So Still The Night

by Kim Lenox

  “Jested, dear. They took to calling him Jack . . . Jack the Ripper, who . . . er, dropped off in his activities about the same time.”

  “Trafford. Such low humor, and on such an occasion as this. You must apologize at once to our niece—”

  Suddenly a large flock of birds arose from the oaks, filling the air with the hiss of leaves and flapping wings. Bonnets and top hat brims turned in unison, as all who gathered watched the shadowy mass arise like a startled wraith and disappear over the treetops. In the aftermath, Mina vaguely registered that the handsome gentleman who had been standing beside the chapel was no longer there. Unexpected disappointment feathered through her.

  Lucinda and the girls wandered off toward the carriages. Mina and her uncle followed a few steps behind until an elderly gentleman stepped into their path. After offering his condolences again, he politely asked to speak to Trafford on the matter of a horse. Excusing herself from the conversation, Mina wandered a few steps, knowing this would be her last bit of freedom before being overtaken once again by a thick, black sea. She had lived for so long at the edges of polite society, the remaining months of respectable mourning weighed heavy on her, a dense, smothering veil.

  She stilled, listening.

  Had someone spoken her name?

  She tilted her face toward the voice.

  He—the man her uncle had referred to as Lord Alexander—stood there, just off to her side, tall, elegant and intent. Her heart gave a little jump. The afternoon grew late and the shadows long, but how could she not have seen him approach? A dark thrill rippled through her, from the top of her crape-trimmed bonnet to the squared toes of her black leather shoes—a highly inappropriate response, given the event of the moment, but no one else needed to know.

  Like her uncle, he wore a precisely cut suit of rich cloth, the sort only the wealthiest of gentlemen could command from the tailors of London’s famed Savile Row. Somewhere along the way he had disposed of the newspaper.

  “Miss Limpett?” he repeated, approaching in measured steps.

  She had to consciously prevent herself from looking about to see if there were any other Misses Limpett in proximity. “Yes?”

  “I hope you will forgive my breach of protocol in forgoing a proper introduction.” His voice was rich and warm; his words elegantly spoken. He deftly removed his hat to reveal jaw-length blond hair, streaked an even paler shade of moonlight. “I am—”

  “Lord Alexander,” she whispered.

  She flushed, mortified, not having intended to speak his name aloud.

  His faint smile revealed a trace of vanity. “How did you know?”

  “My uncle recognized you.”

  “Oh?” His brows went up good-naturedly. “That is good . . . or perhaps that is very bad.” He chuckled, low in his throat, a masculine sound. “Time will tell, I suppose. But it is you I am here to see.” His expression turned solemn again. “I saw the announcement in the paper and knew I must come to offer my condolences.”

  She warmed in surprise. “You knew my father?”

  He reached up and removed his spectacles, a gesture that revealed startling, pale blue eyes. Slight hollows darkened the space just above his cheekbones, as if he hadn’t had enough sleep of late. Their presence did not diminish his attractiveness.

  “I dabble in languages. A personal interest, really. Nothing on the level of your father’s expertise.”

  In that moment, his attractiveness took on a different dimension. “I see.”

  “I found myself in possession of something and wanted you to have it.”

  He had a way of speaking that felt very personal. Intimate, even. As if she were the only person in his world, at least for that moment. She remembered Lucinda’s reaction and wondered if all women felt the same when fixed in his penetrating gaze.

  “What is it?”

  He produced a slender, rectangular object from his hip pocket, which he conveyed to her. Their gloved hands briefly touched, and a new rush of heat coursed high into her cheeks. Mina lowered her chin, purposefully retreating into the shadow of her bonnet, and at the same time considered the leather case. She slid her gloved thumb against the tiny gold slide-clasp, and inside found a photograph of two men crouched side by side, atop an immense slab of stone.

  Her breath caught in her throat. For the first time since her father’s coffin had been sealed in Nepal, tears rushed against her lashes. They blurred her vision of the picture—an image of her father as a young man, his hat cocked aside, and his face beaming with excitement. He had never lost that fervor, that zeal for adventure. Not even in the final moments when he had told her farewell.

  He explained softly, “The photograph was taken at the ruins at—”

  “Petra. Yes. I recognize the temple. Who is this man with him?” She pointed, lifting the frame for a closer look. “His face is blurred.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “You favor him though. He is your father, is he not?”

  His lordship cocked his head.

  “Thank you,” Mina whispered. “We traveled so much, from place to place. By necessity, I collected few memen toes. I shall treasure this always.”

  “I am glad.” He pressed his lips together, as if pondering the words he would speak next. “Miss Limpett . . .”

  “Yes, Lord Alexander?”

  “I hope I do not overstep the bounds of propriety in choosing this moment to broach a particular subject, when the pain of your loss must still be so fresh.”

  At this proximity, his golden attractiveness was almost smothering.

  “Please speak freely.”

  He nodded. “I am aware from the papers he published just prior to his death that the professor possessed an extensive personal collection above and beyond the one he curated for the museum.”

  Unease dragged up Mina’s spine. She stared into the photograph, into her father’s eyes.

  “I’m afraid I know very little about my father’s collections.” She shut the case. “I can give you the name of his solicitors. Please feel free to contact them and make your inquiries.”

  Lord Alexander continued as if he had not heard her. “In particular, he owned two very rare scrolls—ancient facsimiles of two even more ancient Akkadian cuneiform tablets, which are no longer in existence.”

  Mina pressed her lips together and closed her eyes. If only that combined effort could make her disappear.

  He gently prodded, “Do you know the scrolls to which I refer?”

  Her first instinct was to lie, to feign insipidness and pretend she knew nothing about the two damn scrolls. She’d never been good at telling tales.

  “I . . . do.”

  “Perhaps now that your father has passed, you might be willing to part with them?”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “I’m prepared to pay handsomely for them.”

  She attempted a polite, easy smile, while her mind threw out options for quickly extricating herself from his company—a regretful, but necessary reversal, given his line of questioning. “The scrolls are not available for purchase.”

  “Perhaps you have already sold the collection to someone else? To the British Museum?”

  “No.”

  His brows went up. “The Boolak?”

  Mina shook her head. He edged closer—so close she could hardly breathe for the magnitude of his presence.

  “The Louvre? There must be a number of interested parties.”

  The boning of Mina’s tightly laced corset cut uncomfortably against her rib cage, just beneath her breasts. Her heart pounded thunderously.

  His voice lowered, becoming almost hushed. “If you could simply provide a name, I would be more than happy to approach them myself.”

  His eyes . . . they were so penetrating, as if they saw straight inside her. There had, indeed, been offers. There had also been one very nasty threat—which was why a pistol presently weighted the tasseled, jet-beaded bag on her wrist.

  �
�I can give you no such name.”

  Her thoughts twisted inside her head, no doubt an unfortunate result of her tortured conscience. He radiated such a peculiar magnetism. She suddenly imagined herself kissing him, hard on the mouth, with her hands tangled in his hair.

  He smiled, almost as if he knew. “Where are the scrolls, Miss Limpett?”

  She experienced an overwhelming desire to confess everything, to give him anything he wanted.

  “They are with Father,” she blurted.

  The smile dropped from his lips. “What do you mean . . . with Father?”

  Chapter Two

  Mina looked pointedly toward the Street of the Dead, where the dirt path disappeared into a shadowed corridor of oaks. By now her father’s coffin would have been transported by cemetery workers to the catacombs.

  Even in the dimming light, Lord Alexander’s face appeared to blanch a shade lighter.

  “You can’t be serious. The scrolls were . . . interred with your father?”

  “In the end they were—” She cleared her throat, and forced herself to speak around what felt like a ball of snarled twine in her throat. “They were his most treasured possessions.”

  “Ancient papyri, never translated or transcribed, and you mean to tell me”—he laughed, a deep, incredulous sound—“that they are lost forever?”

  She twisted her hand in the velvet cord of her bag. “It’s been three long months, you see.”

  “Oh, now that’s stellar.”

  She glanced out from beneath her bonnet brim. “I suppose you’d like to have your picture returned?”

  He responded with a rueful chuckle. The smile he wore—though a bit tight—appeared surprisingly genuine, as if she amused him.

  “No, Miss Limpett, I do not wish to have my picture returned .” His speaking of the words imitated her cadence and tone, a light flirtation that sent a pleasurable tremor through her. “I am disappointed, of course, but who am I to object to the last wishes of a dying man? I should have anticipated the same.” He gazed out over the cemetery, tapping his hat against a well-muscled thigh. “William always was rather eccentric. Or so I’ve been told.”

  Mina nodded. Her father’s eccentricity had been the bane of her existence.

  “I suppose I must take my leave of you now, Miss Lim pett, and allow you to return to your family.” He lifted his hat.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said, feeling both relieved and disappointed that their time together had come to an end. “Your attendance would have meant so much to Father.”

  The edge of his mouth quirked upward, and she glimpsed mischief in his eyes. He returned his hat to his head. “I’d like to think so.”

  Mina watched him stride toward the gatehouse, and eventually disappear through the archway, toward the main road, where rows of coaches crowded Swain’s Lane, waiting to convey guests from the cemetery.

  Her uncle approached, holding his cane midstaff. “I’m so sorry for abandoning you.”

  “I was enjoying the scenery.”

  He extended his hand and led her toward the two funeral carriages that had been specially rented for the day. “That was Lord Alexander speaking to you, was it not?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Whatever was he saying to you?”

  Their shoes crunched over gray gravel. As they arrived at the carriage, the Traffords’ footman, liveried in black, opened the door and pulled down the steps.

  “Apparently he knew Father.”

  “Did he?” His lordship puzzled. “Imagine that. I wonder if I could catch up to him.”

  “I’m certain you could.” She lifted a hand. “He just passed through the gate.”

  “Do go on to the house with the ladies.” The village of Highgate was located on a hillside north of the sprawling metropolis of London. Lord Trafford had rented not only the mourning coaches, but a fully staffed country house. For ease of convenience, the family had lodged there, near the cemetery, the previous night. “Please convey to her ladyship I’ll follow shortly behind and we can all travel into town together.”

  Her uncle urged her toward the carriage and hurried off in pursuit of Lord Alexander. Mina peered into the vehicle. Three feminine faces, framed by fur and feathers, peered out from the shadowed interior.

  Yet her conversation with Lord Alexander left her uneasy, reminding her there were others, more suspicious and dangerous, who would not be so easy to placate were they to discover the truth. A sudden breeze brushed against the nape of her neck and she shivered despite the warmth of the evening.

  Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to climb the steps to join the others. The cemetery called to her, a keeper of secrets.

  Her secrets.

  How could she eat? How could she sleep, until she was sure?

  Across Swain’s Lane, hidden within a small copse of trees, Mark closed his eyes with the first powerful, heated surge of aoratos. He growled, deep in his throat, willing his every bone, his every cell and sinew to fade . . . to become nothing. To become unseen.

  Transformed into shadow, he emerged, coursing low across the roadway to twist between carriages, returning whence he had come. He allowed himself one illicit pleasure. He brushed against Miss Limpett, curling about her from behind. He inhaled her delicious, orange blossom scent, but deeper than that, her trace—the singular essence she exuded, distinguishing her as unique from all those around her. He smiled, pleased, when she lifted her gloved hand to touch the bare skin above her collar in an unconscious acknowledgment of his presence.

  He’d seen her once before, even spoken to her, although she would not know it because at the time his features had been transformed into the face and stature of another. He’d found her sultry beauty captivating then. He found her even more alluring now. Lovely. Delightful. But he had no time for play.

  Abandoning her for the chapel, he narrowed thin as a razor to slip beneath the already-locked door. He gloried in his invisibility, the mercurial speed at which he moved and his heightened precision of thought. He could scarce allow himself to hope that within moments, he might finally hold in his possession the knowledge necessary to reverse the deterioration of his mind and his soul. Into the yawning hole in the floor he spiraled through the hydraulic catafalque that had lowered the professor’s coffin, and easily latched on to the lingering trail of two cemetery workers. He pursued them along the dim tunnel, not continuing under Swain’s Lane toward the East Cemetery, but diverting into the wan light of outdoors, through the dense clutter of cemetery monuments.

  He slowed only when he arrived at the dark terrace of catacombs cut into the cradle of earth beneath St. Michael’s Church.

  Mina stepped back from the carriage. “Please, your ladyship, do go on without me.”

  “Go on?” Lady Trafford’s blue eyes widened. “Whatever do you mean, Miss Limpett?”

  “I . . .” Mina swallowed. She’d never been good at dramatics. “I just need a bit more time with Father.”

  Lucinda’s placid expression fractured, but she quickly masked her impatience with a sympathetic tilt of her head and a smile. “Of course. Astrid, Evangeline, do accompany your cousin—”

  A chorus of petulant refusals sounded from within.

  Mina raised her hand. “No, please. I wish to be alone. I can walk back to the house when I’m finished. It’s not far.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. There are Gypsies camped in the field just across the way.” Her ladyship peered into the sky, and touched a gloved hand against the satin cording at her throat. “And it’s getting late. The cemetery closes at sunset.”

  “If we remain here another moment, it will be I who expires next,” muttered Astrid in a dour tone.

  “I concur,” added Evangeline.

  “Please.” Mina lifted her handkerchief to her nose and sniffled, acting upon the lessons of persuasion she’d learned from her cousins over recent days. She whispered, “I’m simply not ready to part with him just yet.”

  “Oh, dear, d
on’t cry,” her aunt pled, clasping her gloved hands together. “Very well. We’ll leave Trafford with the second coach to wait for you. Please don’t linger overly long. Remember, we’ll be returning to the Mayfair house tonight, and in our own vehicle, as these must be returned to the local stable tonight.” She pulled a watch from her bag and sighed. “We’ve a number of appointments tomorrow. The caterer and the florist, for my garden party next week. We don’t wish to be exhausted in the morning.”

  A moment later, the carriage trundled onto Swain’s Lane. Mina ascended the tree-shadowed trail. She knew the way because she had walked the path the day before when her uncle had shown her where her father’s coffin would be interred. Only then, the sun had hung high in the sky and the cemetery had been alive with visitors. Now, evening shadows seeped up from the earth, along with low, curling wisps of yellow haze.

  Only the sound of her shoes on the dirt path, and the furtive scratching of birds and other unseen creatures in the trees and underbrush, broke the silence. A mournful stone angel appeared to ward her away with open palms. Her pulse bounded, but she tamped down what were most certainly irrational fears—fears that would be set to rest once she confirmed her father’s casket had been safely secured.

  At the open iron gates of the Egyptian Avenue, Mina wavered. Massive twin columns and obelisks braced either side of the arched entrance, like a portal to an ancient temple. A dense veil of ivy tumbled down from above, and beyond . . . only shadows.

  Her first instinct was to retreat, as fast as her feet would carry her, to the carriage, and all the trappings of safety, normalcy and sanity. Inhaling deeply, she swept beneath, onto the crypt-lined path. Quickly enough, she emerged into Lebanon Circle, where two rows of mauso lea wreathed a towering cedar.

  Although the Traffords owned a centerpiece crypt for the interment of their titled members, her father’s casket was to be placed beside her mother’s in the less exclusive terraced catacomb above. Mina grasped her skirts and ascended the wide stone steps.

  A strong breeze lifted the boughs of the trees all around, filling the circle with a chorus of unintelligible whispers. She whirled, scanning the circle, certain she heard voices amongst the rustle of the trees. The whispers quieted. In their aftermath came the repetitive chink of metal striking against metal.