Venomous Secrets

by Anne Renwick

  Chapter Nineteen

  “You did what?” Cait pressed her hands to her ears, lifted them, certain she’d misheard. But no, there was nothing amiss with her hearing.

  Impossible. Decades had passed. How could such a connection still exist, one strong enough that Mother simply—

  “Called in a favor. Foolish of me, I suppose, to have expected another outcome.” Her mother stood beside her directing a steady stream of footmen as they traipsed past, carrying hatboxes and trunks in an efficient and organized manner, a general executing a long-planned invasion.

  Alert for a skeet pigeon announcing her daughter’s return, Mother had arrived at Cait’s new door a scant few minutes after Jack’s departure and stepped into the townhouse with a gleam in her eye.

  Cait had expected reprimands. A long-winded lecture on observed proprieties in society. Tears of regret and remorse that the entirety of the ton had not witnessed her wedding.

  Anything but smug satisfaction.

  A mood that had arrived along with a bundle of clothing—combinations, stockings, shoes, corset, bustle, petticoats, underskirt, green and white striped bodice with a matching overskirt—and persisted as her mother brushed and pinned Cait’s hair into a jaunty upsweep.

  With her daughter once again presentable, her mother had thrown open the doors, admitting her troops.

  “Another outcome?” Cait echoed.

  Her mother glanced at the servants, then beckoned her into the parlor where they stood, for there was not so much as a stick of furniture in the parlor.

  “When I requested aid in finding you a husband,” her mother began, “I rather anticipated that you would be presented with a selection of suitors. That a period of courtship would be followed by a proper wedding. But Eudora always was one to take immediate and decisive action.” Her mother flapped a hand. “Regardless, it’s done.”

  Cait’s ribs grew tight, as if there was not enough air in the room to fill her lungs. “Eudora?”

  “Well, Lady Ravensdale, if we’re to be precise.” Mother clucked her tongue. “Though it’s been a few decades. Such an effort, remembering to address her as one does a duchess.”

  “Lady Ravensdale, Duchess of Avesbury?” Cait’s voice rose, climbed into the aether. “You’re friends with the Duchess of Avesbury?”

  “Friends might be stretching it, though there was a time I would have called her one. During our first Season, she set her eye on the duke and… well, suffice it to say she owed me a favor.”

  Cait gaped. “And you called it in.”

  Such was a revelation that cast the entirety of her time within the Italian Gardens in a new light. It explained much. Rather deflating, really, to learn it was not her intelligence or skill that had induced the duchess to advocate for the marriage, but obligation.

  On the other hand, it was a relief to know that Logan himself—via an overinflated sense of duty—had not reported the overnight shenanigans following her encounter with the not-a-vampire.

  “Mind you, I asked Her Grace to smooth the damage done.” A cloud lowered, damping the sunlight of her mother’s earlier cheer. “Not to force your hand. I wanted you to have a choice. If such was not the case, I failed.”

  Though her mind reeled at the implications, Cait could not allow her false belief to stand.

  “You did not,” she said. Her mother had launched endless campaigns to see her daughter well-established. An uphill battle Cait had sabotaged at every turn. It was time to call a truce. “I entered into this union of my own free will. I chose it.”

  “Did you choose a husband or a career?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, she answered, “Both.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Her mother’s lips pursed. “For everything with that woman is a double-edged sword. Don’t think it has escaped my notice that all my children now serve Queen and country, a state of affairs that suits both the duke and duchess quite well.” Her mother drew a deep breath. “Well, then. You have married higher than I expected. I can only hope that your marriage, albeit rushed, will be a happy one, unlike my own.”

  Was that what worried her mother? Parallels certainly existed. An indiscretion followed by a swift marriage. Save her mother had married a man with a wandering eye who was interested only in the size of his bride’s dowry.

  Cait might not have married for love, but there was mutual respect, a commitment to both their careers, an undeniable physical attraction. And every hope it might someday be more.

  She smiled. “It’s off to a promising start.”

  And that was when she noticed. Her mother’s smile had slipped, just the tiniest amount.

  “There are other past connections you ought to know about,” her mother said. “Yesterday, I took great pleasure informing your new mother-in-law that, after so many years apart, we would once again be keeping company.” She clucked her tongue. “Watch your step about her, she’s a snake in the grass ready to strike, unprovoked.”

  Twice now, she’d been warned. “How fortunate I’ll quickly grow immune.” Cait hesitated. “Does she know my natural father?”

  Her mother bristled. “Cait…”

  “On my honeymoon, I met a man who knew him.” She lifted her hand, the one upon which she wore the poison ring. “He called the stone a nagamani and named me daughter of Kālūnāth Sapera, snake charmer.”

  Color rose in her mother’s cheeks. “Well. Now you know more about the man than I do. He never mentioned a surname. Our affair was a brief one.” Her chin trembled, ever so slightly. “He gave me that ring. Foolish of me to think it meant something. When I returned to the carnival next evening, his tent was gone…”

  Leaving behind her expectant mother.

  “There’s nothing more you can tell me about him?” Cait’s voice was hushed.

  “He was kind and funny and,” her mother reached out and caught her hand, “left me with an incredible daughter.” She rubbed her thumb over the nagamani. “But, no, other than this ring.”

  “I have it on good authority that Lady Aubrey will be entirely focused upon her eldest and any future heirs his bride produces.” Cait squeezed her mother’s hand. “So if Lady Aubrey has no other secrets with which to sharpen her knife, I’ll manage.”

  “None. Not that she’ll give you any trouble. If anything, the shoe is on the other foot.” A sly smile once again stretched itself onto her mother’s face. “Oh, the tales I could tell. Most of them old and dusty. Many no longer relevant, but some… well… the measures Lady Aubrey took to secure the title of viscountess would curl the ends of any man’s mustache.”

  “All stories I’d like to hear.” Time to dip her toe in the water. “A woman who hovers on the edge of society hears much.”

  “And sees even more.” Her mother grinned.

  “Perhaps you might be of aid?” Cait gave her mother a knowing look.

  “Oh?” Light danced in her mother’s eyes. “How might that be?”

  “We, the Queen’s agents, are interested in finding a certain woman, possibly of Greek ancestry, thought to be peddling a fertility treatment. She may or may not move among the ton. Have you heard any whispers?”

  “I can’t say that I have. But my network is not as established as it once was. Why the interest?” Her mother’s eyes widened. “Is she the vampire?”

  Cait cringed at the term, yet declined to clarify or elaborate. “This stays between us. It can go no further.”

  “Please.” Mother scoffed. “Our family overflows with secrets. Your brothers, sneaking all about. You, experimenting with aether-knows-what in the basement. People eye our family and speculate about all manner of things, but have they ever confirmed a single rumor? No.” She crooked her fingers. “Ask me. Your secrets are safe.”

  As the footmen filed out of the townhouse, Janet stopped in the parlor doorway. “The spectacled cobra is in the sitting room with the southern exposure. Unless you’d like the cage moved, that’s the last of it, ma’am.”

  Ja
net met her eyes, not her mother’s, a tacit statement that her maid wished to answer to a new mistress. Gratitude filled her heart.

  “Does the role of housekeeper suit?” Cait asked.

  Janet all but bounced on her toes grinning. “Very much. Thank you.”

  “You’ll need to hire all new staff. Loyal individuals capable of keeping all manner of secrets.”

  With a nod, Janet began to turn away.

  “Wait,” Cait called. “Will you join us?”

  Between the three of them, Janet was the most versed in traditional remedies and lore.

  “Of course.” It was impossible for her housekeeper’s eyes to grow any brighter.

  “On my honeymoon, I learned the name of the woman who attacked me: Helena. She’s connected, if only indirectly, with my brother-in-law, Lord Aubrey. His friend and personal physician, Dr. Oakes, and Stephen Carruthers, the new Lord Saltwell, are also involved.” Cait took a deep breath and filled them both in on the specifics, making mention of the drastic measures the venomous woman had employed to enhance her fertility. “From what we gather, Helena is desperate to bear a child. We expect the murders will continue until she achieves her goal.”

  “Castrations.” Her mother turned a shade of green. “Testicular extracts and brain glands with a side of venom. All necessary for her to conceive? That is quite the witch’s brew. Disgusting.”

  “If such items were commonly required for conception,” Cait agreed, “it would certainly curtail London’s population.”

  “So the venom of her bite—” Janet blushed.

  Her mother laughed. “Is a stimulant at low doses, one that enhances a man’s libido and performance.”

  “What of a woman’s?” Janet asked.

  “Presumably the same, though we don’t know for certain.” She touched the scar at her throat. “I can speak only to the pain and illness of attempted murder involving a large quantity of venom.”

  Twice. Though a less dreadful experience the second time at the hands—or, rather, snakes—of Dr. Thrakos.

  “Snakes and fangs.” Janet shook her head. “The things men will do for a roll in the hay.”

  Cait’s face blazed.

  “A story told throughout the ages.” Her mother snorted. “Our best odds at locating this monster are to trace her whereabouts via those who pay handsomely for her personal service, for a nip at the neck before a four-legged frolic.”

  A point of frustration.

  “Unfortunately, we were unable to acquire a list of names.” Their hasty exit from the Grand Menwith Hotel had negated any chance to access the records room.

  Irritating, the paucity of clues.

  Wait.

  “We heard a rumor hinting of scales upon her legs.” Cait looked to her maid. “Have you ever heard of such a thing outside of fairy tales and legends?” Not that they necessarily need dismiss actual snakeskin as a possibility.

  “On a human?” Janet tugged at her ear. “No, never. There is, however, a dreadful skin condition that bears a certain resemblance to reptilian skin.”

  “Treatable?”

  “Possibly,” Janet answered. “I couldn’t say for certain.”

  “If I had a horrible skin condition,” Cait mused aloud, “I would consult a pharmacist known for his skill at compounding creams, salves, ointments, and emollients.”

  Her mother frowned. “London is a very large city.”

  Cait tapped her lips. “Many of the attacks took place near Covent Garden, near the theaters.”

  That cheered her mother. “T. Everly and Company. A most excellent apothecary. They cater to actresses, women who must make the most of their faces. It’s said they sell a cold cream that erases ten years from a woman’s face.” Her mother stroked a finger across her cheek. “But there’s little chance the chemist will divulge any information about a client. To do so would ruin his reputation.”

  “But he would keep written records,” Cait countered. Plans churned inside her head. “Detailed notes and receipts. And I’m not due at the Lister Institute for two hours.” Time enough for a brief shopping trip before she—and the notebook tucked inside the reticule clipped to her belt—were due at Lister Laboratories. “Hats and gloves, Mother. We’ve shopping to do.”

  Parasols aloft, mother and daughter traversed the pavement side by side, both of them in their milieu, projecting an air of mystery and purpose as they strode down the street. Like her daughter, Cait’s mother on a mission was an unstoppable force.

  They turned a corner and came upon the apothecary Mother deemed most promising. Above its store front, gold lettering proclaimed T. Everly & Co.

  Wide glass-paned windows displayed tall canisters and carboys filled with colorful liquids of unfathomable use. A bell sounded as they stepped through the door. Inside, gleaming wooden shelves stretched from floor to ceiling. Stacked with tinctures and teas, soaps and lotions, and row upon row of labeled bottles containing all manner, there was materia medica that promised to cure countless aliments.

  “How may I help you today, ma’am?” asked a man from behind the counter.

  “Are you the famed Mr. Everly?” her mother asked.

  “I am.”

  “Excellent.” Her mother glanced sideways, as if to assess the chances that another might overhear, then leaned closer. “I’m in a bit of a quandary, Mr. Everly.” She kept her voice low. “A stubborn patch of dry skin refuses to heal. Quite frankly, it reminds me of something I viewed in the Reptile House at the zoo, if you take my meaning.” She gave a dramatic shudder. “I chanced to overhear whispers between two women praising a new formula you developed for an actress aimed at curing such a condition. Tell me my ears have not failed me.”

  The chemist beamed. “They have not.”

  “And the key ingredient?” Cait nudged, assuming the role of doubting Thomas. “I won’t have my mother paying for snake oil.”

  “Never.” The chemist drew up, offended. “Shark liver oil has proven benefits.”

  A green tinge colored her mother’s face. “You would have me consume shark liver?”

  “Not at all. The oil is highly refined, then added in its purified form as one of many ingredients in the lotion. All topically applied, I assure you.”

  “But the smell!”

  The chemist turned, plucked a bottle from a shelf behind the counter, then set it before her. He uncorked it, then lifted an eyebrow. “Do you detect an odor?”

  Her mother leaned forward, sniffed. “I do not.”

  “Exactly as it should be.”

  “But will it hold up in warmer temperatures? In the limelight?” Her mother leaned forward. “Might you whisper the leading lady’s name?”

  He resisted. “I’m afraid I cannot divulge that information.”

  A chemist with principles.

  Cait lifted a cake of scented soap from a tiered stack, studying its floral wrapping while her mother continued her efforts to draw forth the woman’s name. If anyone could crack him, it would be her mother.

  Without a name, they’d only managed to confirm the possibility that Helena performed on stage. Not enough to hone their search.

  She drifted away, examining various wares displayed beneath the glass-topped counter, all while side-eyeing a curtained entryway set behind it. It would be a moment’s work to step into the back room. Save for one impediment.

  “May I help you?” a young, female assistant inquired.

  “No, thank you,” Cait answered. “I’m merely accompanying my mother.”

  The door’s bell jingled, and the assistant moved away.

  It was the only opening she was likely to get.

  With all eyes directed elsewhere, Cait slipped behind the counter, then the curtain.

  Gone was the polished wood and gleaming glass. Here, the inventory-laden shelves were of rough-cut wood. Against the wall stood a large copper distillery. Overhead hung bundles of fresh and dried plants. A long worktable supported multiple items including a brass scale and
pill-making machine, long-necked flasks and lidded crocks. Dark, purple liquid bubbled over a Bunsen burner in a glass beaker.

  All fascinating, but she required a name, not a product. Certainly, a customer deserved her privacy—unless she was in the habit of murdering innocents upon the street.

  Which was why only the leatherbound ledgers held her attention.

  Without hesitation, Cait opened one after another, searching for a record of sales that linked names to treatments. She found none.

  Only page after page of recorded formulas.

  She focused on the creams, ointments and emollients—on those which included shark liver oil as an ingredient.

  On the opposing page, neat columns noted dates of sale alongside an alphanumeric code. Three formulations compounded within the last month matched her search parameters: #782A, #9B62 and #Q293.

  Mr. Everly took his promises of discretion quite seriously.

  Lips pinched together, she fought the temptation to hurl the ledger across the room and instead concentrated on what little information she could extract from the notions scrawled beneath the formulas.

  “Miss? You can’t be in here.” The shop attendant had found her.

  Cait didn’t look up. “Apologies, but I need to—”

  Ichthyosis vulgaris. Dry, thickened and scaly skin. Face not usually affected. A condition that can be made better or worse by exposure to sunlight. Symptoms often improved by a warm, humid environment. The only treatment, attempting to hydrate the skin. Urea. Lactic acid. Propylene glycol.

  She committed the notations to memory.

  The attendant’s palm landed on the open book, blocking the inked words from view. “No. This information is both private and proprietary. Please leave.”

  Strong words.

  Privacy was a given, but the choice of the word “proprietary” was an odd one for that of an assistant. What value could an employee place upon such information?

  The assistant’s thumb strummed over the edges of the ledger, rifling its pages. A rather well turned-out assistant, at that. A dress of superfine wool. A crisp, white apron. But most telling was the apron’s lace edge. Not the kind formed upon a steam-powered loom, but a handmade variety of Princess lace from Belgium.