Nero's Fiddle

by A. W. Exley

  She catalogued away spontaneous human combustion for later reading. “I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

  He nodded and replaced the bowler on his sandy locks. His line of sight moved beyond her and he froze, the polite smile dropped away as he exposed the point of his canines and gave a snarl. A quick eye lock and he removed himself from the busy atrium and disappearing among the crowd.

  Nate’s breath feathered on her bare skin. “What did he want?”

  “I think he is my broken sparrow that needs help.”

  “Nate,” Skittles called. “You have been too long from our circle.” The courtesan kissed his cheek. “What did you think of the opera?”

  “I think Cara and I should use the box more often. There’s nothing like a standing ovation after a grand performance.” He stroked Cara’s wrist and removed a stray gold thread from the curtain tie.

  Her mouth opened and closed but nothing came out. She snapped open her fan and stirred a breeze around her face. Infuriating man, why do I let him seduce me in public? Memory stirred within her. Because he’s so damn good at it.

  July 1815, eighteen years old.

  fter years of battle and thousands of lives lost, a combination of British army and airship superiority defeated Napoleon. While the emperor sat imprisoned on Saint Helena, England rejoiced, until a far greater extravaganza erupted on the social scene―the coming out ball of Lady Annette Edington.

  Society whispered for months about the unknown young woman, kept by her reclusive father on a country estate. Those few who met her commented on her beauty and wit. At last, tonight, the ton would be able to judge for themselves.

  Nessy fussed with the diamond pins adorning her friend’s brunette locks.

  Nan reached up and stilled her fingers. “It’s fine. Leave it alone.”

  A frown marred her face. “I want everything to be perfect for you.”

  “How can it be? Mother and Father won’t let you attend.” Her eighteenth birthday, the most important night of her life, and her best friend was not allowed to join her on the dance floor. Her mother wouldn’t even attend, her malady meant she could not bear crowds or public appearances. Instead she stayed shut in her rooms in the London residence, so why did she care if Nessy danced or not?

  “I don’t mind. I’d much rather be here than trapped with a bunch of stuck-up toffs. All I need is some company.” She gave a wink to Nan.

  She laughed and gave her lifelong companion a hug. “I’ll find someone fitting for you and send him along with a bottle of champagne.” She stepped out the door, and took the arm of her father, waiting to launch his daughter upon the marriage market and hoping for a quick contract offer.

  They paused at the top of the stairs for the Master of Ceremonies to announce her. Her fingers tightened on her father’s sleeve as a hush descended over the ballroom and all eyes turned. Poised on the step, she became a product for sale; matrons appraised her looks and made assumptions about her child-bearing abilities, rivals dissected her hair, dress and accessories while bucks speculated about the size of her dowry.

  With a fake smile on her face, she stepped down and into society. Her father cut her loose at the bottom step as the gazelle wandered amongst the lions. She was now out and fair game. She could hear the other girls sharpening their knives as she passed. Before she became trapped by the subtle warfare employed by women, she needed to ensure Nessy had an enjoyable evening. She cast around the packed ballroom, evaluating and discarding young men in her mind, trying to find one who would appreciate her friend. Her attention fell on a particular tall lad who came from a rural estate and a pragmatic upbringing.

  “Sir Henry,” she held out her hand and smile wide at the youth.

  “Lady Edington.” He clasped her hand and bowed. Large brown eyes and an open countenance regarded her, awaiting her command. Sun-bleached hair curled around his face and disclosed his love of being outside. His pragmatic upbringing meant he took people as he found them without regard to station, and his down to earth appeal would be a perfect match for Nessy―or so she hoped.

  “I have a favour to ask, Sir Henry.” She cast around and gave him a wink, drawing him into her plot.

  “For you, dear lady, anything.” One hand went to his heart.

  “I have a beloved friend who is unable to attend this evening. She is all on her lonesome in the Jade Room. I promised her a bottle of champagne. Would you be so kind as to deliver one to her?” She gave her best endearing smile as she reached out to squeeze his arm.

  “Of course.” With one hand he snapped a bottle from the tray of a small mannequin circulating on a set track around the outside of the room. With his other hand he lifted two delicate stems. He clicked his heels and headed in the direction of the languishing Nessy.

  “One task accomplished, now on to the next item on my list,” Nan muttered.

  Compliments from well-wishers rained over her and she brushed away the barbs of rivals. With practiced skill she murmured thanks, commented on the gowns of other women and flirted with the older men. All the while she assessed the gathered cream of the ton, all present to celebrate her eighteenth birthday and all keen to see where she would lay her favour.

  Nan spent months doing her research, from Burke’s Peerage to the gossip sheets and military reports. She narrowed her field and investigated her chosen candidates, learning all she could of their lives and personalities. Finally, she spied her target and approached the group of older men in military uniforms. All but one broke the conversation and turned to bow at her intrusion. One kept his back to her.

  “Lord Morton, I believe you owe me the next dance,” she informed the broad back in the rich red of his cavalry jacket. Gold trim hung from the shoulders and the shine on his knee-high boots rivalled that of any mirror hanging about the room. A ceremonial sword hung from his side, the hilt decorated with a tasselled cord larger than those used to hold back curtains.

  “I believe you are mistaken, milady.” The lord turned. “I do not dance, due to a war injury.”

  She cast her eye over his tall and well-muscled frame in the exquisitely tailored uniform. He wasn’t classically handsome like the dandies, but strong in features and character. A man unafraid to express his opinion and who valued the same in others. A good choice. “Unless I am gazing upon a remarkable trompe l’oeil, I understood you lost an arm, my lord, not your legs.”

  Laughter broke from the other men. A square jaw ground as she met a clear grey gaze and issued her challenge to the renowned war hero. His right hand tightened on a glass tumbler, the left sleeve of his jacket rolled and pinned at his elbow.

  She arched an eyebrow and smiled. “I know I have a reputation as something of a handful.” Laughter from the men surrounding her. “But I thought given your reputation on the battlefield, you could show the others that you only require one hand to hold me captive.”

  His steady look bore through her, and for a moment she wondered if he would turn his back. The earl had remained apart from society since his return and Nan ensured many of his fellow officers and friends were invited to lure him out this evening.

  A broad smile split his face and he gave a bark of laughter. “You have spirit, I’ll give you that. Very well.” He thrust the tumbler at one of his friends, bowed and extended his hand to her.

  Nan placed her gloved hand in his, her fingers curled around his larger palm as they walked to the dance floor. He pulled her close and she inhaled a warm musky blend of whisky, cigars and pure male. A thrill shot through her body and heated her blood.

  “And what have you chosen for us to dance to?” His voice brushed against her skin as he leaned close.

  “The waltz. No silly changing of partners so we have a chance to converse, and no hand waving. You have only to slide your arm around my waist and hold on for the ride.” She spun to stand in front of him and placed her left hand on his shoulder. With only a momentary hesitation, she rested her right hand on the stump of his left arm and raise
d her eyes to meet his.

  “A handful, you say?” he murmured. He slipped his arm around her and pulled her closer to his chest.

  His aroma enveloped her and a sigh escaped her parted lips. Nan knew exactly what she wanted and she intended to get it. She would pursue Lord Morton with the same focus he pursued Napoleon. It would be an all or nothing battle and she would use every weapon in her youthful arsenal against the much older and seasoned soldier.

  The slow music started and he guided her around the floor.

  “What shall we talk of? The latest fashion in gowns? Musical theatre? I will confess to knowing nothing of needlepoint or how to breed small and annoying dogs.”

  A smile touched her lips. She didn’t pick him to talk sewing. Her mind thirsted for real conversation about the world and politics. “Three years ago, the King offered you charge of the new airship fleet. You would have been the Nelson of the skies, admiral of the fledging Aeronautical Service. Why did you refuse?”

  She held her ground as he appraised her.

  “Are you always this forthright?”

  “I have a mind, I intend to use it. Does that intimidate you?”

  Laughter rumbled through his chest. “You are a spirited filly.” A new appreciation crept into his eyes along with something primal that licked along Nan’s skin like an open flame. “I didn’t want to hover above the battlefield like a vulture, waiting to pick over the carcasses. I needed to be amongst it with dirt on my skin and smoke in my lungs. My unit led the charge. I may have lost my arm, but I would do it all again if given the choice. Have I shocked you?”

  He waltzed her to the edge of the floor and away from the other couples.

  “Not at all. I could apply the same analogy to the ton. They hover above the rest of society, keeping their hems out of the muck, yet like the vultures they circle. Waiting for one of us to falter, then they will tear into our still warm carcass.”

  “Don’t you want to take your place among them?” Curiosity simmered in the swirling depths of his pale eyes as they approached the open doors to the wide terrace.

  “No.” Heat coursed through her body as she pressed herself closer to him. “I want to live and be amongst the action, whatever the consequences.”

  They slipped out into the cool night air and he kept his arm around her. “Even if living is with a cripple?” He raised his stump.

  She curled her fingers around his upper arm. “A man’s strength does not lie in his hands, but his heart and mind.”‘

  “You are an incredible creature.” His head dropped closer, his breath mingled with hers. “If you stay out here, you will be ruined. The entire room saw us waltz out the door.”

  “Not ruined.” She rose up on her toes and met his lips. “Saved.”

  London, Wednesday 15th January, 1862

  ara stood at the window of her study, sipping coffee as she watched fat flakes of snow settle on the rear lawn. The aethergram jumped into action, vibrated and hummed for several minutes and then spat out a stream of tape. She ripped off the paper, read the message and then chewed her thumb nail.

  Need medical supplies for estate. Please ask my father to order a standard hospital kit.

  Brick sat in the corner with the newspaper. The front page ran another scandalous story about the decades old rumour of a supposed love affair between the Duchess of Kent and John Conroy, her secretary. Cara had hoped they killed that story when the queen executed Duke Nolton, but the public exhibited an insatiable appetite for gossip about the royals. She heaved a sigh.

  Brick’s head lifted from the scandal rag. “Problem?”

  “I hope not. We left Jackson to look after a dear friend of mine and now she is requesting medical supplies.” She hoped the henchman used kid gloves to handle Amy. Her friend still smarted from her broken engagement and the cad’s attempt to besmirch her reputation. “I told her to treat him like I would, now I’m wondering if she shot him.”

  “He seems to inspire that response in women.” Brick gave her a wink. “Whatever is happening, his heart is probably in the right place.”

  She crumpled the message and tossed it into the waste paper basket. “It better be, or I will remove it with a spoon and then Nate will deal with what’s left of him.”

  Her new bodyguard gave a huff of laughter. “Any plans for today?” He closed the paper and tossed it on the end table.

  “Yes, I have work to do here. I need you to run to Madame Levett’s. She has a new gown for me, and your suits and waistcoats.”

  The brightest smile lit the man’s face. “They’re ready?”

  “Yes. Not that there is anything wrong with Nate’s tailor, but he doesn’t understand the needs of a budding Beau Brummell.”

  His smile became even broader before a frown darted across his enormous forehead. “Promise you won’t sneak out on your own.”

  Cara patted his tree trunk arm. “I promise, I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of the opportunity to wear your new clothes out this afternoon. I suspect you would throw a worse sulk than Jackson.”

  “I won’t be more than a couple of hours,” he said, and left singing a popular tune in a melodious baritone.

  Cara collected the books for her morning’s work. She sat at the desk and pulled open the first volume. She reached for more coffee as her brain swam in the unfamiliar Latin sea. Two hours later, the coffee pot had sacrificed its last drop and the book only yielded two pages.

  “How did I end up as a scholar?” she muttered, tossing aside one old dusty tome to pick up another.

  On the other corner of her desk sat a stack of neatly folded newspapers. Each article about the recent unusual deaths was circled in red ink. With two deaths by spontaneous human combustion, the reporters ran stories full of lurid speculation about what supposed crimes the poor unfortunates committed that made God resort to burning their presence from our world with divine fire. As a consequence, church attendance went up. Others seized on the fear of the weak-minded to peddle charms against God’s wrath, and advised keeping curtains closed in a bid to escape the all-seeing eye.

  In the open book, Latin and medieval English warred across the pages in spider scribble that made her squint. Her fingers caressed a page end as she scanned each sheaf. Her linguistic skills were rudimentary and her brain deciphered only the occasional word of Latin. Miniature oil paintings embellished with gold and silver were her best guide to what she would find described in the text if she took the time to laboriously decipher each word and phrase. Even then, strict translation often failed to convey the true meaning of the sentence.

  Amy is right, maybe I should have spent less time up trees and more time in class.

  She thumbed open Suetonius’ Secrets while her short interview with the inspector played over and over in her mind. Two deaths of apparent spontaneous human combustion. A coincidence so unusual Fraser suspected something other than mere coincidence. It still seemed quite the mental leap from horrible natural death to murder by fire, but Cara gave up trying to figure how Fraser’s mind worked. A mind that conceived of using her as bait to catch a killer. Shame he pegged the wrong man as responsible.

  She rubbed the long faded scar over her chest as she turned the pages of the book. Images of cups, blades, and various items of jewellery passed before her vision. Her sluggish caffeine-deprived brain caught the flash of red and orange but her fingers already flicked past. Her eyes widened and her breath hitched as her hand stopped and lifted the previous page. Cold dread slithered down her spine as she peered underneath, before laying the leaf flat.

  “Oh bugger.”

  Flames licked outward from the centre of the little book, the colours glowed with metallic paint lovingly rendered by some long dead hand. God’s holy fire consumed the body in the centre of the riotous conflagration. Flesh melted from bone to reveal a screaming skull, the horror of the moment forever captured in the tiny likeness.

  She tapped a fingernail on the poor individual, his limbs in the process of bein
g devoured by flame. As long as the volume existed, he would suffer the horrible death, he would never know peace.

  “Got you.” She turned the page holding the drawing to scan the following text then flicked back and forth. “This doesn’t make sense.” What few words she could translate mentioned fertility and birthing rites. The polar opposite of the picture holding her captive.

  Lifting the book, Cara risked cracking the delicate spine to hold the book flat. She hissed out a breath just as the door to the study opened.

  Nate crossed the floor to stand opposite her, his head cocked at his wife’s careful examination of the object in her hands. “Find something?”

  She turned the book to show him the double spread holding her interest. Leaping flames danced around outspread arms and legs. The illustrator captured the moment of one limb turning to ash, the outline filled with black soot up to mid-calf.

  One black brow arched and the cold blue gaze met hers. “An artifact can do that?”

  “I don’t know.” She angled the book, pressing the pages as flat as she dared. “The relevant text is missing.”

  Nate leaned close to examine what made his wife hiss. Someone had removed the pages with a very sharp blade; only a sliver of paper showed where the knife severed the leaf from the spine.

  “Any chance it’s some sort of Roman fire ritual? Or a bonfire out of control?”

  She laid the book on the desk and pointed to the fiery corpse’s leg. “One that devours flesh leaving only ash? Fraser was right. Two deaths are far too coincidental, they were deliberate if this is caused by an object.”

  A frown settled over Nate’s face. “I don’t like it.”

  Cara continued her inspection of the ancient book, trying to imagine what was missing and why someone would go to such effort to remove the relevant pages. “I don’t like it either. I’m all for being toasty warm, but I prefer not to be crispy fried.”

  “Actually I meant Fraser being right.”

  Her head shot up. Nate stood with his arms crossed over his chest and a frown settled between his brows. She would have to keep the two of them apart. Putting them together was like mixing baking soda and vinegar, things could turn volcanic in the blink of an eye. “There’s no good end to things between you two.”