by Mia Marlowe
“Leave?” Camden said. “You can’t mean to travel at this time, Mr. Templeton?”
“I must. I can do nothing here and meanwhile there is an urgent meeting I must attend in Wiltshire. An amateur astronomy group thinks they’ve located an as yet unnamed star. I will be leaving straight away. If you’ll excuse me.” He stood and gave his unexpected guests a polite bow.
“How unfortunate.” Miss LaMotte rose, the hem of her gown swirling around her neat ankles. “No doubt that star has been shining for ages. It can wait, surely. You can’t mean to gallivant about the countryside while your nephew and His Grace’s ward are missing.” She gave him a fetching smile. “Besides, your expertise in matters regarding the heavens is legendary. I had hoped you’d show me the finer points of the night sky some evening.”
The woman was a tempting armful, no doubt about it. And the way the duke glared at her as she flirted with Grigori made her even more alluring. It would be highly gratifying to take another man’s woman right under his nose. Still, the pull toward London and his next conquest was stronger. If Samuel hadn’t married Meg by the time he found them, he’d haul them onto the nearest sailing vessel and insist the captain tie the knot so there’d be no need to wait for banns or a special license.
Grigori took Miss LaMotte’s outstretched fingertips and brought them to his lips. “Unfortunately, I must be gone. I regret disappointing us both, Miss LaMotte. Your expertise in your chosen field is also…legendary.” He’d never been with a courtesan. His fleshly urges were always tied to siring an heir, but Vesta LaMotte might tempt him to vary his sexual habits. “Another time, perhaps.”
Grigori strode from the parlor and once he’d cleared the doorway, he leaned against the wall so he could focus all his energies on one thought. One point in space.
The crypt of St. Paul’s cathedral.
Meg hovered for a moment above the rooftop. The last rays of sunlight glinted on the dome of St. Paul, gilding the edifice such brightness she had to turn away from it. But then, hazy and indistinct, the image of a man’s face began to coalesce and swim before her.
Grigori.
She flew back to the room where Samuel was cradling her body. Sliding into it with such force she nearly knocked herself out of his grasp, she expected to land on the floor but he held on.
“Thank God you’re back.” Samuel hugged her so tightly she could scarcely draw breath. “And thank you for being so quick about it. I die a little every second your spirit is away, you know.”
“I know and I’m sorry for it.” She was sorry she’d seen Grigori, too, but she decided not to tell Samuel about that. Though she’d seen him, there was no guarantee that the Fallen One had seen her. If she told Samuel about the incident, he’d only feel vindicated about not wanting her to go Finding. And even if Grigori had seen her as well, surely that brief glimpse wasn’t enough for him to pinpoint their location.
In any case, Samuel insisted they go out for a real meal while they waited for Mrs. Waddle’s grandson to return with Mr. Bernard’s reply. On the next street over, they’d passed a tavern with a promising beefy aroma mingled with its yeasty ale, so if Grigori could somehow instantly hone in on them at the bakery, he’d find them gone.
By the time they returned, Mrs. Waddle’s Timothy was waiting for them with a note from Mr. Bernard. All thought of Grigori fled from her mind.
Alberto Pontarelli was evidently still in residence in the same neighborhood where he’d lived when he painted the duchess’s portrait. Mr. Bernard had received a request from the artist only six months ago, offering to do a painting of the duke as a companion piece to the one of Her Grace. But His Grace had been too busy to sit for what he considered a frivolity when Bernard informed him of the request. It was no surprise to the steward that the duke didn’t know the artist’s identity.
His Grace leaves such paltry details to me, the steward wrote.
Samuel wanted to head out to find Pontarelli that very moment, but Meg urged him to wait till morning.
“After a certain time of night, no one venturing out in this part of town is up to any good,” Meg said.
Samuel arched a brow at her. “If we stay in, I won’t be up to any good either.”
“Oh, I’m counting on that.” She stood on tiptoe and gave him a lingering kiss. It crowded out all thoughts of Grigori and his evil plans for her. “I’m counting on it with all my heart.”
It had been several centuries since Grigori had traveled to London in a manner other than the conventional, uncomfortable, human way. He was still capable of the instantaneous transport with which angels were gifted, but it wasn’t without risk since he’d fallen, which was why he normally only used the ability over short distances. If there had been changes to the place where he intended to return to corporeal form, he might find himself trapped inside a newly erected wall or under a pile of fire-charred debris. The crypt of St. Paul’s in London was such a sacrosanct shrine, he could be fairly certain there had been no renovations since he was last there. Plus, since it was evening, the place where the honored dead rested wasn’t likely to be occupied by anyone who might witness his unexpected appearance.
Grigori shimmered into existence next to Lord Nelson’s oversized sarcophagus and stretched his arms wide. It was always disorienting to dissolve in one place and reassemble himself in another. He drew a deep breath. The place smelled of damp and must and, by reason of his hyper-acute senses, the slow deterioration of flesh. Overlaying that stale fug was a fresh application of marble polish.
A terrified sexton was near the foot of the stairway leading up to the sanctuary. With a bottle of polish in one hand and a long-handled mop in the other, he stood frozen as a statue, staring at Grigori.
“Boo!” the Fallen One said with a wicked grin.
The man’s eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed in a heap. The bottle shattered on the stone floor, the yellowish liquid, along with its distinct waxy smell, spreading alongside his body. The fellow’s chest still rose and fell, though his sightless eyes didn’t blink.
Only fainted.
Grigori wondered what sort of tale the man would come up with to explain what he’d just seen. He stepped over the unconscious fellow and climbed the winding stone stairs up into the empty sanctuary.
He was always mildly surprised that he was still allowed on holy ground. No warning thunder claps answered the slaps of his boots on the azure floor. No flaming sword blocking his path. Not even an indignant flaring of the votive candles. There was only the sense of a Presence moving silently in the air currents above him, swirling in the cavernous space of the dome. The manifestation brushed by him and all the hairs on his body stood on end. It was a breath of the Spirit from which he was permanently cut off.
A nearly forgotten ache throbbed once or twice in his chest, the remnants of longing for something holy. He shoved the unexpected twinge aside. There was no going back for the likes of him.
Grigori had to go forward. And that meant completing the Grand Cycle once again. It was the only way he could make sense of his existence. Lucifer may have wanted to rule in heaven, but for Grigori, seeing his image stamped on yet another son without having to grieve over a lost wife was his way of expressing a little of the creative power that belonged only to God. Tweaking the Creator’s nose in this fashion gave him a reason to keep breathing. A reason not to tumble into the abyss in despair. So he would continue the Cycle.
By whatever means necessary.
It was mid-morning the next day when Samuel and Meg ventured out in search of Alberto Pontarelli. As Meg had warned, the neighborhood was filled with pickpockets and cut-purses even in daylight. Samuel shouldered past men whose dead-eyed stares warned of worse threats than losing his coins. He was careful to keep Meg on his protected side, but she didn’t hesitate when the directions to the painter’s studio called for them to duck down one of the narrow, dank alleyways. He wondered afresh about her childhood and how she’d managed to live in such places.
No wonder she had needed to slip away from her body on occasion.
At the end of the alleyway, the artist’s house listed toward its nearest neighbor so that the eaves touched, though there was a good six inches of separation at their foundations. Samuel turned the knob on an unlocked door that cried for a coat of paint. It opened onto a long staircase leading past the ground, first and second floors, going directly to the garret. At the top of the dark stairs, they heard a man swearing a blue streak on the other side of the door. The long string of profanity was punctuated by the crash of crockery.
Samuel pounded on the door. “Alberto Pontarelli! Open up.”
After a few moments, during which they could hear shuffling feet and low grumbles, the door creaked open.
Pontarelli leaned against the portal. Dark-haired and sharp-featured, he’d have been accounted handsome after the manner of Mediterranean men, except for his general slovenliness and the puffiness under his bloodshot eyes. He ran an assessing gaze over the pair of them.
“Do not be standing in the doorway. Come in and state your business, but be quick about it,” he said, waving an arm toward the partially completed canvas of a still life. “I do not want to lose the light.”
“Yes, we can see that,” Meg said as she moved forward to inspect the painting. Light spilled in through a row of windows cut into the roof. Judging from the half-filled pots of water scattered about, the windows leaked abominably, but Pontarelli must have accounted it a fair trade for the abundant morning sun. “What is a portrait artist doing painting a bowl of fruit?”
There was an empty table set up before his canvas, but the crash of crockery they’d heard was evidently what he’d been attempting to capture in his painting. The remains of a still life composition lay bruised and battered on the floor, with the exception of the grapes which had burst on impact and trickled in a dark stain down the far wall.
“What am I doing? That is a question I ask myself every day,” he said. “There is no emotional depth in a bunch of grapes. No soul in a kumquat.”
“Then why are you painting it?” she asked.
Pontarelli shrugged. “A commission is a commission.”
“We’re here about one of your former commissions,” Samuel said. “For the Duchess of Camden.”
A wall rose up behind Pontarelli’s eyes. “Her Grace I have not seen in many years.”
“I expect not since she’s been dead all this time, but then you knew that,” Samuel said, “because you were the last person to see her alive.”
“Who has told you such slander?” Without waiting for an answer, Pontarelli lunged toward the open door, but Samuel was too quick for him. He caught up the artist by his paint-splotched collar and slammed him against the wall.
“What’s your hurry?” Samuel said. “If you’ve done nothing wrong, you have nothing to fear.”
“I, I know of the English justice,” he stammered. “I am not one of you. To me, the courts would not be friendly.”
“I won’t be friendly, if you don’t answer my questions.” Samuel moved closer to the cowering artist. “Did you kill Her Grace?”
“Me?” Pontarelli’s eyes grew round. “No! Never. I loved the lady.”
“Then why was her body found not far from here?”
“I…I do not know.”
The lie was as smelly as a polecat. “Yes, you do,” Meg said. “We know she came to see you the night she died. We know you sent her a note that upset her so much she bundled up her newborn and made her way to this hole you live in. We know you were painting a nude model when she arrived.”
“Mio Dio!” He crossed himself. “How can you be knowing such things?”
“We spoke to Her Grace via a medium recently and she told us what she remembered,” Samuel said. “She sends her regards from the other side.”
Pontarelli’s complexion paled to the color of day old suet. “I never meant…no, it is not possible.”
“Samuel, you’re scaring him,” Meg warned.
“Good. He ought to be afraid,” Samuel said. “He murdered a duchess, didn’t he?”
Pontarelli’s mouth sagged. When the artist didn’t contradict Samuel’s accusation, he drew back his arm to strike a blow. The man’s knees buckled and he slid down the wall, whimpering for mercy before Samuel laid a hand on him.
Samuel swore softly. Cowards always turned his stomach. Pontarelli wasn’t worth the damage his jaw would do to Samuel’s knuckles.
“Not a hair on her blessed head did I harm. I swear on my mother, on the Holy Cross, on whatever you wish me to swear,” he whined. “Please do not make to beat me.”
Disgusted by the sight of such groveling, Samuel took a step back. “Then tell us what happened or I’ll haul you before the nearest magistrate.”
“Bene. All right, si. Part of what you say is true. To my dearest Mercedes I did send a note.”
“And what was in this note?”
“I was…hurt. After I finish her portrait, she toss me aside like…like day old bread. I nearly lose my mind. Food, it have no flavor. I drank to forget, but her sweet face, it was ever before me.” He shrugged eloquently. “I lose more than my heart. My skill it desert me.”
“And you didn’t attribute that to the drink?”
A frown drew Pontarelli’s brows together. “No, it was the duchess. When she take my heart, she take my gift as well.”
“And you told her this in the note?”
“Not exactly. I…because I could not work, I owed people. The sort of people who do not let creditors who cannot pay continue to enjoy the good health, you see. I needed money and… I am shamed to admit… I threatened to expose our love if Mercedes did not pay. I mean, unless she make to give me a loan.”
“And she refused to be blackmailed? How surprising.” Samuel itched to give him a swift kick, but reasoned that it would only make him stop talking.
“No, I never got the chance to explain my troubles,” Pontarelli said. “What you say it is true. I was painting when Mercedes arrived.”
“At night?” Meg said. “What about the light?”
“It was a nude study,” he said defensively. “Some work is better done in the soft light of a candle.”
“I’ll just bet,” Samuel said dryly. “Then what happened?”
“Rose, she was unhappy to see Her Grace.”
“I take it this Rose was your model,” Samuel said.
“Si, si. Rose Craythorne. She did not make to charge me for sitting either. Such a good heart she have. She was trying to help me regain my skill. She was my muse, my consolation, my—”
“Your lover,” Samuel finished for him.
“Si. But a very passionate person Rose was. She make to think that Her Grace is still my lover and that she is bringing me the child of our love. Rose, she was furious.” Pontarelli sighed at the memory. “Oh, you cannot imagine how grand, how magnificent the woman was when she was angry.”
“Are you trying to tell us your lover killed Her Grace?” Meg asked.
“No, no. How you twist my words. It was accident. Si, my Rose, she was angry, but she did not intend harm to Mercedes. She gave her the teensiest of shoves, only. You have seen the stairs. It would be easy to fall even without…help.” Pontarelli burst into tears. “Oh, my Mercedes! How cruel an end for one so lovely. She did not deserve so.”
“No, she didn’t,” Samuel said angrily. “And what were you doing while Her Grace was being attacked by Rose?”
“I am not a violent man, my lord. I could not raise a hand to anyone…least of all an angry woman.” He shook his head and gave a shuddering sigh. “When it was over, Rose, she take care of everything. She go find her brothers and they come take Mercedes away before anyone knows what happened.”
“And what about the child Her Grace brought with her?” Samuel asked. “We know the infant survived the fall.”
“The oldest brother’s wife, she lose a baby boy only the day before and would not let them bury it. Like
a madwoman, they say she was. Rose’s brother, he take the living child home to fill her empty arms.” Pontarelli gave them an imbecilic smile. “So you see, not all is bad.”
“Where can we find Rose?” Samuel said.
The artist’s smile dissolved into an anguished grimace. “Alas, she came to grief over Blue Ruin.”
“Too much gin?” Meg asked.
“Si, gin. Cheaper than tea, it is, and my Rose she could not stay away from it.”
“What about the brother who took the child? What was his name?”
“That I do not know. It was all such a nightmare. Out of my mind I have tried to put it.”
“Where did the brother live?” Samuel caught him by the collar again. “You’d better get something back in your mind or I’ll knock you into next week.”
“No, no, do not make to hurt me. I beg you. I can remember nothing of Rose’s brother.” He covered his face with his hands. “On the morrow I go to paint Lady Waldgren. A bruise would make for idle talk and that lady, she does not need encouragement to carry tales. I fear she would have this story out of me in a trice.”
“He’s right.” Meg laid a restraining hand on Samuel’s arm. “His Grace would not thank us if our search became grist for the gossip mill.”
“Grazie, la mia signora.” Pontarelli pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his damp forehead. “I am in your debt.”
“Then perhaps you can do me a favor and search your memory for one more thing,” Meg said encouragingly. “What was the name of Rose’s nephew, the baby who died?”
He shook his head.
“Close your eyes,” Meg suggested and after a furtive glance at Samuel, Pontarelli complied. “Someone must have said something about little…”
“Wilfred!” Pontarelli’s eyes popped open. “Little Willie, Rose called him. He was named for her father. She made much of that.”