by Viola Carr
“Oh, most definitely,” I whisper. “I warn you, I’m armed.”
“You’d best hope so.”
My laughter bubbles, seductive. I knew it. He’s the very devil, make no mistake. A violent man, just like all the rest. Is this the side of him they see when they’re chained in the Tower to a rusty dungeon wall, weeping and begging for their lives? Because this bloke here—this shadow-Lafayette with the beast behind his eyes—he could torture them to death and skip home afterwards for tea and kisses.
Eliza thinks the captain’s a civilized man. That when the time comes, she’ll be able to reason and cajole and parley. That he’ll listen to sense and let her go.
Eliza don’t know shit about the real world. And this is what I’m here for.
I pull his hand beneath my skirts, between my thighs, an inch above my garter where the stiletto sings. “See?” My breath is sultry against his neck. “Told you I had a weapon.”
“Consider me ambushed.” His palm on my skin is big, hard, a little rough. His fingers are long and warm and he strokes me, sweet Jesus, just a light touch but it pleasures me deep, I’m hot and eager and my breath comes faster and can’t we just . . .
No. No, we can’t. I curl my fingers around the warm hilt and whip out my blade.
But he grabs my wrist and twists. Pain spikes up my arm. I cry out. Damn, he’s quick.
Easily, he wrenches the stiletto from my grip. I struggle and kick, but his other arm’s like an iron bar in the curve of my back and for an instant here we are, chest to breast and a knife between my legs, and I must say, that weren’t what a moment ago I’d expected to find there.
“Predictable,” he hisses, just a lick away from my mouth. “Don’t bait me, Miss Hyde. You might not like what you catch.”
His eyes glitter, demented. He knows what I’m thinking. No one around here will help a woman yelling. He could bleed me out in the dirt, stand there and watch me die. Rape me with the blade and swallow my screams. Eat me alive.
I can do what he wants, or die.
I want to scream at the stupid injustice. Evil drums thunder in my head, drowning out my reason. This is what it’s like to be insane. I work up some spit, ready to launch it into his face.
But he just shoves me away and tosses my stiletto into the dirt. “Get out of here.”
Careless. Contemptuous. Like I don’t matter.
Dizzy, I scrabble for the weapon. I’m sweating, trembling. Moonlight glares, dragging that hungry heat through my flesh, it’s the shadow, the ugly black beast is strong tonight and Jesus, what’s that bleeding racket now?
Wildly, I swat at my ears. Beneath the drumming, Eliza is screaming. She’s been screaming a while now. I just didn’t hear. Shut up, you bitch. Enough.
I snarl and brandish my blade. I’m struggling to be still, to calm my shrieking soul before I kill him, take him, tear his pretty face off and goddamn him for treating me like scum . . .
But Lafayette won’t look at me. He’s breathing hard. He swipes a forearm across his cheek, and I realize he’s sweating, too. Fidgeting. Glancing up at that greedy moon as if he’s got somewhere to be, someplace to go, and never time enough to get there.
I know that look.
He swallows, throat glistening. Damp curls stick to his face, and sweat trickles over one cheekbone, moonlit silver. Our gazes lock, and in his eyes, something wild and impossible catches alight.
Oh, hell. Eliza fights, yelling at me to stop it, run, get out of here. For once, I agree with her. We’ve got nothing, no one. It’s always been that way. We can’t share our secrets.
But like a murderess plagued with guilty dreams, I burn to tell. To scream my truth to the heavens, drag all my squalid secrets into the light and finally be free.
Damn him. I want to stab him in the throat for threatening us. I want to shake him, demand to know why the devil he’s bleeding harmless folk to ruin for the god-rotted Royal when clearly he’s got problems of his own. I want to crush his hair in my hands, drink the threat from his skin, kiss the danger from his lips, strip off that rough-spun coat and feel his battle-scarred body under mine . . .
Eliza wails in denial, and her voice dazzles me. My hair wriggles and springs tight. My bones shudder, something ripples under my skin, and for a moment, my vision blurs like water.
My pulse screams useless warning. Short-sighted eyes. Her eyes. Oh, Jesus.
Lafayette stares, pale. “Good God—”
“Get away.” I stumble backwards. I don’t want her here. I don’t want her bloody conscience dragging me back from the precipice.
I don’t want him to hurt her.
My temper flames like touch paper. Damn him for existing. For tempting me to sin, for scaring my Eliza so bad, she jumps out to protect me.
Me, Lizzie Hyde. Some lousy big sister I turned out to be.
He lifts his hands, palms out. “Listen, you don’t understand—”
“Stay away from me, hear? Or I swear to God, I’ll hunt you down and knife you in your black-rotting heart.”
I grab my skirts in sweaty fists and run.
And I don’t stop running until I reach Russell Square, where I stumble up the back stairs and into Eliza’s study. I’m muttering, tearing at my hair. It’s cold, no fire, no light. I fumble for a lamp. My breath is burning, and my muscles scream, spent. But I have to tell her. I have to keep her safe, or we’ll both go down howling and it’ll all be my fault.
I grab a pen and scribble furiously. The nib rips the paper, and ink blotches my fingers like blood. The pen snaps in my grip. I hurl the useless thing away and run to Eliza’s bedroom, where I huddle under the cold white quilt in the dark and wait for the sun.
QUITE THE FASHION
THE NEXT MORNING, ELIZA HURRIED ALONG NEW Bond Street, wincing in the weak light. Shopkeepers swept spotless thresholds, pedestrians chattered, church bells rang, every sound a hammer across her temples. Hippocrates bounced along beside her, whistling brightly at the morning, his happy light flashing, and she suppressed a raw urge to throttle him.
She had to see Mr. Finch. Now.
Windows glared, town houses and lawyers’ chambers and upmarket shops. Her spare pair of spectacles wasn’t quite right, and the strain only made her head ache harder. Her doctor’s bag hung heavy, a millstone on her shoulder, weighing her down. Her muscles hurt ferociously, as if she’d run for miles.
She remembered more than she wanted to. Gin’s brash burn on her tongue, a pair of crooked black eyes, the Strand’s bright lights, and a skinny woman in green skirts. Dirt beneath her fingernails, rooting around in a stinking muddy yard for . . . what? A fright, the hiss-flick of an electric pistol, a man’s hand invading her skin, dizziness, clammy heat . . .
And then, in the dark of the morning, she’d jerked awake in her own bed.
Lizzie had come home.
Eliza had dozed, then, a fitful slumber, jagged nightmares intermixed with gasping, sweating wakefulness. Time seemed to reverse, morning creeping ever further away like a thief. Strange smells tortured her as she tossed and writhed, blood and flowers and gin and other, more compelling things she couldn’t quite identify. Memory taunted her, dancing at the tips of her fingers and away again.
Now, Eliza hopped over the gutter and across the street, to where the windows of Finch’s Pharmacy flashed in the sun. This time, the blinds were raised, and behind the counter Marcellus scuttled about, his wispy white hair trailing as he collected prescriptions for a customer.
Hippocrates jigged, kicking his brass feet. “Finch,” he announced. “Normality restored.”
Relief like laudanum flowered in her veins. She’d scarcely dared hope. She’d telegraphed Finch yesterday, twice, and no reply. Where he’d been, she didn’t know. It surprised her to imagine he had a life beyond drugs and potions.
Her fingers smeared the glass door. The bell clanged, scraping at her fragile nerves.
In one damp fist, she clutched Lizzie’s note.
She’d discovere
d it this morning, amid a mess of paper and ink smears on the study floor. The broken pen lay hurled into the corner, the ink spilled in a sticky black blot. She’d read the scribbled words with a skein of hot dread winding tight in her stomach.
The note was covered in smudges and finger marks. The paper was torn through where Lizzie had pressed too hard, with a fat ink splash at the bottom where she’d thrown the pen away and fled.
Lizzie had been furious. Or terrified.
But what did it mean? The lines about Mr. Todd . . . well, she knew what Lizzie thought of Mr. Todd. As for Billy . . . ?
Snakes knotted in her mind, refusing to wriggle free. How bewildering.
All except the line about Lafayette. Couldn’t get much clearer than that. Eliza shivered, remembering the theater yesterday, his knowing blue gaze on her as she changed . . .
Lafayette knew.
How terribly vexing.
But it was also a strange relief. The matter was settled: she couldn’t tolerate his interference for a moment longer. Action was imperative. One way or another, she’d have to get rid of him . . .
Finch’s door tinkled shut. Warmth washed over her, the fire burning merrily, light gleaming over the glossy counter and pharmacist’s drawers. She sucked in a grateful breath of herb-sweet air. She was safe. Everything would be all right. She’d explain to Marcellus about the remedy, have him prepare a new and stronger batch. And then she’d go home. Pour the last of her elixir down the drain. Get on with analyzing the evidence from Geordie Kelly’s loft. They’d solve the Chopper case, and Lafayette would leave her alone, and then she’d stay out of trouble forever . . .
Her gaze focused, and the bottom of her stomach dropped out.
Oh, bother.
Marcellus Finch beamed at her behind the counter. “Eliza, my dear girl. We were just talking about you. I believe you know Captain Lafayette?”
Inwardly she cursed, worthy of Lizzie herself. Was the insufferable fellow to pop up everywhere she went? “Captain, how nice to see you again,” she said coolly.
But her mouth stung with bitter betrayal. Finch and Lafayette. Had Marcellus deceived her? But why?
“Likewise, madam.” Lafayette smiled sharply. Clean and immaculate in uniform once again, everything tucked neatly into place. “How pleasant that we keep meeting like this. I shall have to write ‘stumble over Dr. Jekyll’ into my daily schedule.” He bent to pet Hippocrates, but his gaze never left hers.
Hipp jittered, his cogs spinning in alarm. Eliza felt like doing the same. “Oh, there’s no need. I’ve already included ‘secretly stalk Captain Lafayette’ in mine.”
“I should be so fortunate.”
“Should you? Perhaps an additional entry reads ‘test new untraceable murder technique.’”
He laughed. “A point in your favor, I’d say. The proper scientific method.”
The comforting smells and sights of the pharmacy suddenly jarred. Good God, you could smell the alchemy in this place. It reeked like a medieval sorcerer’s dungeon. Surely, she was revealed, and Marcellus, too . . .
Still, she had a professional excuse for meeting with Finch. The Chopper case, the strange drug on the victims’ lips. So long as she didn’t panic . . .
But at the sight of Lafayette in her safest place—spotless red uniform, polished Royal Society badge—the swirling shadows of last night’s events took dark, threatening shape in her memory.
God’s blood. Lizzie had tried to kill him. With chilly calm that Eliza had thought belonged only to people like Mr. Todd. Get rid of Lafayette, yes. Stop him from troubling her. But murder?
No. She must show him there was nothing to see here. No whiff of unorthodoxy. Get him to conclude his investigation, and he’d leave her alone. It was the only way.
She unearthed a feeble smile. “I didn’t realize you gentlemen knew each other.”
“Merely a passing acquaintance,” said Finch, an ironic glint in his eyes. “The captain was good enough to ask my advice on pharmaceutical matters.”
“Indeed.” Lafayette made a polite bow. “You’re quite the fashion, Mr. Finch, among circles I frequent. I couldn’t resist coming to see for myself.”
“Capital. A fresh customer, say what? Always glad to help our dear friends at the Royal.” Finch finished wrapping a measure of yellow powder in paper and pushed it across the counter. “As ordered, sir. Ha-ha! What an achievement! A first of its kind, I’m certain. An ounce dissolved in hot water, if you please, when the need strikes. Can’t say I can promise anything. But we’ll know soon enough, eh?”
“I daresay we shall, Mr. Finch.”
Eliza blinked, uneasy. What was that powder? And what did “pharmaceutical matters” mean? “I trust you’re not ill, Captain? Is there anything I can do?”
“As enticing as I find the prospect of your ministrations, I assure you, I’m in the best of health.” Lafayette pocketed the parcel and slid a handful of golden sovereigns across the counter.
Finch dismissed the payment with an indignant wave. “Don’t be foolish, dear boy. I ought to be paying you. Rodents as test subjects do have certain communication problems. I adore a good experiment, don’t you? Nullius in verba, all that.”
“All that,” agreed Lafayette. “One does one’s part for progress . . . I say, Doctor, you’ve gone quite cheesy in the face. Are you well?”
“Oh, yes,” said Eliza faintly. “Just a little tired.” But that familiar itch grew beneath her skin, and she wanted to scratch her arms raw. To scream at Lizzie to go away, to cease these lascivious, murderous thoughts and let Eliza be.
What game was Finch playing? He’d never betray her . . . would he? She lingered, pretending to search for something in her bag, impatient to talk to Finch alone. Would Lafayette never leave?
But the captain just nodded pleasantly, as if they’d met by chance in the street and stopped to chat. “You do work rather hard, if I may say so. You should take the air, brighten up those cheeks of yours.”
“How clever of you. A useful prescription in almost all cases. You should become a society doctor, you’d have ladies queuing from here to Cavendish Square.” The old resentment bubbled up in her chest. She’d struggled to maintain her medical practice in the face of doctors who preferred to offer their patients popular, rather than efficacious, treatments.
“Alas, quackery still sells better than good science. On that, at least, we can agree. But do I detect a note of envy?”
“Quackery,” muttered Hippocrates at her feet. “Incorrect conclusion. Re-examine evidence.”
She nudged the little fellow with one toe. “Hush, Hipp. I believe it’s a note of contempt, Captain, but call it what you will.”
Lafayette grinned, easy. “So what brings you here? Mad-doctor medicine? Poison to slip into my tea?”
Inscrutable man. If he’d connected her with Lizzie—with the woman who’d tried to stab him, for heaven’s sake, who’d offered him flesh and seduction and black treachery—he was giving no sign.
Hot fingers brushed at the skin of her memory, elusive. There’d been something strange about him . . . something not quite right . . . Lizzie, what happened? Why did you run?
But Lizzie didn’t answer.
“Er . . . no,” she offered lamely. “Not this morning. Mr. Finch, I’ve come to see about those tests . . .”
“What’s that?” Finch peered vaguely over his pince-nez. “Ah! Your murder case. Corpses aplenty! A delightful mystery, say what?” He scratched his wispy white hair, leaving a yellow smear. “I’m afraid I’m still isolating the ingredients. The drug’s composition has proven most difficult to crack. Get a good lungful of it and you’re out in seconds. My investigations haven’t been helped by the fact that incidentally to its stupefying effects, the substance is an anterograde amnesiac.”
“A memory suppressant?”
“Of not insignificant power,” added Finch happily.
She frowned. “Anterograde? What does that mean? The patient won’t remember
what just happened?”
“Not at all. It means they won’t remember what happens next. A tiny sniff to test the reaction state, and I come to my senses twenty seconds later with no idea. Ha-ha! Most inconvenient, say what?” Finch waved towards the leather curtain that hid his laboratory. “I’m performing another electrolysis now, if you’d both care to observe?”
For heaven’s sake, Marcellus. “You’re too kind,” she said through a tight smile. “But I’m in a terrible hurry. Perhaps another time.”
“What a shame,” murmured Lafayette.
Finch sniffed, doubtful. “I suppose it is rather a mess back there . . . well, never mind. I say, you two look quite the picture together—”
“Lovely to see you, Mr. Finch. I’ll stop by another time for those results.” Invisible ants nipped at her toes, stinging. No remedy for her today. Curse it, why wouldn’t Lafayette leave her alone?
But he just held the door, and she stalked into the crowded street, Hippocrates at her heels. Horses and clockwork carriages veered too fast, instilled in her mind with fresh recklessness. Cogs over-speeding, the animals’ eyes rolling in fear. The air was sour, gritty, a boiling cloud of frustration.
Lafayette fell into step beside her, gazing carelessly into the bright sky. “Such a lovely morning for a walk. May I?”
“If you must, sir,” she replied with ill grace, “you may walk with me as far as the station.”
“Excellent.” Either oblivious to her reluctance or pretending to be so. The sun flashed on his iron badge, licked over his polished weapons, gilded his hair. She waited sickly for him to offer her his arm. She didn’t like the idea of touching him. Of triggering dark memory, a scent or a familiar sensation . . .
He didn’t. Just ambled beside her, hands tucked behind his back. “I wanted to ask your advice on another murder case. An intriguing scenario.”
“Mmm?” As they strolled—an infuriatingly slow pace, with Hipp muttering “make greater speed” at her skirt hem—passers-by sidled away, giving them a wide berth. Most avoided eye contact with Lafayette, and she hid an ironic smile. Served him right. That was what the Royal’s badge got you.