by Kim Lenox
Despite all that, it could not be assumed that the mutilated remains were the work of the torso killer who had made similar gruesome deposits about the city in the midst of the Ripper crimes six months before. A number of hospitals lay in proximity to the banks of the Thames. It was completely possible the body parts were illegally dumped medical refuse. It would not be the first time such discoveries had been made. Death and incidents of the macabre were an unfortunate but anticipated reality of the river. In one recent year alone, more than five hundred corpses had been discovered in the Thames.
At last he happened across Mina’s trace and followed it until he found her in the yellow drawing room. In her simple black gown, she knelt in front of Evangeline. With needle and thread she mended some imperfection in the debutante’s skirt. Astrid stood at the far wall, staring into a gilt-framed mirror and pinching her cheeks. Seeing his reflection, she spun around, a whirl of ivory organza.
“Lord Alexander,” she exclaimed.
Evangeline yanked her yellow skirts free of Mina’s hands. Mina looked up and her gaze locked on his. The muscles along Mark’s abdomen tightened, evidence of his attraction, mingled with sensual intent. Much depended on this evening, and whether he would be able to successfully gain her trust. He’d reviewed his translation notes from the first scroll. The current waves of Tantalyte power—the ones likely triggering his spells—no longer coincided with the prophesies. It was as if Tantalus knew, with the Reclamation of his Messenger Jack the Ripper, that the game had changed. Mark had no way of knowing when the next wave would travel across London.
“We’ve been waiting hours for you to arrive.” Astrid rushed toward him. She whispered, out of hearing of the other two, “You’ll dance with me, won’t you?”
“Of course,” he agreed. Though it was a rather bold invitation on her part, he would be uncouth to decline. “Miss Limpett, how does this evening find you? Are you recovered from your injury?”
Mina nodded, as polite and aloof as before their kiss.
“Completely, your lordship.” She only fleetingly met his gaze. “I thank you for your concern.”
Astrid sighed impatiently.
Not wishing to lose sight of Mina in the crowded house, Mark extended an invitation. “Miss Limpett . . . Lady Evangeline, shall you accompany us into the garden?”
“Of course, your lordship.” Evangeline, giddy, grasped her skirts and hurried toward him, obscuring his view of Mina. When he saw her again, she had turned her back to gather up her scissors and thread.
The message stung. Though he wished to grasp her arm, drag her off into some darkened corner of the house and remind her of the attraction between them, left with no other choice, he proceeded to the rear of the house. With one debutante on each arm, he played the part well—the flashing-eyed rogue—fully aware of the female admiration and male envy he collected upon the way. Only the knowledge rang hollow. Vanity no longer satisfied. Worst of all, the woman he’d come to see tonight, the one he’d imagined in his bed during the darkest hours of the night, had barely offered him a glance.
He and his two pretty albatrosses passed through a crowded gallery. All the windows hung open to the night. Outside, Oriental lamps dotted the trees. A servant presently worked to clean up the shards and splatter of a broken champagne glass.
The next hour passed in a miserable blur of dances and inane conversation, Mark purposefully forbidding himself to go off in search of Mina.
“Aren’t you going to ask your hostess to dance?” Mark glanced down to find Lucinda beside him. She wore a rose-colored gown, cut to display her bust and narrow waist to their finest. A thick cluster of diamonds glittered at her throat. Hers was an undeniable beauty, but one that did not elicit the faintest reaction within him. Had he truly found her a temptation before?
Her icy façade melted before his eyes. “I’m so sorry about what happened at Hurlingham. I behaved like a fool.” She grasped her closed fan in both hands.
He studied her carefully and saw a glimpse of the happy, vivacious girl he remembered.
She continued on, tears glazing her eyes. “It’s just that marriage is nothing like I’d expected. Don’t misunderstand me; Trafford is wonderful and indulges me my every desire.” Her gloved hand touched the necklace at her throat. “Even so, I suppose I must confess to being very envious of the girls for the choices they still have ahead of them.”
He offered her his arm, if for no other reason than to remain in her good graces—and continue his welcome in her household. “No apology is necessary.”
Stepping into the waltz, he guided her into the midst of the other couples. Chairs circled the perimeter of the terrace and scattered the lawn. His gaze continually wandered, yet Mina did not appear. Yes, she was in mourning, but given the passage of time since her father’s death—albeit an untrue death—it would not be out of place for her to sit under the stars to enjoy the music with a glass of tea or lemonade. When the waltz ended, he extracted himself from Lucinda, smoothly depositing her amongst a cluster of friends and rivals.
Over the past half hour, a dull, nagging headache had come upon him, but so far, no odd light or dancing skeletons. The dangling paper lamps offended his eyes, along with all the frenzied talk and movement of the guests. Their chatter, and their thoughts, clouded his mind. He followed a garden path that wended into the deeper shadows against the house.
He dropped to a bench and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
For the first time in nineteen centuries, he wondered secretly, in the private depths of his mind, how death might feel.
Mina sat in a chair, her elbows resting against the darkened windowsill. From her window she’d watched the party and admired the ladies and gentlemen in all their finery, dancing, romancing and politicking. She’d learned all the dances in boarding school, but she’d only ever tried them out with fellow students, in the presence of a dance master. Certainly it would be different to dance in the arms of a gentleman, especially one for whom you had feelings.
Mark had moved from one dazzling partner to the next. Tall, golden-haired and striking, he clearly held the attention of the ladies. A smile had broken across her lips when he’d taken an elderly matron for a slower turn about the floor. The silver-haired vixen continually lowered her fan, and her hand, to his bottom. Each time he removed her hand, it drifted down again. The battle went on until the song ended, and he chivalrously returned the smiling lady to her chair. His expression had revealed nothing but the faintest trace of amusement.
Then Lucinda had appeared. After a brief yet intense conversation, they’d danced. Could any couple be more perfectly matched? Golden and elegant, they had cut a graceful path across the floor. She could not help but notice the way Lucinda clutched at his arm, even more so at the end of the dance, as if she were loath to let him go.
Even if there had been no affair between them before Lucinda’s marriage—and even if none continued now—Mina suddenly felt very sorry for Trafford.
At present, Mark sat in the dark, just below her window—as he had for the past five or so minutes. She warred with herself over whether to let him know of her presence. Here, out of the light of the lanterns, he seemed quiet, even pensive. He rubbed his nose, as if weary. Finally, she could resist no longer.
“Are you enjoying your evening?”
He looked up. “There you are. What are you doing up there?”
There you are. Spoken as if he’d been looking for her. Every inch of her skin warmed with cautious delight.
“Watching. I’ve a delightful perspective of all the evening’s happenings.”
“Tell me something interesting.”
“Well, if you must know,” she answered lightly, “the American faction is behaving rather badly.”
“How so?”
“The Misses Bonynge have just arrived with their father, and as a result, their archenemy, Mrs. Mackay, has stormed out, taking her entourage with her. According to Astrid, they’ve a longstanding feud over so
me perceived slight or another.”
“Now that is interesting.”
Mina laughed. He didn’t.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “You don’t seem yourself.”
“It’s my neck. I’m breaking it to look up there at you. Why don’t you come down here and sit with me.”
His request sent a dangerous curl of excitement through Mina’s stomach. She knew she shouldn’t. . . . If Lucinda saw, there’d be another lecture on propriety, likely spurred by the countess’s feelings for his lordship, but Mina did not wish to rub salt into any wounds.
Still, she’d been so isolated these past two days. Yes, she’d been constantly surrounded by people, assisting with the preparations for the party, but she’d largely been left alone to her nerve-wracking fears, and images of striped roses—between constant thoughts of Mark, of course.
“I’ll be right down.”
She pulled the windows closed, and fastened them securely—always securely. Taking the servants’ stairs down, she passed through the bustling kitchen. From an unattended serving tray she claimed a glass of tea sprigged with mint, and exited the service door. Avoiding the lights of the party, she slipped along the garden path and found Mark sitting just where he had been moments before.
Mina appeared like a shadowy nymph from the trees, her face luminous above the dark collar of her gown. He immediately sensed the wall she put into place between them, one built of caution. He didn’t throw her any smoldering looks or speak any clever words. He simply made space for her on the bench.
“I have something for you.” He reached into his inside breast pocket and handed her the card.
“Another picture?” Her brows furrowed with confusion. “What’s this?”
“It’s you,” he answered softly.
She examined the photo. “I remember this. I was outside the stationer’s shop with Lucinda. I just assumed the man on the sidewalk took her picture. Where did you get this?”
Leeson had returned to the Thais from the Chelsea shops that afternoon with supplies and the photo. He collected such novelties for his collection of mortal paraphernalia.
“It’s posted in half the shop windows in London, beside those of Jennie Churchill and Lilly Langtry.”
She paled. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am. Each day your photo is being snatched up by ladies all over town. By next week, they’ll all be wearing your bonnet.”
She laughed. “But it’s such an ugly bonnet.”
“The bonnet has nothing to do with it.”
She glanced away, as if both pleased and discomfited by the idea. “Have you got a headache? You keep rubbing your head as if you do.”
No, not exactly a headache . . . but it wouldn’t do to tell Miss Limpett that malevolent forces of evil presently worked to claim his mind and his soul for wicked and destructive purposes, and that even now one voice in particular filled his head with such a screeching cacophony of demands, he could barely form a sentence.
“Yes.” He nodded. “A headache.”
“Here.”
She pressed the glass she’d been holding into his hand. It was cool and refreshingly damp against his palm.
“It’s a bit of minted tea—I picked it up on the way down, and haven’t so much as taken a sip. Perhaps you’ll find it soothing. They say peppermint sometimes eases such pains.”
He pressed the cool glass against his temple. If only a sprig of peppermint would solve his problems.
She looked up at the sky. “Perhaps your headache is the result of all this peculiar weather we’re experiencing. Can you believe how it can be hot one moment, and gusting cold the next? And there’s been no rain. I don’t recall anything like this ever before, not in England. The grass has started to turn crisp and brown.”
“Very unpleasant,” he answered, not really caring what she said, as long as she kept talking. Her voice soothed his head and seemed to mute the incessant demands.
She mused, “One has to wonder if the terrible weather in America is somehow connected. It’s so tragic, what happened with the flood, and the dam breaking. I spent the morning reading through all the accounts. So many lives lost.” She shook her head. “Aunt Lucinda insisted Trafford wire over a generous donation for the reconstruction efforts.”
The events were connected. Would she believe him if he explained about exploding volcanoes and residual ripples of doom that, if uninterrupted, would eventually bring about the destruction of mankind?
He almost laughed at the preposterousness of it all. He wished his intuition were wrong, that the eruption of Krakatoa and the revelations of the previous months had never happened, and that all of it had no effect upon him. He’d never wished to be mortal, but the oblivious-ness of the race to the true happenings of the world had its attractions.
She tilted her head in sympathy. “If you felt so badly, why did you venture out tonight at all?”
“I wanted to see you.”
“Oh. . . .” She blinked rapidly and looked into the shrubbery. Suddenly she stood. Damn, he’d frightened her off. But no . . . she walked around the bench to stand behind him.
“A Bhutanian temple monk once showed my father a remedy when he suffered an altitude headache. Would you like to try it?”
“I’ll . . . try anything.” He’d let her cut off a finger as long as she touched him to do it. Her fingertips lowered against the crown of his head . . . hesitantly at first, and then slid through his hair. They circled, scratching lightly with the nails. Her touch left a path of pleasure against his scalp, one that shot a heated bolt of pleasure directly into his groin.
He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against a hiss.
She said quietly, “You’ve very nice hair.”
Suddenly she grasped hold of his hair and pulled. Hard.
His mouth fell open. “Ow.”
Not what he expected. But to his surprise, each solid, extended tug eased the pain.
“Better?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Mark’s hand circled her wrist. Mina stilled. Slowly, he pulled her hand over the high cut of his cheekbone, and lower . . . to press his lips against the center of her palm.
Her knees weakened. Everything inside her melted. She braced her other hand on his shoulder. That one he also claimed, drawing her down to sit beside him, her knees and legs opposite his on the bench. Her breasts just touched his chest. He drew the backs of his fingertips along her cheek, softly at first. All the old warnings echoed inside her head, but this time . . . this time, she closed a solid door against them. She ached at the touch and prayed he did not stop. He bracketed her chin and gently kissed her.
A peculiar sound came from the darkness . . . a breathy gasp.
Mark’s lips stilled against hers.
Another sound . . . this time a masculine groan. A curse.
Mina felt his lips curve into a smile. He pulled away, his eyes gleaming in dark amusement. Mina’s cheeks went hot. She would like to have claimed ignorance, but she’d spent many a night in shabby foreign inns and tent encampments. She knew the sounds of a man and woman being intimate. The sounds came from the thick cluster of trees between them and the terrace. She and Mark were effectively trapped.
She bit into her lower lip, mortified. Mark chuckled.
“Ah . . . we’d better just stay here until they are . . .”
“Finished.”
“Yes.”
They sat beside one another, rigid. Mark’s hands pressed lightly against Mina’s shoulders. The sounds became more fervent and frequent.
“Oh, my,” Mina whispered, lifting a hand to her mouth to smother her nervous laughter, yet her nipples hardened against her chemise as she imagined Lord Alexander touching her in intimate ways. She clenched her thighs against a sudden profusion of damp heat.
Mark tipped his head closer, murmuring against her cheek. “I don’t believe she’s pulling his hair. Or . . . perhaps she is.”
The warmth of his b
reath on her skin only intensified her discomfort. She turned her face aside for fear she would kiss him.
“Who do you think they are?”
Firm fingers caught her chin. Dark blue eyes stared at her mouth. “Who cares?”
He bent his head to hers. His mouth, his breath, teased her lips until she . . . she . . . in a mindless delirium of pleasure, swayed, and pressed her lips to his.
He groaned softly, deep in his throat. He tipped her head back onto the hard pillow of his arm. His tongue in her mouth, his hand slid down her neck. Warm fingertips brushed against the base of her bare throat, twisting one button. Two. He explored a bit lower. When his hand slipped between her bodice and corset, she arched against him.
The sky cracked loudly. A narrow streak split the darkness.
Another crash followed, and a brilliant shattering of light.
Alarmed voices arose from the direction of the terrace. Dazed, Mina opened her eyes to the sky. “Is that . . . lightning?”
Boom. Flash. Crack. The earth shook. The windows above them rattled.
Mark stood, pulling her up. He deftly buttoned her bodice. “We’re not safe under the trees.”
His face had gone pale, and he pressed his hand to his temple.
Crash.
“This way.” Mina led him along the path, and to the service entrance she’d utilized just a short time earlier. They entered, their togetherness concealed by the crush of servants crowding the rear hallways. Yet turning, he pinned her against the wall, his hands against her shoulders.
“I’ve got to go,” he said.
“In the storm? Why don’t you wait—”
“I’ll return tomorrow.” He looked tortured.
“Mark—”
“Be careful, Mina.”
Another boom sounded. The floor moved under Mi-na’s shoes. Trays of silverware and crystal rattled.
Be careful, Mina. What did he mean by that? Mark released her, backed away and disappeared out the service door. From a narrow window, she watched him go. He cut through the garden gate, and between two waiting carriages. His elegant gait had gone abnormally straight and stiff. A spear of lightning cut across the sky. The muscular span of his shoulders stiffened. He stumbled.