Inside the studio, the object of Lawrence’s curiosity was shaking his head. George had not at all liked the way Tuesday’s gaze followed Lawrence’s departure. He cleared his throat. “Tuesday, I have something serious to say to you.”
Her eyes came back to him. Such lovely eyes. She was so beautiful.
“What?” she repeated when he did not answer her immediately.
“Are you really all right?” he asked solicitously.
“Yes. I’m fine. What serious thing do you need to say?”
George took a deep breath. “You know that I have long loved you—”
“Please George, not today,” Tuesday interrupted. “No proposals today.”
George was willing to wager that she would not have acted the same way if His Lordship had been proposing, but he knew that was about to change. “Run away with me, Tuesday.”
“George—”
“It’s him, isn’t it?” George demanded, leveling a deadly look at the door through which Lawrence had passed.
“George, you’ve asked me a hundred times to run away with you and I never agree—even before I met Lawrence Pickering. Even when I hadn’t just been buried under a house.”
“If you run away with me you won’t get hurt.”
“I don’t think I have any places left to hurt.”
“He’s not what he seems,” George said intensely.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s untrustworthy. He is a lying, philandering, cheating, low-life thief. And a murderer.”
“You are starting to sound like CeCe, George.”
“Lawrence Pickering is more dangerous than most.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And—” he paused. “I didn’t want to tell you this but I think I must. He has a mistress.”
“A mistress? Are you sure you don’t mean a harem?”
It was clear to George that she was not taking him seriously. He wanted to grab her by her perfect shoulders and shake her. Make her see that he was the man for her. The only one. “He definitely has at least one mistress. One serious one. And there may be others.”
“Have you seen her? Any of them?”
“Not yet,” George hissed. “But I will. I’m looking.”
“Keep me informed.”
“If you don’t believe me, you can ask him.”
“I will.”
“Promise? Promise you will ask him?”
“I promise, George.”
“If he denies any of it, he’s a liar.”
“Thank you very much for your concern.”
“You will thank me, Tuesday. Wait and see. You’ll get down on your knees and thank me.” Soon you’ll understand everything I’ve been doing for you. Soon you’ll understand that you were meant for me.
The Lion dragged that morning’s news sheet out of his doublet and looked it over again. He was not reading it anymore, he had already memorized its contents. Now he was counting. Counting how many precious Words the damn Vampire of London had stolen from him.
He had killed six men—men!—four at one time in one genius explosion, and all he got was the bottom piece of the second column. Whereas the vampire had done one stupid girl and gotten a full column and two-thirds. And two woodcut portraits, one of the dead girl and one of the living one who had found the body.
If only he had not decided at the last minute to spare Lord Pickering, then he would have owned the damn news sheet, the Lion told himself. But he had realized that blowing him up was too easy a victory. They had to meet face to face on the field of battle. Only then would the Lion’s greatness really be seen.
Why don’t we kill our enemy when we have him in our power?
Because defeating him twice brings twice the glory.
Across the street, the hangings on his Lady’s Windows were drawn and he knew she was punishing him for not taking her right away. At first it made him mad. How could she not understand how much better it was this way? How much more glory he would earn saving her from deep inside the other knight’s Walled fortress? How much more Worthy he would be of her heart?
But she was just a Woman, he reminded himself. The women in the stories always made mistakes like that. They didn’t understand how it was with knights. Soon she would gaze out at him again, the way she always did, as if she were just looking at the street but really looking for him. And he would give her a sign and show her that he forgave her for doubting him.
His eyes moved back to the news sheet. Girls, he thought with disgust. Dammit, if they wanted girls, he could kill girls. Hundreds of them. Even though the thought did nothing for him, it would be worth it for the fame.
What the Vampire really had in his favor, the Lion realized, was a sort of signature. That killing he had done in the crowd outside Dearbourn Hall and the one in the alleyway, there was no way for anyone to tie those to him—any more than they could know he did the dog, which was lying under the heap of rubbish behind him. Whereas the Vampire’s two tooth marks neatly and instantaneously proclaimed a killing as his.
The Lion wished he’d come up with that. He almost always blindfolded his victims—he hated to see the dragon eyes—but lots of times the blindfolds got lost and it was only recently he’d taken to cutting out their hearts. That was a good marker, he decided. It made people think a bit. And it showed off his skills, his professionalism, not like sucking blood out of someone’s neck. Any fool could do that.
He had been so immersed in thought that he hadn’t heard the noise in the alleyway behind him, but even caught unawares, only the lightening fast reflexes of a fourteen-year-old girl saved Lucy Burns from having her wrist severed by his knife. Before she could shriek, his hand was over her mouth, pulling her head back, watching her girl eyes fill with terror.
Girl eyes. Like the answer to a prayer.
From the way this girl and the other children had been carrying on about their missing dog, he assumed the one molting behind him was hers, and it came to him, how perfect it would be to slice her up right there and leave her with her pet. That would be something for the news sheets. And then he would send the girl’s heart to his Lady, so she would know he had forgiven him.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded of the girl, staring at her eyes. He saw fear and—something he didn’t understand.
She mumbled in response but his hand was in the way.
What was that expression in her eyes? “If I let you talk, you won’t scream will you?”
She shook her head and he unclapped her lips. “Well?”
“You are one of Lawrence Pickering’s men, aren’t you?” she asked almost awestruck, between heaving breathes. “Working in secret? Undercover?”
The Lion nodded and motioned for her to continue.
She tried a timid smile. “I knew because I’ve seen you out here before. And because of how you reacted just now. That was amazing.” The Lion realized what he was seeing. It was Worship. She liked him. “Did you learn that from Lord Pickering?”
The Lion wanted to snort. The true Knight wins through craft not candor, he reminded himself sternly. He said, “Yes.”
“Could—” she began, then stopped, blushing.
“Yes?” When she blushed her neck turned pink. It was a good neck. He began to imagine what his knife would feel like sinking into her young flesh.
I told you not to touch the girls.
I didn’t. She came over to—
Shut up. You know what your punishment is. Now go.
But I didn’t—
Get out of my sight wicked boy!
The Lion flinched, then straightened. He would kill this girl. Just to show he could.
Wondering what he was going to use as a blindfold, he took a step closer to her. He was watching the girl’s neck, watching its blush deepen as her blood rose to the surface, so he didn’t notice that the girl’s eyes had moved beyond him.
He had his knife halfway out of
his wrist sheath when she spoke.
“I have to go,” she said, gazing behind him and blushing more. “Excuse me.” And in a flash, she was leaving. She sidled by him, not trying to escape, not even seeing his knife, just moving on with the lithe agility of a young girl. When she got to the mouth of the alley, she turned around and faced him. “It was a pleasure to meet you, sir.” She paused. “My name is Lucy Burns. What is yours?”
“Grub,” the Lion said, not knowing why. “Grub Collins.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Collins. I hope to see you again.”
The Lion told himself he was glad that she’d gone. Told himself that girls were beneath him. He did not touch girls.
But there was no denying he was in the mood to kill. And it was only Saturday. Which meant there were probably three days left until the next killing. He didn’t know if he was going to be able to stand it.
He was so hungry for it. So ready. He knew exactly who it was going to be. He had the tools sharp and perfect.
Patience is the Knight’s best friend.
I don’t want to be goddamned patient. I want Lawrence Pickering to die.
Lawrence looked up at the man in front of him as if seeing him for the first time that night. “Grub, you look like you are falling asleep on your feet. Go home.”
“I don’t want to. I want to be here in case anything happens. Anything needs doing.”
Almost all of Lawrence’s men were smitten with Tuesday and upset by her accident, but none more than Grub. He had been hovering around Worthington Hall and her bedchamber since that morning, begging to be put to use in finding “that weasel who did that to Her Ladyship.”
Lawrence appreciated the offer of help but since he felt largely responsible for Tuesday’s injuries, not to mention for Tuesday, he kept refusing.
“His Lordship is right,” Tuesday said, moving stiffly into the room. “You ought to sleep a little.”
What Lawrence had not been able to effect for twenty hours, Tuesday did with six words. Grub was bowing out the door and promising to take a nap on one of the mattresses that had been laid out in the gallery “just for an instant and just so long as you promise to wake me soon as there’s cause,” before the hand on the clock moved at all.
“How is CeCe doing?” Lawrence asked, pulling Tuesday onto his lap.
“Quite well, actually. I think I’ve almost managed to convince her that if it weren’t for you, I would never have been found. She might even consent to speak to you again in about a week or so.”
“What a relief.”
“Mmmm.” Tuesday was working hard not to think about what George had told her. Even CeCe, who was not exactly favorably disposed toward Lawrence, had agreed with Tuesday that George was just jealous and had made up the whole story about the mistress to upset her. Asking Lawrence about it would only mean succumbing to George’s paranoia, which Tuesday decided she was not going to do. Instead, she reached across and pulled the volume he’d been looking at toward her. It was a version of the book she had seen at the Lion’s apartment, the one by Nicholas Machiavelli. “Where did you get this?”
“After you told me you’d seen it at the Lion’s house, I had Jack look for a copy in my library.”
The mention of her brother reminded her of the extent of Lawrence’s generosity. “There is a lot I don’t know about you, Lord Pickering,” she said. Like whether you have a mistress. Or rather, not like that. “Like where you live.”
Lawrence looked around the studio. “Here.”
“I mean besides here. And like what you—”
“There is nothing important about me that you don’t know,” Lawrence replied.
It was true. Everything that mattered about him, she and she alone seemed to understand.
She rewarded him with a wide smile, but it faded as she glanced again at the volume. “Have you learned anything interesting from this book? Anything that might help us find the Lion instead of having to wait until next Tuesday for him to kill again?”
Lawrence understood the bitterness in her tone, even though he hated it. They had spent the evening trying to figure out ways to identity this most faceless of killers, and had come up with nothing. Nothing heartening anyway. Given the shrine Tuesday had found in his room, they surmised that he was likely to stay close to them, to want to be able to see her. Lawrence had the sense that the man craved attention—cutting his victims’ hearts out seemed evidence of that—and Tuesday thought that he’d want to stay abreast of what they were doing. Neither thought was enormously uplifting, and neither of them could think of any way to put this information to use. They considered employing the news sheets to disseminate false reports about their investigation, but it seemed that someone had already paid to have them packed with reports about the Vampire of London, and they were not sure it would work anyway: both Lawrence and Tuesday had the uncomfortable feeling that the Lion was too close to their operation to be fooled.
“Have you ever read Machiavelli’s Prince?” he asked. She shook her head and he went on. “The basic premise is that it is better to be cunning than honest, better to seem good than to be good, at least if you are trying to rule over men. When I was younger I found it very instructive. There is one passage that seems relevant, though, although I can’t figure out how.”
“What does it say?”
“ ‘It is better to be impetuous than to be cautious,’ ” he read, “ ‘for fortune is a woman and in order to be mastered she must be controlled and kept in submission.’ Oh wait,” he laughed, flinching from her glare, “that’s not it.”
“I don’t like this book very much. I hope that’s not one of the instructions you learned when you were younger.”
“By heart. Actually this is what I really meant to read. I think it describes our man’s attributes perfectly. ‘A prince should adopt the natures of both the fox and the lion: for a lion is defenseless against snares, and a fox is defenseless against wolves. Hence to be impervious a prince must be a fox in recognizing snares and a lion in driving off wolves.’ ”
“While I agree that for all we know of his appearance he could be a fox or a lion, the fundamental premise is absurd. Both the lion and the fox are hunted by men. Neither of them are impervious.”
Lawrence looked up at her. “You might just have found the answer.”
“What do you mean? It is just a metaphor.”
“Maybe. But maybe we should hunt him with the things that separate men from beasts.”
“Our sense of humor and our opposable thumbs?” she offered, ticking off the attributes that philosophers generally referred to.
“Don’t forget about our ability to speak. And our belief in God.”
Tuesday started to laugh, then interrupted herself with a gasp. “Of course! That is exactly it. Lawrence, you are a genius.”
“We pray a lot?”
“No,” she said, moving from his lap to the stack of reports that had been amassed when they were initially looking for the Lion’s lodgings. Near the bottom she paused and slipped one out. “Not pray. Listen.”
For the next five minutes, while she outlined her plan, Lawrence did. It took a bit longer for him to get the orders out to his men, orders to have everyone involved in the case brought in the next day for questioning, but by midnight the operation was underway.
“If this works, we could know who the killer is tomorrow,” Tuesday said. She stifled a yawn.
“Yes,” Lawrence agreed, picking her up and carrying her to bed. “If this works.”
The Lion trembled a bit as he strolled away from Worthington Hall with the effort to keep from laughing. All the waiting had made him tired and jumpy, but his enthusiasm had been reawakened by their idiocy.
He was definitely glad he had let His Lordship live a little longer. Watching him piece together an investigation was like watching a stupid Worm writhe on the end of a fishing hook.
Nothing his Lordship was doing would take away the
Lion’s powers of invisibility. But the Lion would sure have a good time watching him Wriggle.
And then at the end, he would remove the hook from His Lordship himself. Stand there, close by his side, seeming like a dear friend until the last possible moment. He could imagine the look on Lawrence Pickering’s face when he finally understood the truth. Understood that he was not the best. Understood who was the real Winner.
The Lion hugged himself with glee all the way home.
Chapter 26
Lawrence was up early taking care of the last few details of their operation. Waking with Tuesday in his arms, even if they were still wrapped in bandages, was the most incredible feeling in the world, and he swore he was going to do it every morning for the rest of his life. He never would have believed that she would be gone long before the bandages were.
He got back to Worthington Hall just minutes before they were set to begin, and found Tuesday pacing the studio.
She looked relieved when she saw what he had brought with him. “Thank goodness. I thought—I was getting nervous.”
Lawrence knew what she had thought; it was the reason they had agreed that he would go on that particular errand himself instead of sending one of his men. It was the reason it had taken him so long to figure out the exact wording of the orders to his men, the reason he had left and reentered through the kitchen, the reason only CeCe had any inkling of what they were doing. It was no longer safe to trust anyone.
He was leading a spry old woman by the arm. “Mrs. Slipson,” he said, standing the woman in front of Tuesday, “this is Lady Arlington.”
“Pleasure to meet Your Ladyship, I’m sure,” Mrs. Slipson said, bowing her head slightly. If it had not been for the strange, milky color of her eyes, Tuesday would not have known she was blind. She moved confidently even in the unfamiliar room, and settled comfortably into the chair that had been placed for her.
“Has Lord Pickering explained what we need you to do?” Tuesday asked.
“Explained himself blue, I imagine,” Mrs. Slipson replied, smiling. “Some young men don’t believe a woman like me can understand anything.”
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