by Kim Lenox
She unlatched the nearest window and pushed it open. Outside, birds sang in the trees, and carriages trundled past. As she turned back for her teacup, her glance settled on the leather satchel in the corner, filled with her father’s notebooks and papers. The smile faded from her lips. She’d carried them with her all the way from Nepal, never allowing them out of her sight. She’d even slept with them on the ocean voyage over. One day soon she’d open them and begin organizing and transcribing his notes. Eventually, as she’d always done for him after her mother died, she’d submit a paper to the Royal Geographical Society—under her father’s name, posthumously of course—but she wasn’t ready to face them yet.
Instead, she enjoyed a point of toast with marmalade and a second cup of tea before washing up. Wrapping a few uneaten sausages in a napkin, she let herself into the hallway and proceeded downstairs. The house was quiet, with only the servants moving about. Likely Lucinda and the girls had gone for their daily constitutional in the park.
Two days ago, while reading in the conservatory, she’d glimpsed three pairs of green eyes peering out at her from the shrubberies along the back wall of the garden. A few moments later, Mina crouched, gathering her skirt against her legs so the noise of her petticoats wouldn’t frighten the skittish felines away.
“Come on, darlings.” She unfolded the napkin and laid it on the flagstones. “That’s right. I’ve brought you breakfast, but shh, don’t tell. I don’t think the cook would approve.”
Soon, green eyes blinked from the shadows. Eventually, one small, glossy black feline emerged from the shrubs. With queenly grace, she turned her back to Mina and sat, pointedly ignoring the sausages.
Another emerged to circle her skirts, while a third swatted and sniffed at the sausages, finally attacking, and sinking his teeth into one. Mina hugged her arms around her knees. She didn’t attempt to pet the animals. They were feral and still learning to trust.
She’d always loved animals—even the slobbering yak she’d ridden in the mountains those final days of the expedition with her father. But their constant travel made it impossible to ever have a pet. Pets required constancy. Permanency. Something that—after her mother’s death, the succession of shabby boarding schools and endless travels—she’d always craved.
A shadow darkened the stones. “Don’t let Lucinda catch you doing that.”
The cats darted off into the shrubs. Mina turned to find Astrid on the stairs behind her. She stood as her cousin came down.
“To my dear stepmother’s way of thinking, cats and dogs are no better than rodents.”
Mina retrieved the empty napkin and folded it in her hand.
“You look lovely today, Lady Astrid.”
The young woman smiled, a picture of fashion and grace. Her upswept blond hair had been curled and pinned to perfection, and she wore an elegant plum-colored day dress, trimmed in purple. Unlike Mina, the family had observed only one week of mourning, that being the week of the funeral. Three months had passed, and by all accepted rules of etiquette, there was no expectation that they should continue the practice further for a relation they’d not spoken to in two decades.
“Lucinda wants to know if you’d like to go to Hurlingham this morning. We’ve a musicale to attend at the club.”
Mina agreed. “That would be lovely. I’ll just get my things.”
Perhaps . . . perhaps, by chance, Lord Alexander would be there.
Upstairs in her room, she tied on her bonnet and gathered up her gloves and purse. From her bedside table, she retrieved the book she’d started the night before and turned toward the door. Her gaze fell upon the leather satchel containing her father’s writings.
Odd. She could have sworn that earlier this morning, when she’d been eating her breakfast, the flap side—the one bearing the small brass lock—had been facing the room, rather than the wall.
She approached the satchel. Kneeling—a move that left her breathless due to the constriction of her corset—she tipped the case. The lock hung there. She gave the brass a tug and found it secure. Certainly she had remembered wrong. Though she’d made the bed herself, the breakfast tray remained on her desk, so the maid hadn’t even come round to tidy up.
No one had been in her room.
“Your lordship.”
Mark awoke, the voice and its seductive song of unintelligible words still an echo in his mind. Pale blue light streamed through a portal to bathe his skin. Dawn, or twilight? He did not know. He sprawled shirtless, in trousers, his limbs tangled in dark blue sheets. A hazy figure moved closer, into focus. He distinguished a face and a black patch.
“This is getting to be an unfortunate habit,” he growled, rubbing his eyes.
“And good morning to you.” Leeson carried a plain white teapot and matching mug—an improvement over his prior choice of a sharp, pointed article of torture. He poured and set the steaming cup on the chest beside the bed.
Mark pushed up and peered out the portal.
The Chelsea Embankment. Terrace houses. Trees. All painted in the same blue light . . . and all in the distance. He sensed the movement of the yacht, drifting in the direction of the moorings under Leeson’s command. He exhaled sharply, relieved to find himself, at least, in the familiar waters of the Thames and not off the coast of San Francisco or Samoa.
The girl on the bridge. He must have done as intended, and anchored the yacht away from shore. But why couldn’t he recall?
Remembering Leeson, he scowled. “Don’t tell me it’s January.”
“Oh, dear. No, sir. It’s early Tuesday morning.” The elder immortal’s lips pressed together. “You vanished for three days.”
Frustration shattered his calm. More missing time. What did it mean?
“I wasn’t here, on the Thais all that time?”
“I cannot say.” Leeson shrugged. “I spied the vessel adrift only this morning. I had a carpenter come out on Saturday to finish up the repairs to the galley. It will be damn difficult to get him back again, in any timely fashion.”
The idea he’d been sleepwalking around London for three days with no memory of his activities did not sit well. Mark remembered the voice and all it had encouraged him to do.
No . . . he didn’t like the idea at all.
Only then did Leeson’s words register. Mark took notice of the change in his surroundings. The curtains, the furniture . . . everything had been returned to its previous order. Leeson retreated to the desk where a short stack of papers lay.
“I’ve got another newspaper for you. Several, actually.” Leeson’s interest in all things mortal was a known trait. Lord Black’s secretary ravenously read newspapers, books and periodicals—anything to forward his study of mankind. He maintained a meticulous collection.
“Of course you do.” Mark shoved his fingers into his hair, resting his forehead against his hands. “I don’t want to see it. Just tell me what’s happened.”
Leeson turned round, his expression grim.
“Well then . . .” He glanced to the paper in his hand. “I regret to share that three days ago a horrible event took place in America. Pennsylvania, to be more specific. The event began with torrential rains and flooding, and in a matter of days, the excess of water led to a cataclysmic dam failure.”
Mark nodded, looking to the floor. “Go on.”
“The deluge swept whole villages away. Even a city. Thousands are lost—men, women and children.”
“Tragic news.” Mark nodded solemnly. “What does that have to do with me?”
Natural disasters happened from time to time. As immortals, they’d witnessed hundreds of them through the centuries, and from a necessary distance, observed the misery left behind in their aftermath. There was nothing he or any other Amaranthine could do to stop them.
Leeson’s gaze held unspoken meaning. “I just thought you should be kept aware.”
Mark sat silent and rigid at the side of the mattress, not wanting to acknowledge his mind also raced along the same
dangerous path. Mark stood, his unbelted trousers slipping to his hips. He growled, “Where’re the rest of my clothes?”
“Bundled to go to the laundress, sir. There’s a selection of clean garments in the cabinet.”
Mark dropped the trousers he’d slept in. Wearing only his smalls, he unlatched the cabinet. Leeson swept forward and claimed the discarded garment from the floor. The secretary retreated to the far side of the room and busied himself at the desk, clearly offering Mark privacy to wash and dress. Mark poured water into the basin, and within moments, donned a clean pair of linen trousers.
Leeson prodded quietly, “Now that Jack the Ripper is gone . . . there’s no danger, eh? The Tantalyte Messenger is silenced. I’m sure it’s just a . . . nasty coincidence that you suffered one of your spells at the same time this collapse of the dam occurred.”
“Miss Limpett, I hope you don’t mind if we attend to a few errands along the way,” said Lucinda, looking out the window.
“Not at all,” Mina responded.
The carriage coursed along Bond Street. Smart shops with polished windows tempted from all sides. The curbs were crowded with carriages, the sidewalks with splendidly outfitted ladies and their accompanying footmen. Mina could not help but feel a bit invisible in comparison in her plain, dark clothing.
“First, I’ve got to stop at the stationer.” The countess adjusted the seam of her glove and addressed Mina’s cousins. “Evangeline and Astrid, Miss Gerard is just two shops over, so you may go inside and inquire about your riding habits. They ought to be finished by now.”
Smiling to Mina, she said, “Young ladies must go to Paris for their trousseau and their couture, but remember the very finest riding habits are to be found in London. Don’t let anyone ever try to convince you otherwise.”
Mina nodded. She didn’t own a riding habit or anything that might be remotely considered couture. As for a trousseau, she didn’t believe she’d have a need for one in the near future.
“We’ve arrived,” Lucinda announced.
The carriage ended its travel in front of a pristine row of shops, all with gold lettering painted on their windows, identifying the wares they offered for purchase. The footman opened the door and the girls climbed down. Mina followed, and last came Lucinda. They gathered on the sidewalk, the footman hovering close by to offer any assistance that might be requested.
“Miss Limpett, why don’t you accompany me? I realize you’ve not had an opportunity to order your mourning stationery.”
Mina agreed.
Lucinda waved the sisters on their way. “Girls, we’ll join you as soon as we’re finished. Ask if the new style plates have come in from Paris.”
Astrid and Evangeline drifted off in the direction of a well-kept shop, some two doors down the sidewalk. Lucinda watched them until they disappeared inside. “I like to be sure they get to their assigned destination. Astrid can be a bit mischievous.”
Together they turned back toward the stationer’s shop. To Mina’s surprise, a man waited there, holding a large Kodak. Lucinda paused, and turned her head to the side and slightly downward, as if to display the profile of her straw hat, the crown of which boasted an artful display of faux flowers, gilt berries and organza ribbon. She smiled demurely.
Mina quickly stepped away, so as not to spoil the picture. Click.
The photographer nodded to them both, then set off down the sidewalk.
As if nothing had happened, Lucinda continued on to the shop. Mina followed her inside.
The shopkeeper stood up from behind a small, partitioned desk.
“Lady Trafford,” he greeted.
“Good morning, Mr. Abbott. My niece, Miss Lim pett, would like to view your samples of mourning stationery.”
“Right away, my lady, and I’ll bring out your order as well.”
Once he returned, it took only a few moments for Mina to make a selection, because there was no true selection to speak of. There were white cards with thick black borders, white cards with thin black borders, and all thicknesses of borders in between. She chose something in the middle.
Mr. Abbott filled out the appropriate form. “Let me just go see if we’ve got this particular card in stock, or if I’ll have to bring it from the warehouse.” He disappeared into the back of the shop.
At the counter beside her, Lucinda pulled the lid from a small box. She extracted a calling card and scanned the wording. A heavy sigh escaped her lips.
“I’m afraid these are all wrong, and this is the second time.” She frowned, looking exasperated. “It appears we won’t be leaving anytime soon.”
A tall, fashionably dressed woman entered the shop. She and Lucinda greeted each other brightly.
Mina took advantage of the pause in their conversation. “Your ladyship, I think I’ll join Astrid and Evangeline.”
She knew very little about current fashion, and wanted to look at the plates from Paris as well.
“Very well, dear. Have the footman follow you,” Lucinda instructed. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Mina gathered her purse from the counter, then stepped onto the sidewalk. The Trafford carriage no longer waited immediately outside the door, having apparently pulled forward a few spaces to make room for others. She made no effort to gain the attention of the footman, who was presently engaged in conversation with the driver. It was the same distance to the carriage as it would be in the opposite direction to the modiste’s shop, and Mina would feel like a ninny requesting an escort for such a brief walk. She’d managed marketplaces, tent cities and curious locals in far more exotic settings—why not Bond Street? Really, some of the rules by which she now had to abide were silly.
She passed a narrow alley on the way. The next window displayed a charming collection of porcelain music boxes. She paused. There were scores of them, the prettiest ones shaped like flowers. Her gaze moved from one to the next, and she marveled at the detail and workmanship. Eventually she turned to continue on—
And froze.
A person in a white theatrical mask lurched toward her, costumed in a black tentlike cloak that descended to his knees. His legs were clad in white stockings and ended in black buckled shoes. At least she assumed the street actor to be a man. The costume made it difficult to tell.
A governess and her young male charge passed by, traveling in the same direction as Mina. The actor spun in a circle, and from nowhere produced a rose formed of red and white-striped petals. He bowed gallantly and presented it to the child. The boy laughed and accepted the gift. He and his governess kept walking. Mina, too, proceeded toward the modiste’s. She smiled politely.
He leapt in front of her and posed his arms wildly. Perhaps his antics were all intended in fun, but she found it unnerving. Unable to see his eyes for the shape and depth of the mask, she found the effect almost ghoulish.
She laughed, a tad edgily. “Yes, I can see you are . . . very nimble.”
She sidestepped him, and again he veered in front of her—then feinted dramatically to the side and high marched past her with the stiffly posed arms of a soldier.
Relieved, and a bit flustered, she moved forward, only to feel a hard tap against her shoulder.
Chapter Five
Exasperated, she said, “Sir—”
A gloved hand shot from inside the cloak, grabbing her forearm. The world spun. He flung her into the alley. A shout came from the direction of the carriages.
He yanked at her hair. Pain tore at her temple.
“Ouch!” she shouted.
Metal flashed. A blade. Footsteps sounded on the sidewalk.
Something struck her at the center of the chest, and fell to the ground. The assailant fled into the alley.
Mina gasped for breath. At her feet lay a rose, like the one he’d given the boy.
The Trafford footman clambered around the corner, his expression fierce. “Are you all right, miss?”
“Yes.” She pressed a hand to the center of her chest, trying to calm the
rampant beat of her heart.
The coach driver raced past them into the alley. A few moments later he returned, wheezing and red-faced. “I’m so sorry, miss. He’s gotten away. I can’t even tell which direction he’s gone.”
A number of onlookers clustered around, drawn by the excitement. A Metropolitan police constable tweeted a whistle and elbowed through. After a moment’s inquiry, he escorted Mina to the stationer’s shop. There, amidst exclamations of feminine horror from Lucinda and her acquaintance, Mrs. Avermarle, Mina found herself ensconced on a velvet-covered stool. The girls, apparently having heard of the incident at the modiste’s shop, rushed through the door.
A strand of hair dangled against Mina’s cheek, severed bluntly midway down. She supposed she ought to be thankful her assailant hadn’t taken more.
Evangeline pulled a pin from her own brown hair and quickly tucked the abbreviated lock into place.
“There, you can’t even tell now,” she assured her.
Astrid touched Mina’s shoulder, looking more traumatized than Mina felt. “Are you sure you’re all right, Miss Limpett?”
Mina nodded, unable to shake the memory of the mask. “I’m fine. Just startled. Her ladyship was correct, I suppose. I should have asked for an escort. I just didn’t think it necessary.”
“What is the city coming to?” Lucinda whispered, squeezing Mina’s shoulders. “Clearly we need more police making the rounds.”
A constable scratched out details into a small notebook. “We try our best, my lady, to keep the mountebanks off the finer streets, but sometimes they get through. Usually they’re only a nuisance. I suspect, however, that this fellow was a common criminal in the guise of a street actor. The boldness of his crime is shocking, but it’s not the first hair thief we’ve seen.”