So Still The Night

by Kim Lenox

  “But I don’t think those filters will work on this.” She hurled the balloon high in the air over the reservoir.

  Mark leapt.

  Another arm unfurled, wielding a long-barreled pistol.

  Crack. Liquid rained down. Crashing in, he diffused into shadow. He spread himself through the cool, green depths, attempting to catch the lethal poison as it drifted down. . . .

  But there was no poison. There was only . . . ginger beer.

  He broke through the surface. Rage welled up from within him, and he ground his teeth down on a shouted curse. He swam to the side. The Dark Bride peered down at him from a few steps away.

  “Oh, darling, you take my breath away. The way you leapt in to save the citizens of London. Did you really think I’d kill all those people? I wouldn’t do that. After all, if they are dead, who will become my toadies? I have big plans for this city. And for you. But obviously, you’re not ready yet.”

  Mark climbed, drenched, onto the concrete ledge. He rubbed the water from his eyes. When he opened them again . . .

  She and the toadies were gone.

  Chapter Nine

  Mark stared up at the front façade of the Trafford house. A few hansoms traveled the street, as well as early riders headed for the Row, but Mayfair, at this hour, still seemed to be rubbing the sleep from its eyes. He glanced down at his pocket watch again.

  Eight thirty. It was early. Too early for a proper call, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He could think of only one way to expedite a closer relationship between himself and Miss Limpett, and bring himself nearer to possession of the scrolls. He told himself that now, after all he’d heard the night before, he wasn’t just seducing Mina Limpett to save his own skin. He was seducing her to save London. And England. Quite possibly, even the world.

  A powerful brotoi prepared the damn River Thames with human sacrifices, in preparation for the arrival of the dark underworld lord, Tantalus. There’d never been a more valiant cause, a more noble reason, to seduce one lush, English virgin. Yes, world. And I’m just the man to do the job. His palms sweated, and his heart—he swore it skipped every other beat, an indication his emotions were tangled up in the decision more than he’d prefer. He rang the bell.

  Mark’s card in hand, the footman disappeared into the recesses of the house. A moment later he was led to his lordship’s study.

  His lordship strode in, wearing a silk dressing gown over his trousers. “You’re out and about rather early this morning.”

  Mark stood, and the two men shook hands.

  “Did you enjoy yourself last night?” Trafford inquired.

  Instead of seating himself behind the desk, his lordship lowered himself to the chair beside Mark’s.

  “I did, yes,” Mark responded politely.

  “Can you believe that lightning storm? We’re lucky no one was killed. All that racket and not a drop of rain.”

  “I think the storm only served to make the evening more memorable.” The night had certainly been memorable for him. “I hope Lucinda is pleased.”

  “Yes,” his lordship responded shortly, his lips pressed into a wan smile. “She . . . ought to be.”

  Mark began, “Well—I—ah—”

  He swallowed hard. It wasn’t like him to stammer.

  “Yes?” His lordship’s eyebrows arched up.

  “There’s a reason I’ve come this morning to speak to you. So early, so dreadfully early, I must apologize.” Mark pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swiped at his brow. Good God, he never perspired.

  “No apologies are necessary. I’m an early riser and welcome the company.” Trafford nodded and crossed his legs. His leather slipper dangled off his toes. “Tell me about this reason?”

  Blast. He could barely catch his breath. “I’ve an important matter to discuss with you. A . . . proposal.”

  “A proposal. What an interesting choice of words.” Trafford leaned forward and selected two cigars from the wood box on his desk. Taking up a small pair of gleaming silver scissors, he expertly snipped off the ends. Snip snip. One, two.

  “I’ve found myself rather smitten by a young lady in your household.”

  “Oh, yes?” Pleasure warmed Trafford’s features. In fact, he appeared downright giddy. “Astrid will be beside herself. The two of you, last night on the dance floor. Perfection . Everyone commented.”

  Mark smiled at the awkwardness of the whole situation. “I’m sorry, although Astrid is a lovely, lovely girl—”

  “Evangeline.” Trafford’s eyes widened. “Even better. She’s a remarkable conversationalist. A smart, sturdy girl.”

  “Actually, your lordship, I’d like your permission to ask for Miss Limpett’s hand in marriage.”

  The cigars dropped from his lordship’s hand.

  Mina had not slept for the remainder of the night. She sat at her desk, fully dressed, staring at the satchel. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to throw the hundreds of bits of pieces of paper away. Instead, she’d gathered them all up and placed them inside. First there had been the rose, discovered inside the locked satchel, and now this. Fragmented visions eddied about in her head. Glowing eyes in the crypt. The masked actor on the street, wielding the same breed of rose. Was all of it designed to drive her mad?

  Someone attempted quite skillfully to frighten her. And badly. But who? A servant or someone from outside the home?

  Or could it be a member of her own family?

  She couldn’t think clearly. The otherworldly memory of the disappearing fog made her question everything. Whoever had orchestrated these events were just people . . . weren’t they?

  She glanced at her untouched breakfast tray. As had become her morning habit, she gathered up a few bits into the napkin and left her room. She needed air. She needed sunshine. She needed to think clearly and decide what to do.

  In the garden, a servant stood atop a ladder, removing lanterns from the trees. Here and there lay bits of crushed flowers, and the odd pearl or bit of trim. Tables and chairs remained, the lightning storm having made conditions far too dangerous to stow them the night before. She proceeded to the far end of the garden, and took the few steps down to where the shrubs lined the wall. She laid the napkin out, and backed away to watch from the steps.

  The cats didn’t appear. Perhaps they were a bit skittish after the party and the storm. She’d wait a while longer.

  Weary, she rested her face in her hands. Perhaps she should talk to Trafford and tell him everything. She just didn’t know, and there was no one to help her decide. Perhaps . . . perhaps Mark? She wished—

  “They’re gone, you know.”

  Mina looked up and found Evangeline on the steps behind her, dressed in a pink and white-striped dressing gown.

  “Who are gone?” She stood.

  “The cats. Lucinda had the gardeners put out traps. She didn’t want them slinking around during her party.”

  “Traps?”

  Evangeline murmured, “I’m sorry if you were fond of them. The gardeners . . . well, they make sure the cats don’t come back. They kill them.”

  Grief tore through Mina, a blunt stab of pain. Her stomach turned. Her three little cats, dead. For a garden party? Misery, compounded with her earlier fears, combined to steal her breath. The sky, the flowers, the big grand house . . . everything turned gray.

  Perhaps she should leave. Go somewhere far away, even to America. Somewhere no one knew her. She could take a job as a governess or nanny. She didn’t have much money, just that from the sale of her father’s small Manchester house.

  But Mark . . .

  “I was sent to find you,” said Evangeline. “My father wishes to speak with you.”

  Mina nodded. Her arms hung limp at her side as together they returned to the house.

  Outside the study, Evangeline added, “I think there’s someone else in there with him, but I don’t know who.”

  Mina knocked. At her uncle’s call, she let herself in.

  Ma
rk stood up from a chair, holding his hat and gloves, his expression solemn. The sight of him paralyzed her. Not because she didn’t wish to see him, but because all she wanted to do was race toward him and throw herself into her arms, and sob into his shirt over three silly little cats and a pile of shredded notes.

  “Good morning, Lord Trafford,” she said. “Lord Alexander.”

  “Come, Willomina. Please sit,” invited her uncle. He moved to stand beside the mantel.

  Mina did as he asked. On unsteady legs she lowered herself into the chair beside Mark’s. He also sat. A sudden fear struck through her that they were here to confront her about her father. Her face . . . her scalp went numb. It was the worst thing she could imagine; that Lord Alexander, the man who had kissed her so sweetly, so passionately, would think of her as a liar—a deceiver.

  Trafford’s expression gave away nothing. “His lordship has come with a special request this morning.”

  “Oh, yes?” she answered faintly. “What is that?”

  Mark stared at her intently. Her uncle seemed to be drawing something out. At the edge of her chair, she waited expectantly, her hands curled into fists.

  “Lord Alexander”—his lips spread into a slow smile, and his eyes twinkled—“has requested and received my permission to ask for your hand in marriage.”

  “He . . . has?” They were all the words she could muster. Her mouth, her brain did not wish to function.

  She looked at Mark. Intensity sharpened his features. He offered her a crooked, hopeful smile.

  “Yes, I have,” he confirmed.

  This wasn’t at all what she expected. Her lungs collapsed. She couldn’t draw a breath.

  “I—I don’t know.” Her face—her tongue and lips—felt swollen with shock. “We don’t even really know each other.”

  Mark nodded. Looking to Trafford, he said, “Perhaps I could speak alone to Miss Limpett.”

  “Of course.” Trafford bounded toward the door. “I shall check in on you shortly.”

  He closed the door firmly behind him.

  “I know my proposal is sudden. I know it’s completely unexpected.” Mark grasped her hand. “But I’ve got to get out of here. Out of England, and I want you to come with me.”

  Mina smiled at him, and her eyes flooded. “You don’t want to marry me.”

  “Yes, I do.” A bemused expression overtook his face. “I can honestly say there’s nothing I want more.”

  “Why?” she demanded softly, blinking at him through tears.

  “Why what?”

  “Why everything. Why do you want to marry me? Why do you have to leave England? Why now?”

  “Because I want you. I need you. It’s that simple. And we’ve so much in common, Mina. We share a love for the more authentic places in the world, and the discovery of ancient things. I know this city doesn’t make you happy, just like it doesn’t make me happy. There are too many rules, and too many intrigues. It’s a soulless place, and I’m itching to get away and return to what has always been real to me. Come with me.”

  “You don’t even know me.” She shook her head. “I’m a mixed-up mess.”

  “No, you’re not,” he assured her, his voice low and persuasive. “And even if you are, then I must like it very much. Perhaps I am a mixed-up mess too.”

  “There are things . . .” She stared at their entwined hands. “Things that I should tell you, things about myself that I just can’t.”

  “You think I don’t have secrets? Shocking, terrible secrets?” He grinned ruefully. “I’m sure mine would blow yours out of the water.” He shook his head. “We shall share them, when the time feels right.”

  “What about you? I don’t know anything about you, not even the most simple things. Do you have family?”

  “My mother and father died when I was a boy,” he answered. “Within hours of each other. It was all very tragic and dramatic.”

  Now she understood the underlying darkness she’d sensed beneath his otherwise warm and roguish disposition.

  “That’s very sad. Is there no one else? No siblings?”

  “I have a twin. We are estranged.” He paused, squeezing her hand. “So you see? We’re both very much alone in this life. Let’s be together, and learn the rest along the way.” He left the chair, dropping to his knees and his legs crushing into her skirts. He took both her hands in his. His hands were warm, and large and strong.

  Her safe place.

  “Just say yes.”

  “Where would we go?”

  “Europe. India. Tibet. Wherever you wish.”

  Perhaps she could have adventure and her safe place. Yes, her heart whispered, perhaps . . . perhaps Tibet.

  Mina stared into his eyes. His hands came up to brace her chin, one on either side. Bending, he pressed his lips to her cheeks . . . to her closed eyelids in warm, fervent kisses, banishing her tears.

  “Say yes,” he whispered. “Mina, please.”

  He kissed her mouth. All her fear and the sadness faded.

  “Yes,” she answered. “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured between hot, gentle kisses. “Thank you, Mina.”

  He did not declare his love for her, and she didn’t need it. Not yet. For now, this was enough.

  “When?” he murmured against her cheek. “Next week?”

  Mina grasped his upper arms, drunk on their closeness. “As soon as possible.”

  A knock came at the door.

  Mark quickly stood, his hand resting against her shoulder. After a quick swipe at her eyes, she also turned. Trafford peeked in, his smile hesitant.

  “Have we an engagement?” he asked quietly.

  With a squeeze to her shoulder, Mark answered, “We do.”

  Trafford grinned, his gaze dropping to Mina, as if for confirmation. She nodded and smiled. Her uncle opened the door farther, revealing three more faces. All ashen. All unsmiling.

  Lucinda pushed past him, into the room.

  “Trafford, I can’t believe you’re supporting this,” she scoffed, her voice thick. “They barely know one another.”

  Mina blinked, her joy in the moment summarily evaporating.

  The earl lifted his hands. “What does knowing each other have to do with anything?”

  “Miss Limpett, I’m exceedingly disappointed in you,” the countess snapped. “You’ve only just buried your father. You’ve been in mourning a scant three months. What do you suppose people are going to say?”

  Mark raised Mina from the chair. The firm support of his hand came to her back. “They won’t say anything. We’ll have a quiet, private ceremony by special license.”

  “Those are the worst kind.” Her gaze veered between them. Pale ringlets bobbed on either side of her cheeks. “They get everyone to talking scandal.”

  “I don’t care about scandal,” Mark said, looking to Mina. “Do you care about scandal?”

  “No,” she whispered. She cleared her throat and repeated more firmly, “No.”

  Lucinda’s eyes widened incredulously. Her breasts rose and fell beneath the fitted bodice of her blue sprigged morning gown. “You’re thinking only of yourselves. The scandal will not only affect you, but all of us.”

  Trafford interceded. “Lucinda, you’re exaggerating things.”

  Mark added, “Any talk will quickly die. And furthermore, we’ll be leaving directly on our honeymoon, on the Thais.”

  “Well then, I guess it’s settled, isn’t it?” Lucinda looked around at all of them. At Mark and Mina. At Trafford. At the pallid-faced girls. In a softer, ragged voice she said, “I’ve got to go lie down. I’ve a headache now.”

  She rushed through the open door, passing Astrid and Evangeline, who hovered in the corner. They didn’t speak, but their gazes swept condemningly to Mina. In tandem, they too quit the room.

  Trafford rocked back on his heels, his arms clasped behind his back. To Mark, he said conspiratorially, “How fast do you think you can get the license?”

  “T
oday is Friday. I think I could manage it by Tuesday.”

  Her uncle grinned. “She’ll be fine by then.”

  Mark hated to abandon Mina to a house in tumult, but being that they would be married on Tuesday, he had much to do—starting with obtaining the special license. He prayed Lucinda, in his absence, would not do anything drastic to force Mina to change her mind. Last night when the countess apologized for her behavior at Hurlingham, he’d actually believed she was sorry. Had she always been so manic in her moods and behaviors?

  A clock ticked off rapid time in his head. He prayed he would not suffer another spell before the wedding, because he sensed that with each assault on his mind, he became less able to fend off the malevolent influence of the Dark Bride. Her voice had been noticeably silent since last night at the waterworks, but he feared when she returned, she would do so with a vengeance.

  His plan was twofold: First, he felt certain that once they were under way, he could fully gain Mina’s trust and persuade her to confess everything, most especially the details of her father’s location. Second, he suspected the distance would mute the Dark Bride’s voice—at least long enough for him to gain control of the scrolls, translate them and locate the conduit. Restored to his full Amaranthine powers, he would return to London, petition the Primordial Council for reinstatement—and put an end to the Dark Bride.

  But of course, the trip wasn’t all about his sanity. He planned to make love to his beautiful new wife at least a thousand times along the way. He closed his eyes, remembering how thick the attraction had been between them last night, and even more so, this morning. He had lived and loved for centuries. Some loves stood out from all the rest.

  A carriage rolled alongside the curb where he walked. His eyes narrowed with suspicion, and he glanced aside. Thankfully, no whirly-eyed driver held the reins. Instead, Leeson peered out from the open cab of a hansom.

  “Your lordship.” The vehicle stopped. “Come inside.”

  Mark strode to the vehicle and climbed in.

  “How went your proposal? Are you successfully betrothed?”

  The driver steered them off the curb.