Tenfold More Wicked

by Viola Carr

  “Of course not. I’ll see you home.”

  Her stomach clenched. Certainly, he knew. That didn’t mean she wanted him to see. And Lizzie and he had . . . an understanding. Could she trust Lizzie not to betray her? “That’s not necessary—”

  “I’m afraid it is. This fog will be teeming with footpads. It’s not safe.”

  “I can mind myself, sir. Besides, you’ve no weapons.”

  “None that you can see.” He warded off her protests. “Please, I insist. I fear for my safety, alone in the dark.”

  Despite herself, she laughed. “Very well, I shall protect you.”

  “I believe you would.”

  They picked their way towards the exit. Beneath the marble archway, and down the steps into blessedly cool Trafalgar Square. The fog had thickened, a gritty brown pall that made her cough. Nelson’s Column loomed, his statue disappearing into the gloom.

  Lafayette hailed an electric cab, and it clacked up on six brass feet. Eliza grabbed his hand and clambered into the cold leather seat. He jumped up opposite her, and the cab rattled off.

  An electric lamp flickered inside, its filament nearly spent. Lafayette fidgeted, animated, gloved fingers tapping one knee. His eyes shone, luminous in dim purple light. “We can argue about the case, if it’ll cheer you up,” he offered. “I say Carmine Zanotti. The old man passed him over, so he killed him, in a highly picturesque fit of rage.”

  “Better than that, you’ll be glad to hear. Eve and the Serpent? Zanotti didn’t paint it.”

  “What?”

  “That painting was in Razor Jack’s studio, the night we caught him.” She swallowed, warm with dread. “The girl in it, Eve . . . she’s me.”

  Lafayette blinked. “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve never been more so. My skin is crawling. That painting is Todd’s.”

  “Which makes our Mr. Zanotti . . .”

  “A fraud, and probably a thief, too. Harley ordered all Todd’s work locked away to thwart unscrupulous souvenir hunters. Zanotti—or someone in league with him—must have stolen it weeks ago. Now he’s passing Eve off as his own.”

  The perfect crime. Mr. Todd was hardly in a position to complain. But why hadn’t Harley told her the paintings were stolen? Was he so concerned about her fixation on Todd’s case? She’d telegraph, discover what had happened . . .

  But she shivered, recalling those ominous headlines. Zanotti had better sleep with the light on. Or get some throat armor.

  Lafayette grinned, enjoying himself. “This is wonderful. I knew this case would be fun. So Dalziel discovers he’s a fraud, and Zanotti kills him to keep it quiet?”

  “But that doesn’t explain the mutilations.” Her gloves were sweat-damp. She didn’t dare peel them off. “Why not just kill him and flee? We’ve plenty of suspects to confuse. That long-suffering butler. Lady Fleet and her boorish footman. Even Reeve’s famous burglar.”

  “Sheridan Lightwood’s name is linked with Satanism,” suggested Lafayette. “Joke or not, perhaps Zanotti tried to frame him, get back at a rival. One murder, two victims. Tidy.”

  “Or ruin Dalziel’s reputation, by implicating him in black magic.”

  “Isn’t killing him enough? Why risk leaving clues?”

  “I’ve no idea,” she admitted, frustrated. “But your point remains. A man who peels off his victim’s face isn’t merely covering his tracks. No, the motive is desecration. Revenge and ruin.”

  “So who wanted revenge on Sir Dalziel, and why? Is it wrong that I’m tantalized?” Lafayette sighed, and stretched immodestly, arching his back. It was quite a sight, and with a start, she realized he enjoyed his wolf, at least in this stage of its emergence. The same secret, guilty pleasure with which she sometimes relished Lizzie’s outlandish freedoms.

  “For shame,” she scolded, though her own pulse quickened, too, “this is serious.”

  “Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying it.”

  “I merely present the facts.” But a smile teased her lips. The pink remedy had worked. Lizzie was quiescent, dormant like a wound-down clockwork. And Lafayette was easy, relaxed, not threatening at all. Even if he was acting a little . . . wolfish. Unexpectedly—and not a little unspeakably—she found it charming.

  Good lord. Eliza Jekyll was having fun.

  How dreadfully vexing . . . and potentially dangerous.

  HER STARRY SHADE OF LONELINESS

  ELIZA AND REMY ARGUE THE CASE ALL THE WAY home, motive and evidence and wild conjecture what sets ’em both laughing like children. They’re friends. This is good. She’s easier with him, her suspicions fading like mist at sunrise.

  But as we rattle and sway over broken cobbles, his exotic scent maddens me. I’m squirming like worms stuffed into a can. His curling golden lashes, the crisp purple-lit glory of his hair, that beguiling twitch of smile. I want him to smile at me, but he sees only her.

  Damn it. This is mine. He’s mine.

  Our skirts rub against his knee in the cramped cab, with its lingering smells of leather and flowers. He shifts, a flex of muscled thigh. Our mouth still sparkles with his brief, chaste kiss. Christ, I want to climb onto his lap, crack open his shell, and devour the tender, passionate meat inside.

  But she’s strangling me. I’m trapped, my substance rinsed thin. Those vile stink-sweet drops of Finch’s drain my strength, and I’m bruised and alone and can’t break free.

  God’s bleeding innards. I know he likes me. I knew it that night in Regent’s Park, his palms pressing against my back. We took our pleasure, and I felt his desperation when he whispered my name . . .

  But how much of sweet stuff-all that means now.

  Jealous green bile bubbles up my throat, and I can’t spit it out. God rot her to mud. She’s smart, pretty, desperately proper, everything a clever gentleman wants. Me? I’m just half a person, and the dark and dirty half at that. A thing to be used and discarded. Fuck me and forget me.

  They share a laugh, leaning perilously close. Our gaze brushes his, for a breathless moment, and I see caution in those brilliant eyes. Remy’s a clever soldier. He knows threat for what it is. This witty, laughing Eliza? She could break his heart. A power Miss Lizzie won’t never possess.

  My rage screeches, thrashing in rusted chains. She’s spoiling everything. It ain’t just that she still thinks he’s a dirty Royal spy out to burn her. Ain’t even that it’s she he’s courting, even though it were me he kissed and me he lay with and he can’t pretend he never delighted in every sizzling second of that.

  She thinks she’s more worthy than Lizzie to be alive.

  It ain’t right. Just ’cause she were here first. I deserve my own life. And Remy—his strange wolfish heat tingling our skin, his fingers and ours quivering inches apart, drawn together like magnets—Remy is mine.

  The cab rattles to a halt outside our town house, drenched in dirty mist. I can’t see across the street, just gaslights along the park side, glowing streaks fading into fog. A ghost of what lurks, waiting.

  Remy helps her down. Our skirts brush his side. His gloved hand lingers on our waist. And sweet madness fires my blood.

  I can be subtle, aye. I can creep and hide and whisper. Too faint to be noticed, too demanding to ignore. We’ve charms enough between us. She’s clever, I’m crafty. She’s the waif, I’m the seductress. She’s a challenge, I’m a restless memory of delirium. Perfect combination to trap a man.

  I grin, thirsty for satisfaction. We’ll have him, she and I . . . and when he’s at our mercy? We’ll see who’s worthy to live, Eliza Jekyll.

  Aye, we most certainly will.

  A light burned beneath Eliza’s porch, shedding a pale golden pall. She swallowed, self-conscious. Such a pleasant drive home. So why did she feel edgy, lost, confused? Lizzie, she begged, help me. But Lizzie was distant, fogged over like the dim-lit street.

  “It seems this matter remains to be settled,” she offered, trying to keep it light. “I suppose we ought to inform Chief Inspector Reeve.”
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  “Absolutely.” Lafayette sniffed the damp air with relish. “That’s the thing to do, I’m sure of it.”

  “Are you suggesting we take matters into our own hands?”

  His gaze twinkled. “Dr. Jekyll, you insubordinate ruffian. The thought never crossed my mind.”

  “Well, if the Royal Society insists . . . let’s corner Zanotti tomorrow and question him, in true Reeve style.”

  “I can hardly wait. Shall I call early?”

  “Do. He mustn’t escape before we can thrash him into confessing.” She smoothed guilty golden skirts. “Tomorrow, then . . .”

  “Stay a moment. Please.” He touched her forearm, a gentle challenge. “I didn’t yet beg your forgiveness for the way I acted tonight.”

  “Didn’t you? I recall a species of bumbling apology.”

  “For my presumption, not for kissing you in front of half the town. Assuming you noticed,” he added carelessly. “Shocking. Whatever will people say?”

  Her courage wavered. If ever she’d heard an invitation . . . Ignore it? Slap him? Run indoors?

  She laughed. “Don’t pretend you care one whit what ‘people’ say. Besides, they were a tough crowd. All manner of poorly veiled debauchery. I doubt anyone noticed us. Anyway, I’d hardly call that a kiss.”

  Was it Lizzie talking? Or was she, Eliza, provoking him? What on earth for?

  He cocked one eyebrow. “Excuse me, but I believe your lips touched mine. I’m certain of it, in fact. The sensation is forever scorched into my soul.”

  “Is it? Poor you.”

  “Not the word I’d have chosen.” A charming smile. “I’m forgiven, then?”

  “I’d forgive you in an instant, if I believed you to be sorry.”

  “Not a whisker, sadly. I meant what I said. You look magnificent.” He brushed his thumb down the side of her bodice. “This is gorgeous. But I’d want to kiss you again no matter what you were wearing. And I desperately want to kiss you again, Eliza Jekyll.”

  Suddenly the fog cocooned them, intimate. A secret space. A small space. Her skin prickled, wary yet warm. How close he was. His strange body heat, alluring like a fire on a winter’s night. She couldn’t peel her gaze from the perfect curve of his mouth, and questions brewed tempting alchemy in her blood. What would it feel like . . . ?

  He traced her jaw with a gloved fingertip. Tilted her chin up, a frank invitation. Hmm . . . but was it Lizzie’s or her own, this quickening of pulse, that edginess of breath? Could she tell?

  Did she care?

  Let’s see, then . . . She stretched onto her toes and captured his mouth with hers.

  His lips were warm, sweet with surprise. Her nerves zinged shock and illicit pleasure. Oh, my. Her hand tightened on his shoulder. Seeing what it felt like was one thing, but . . . Compelled, she let the kiss linger. Tested her resolve.

  He barely moved. Just let her kiss him, and when she pulled back, his smile curled. “Um,” he murmured hoarsely. “That was . . .”

  Her pulse throbbed, too fast. She felt giddy. Like panic, only her thoughts were too sharp, her senses too vivid. We kissed him. We kissed Remy Lafayette. Good God, I’ve turned into an idiot.

  Shakily, she laughed. “Unexpected? Foolish? A terrible idea?”

  “I was about to say ‘insufficient.’ I’m afraid I must insist on another.” And he took it, and this time he was kissing her, and he slid warm fingers in her hair and eased her head back to deepen the kiss and suddenly it didn’t feel so safe or clever. More like temporary insanity. What was that, sparkling all the way to her fingertips? He tasted like starlight, fresh and mysterious and frustratingly out of reach. His lips teased hers, never quite enough, inviting her to press closer, surrender.

  Her experience of kissing was limited, but apparently he was rather good at it. She wanted to drag his mouth down to her throat, break open her bodice, feel his lips on her most private skin . . .

  “Mmm.” She extricated herself, arranging her skirts. Her lips still tingled with that startling flavor. How badly she longed to kiss him again. Take it further, find out what it was like to lose herself in shared heat. Do what Lizzie had done, and to hell with the consequences. “Well. I say. Um . . .”

  His eyes glittered wildly. “Eliza, can’t we please talk about it?”

  First names. Gosh. He only pulled that out as a last resort.

  Breathless, she pushed up her spectacles. “Ahem. I believe the last twenty seconds spoke eloquently for themselves, did they not?”

  Twenty seconds? It could have been twenty minutes, or an hour. A light breeze had risen, and thinning fog swirled around her skirts. Perhaps they’d been kissing all night.

  “I don’t mean that. I mean whatever’s wrong.”

  “I say, it’s late. I really should—”

  “It’s just that I’m utterly confused.” He tugged a chestnut curl over his ear. “I asked you to marry me and you didn’t slap me or throw your cup of tea in my face. That was encouraging. But instead of simply telling me no—which would be more than distressing, if you must know, but eminently understandable—you’re avoiding me.”

  “I’m not avoiding you.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid you are. We’ve barely spoken in weeks. I had to bribe you with a juicy murder scene so you’d even acknowledge I existed . . .” His grin sparked, infectious. “And what a delightful sentence that was. No wonder I’m smitten. But”—and he was serious again—“now we finally meet, and we end the evening like that. So, as I say: you baffle me, madam. Won’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

  His gentle accusations stung, all the harder for truth. Not unreasonable of him to seek explanation. She’d ventured where a woman of proper manners didn’t go. Should she feel scandalized? Guilty?

  Unfaithful? It bubbled up, unbidden. Ridiculous. Unfaithful to whom? But she couldn’t unthink it, any more than she could un-kiss Remy.

  How desperately inconvenient.

  Her thoughts stumbled over rock piles. What to do? No one could see her, not in this fog-bound dark. Her reputation—what was left of it, after those lurid newspaper reports—remained intact. And she was a physician: she knew what happened between men and women. Besides, Lizzie’s memories of making love to Remy Lafayette had featured garishly in more than one unwanted fever dream.

  Unwanted, certainly. Unpleasant?

  Eliza flushed. No point denying it. He was attractive; she was interested. (Are you? A lithe whisper licked her ear. Or do you just want what Lizzie wants?) She wasn’t frightened . . . well, maybe a little. Nothing she couldn’t handle. And she could list a dozen rational, mathematical, mutually beneficial reasons why marrying him was a sensible idea.

  So what was the problem?

  Aargh. She wanted to punch something. How dare some stupid sensation cloud her judgment? It was an assault on rational thought. It was the way Lizzie lived, seeking gratification at any cost. Not sensible Eliza.

  But she shivered, troubled by the spectral echo of another occasion when uninvited, unwanted emotion had melted her reason. Eve and the Serpent. Excitement and terror. Passion and death. God help her, she was losing her wits.

  “There’s nothing on my mind,” she insisted, defensive. “I’m just . . . it’s all happened rather quickly. Marriage was never part of my plan, don’t you see? It’s an adjustment for me.”

  “Fair enough. Take as long as you like. I understand.”

  “Do you? Forgive me if I feel it’s all a little easier for you. You’re a man. You won’t cease to exist.” Her tone clipped, and immediately she regretted it.

  “You could never cease to exist for me.” He squeezed her hand. The barrier of two gloves lay safely between them, but his warmth still invaded her space. “Is it the legal nonsense that bothers you? We’ll talk to your lawyers, draw up a precontract. You could keep your house, the business, the money. Everything. I’ll sign whatever you like.”

  “I know,” she said desperately. “I know you would—”

  “I
s it me, then? Still think I’ll spill your secrets to the Royal?” A searching glance for the moon, and a low chuckle. “I assure you, we’re far beyond that.”

  How she wanted to believe him. “It’s not that. I just . . .”

  “You don’t have to say it.” He sighed. “It’s Lizzie and me, isn’t it?”

  And there it sparkled, unveiled between them like a malicious magic trick—but for a moment, she felt only giddy relief that he hadn’t said something else. Something involving a homicidal artist and the ghastly letters locked in her drawer.

  But whatever could she say? You’re ridiculously perfect, Remy, but I can’t possibly marry you, because I’m being courted by a crimson-haired razor murderer who wants to ravish me in a ménage à trois with his imaginary friend. Isn’t it horrid weather we’re having?

  “I can’t apologize for that,” Lafayette added when she didn’t reply. “I can’t disrespect Lizzie—or you—by pretending it was an accident. Full moon or not, I was there. That’ll never go away. But I promise you, Eliza: she and I are done. Over. It’s you I want.”

  She twisted her hands. “I appreciate that. But . . . you and I barely know each other.”

  “What do you want to know? Ask me whatever you like.”

  How very like a man. “I don’t mean . . .” She sighed, and relented. “I know it’s frightfully poor manners, but I simply haven’t made up my mind. Can you bear with me?”

  He just kissed her hand, his steadfast gaze never letting her go.

  Her heart ached. She searched for anything to say that would help. But nothing would—except yes or no. And for that she hadn’t yet mustered the courage. What a cruel, selfish woman she was. “Tomorrow, then?”

  A flintlock flash of smile. “Wouldn’t miss it. Good night, Doctor.”

  “Good night.” And she fled, sick.

  A DISGUSTFUL CURIOSITY

  HER CHILLY HALL LAY SILENT, A SINGLE LIGHT BURNING. In the vestibule hung a woman’s long double-breasted coat in black. Not hers. Her lodger, Miss Burton’s? They hadn’t yet crossed paths.