Blood Lies

by Sharon K Gilbert

  Paul, looking more like himself with good colour and a smile upon his lean face, kept his eyes fixed proudly upon his daughter. Unaware that Charles had asked the duke for Beth’s hand, the earl continued to hope she might come to accept his indiscretion with du Barroux and forgive him completely, and that their engagement would soon be announced. Though Elizabeth had tried several times to speak with the earl privately since the night of his confession, each time something or someone had interrupted, so the earl still lived in complete ignorance of the dreams experienced by his love and Charles eleven days before.

  James Stuart, Duke of Drummond, was no fool. He’d been quietly observing all the players in the strange company now staying within his home, and he sensed a major shift in the direction of their inner circle. The servants, too, had noticed the rise and fall of mood and melody within the castle walls, and many wondered just what events would occur in the concluding acts.

  As Adele sang the final note of Beethoven’s Ich Liebe Dich, Paul broke into vigourous applause, and Elizabeth rose from the piano bench to give her little cousin a kiss and a hug. “My, my! Your voice has certainly grown since you started with this new tutor,” she told her. “Be careful when reaching for those high notes, Della, that you do not sing more sweetly than the birds, for the nightingale may become jealous and cease to sing us to sleep at night.”

  Adele beamed. “Paul, what did you think?” she asked, skipping toward the man who was in truth her proud father.

  “I think that you are an angel,” he said joyfully, lifting her up with his right arm and taking her onto his lap. “I must hold you like this whilst I may, for you are growing into a young lady, and you’ll not want my hugs and kisses soon, but only those of your young gentleman.”

  She blushed, and Mr. Kepelheim offered his praise. “Delightful, my dear Adele, simply delightful! But, perhaps we should ask the duchess to sing. Lord Haimsbury has heard you play, Your Grace, but he has not yet heard your elegant soprano. Lord Aubrey, will you exert your considerable influence upon our duchess?”

  She looked from Paul to Charles, and both men wore handsome smiles, their faces so similar, yet each one unique. She felt so very happy that night, for all darkness seemed at last far away. Paul set Adele down, and the girl ran to Sinclair, sitting next to him on the sofa.

  The earl rose to his feet and took Elizabeth’s hands in his, gazing deeply into her dark eyes, his own filled with love and admiration. “Charles, this one sings so beautifully that she will break your heart and mend it all at once. Do sing, Beth.”

  She let him kiss her cheek, and then she looked to the tailor. “Mr. Kepelheim, do you recall the time that you and I performed together at Lord Salisbury’s home?”

  Kepelheim’s face beamed as he leapt to the piano and twirled his fingers as if limbering them up. “I do indeed, Duchess, and I even recall our repertoire. You see, one allowed me to sing as well, Lord Haimsbury, which fulfilled an old dream of mine to tread the operatic boards. Are you in voice for our duet?”

  Elizabeth looked surprised. “Surely not the Verdi! Oh, Martin, that is so tragic.”

  “True, but beautiful when sung by you, and it rends my old heart every time I hear you voice it. Will you sing it with me, dear lady? I am not much of a Germont, but your Violetta would make the most callous man weep.”

  “Oh, please, do sing it, Cousin Elizabeth,” Adele called from her seat next to Charles. “I have not heard you sing in so very long. And my new cousin says he has never heard you.”

  “Very well,” she said at last, “though I cannot promise to match the Royal Opera, so grant me your patience.”

  Paul smiled proudly as he turned to Charles. “She actually can,” he said. “Last June, Beth sang at Salisbury’s gala to raise funds to support one of the queen’s charities, and the Royal Opera’s director asked if she would sing there the next night. She has a splendid voice.”

  Kepelheim set the scene. “This famous duet is from Act Two of La Traviata, of course, and Violetta has been living in peace and happiness with Alfredo, a profligate gambler who is perhaps not the most astute man on earth though he is handsome enough. Alfredo has just left the villa, and whilst the son is away, the father enters, and his demand to poor Violetta is simple: she must give up the great love of her life, so that Alfredo’s sister’s reputation and chances for marriage may be restored.”

  The tailor then began playing the music by heart, raising up his quite decent baritone to begin the Madamigella Valery that opens the famous duet betwixt the proud and interfering father, Germont, and the desperate woman whom his son loves, Violetta Valery, a courtesan stricken with consumption. As Elizabeth responded with Violetta’s shock at Germont’s demands that she spurn his son, Charles sat forward to listen more closely, and when she took her turn in the duet to respond with tragic longing, he found himself drawn into the scene as if watching from a gilded opera box. But then, she began the poignant dite alla giovine, and her sweet voice and expression nearly broke his heart. She was Violetta, trapped between her love for the thankless son and the moral outrage and paternal demands of the overbearing father.

  As she sang the final note, Charles could see tears tracking down her face, and her right hand trembled as she clutched at the piano. When the duet finished, the room exploded into applause. All the company shouted approval, and Kepelheim rose to bow, holding up his hands to applaud his Violetta, insisting that she must now sing the Sempre Libere, for as amazing as her voice proved that night, she could not leave without singing the most famous aria written for the tragic character.

  Kepelheim paused for a moment before looking up at his Violetta.

  “Shall we begin with the E Strano?” he asked. “I am only passable as a tenor, but I shall endeavour to provide what few lines Alfredo sings, if our company will indulge me.”

  All laughed, and the tailor commenced with a pounding to the piano, setting up the first line where the lonely courtesan ponders the meaning of her deep and growing love for Alfredo, and as the aria progresses into near madness, she bewails the impossibility of it all, telling herself that for a fallen woman such as she, only depravity and loneliness lie ahead.

  Elizabeth lost herself in the music, and for those moments, she embodied Violetta Valery. The imagery was not lost on Paul, who had never before thought of Elizabeth as lonely or tragic, but the connexion to his own guilt for Cozette’s painful death now stung with a new brand of vengeance, and he wept silently as his duchess sang. I am no better than this Alfredo, he realised. How could I have treated Cozette with such dispassion? Such arrogance? I should have listened when she begged me to take her with me. I as much as killed her.

  Elizabeth’s final note, voiced in a high E flat, soared sweetly in the air as she effortlessly ended the mournful song. Charles rose to his feet, shouting brava!, but Paul, drowning in his own sea of guilt, went to Beth and took her into his arms as if struggling to keep her as his own. His face was streaked with tears, and he kissed her sweetly, tenderly.

  “Beth, forgive me. I do not deserve you,” he whispered, and she began to weep at the brokenness he now displayed. “I bring only heartache to those I love.”

  Though Charles had no knowledge regarding the root of what now passed between them, it was clear that some new phase of their love had been reached, and his own heart began to dread. He now began to wish he had found a way to propose to her that afternoon. Is it now too late? he wondered.

  “She is amazing, is she not?” Kepelheim asked Sinclair.

  “She is more than that to me,” he said, unaware of the duke’s insightful gaze upon the scene.

  “Well, Charles, you have heard the loveliest voice in all our realm, have you not?” the duke spoke as he crossed the room. “Music is good for the soul, but then so is a moment of quiet now and then. How does a whisky sound? I’ve a mind to play cards, if you’re game.”

  “Uh, sorry,�
� he stammered, his thoughts diverted suddenly by the duke’s gentle prodding. “Cards? Surely, but I must warn you, Uncle, I play to win.”

  “So I see,” the duke said with insight. “Ladies, we shall now adjourn to the guest library for a round of Whist. Would any of you wish to join us?”

  Elizabeth, still in Paul’s arms, shook her head. “I am completely exhausted, thanks to Maestro Kepelheim’s vigourous accompaniment, so I shall retire early. And I believe it is Adele’s bedtime as well. Enjoy your game, gentlemen. We shall wish you all goodnight.”

  She stepped away from Paul after letting him kiss her once more, and then took the girl’s hand and led her through the anteroom and into the large foyer, and then climbed the stairs to their apartments.

  Paul wiped at his eyes and forced a laugh. “Whist? A woman’s game, Uncle. And as much as I love our Violetta, I fear Beth has never done well with cards. Charles, she and I once partnered in a round, and only after all hands were revealed, did it become clear that Beth and I would have won, except she had no idea what her hand actually meant!”

  James laughed heartily, tapping Sinclair on the shoulder. “Now, let me clarify this story, Charles, for I was in that game as well. What Paul leaves out of his version of events is that Elizabeth was only six. But since it’s all men, we can repair to my library, if you’ve a mind, gentlemen.”

  Charles had followed Elizabeth to the door, and he now watched as she and Adele disappeared up the staircase. His heart followed, and his feet longed to do so as well, but he sensed the duke’s offer of cards had been meant as a distraction.

  “Dr. MacKey,” he said, turning back into the room to speak to their mysterious guest, “you’ve been thoughtful all evening. Perhaps, your card playing will match my own.”

  Lorena had been quiet, because she had been speaking telepathically to both Trent and the shadowy Prince. Both feared that the renewed attachment betwixt the earl and his cousin may unravel all their carefully designed plans, and their mental conference had determined a need for changing the tack of their secret game.

  “I also play to win,” MacKey said in challenge to the marquess, “but tonight I must write some letters, including one to my college friend—you remember, the one whose mother had died? My brash arrival here caused me to miss the funeral, and I owe her a note of explanation. I plan to leave on the morrow and return to London. I have truly enjoyed meeting all of you, and especially you, Duke,” she said, offering him her hand. “I shall never forget your kindness and how you have made an impertinent commoner feel most welcome in your household.”

  “We are forever in your debt,” the duke replied. “Without your ministrations, Paul’s wound may have worsened, and Charles might not have recovered.”

  She batted her long lashes coquettishly. “I am only too happy that you have recovered,” she told Sinclair for all to hear. “Had I been told when I arrived that you had ingested belladonna, I might have prevented that serious complication by offering the antidote, but I fear the poison had already begun its secretive work by the time of your collapse, and any physician could only hope to counter the effects by treating your fever. In truth, I did little to aid your recovery, merely looked in now and then. Mr. Kepelheim and the duke’s housekeeper may take credit for your current state of health.”

  “I give credit to the true Healer,” Charles said. “Our Saviour, Christ Jesus,” he replied, still wishing MacKey would abandon her loyalty to a side that would happily toss her into the lake of fire if it served their ends.

  She blinked, managing a tiny smile. “Yes. Well, I am delighted you have fully recovered. Goodnight, Mr. Kepelheim. Your Germont was inspired. Thank you all. I shall see you at breakfast.”

  She turned to go, passing through the anteroom, and Sinclair kept watch to make sure the doctor’s steps continued on up the stairs. Once she had disappeared into the upper floor, Charles found himself wondering just what the doctor now planned. “Is it my policeman’s nature, Uncle, or is there something disconcerting about our Dr. MacKey?”

  The duke agreed, his left brow arched. “She requires watching, which is why I’ve been pleased to keep her here these many days. We’ll want to take note of all addresses on those letters she writes tonight.”

  He pulled a bell rope and within moments, two footmen appeared along with the butler. “We’re adjourning to my private library, Laurence. Would you make sure we are not disturbed, and oh, Laurence,” he added before leaving, “Dr. MacKey will be adding a few letters to our post bag sometime before the morning, I should think. I want to know all the addresses on those letters.”

  “Consider it done, sir,” the efficient Laurence replied. “Will you require anything else before retiring?”

  The duke thought for a moment. “I guess not, lad. Get some sleep. It’s been quiet the past few days, but I’ve a feeling we’re not out of all dangers yet, so see to it that you have men stationed as before.”

  “Already done, sir.”

  Charles followed Dryden, Risling, Paul and the duke, turning to Kepelheim as they walked toward the private library. “This isn’t a game we’re heading to, is it?”

  The tailor’s face had grown serious. “Hardly. I believe the duke wishes an informal meeting. The duchess never plays cards, and he certainly did not expect Adele to begin a game so late in the evening. And, of course, had the doctor, as she calls herself, accepted your invitation, we would not be going to the private library. No, my dear Marquess, this is not a game at all.”

  A dense fog rose up along the back alleys of Whitechapel, blanketing warehouses and whorehouses alike. Inside one such, the mistress, a woman with shockingly red hair and a corseted, hour-glass figure, knocked on her girls’ doors to roust out any gentlemen who had overstayed their time. Ever intent on improving profits, Dolly Waters, known locally as the Abbess, knocked on Rachel Connor’s freshly painted, blue door.

  “Rachel? It’s been half an hour, luv. That’s long enough. Tell your guest he must leave or pay double.”

  There was no response. Other doors began to open, depositing their customers in various states of dress and undress into the wide, beautifully wallpapered hallway. Two men rushed past Waters, one tipping his hat, and the other shading his drugged and sensitive eyes from the hallway’s gas lamps.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” she said with a bright smile. “Do visit us again soon, Sir Dennis.” She knocked once more. “Rachel! You must bid your gentleman goodnight!”

  Again, only silence.

  Doing her best to remain calm, but fighting against rising irritation—for the girl had only just started two weeks earlier, and she had already proven stubborn regarding the rules—Waters unlocked the door.

  The room stood in darkness, but the Abbess perceived two small pinpoints of light hovering and moving like tiny candles.

  “Rachel?” she whispered. “Sir? I must ask you to leave now or…”

  The twin candles moved suddenly, growing brighter with dreadful intensity, lighting up the entire room in a hushed glow of crimson.

  And blood.

  And death.

  As Waters screamed, the eyes—for eyes they were and not candles—disappeared through the window and out into the thick fog.

  “Murder!” the Abbess shouted, bile rising to her throat and burning there as she ran into the hallway to vomit. “Oh, Gawd! The Ripper! It’s the Ripper again!”

  She dropped to her knees weeping, for no male customer was to be found within; only her new girl’s torn body remained inside the gaily wallpapered room, her legs splayed and carved, eyes gouged out, internal organs ripped from her body and laid across her breast.

  And upon the wall behind the bed in large bloody handwriting: Duchess Violetta, Scotland will not protect you.

  Paul Stuart had been mostly quiet for the hour since their meeting commenced, nodding or shaking his head in response to each topic
of discussion, his mind fixed on something, or someone unseen. The duke had been proposing alternative measures they might make to protect Beth and now Adele, but Paul contributed little. Suddenly, as if jolted into action, the earl leapt to his feet, and began pacing back and forth.

  “We’ve been wrong about all of this,” he said, all eyes riveted to his face. “We have acted as Elizabeth’s guardians since the day of her birth—and I for my part, have done all I felt necessary to keep her safe, and will do so to my dying breath—but James, I think coming here has been a mistake.”

  Charles wondered if the earl’s true regret was ever to have involved his new cousin in Beth’s escape. “How so?”

  “Is it possible that we were driven to the castle like so many sheep? That the enemy’s plan all along was to force us into bringing Elizabeth here? Since our arrival, we’ve encountered demonic events that seem focused on one thing, one objective: to drive a wedge betwixt Beth and her guardians. Trent is trying to separate her, like a wolf would a wounded lamb!”

  Charles began to object, but he could see some truth in the earl’s statement. However, it was Kepelheim who spoke.

  “I am not family, though you have always welcomed me as such, so it might be easier for me to offer a less romantic viewpoint. Yes, my good friend Aubrey, our duchess has been isolated in some ways, but I would state rather that she has been directed away from you and toward another.”

  Paul’s eyes flashed, and he glared at the tailor with uncharacteristic anger. “And your point, Martin? Am I so poor a watchman for her?”