“Very good, sir,” the youth replied, leaving the table.
The prince’s full lips widened into a sneer. “It’s my understanding that a wedding is planned. Congratulations! You finally won the fair duchess’s hand.”
Paul counted to ten before replying. “My cousin is the victor, actually. The Marquess of Haimsbury. I’m not sure you’ve ever met.”
“I shall seek him out,” the prince said, glancing at di Specchio. “Won’t I, Serena? Perhaps, you and I shall attend the ceremony, arm in arm, eh? Elizabeth did not choose you,” he continued, his gaze returning to Aubrey. “It must gall you. Tell me, how does it feel to be spurned by the duchess? Rather stings, doesn’t it?”
Stuart leaned forward, his voice low. “I know what you did to her, Grigor. If you ever touch her again, I will kill you.”
Razarit threw his head back in mockery. “Is that so? You and your cousin are certainly two of a kind! Oh, didn’t he mention it? Charles Sinclair and I have already met, you see. He threatened me as well, but neither of you frightens me.”
“Then you’re a fool as well as a coward, for only a man with no backbone strikes a woman!”
“Now, now, gentlemen,” the countess cautioned, “must we make a scene in so public a place? If hot words must be exchanged, then there are other ways to settle your disagreement.”
“Name the place,” Aubrey said foolishly.
Grigor remained calm. “Are you so eager to die? I am far more powerful than you can possibly imagine, Lord Aubrey.”
“Shall we take this outside and find out?” Stuart suggested. “I haven’t fired my weapon all week.”
“Do you really think that bullets affect me?” Grigor taunted. “Ask Sir Robert Morehouse if material weaponry is of use when battling my kind.”
Di Specchio tried to intercede, fearing Anatole Romanov’s reaction were any harm to befall the earl in her presence. “We have no need for such trifles, Rasha. You are better than ten Scottish earls! He isn’t worth your time.”
The prince stood. “Indeed. Forgive me, Lord Aubrey. I have an appointment elsewhere, but I promise to return to this conversation very soon. And when I do, I shall not be alone.”
“Let’s finish it now,” the Scotsman insisted, his jaw set.
Razarit snapped his fingers, and the room grew still, populated only by human statues. Paul felt his arms turn to lead weights. He was frozen, unable to move.
“Do not tempt fate, my Scottish friend. I could slice your throat right here, right now, and you would be powerless to stop me,” the demonic hybrid whispered, bending close to Aubrey’s ear.
Unaffected by the parlour trick, di Specchio looked all about for signs of Romanov. “Rasha! Are you mad? If Anatole finds out, he will slice your throat, and you know it! Even your father’s intercession will avail nothing, if Anatole chooses to punish you!”
“Romanov does not frighten me. My father is far more powerful than that blind traitor! He grows slow and stupid in his dotage!”
“And you risk eternal death, if he learns of your actions,” she reminded him. “Now, release the earl before we all end up in chains.”
Grigor’s breathing slowed, his intense eyes returning to their normal hue. “You owe the countess your life, Scotsman. Now, finish your whisky and your conversation with the American. I have work elsewhere this night.” The hybrid entity’s body thinned, like a fading shadow, and in the blink of an eye, both Razarit Grigor and Serena di Specchio had vanished.
The sudden blare of ribald conversation and stage music struck Paul’s ears like a clap of thunder, and he fell against the table, his muscles suddenly unlocked as time once more moved forward.
Morgan rushed to his aid, genuine concern in her voice. “Paul! Good gracious! Are you all right?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” he told her, though he felt anything but fine. The earl had never in his life experienced such a supernatural event, and it rattled him to the core. “I should go.”
“No, you aren’t going anywhere. You sit down, now! Come on, let me help you,” she insisted, taking his arm. “Do you need a doctor?”
“No, Susanna, I’m fine, but I will sit with you for a moment,” he answered, allowing her to lead him back to the table. She seemed deeply worried, which surprised the earl. “Perhaps, there’s more to you than I thought,” he said as she handed him the half-empty whisky glass.
“What just happened?” she asked. “One minute I saw you talking to that man and some woman in red, and the next you were collapsing against an empty table. Where did they go?”
“To hell, no doubt. Did you know him?”
“Yes,” she whispered, “but don’t ask me to say anything about him, Paul. I can’t.”
“You can. You will. Susanna, if you truly wish me to trust you, then tell me all you know about that man and his femme fatale courtesan.”
She returned to her chair. “Promise you won’t tell Clive?”
“I promise. Now, speak.”
Morgan looked all about, her hazel eyes scanning for signs of Redwing. “I don’t know much about her. Serena di Specchio, I think. I met her only once, in company with a Russian.”
“Anatole Romanov.”
She nodded. “Yes. He and the man you want to know about are related, I think. Through a third foreigner named Raziel Grigor. Prince Razarit Grigor is his adopted son. I first met Razarit at Clive’s home, perhaps six months back. He seemed exciting at first. Genteel manners with a hard edge to them. More like the men I knew in Chicago. One night, though, Clive was entertaining some of his more influential, government friends, and Razarit arrived late. I remember it, because I’d decided to leave. It was almost two in the morning, but Clive insisted I stay. Sir William was also there that night.”
“Trent?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice filled with intense regret. “I detest that man, Paul. He’s coarse and vulgar and evil. He and Razarit hit it off as if they’d been pals from long ago, and before I knew it, all three—Clive, Trent, and this supposed prince—had decided that I was to be their personal plaything for the night.” She grew quiet, her eyes downcast. “I don’t claim to be pure as the driven or anything. I’m not, but they forced me to do things, that...” her words stuck in her throat, and tears formed on her lashes. Morgan sniffed, embarrassed by the display of emotion. “Sorry. I hadn’t intended to do that.”
The earl touched her hand gently. “You don’t have to finish the story, Susan. I think I can guess what they did to you, and I’m very sorry. Not all men are like that.”
She began to weep, and he could see that it was not pretense. “There, there, now,” he said, wiping her face with his handkerchief.
“Clive will kill me if he learns I’ve said anything.”
“He’ll learn nothing from me. Do you have a place to go, where you might avoid him?”
She shook her head. “No, I’ve no one and no other home. I lost contact with my father when I left Chicago. I’ve no money without Clive. He owns my home, and he owns me. He’ll send all the resources he can muster to find me, if I ever leave. I know far too many of his secrets.”
“Then, we’ll have to secure you where he will never think to look. Go to the Carlton Hotel and ask for the manager. His name is Spencer. Tell him that I sent you, and that you’re to have my suite for as long as you want.”
“You don’t have to do that, Paul,” she said. “Really.”
“Yes, I do. Really. Go there tonight. Now,” he said, handing her ten pounds. “Take a hired coach, but don’t register under Morgan or your real name, for that matter.”
She blinked. “What do you mean? Morgan is my real name.”
“No, it isn’t. You were born Cassandra Calabrese. Your father is Antonio Calabrese, and he works with the Chicago branch of Redwing. I’ve known it for many months now, and I’d hoped you’d admit
it on your own. No, no, you needn’t explain,” he said kindly. “We’ll discuss it tomorrow. Come now, I’ll walk you outside and get you a coach. Or you can go with me in a hansom, if you’re afraid to travel alone.”
“I don’t know what to say,” she told him. “This makes no sense. You’re part of the inner circle! My father told me that you and your family use people for your own ends. That all you want is to put one of your own on the throne of England. I’m the enemy, Paul! Why would you treat me with such kindness?”
“Because you need kindness, and the last thing we want is to assume England’s throne,” he said, helping her to stand. “Come now. Remember. Spencer at the Carlton. Use any false name you wish, and I’ll make sure you’re safe.”
“Lorena MacKey is staying at the Langham Hotel,” she confessed as they walked towards the exit. “Suite 512. She goes by the name Elaine Michaels and has changed her hair colour. Dyed it blonde.”
“Thank you, Susanna.”
Once they’d reached the lobby, a uniformed usher held open the door, and the two left the Egyptian just as Hamish Granger approached the entry.
“Granger, what on earth are you doing here?” Aubrey asked.
“Lord Haimsbury insisted I fetch you, sir. I believe he requires your presence.”
“Is the duchess all right?”
“She is well, sir, and sleeping, I’m told. Lord Haimsbury did not say more.”
Paul considered the situation for a moment. “Very well, but first, we take this woman to the Carlton Hotel. It’s on Waterloo.”
“I’m familiar with it, sir. Ma’am, if you’ll step into the coach?” the driver said as they reached the brougham.
Morgan sat next to the earl, and as the pair of bays moved forward, she wiped her eyes with his handkerchief. “I only have about quarter of an hour before we reach the hotel, but I’ll use it wisely. I want to tell you what I know about Redwing and their plans. And I think it explains just what’s been going on in Whitechapel.”
Charles Sinclair stared in shock as the unwelcome phantom seeped through the crack beneath the locked window. Elizabeth’s eyes stood open, but her rhythmic breathing and slack limbs made it clear that she still slept. The detective advanced towards the intruder, his right hand on the pistol he’d removed from the shoulder holster.
“Do you bleed?” he whispered to the man shape.
The Thing’s wispy hands moved towards the sleeping peeress, but paused near the everpresent Bible that sat atop her nightstand.
“That is a barrier you cannot cross, isn’t it?” Sinclair said, stepping closer. “God’s Holy Word.”
“God’s book of lies,” the shadow hissed as it tried to find a way around the Bible.
“If you touch her, I will find a way to remove you from this world permanently.”
The amorphous Thing turned, slowly transforming into a familiar shape—solidifying into a man whom Charles Sinclair had been pursuing since 1879.
Sir William Trent.
“Good evening, Superintendent,” the baronet said, brushing a bit of grime from his gloves. “How very nice to see you again after so long a time. I’ve anxiously awaited this encounter. Dreamt of it, you might say. Shall we dance?”
Charles did not flinch. “I fear my dance card is already full, but, if you want to speak with me, then you may do so outside. Leave her now, or I shall make sure you never walk this earth again.”
Trent smiled, his light grey eyes narrowing. “And how would you do that? The pistol you carry does nothing to my kind. Your feeble attempts to harm me will ever fail, Prince Charles.”
“Why do you and your demonic fellowship call me that?”
Trent left the bedside, avoiding any contact with the Bible, and then stepped towards the parlour, passing through the open door and into the darkened interior of the sitting room.
Sinclair followed and shut the connecting door.
“Tell me, Charles, did you enjoy sleeping with her?” he asked. “I have always imagined how satisfying that must be. How very erotic and intense. Sublime indeed. Elizabeth has a perfect body, don’t you think?”
It took considerable effort, but Charles fought the urge to strike the intruder, to rip the lying, black tongue from his deceitful mouth. “I think you’re weak, if you want to know the truth. It is easy to prey upon women. If you want a real challenge, then, touch that Bible. You cannot, can you? The gospel of Christ is anathema to one like you. It burns.”
“I used to collect photographs of Elizabeth,” the shadowy figure replied, ignoring the challenge. “How I enjoyed looking at them in the quiet of an evening! Imagining her—picturing myself with her. Hearing her breathe in my ear. Ah, yes, I can see from the expression on your face that you know what I mean, Charles. That lovely whisper of breath as you touch her soft skin...”
The baronet paused, as if waiting. Sinclair said nothing, but instead, shut his eyes tightly, silently praying for strength and wisdom.
“Not even a slight response?” Trent asked. “Not the tiniest spark of moral outrage? You disappoint me, Detective. She’s a pretty thing,” he quoted. “That’s what you said the very first time you saw her, isn’t it? All those years ago. And so she is. Pretty, I mean. Very pretty. Even as a girl, those dark eyes enticed. She had an innate light which draws one into her orbit like a moth to a flame. Are you happy, little moth? Do your wings feel her heat? Are you mesmerised by her hot flame? Careful, lest you burn,” he continued, moving about the room as if he owned it.
Suddenly, it occurred to Sinclair that Trent had been inside this room before, not once, but perhaps many times whilst married to Patricia. He must have a key! Is it possible that the doors were never rekeyed after her death?
“Still no reply, little moth?” he asked, sneering. “You have me to thank for your current state of bliss. Had I not left Elizabeth and her foolish mother upon Commercial Street, you’d be living an entirely different life now. In fact, you’d probably be dead.”
Charles ignored the comments. The hybrid creature’s intent was to unsettle him and muddle his mind, and the detective had no intention of granting the baronet the satisfaction. “You keep avoiding my question, Trent. Why do you and Rasha call me Prince Charles?”
“Because, it is your true title,” he answered, returning to the fireplace. “I call you that out of respect.”
Sinclair laughed, carefully keeping his voice low to avoid waking Elizabeth. “You call me that because it pleases you, Trent. You respect no one, and you have no permission to enter these rooms or this house; so leave.”
“Once, I had free rein to roam this house anytime I wished. And I left items here and there. Perhaps, you’ll discover them over time—but will it be in time, I wonder? Oh, but you look so very lost, little moth. You grow weary of this exhausting maze, don’t you, Detective?”
“What maze is that?” Sinclair asked, still praying.
“The one made of blood! A tortuous course that twists and turns, this way and that. You must despair of ever solving the mystery.” Trent’s head tilted to one side, and he swiped at his silvering moustache with one finger. “Tell you what. As you are a friend, beginning tonight, I grant you an exit from this taxing catacomb. The ritual nears its end, and your overworked policemen deserve a rest; particularly poor, bumbling Warren. Such a troubled soul. He blames himself for London’s current calamities, but it was always meant to be. Warren merely served as a means to an end; that is all.”
“You imply that the murders in the east are rituals. Perhaps, you take credit for someone else’s actions,” Sinclair suggested, choosing to disregard the references to Warren.
“Nonsense! The murders belong to me—well, to me and my friends, that is. The crimes form a single, blood-forged link within a long chain of incantations. One phase of a dark, proscribed necromantic ritual that reaches back more than five thousand years. I shall m
iss them, you know. I find them absolutely invigorating! The screams of the women are a delight to one’s ear; don’t you agree?”
Sinclair nearly swung, but he managed to restrain his arm. “What you find delightful is reprehensible to sane men.”
“Yes, I’m fully aware of that,” the other replied. “Did Elizabeth tell you about her childhood? All those times that she provided entertainment for me and my debauched friends?”
The detective’s fist clenched and unclenched, itching to connect with the baronet’s face. “What do you want, Trent? Just why are you here?”
“I want so many things, but there is always a cost. Paid in blood, which brings me back to our revels. Tonight, our current ritual ends, and the players must take their bow, but before that great moment—our company shall provide you a theatrical pièce de résistance that will leave London breathless! Look to a tiny flat near Dorset, Detective. I shall see you again very soon. Shining like the dawn.”
As the little dog clock on the mantel began to strike the hour of eleven, Trent’s figure winked out of sight, and Charles heard two things: the sharp barking of Victoria’s dog beyond the closed door that led into the hallway, and Elizabeth calling his name.
“Captain! Charles, please, answer me!” she shouted, and he rushed back into the bedchamber to make sure the hybrid fiend hadn’t harmed her.
“I’m here, little one. I’m here,” he said sweetly, taking her into his arms. “It’s all right. You’re safe. Hush now. It was a dream. Only a dream. Nothing more.” She seemed half asleep, and he caressed her face with one hand whilst holding her with the other. “I’m here, my love. There’s nothing to fear.”
Samson’s persistent scratching finally paid dividends as Alicia Mallory opened the door. The determined animal rushed into the bedroom and leapt upon the bed. The maid followed, but paused inside the open doorway.
“Begging your pardon, sir, I thought you were still downstairs with the duke. I’m very sorry! I was turning down the bed in Lady Victoria’s apartment, and I heard the duchess cry out,” she blustered, completely embarrassed at finding the engaged couple in so intimate a pose.
The Blood Is the Life Page 7