So Still The Night

by Kim Lenox

  “It was a flirtation, Lucinda.”

  She stiffened. “Not just that.”

  “You and I kissed.”

  She looked away, shaking her head and smiling bitterly. “Thank God I saved myself for Trafford. He’s the grand passion of my life.”

  He saw the lie in her eyes, and for a moment, he pit ied her. She’d done as every young lady of her class and social standing was trained to do. She’d charmed a wealthy, titled gentleman and had her grand society wedding. Now she found herself wed to a man she didn’t know all that well—an older man for whom she held no particular attraction. But their marriage was none of his concern.

  “That’s wonderful. I wish only the best for you, Lucinda.”

  “You’ll grow bored with her quickly,” she muttered spitefully. “She’s a little brown mouse, Mark, the complete opposite of the sort of woman you need.”

  There was something cruel in the set of her lips, and the brightness of her eyes, something he’d never perceived before. Jealousy could do terrible things to a person, or so he’d witnessed. He couldn’t recall any firsthand experience with the emotion.

  Trafford crossed the lawn from the direction of the shooting trap, which was located down the adjacent corridor of trees. He planted his walking stick with every other step. An uncomfortable silence hovered in the air while they waited for him to arrive.

  “Lucinda.” Trafford slowed at the edge of the blanket. Sunshine transformed the prism of his walking stick into a miniature rainbow of color. “The shooting master has agreed to let you shoot. Of course, I’ve agreed to pay for the plantings of the north gardens in the spring, but it appears you’ve got your wish. Just for today, though.”

  “Do you see, Lord Alexander, it’s just as I was saying.” Bright spots of color crested her cheeks. “My husband spoils me completely.”

  Trafford smiled, clearly pleased by her praise. He offered his hand and assisted her up from the blanket.

  The earl inquired, “Lord Alexander, would you like to come along and watch? They’re going to score Lucinda on a pigeon shoot.”

  “Thank you, Trafford, but I’ll stay here,” Mark responded politely. He’d always considered pigeon shooting a cowardly sport.

  Lord and Lady Trafford disappeared between the same banks of trees from whence the earl had just come. He remained on the blanket, watching the match—watching Mina. Yet, feeling the distinct intensity of someone’s attention upon him, he scanned the grounds. Across the expanse of lawn, a woman walked slowly behind the columns of the clubhouse, staring out from beneath the brim of a flamboyant scarlet hat. It was Selene, dressed in all her customary elegance.

  The sound of gunfire echoed over the trees—a series of three shots, right in a row. Lucinda was shooting at fleeing pigeons released from a trap. The reverberations faded.

  Mark felt rather like one of those pigeons, except fixed within his sister’s sights. If Selene wished to be his assassin, so be it. But there was no reason for her to lurk about in the shadows, stalking him—and letting him see her stalk him.

  He rose from the blanket. He’d just go talk to her. Certainly she hadn’t come here to do battle with him on the cricket field.

  Starting across the grass, he glanced once more to Mina. She waited for the next volley. The dim-sighted Evangeline swatted at a shuttlecock that had long since soared past.

  His senses shouted a warning.

  Something hurtled toward Mina through the trees at a dangerous speed. In the next second, the unmistakable crack of a shotgun tore all around. Forgetting Selene, he raced toward Mina, fear crashing in his chest.

  She jerked, but remained standing, her racquet dangling from her hand. She didn’t move. Instead, she stood as if paralyzed. A report echoed through the trees.

  “Are you hit?” Mark seized her by the shoulders and lowered her to the grass. He touched the destroyed silk of her skirt and glanced at her face, which was completely blank of expression. If she was shot, she didn’t realize it.

  Lord and Lady Trafford rushed toward them. Lucinda, ashen faced, carried a double-barreled shotgun pointed toward the earth.

  Mark lifted Mina’s skirt, and the petticoats, just a few inches. Blood stained the stocking beneath.

  She whispered dazedly, “I am rather tired of having interesting days.”

  Five minutes later, he carried her toward the drive where the Trafford carriage waited. “What do you mean, someone attacked Miss Limpett on the street this morning?”

  He had to struggle to keep the full strength of his fury from his voice.

  “I wasn’t hurt,” Mina insisted, her arms wrapped around his neck. “And I’m not hurt now. It’s just a scratch from a tiny pellet of birdshot.”

  If she wasn’t hurt, why was she so pale? Why did she tremble in his arms?

  When they neared the open door, she wriggled down out of his grasp, her cheeks flushed. “Thank you, Lord Alexander.”

  He wasn’t sure what the message in her eyes conveyed, but under the scrutiny of her family, she quickly climbed inside the vehicle. He hated to let her go.

  Lucinda, her face lowered and hidden beneath the brim of her hat, climbed in afterward, followed by Evangeline and Astrid.

  “Oh, darling girl. I’m so sorry!” the countess exclaimed, gathering Mina into her arms.

  “It’s not your fault,” Mina assured her quietly.

  On the badminton field Lucinda had tearfully proclaimed herself and Mina to be the victims of a misfire. She’d demanded to anyone who would listen that the rifle be examined for defect.

  “Astrid, lift your cousin’s legs onto the cushion.”

  Mina protested, “That’s not necessary.”

  Trafford tipped his hat to Mark, shaking his head. He muttered gruffly, “Damn far too much excitement for one day.”

  He also climbed in.

  Lucinda, her eyes flashing, announced in a hushed voice, “I’m sorry, Lord Alexander. There just isn’t room for you.”

  The footman shut the door and went around back to climb on. The driver tapped his cane whip against the back of the horses, and the carriage rolled away.

  Mark exhaled. Slowly, he walked back to the club. Selene was nowhere to be seen. He departed the private grounds, going south to the Embankment. Looking out over the water, he wondered what the hell had just happened. He couldn’t believe Lucinda would shoot Mina on purpose, but something didn’t sit right. He’d felt entirely unsettled, sending her off in that carriage.

  He came alongside the Physic Garden, and slowed. A thick crowd gathered on the walkway at Cheyne Walk and beyond, past Albert Bridge. Pedestrians clustered the rails of the bridge. A powerful wave of emotion—morbid curiosity and horror—reverberated from the area. In retrospect he supposed he’d felt the sensation even upon leaving the grounds at Ranelagh, but tangled the negativity up with his alarm over Mina.

  Police officers in blue uniforms and bobby hats dotted the Embankment, and newspapermen crouched behind tripod cameras. A Thames River Police galley coursed along the river’s edge in close proximity to the bank. More officers waded in the water, wearing rubber hip trousers. They poked with poles and fished out pieces of rubbish with nets. Looking across the river, Mark magnified his vision and perceived the same degree of activity on the Battersea side.

  Leeson emerged from the crowd and rushed toward him. “Your lordship!”

  “What’s going on here?” Mark asked.

  “Horrible stuff.” The immortal lowered his voice. “From what I have gleaned, a young man went down to the river midmorning—over on the Battersea side—and discovered something there under the bridge.”

  Mark closed his eyes. “Tell me.”

  Leeson nodded. “I’ve not seen the evidence myself, but I’ve been listening very carefully, and heard several of the officers here refer to a thigh.”

  Mark blinked in disbelief. He looked into the sky to be sure the sun was not crashing into the earth, for that was the kind of day this had been.
“As in part of a person’s leg?”

  Leeson nodded. “A woman’s thigh. Dismembered.”

  The Thais floated just a short distance away. Flower petals and blood.

  The same thing had to be on Leeson’s mind.

  “That’s not all. They apparently found an arm around the same time this morning up by Horslydown.”

  “Horslydown. That’s far down river.”

  Leeson’s mustache glinted silver. “Both, they say, were carefully tied into cut sections of clothing.”

  Mark pondered the details. “Are the body parts from the same person?”

  “That I don’t know, sir, but of course, a huge search is ongoing along both sides of the river.”

  Mark looked out over the water. He nodded. “This might be the work of Selene’s Thames torso killer.”

  Mina lay back on her pillows, feeling like a child who had been ordered into her nightgown for an early bedtime. It was not even seven o’clock, and daylight still lit the sky outside her windows.

  “There,” announced Lucinda. She sat at the foot of the bed, tucking the end of the bandage at Mina’s ankle. “How does that feel? Too tight? Too loose?”

  “The bandage is perfect, thank you,” Mina answered calmly, despite her thready nerves. “But as I’ve continued to say all afternoon, the scratch is so minor, it couldn’t possibly qualify as a wound.”

  “I know, I know.” Lucinda positioned Mina’s foot on a tasseled cushion. “Fussing over you makes me feel better. I feel as if I am completely at fault for what must have been a terrible day for you. I should have insisted you stay in the stationer’s shop until I could accompany you down the street—and then this horrible thing with the gun misfire.”

  Mina smiled in sympathy. “Please don’t trouble yourself any more on my account.”

  Lucinda arranged a lap blanket across her legs. “Mina, dear, despite all this . . . I hope you realize you can always trust me and speak to me in confidence about anything.”

  “Thank you for that offer, Lucinda.”

  Pressing her lips together, Lucinda appeared to ponder the words she would say next. Her expression was one of concern. “I must say . . . I was rather shocked to see you up in that gas balloon with Lord Alexander this afternoon. I know you must be accustomed to making your own decisions, and living more . . . well, freely, but . . . this is London.”

  Mina paused before answering. “Our ride was very brief. I admit though, when I agreed, I thought we would remain tethered in one spot. I apologize if I made a spectacle of myself.”

  Her aunt tilted her head. “Young ladies in mourning are held to an even higher standard than those who are not. You wouldn’t want it to appear that you were . . . unmoved by your father’s recent death.”

  Mina said nothing, but her cheeks burned at receiving such a lecture on propriety. Perhaps she had chosen poorly in going up in the balloon with Mark. Still, deep in her heart she could not regret the time she’d spent with him. Aside from the kiss, he’d reawakened a part of her she’d missed—and admired.

  “If I could give you any advice, dear Mina, any advice at all, it would be to steer clear of gentlemen of Lord Alexander’s ilk.”

  Mina swallowed, trying not to appear shocked. The discussion on mourning etiquette was one thing, but she hadn’t expected any advice of this sort to come out of her ladyship’s mouth. Whatever had happened between her aunt and Lord Alexander had clearly tainted her opinion of him. Or could it be that Lucinda spoke out of jealousy?

  Lucinda gathered Mina’s hands and held them between both of hers. “He’s all flash and finery but very little substance. He’s dashing, yes, but his motives where the feminine sex is concerned are rarely aboveboard.”

  Mina thought it best to respond conservatively. Now was probably not the right time to inform her aunt that she’d given his lordship permission to call upon her.

  She said, “Lord Alexander is apparently quite interested in some of the more archaic languages my father specialized in, as well as the artifacts he collected. Perhaps his interest is nothing more than that.”

  The answer appeared to please Lucinda. The tightness around the edges of her mouth eased, and with a fleeting glance over Mina’s face and hair, she concluded, “I’m sure you’re right.”

  Mina wasn’t sure how she should respond to that.

  Lucinda touched her cheek. “You’re very sweet. I’m sure you’ll meet all sorts of wonderful gentlemen when the time is appropriate. No one can make sensible decisions when their mind is clouded with grief.” She smiled suddenly. “Once Thursday’s garden party is past, I should like to take you to my modiste. Perhaps you’d like to make a few selections to see you through your mourning into next year?”

  A knock sounded, and Lucinda left Mina to open the door. Upon her return, she held a tray. “I thought you might be hungry. I’ve had supper brought up for you.”

  “That’s very kind.”

  Lucinda lowered the tray to her lap. “How delicious it all smells. But we’ve the Nevils’ dinner to attend at nine, and then Lady Winbourne’s ball at eleven, so I couldn’t possibly indulge. In fact, I’d better dress and see that the girls are doing the same.”

  Part of Mina wished she was putting on a colorful gown and going to a party as well. But of course she was in mourning for another nine months. Not only that, but her leg had been half blown off, at least by everyone’s account but hers. Wistfully, she wondered if Mark would be at the Nevils’ or Lady Winbourne’s. When would she see him again?

  “Have a wonderful night,” Mina said, looking down at her plate.

  There were boiled parsnips and . . . something she didn’t recognize. A savory-scented mishmash of stuffing and shredded meat and vegetables. Several narrow stick-like things poked out of the culinary morass. She poked at one. A bone? She bit her lower lip.

  “This does smell very . . . good.” She swallowed hard and looked up. “Could you tell me what this is? Not the parsnips, the other.”

  Lucinda paused, her hand on the handle.

  “One of my favorites. It’s pigeon pie, of course.”

  With a smile, she drew the door closed behind her.

  Mina unfolded her napkin and draped the cloth over the entire plate. Lifting the tray from her lap, she scooted to the edge of the mattress and abandoned the untouched tray to the hallway. Back inside, she considered a few of the books she’d brought up from the library, but her mind was too scattered to focus on any of them.

  Her gaze fell on the satchel of her father’s papers. She couldn’t put them off forever. Now was as good a time as any to begin sorting them. The bandage loosened, and she paused to unwind it from her calf. She deposited the narrow length of cloth into her wastebasket and took up the satchel. She chose to sit on her bed rather than the desk. Climbing onto the cool sheets, she tugged the slender chain from her neck. Turning the little key in its lock, she lifted the flap. Her father’s scent wafted out—one of paper, ink and tobacco.

  She put the notebooks in one stack, and the little scraps of paper in another. There were diagrams and lists, as well as notes and hand-drawn maps.

  A drop fell to warp a stroke of ink. Mina blotted it carefully with the edge of her gown, preserving the word in its entirety. She swiped at her eyes. No tears. No more tears. She’d given up crying over that man a long time ago.

  Lifting the next page, she paused. Something lay between the two pieces of paper—something she didn’t recognize. She lifted the rose by its stem. Flat and dry, it appeared as if it had been pressed between two heavy books for some time, like a memento. Though the color had faded, it was easy to see the petals were striped . . . red and white.

  An alarm went off in her head, as loud and resounding as a temple gong. Three months ago she’d been the one to collect every bit of paper that went into the leather case—albeit frantically—from her father’s tent on the side of a Tibetan mountain. She felt very certain there’d been no stray red and white-striped roses there.
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br />   She rolled over the pillows and opened her bedside drawer. She rummaged about until she found the little folded paper that had come in her tin of orange blossom soap, the one about the language of flowers.

  She drew her finger down the paper to the place where roses were listed.

  Red and white . . .

  A love that could not be shared.

  Chapter Seven

  A full two days later, Mark maneuvered through the hallways of the Trafford house. All the notables of London society crowded the drawing rooms and galleries. There were beautiful women in Doucet and Worth gowns. Candlelight and the fractured sparkle of crystal lusters illuminated their faces. Gentlemen preened like peacocks in evening dress. Several older fellows boasted the vivid sashes and glinting medals of the various orders of the Empire. The cheerful notes of a blue Hungarian band carried over the voices of the animated throng.

  Thick sprays of flowers spilled from massive, decorative urns and hung above the arched doorways. The event had already been under way for several hours, starting off as a late-afternoon garden party. The invitation had specified there would also be a formal dinner, and later, dancing on the terrace, continuing into the night. He perused the ballroom, but found no dancers—and no Mina. Instead, servants collected silverware and porcelain from long rows of tables, the remnants of a formal meal.

  He had not called on Mina the day before, though he had dispatched Leeson to observe the Trafford house. After the report of the “random” attack on her, and the shooting, he couldn’t shake the feeling she was in danger. Yet he, by necessity, kept to the river, observing the continued search for body parts. Though he was no longer a Shadow Guard, old habits died hard. This morning, a woman’s trunk had been discovered off Copington Wharf, bundled into a cut section of clothing and tied with string . . . again, just a stone’s throw from the Thais. Although he had crossed paths with Selene a number of times, he could not shake the suspicion that the killer taunted him. Goaded him. Sought to draw him out for battle. Such intention would indicate the existence of a powerful brotoi in London, one whom he, as a cast-out Guard, had no authority to Reclaim.