“He might at that, my lady. Conny’s a right smart animal.”
“Do you think he’ll be ready for the dressage exhibition next March?”
“He’s ready now, my lady. My boy Andrew’s been takin’ him ‘round the arena most every day. Oh, Conny’s got a mighty pretty step. High an’ elegant. You’ll win again, I reckon.”
Beth laughed. “That would be quite remarkable, Mr. Powers! The judges told me last year that I may only demonstrate in future, as I’ve won five years running, thanks to the bloodlines my father started.”
“I reckon it’s your ability as rider what’s won the awards, my lady, not just the horses. I never seen anyone, man nor woman, as competent and graceful as you.”
“You are kind to say so,” she told him, handing a cube of sugar to the horse. “I’ll take him ‘round the park, I think, rather than into the arena. Let him see something different for a change before the rain begins again. Those clouds above look quite threatening.”
Powers set a wooden stool onto the sawdust and straw covered floor, and then steadied her left foot as she mounted. Once situated, Beth took the smooth leather reins into her gloved hands and gently pressed the animal’s right flank with her knee, signalling him to move left.
“Come along, Conny,” she said, using the animal’s nickname. “Let’s see what you can do.”
In a few moments, horse and rider were trotting towards Queen Anne Park’s large pond, the autumn breeze blowing through the duchess’s unbound hair. She loved feeling the wind tease at her scalp, as if unseen fingers combed through her dark locks. Ordinarily, Elizabeth would never let her hair flow loosely whilst riding, but as there were no tree limbs or other obstructions anywhere near the bridle path, she had decided to enjoy the ride to the utmost.
The horse’s smooth gait formed a perfect union with Elizabeth’s gentle manner of riding. Her father had taught her to allow a horse to make as many choices as he preferred, exerting mastery only when required, so that the animal might relish the ride as much as the rider. This team psychology approach had served Elizabeth well, both personally and in competition, for each horse grew to love her, and Connor’s Pride, like his grandsire Paladin, would do anything to please and protect his duchess.
As the pair came ‘round the spring house, the horse began to skitter, behaving strangely, as if not wanting to move forward. She pressed firmly against both flanks to urge him to advance, but he seemed disinclined to obey. Assuming the horse had a reason for the stubborn behaviour, Beth allowed him to stop completely, and then carefully dismounted. At only five foot two, the duchess had to drop carefully to the ground whilst holding onto the saddle’s cantle, but it was a manoeuvre she’d learnt long before when riding as a girl.
“It looks as if he’s unhappy,” a man’s voice spoke from a few feet away.
Elizabeth turned sharply, facing a tall individual with dark hair. Her heart quickened, for she recognised the man at once, and his sudden, unannounced appearance in the park struck her as deliberate, invasive, and most definitely unwanted.
The young man’s features rivalled that of an ancient Greek statue, for the regal brow, straight nose, and full lips gave him the aspect of a primordial god. His tall, muscular form was equally well proportioned, and he moved with purpose and grace, his light blue eyes piercing her own like a focused beacon made entirely of ice. He wore expensive clothing, but styled in a way that gave it an aged appearance, although the fabric was clearly new. His hair was thick and long, curling in soft spirals, and the sunshine upon the raven locks sparked with dazzling highlights of magenta, silver, and gold. His thick, black lashes made the almond eyes seem all the more mysterious and mesmerising. He was, in short, exceedingly beautiful.
Elizabeth, however, was not the least bit impressed. “What are you doing here?” she asked him angrily, her hand on the horse’s bridle.
The intruder stepped away from the tall, hawthorn hedges that bordered the spring house, bowing deeply in mock chivalry. “Looking for you, of course. Did you receive my letters?” he asked, his English accented strangely.
“You should not have sent them, Rasha. I gave you my answer in August. Asking again will not alter it.”
The handsome young man advanced towards the horse, but Connor’s Pride shied away, moving backwards several steps to avoid even crossing the stranger’s shadow. “Your horse is lame, I think,” the man said, pointing to the animal’s left knee, which had grown suddenly swollen.
Beth ignored the trespasser and bent to examine the horse’s leg. “Now, how did that happen?” she asked. “This knee looked perfectly fine only a moment ago. I don’t understand.”
“A sting, most likely. There are bees and large flies still buzzing about your gardens and paddocks. I saw several only a few moments ago. You must be careful, my little duchess. Do not get stung—or worse, bitten.”
Elizabeth stood and wiped bits of mud from her leather gloves. “I am always careful. So, I shall ask you again: why are you here?”
“Must you ask, when I’ve made no secret of my passions?” he said, taking her right hand in his. “Riding gloves are such a nuisance,” he whispered, pulling the gloves from her fingers. He bent forward, and she felt his warm lips upon her palm. “That’s better. Now, I can taste you.”
She pulled back the hand as if his lips burnt, her eyes wide. “How dare you!”
The creature laughed and reached out for the horse, but Connor’s Pride shied away once more, neighing as if to warn the duchess. “Animals have keen understanding beyond that of humans, I think. My heart has always been open to you, as are my arms. I ask only that you give me one more chance. A single hour to change your mind. Surely, you owe me that.”
“Why would you imagine that I owe you anything?” she asked, noting a strange coldness creeping up her right arm. “I’m going back to the stable, and if you refuse to leave, I shall have my men escort you from the property.”
“They would find themselves wishing they had never tried; assuming, I allowed them to see me at all,” he said, his voice filled with pride. “You have never seen the real me, Elizabeth, but you will. My true form is magnificent!” She tried to pull away, but he drew her close. “Do not tempt fate, little duchess. My pet longs for satisfaction, and he will have it. You remember him? The beast. You have seen him many times, my beautiful duchess.”
A fog entered her mind, and the park fell away. Trees vanished, and only a dense mist remained. All around her, the cries of wolves echoed against the walls of white vapour, and she could feel breath upon her face. The same, minor key music that played in her dream filled the air, and visions of death consumed her thoughts. Elizabeth saw the beast’s open mouth, filled with sharp teeth, its black gums bathed in blood.
She gasped, and when she opened her eyes, the intruder’s arms encircled her waist like twin snakes, crushing her like a vice. “Please, stop,” she begged the creature. “No more! Please, I beg you, Rasha. Leave me in peace!”
Rasha whispered into her ear, his voice raspy, but his words enticing. “Tonight, I will come to you. Wait for me, my beautiful duchess. When the bells of Westminster chime thrice, then I shall enter your chamber. Say nothing to your Scottish knights, for if you do, I shall let my hungry pet tear out their throats—and he’ll enjoy doing it.”
He kissed her lips, causing her to shiver, for it felt like being kissed by a dead man.
The dense fog lifted, and Elizabeth realised quite abruptly that she stood all alone upon the path. The horse nudged her shoulder, but the duchess continued to look up and down the bridle path, leaving the animal briefly whilst she walked all around the spring house. Though the pathway was marred by mud, she found no disturbance on the ground other than the horse’s and her own. No other prints could be found anywhere.
Where did he go? Was he even here? What just happened to me? Beth had a haunting, gnawing sense of danger,
a faint memory of speaking with Rasha, yet her mind refused to call up specifics, and she felt overpowered by a crushing sense of dread. Images of Paul and Charles lying dead upon the floor of a ballroom, their eyes empty, throats ripped open, blood covering the torn shreds of their fine clothing consumed her thoughts, causing her heart to pound like a hammer in her chest.
Faraway, in what seemed like another part of the world, a groom and two gardeners shouted, their voices growing ever closer. Men’s boots pounded the gravel and mud, and the horse pawed at the ground nervously, neighing as if trying to speak. Though she strained to reply, Elizabeth found she had no voice. She felt certain that something had gone terribly wrong with the world, a darkness had fallen upon it—and just before her body struck the ground, Elizabeth heard a man’s laughter and the cries of many wolves.
Chapter Five
“So, Mr. O’Brien, I understand that Inspector Reid has already spoken with you,” Sinclair began.
The superintendent sat across from the recalcitrant reporter, inside a lower level interrogation cell, both men on hard, armless chairs, spaced four feet apart upon a freshly mopped, flagstone floor. A recently installed, electric lighting fixture buzzed over their heads, and a light rain had begun to spatter against the panes of the cell’s solitary window. The earl stood in the corner of the cramped cell, saying little, watching his newfound cousin conduct the interview.
O’Brien appeared relaxed, but to prove it, he’d crossed his left leg over the right, the glossy left boot bouncing casually in feigned composure. “Oh, yes. Both Inspector Reid and Inspector Abberline have been quite commodious in their attentions. Rarely, have I been so pleasantly and thoroughly searched and prodded,” the reporter replied, tossing a wink at Reid. “I’d no idea H-Division had such generous hosts.”
O’Brien’s intentional slights to Reid and the police station had no effect on Sinclair. “I’ll book you a permanent room, if you wish it, Michael. Holidays at Leman Street. It might catch on.”
“It has a certain ring,” the reporter answered, determined not to reveal any sign of dismay.
Smiling, the marquess replied evenly, “I’m glad you approve. I shall mention the idea to your employer when next we meet. I wonder if T.P. O’Connor frequents the same men’s clubs as my family. Paul, have you ever seen The Star’s editor at any of the finer clubs on Pall Mall?”
“No,” the earl replied, his head tilted to one side. “Most of those clubs are reserved for men with genuine influence.”
“Ah, yes, that would be your new family, I suppose,” the reporter said, his eyes fixed on Sinclair. “I’d ask you about them for my next column, Superintendent, but it’s not easy to take notes with my hands manacled,” he added, lifting his hands into the air.
“Consider yourself lucky, Michael. Ordinarily, we manacle a prisoner’s hands behind his back during interrogations, not in front. I suppose it speaks to just how dangerous we consider you to be. You might even be free of them, if you would only answer my questions,” Sinclair replied. “I’ve read through your interviews with Inspector Reid, but it seems you’ve proven somewhat unreliable, or rather your memory has. Your constant reply is ‘I am sorry that I’m unable to recall,’ or some such nonsense. A reporter with such a poor memory risks unemployment, I should imagine. I take it that you still have no recollection of a man named Sir William Trent?”
This question surprised Aubrey, though his expression did not reveal it. In fact, the earl smiled. “A low-level hack like this would scarcely rate the attentions of an ambitious, well-connected man like Trent, Cousin.”
“Cousin?” O’Brien asked. “Ah, yes, I see. I’d thought you looked familiar, but your hair’s even more girlish than I recalled, and you’ve actually managed to grow a beard. Your uncle must be so proud. James Paul Stuart, the infamous Earl of Aubrey. A known fixture in London’s many circles and clubs, and a man of numerous faces and names. Which do you use today, my lord?”
Ignoring the man’s innuendo, Aubrey laughed, his clear blue eyes crinkling at the edges. “My real one, O’Brien. Which names do you use lately? Leon Dubinsky? Angelo Courtaggio? Ernest Whitaker? Probably not that last one, I imagine. Mr. Whitaker’s wanted for murder in Laredo, Texas, isn’t he?”
The reporter’s hazel eyes flew open wide. “What?” he gasped, before regaining control. He cleared his throat. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”
The earl casually withdrew an ivory-handled jackknife from his coat pocket and began to tap it against the bars of the window with his right hand. “I doubt that. The Texas Rangers take a very dim view of rape.”
All colour drained from O’Brien’s face, but he continued to bluster. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to Texas.”
The earl whispered to his cousin, and Charles’s mouth widened into a grin. “Really? Oh, now that is worthy of action, isn’t it? British police must endeavour to forge a cooperative link with our American brethren, after all. Perhaps, I should send a wire to the Rangers.”
Paul shrugged. “I could send word to my friends there. I rode with the Rangers a few years back. Long story. Don’t believe everything Captain McDonald might say.”
O’Brien stared at his shoes, his entire body having shrunk. “William Trent? Honestly, Lord Haimsbury, no one has asked me about such a man. Only about this mysterious fellow with a cane.”
Aubrey pressed the metal button that opened the jackknife, and he held it up so that the overhead lights glinted off the razor-sharp edge. “Laredo awaits you, Mr. O’Brien, if you do not reconsider your answer. I wonder how a man of your stature and disposition would fare in the relentless, Texas prison system. But that wouldn’t be a problem for long. Rape is a hanging offence in that glorious state, and they execute prisoners swiftly. Cleanly. Hardly hurts at all, I’m told, but then we cannot interview the dead. Can we?”
The reporter gulped. “Now that I think on it, I do know a man who calls himself William Trent, but he cannot be this man you seek, Superintendent. Surely not. He is a man of great influence with considerable compassion. Even for animals.”
Sinclair managed to maintain an exterior of calm. “Ah, yes, I’d imagine he might. Wild animals, in particular. So, how is it you know Sir William?”
“Our paths cross from time to time.”
“At Greasy Johnny’s, perhaps?” Reid asked from his position outside the cell. Sitting at a desk nearby, a constable used Pittman’s stenographic method to rapidly scribble the conversation, looking up occasionally.
“It may have been there, yes. As you know, I write a column about government events and interactions, and Greasy Johnny’s establishment attracts many men of influence. Whitehall to Whitechapel, so they say. One is much like the other for such men. Sir William sometimes accompanies politicians and peers alike to pleasure dens in the east. It’s a common enough pursuit, as I’m sure you are both aware.”
“Not personally, but I am familiar with such pursuits, as you put it,” Sinclair replied. “And you take notice of these activities and write about them, I imagine.”
“I do only as my employer directs me,” the prisoner replied stoically. “If there is a crime associated with that directive, then you must speak to Minister O’Conner about it.”
Aubrey laughed heartily. “Minister O’Connor! Now that has a chilling ring. Galway and Liverpool may cheer his Nationalist Party calls for Home Rule, but he’ll find few friends in Westminster. Behind those ragtag, Whiggish cheers, I hear the jingling of coins and whispers of anarchy—all the constituency such a man needs, and it seems that you also play in that orchestra, O’Brien. Charles, may I?” he asked, not wishing to intrude upon a police interrogation.
Sinclair rose and waved to his cousin. “Be my guest.”
Before commencing the interrogation, the earl had sent to Malcolm Risling’s office for a box file that bore O’Brien’s name, typewritten upon the exterior. Aubrey now handed t
hat file to his cousin as they exchanged places.
“Knowing Mr. O’Brien’s reputation for being less than cooperative, I thought this might be of use, Charles,” he told the detective. “I believe you’ll find it quite interesting. Particularly, beginning on the third page.”
Aubrey sat down opposite the reporter, taking several moments to gaze into the smaller man’s countenance, as if looking for signs of duress. “You’re sweating,” he said at last, the closed jackknife in his right hand. The earl shrugged his left shoulder, which was still protected by the dark blue sling.
“Troublesome, if not rather annoying, this old thing,” he said, pointing to the cloth sling. “I was shot last month, you see. Left for dead by some of Trent’s friends. It seems my conservative politics weren’t to his liking.”
O’Brien fought the urge to wipe at his face. “Yes, I’d heard about it. We are all grateful for your recovery, Lord Aubrey.”
Paul grinned, his blue eyes glinting in the artificial light. “Tell me, Mr. O’Brien, did you know that I am ambidextrous?”
The reporter appeared confused. “You’re what, sir?”
“Ambidextrous. I can write, box, fence, and even shoot a pistol with either hand. My father insisted I learn to do it when I was a boy, you see. I’d spend hours writing my name, the alphabet, sketching, even playing the violin with my right hand. I’m naturally left-handed, you know, but it’s quite remarkable what one can do if one applies one’s mind to it. You are also left-handed, I see. There is a callus on the proximal end of the distal phalange, just inside your digitus medius.”
“My what?”
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