Dead Handsome

by Laura Strickland

  When he looked up, he found the bartender studying him with interest.

  “You’re new here,” she observed. “Did you just join?”

  “I’m here to meet a friend.” He took a gulp of his drink, excellent whiskey that hit him right between the eyes. Serving drinks this strong, how did they keep the patrons’ hands off the server?

  She tipped her head and rested her hands lightly on the bar. Her nipples were definitely rouged. They reached for Liam like two tempting rosebuds. “What’s his name?”

  “Maynard.” Liam smiled. “He invited me for a game, but I’ve heard about the beauties of the Sterling House bar and had to come and see for myself, first.”

  Her gaze moved slowly from his hair, now tumbled over his forehead, to his face and down his body, lingering in one or two places. It came to rest on his bulging wallet.

  “I hope you like what you see.”

  What man wouldn’t? Liam took another quick gulp of whiskey.

  “My name’s Jenny. And there are fringe benefits available, for a price.”

  “How much?” Liam would defy any man to keep from asking.

  She leaned on the bar and her breasts bobbed toward him. “Usually these benefits are only available to our members. But it’s been a slow night. And sometimes I also like what I see. You say you’re a friend of Mr. Maynard’s?”

  “One of his very closest friends.”

  She smiled; it didn’t reach her eyes. “I finish here at three. There are exclusive rooms upstairs.”

  “How much?” Liam asked again, just out of curiosity.

  “One hundred for my services.”

  “Dollars?” He couldn’t keep his eyebrows from rising.

  “Another fifty for the room.” She told him dispassionately, “I’m worth it.”

  An unprecedented amount for a prostitute. A man could work three years and not earn that much.

  With a rueful smile, he shook his head.

  “Too steep for you?” She looked at the wallet again. “We could bargain.”

  “I’m married.”

  “So?” She shrugged, which did interesting things to her chest. “Most of the members are. It’s just recreation: doesn’t mean anything.”

  What was the point of engaging in it, then? The question surprised Liam. He thought of Clara lying beneath him, the flare of connection when he touched her, how he could feel her deep inside him and how just a look from her had him up and hard. Tiny, fey witch—she had enchanted him.

  Or maybe he was just in love with his wife.

  The idea felt like a hot poker in his gut. He straightened where he sat. “Newlywed,” he explained.

  “Well, that’s a damned shame. You’d make a change from all the flabby old geezers who lie on their backs and expect a girl to do all the work. Guess you’ll have to keep your money for the card table. You’ll need it if you want to buy into Mr. Maynard’s game.”

  “Tell me”—Liam leaned toward her in turn, and switched on his charm—“are these games on the up and up? Because I have a suspicion my good friend Maynard has brought me here tonight in order to fleece me.”

  “Oh, the games are honest. Just very expensive, Mr.—?”

  “Rodney Ellingsworth the Third,” he told her, pulling the name out of the air.

  “Mrs. Rodney Ellingsworth the Third is a very lucky woman.”

  “And I’d better go join that game before I change my mind.” Liam tossed back the last of the whiskey. “Good night, Jenny.”

  “Good luck. And if you have a fight with your wife, be sure and come back.”

  Liam left the bar wondering if he might have persuaded her to entertain him for free. But even now, Clara called to him. He thought of her lying in the big four-poster bed, all warm with sleep, the pale moonlight on her fragile face. The memory of rouged breasts slid from his mind.

  Should have asked the lass how to find the card room. Upon the thought, he heard voices from across the hall. He drew a deep breath and went in.

  A large room with a sculpted plaster ceiling, it contained at least ten tables set up for cards, three of which were occupied. Cigar smoke floated like a rising blanket and probably kept him from being noticed immediately.

  He paused, realizing all at once he had no idea how to identify Maynard. He didn’t even remember the face of the man who had murdered him.

  The desire for revenge surged up through him like a gout of sickness. The man—whichever he was—needed settling.

  Five men sat at the table nearest him, absorbed in their game. The amount of money piled in the middle of the green baize was enough to knock Liam back on his heels. The next table over held only four men, as did the last, back near the corner.

  The men spoke in murmurs, but Liam could feel an intensity born of concentration. The stakes were, quite literally, high.

  “Evening, Maynard,” he said.

  A man at the nearest table looked up in response. He had a broad face, well-fleshed, and a thick brown moustache which, at the moment, had a cigar protruding from beneath it. Clad with casual elegance, he looked more the prosperous landowner than the warden of a county jail.

  His narrowed eyes found Liam through the smoke, fixed on him for a moment without comprehension and then widened. A dull flush roared up through the skin of his face, and the cigar fell from his lips onto his lap.

  He howled like a scalded cat and leaped up. Several of his fellow gamblers exclaimed also, and a mechanical servant—heretofore unnoticed—trundled forward to add to the confusion. Liam stood unmoving and stared.

  So this was the man who, for the sake of greed, had ordered Liam’s death.

  Liam might have forgotten him along with most of his past, but he would know him now, right enough.

  “Samuel, what in hell—” cried one of his companions, whose drink had spilled.

  Maynard did not so much as blink. He continued to stare at Liam the way he might regard—well, a ghost.

  “Sir?” Dismayed by the commotion, the mechanical man waved its hands. “Sir?”

  “Mr. Maynard,” Liam said, “I believe you owe me the price of one life.”

  Maynard’s flush drained away, followed by a terrible pallor. “You! Bog-jumper.”

  Deliberately Liam raised his hand to his throat, decently covered by a white neckerchief. Maynard, now on his feet, swayed where he stood.

  “What is it?” exclaimed the man seated to Maynard’s left. “Who is this fellow interrupting our game? Damn me, I was winning.”

  Liam had now gained the attention of most of the occupants of the room. Time to scarper.

  “Vengeance,” he warned Maynard, “shall be mine.”

  He spun for the door. As he turned he saw Maynard reach for the mechanical servant and say something Liam could not hear. He ducked under cover of the smoke and was out the door onto North before anyone else could speak.

  Take that for starters, he thought as he stood drawing in great breaths of the cleaner air. Buffalo might smell like coal and steam most times, but it smelled better than that expensive funk inside.

  “Sir?” said the mechanical doorman in inquiry.

  Behind Liam, the main door opened. Out trundled the mechanical servant from the card room. “If I might detain you just a moment sir,” it said.

  Liam ran.

  He headed east along North Street, making for Clara the way a foundering ship makes for port, and soon realized not one but both mechanicals came after him. The one from the card room no doubt had orders from Maynard; the other might have joined in on general principle. Liam, not sure how fast they were able to roll, risked a look over his shoulder and saw them closing rapidly, each leaving little trails of steam.

  What would happen if they caught him? What order had Maynard given? He could imagine the steel fingers closing on his throat, finishing the job the drunken sexton had boggled.

  He dodged a knot of carousers, lungs working like bellows, and pelted on. He heard the carousers get in the way of his pu
rsuers for an instant and took advantage to veer right down College Street, which was darker and less occupied. But he could still hear the mechanicals coming behind him, a wheezing sort of clack, clack, clack. Far too close for comfort.

  He pelted down the center of College Street and then, in an effort to lose his pursuers, cut between two houses, through a yard and out into the sudden bright openness of Allen Street. He dashed down the center of the sidewalk, still heading east, angled between two more houses, and leaped over a low, brick wall. The moonlight slid over him, playing games with the tall houses, deceiving his eyes. When he ducked between the next two houses he did not see the carriage house blocking his rear exit until it was too late.

  He turned like a stag at bay. The mechanicals were already in the alleyway and heading for him. He wondered if he could scale the wall of the carriage house and go over the roof. But there was no time. The steam units barreled toward him like two runaway engines, and the breath seared painfully in his lungs.

  He was going to die. Again.

  The unit from the card room reached him first. Moonlight reflected from the indentations that formed its eyes. Liam took one look, turned, and did his best to scale the wall behind him.

  The unit seized the back of his coat, which tore. Damn, he thought, Clara’s not going to be pleased about that. And then, Nor will she be pleased if I’m killed. Would she even know what happened to him?

  He struggled in the thing’s metal grip, fought like a singed cat, and registered on some level that the second unit had arrived. They grappled with and held him between them. A silver arm with a clenched fist on the end of it raised up like a hammer and came down on the top of his head.

  “Clara!” he thought, and fell like a steer in the slaughter yard.

  And just before the moonlight flickered out into blackness, he looked up from the ground and registered not two units standing over him, but three.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Clara awoke abruptly, as if someone had called her name, and lay in the bed listening to the quiet house. Moonlight crept from the window across the floor like a ghostly presence.

  She stretched her ears, but none of the children cried out, caught in a nightmare. No creak of footsteps betrayed them sneaking between each other’s rooms for late-night shenanigans.

  She sighed and rolled over, reaching for Liam. Her hand encountered nothing but a smooth, cool expanse of sheet.

  Her eyes flew open, and her heart began to beat faster. He could have gone to use what he called the “bog.” That had happened before. Yet if he’d just arisen, his side of the bed would still be warm.

  She sat up, eyes wide in the gloom, and looked at the window. Safely shut. He had not gone out that way. But he had gone. She felt the empty ache of his absence.

  She slipped from the bed, donned her robe, and went to open the door, where she stood listening. After a moment she went out and tiptoed down the stairs.

  “Dax?” The mechanical servant must be about somewhere. Sometimes he shut himself down to standby in the kitchen, sometimes here in the foyer, which at the moment contained nothing but shadows.

  Truly agitated now, she walked down the passageway to the kitchen, which stood empty and silent.

  “Dax?” she called anyway.

  Mudroom, empty. Her workroom, empty. The door to the cellar still chained.

  Hurriedly, she retraced her steps back to inspect the parlor and her father’s surgery.

  “What is it?” The query came in a whisper. Georgina leaned over the banister, her hair frizzed about her face.

  “I can’t find Dax.” Clara drew a breath. “Or Liam. I fear he’s gone out. Damn Ruella anyway.”

  “Ruella?”

  “She was here this morning, speaking of another murder at the jail. What if Liam has gone seeking vengeance?”

  “He wouldn’t do anything so reckless.”

  “Wouldn’t he? Georgina, this is the man you and I dragged out of a waterfront boozer.”

  Georgina came softly down the stairs. “Maybe that’s where he’s gone again. You and I can get dressed and go look.”

  “Better to send Dax, now that we have him. But I can’t find him, either.”

  “Let me look.”

  Georgina set about retracing Clara’s path, lighting the lamps as she went. By the time she’d satisfied herself of both Liam’s and Dax’s absence, Fred had come down the stairs.

  “What’s up, Miss Clara?”

  “Dax seems to be missing.”

  “Your new steamie, you mean? Maybe he’s broke down somewhere. Woodrow and me, we mean to patch him up for you, soon as we have the time.”

  “I can’t locate him, broken or otherwise.”

  Fred joined the search and looked in the same places as they had. He then asked, “Where’s Mister Liam?”

  Clara wrapped her arms about herself. “I cannot find him, either.”

  “Just let me take a look around outside.”

  Fred ducked out, leaving the front door ajar. Fingers of moonlight reached in, along with a chill.

  Georgina came and hugged Clara. “We’ll send Fred and Woodrow down the waterfront to look, shall we? Much safer if you stay here. Anyway, he might come back.”

  Clara shook her head. She felt convinced something had happened—something dire.

  Fred reappeared and said, “Not out there, neither of them.”

  “Fred,” Georgina beseeched, “would you please fetch Woodrow, and the two of you go look down near some of the taverns—?”

  “Sure thing, Miss Georgina. You leave it to us.”

  “And you, Miss Clara, go into the parlor and stir up the fire. I will make some tea.”

  Fred went back upstairs, and Clara took herself into the parlor, but her disquiet grew by leaps and bounds. What if something had gone wrong with Liam’s resurrection? That had never happened before. Mollie, for instance, had lived a long second life before both her heart and joints gave out, making it far more merciful—and less selfish—to lay her to rest at last.

  But Liam, Clara’s first human subject, could well prove very different. What if she had not breathed sufficient life into him? Granted, he seemed vigorous—to say the least—but she had no experience in this, and—

  “Miss, Woodrow and I are just going. Don’t you worry, now.” Fred stuck his head in through the doorway. “And if the worst happens and you find yourself a widow, like, well, I’ll be happy to take up the slack.”

  “Thank you,” she told the lads. “And both of you be careful.”

  He nodded and went out. Clara had just begun to pace the rug, unable to hold still, when the lads were back.

  “Uh, miss?” Woodrow called. “You better come look.”

  Hurrying in response, she found the two of them on the doorstep, the door wide open. Moonlight, nearly bright as day, cast a milky radiance and glinted off the dented surface of the figure that approached. Clara blinked and then blinked again.

  Dax trundled up the street, listing severely to one side and clearly struggling. His head sat slightly askew, and he came with a horrendous clacking that echoed off the dark houses. Draped over his arms like an oversized child was a figure Clara recognized only by the locks of dark hair hanging down.

  Liam.

  She caught her breath and ran out, pushing past the lads, who quickly followed. The two groups met in front of the house amid a gout of steam.

  It took Clara only half a glance to tell the steam unit was in rough shape. Dents far beyond what Clara’s grandfather had contributed marred its surface, and half its head had been bashed in. There also seemed to be something wrong with one of its arms, though it still managed to cradle its burden.

  “Dax!” Clara exclaimed and switched her gaze to Liam. “Is he dead?”

  He looked it. His head dangled at an unnatural angle, and his clothing, torn, was liberally marked with blood. Abrasions covered what skin she could see.

  Dax tried to speak but accomplished only a distressed w
hine. The boys reached to relieve the unit of its burden.

  Woodrow said shortly, “Still breathing.”

  “Bring him into the surgery.”

  The next few minutes proved anxious and terrifying. The boys laid Liam on the examination couch even as Georgina hurried in, exclaiming softly. Clara had to rein in her rising panic enough to assess her husband’s condition.

  He breathed, yes, but not much more. His eyes, half closed like those of a dead man, revealed slits of blue, and in the light she could see the number and severity of his wounds.

  She laid her hands against his face and he jerked violently, as at the touch of lightning, but didn’t wake. Heart thumping hard, she made an inspection. Bruises everywhere, along with abrasions—splayed across his chest, livid on his face, decorating both hands. But she soon discovered the worst of the injuries was to his head, where a gash oozed blood steadily, wetting the black hair.

  “What happened?” she asked Dax as she gathered supplies.

  The battered unit whirred and clacked, puffed a weak jet of steam, and began to power down. Clara could see that its right arm hung damaged. How had it managed to carry Liam home?

  “Can’t speak,” Woodrow pointed out.

  “I need to know what happened, who did this to him.” Clara’s hands trembled with her distress.

  “We’ll take the steamie to the workroom,” Fred offered, “and see if we can patch him up enough to restart him.”

  The lads should be in their beds, Clara knew that well enough, but she nodded, and they went out, rolling Dax between them.

  Softly, Georgina said, “I’ll bring hot water.”

  And, just like that, Clara found herself alone with her husband, only the moonlight accompanying them in bars striped by the window blinds. Terror rose and nearly choked her. What would she do if she lost him? Panic beat at her, fierce and bright, bringing a wall of devastation. She simply wouldn’t be able to go on.

  She loved her husband.

  The thought appeared clear and whole in her mind. A mad premise, and one from which she should have protected herself. She knew better. He was the last kind of man to whom she should make herself vulnerable. But she loved him all the same.