew soft, and he took her pale hands. “I fear my ears perceive nothing, though I’ve very dull ears, I’m afraid, Miss Stuart. Might I ask, what else do you hear?”
“Violet,” she corrected. “You promised to call me Violet.”
“Indeed, I did,” he answered
bashfully. “What else do you hear, Violet?”
“Birds. Lots and lots of birds, talking back and forth. I’m not sure if it’s now or then, though. It may have already happened. It might be something from my past, or I may still be dreaming. I’ve dreamt of fires quite often lately. Is it my illness?”
“I believe so, yes, but you’re on the mend. I’m sure these distressing dreams will cease very soon,” he promised, squeezing her hands. “What you need is a distraction, and as your physician, I’m prescribing one. I’ve made plans for the theatre this evening, and I wonder if you’d like to accompany me?”
“The theatre? Is it a play?”
“Yes, by Ibsen, I think. I can’t say more, for I’m really not sure. I only received the invitation yesterday, but the company will be enjoyable, even if the performance is not. Do you like Ibsen?”
“I can’t say.”
“Neither can I, actually, though Peer Gynt was somewhat interesting. Of course, I saw it performed in Norway in the original language, and I’m not sure I translated it at all correctly, but... Oh, well, never mind,” he muttered, half to himself. “I’m blithering on, aren’t I? Will you go with me, Miss Stuart? We can commiserate together, if it’s a disaster.”
Violet smiled at his obvious discomfort. She’d never seen the handsome alienist so delightfully out of his element.
“I suppose I could go. Who else will be there?”
“A few close friends. Lovely people, and several are Stuarts. They might even be relatives of yours.”
“Do I know them?”
“One is the Duchess of Branham, Elizabeth Stuart Sinclair. Her husband will be there, of course. He’s half Stuart, and Beth’s cousin is likely to join us, as it’s his theatre box we’re using. His name’s Paul Stuart. A very pleasant chap. I’ve known him for years. He always beat me at cricket, when we were lads at Eton. He’s most annoyingly athletic. I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Blithering, I mean.”
She laughed. “A little.”
“I like your laugh, Violet. Perhaps, the play will be a comedy. Wouldn’t that be nice? Regardless, you’ll enjoy meeting my friends, I’m sure. Afterward, we’re to attend a small Christmas party at the Sinclair home. The family are leaving for Branham tomorrow, and it’s a sort of farewell to London until the new year. Elizabeth sings beautifully, and we might even persuade her to entertain us. She also plays very well. I do hope you’ll join us. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
She found herself appreciating the way Henry’s mouth twitched whenever he was unsure of himself, and his eyes took on a distinct twinkle whenever he spoke her name. “Yes, I’d like that,” she admitted. “Elizabeth Stuart, you say? The name sounds familiar. I wonder if I’ve met her before? Would I remember, if I had?”
“Not necessarily, but if you are acquainted, seeing her again might jog those stubborn memories. And I’m sure she’d remember you. Who wouldn’t?”
“Because I’m American?” she asked, nervously.
Salperton looked down at his shoes as though suddenly embarrassed. “No, of course not. That’s not what I meant at all; though your accent is charming. No, she’ll remember you because you’re such a lovely young woman. How could anyone not remember you?”
Without thinking, he lightly stroked her face, appreciating its softness. “Violet, I’ve no wish to make you uncomfortable. If you prefer to stay home, I’ll understand. In fact, if you wish, I could remain here as well. We can play a game of hearts or finish that picture puzzle you started; or simply talk. I do enjoy talking with you.”
“No, you should go, but would you be disappointed if I stayed here—alone?”
“I should miss your company,” he told her honestly. “But I’d understand completely.”
She looked weary, her eyes rimmed in red from lack of sleep. “I would like to meet other Stuarts. I so want to remember my past.”
“Yes, of course, you do.”
She pulled away, turning back towards the open window. “Am I imagining the fire, Henry? I can still hear the birds. It’s like they’re laughing at me.”
“I think what you hear is very real—to you. And that makes it real to me. This could be a sign that you’re beginning to recall traumatic experiences, which probably involve a fire. Shall I send for Mrs. Winstead and ask her to prepare a sleeping draught?”
“No, I prefer to let the memories come, if they must. Are you going to be here today?”
“I’m afraid not,” he answered, suddenly wishing he could be. “I’ve a funeral to attend and then a wake, but I’ll return by six to change for the theatre. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to sleep a little? A mild sedative might offer relief.”
“No, but may I try my hand at the piano while you’re away?”
This pleased Henry very much, for it meant she’d begun to feel at home at Montmore. For some reason, he really wanted her to feel welcome here.
“Yes, yes, of course! Spend all the time you like in the music room, and if the weather clears, then stroll through the viburnum. Their scent is soothing. I’m very sorry for your troubles, Violet, but I must admit, your beauty and sweet disposition bring new life to these bachelor corridors.”
She smiled again, her face losing the worry lines it so often displayed. “You’re kind to say so. If I decide to go after all, what time should I be dressed?”
The viscount’s features widened into an unabashed smile. “I’d so love that! No pressure, of course, but if you do feel like attending, I’m to meet the Sinclairs at the theatre at seven, which means leaving here by half six.”
“What should I wear?”
“I imagine Elizabeth will wear something quite elegant, but as you have very few options of your own, we could find something that suits from one of Montmore’s closets.”
“You keep ladies’ clothing in your closets, Henry?” she asked, her light brown eyes twinkling.
“I see, you make fun of me now!” he answered, laughing. “Well, I deserve it. Actually, I endow a small charity that accepts donations of all sorts, and we distribute the clothing and toiletries to women and children in need. Hospitals often beg for such things, you see; as do orphanages. Our current collection includes some lovely dresses which proved far too elegant for the average wearer. Ask Mrs. Winstead about them. She’ll unlock the storage area, and you can choose whatever you like. Take an entire wardrobe, if you wish.”
“I shouldn’t want to take something a poor person might need. Though, I suppose it’s possible I’m poor.”
He kissed her hand, enjoying the silken texture of her skin. “My dearest Violet, your manners and conversation tell me that you’re well-educated and accustomed to higher society, though perhaps your life’s not been as happy as you deserve. I hope to change all that, if you’ll allow it,” he confessed. “Now, I must be going. I promised to breakfast with a friend before the funeral begins.”
She pulled at his arm, and to Salperton’s surprise, Violet kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Henry. You’re far kinder to me than I deserve.”
Blushing, the alienist managed an embarrassed smile. “I doubt that. I’ll speak with Mrs. Winstead about the dresses before I go. You’re welcome to anything you find.” He bowed gallantly. “Until this evening, then.”
He turned to find Emily Winstead staring at him. For some reason, Henry felt as though he’d been caught in some taboo activity, for the nurse’s manner reminded him of his disapproving father. “Yes?” he managed to ask, doing his best to sound authoritative.
“There’s a messenger from the police station downstairs, sir. He says it’s urgent.”
“Did he say why? Is someone ill?”
“A prisoner requires examination. That’s all I know, sir.”
“Very well,” answered Salperton. “Mrs. Winstead, if you’ve be good enough to show Miss Stuart our charity closets? I’ve told h
er to choose any items she wishes.” He turned once more to the patient. “I pray you have a pleasant day, Miss Stuart. I look forward to this evening.”
He shut the door, and Stuart—or rather, Cassandra Calabrese, also known as Sir Clive Urquhart’s mistress, Susanna Morgan—returned to the window, certain that she could hear the clanging of fire brigade bells.
“Do you smell smoke, Mrs. Winstead?”
“No, Miss,” answered the stern nurse. “Should I?”
“I don’t know,” the young woman replied as she loosened her auburn braids. As she brushed the long hair, Violet noticed dark roots, which had grown to nearly an inch. Both the doctor and Winstead had commented on the colour difference.
Why would I dye my hair? she wondered. Who am I, really? And why do I smell fires that don’t exist?
Winstead poured a teaspoon of elixir. “This isn’t for sleep, but will help to calm you. Once you’ve finished breakfast, I’d be pleased to show you the charity closets. They’re on the floor above, next to Miss Grantham’s apartment.”
“Oh, yes, thank you. I’d like that,” Violet replied, her eyes still on the mirror. “Might I ask a favour, Mrs. Winstead?”
“Certainly,” the nurse answered as she shut the window.
“Do you know anything about hair dye?”
Winstead showed no sign of condemnation. “I do indeed. I learnt it from my sister, in fact. She’s lady’s maid to a baronet’s wife and tints her mistress’s grey hair. Would you like to keep the auburn, or do you prefer returning to your natural shade, Miss Stuart?”
“Which do you think would look best?”
“Dark hair and brown eyes go well together, I think.”
“But do men prefer red locks? Lord Salperton, for instance. Does he like auburn hair, or might he prefer a dark shade?”
“I believe most gentlemen prefer women in their God-given hair colour,” she answered plainly, making a mental note to mention the patient’s comment to the doctor. “If you wish, I can send one of the kitchen maids to purchase a box of henna powder from the Fulham chemist. That and a cup of strong coffee ought to return your dark hair to you, Miss.”
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