A Devilish Slumber

by Shereen Vedam

  The vehement comment coming from the mild-mannered Miss Wood surprised Rose. There was a story there. She looked forward to one day learning what Miss Wood regretted about her ability. Then she wondered about Miss Wood’s talent.

  “Our gifts have brought many of us punishment.” Mrs. Weatheringham’s glance slid toward Daniel, drawing Rose’s attention back to that gentleman. “Some of us were abandoned as children, possibly because the parents either feared their child’s inexplicable ability or thought it evil.” Her concerned glance returned to Rose. “It is the reason why we distrust strangers. But not Helen. She wanted us to unite so we would be available to support each other in times of crisis. She also insisted that everyone in the alliance, if not independently wealthy, hold a respectable paid position. It was her way of ensuring that no alliance member should ever be tempted to use his or her talent for self-interest, but rather only to help others or to learn from each other.”

  Rose sat back. This alliance appealed to her but to join them, she would have to admit that she too could shift. The words stuck. She had shared this kind of connection with her grandmother, the only one beside her uncle who had been privy to the two Ravenstock girls’ talent.

  An unpleasant thought intruded. “Did Helen befriend me because she suspected that I, too, could shift?”

  “Assuredly, my dear,” Mrs. Weatheringham said. “Helen made it her mission to identify as many of us as she could.”

  Rose had not used her shifting since her grandmother died, with one exception—the night she had decided to find Helen’s murderer. “What would have made Helen believe I could do what you are able to do?”

  “She not only thought you could shift but told us you possessed the strongest talent she has ever witnessed.”

  “That is impossible.” Eve had been the stronger shifter in her family, able to mimic most anyone she wanted. Rose had mentioned that to her grandmother once. The old lady had responded that the difference in the sisters’ talents was not a matter of strength but rather of ethical use. But Eve was dead. Lingering sadness descended with that reminder.

  Mrs. Weatheringham gestured to Miss Wood. She left and then returned with a small hand-held looking glass in an intricately molded silver frame that she gave to Rose.

  Rose studied her reflection. Her sad face stared back. Nothing unusual. “What is it you want me to see?”

  “What color are your eyes?” Mrs. Weatheringham asked.

  “Green. My grandmother used to call it sea green.”

  “Are your eyes sea green?”

  Rose’s startled glance fell back on her reflection. Indeed, her eyes looked opaque, a faded green, easily forgettable. When had her eyes changed color?

  “And your hair, my dear.” Mrs. Weatheringham’s voice grew soft and gentle. “What color and texture is your hair?”

  Rose’s gaze flicked to her golden hair that Phillip once said reflected sunshine even on a dull day.

  Today, her hair appeared dull and lay limp. She swallowed. She could not remember a time recently when she had cared about her appearance. Hannah insisted on brushing Rose’s hair every night before she left for the day. It had made not a jot of difference and Rose wondered why the girl insisted on carrying on with such a useless task.

  A tear slid down her cheek as she recalled Phillip’s shocked expression. The woman he used to compliment so effusively no longer existed. How embarrassed he must have been at Hyde Park. She dropped the heavy mirror onto her lap.

  Mrs. Weatheringham ran a soothing hand down Rose’s back. “Grief can alter a person’s appearance. Your talent, however, helped you express your sadness to a degree unlikely to be found in most people. When you met Helen, she would have sensed your shift, even though you did not.”

  Rose focused on her charm and realized that it was indeed warm as it rested against her skin. So gentle a heat that she had assumed it was a reflection of her body’s warmth, when it was likely informing her that she was shifted. If she had been this way for long, no wonder Helen thought Rose’s talent was strong.

  “Is it my time yet?” a gruff voice asked from the doorway. Stony peered in expectantly. “May I show my talent?”

  At Miss Wood’s nod, the giant walked over to Rose and, taking Trenton’s place on the floor, he extended a hand. Rose wiped away her tears. Was she about to witness more fire making?

  Stony brought out two dice and dropped them by her feet. Each die toppled over until a pair of six’s appeared together.

  “They refuse to allow him in the gambling dens anymore,” Daniel said, regret lining his tone.

  Rose turned to Miss Wood. “Can you too shift?”

  A blush stained the lady’s cheeks. “A minor flair with my eyes, but it gives me headaches. Now, it is time for luncheon. I hope you will be pleased. Even those who could not come, sent food.”

  “Not yet.” Mrs. Weatheringham placed a hand on Rose’s arm.

  What else could this gentle old lady have to reveal?

  “I have not used my talent in years,” Mrs. Weatheringham said. “The novelty wore off long ago.”

  “Merry,” Miss Wood said, a warning in her voice.

  “Shush, child. It will not hurt to show a little.”

  “Please do not trouble yourself.” Rose’s grandmother had stopped using her talent when she was older, saying it was too strenuous on her constitution. “I have seen enough to stagger my skepticism. I believe you can shift.”

  The little girl pulled at her grandmother’s dress. It was the first time the child had reacted. “Grammy, no.”

  “Hope, do not worry. My granddaughter’s gift has yet to manifest, so she does not understand that there is little danger involved.” She brushed back Hope’s hair. “I will be fine.”

  “She may be right to be concerned,” Miss Wood said, sounding worried.

  “Do not treat me as an invalid, Nevara.”

  An ominous misgiving tightened Rose’s chest.

  The old lady’s face began to change. The wrinkles around her face stretched and faded, the skin smoothed, and color brightened her visage. Mrs. Weatheringham’s eyes went from small and shrunken to wide and full.

  The old lady looked better, healthier. Rose’s breath gushed out in relief. Then her charm, which had warmed as the changes started, suddenly burned. Rose resisted the urge to dig out the Cimaruta. What was the matter with the thing?

  Mrs. Weatheringham’s changes sped up. Faces appeared and disappeared.

  Miss Wood shouted in alarm.

  Trenton ran over and shook the old woman.

  A hundred faces continued to appear and disappear on Mrs. Weatheringham’s face.

  Rose jumped up but did not know how to help.

  The little girl joined Trenton in shaking her grandmother, pleading with her to stop.

  Miss Wood pulled Hope back, but the child tore free and ran to her grandmother. She climbed onto the couch and placed a hand on either side of her grandmother’s face. “Stop!”

  The shifting froze.

  Mrs. Weatheringham’s face was once more wrinkled and pale. She took deep breaths and her eyes fluttered closed.

  Trenton checked her heartbeat. “She is alive. Fool woman.”

  Her eyes snapped open and she turned to her granddaughter in wonder. “Well, well, child. I believe we have discovered your gift. You can stop a shift.”

  “I am sorry, Grammy.” The little girl burst into tears. “I will not do it again, I promise.”

  Mrs. Weatheringham hugged her. “No, dear. I cannot accept that. Your unique gift might be needed one day.”

  “Time for me to leave,” Rose whispered to Miss Wood, concerned her presence had overtaxed the older lady. “My hackney will be waiting.”

  “Please stay,” Miss Wood said. “We still have much to discus
s. Allow me to take Mrs. Weatheringham to her room to rest, and then we can continue with the meal we had planned.”

  “She will stay,” Trenton said.

  Glancing at his set face, Rose suspected she would not make it to the doorway without his permission. She accepted defeat with grace and requested that Stony arrange for her hackney to return an hour later.

  The doorman left, and Mrs. Weatheringham and Hope went upstairs with Miss Wood. The rest of the guests convened in the dining room. Miss Wood returned to sit at Rose’s left, while Trenton sat on Rose’s right. No swift escape then.

  Fragrant scents wafted from the dishes as each offering was presented. Rose’s mouth watered, apparently happy to stay.

  Mary, the seamstress, pointed to a dish. “That is saltfish, with a special sauce my mother taught me.”

  She sounded as if she had spent the day preparing the best dish she could for Rose’s enjoyment.

  The tavern keeper pushed a large bowl of soup toward Rose. “My wife made this, my lady. Sweet melon soup. No better dish, or a better cook, in all of England.”

  One by one, each dish was presented and the cook named. Rose took small samplings from each, so as not to slight anyone. Though, to be honest, everything tasted divine.

  It was halfway through the meal, and no one had said a word about why they had asked her to come. Trenton picked at his food, which was somehow worse than idle chatter.

  If she did not broach the topic everyone avoided, she might never leave. “I understand you consider us alike. Was I invited here so you could ask me to join your Rue Alliance?”

  The idea strangely appealed. Had she grown tired of living alone? Was that why Helen’s death hurt so much, because someone dared tear away the one person she had reached out to? Rose absently rolled a green pea around her plate. Joining the alliance might be a way to make new friends, a path less dangerous than going after Helen’s killer as Ben, even with Phillip’s help.

  “We would be honored if you would join our alliance, Lady Roselyn,” Miss Wood said.

  “Never mind the genteel prattle,” Trenton said. “Tell her what we want from ’er.”

  Crude, but effective. She was starting to like this brash young man. “Mr. Trenton is correct. I want to know.” She must know what was expected of her before she made any commitments.

  Miss Wood nodded. “Helen was our leader. She found new members. When anyone had a problem, we turned to her. Before she died, she called on Mrs. Weatheringham to say you were in danger. She asked us to protect you.”

  The statement struck Rose with the reverberation of a hammer striking steel. Was that why Helen died? Was Rose responsible for Helen’s death?

  Overwhelming horror descended, and Rose gripped her fork until her palm hurt. Then, with care, she placed her utensil on her plate and swallowed past the lump blocking her breathing. And these people still wanted her to befriend them? A half-hysterical laugh burst out.

  She stood and her chair crashed. She thrust it aside and stumbled out of the room. Ignoring their shouts, she rushed headlong down the corridor.

  By the front door, Stony spotted her barreling toward him and extended his arms to block her exit.

  She snatched up her cloak and hat. “Step aside!”

  “Please, Lady Roselyn.” Miss Wood hurried behind her. “Do not desert us. We need you.”

  “Let her go.” Trenton sauntered up next. “Even if she can shift, she is not one of us. Why do you think Helen kept her in the dark about us?”

  “Mr. Trenton!” Miss Wood said. “You are making the situation worse.”

  “He speaks the truth,” Rose said in a cold voice. “Stony, pray allow me to leave this house.”

  “Do you not like us?” the doorkeeper asked in an unhappy tone, head tilted.

  “No, she does not.” Trenton’s challenging blue eyes were narrowed, his arms folded and feet braced.

  “You have all been kind but I must go home now,” Rose said.

  “Yes,” he said. “Return to your dark house, where no one is allowed to talk to you or see you. Pretend we are a dream. That Helen never existed. Go back to sleep.”

  “Daniel!” The admonition came from Mrs. Weatheringham. The old woman leaned heavily on a walking stick.

  Rose clasped her forearms to control her shaking. What Trenton accused her of was true. She did live a dream world inside her safe home. But surely that was better than watching people she cared for die or leave her? She leaned against the wall, her eyes stinging and her throat thick with unshed tears.

  Mrs. Weatheringham placed a delicate hand on Rose’s cheek. “My dear, our alliance will not survive without a proper leader. Daniel is too severe to sympathize with the weak. Miss Wood is enthusiastic and reliable, but she does not possess your worldly knowledge or connections. As for myself, I may not see another spring.” She held up a hand when Miss Wood would have protested. “We need you to keep us united, strong and safe, Lady Roselyn. In exchange, we will give you our protection.”

  She sounded reasonable, while Rose’s emotions were in turmoil, fearing that her presence was a stamp of death on anyone who cared for her. Already, she had grown fond of these people. Of Trenton, proud and stubborn, wanting her help, but unwilling to beg. Of Miss Wood, with her intense protectiveness of the alliance and endearingly studious nature. Of Mary, who had offered saltfish and sauce as if her only desire was to please Rose. Even of Stony, standing so still beside her and smelling of strawberries. As for Mrs. Weatheringham, she appeared frailer than Rose’s grandmother had on her last days. In fact, this woman had almost died today because Rose had simply visited her. Tears misted her sight. If she stayed a moment longer, she would not be strong enough to walk away.

  “A woman has been murdered, and her killer is loose in the city,” Phillip had said. What if this madman was seeking out shifters to kill? Considered people like her monsters? That put the entire Rue Alliance in danger. By joining them, Rose might end up leading the killer straight to these innocents.

  She stepped away from the wall and straightened her gloves. If the only way to keep these people safe was to “go back to sleep,” as Trenton so aptly put it, then so be it. She was ready to embody a Sleeping Beauty.

  “I am sorry,” she said in a flat voice. “You must look elsewhere for your support.”

  Chapter Four

  PHILLIP WAITED for Rose inside her drawing room. He pulled a chair up in front of the cold hearth. With his back to the door, one foot pushing against the hearth, he rocked. As each hour passed, his imagination painted a worse outcome of her fate. Like Mrs. Beaumont, she could have had her throat sliced open and was now lying on a deserted warehouse floor somewhere. No one there to help her, protect her, keep her safe. His stomach turned as the recurring image of Rose set upon by an assailant played on his mind.

  The sound of the front door squeaking open brought him out of one such nightmarish vision. He ran to the drawing room door, wondering if a constable had come to inform the maid her mistress’s body had been discovered but whispers on the other side of the door halted him. Rose’s soft voice sent relief sweeping over him in a wave, and he bent, resting hands on his knees as dizziness overcame him.

  She is alive!

  Steady.

  The maid was advising her mistress that she had a visitor. He quickly sprinted back to his chair. The drawing room door swished open and he turned his head, slowly, partly to keep from becoming dizzy again. She was the most beautiful sight he had beheld in all his life. He stood, clenching his toes inside his Hessians to keep from running toward her and hugging her tight as he gave his thanks to God for bringing her back to him, alive and safe. With hands clasped at his back to hide their trembling, he faced her.

  While he awaited her return, he had left the curtains closed, as she preferred, so only slivers of afternoon light and
a lone candle outlined her beloved figure. Her head appeared to rest on heavy burdened shoulders. His arms ached to hold her close while he promised to never let her down again.

  “You returned,” she said, sounding world-weary.

  His shoulders stiffened at her lack of welcome. “You take my words.”

  Her sigh was heavy. “May we please postpone this talk to another day, Phillip?”

  At her suggestion that he leave, icy cold descended over his heart. She had not said so, but what he heard was, I do not need you, Phillip. “I am not proposing a tea party, Rose.”

  Anger narrowed her forehead. But it was nothing compared to the fury taking over the terror that he had been bathing in for the past three long hours, wondering if she was alive or dead. She had deliberately put her life in danger. And she found his behavior objectionable? “We are dealing with a murderer out there.” He indicated the door. “Or am I mistaken?” He gave her a pointed look. “Do we deal with one in here?”

  “You do not trust me.”

  The hurt in her eyes struck him like a blow, and he desperately sought his fast-retreating rage. “Have you given me reason to trust you, Rose? You would not confide in me about that note.”

  “Oh, that note again!”

  “You made an assignation. You could have been killed.”

  “Why should I confide in you? It has been two years, eleven months and ten days since you abandoned me.” She clamped her mouth shut as if afraid she had said too much.

  Indeed she had. As swiftly as his fury had crowded in, now joy took possession of his soul. She had counted the days he had been away. That knowledge offered so many delicious prizes, but her swollen eyes and flushed cheeks drew his gaze and concern claimed victory.

  She had been crying.

  He walked closer and caressed her hot cheek. “I have missed you, too.”

  She slapped his hands away. “I did not lie about my affections, sir. Not everyone uses people and then discards them. That set of behavior is entirely yours.”

  He tipped her face up, wanting to kiss her, to tell her that he loved her, and had never stopped. “Rose . . .”