Her Majesty's Necromancer

by C. J. Archer

  I hurried to the parlor and bobbed a curtsy to Lady Harcourt. Without raising my chin, I announced that luncheon was ready. "If you'd like to make your way to the dining room, I'll serve soup in a moment."

  "What happened to your nose?" Lady Harcourt asked. "It's black."

  So much for keeping my head low. "It's shoe polish."

  "That stuff is difficult to remove."

  "Yes, thank you," I said tightly.

  "How did you manage to get it on your nose?" Lincoln asked. His voice sounded light, almost amused.

  "Seth did it."

  His jaw hardened. If he had been amused, he certainly wasn't now.

  Lady Harcourt arched her brows at him, and I half-expected her to say "See?" but she said nothing. No doubt she thought I was flirting with Seth and he with me. She'd not wanted me to live in a house full of men. Apparently she didn't trust them or me. I'd thought it presumptuous of her at first, but now that I'd had time to think about it, I'd decided it said more about her than us. Not that I would dare say so to her face. One did not accuse a lady of having loose morals.

  I returned to the kitchen then delivered the soup to the dining room. Gus arrived home during the next course, and I served him up a steaming bowl. He gulped the soup down and asked for more before I'd had time to clear away the dishes in the dining room.

  "I'm glad to see you have a healthy appetite," I told him as I finally sat down with Cook for our own lunch. "I was worried about you, out in the rain the other night."

  "That's kind of you, Charlie," he said, "but a bit o' rain never hurt no one."

  I wasn't so sure about that. I'd seen children die from being out in the cold and wet too long. "Fitzroy explained everything that happened last night?"

  "Aye. Seems you had an adventure." He accepted the bowl and dipped his spoon in. "You're braver than me, calling up the dead like that."

  "Bravery has nothing to do with it. It was simply necessary. Did you see anyone who matched the captain's description at the cemetery?"

  He shook his head. "Not a soul."

  Lincoln joined us after Lady Harcourt departed and briefly questioned Gus too. Then he ordered me to join him in the parlor.

  "I have to wash up," I told him.

  "Later."

  Once in the parlor, he shut the door and rounded on me. I had no difficulty deciphering his emotions on this occasion. He was definitely mad. All that was missing was the steam rising from his ears.

  I gulped. "Have I done something wrong?" I tossed my head to counteract the pathetic smallness of my voice. I hadn't done anything to deserve his sudden coldness.

  "You visited Lady Harcourt and asked her about Gurry."

  I'd forgotten about that. "She told you?" The traitor! So much for thinking we had an understanding and she'd keep silent. I shouldn't have assumed.

  He stepped closer to me so that we were mere inches apart. I could smell the scent of his soap, feel the vibrations of his anger. "Why did you go to her?"

  "I needed to know who Mr. Gurry was and why you killed him."

  "Needed to know?"

  The force of his glare pushed me a step back. I gripped the wing of the nearby armchair and tried to muster a show of righteous defiance, but it wasn't easy when I didn't believe I was in the right. He had every reason to be angry with me but, in my defense, I had every reason to know the truth. "It's only fair that I know what the other people living here have done in the past."

  "Is it?" he ground out.

  I tilted my chin. "Yes. You murdered Mr. Gurry, Mr. Fitzroy. By all accounts, he begged you for mercy and you still killed him." With so many other things on my mind, I'd forgotten about Gurry, but now it all rushed back to me. Lincoln had done something so awful that I shouldn't have set it aside so easily, and yet I had. I'd closed my eyes to that side of him and only seen what I wanted to see—a good, if somewhat emotionless, man. But I knew that only a fool closed her eyes to such a heinous crime. I hated that I could be such a fool.

  I took a step away from him and rubbed my cold arms.

  "And has this knowledge helped you in any way?" he snapped.

  "It's made me more aware of the man you are."

  He went very still. Not even his chest moved with his breathing. "Do not presume that it tells you anything about me."

  "I don't. Chiefly because I believe there must be a reason why you did what you did. Lady Harcourt didn't know what that reason was, however. She only told me that he was your tutor."

  He searched my face. What did he hope to see in it? Whatever it was, he must have been disappointed, because he turned his back to me. "You should have come to me," he said in that quiet, calm voice that meant he'd reined in his temper, but only just. It was still simmering below the surface, ready to explode at any moment.

  "Would you have told me? Will you tell me now?"

  His broad shoulders rose and fell. "I…can't." He strode out of the parlor.

  I sagged against the armchair, feeling battered and bruised by the encounter. While I felt sick for being found out, I only regretted trusting Lady Harcourt, not searching for answers. There had to be a good reason for Lincoln to have killed that man, Gurry. But if so, why wouldn't he tell me?

  Or was I wrong, and the only explanation was that the tutor had brought out the violent monster inside Lincoln; the one he managed to keep well-hidden most of the time.

  CHAPTER 7

  I didn't see Lincoln again for the remainder of the afternoon. I dusted the entire house until Gus fetched me to train with him. Apparently Lincoln had given him instructions to do so. Seth was still out. The gloomy day promised rain so I suggested we use the ballroom again.

  The exercise helped clear my head and distract me from the conversation with Lincoln. By the time we'd completed moves that were designed to strengthen me, I had completely set it aside. I rarely trained with anyone other than Lincoln, so it was good to go up against Gus. He was a scrappier fighter, his footwork not as polished as either Lincoln or Seth's, and that made him somewhat less effective. I was able to extricate myself from his headlock and send him crashing to the floor by the end of the session.

  Cook applauded from where he sat on the covered table. "You made a bored man very happy, Charlie." He grinned at me. "I been wantin' to set him on his arse since I met him."

  Gus got to his feet and dusted off his hands. "She would do it to you in half the time, you oversized slab of lard."

  That only had Cook grinning wider. He hopped off the table. "Want to learn how to throw a knife so it always hit its target?"

  I'd seen how accurate his knife throwing was. He'd planted a meat cleaver into Anselm Holloway's shoulder when my adoptive father had attacked me in the courtyard. It would be a useful skill. "Yes, please."

  "We should run it by Death first," Gus warned.

  "He ain't here," Cook said, signaling for me to follow him out the door.

  "Why wouldn't he want me to learn to throw knives?" I asked.

  Gus fell into step alongside me as we trotted down the stairs. "He will, when he feels you're ready."

  "Why aren't I ready now?"

  He sighed. "I don't know. All I know is, he hasn't given permission."

  "Stop worrying, Gus. It's not like you."

  We headed out to the courtyard at the back of the house. It was an area set aside for receiving deliveries and for the servants to use as a recreational space during their spare time. Although I'd sat on the bench seat and read often during the early weeks of my arrival, the colder weather had driven me indoors lately.

  "There be any wooden barrels in the stables?" Cook asked Gus.

  "Aye, but you can't use those. They'll be no good to anyone if you put holes in 'em. There's some spare planks in the carriage house."

  He disappeared into the building adjoining the stables, while Cook returned to the kitchen. They both emerged a few minutes later, wooden planks and knives in hand.

  Gus set three planks up on their ends and leaned them aga
inst the wall of the storehouse at one side of the courtyard. Next he drew a smiling face on the middle one with chalk. "A point if you hit the face. Extra if you get an eye."

  He joined us and Cook handed me a knife. "The heavy end be thrown first," Cook said. "A knife with a heavier blade than handle should be held by the handle. One with a heavier handle, hold it by the blade. What's yours? Blade or handle heavy?"

  I tested its weight by balancing it on my palm. "Neither."

  "Good. It be a balanced knife. Best for beginners. Mine be blade heavy." He gripped his by the handle and I did the same, taking careful note of where he placed his fingers and thumb. "Don't hold it too tight or too loose. Now put your left foot forward, but keep your weight on the right. Bend your arm. Not so close or you'll cut your ear." He adjusted my arm for me. "Move your weight onto your front leg, unbend your arm, and release the knife when it be fully stretched out. Watch me."

  He did everything he'd just instructed me but in rapid motion. The knife lodged in the eye Gus had drawn.

  Gus whooped and clapped.

  "Where did you learn to do that?" I asked Cook.

  "My pa taught me. He were a knife thrower with a travelin' troupe of carnival folk. They performed at country fairs and the like."

  "You didn't follow in his footsteps?"

  "For a bit, aye, but the travelin' life weren't for me."

  "How did you come to be here at Lichfield?"

  "I were assistant cook for Lord Gillingham."

  I pulled a face. Gillingham was one of the committee members and he'd made it abundantly clear that he didn't like me. What wasn't clear was whether he didn't like me because I was a necromancer, had lived on the streets, or both. "He stole you from Gillingham?"

  "Gillingham dismissed me, the little turd."

  "Why?"

  "Thought I'd been drinkin' the wine from his cellar on the sly, but it weren't me. Were his cook, but the cook blamed me. The cook were jealous because I cooked a meal for his lordship's guests one night when he were sick, and they all thought it were the best they ever had."

  "Did you defend yourself and tell Lord Gillingham you didn't drink the wine?"

  "Course, but then the cook found out I been to jail for theivin' a few years back, and there were no hope I could stay after that. Ain't no one who wants a thief in their house."

  "Except Mr. Fitzroy," I said wryly. I'd also been a thief and had only escaped jail by raising a dead man's spirit and frightening the guards. "Did Fitzroy feel sorry for you and decide to employ you here?"

  Both Cook and Gus snorted. "He don't feel sorry for nobody," Cook said. "He employ me because I the best cook in London."

  Gus rolled his eyes.

  "Go on, Charlie," Cook said. "Your turn."

  I set my feet apart like he'd shown me and held the knife near my head, arm bent. I released it in a smooth motion. It missed all the planks and bounced off the brick wall. "What did I do wrong?" I asked, going to retrieve it.

  "Your aim be off."

  "I gathered that. Anything else?"

  "Maybe stand closer. You be weaker than me."

  I came in another foot from my previous position and set myself up again. I was just about to release it when Lincoln rode into the courtyard on his horse.

  "What is this?" he growled, dismounting.

  Gus rushed over to gather the reins.

  "Target practice." I held up the knife and indicated the planks. "Cook is teaching me how to throw them to wound someone."

  "I didn't give permission."

  "It was only a little practice. Why do we need your permission?"

  "Because I am your employer." He stalked into the house, flinging his cloak from his shoulders.

  I handed the knife to Cook, rolled my eyes, and went after Lincoln. "That is not a reason."

  "You need to learn to obey my orders, Charlie. You all do. If you want to help with ministry business then you need to learn to do as I tell you. I can't have you all going off in different directions on a sudden whim. It's imperative you do as I say, or plans will fall apart."

  I quickened my pace to keep up with him. "While that does sound reasonable, we are simply training here at Lichfield. We're not out on ministry business. I think you're over-reacting."

  He suddenly stopped and rounded on me. "Do you? Then you won't be surprised to learn that I'll dismiss Cook."

  "What? You can't!"

  He walked off again. "He should know better."

  We'd reached the stairs now and I was beginning to breathe heavily from the effort of following him. "You're being unreasonable."

  He said nothing, just took the stairs two at a time.

  "Mr. Fitzroy, slow down." He didn't. "This is absurd. I won't let you dismiss him. He won't get another position in a large house, not with his history."

  "You have no say in the matter. You're a maid."

  "I don't care!" I shouted, stopping on the landing. "Dismiss me too, if you will. It was my fault, after all. I asked him to instruct me." I resisted the urge to look back down to see if Gus and Cook were listening and would tell Lincoln that wasn't true.

  "He should know better," he said again. He didn't sound quite so angry, and I suspected I was getting through to him.

  "You'll regret this tomorrow."

  "Will I?" He came back down the stairs toward me, but remained on the step above so that I had to crane my neck to look at him. "You presume to know me that well?"

  I stepped up beside him and folded my arms. "I think I do, yes."

  The muscles high in his jaw bunched. "You're wrong, Charlie. You don't know me at all."

  "Bollocks."

  His eyes narrowed.

  I took his silence as permission to continue. "I do know you will regret speaking to me like this. I also know you'll regret dismissing Cook."

  "Why would I?"

  "He's a bloody good cook, for one thing. His sponge cakes are delicious. More to the point, it would be several days before we could replace him, and you do not want to eat my cooking. I imagine Seth and Gus are equally inept in the kitchen. Cook also saved my life. So, please," I said, softer, "keep him on. It was a trifling thing he did, after all."

  He placed his hands behind his back and regarded me from beneath heavy-lidded eyes. "Why are you so intent on defying me lately?"

  I baulked. "Am I?" I shook my head. "I disagree."

  He ached a brow.

  "Yes, well, while that does sound insolent, I would hardly call standing up for Cook defiant. You never said not to learn how to throw knives. I actually don't see the problem with it."

  "I will oversee your training. Not Seth, or Gus, or Cook."

  "You weren't here."

  "And I will not have my staff going against my orders," he said, walking up the stairs again.

  "You never actually gave a direct order not to teach me knife throwing."

  He paused and glanced over his shoulder at me.

  I shrugged. "If you're going to be particular about this then so will I."

  He marched up the stairs again. "Tell Cook he can stay," he tossed back. "He's fortunate to have you as his champion."

  ***

  Lincoln didn't join us for dinner, but came downstairs afterward and announced he was heading out to Mr. Lee's Lower Pell Lane establishment.

  "Again?" I asked, setting aside my mending.

  "There is no again. I haven't been yet." He threw on his riding cloak and picked up the gloves he'd set on the kitchen table.

  "I thought that's where you were this morning."

  He shook his head without looking at me. Indeed, he'd not met my gaze since entering.

  Gus yawned and slumped further into the chair. "So where were you this morning?"

  "The orphanage in Kentish Town." Upon my quiet gasp, he finally met my gaze. "I asked Mr. Hogan, the administrator, if he'd kept a copy of the letter he'd received from the person inquiring after your adoption."

  "And?"

  "And he hadn't. Nor
could he recall where he sent the response. If he were my employee, I'd dismiss him for ineptitude."

  "He must receive a lot of correspondence." I picked up my sewing again to hide my disappointment. "Thank you for trying. I know you're very busy."

  I wasn't aware he'd moved closer until his gloved hand rested on the table in my line of sight. "Someone wants to know more about your origins, Charlie. They're possibly even searching for you."

  "We don't know that certain."

  "No."

  "If they wanted to know where I'm living, they could simply question Anselm Holloway. It's not like he's difficult to find, locked away in a jail cell." I glanced up at him. "I won't live here as a prisoner."

  "I know."

  His response surprised me, after his earlier over-reaction. Then it had seemed as if he were trying to protect me to the point of being unreasonable, but now I wasn't so sure.

  "Will you take one of the men with you?" I asked.

  "Seth is still out and Gus can't stay awake."

  Gus grunted and sat up straight. "I'm awake!"

  Cook snorted.

  "Besides, I don't wish to alert Mr. Lee to my interest," Lincoln said. "A single gentleman whom he already knows can make discreet inquiries. An entourage will raise questions and shackles."

  "Why have you been to Mr. Lee's before?"

  "Why does anyone go to Lee's? Don't wait up for me. I'll probably be out all night."

  I blinked at his back as he walked away. Once he'd left the kitchen, I turned to Gus. "Did you know he'd been to an opium den before?"

  "No, but nothing about him surprises me," Gus said, settling back down into the chair.

  "Aye," Cook chimed in from where he sat beside me. "Best not to think about all the places our leader has been. He be a worldly sort."

  Worldly was one thing, but frequenting an opium house was quite another. There was only one reason to go to a place like Lee's—to smoke opium.

  I returned to the mending, wondering if I would get any sleep at all as I alternately pondered this new piece of information and worried about him. One thing would help me rest easier, however—he seemed to have calmed down and forgiven Cook for the knife-throwing incident.

  ***