The Carnelian Crow: A Stoker & Holmes Book (Stoker and Holmes 4)

by Colleen Gleason

  “It’s a pity that poor Mr. Dancy died,” Florence said, pausing for a moment to look genuinely sad. “He was such a pleasant and handsome young man.”

  Now my throat burned from unshed tears. Mr. Dancy. If there had been one man I might have considered considering for my husband, it would have been him.

  This can’t be happening.

  But it was.

  I managed to pen a desperate note to Mina without Flo looking over my shoulder (she was too busy picking out my jewelry). I gave it to Pepper, who would make certain it got delivered to the Holmes residence as soon as possible.

  Then I had no choice but to submit to my sister-in-law’s edict and get ready to choose a husband—all the while making certain she didn’t see the bite marks on my neck.

  I felt like I was going to puke.

  And that nauseated feeling hadn’t gone away when, less than two hours later, I was ensconced in the larger parlor to await my guests.

  Florence had pulled out all the stops and sent Pepper off to the market to get the expensive tea biscuits (Ballenger’s Biscuits for a Genteel Gathering), along with a stop at the pastry shop for the tiny pink shrimp and salmon cloud-cakes favored by the Queen. Florence had also arranged for one of Pepper’s cousins—he was a footman in an earl’s household—to come on his day off and help serve. That was to make it look like we had more staff than we actually did.

  My sister-in-law was sparing no expense to put on a good show, and a surge of guilt swirled with the nausea in my belly. She shouldn’t be spending all this money we didn’t have.

  But since she was, I had no choice but to do my best. It was in my power to keep us from getting thrown out of Grantworth House and sent back to Dublin.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be as terrible as I imagined. Hadn’t my great-grandmother Victoria Gardella gotten married? I wasn’t certain how that had worked, but surely she came up with a way to sneak out at night and do the necessary vampire hunting to keep London safe. After all, it was she who’d chased all of the UnDead out of the city seventy years ago. They hadn’t had the temerity to return until now.

  Which brought me to the curious—and troubling—information Mina had shared about the two marks she’d seen on the back of the vampire’s neck. The Ankh must be at her experiments again—which was another, more serious reason for me to not be sitting like a prize mare in the parlor, waiting to be examined and bid upon by a slew of possible husbands.

  Fury sliced through me. The Ankh had been right about one thing: why did women have to be subjected to the whims and will of men? Why did we have to sit neatly and quietly at home and sew and bear children (I shuddered at the thought) and run the household, while men were able to do whatever they wanted? Even have their own clubs? Live alone? Travel alone? Run businesses?

  The heat of anger and frustration—and fear—rose inside me, and I felt even more stifled by my restrictive corset (yet another atrocity inflicted on women by the men of society). I couldn’t breathe, and my head felt light…

  And then the parlor door opened and the first of our callers was announced.

  Florence gave me a meaningful look, and I rose. I probably greeted Mr. Broomall and his sister appropriately, but I don’t remember. It felt as if I were swimming underwater: everything was muted and slow. And I couldn’t breathe.

  I’d just begun to take my seat when the door opened again, and more guests entered: two more potential husbands.

  And then, moments later, another—this time with an elder sister and her friend accompanying him. And then a trio of candidates. And then another.

  It was hardly half past two and the parlor was crowded with nearly twenty people. Lady Veness had apparently come through with spreading the gossip, regardless of her personal motivations.

  I knew everyone at least by face, and mostly by name. I’d met all of them at one time or another, as there aren’t that many of us who move about in the higher levels of London Society. (I spared a moment of envy that the Holmeses weren’t part of this upper stratum of “peerage,” so Mina didn’t have to deal with being a broodmare on display.)

  Florence was beaming over the success of the event. The conversation in the chamber was so loud that I could only hear the people sitting near me. I don’t believe the parlor had ever been that filled with people. However, during the entire affair, I was constantly adjusting the unusually high, lacy neckline of my bodice to hide the marks on my neck.

  I received offers to attend the theater, to ride in St. James Park, and to attend Christmas fêtes and dances and dinner parties. Each activity would, of course, be chaperoned by sisters, mothers, or maids until I selected a husband and was formally engaged.

  Unfortunately, they were all a blur. Not one of the men I spoke with seemed like someone I’d want to spend the rest of my life with.

  Ugh. The very thought made my insides churn. The rest of my life? With one of the men in this room?

  That was far different than agreeing to take a carriage ride in the park, or attend a dinner party.

  As the door opened yet again, I thought desperately that this would be the perfect time for Pix to make one of his unexpected appearances. Where was the dratted man when I really needed him?

  I immediately thrust away that thought. I didn’t need Pix—or any other man—to save me. I would figure out this mess myself. And if I had to make the ultimate sacrifice—

  “Miss Stoker.”

  The voice came from behind me. I turned to discover that a man had maneuvered through the crowded room to position himself just behind the settee on which I was sitting. I gave him credit for being clever enough to approach from the rear while everyone else clustered around the table in front of me.

  I craned my head to look at him. The restriction of my corset didn’t readily allow me to twist, so I rose just enough to adjust my seat so I was facing the arm of the settee where he stood. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” I said, readjusting my blasted bustle on the seat. Although he did look familiar…

  He was a pleasant-looking man, and I could tell right away he was wealthy—based on the tailoring and stylishness of his clothing. He was quite a bit older than me—perhaps thirty—and boasted a head of wiry, sandy-brown hair. He wore long sideburns and a neat mustache. His gloves were spotless white, and he held a delicate cup of tea in one hand.

  “Ned Oligary,” he replied with a little bow. “At your service.”

  “Oligary?” I repeated, swiftly moving my hand out of the way when he leaned against the arm of the settee to lean closer.

  He gave a rueful smile. “My older brother is Emmett. I expect you’ve heard of him.”

  Who hadn’t heard of Emmett Oligary? The richest, most famous businessman in England—and possibly the Continent as well. The Oligary Building, with its sharp black spires that seemed to pierce the sky, was as much of a landmark as Big Ben and Westminster.

  I would never forget the Oligary Building, for that was the place I’d staked my very first vampire. At least, as far as I knew for certain. I had had a previous encounter, but I didn’t remember what actually happened. And Siri hadn’t been around for me to ask.

  “I’ve not only heard of your brother, I’ve met him,” I replied. “When the Betrovians were in town.”

  “I know.” Mr. Oligary’s eyes glinted. “At the welcome ball for the princess and her contingent. I attended as well. Unfortunately, I was unable to locate your dance folio, Miss Stoker, or we would have had the pleasure of officially meeting before now. I’m delighted to have rectified the matter today.”

  My cheeks warmed. I had hidden my dance card at the ball because I wanted to avoid as many dances as possible.

  “I’m honored to meet you—even belatedly,” I replied with a smile.

  “I would consider it an honor if you—and a chaperone, of course—would join me at New Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow night for the unveiling of the Christmas decorations. Emmett tells me you enjoyed your first visit there some months ago. I can’t guar
antee the weather, but I can promise we won’t have to wait in line for any of the attractions.” He smiled broadly, revealing a particularly nice set of teeth.

  I had to admit, his invitation was the best one I’d received thus far. “That would be lovely, Mr. Oligary.”

  I happened to look over just as the parlor door opened once more. The new arrival was Mina Holmes.

  From her shocked expression, I could tell she hadn’t received my message.

  Miss Holmes

  ~ Wherein a Lengthy Conversation Leaves Much Unsaid~

  The events of my day had not gone at all as planned (it included a row with Mrs. Raskill over my upending a bowl of biscuit batter—an occurrence that required me to change my clothing—among other things), and arriving at Grantworth House to discover that Miss Stoker was completely unavailable to accompany me back to Lady Thistle’s was the proverbial icing on the cake. (To be clear, I am a proponent of iced cakes—what is the point of having one without the sugary glaze?—but I speak metaphorically here.)

  I wasted no further time at Grantworth House and took my leave, in spite of the desperation in Evaline’s eyes that begged me to bring her with me. I might at some point find a way to extricate her from the increasingly imminent nuptials Mrs. Stoker had planned, but today was not to be the day.

  I’m not ashamed to admit my mood had gone sour and that I might have stomped a bit as I made my way back to the hackney—on which I had wasted the money to ride over to St. James on a fool’s errand. Evaline could have sent word that our plans were altered. (Although, to be fair, I’d been gone from home on a variety of errands for several hours prior to arriving at her house.) I might possibly also have slammed the door a bit harder than necessary once I climbed inside.

  And then I stifled a shriek when I saw I wasn’t alone in the cab.

  “Good gad! What on earth are you doing here, you—you—” I couldn’t find the right word, for my brains had momentarily deserted me due to shock.

  “Ever’thing all right, miss?” called the hackney driver from his perch outside the carriage. He’d started the mechanized vehicle, then stopped it—both times with a violent lurch.

  “Er—yes,” I called back, then rapped on the ceiling to let him know he could lurch off again. “Carry on.”

  I turned my attention to the sharp-eyed man sitting in the shadowy corner of the vehicle. A fine hat—too fine for a mere street thief—rode low over his forehead, and I was fairly certain he was wearing a false nose. Definitely the hair that tufted out from beneath the edge of his bowler didn’t belong to him. It was bright, frizzy, and red.

  “Mr. Pix, do you realize you nearly stopped my heart?”

  “Wot’s going on ’ere?” he asked, rudely ignoring my more than fair questions. He gestured to the row of carriages we passed as the hack trundled away from Grantworth House. “Ever’thing all right wit’ Evaline?”

  I folded my gloved hands primly in my lap. This was the first time I could remember being alone with the scoundrel—except for when he carried me out of a burning opium den.

  Over his shoulder.

  Over his bare, muscular shoulder, while he was wearing that bolero-style vest with no shirt beneath it.

  My cheeks felt hot, and I was a little prickly. Which is probably why I responded in the blunt manner with which I did. “Evaline is just fine. In fact, she’s going to be getting married very soon.” He might as well know so he’d stop sniffing around Evaline with his irresponsible, disreputable self.

  The air in the carriage changed—seeming to be sucked out of it all of a sudden—as if a giant vacuum machine was at the door. Mr. Pix didn’t move, other than his eyes flaring then shuttering so quickly I nearly missed it.

  “Who?” His voice was deathly quiet.

  Honestly, the man was incredibly rude. He sneaked into my carriage, refused to respond to my questions, and now was demanding answers to his own.

  “I don’t know yet,” I confessed. “But she seemed quite enamored with Mr. Ned Oligary. I believe he’s going to take her to New Vauxhall Gardens.”

  “Oligary?” A vulgarity I won’t deign to repeat passed from between his lips. Beneath the low brim of the hat, his face changed into an expression that made my breath catch. And not in a good way. In that moment, I thought I understood why Mr. Pix supposedly had quite a hold over the criminal underground in London.

  He looked terrifying in a cold, powerful way.

  But I wasn’t a Holmes for nothing, and I gathered my wits. I, at least—not being the criminal type—had nothing to fear from him. “Right then, Mr. Pix. I don’t know what you’re about, skulking around in my carriage, but if you don’t respond to my questions, I’ll—I’ll get out and leave you here with the bill.”

  At that, a dart of humor glinted in his eyes, then disappeared. “Wotcha want t’know?” he asked, laying the Cockney accent on very thick. I had reason to believe it wasn’t a legitimate one, but I decided not to pursue it at that moment.

  “Evaline and I visited your—er—lair last night,” I told him. “We found the carnelian crow pendant, as you no doubt intended.”

  He inclined his head but didn’t deign to respond otherwise.

  “We also fought off a trio of angry UnDead. They were quite vicious, and Evaline was— Well, it was fortunate I was present. I was able to—er—distract one of them when she—er… Well, it was a very near thing. For both of us.” I couldn’t think of that horrible, violent battle without feeling queasy. If Evaline hadn’t recovered enough to fight off that last UnDead, I knew I wouldn’t be alive today.

  Pix seemed about to say something, but he presumably thought better of it and remained silent. However, I noticed his fingers (gloved, of course, for the man is quite a master of disguise and adheres to even the smallest of detail, including always covering his hands and ears) curl into themselves, then relax an instant later.

  I continued, “You might be interested to know—or perhaps you already do—that one of the vampires that attacked us had two marks at the back of his neck.”

  “Like the ones from the Ankh?” He appeared to have given up on the Cockney affectation, a decision I applauded but on which I chose not to comment.

  “Precisely. I see you are already aware that the Ankh seems to have continued her experimentations.”

  “’at’s one word for it. Experimentation.” His face was hard.

  “I can only deduce the reason you’ve gone into hiding is because you know you’re a target of hers. You preferred to go underground—so to speak—before she caught up to you.”

  “She won’t catch the likes o’ me again, Miss Holmes. The only reason she did the last time was—” He shook his head and pursed his lips.

  “I know her true identity,” I informed him.

  “I do as well.”

  I believed him. I had no reason not to, for clearly he and the Ankh had had some sort of shared history—as was evidenced by the encounter I’d witnessed in her underground torture chamber.

  Mr. Pix looked at me, and for the first time, I felt as if there were no disguises, no facade, no subterfuge. As our eyes met in the shadowy light of the hackney, a strange, almost intimate understanding snapped between us.

  He was the only person to whom I’d confessed my knowledge; I wasn’t even certain why I had chosen him to do so. Even Evaline wasn’t aware that I knew without a doubt that the Ankh was Lady Isabella Cosgrove-Pitt, wife of the most powerful parliamentarian in England.

  “You and I are the only ones who would believe it,” I said.

  “Well, now, Miss ’olmes,” he replied with a trace of his normal jocularity, “at least we ’ave something in common.”

  “Besides a strong regard for Evaline Stoker.” I scrutinized him. His face remained passive, but I was certain I’d seen a telltale flicker in his eyes.

  Pix shifted slightly and adjusted his hat even lower. “Then I suggest we keep this charming interlude to ourselves.”

  “An excellent idea.
I concur.” I had my reasons for agreeing, but I was quite interested in his for suggesting that I not tell Evaline of our meeting.

  At once, he seemed more talkative. “You found the carnelian crow pendant I left. You’ll need to use it.”

  “Quite. And that is the only reason I haven’t yet tossed you out of this taxi,” I told him frostily. “Because I haven’t any idea how to use it, or where the establishment is. Pray, enlighten me.”

  His brows appeared to rise; it was difficult to tell due to the low placement of his hat and its resulting shadow. “But you’ve determined the Crow is a place. Well done, Miss Holmes. It took me several weeks to determine that important detail.”

  I clamped my mouth shut. The only reason I knew that much was because of Grayling.

  I had also determined something else about Pix, now that he’d abandoned his Cockney accent. He was American.

  “Where is it, then? How do I find it? Have you been there yourself?”

  “Apparently there are a number of ways to find the place, and to access it—depending upon who you are. Wear the pin.”

  Before I could continue my interrogation over his cryptic comments, he moved—slipping from the corner of the carriage, throwing the door open, and leaping out—all in one smooth motion.

  One moment he was sitting there insouciantly, and the next he was gone.

  The hackney door slammed in his wake, and I barely had the wherewithal to grab and latch it as the vehicle continued on its journey.

  I looked out of the window, but even then I didn’t see him among the many people and carriages traveling along the street.

  I sat back and took a deep breath. I was beginning to understand Evaline’s misguided fascination with the man.

  He was quite something.

  I was in such a state when I climbed into the taxi at Grantworth House that I had neglected to change my ultimate destination with the hackney driver, so when we lurched to a halt and the green light inside the cab indicated we had arrived, I found myself alighting near the street-lift to Lady Thistle’s.