Ashes To Ashes: A Ministry of Curiosities Novella (The Ministry of Curiosities Book 5)

by C. J. Archer

  Lincoln waited while Buchanan finished the rest of his drink. What had Julia ever seen in this parasite? Perhaps he'd been less of a prick when she'd first met him at The Alhambra. Perhaps their prior connection, and her subsequent rejection of him in favor of his father, made her feel guilty enough to allow him to stay on at Harcourt House. Then again, Lincoln wasn't sure if guilt was an emotion she was capable of feeling.

  "What does the fellow's death have to do with me?" Buchanan drawled.

  "Did you kill him?"

  "No! Do you think I'm jealous of a greasy mick freak? I didn't even know about him until now."

  Lincoln believed him. The man was easy to read, and Lincoln's senses told him he had nothing to hide. Buchanan hadn't killed O'Neill. "He knew about you," Lincoln said. "I found this address among his things."

  "Blimey. Do you think he was jealous of me?"

  "It's possible. It's also possible that he was killed before he had a chance to come here and confront you, if that were his intention."

  Buchanan swallowed and touched the red mark across his throat. "Thank God for that."

  "Have you seen anyone lurking outside lately? Have you been followed?"

  "Not that I am aware. What did he look like?"

  "Regular height and average build with brown hair. He sported a beard and moustache, and would have had an Irish accent."

  "Doesn't sound familiar." He frowned. "Wouldn't the circus strong man be, well, strongly built? I thought a thick build would be the order of the day."

  "O'Neill's strength was quite ordinary. His feats were a result of his supernatural power. He could move objects with his mind."

  Buchanan leaned forward and held the empty glass by the tips of his fingers. His eyes flared. "Incredible. What a power to have! Image the things one could do."

  Imagine the things that could be done if someone like Buchanan had powers. It was why it was so important to document the lineage of supernaturals and know where each one was at all times. Lincoln might not always like the committee members, but he agreed with their philosophy and that of the ministry on the whole. Having supernaturals living among regular folk had the potential for danger, if certain powers were controlled by the wrong people. It was why he'd told Charlie not to let anyone see her use her necromancy, and why he'd not told a soul where she'd gone.

  Lincoln took the liberty of pouring himself a snifter of brandy. He drank it and set the glass back on the sideboard. It didn't make him feel any better.

  "I say, are you listening?" Buchanan said.

  Lincoln turned and gripped the edge of the sideboard at his back. He hadn't heard a word. "Go on."

  "I was telling you about the strange thing that happened to me last week. On Tuesday, I think it was. I'd spent the previous night in the arms of the delightfully supple Ela at our usual meeting place."

  "Which is?"

  "A dreary little establishment in Kensington where rooms can be rented by the hour." He screwed up his nose and snorted. "The landlord resembles a rat. Can't recall his name now. Anyway, I left after we…you know…and came home a little after dawn. I was almost at the steps here when I slipped over on the pavement." He looked at Lincoln, waiting for a response.

  "You were drunk."

  "Not very. Besides, I can drink a bottle of champagne and still walk a straight line, I'll have you know." He sniffed then frowned at his empty glass. "It was strange. The ground was dry, I didn't trip, and I had an odd sensation of my legs buckling under me. Then there was the laughter."

  "Go on."

  "I thought I heard a man laugh. When I looked up to give him a piece of my mind, there was only one fellow nearby and he was walking away."

  "Describe him."

  "He wore a hood and I couldn't see his face, but he was neither tall nor short, fat nor thin." He shrugged. "If there was something distinguishing about him, I would have taken more note, but I forgot about him instantly."

  "Which direction did he head?"

  "West."

  If it had been O'Neill, and his revenge upon his rival had merely been to make him fall down, then Lincoln doubted jealousy was a motive for his murder. O'Neill hadn't confronted Buchanan over his affection for Ela, so it was unlikely he would confront any of her other lovers, if she had any. It was looking less and less like O'Neill's death had a logical explanation at all.

  And more and more like he was killed for being a supernatural.

  Lincoln knew before he reached Lichfield that something was amiss. He couldn't pinpoint what it was, but it felt like a change in the air, a disturbance. If he had to guess, he would say that someone new had arrived at the house. But Lichfield Towers never had callers except committee members.

  He entered via the back door and went to the kitchen directly. Doyle jumped to his feet and stumbled through a greeting. He quickly put his hands behind his back, perhaps to hide his forearms. He'd removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves to do the polishing.

  Cook said nothing, just glared from his position by the stove. It was his usual response of late. Gus barely lifted his gaze from the carrots he peeled at the table. He seemed to be warring with a smile. Lincoln had a bad feeling about the visitor.

  "Who's here?" he asked Doyle.

  Doyle blew out a breath as if he were fortifying himself. "Lady Vickers, sir."

  Seth's mother. Lincoln had forgotten she was due to arrive from America. He had agreed that she could stay at Lichfield until she found a position as companion to one of her friends, but that had been before Charlie left. Now he would have preferred to be alone with only the servants for company.

  "Where's Seth?" he asked.

  "Helping her ladyship settle into her room," Doyle said.

  "Which one?"

  "The yellow room furthest from your suite, sir."

  "Gus, I want you and Seth to join me in my study after he's finished with Lady Vickers."

  "Sir," Doyle said as Lincoln went to leave. "An invitation from Lady Harcourt arrived a few minutes ago. Shall I bring it up to you?"

  "Bring it up with luncheon." He strode out of the kitchen. "And wine."

  He took the servants' stairs to the second level. Seth's raised voice echoed along the corridor from the other end of the house, where Lady Vickers now resided. A booming female voice responded. Lincoln retreated to his own rooms and shut the door.

  He settled at his desk and contemplated his next course of action. With O'Neill's death looked like it was due to his supernatural powers. But with no clues as to the killer's identity, or that of the man who'd hired him, Lincoln had to return to the information from Billy the Bolter. He didn't like to rely on others, but he had no choice. He had to trust that Billy hadn't simply made up a story to get paid. Lincoln hoped his reputation was fearsome enough to deter false claims.

  Doyle brought up luncheon and the invitation to Julia's ball. It was to be held that night. Clearly Lincoln's new status as a single man had secured this last minute inclusion.

  "Will there be a reply, sir?" Doyle asked.

  "Not yet."

  "Very well."

  He opened the door and a woman's voice ran clear through the house like a bell. Doyle cast Lincoln a sympathetic grimace then stepped aside to allow a woman dressed head to toe in deep black to enter. Seth came in behind her, a harried look in his eyes.

  Lincoln stood and bowed. "Lady Vickers, I assume."

  She gave him a simple nod. "Mr. Fitzroy, I want to thank you for inviting me to stay."

  "Inviting?" He shot a glare at Seth.

  Seth looked like he wanted to turn and leave. If he did, Lincoln would chase him and haul him back by his collar. He wasn't doing this alone.

  "Of course it won't be for long," Lady Vickers went on with a wave of her gloved hand. "Once word gets out that I have returned to London, I expect the invitations from my friends to flow in. It would be cruel of me to refuse, particularly when their country houses are so much larger than Lichfield Towers. Why, I feel as if I am und
er your feet here."

  Lincoln stared. He wasn't sure what to say. Congratulations? I hope you're not too disappointed in the size of the house? It had been large enough until she arrived.

  Lady Vickers seemed to be waiting for him to speak, but he kept quiet in case he said the wrong thing. This was a woman who appeared to be comfortable with polite small talk, and Lincoln had found that area of his education as lacking as his understanding of people. She was everything he'd come to expect in an English lady of a certain age. She was quite tall, like Seth, with a formidable figure. She wouldn't be easy to knock off her feet. She wore mourning, but whether that was for her husband or her lover, he couldn't be sure. Perhaps both. The hem was a little frayed and the clothes themselves simple in style with no embellishments. She touched the ring finger on her left hand. It was bare, like all of her fingers, and Lincoln suspected the action was born from habit. She wore no jewelry, not even earbobs.

  Lincoln didn't need those pieces of evidence to know she'd fallen on hard times. Seth had explained the family's destitution when they'd met, and Lincoln had researched them thoroughly before employing him. Indeed, little research had been required. He'd already witnessed the circumstances Seth had been reduced to.

  Lincoln had saved Seth from auctioning himself off amid a crowd full of men at a gentleman's club. Prior to Lincoln stepping in, the highest bidder had been an aging gentleman whose younger wife was known for her sexual appetites. The husband was equally known for his—with other men. Lincoln didn't care what the couple had in store for their prize. For all he knew, Seth had wanted them to win. It wasn't sympathy that had led Lincoln to bid for Seth.

  It had been Seth's skill in the boxing ring that had first brought him to Lincoln's notice. He could fight either Queensberry Rules or bareknuckle and knock his opponent to the ground in mere seconds. Many pugilists merely stood in one spot and tried to pummel the opposition, taking just as many blows as they gave. But Seth avoided contact by dodging and ducking, something that allowed him to get into a position to take his opponent by surprise. His sequence of moves were never the same, and this variety meant he could outwit even the strongest fighters on the circuit.

  The fighting had definitely brought Seth to Lincoln's notice, but it was his other qualities altogether that secured his decision to employ him. He admired that Seth had been prepared to do anything to pay off his father's debts, including lower himself to a point that no man, let alone a nobleman, should lower himself to. That showed honor and a strength of character rarely seen in a man of his class. After Lincoln made the decision to employ him, it was merely a matter of waiting for the opportune moment—a moment when Seth would be grateful that Lincoln had stepped in and saved him when he did. That moment had come at the auction. Seth had indeed been grateful, and he became the perfect employee.

  Until Charlie came along. With her wit, courage, and friendly manner, she'd quickly won over Seth, Gus and Cook. Ever since Lincoln had sent her away, Seth could barely even speak to Lincoln, and he was certainly no longer grateful.

  "My son says there is a larger suite of rooms on this level," Lady Vickers was saying.

  Lincoln's gaze slid to Seth's. Seth swallowed heavily.

  "May I have them?" she went on.

  "No," Lincoln said.

  "But he tells me that your fiancée no longer lives here, and so I assumed—"

  "You assumed incorrectly. The suite is unavailable."

  Behind her, a strange smile crept across Seth's face. "The yellow room will have to do, Mother. I'm sure it's comparable in size to the one your footman secured for you in New York."

  She stiffened at her son's barb. It would seem that Seth wanted to punish his mother for running off to America with the family's second footman, leaving Seth with debts to settle. Lincoln couldn't blame him for that.

  "Seth tells me there are no maids here," Lady Vickers said.

  "That is correct," Lincoln said.

  Her smooth forehead dipped into a frown. "But who will see to my personal needs?"

  "Who saw to them in America?"

  "Oh, the Americans are different." She waved her hand. "They don't like to keep maids."

  Lincoln had been to America. New York's upper classes kept as many servants as the English gentry. It was more likely that Lady Vickers and her footman lover couldn't afford one on his wages. Lincoln wondered if the footman was indeed dead, or if she had left him to return to a country where she assumed people still recognized her and respected the Vickers title. If so, she was in for a shock. Seth may have paid off all his father's debts, but the name was as firmly stuck in the mire, as it had been when she left. She needed to take the blame for that as much as her late husband, in Lincoln's opinion.

  "I have no objection to you appointing your own maid," he told her. "As long as she stays out of my way and that of my men. Seth will see to the expense." He gave Seth what he hoped was a knowing nod.

  Seth must have understood that Lincoln would give him an allowance to cover the wages of a maid, because his lips parted and nothing came out. For once, the man took several moments to respond. "Er, yes, sir. I'll see to it. Thank you, sir…for reminding me that I will see to it, that is." He cleared his throat and smiled at his mother, only to have it wither when she frowned at him.

  She turned back to Lincoln. "You call my son by his first name?"

  While Lady Vickers knew that Seth lived in Lincoln's house, she probably didn't know that he was effectively a servant. How would Charlie respond to such a question?

  "That's what friends do," he said lamely. No, Charlie wouldn't have said that.

  "A friend of a peer calls the peer by his title, in this case, Vickers. The peer would then respond with the fellow's first or last name, not 'sir.'" If her lip curled up any more it would disappear into her nostril.

  Since he could think of nothing to say, Lincoln simply nodded at Seth, in the hope he would understand that Lincoln wanted the woman gone from his rooms. "Seth, if you're finished, I wish to speak with you."

  "Yes, sir."

  Lincoln suspected he'd added the "sir" to rile his mother. The man's lack of pomposity was another reason Lincoln liked him.

  Lady Vickers bristled. Her back went rigid in the same way that Julia's did when she felt slighted. "What time is the dinner gong?"

  "We only use the gong when we have guests," Lincoln said. "Dinner can be at whatever hour you like. Simply inform Cook. Or inform Doyle, who will inform Cook."

  "But what time do you prefer, Mr. Fitzroy? I don't want to upset your routine."

  "You won't. I eat in here at odd hours. You are free to do the same in your own rooms."

  "Oh." She touched her ring finger again. "I had hoped to eat in the dining room."

  "Then eat there. I don't mind."

  "Alone?"

  "Ask Seth to join you." He didn't emphasize the name, yet Lady Vickers's spine straightened even more. Behind her, Seth smirked again. Lincoln almost nodded at him, as if they'd shared a private joke. "I have work to do, and I need your son, madam. Seth, fetch Gus."

  Seth left. After a moment, his mother left too, muttering under her breath about England having gone to the dogs since her departure. Lincoln ate lunch while he waited and tried to think of his next course of action. It wasn't easy reining in his thoughts, and he finally gave up. Hopefully discussing everything with his men would help him focus.

  "She wants to restore the family name," he heard Seth tell Gus as the men approached the open door.

  Gus snorted. "How, when she ain't go no ready to buy friends?"

  "Try telling her that! She seems to think they'll accept her with open arms because she's a Vickers. That's not the worst of it. Once she has re-established herself, she plans on finding me a wife."

  Gus was still laughing when he entered ahead of Seth. It quickly died, and he stood like a statue by the door. The joke wasn't to be shared with Lincoln.

  It was a little early for liquor, but Lincoln poured two glas
ses of brandy and offered them to the men. Gus accepted but Seth crossed his arms. After a sigh, Gus handed the glass back. Resisting the urge to drain the contents himself, Lincoln set the glasses down on his desk.

  "O'Neill wasn't killed because of his relationship with Ela," he told them.

  "How do you know?" Gus asked.

  "I just do." When both men exchanged glances, he added, "O'Neill knew about Buchanan and Ela, but his revenge took the form of a harmless joke. He made Buchanan slip over on the street then walked away, laughing. I have no reason to believe he was going to confront Buchanan, and Buchanan wasn't lying when he told me he didn't know about Ela and O'Neill."

  "Again, how do you know?" Seth demanded.

  Lincoln made his decision quickly. He didn't know if he could trust these men anymore, but if he was going to keep them at Lichfield in his employ, he needed to be someone they could trust. And that meant revealing something about himself he'd only ever revealed to Charlie. "I have some capacity to know when others are telling the truth or not. It doesn't work on everyone, but it did work on Buchanan. He told me no lies."

  Seth lowered his arms and took a step forward. Gus's hand whipped out, stopping his friend from getting too close. What did he think Lincoln would do?

  "How do you have this ability?" Seth asked.

  "My mother was a seer. I seem to have inherited it from her, but in a limited capacity."

  Seth didn't look like this revelation made him trust Lincoln more. Quite the opposite, in fact. Lincoln was no expert, but his stiff stance was decidedly hostile. "Can you tell when we're lying?"

  "No."

  Seth studied Lincoln, and Lincoln bore it until Seth gave up with a grunt.

  "Seers can predict the future," Gus said. "Can you?"

  "No. My powers only extend to…feelings."

  Both men burst out laughing.

  Lincoln could see how it would be amusing from their perspective, although he didn't think it that funny. "What I mean is, I know when someone new is in the house, for example, or when someone is missing." He didn't tell them that these "feelings" were strongest in regard to Charlie. Mentioning her name could prove volatile.