Prince of Hearts (Elders and Welders Chronicles)
Page 7
But his little secretary was hardly the pillar of perfection, which made her all the more entertaining. When he discovered her gambling addiction, he couldn’t quite credit it at first. She seemed so proper, so excruciatingly scrupulous, that dabbling in such a torrid pastime seemed as unlikely as a pig sprouting wings. But it was one she must have developed in the years she’d lived with her eccentric uncle in St. Giles.
He paid his secretary quite a hefty salary, but he suspected she gambled away most of it on a regular basis. Which would explain why, in the five years he’d known her, she’d not scraped together the funds to buy a single new dress.
Not that he cared what she wore. But, bloody hell, mud had never been a good color on anyone.
Finch was a full-fledged addict, courting all sorts of trouble in her visits to the stews. He’d put a stop to that, however, before he’d left for Paris. Matthews’ tickertext this morning had informed him of Finch’s recent revelations on her last trip to St. Giles.
Finch would no doubt be spitting mad at him for his interference in her private affairs, but she would have to get over it. She’d nearly succeeded in losing much more than her money to that voracious bookmaker.
The Black Market dealt in other things besides automata. She’d no clue how rare she was, or that there were predators out there who craved that rarity. The Clean Air Act did not pass until 1880, so there was a dearth of adults over the age of sixteen who’d managed to survive the Fog without enhancement.
Sasha’s old friend, Aloysius Finch, had known his niece’s value, and he’d known Sasha could protect her as few could, which was why he’d asked him to hire her in the first place when he knew he was dying. Not that Finch was aware her uncle had ever known Sasha. She’d thought her employment agency had sent her to his door.
Finch had an even bigger secret that, again, wasn’t a secret to him at all. It seemed in her voracious quest for more funds to gamble away, she’d taken up another profession. He’d discovered Finch's double life as a sensational novelist quite accidentally while thumbing through the Post-Dispatch several years ago.
Drawn in despite himself to one of the popular serials the Post published, he began to realize the similarities between the storyline and his own life – or at least, Professor Romanov’s life. At first he was alarmed, fearing his secrets would be exposed. But then he’d been amused. It was romantic, fantastic drivel about the misadventures of a heroine named Miss Alison Wren and her overbearing employer, Dr. Augustus. He was convinced Finch was the author.
This discovery had delighted him. He’d not thought her to possess one romantic bone in her neat, gambling-addled little body. He sometimes wondered if there was a real life model for the insufferable Captain Standish, Miss Wren's noble but extremely boring suitor who followed her around the world like a well-trained lapdog.
But inquiring such a thing of Finch would reveal that he knew about her double life.
Fyodor stopped the steam carriage in front of the townhouse, and Sasha strode out into the rain and up the walkway. When he finally stepped into the front hall, he knew something was wrong. Ilya and Ikaterina rushed to greet him, jumping up on his chest and licking his face. His pups were followed by Madame Kristeva. But Finch was nowhere in sight.
His heart sank with disappointment and a touch of apprehension. Then he itched his neck in irritation at his foolishness. Disappointed over Finch’s failure to greet him?
Ha! He’d see her soon enough. Doubtless she was buried underneath some mountain of documents, spectacles askew, her fingers stained with ink.
When greetings were dispensed with, however, and Finch had still not shown herself, he grew uneasy. "Where is Finch?"
The normally unflappable Madame Kristeva looked down at her feet and folded her hands over her rotund belly before answering in Russian, as if girding herself. "She has resigned."
He pushed Ilya and Ikaterina off his chest. "Excuse me?"
"She said she was not going to work for you any more. She seemed quite adamant after the dogs knocked her into the English river."
"What?"
"They knocked her into the river. She was quite upset. She left a week ago and has not come back, so I think she was speaking the truth."
Matthews had not told him any of this. Not that the man was much of a conversationalist, particularly over a wireless. "That's ridiculous! The pups were only playing with her."
"I don't think she would agree. And I don’t think she liked having to break with your Italian friend," Madame Kristeva continued, coloring.
"Luciana?"
"Yes, your ... er, your Italian friend was quite rude to Miss Finch. Although," Madame Kristeva continued, puffing up with motherly pride, "Miss Finch was the victor in the end. She let the pups loose on the Italian. And they'd just been in the garden. After a rain. The Italian's expensive gown was ruined. It was a wonderful sight, sir."
Well done, Finch! He knew he could count on her to get rid of the bothersome opera singer. She usually left his mistresses on good terms, however. Luciana must have been too much for Finch to manage. God knows Luciana had been too much for him. But none of this seemed reason for Finch to...
To break with him!
He still couldn't quite believe it. And it was a development that could not have come at a worst time, with a murderer on the loose, killing her doppelgangers.
“And,” Madame Kristeva continued, still not quite looking at him, “she was very upset about something you did to her. Something about her wagering.”
“Upset? Why, she should be sobbing with gratitude!” he scoffed.
“Miss Finch loves the wagering,” Madame Kristeva pointed out.
“Loves it too much for her own good. I merely paid what she owed.”
Fyodor, who’d just arrived inside with the luggage, arched an eyebrow at this understatement.
“And made it impossible for her to place a bet in London ever again,” Sasha added a bit sheepishly.
“Dieu! No wonder she left!” Madame Kristeva breathed, wide-eyed.
“Oh, I’ll get her back,” he vowed.
Madame Kristeva, however, did not seem to put much stock in his promise, for she shook her head mournfully. “I do not think she’s coming back this time.”
Well, she didn’t have a choice in the matter. “She is. If I have to tie her up and carry her back.”
Madame Kristeva looked at him askance, clearly surprised at his vehemence.
Hell, he was surprised himself. Of course he was upset, under the circumstances, but Finch’s abrupt resignation got under his skin. Finch’s rebellion was the last thing he expected to come home to. Scowling blackly, he strode down the hall, the pups at his heels, and entered his study.
He grabbed a bottle of vodka from the sideboard and threw himself into his favorite leather chair. He stared broodingly into the old-fashioned fire a servant had lit in anticipation of his arrival. With modern steam technology to keep houses warm, fires had become obsolete and illegal without a permit. But Sasha couldn’t break three hundred years of habit. He enjoyed warming himself at a fire.
Particularly when he was brooding.
Finch quit? Quit? And in an absurdly underhanded manner, to add insult to injury. He’d been rotting in jail for the past month, terrified she was going to be ripped open by a madman, and all the while she’d been back in merry old London plotting this mutiny of hers.
Why did she have to leave him now? Now of all times?
Of course, she didn’t know of his suspicion that she was in danger. She didn’t know anything about his past and his true identity. And that was just how he’d wanted it to remain, even after Genoa. He’d hoped to be able to catch the murderer and safeguard Finch without having to reveal anything to her. He could have made up an excuse for her to remain here in the townhouse with him, and kept her busy little mind occupied with a thousand tasks while he sorted this mess out.
Which would have been possible, had she not taken off in a snit. She�
�d made everything a hundred times more complicated.
He jumped up from his seat and paced in front of the hearth.
Even if he told her the truth – which he was never going to do, of course – he doubted she would believe him. He stopped cold. Or maybe she would, which was even worse. Judging from her penny-dreadful, Aline was capable of ridiculous flights of fancy. Learning he was a three hundred year old Russian Prince with a Da Vinci Heart would no doubt give her fits of ecstasy, and fodder for the Chronicles.
The latter most certainly could not be allowed to happen. Then the High Council would turn its sights on her, as well as the murderer.
No, he couldn’t tell her the truth. But he would have her back by his side, where he could keep an eye on her. With a growl, he crossed over to his desk and fumbled around for something to write on. If she wouldn’t to respond to his tickertexts, he’d contact her the traditional way. He tossed off a note to her, not bothering to mince words.
I am back. I shall give you tonight to come to your senses. Otherwise, I shall be forced to put on the kid gloves. Romanov.
He stuffed the letter into a steel cylinder, sealed it, and sent the cylinder shooting off in the steam-powered post chute.
The network of underground steam chutes that comprised Her Majesty’s Royal Steam Mail, seen as such an innovation back in the 50’s, were becoming increasingly outmoded with the advent of the wireless tickertext. But it would serve. The letter would arrive at her flat within the hour. He hoped it hit her stubborn head when it flew from her chute.
A few minutes later, Fyodor entered the room to find his master scowling down at the fire, vodka clutched in his hand. Fyodor took the bottle and drank his fill, settling into a chair and gesturing towards the chessboard sitting in front of him.
They usually played together in the evenings to unwind. The custom between them had started when Fyodor had found him wandering the house after an extremely harrowing nightmare. He was often plagued by them, by the dark memories that hounded his unguarded, slumbering mind.
After what Fyodor had endured during the War, he understood Sasha’s sleeplessness, his unspoken fear of closing his eyes, even if he did not know its exact cause. Fyodor had poured vodka down his throat and sat him across the chess board, and they had played into the small hours of the morning, until Sasha was too weary to care when his eyes closed, and too exhausted to dream. Since then, they played nearly every evening, the concentration on the intricacies of the game soothing him into dreamless slumber.
Sasha wondered if he should enjoy chess so much, considering how his father had died. But his recent training as a psychologist helped him figure out other people’s minds, not his own. He would not ruin one of the few consolations left to him.
Fyodor moved a knight. Sasha moved one of his pawns. Soon they were embroiled in one of their usual battles, but Sasha’s mind was still on the problem of his secretary.
He was not going to sleep well at all.
He groaned when Fyodor managed to steal away his queen with ease, and sat back in his chair.
“I just don’t see what her problem is,” he bemoaned in Russian to Fyodor when he couldn’t stand to remain silent any longer. “I haven’t been so terrible to work for.”
Fyodor gave him a sidelong glance.
“I haven’t!” he insisted.
Fyodor sat back in his chair and scrutinized his old friend for a long time.
He made a gesture with his hand.
Why do you care?
Sasha reached for the vodka.
Why indeed.
THE next morning, a response to his missive finally came as he sat in his library, staring sullenly at a lopsided pile of eviscerated steam cylinders that had accumulated in front of him. None of them were from Finch. He didn’t think so many people bothered to send steam posts anymore, with the wireless at hand. Then again, his secretary always dealt with such matters.
And she was not here. Hung over and exhausted, he retrieved the latest cylinder to arrive from the chute, tore it open, and growled. At last.
Sir, it read in a bold, angry looking scrawl, you will be waiting much longer than a night for me to ‘come to my senses’. As to the threat implied in your third sentence, I believe you have mixed your metaphors. In English, one either takes off kid gloves or puts on boxing gloves in order to fight. Though I have no intention of fighting with you. Ever.
I quit.
Finch.
He balled up her letter with a snarl and tossed it across the room.
It didn’t make him feel any better.
Damn her eyes! Her rather large, expressive eyes she kept hidden behind those ugly spectacles of hers, eyes that were so often filled with vexation over something he’d done.
What color were they again?
He raked a hand through his hair and returned to his desk with an irritated sigh. He sat down and reached for pen and paper.
Finch, he scrawled, I would think a proper English gentlewoman like yourself would have done her long time employer the courtesy of speaking face to face with him when resigning. I would also think a proper gentlewoman would perhaps feel obliged to thank the man who settled her very improper debt owed to a thieving St. Giles bookmaker. This said favor that her employer did out of his generous concern for her dangerous habit would also perhaps sway her into reconsidering the matter of her resignation.
He dotted the end of the last sentence so hard he nearly tore the paper.
Her reply came later that evening.
I thank you for saving me from myself, she wrote. I cannot imagine how I could have been so remiss in not doing so sooner. I suppose it was from the fact that I neither wanted nor needed saving. You must have gone through a great deal of trouble with Inspector Drexler to make sure that every gaming establishment in London has shut its door in my face. Forgive me for not kissing your feet in gratitude for such a BENEVOLENT feat, and for STALKING me for the past five years.
Yes, I know about that.
In regards to reconsidering my resignation because you went behind my back and did something that distinctly displeases me, let me be perfectly clear: I OWE YOU NOTHING. A.E. Finch. P.S Call off Drexler’s watchdog. He is scaring the other tenants.
The imp!
He crumpled the note in his fist.
At what point did Finch develop such a barbed tongue?
If he weren’t so furious, he’d be rather intrigued.
Oh, toss it, he was intrigued. If he’d known this was the result when her temper finally snapped, he would have … well, he wasn’t sure what he would have done. Probably provoke her even more than he usually did in the hopes she responded with something more than her customary roll of the eyes.
He was about to toss her latest scathing rebuke in the direction of the last one, but then thought better of it.
He smoothed out the letter, folded it up, and slipped it into the secret drawer in his desk where he kept his most prized correspondence. Though why he wanted to save the blasted thing was quite beyond him at the moment.
He’d not expected to feel so much and so deeply. He’d not expected her to ever quit, full stop, which was ridiculous, in retrospect. One day he would have to move on from this life, become someone else, and leave Finch behind anyway. But she’d been unique from the start, the niece of an old friend, and the only secretary he’d ever had who’d not stormed out after five minutes of his company.
He started to write her another letter, but then reconsidered, sitting back in his chair.
Letters were getting him nowhere. And she was safe, for the moment.
He had half a mind to go to the little nest of hers in Bloomsbury and drag her back bodily if he had to.
He growled.
He resented the idea that she was driving him to actually consider seeking her out like some recalcitrant schoolboy. She should be coming back to him, groveling at his feet to take her back, not the other way around.
And she would do just that.
He didn’t doubt for a moment she’d find some way to gamble, despite the barriers he’d erected for her own good. And when she’d lost all, she’d have no choice but to come back to him.
He smiled to himself.
Yes, all he had to do was wait it out.
TWO days later, Sasha was through waiting it out. Though he had increased the watch on Finch to five guards, he still had no peace of mind. No murders had been reported, but it felt like he was just waiting for the axe to fall, and his intuition was telling him to keep his secretary close. Which he could not do when she was determined to remain across town in her flat.
And worse than that, his tie was crooked. He stared at his reflection in his bedroom mirror with a mixture of despondency and irritation. He was to attend the opera tonight, having decided that La Traviata was just the ticket to end his brooding, or to at least make it look like his life was not spinning out of control. He suspected that was the killer’s goal, and he wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction.
But as he cast his eye over his evening clothes, he decided that he looked ridiculous. This century’s fashion choices were a welcome improvement over the giant powdered wigs and high heels of the previous one. And for once in centuries, he was able to clothe himself without the aid of a legion of servants.
But no matter how he tried to knot his neck cloth, it still came out crooked and limp.
Finch had tied them for him for the past five years, and he had grown used to it. For such a clumsy little package, she had remarkably dexterous fingers. His crooked necktie was, quite frankly, the last straw where she was concerned. He’d not be traipsing around London looking like a vagrant. He stalked downstairs and threw open the door to the billiards room. Fyodor was inside playing by himself.