by Viola Carr
“Oh.” Rattled, Eliza stepped back. Her corset seemed damnably tight, a nuisance. “Right. It’s getting late. Won’t you join me for dinner, Captain?”
“Love to, Doctor, but I can’t stay. Lord Beaconsfield at the Carlton Club, remember? And I’m for Paris tonight. How singularly inconvenient.” Remy fingered his bottom lip, a sultry glow in his eyes. His chestnut curls were adorably disheveled, and she suppressed a dissatisfied sigh. Weddings were such silly affairs. She wanted theirs over with. Wanted to be married, so they could . . .
She flushed again. Desire had always seemed so foolish and unscientific. Not measurable, unfit to be analyzed. A disease that rendered the rational mind treacherous, the kind of eager insanity that had once led her up a dark stairway at midnight to a killer’s lurid boudoir.
It didn’t seem foolish with Remy. It seemed urgent. Irresistible. Inevitable.
Wouldn’t be because waiting for the wedding is sending him bonkers . . . A rush of Lizzie-rich blood staggered her. Suddenly the conventions of wedding and marriage—and waiting—seemed so stupid and pointless. Inept, like buckling a straitjacket on an incorrigible lunatic. Not only a betrayal of principle. An abject waste of effort.
Images poured in, garish scenes through Lizzie’s eyes, that rainbow of sensations and emotions, always more potent and painful than Eliza could bear. Remy, the way Lizzie had seen him, that one night in Regent’s Park when she’d taken her way and had him in a pile of straw and breathless promises. A glory of damp hair and taut skin, the scents of sweat and tainted blood. Think you own this, Eliza? Think this is yours now? You won’t ever be free of me . . .
The illicit pleasure—even from a distance, warped through a dark prism of denial—stunned her. Lizzie had enjoyed herself, that was evident. And so had Remy.
How was she supposed to erase that?
Blindly, Eliza fought to hurl those fevered dreams away. She didn’t want Lizzie’s memories, bittersweet with jealousy. She wanted her own, at a time and place of her choosing.
You’ve got your life, Lizzie? Well, I’ve got mine. I won’t let you spoil this for us.
“Hmm?” She groaned as Remy’s words sank in. “Must you go back already?”
Remy wrinkled his nose. “The price of popularity, sadly. This meeting between Liberté du Sang and our envoys must go off without a hitch.” He sobered. “This la Bête is the most dangerous man I’ve ever met, and they say la Belle is worse. If he stops trusting me for even an instant, my gruesome demise will be the least of our problems.”
She bit her lip. Remy was capable and clever. He deserved a confident smile and a go-with-God. Not this fishing for guilt, her selfish fretting and what-about-me.
“You know I wish I could tell you more—”
“Don’t.” She stopped him with a light kiss—and her fingers brushed something cold and hard beneath his loosened shirt. It was a polished black stone on a chain, inlaid with a silver half-moon. She stroked it curiously. “What’s this?”
“La Bête gave it to me. For the creature.” Gently, he eased her hand away. As if he didn’t like her touching it.
That sly mirrored gloss made her squirm. As if it were dishonest, somehow. I’ve barely time to worry about it, he’d said. Sparing her the ghastly details? Or merely avoiding her questions? “Is it witchcraft?”
A smile. “Just a precaution.”
“Against what?”
“Eliza, I must go along with their ways.” He tucked a stray lock behind her ear. “I’m so close to finding the truth about François. And this amulet . . . it’s changing everything for me.”
“Is it a cure?” She barely dared hope. A charm to keep the creature in. A version of her own remedy for Lizzie, except it worked.
“More of a peace offering.”
He didn’t elaborate. She didn’t want to demand answers. “Are you sure it’s a good idea? I thought we’d made progress.”
“It’s a means to an end, nothing more.” Another brilliant smile, but shadows had crept in.
He didn’t trust himself, she realized with dismay. Since François, he’d doubted everything. “Remy,” she said softly, “what happened with François was . . . no, don’t.” She caught his hand as he turned. “Listen. Your brother made his choices. It wasn’t your fault. You must let it go.”
Remy folded her fingers in his. “Forgive me, but you didn’t know him. My brother loved the Navy and he loved the Empire. These sorcerers poisoned his mind and they’ll answer for it.”
“But your mandate for the Foreign Office—”
“As I say: a means to an end.” A steely edge to his voice alarmed her. “They did it because of me, don’t you see? They destroyed the finest man I ever knew for no better reason than to get my attention. Well, they’ve gotten what they wished for, and I swear, they’ll regret it.”
For a moment, her courage quailed. François had craved Remy’s curse, the key to that wild-hearted creature that killed by pure instinct. He’d betrayed his country, his family, everything he’d once believed in. But was Remy searching for answers? Or something more visceral?
“Just be safe, then. For my sake.” She hesitated. “About the wedding. I wasn’t putting it off. It’s only that with you spending so much time in Paris, and my work, and—”
A surprised laugh. “Of course. I feared you’d think I was. Putting it off, that is.” He kissed her hair. “One way or another, this next trip will be the end. I promise. When I return, we can try whatever marvels of medicine you like, and I’ll marry you, Eliza Jekyll. Just you try to stop me.”
She frowned. “Well, I would, but it seems you’ve given me a house. I can hardly jilt you now. The breach of promise action alone would bankrupt me.”
“My villainous scheme unmasked. It’s me or Chancery, I fear.”
“And you know how I detest lawyers.” She entwined their fingers, palm to palm. Her engagement ring glittered, brilliant blue. She drifted closer, enjoying that piquant scent she loved.
Inside her, Lizzie swelled, those malicious dream images waiting . . . but firmly, Eliza pushed her aside. This is mine, Lizzie. Leave us be. “Mr. Brigham, I’m about to embarrass you again. Give us a moment, will you?”
* * *
Too soon, Remy was gone, and she closed the front door on a darkling, mist-clogged Cavendish Square. A few weeks more, his mission would be done, and all this messing about and doubting herself would be over.
Hippocrates had dashed in from the park, scattering wet leaves as he hurtled down the corridor. “Rat-rat-rat!” he yelled in his tinny little voice. “Rat!”
“Be careful,” she called. “You never know what bizarre inventions you might unearth around here.” She lingered in the hall, inhaling the woody scent. The grand staircase swept upwards, a river of polished mahogany. It inundated her with dusty memories, disconcerting images of her childhood, like a box of old daguerreotypes years unopened. Running along empty halls after a fat white cat, her tiny feet pattering . . . Mrs. Poole dabbing a cloth at Eliza’s aching temples. There, little miss, it’s all done, don’t cry . . . Henry by the big steel laboratory door, swinging her high, her baby skirts flying. Who’s the birthday girl? A magic number for my little lady . . .
She shook herself. The past was gone. This, here, now, was the future. Never mind Lizzie’s sneaky intrusions. Remy would complete his mission, they’d get the wedding over with, and life would be back to normal.
“Normal, ha!” Lizzie’s apparition sprang into view, dangling her stockinged legs over the staircase railing in a lather of red skirts. “The part where you do as you please and I get the scraps? We ain’t normal, Eliza. You don’t get normal.”
“Don’t interfere,” snapped Eliza waspishly. A malicious headache hacked at her temples, and that new, intense elixir bubbled up in her throat, bringing memories of dazzling rainbow sights, swooning flavors, exquisite sensations. Her remedy was useless. She couldn’t keep Lizzie away, not anymore. “I’ll thank you to stay out of my head f
rom now on.”
“Interfere, my arse. Will we really live here, in Henry’s god-rotted house? With him?”
“There’s space for you, if that’s what you’re worried about. But you don’t remember Henry’s cabinet, do you? Because you weren’t here!”
Lizzie slid down the bannister side-saddle and landed at Eliza’s feet. “Space? That what you call it? One tiny pissant cellar out of a friggin’ palace?”
Agitated, Eliza raked her already loosened hair. Pins clattered to the floor, bringing to mind a dim asylum cell, the smell of damp parchment and roses . . . “I hide your things where they’re safe,” she said tightly, trying to check her temper—but her skin wriggled like worms, as if the change lurked beneath, a hairsbreadth from erupting. “You know that’s how it must be. We could all still get arrested by the Royal, Remy’s commission notwithstanding.”
“Easy for you to say. A tinsy-winsy corner for poor Lizzie, and the rest is yours.” Lizzie stuck fists on hips. “You’re all fine with your poxy sharing until you don’t get everything you want. Well, I won’t have it. Both of youse can go to hell.”
Eliza folded her arms. “I see. And your place has so much room for me. That smelly garret in which I so inconveniently awoke this morning, in the bed of your”—she fought for a description that didn’t involve the word naked—“soiled gentleman friend?”
Lizzie’s face darkened. “Johnny’s a good man.”
“He’s a thief, Lizzie,” she hissed, fever suffusing her in a rush. “A criminal who preys on decent people like me for his living. Such as that is, if the condition of your filthy love den is any indication. Don’t imagine he’ll end anywhere but the gallows.”
Immediately, she longed to suck her words back. Her guts churned. “I’m sorry. That was cruel. I didn’t mean—”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Lizzie shoved her, sending her staggering back onto the ancient hall rug with its pattern of olive leaves. “Johnny dead and me all alone. Screw you, Eliza.”
“I said I didn’t mean—”
“You don’t want me, you don’t need me, everything’s my damn fault.” Lizzie’s dark eyes flashed. “Don’t think I’ll stand meekly by while you ruin me, missy. I wish you joy of this place, and of your god-rotted wedding, too. D’you think your fine captain’s forgotten me?”
“He hasn’t.” Eliza smiled, poisoned sweetness. “He’s just moved on. Sorry. So sad.”
Lizzie gave an ugly laugh. “We’ll see. When you finally condescend to have him, d’you imagine he won’t be thinking of me?”
Eliza’s guts clenched. “Don’t be so petty!”
“Will you take Henry’s room?” Lizzie danced a mocking two-step on the rug. Beneath it, half-hidden, a guilty stain darkened the floorboards. “Our mother died in there. Little Eliza, shitting her nightdress while Mummy bled out. Mayhap that’s why you got on so famously with Razor Jack. Hot for the sight of blood! Ha ha!”
That monstrous staircase shuddered and threatened, carved balustrades writhing like snakes. Edward Hyde had murdered Madeleine Jekyll on these stairs. Hurled her down in a fit of jealous rage, left her to die with shattered bones and a broken heart. And Henry and Marcellus had covered up his crime.
Lizzie’s laughter tore at her, flaying her skin like knives. Eliza slammed her hands over her ears. “Get out of my head! If your life’s so wonderful, why must you ruin mine?”
“Dr. Jekyll?” A hand on her arm.
She whirled, breathless.
Just Brigham, his long-lashed eyes brimming with concern. “I heard shouting,” he explained.
The staircase was silent, unmoving, the rich wood welcoming once more. Lizzie had vanished. Of course she had. Never there to begin with. “It’s nothing. Just . . . I’m fine.”
But Lizzie’s insults festered, a rotten itch. Hot for the sight of blood. After Razor Jack had been recaptured—no thanks to Eliza—she’d agonized into many a long night over why she’d acted like such an irrational idiot over a bloodthirsty murderer. Certainly, Mr. Todd was handsome, charming, talented. The world was full of handsome men with charm and talent to burn. There had to be something more. Was she, too, drawn to darkness, mesmerized by that last shuddering sigh between light and oblivion?
But in the darkest hour, she knew. Edward Hyde had killed her mother. Killed Henry, too, in a stranger, blacker way. Eliza was the daughter of a monster. She couldn’t escape the truth: murder ran in her blood.
She forced a quick smile, fumbling to re-pin her hair. “So, Mr. Brigham, how do you like your new employment?”
“Very much. But there’s a lot of cleaning.” He grinned. An angelic face, for sure, perhaps too much so for his own good. At his previous job, for a baronet and his haughty socialite wife, Brigham had suffered for it, and for rescuing him, Remy had earned his undying devotion. He bent to pet Hipp, who’d rushed into the hall at his heels and was trying to climb his leg. “Hello, boy. Remember me?”
“Tell me, is the captain . . .” Her stomach squirmed. Sneaking about, asking questions behind Remy’s back. Could she trust Brigham not to use her secrets against her? She sighed. “I haven’t time to dance around it. I gather he’s briefed you on his particular problem.”
Brigham just nodded.
Her hands twisted. “Did he suffer greatly last month? It’s only that I’m preparing a cure, and I thought everything was going well, but he seems . . . distracted.”
“Couldn’t say, madam. The captain’s spent the recent full moon in France. Apparently these Froggie sorcerers know all about it. Says he’s learned a lot.”
“I see.” Her throat hurt. Unconscious pride had warmed Brigham’s tone. He admired Remy to a fault. A clever seducer, that Captain Lafayette of the Royal.
The same who’d just told her he’d passed the full moon in London.
Or had she assumed? Worse things than a night spent in a cage. He hadn’t said where, or at whose bidding. What was he up to with these sorcerers?
“That setup at Waterloo Bridge, with the locks and bars?” added Brigham helpfully. “We’ve installed one similar here, just in case, but you needn’t worry. He said he’ll be spending most moons abroad from now on. More convenient that way.”
“Oh.” Her voice sounded small. She’d thought they were making progress. That soon the cage would no longer be needed.
But this didn’t sound like the behavior of a man who wanted to be cured.
Her fingers recoiled, that strange glossy amulet an unpleasant memory, like touching a maggot. Her cure, however unsavory, was at least based on repeatable scientific results. It wouldn’t be the first time Remy had tried witchcraft to counter his curse, even if he’d investigated too many greedy charlatans who exploited the gullible to really believe in it. Still, she knew how it was to be so desperate for relief that you’d try anything. If this amulet was helping him, oughtn’t she give it a chance?
But this Liberté du Sang, as Lizzie might say, were a whole ’nother bucket of eels. Bent on destruction and murder. Evil.
Her skull swelled, suffused with the frightful stories she’d heard. Horrid spidery spells, candles and incantations, blood rites, the eating of human flesh, the flaying of skin and breaking of bone . . .
Rat-tat! Eliza jumped. Just the knocker. Damn it.
Molly strode in and smacked a kiss onto Brigham’s cheek. “Charlie, you handsome rascal . . . oh.” She flushed tomato-red, and bobbed a curtsey, damp hair curling under her bonnet. “Sorry, Doctor.”
Eliza grinned, glad to change the subject. “Aha! The culprit uncovered! Shame on you, Charles Brigham. To think we imagined Molly’s virtue to be at risk.”
He looked faintly scandalized. “I’ve had Molly helping me clean on her evenings. I hope you don’t mind.”
She laughed. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Brigham just gave her an odd look. Molly jumped in. “Ahem. Doctor, there’s telegrams for you at Russell Square. From that Inspector Griffin, about the Soho Slasher. If
I’d known you’d be here, I’d have brought with.”
Eliza’s stomach curdled. Telegrams. More than one. “When did these arrive?”
“A few hours ago. I wouldn’t’ve peeked, but it seemed urgent, and we didn’t know where to find you.”
She sighed, suddenly exhausted beyond words. Another post-mortem examination. Wearily, she collected her umbrella and bag. “Please tell Mrs. Poole I’ll be late for dinner again. Mr. Brigham, do see Molly safely home. Good night.”
A NETWORK OF RIDDLES
BY THE TIME SHE RETURNED TO RUSSELL SQUARE, twilight had slunk off into the mist like a whipped dog, and dark chill blanketed empty streets. Lights shone from upstairs dining rooms, the clatter of plates and conversation filtering along the footpath.
“Mrs. Poole?” She dropped her dripping umbrella into the stand and peeled off her wet gloves, grateful for warmth. Hipp hunkered by the hall table, falling into a doze. “So sorry I’m late. Another Slasher victim, I’m afraid.”
She’d walked home along electric-lit New Oxford Street, enjoying the fresh air at first. She’d wanted to give Hipp some time outside, but mostly to clear her own head, where incoherent memories warred with gruesome autopsy details, haunting her like the specters of the victims the Slasher had left behind. Other murdered souls, too, soaked in crimson, not mangled with abandon but precisely, artfully sliced . . .
She’d lingered, peering in shop windows without seeing, wandering through gaslit parks where hurdy-gurdies and trumpets rang out amongst street performers and mountebanks. Now it was after eight, her sodden mantle chilled her to the core, and her head was no clearer than before.
Who had killed Antoinette de Percy, and tried to shoot Professor Crane?
Would she ever catch the Soho Slasher, when trace evidence was so lacking?
Could she truly live in Henry’s house at Cavendish Square, with its ghostly battalions of memories forever marching by? Was she fooling herself to imagine this marriage could work at all?
She unpinned her rain-soaked hat. Perhaps she was hiding behind ingratitude to soothe her dented pride. She could never have afforded such a grand house. Was it so awful to accept a gift? To be cared for and loved?