by Archer, Zoe
A tremor worked through him. God, he’d almost murdered someone. And he had wanted to, to see Worton sprawled upon the ground at his feet. Bram hadn’t thought of him as simply a fellow swordsman engaged in training, as Bram himself was. A red-edged fever had taken hold of him. Worton had transformed into the Algonquin, into a French soldier, into a creature with a twisted face and a mouth full of fangs.
Insanity. Yet he’d been driven by a need to kill this enemy. Was this the madness of which Livia spoke? The one that had gripped her own time after she had freed the Devil? He tried to picture what London would be like if its streets teemed with men and women eager for blood—and shoved the image from his mind. The hell he’d experienced in the Colonies would resemble a May Day fete by comparison.
No—it wouldn’t come to that. It couldn’t, no matter what the ghost claimed.
He felt her near, somewhere at the edges of his bedchamber. She was never far. Strange—he thought he’d find her presence an anathema, but there was a curious . . . comfort in having her close.
As if one took comfort from the millstone around one’s neck.
Cleeve tugged gently at the lace at Bram’s wrists, ensuring that just the proper amount showed. It was easier to prepare for actual warfare. A check to make sure the weapons were all sharp enough and ready to fire, and then into the heat of battle. A French grenadier didn’t care if Bram’s stock lay perfectly snug against his throat. He only wanted Bram dead.
The fine hairs on the back of Bram’s neck rose. Livia was drawing closer, hovering near. He couldn’t see her, but he sensed her, his body growing alarmingly attuned to her presence. If he let his eyes almost close, he could nearly see her, the soft outline of her curved form.
What might she look like if she truly walked upon the ground? All women had their own innate rhythm and movement, unique to each female. He had made a considerable study of it. Some moved with intrinsic sensuality, others with deliberate provocation as if throwing down a gauntlet. Both intrigued him, for he did enjoy challenges. There were women who moved with the rigidity of automatons, uncomfortable in their bodies. He avoided them.
How might this Roman ghost move, had she a corporeal body? She might carry herself with patrician stiffness, a queen descending from her throne to unwillingly mingle with the rabble. No. She’d be a seductive thing, those rounded hips canting from side to side with each step, a lure no living man could resist.
He was alive, but she wasn’t. She was also a virago, a presence to be endured only because he hadn’t any choice.
Splendid attire. Her words drifted through his thoughts, laced with slight hints of admiration. Not suitable, I think, for a quiet evening at home.
I haven’t spent a quiet evening at home since I was fifteen, he answered. Tonight won’t see me break that tradition.
Where will you go?
Anywhere I can have female company.
He felt her sardonic smile. But you’ll have an audience.
Don’t sodding care.
Fighting at the fencing academy had done nothing to quell the restless, dark energy burning within him. Only one thing offered him any kind of respite. He needed the gentle voices and soft hands of women, their beguiling smiles and silken sighs. The peace he achieved never lasted long enough, but he’d take whatever he could get. A parched man would rather have a drop of water upon his tongue than nothing at all.
If the world was truly going to hell, as Livia claimed, then he would seize his pleasure wherever and whenever he could.
He expected Livia to object to his plan for the night, yet when he turned to leave, she only drifted beside him.
If you must go out tonight, she said as they made their way down the corridor, be careful. It gets worse after dark. I remember that, as well.
This sword isn’t merely decorative.
Use it if you have to.
He stopped walking, then said aloud, “That’s not what you said this afternoon.”
A nearby footman glanced toward Bram. “My lord?”
Bram was about to snap that servants weren’t supposed to intrude upon the master’s private conversations, before realizing that, to the footman’s eyes, Bram was alone, conversing with no one. He walked quickly on. The servants would talk about the master’s strange behavior, but this was the least of Bram’s concerns.
You were about to kill an unarmed man who presented no threat to you, Livia continued. That’s not the same as protecting yourself in a dangerous situation.
I know the difference.
This afternoon you didn’t.
He had no riposte, and her words sunk into him like a blade. Again he thought of a London clutched in the frenzy of bloodlust, hundreds of thousands transformed into riotous beasts. No safety. No peace. Only chaos and death.
It will come, she said, seeming to know his thoughts. It’s already here.
You’re wrong. He had to believe that.
Reaching the foyer, a footman handed him his tricorn hat and cloak, then opened the door once he’d donned them. The carriage waited, ready to speed him off into the night and his ceaseless quest for pleasure.
Go then, she said coldly. Go and see.
Everything appeared exactly as it ought. Hundreds of expensive beeswax candles threw blazing light from atop massive crystal chandeliers. The parquet floors gleamed. Musicians stationed in the corner filled the chamber with the very latest from the Continent. Talk and jewels packed the room, both sharp and calculated to dazzle. Footmen circulated with trays bearing glasses of wine. Someone had organized a card game in an adjoining chamber, and shouts of the players mingled with the music and voices.
By most standards, the assembly at Lord Millom’s would be considered a success.
But something was wrong.
Standing in the doorway, with an invisible Livia beside him, Bram surveyed the chamber. He knew most of these men—aristocrats and nobly born gentlemen, and a handful of wealthy burghers who had bought their way into the ranks of the elite. And they knew him, offering him polite bows or nods as his gaze moved past them. Distracted, he barely returned the gesture.
Despite the smiles, the attempts at cheer and insistently ebullient music, a wrongness hovered over the assembly like an invisible pestilence.
Then he understood.
He snared the arm of the Marquess of Lapley, affecting a careless stroll past him.
“Where are the ladies?” Bram demanded.
Lapley grimaced. “Damned strange, ain’t it? Aside from Lady Millom”—he nodded toward the woman in question, a tense middle-aged lady laced tightly into yellow satin—“there ain’t another female here. No one’s dancing.”
The space normally occupied by dancers going through their intricate steps stood empty, a lacuna of parquetry. No bright silk or fluttering fans circled the chamber. The low drone of masculine voices was unrelieved by female chatter. Not a giggle or trill. Gallants awaited the arrival of fair maidens, eager to prove themselves by fetching glasses of negus or offer up sparkling compliments in the continuous ritual of courtship.
Every man at the assembly wore a baffled smile as false as pasteboard marble.
“It’s like someone’s blotted out the stars,” Bram muttered.
Lapley snorted. “Aye. What’s the use of coming to these bloody assemblies if there ain’t no ladies to flirt with?”
“Your wife isn’t here.” Bram looked pointedly at the empty space beside Lapley.
“Wouldn’t come. Said she felt nervous and out of sorts. With all the peculiarity going on around town, I was glad of her choice. Ain’t been safe after dark. Last night, five different gentlemen were almost shot in their own carriages. Covingham barely escaped with his life.”
All this was news to Bram, but without Whit and Leo to meet him at the coffee house for the day’s intelligence, he hadn’t gone and heard the latest reports.
“What of the other ladies?” Bram pressed. The Season was at its height. No woman of social standing missed an
assembly. At the least, they needed to parade their daughters before eligible bachelors.
Lapley shrugged. “The same, I’d wager. Makes for a sodding dull assembly. Unless,” he added, brightening, “you brought some females with you.”
I don’t believe I count, Livia said, her voice wry in Bram’s mind.
“I’m alone,” Bram answered.
With a disappointed mutter about wasted opportunity, Lapley drifted away.
Bram continued to stand in the doorway, surveying the assembly that was not truly an assembly. The men in the chamber continued to circulate and affect conversation, but it felt like a sham. Or there had been a Biblical purge, and instead of slaying first born sons, the Angel of Death had killed every last woman, save one.
Citizens’ wives wouldn’t come out after dark, Livia said. They hid in their homes, cowering in corners with their arms around their children. Only female slaves forced to venture out of doors did so. I walked the streets disguised so no one knew my sex.
Powerful witch like you, he retorted. You’ve nothing to fear.
All women share the same fear, magic or no magic. And their fear is well-founded. I saw what happened when the mobs caught women out after sunset.
He felt her shudder, and his own blood iced.
It isn’t like that now.
You’ve looked out the window of your carriage. You’ve seen.
Maybe he hadn’t wanted to see, for, at the time, it made no impression on him. But thinking on it now, he remembered the protectively hunched forms of women scurrying inside. Only the women forced to earn their livings on the street remained—whores, orange sellers, beggars—and their eyes had been wide with fear.
In the span of a single night, the world had changed. He felt the whole of society, both high and low, clinging to a precipice, the rocks crumbling beneath their fingers. Soon the whole cliff would collapse. All that remained was the fall into darkness.
But his hands were strong, and he’d hold on for as long as he could. The darkness wouldn’t claim him just yet.
From the exterior, the building appeared like any other home in this fashionable part of town. Tidy and reserved, its modern brick façade looked out onto the street with perfect respectability, proportioned according to the most classical standards.
Bram ascended the short flight of steps, hearing the clatter of his carriage pulling discretely into the mews. Livia drifted behind him. Her curiosity was a flame at his back.
What’s at this place? Another gathering?
Without answering, he tapped at the door, and it opened immediately. They knew him here. Inside was just as tasteful as the exterior, done up in the latest style, with cream colored paneling, and paintings of serene landscapes upon the walls. A liveried footman took his hat and cloak.
“They are gathered in the drawing room, my lord,” the servant murmured. “Shall I show you in?”
“I know the way.” He strode down the corridor, Livia just behind him. Along the way, he passed a maid in cap and apron, and she curtsied, her eyes upon the ground.
Female voices drifted into the hallway from behind the drawing room’s closed doors.
Wherever we are, Livia mused, fear hasn’t kept the women away.
We’ll assuredly find women here, he answered.
He opened the doors of the drawing room. Settees and couches were arranged throughout the chamber. Upon them lounged young women in filmy gowns, and they all turned their gazes toward him as he entered the room. Some attempted to smile enticingly, but their attempts failed—the smiles withered like hothouse flowers.
“My lord, you are most warmly welcomed.” An older woman came forward, her hands outstretched to take his. She wore artful amounts of powder and rouge, a patch applied to just below the corner of her mouth.
“Mrs. Able.” Bram bowed, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. “Like always, lovely as the evening star.”
“La,” trilled Mrs. Able, “pretty words from a pretty knave.”
“I save all my pretty words for you alone.”
“Then you must have a very short supply, my lord.”
“More than Dr. Johnson’s dictionary, ma’am.”
Mrs. Able laughed. “Such a charming rogue! ’Tis no wonder you’re the girls’ favorite.”
She says that to all the customers, Livia said, her voice sour. You might’ve told me you were going to a brothel.
And ruin the discovery?
He sensed her move away, straining against the bonds that tethered them together. Her presence left the chamber, and he couldn’t decide how he felt about that.
“Pick any girl, my lord,” Mrs. Able said, gesturing to the women upon the settees. “Almost all are at liberty tonight.”
It was then he realized that the brothel suffered from the inverse of Lord Millom’s assembly. Normally, men crowded Mrs. Able’s establishment. But aside from one morose gentleman with an anxious girl upon his knee, Bram was the only man in the drawing room.
“Slow this evening,” he murmured.
“Aye,” agreed the madam, and she made a sound of displeasure. “Patrons haven’t been coming round much these past weeks, and those that do want the kind of services we usually don’t provide. Not our usual sort of client. And when we do get regulars, the girls don’t want to go with ’em.” She tightened her painted mouth. “Uneasy, they are. Scared.”
So they were. Even the most veteran of Mrs. Able’s girls had a pinched, nervous mien, twisting their hands in their laps and casting fretful glances around the normally cheerful drawing room.
If he sought solace and peace, they wouldn’t be found here. Acid churned in Bram’s stomach. Piece by piece, the world rotted away, leaving decayed flesh and pallid bones.
Mrs. Able seemed to recollect herself, and to whom she spoke. “Of course, my lord,” she beamed, “any of my ladies will be more than happy to entertain you. Let me arrange it for you. Kitty, Cynthia!” She clapped her hands.
Two girls rose up from a couch, one fair, one with hair tinted a vivid shade of red. Though they were dressed in audaciously transparent robes, they approached slowly, timorously. The redhead took hold of the blonde’s hand. It wasn’t a flirtatious gesture designed to stoke a patron’s lust, but one that sought reassurance.
He’d believed that he had no heart left, that his time in the Colonies and since then had cut it from him. But, to his surprise, he now felt it withering in his chest, watching these two whores approach him like martyrs going to the lions. He could use his power, say something persuasive to both women so that they would eagerly take him to their bed. The idea tasted rancid.
He turned away, and Mrs. Able peered at him, a worried frown creasing lines in her face powder.
“Some other girls, my lord? You might enjoy Rosabel. A very sophisticated one, Rosabel. She can—”
“No. I don’t want any of the girls.” The words came of their own will, and it stunned him to realize he meant every one. He’d become a stranger to himself.
Mrs. Able’s mouth dropped open. “But—”
Bram did not hear her objections as he felt Livia’s presence come rushing into the chamber. Though she kept herself unseen, he sensed her distress. Candles flickered and the fire guttered. Shivering, several of the girls wrapped their arms around themselves and huddled close to one another.
“What is it?” Bram demanded.
The madam glanced around. “Are you speaking to me, my lord?”
He paid her no heed. Instead, he heard only Livia’s voice in his mind.
Go upstairs. Go upstairs right now.
“Why?”
Hurry.
He stalked from the chamber, leaving a room full of baffled women behind. One hand on the hilt of his sword, he took the stairs two at a time. Livia’s faint outline drifted at his side.
Reaching the next floor, he saw nearly all the doors lining the corridor standing open—a testament to the brothel’s lack of business. Two doors, however, were closed.
<
br /> “Behind the door on the left.” Livia spoke aloud, not attempting to hide her presence.
He hesitated outside the door. The sound of a woman weeping forced him into action. Trying the door and finding it locked, he pounded his fist on the wood.
“Let me in,” he shouted through the door.
The woman inside only cried harder.
Cursing, Bram backed up then kicked the door’s latch. Several girls peered fearfully from open chambers, but none tried to stop him. With another kick, the door to the locked room flew open.
Bram strode inside, then stopped abruptly. A nude woman huddled in the corner, her head on her knees. Sobs shook her. Sprawled on the bed lay a man, partially dressed. A stiletto stuck up from the side of his chest. His eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling. Judging by the amount of blood soaked into the mattress, he’d been dead for several minutes.
Throat tight, Bram moved toward the bed and stared down at the dead man’s face.
“Thomas Auden,” he said quietly. “Poor bastard.” He’d been a genial man, always quick to laugh.
“He attacked me!” cried the woman in the corner. Her paint ran down her face in watery streaks. She tilted up her chin, revealing a necklace of bruises around her throat. “Just started throttling me, calling me filthy names. He would’ve killed me if I hadn’t—” She glanced at the knife protruding from Auden’s ribs and burst into tears again.
Bram backed from the room, his gaze riveted to the stiletto. Not so long ago, he’d seen a sword plunged into Edmund’s heart. They buried Edmund last week. Auden’s family would bury him, too. But the chain of death would continue. On and on, until the dead outnumbered the living and the cobbles were slick with blood.
Heedless of who might see her, Livia appeared before him, her face tight and grave.
“This is how it will be,” she said. “I’ve seen all of it before. I know what will follow. Whether you believe it or no, this world is truly going to hell.”
Chapter 5
She was coming to know his bedchamber very well. The tall windows that looked out upon a narrow, well-tended but never used garden. The heavy furniture, carved from dark wood. The silver paper-covered walls, sparsely adorned. The bed, large and canopied also in silver. The man slumbering in that bed.