Prince of Hearts (Elders and Welders Chronicles)

by Margaret Foxe

He gave her a terrible, mocking smile. “You wanted to know my secrets. There’s one. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think we’ve both said quite enough tonight. Please, do not leave this house – not even to visit the garden – without an escort. I should not like it if you, too, were to lose your heart. It would be quite inconvenient. And messy.”

  And with that he gave her an ironic bow and swept from the room, leaving her more baffled – and troubled – than ever.

  Chapter 7

  Dr. Xavier Augustus was a man with a past. But what that past was, no one had ever been able to discern. He had quite literally fallen upon London one afternoon in a deflating hot air balloon he’d piloted somewhere from the Far East, and set up shop as a detective for hire on Bond Street. He had a Chinese valet, Ping, and two small hairy dogs, Kublai and Genghis, from that same country. All three of them pretended to speak no English.

  A student of human nature, Augustus had a knack for solving the crimes that left his colleagues at Scotland Yard baffled. Augustus was the consummate trickster, yet he seemed to understand what motivated the darkest villains, and placed so little value upon his own safety in the pursuit of them that Miss Wren sometimes wondered if he was entirely sane. Clearly, he had a few screws loose upstairs, but then again, so did she, to have remained his employee for so long …

  -from The Chronicles of Miss Wren and Dr. Augustus, 1893

  ALINE couldn't sleep. The events of the evening kept replaying again and again in her mind, from the sight of that poor dead woman, to all of the dark secrets she had learned about her enigmatic employer. She was scared, of course. A psychopath had made her his target. He even knew she'd lived in Grimsay, and she couldn't recall telling anyone this bit of information, aside from Charlie. Even Romanov hadn't known this about her, and she was quickly coming to realize he knew everything.

  Whoever this killer was, he was quite dedicated and formidable. Even Inspector Drexler, who dealt with murder intimately on a daily basis, seemed to be scared of this madman. That was not reassuring.

  The only thing she could be certain of was the fact her life was never going to be the same. Even if the killer were found tomorrow, Aline could not erase the events of the past twelve hours, or their implications.

  She knew horrible things happened all of the time, courtesy of the losses she'd suffered in her own life, and her career as secretary to a criminologist. Nevertheless she was insulated from much of the world's evil as a gently-bred Englishwoman. Her uncle had seen to that, by shipping her off to boarding school and shielding her as much as possible from the work he did in St. Giles.

  And she'd learned the autonomy she'd thought she'd enjoyed these past five years was an illusion. She was not ungrateful for the protection Matthews and others had provided for her when she explored the city, heavy-handed though it turned out to be. But it was hard to accept that she needed it. She knew bad things happened, even documented them for the Professor, but they didn't happen to her.

  Nor could she erase the revelations Romanov had made about his past. She'd known very little about his life before he moved to London, only that he'd left Russia long ago and settled in Vienna, where he'd done all of his schooling. Considering his career, the fact that he'd been hounded for years by a psychotic killer should have been mentioned.

  And he'd been married, even had a child, who'd been murdered by his father. His father. This was the hardest revelation to take in.

  The more she thought about it, nothing about the Professor's life added up. When had all of these events taken place? He had a bit of silver in his hair, but he looked younger than she did. He must have married quite young, before he'd left Russia.

  Married, had a child, and lost them both, all before moving to Vienna. And he'd been publishing articles since the early 80's. Sixteen years ago. She knew this because she catalogued his work for him. She'd thought nothing of those dates before, but now...

  He must have been an infant when he graduated university. Either that or he was aging extremely well. The Iron Necklace added a few years at most to a lifespan, not decades. No Welding technology was that good. Only the unfortunate, hacked up Abominable Soldiers like Fyodor had such mysterious longevity, and Romanov was definitely not an Abominable Soldier.

  Aline sat up in her bed, abandoning any hope of sleep. Romanov was a liar, that much she knew was true. But just how much of a liar was he? Perhaps he wasn't even Romanov at all, merely some sort of clever imposter who'd assumed the identity of a man who should, according to the math, be nearing fifty, at the very least.

  A terrible, gnawing apprehension started to grow in her gut. Worse than her fear of the psychopath. Whose roof was she under? She had a feeling that when she'd told the Professor she needed protection from him, she'd been more right that even she had realized.

  She turned up a gas lamp and crossed over to where she'd draped her soiled gown across a chair. She'd nearly forgotten about the two letters she'd stolen in the rest of the evening's drama, but she'd not wait until dawn to get to the bottom of one of Romanov's lies. He'd never given the slightest indication he'd known her uncle, a lie by omission if ever there was one. But why? Why had he lied about something so trivial?

  Sitting down beside the gas lamp, she decided to start with the most recent letter from her uncle, the one addressed to Romanov himself, just a few short weeks before her uncle's death.

  She recalled that time too vividly. She'd handled most of his correspondence at the end, but she'd not handled this one. She would have remembered. She wondered how her uncle had hid this from her – and why.

  With trembling fingers, she unfolded the letter, the sinking feeling in her gut growing with every word she read.

  My friend, it read in the familiar shaky scrawl of her uncle's final days, It has been too long since we have corresponded. I truly meant to respond to your last, most interesting note to me about the methods of sanitation in the surgery you observed in Germany.

  The Teutons always seem to be one step ahead of us in such matters, a state of affairs I can hardly credit, having once had a Bavarian roommate of monstrous proportions at Eton who evinced great glee in throwing me in the privy at every opportunity.

  Had I been in better health, I would have played the Happy Host to an old friend when you informed me of your move to London these many months past. I have been following your newest Incarnation as one of these new-fangled criminologists with great interest.

  Unfortunately, I have been struck low, and there I fear I shall remain. I have always wanted to show you the fruits of your investment. Nothing can atone for the part I played in Sevastopol, however I take some small consolation in the services I have provided for the poor of London. But alas, the Black Lung that has been my just burden since the Crimea has at last scored its final victory. I will not make it through the summer.

  Your friendship has been a precious, undeserved blessing. How maudlin my last sentence sounds, and how insincere you will think it when I beg a final favor. It seems I mean to make a habit of sending strays your way. I leave a niece behind, and I fear for her future, as I've nothing to leave her but a warehouse full of metal parts. Only through your generous support have I been able to provide for her care thus far. She expects no inheritance, and has every intention of earning her living, as she is a proud little bluestocking.

  However, she is the last of my family, and I would not be able to leave this world easily without seeing to her future. I would not be so worried, but I hear horrible rumors on the streets these days, as those of her kind are increasingly a target of evil. Did I mention she is Unenhanced?

  She knows nothing of our association, and I would rather she were not introduced to those heavy burdens we both bear. However, there is no one else on this earth I could trust to ensure her enduring welfare.

  She is currently seeking employment as a secretary in the city, and should you have need of one, I have provided direction to her agency below. Please write me a discreet reply to my proposal, and s
et this old man's heart at ease. I remain

  Yrs.,

  A. Finch

  Aline wiped the tears from her eyes, shaken on so many different levels. She’d loved her dear, eccentric old uncle, and so reading his words was hard. Every word was just so ... him.

  And yet not.

  She was beginning to think she'd not known her uncle any better than she did Romanov. He'd never mentioned being in the Crimea to her, nor had he ever evinced the slightest concern for her future welfare. She’d thought him too hare-brained for such mundane considerations. But apparently he had been more perceptive than she'd realized.

  And if she understood correctly, Romanov had been her uncle's mysterious "patron". Her uncle had mentioned him once or twice when Aline inquired how he was able to remain solvent providing his services as a Welder for free to St. Giles' most indigent. Aline had not pressed the matter.

  Now she wished she had. Her uncle's words suggested that the Professor had funded her education, and provided for the food in her belly since she was twelve years old. And hiring her as his secretary had not been a chance occurrence. He'd done it as a favor to a dying friend.

  But how was it possible? It was not, unless the Professor had begun funding her uncle's charity work when he was a teenager.

  Aline's heart pounded in her chest as if she'd run a mile, sweat misting her brow and palms. Newest Incarnation, her uncle had said.

  Something was terribly, fantastically wrong here, and she dreaded what she would read in the second, earlier letter. She wiped her palms on her petticoats and took a deep breath before she took up the older letter.

  She felt the same dread she'd felt when the doctors had emerged from her father's Glasgow hospital room, shaking their heads, their shirtsleeves stained with blood. She'd lost both her parents that same day, when the airship from the Islands to the Mainland had crashed. She'd thought herself incapable of ever feeling that level of dread again, because she'd never had anything as precious to lose.

  But she was wrong. She was losing her grasp on reality, and it was harrowing.

  She fumbled with the letter, but she finally managed to smooth it open across the desk. She recognized her uncle's handwriting, as it had been before his final illness, but the letter was in French, a language she didn't even know he spoke.

  Yet another secret.

  The letter was dated September, 1855, a good five years before her birth, towards the end of the War, and addressed to Dr. Alexandre Romaine of the French Imperial Forces.

  Dear Sir, her uncle had written, We are strangers, with a mutual British acquaintance, and it is through him I was discreetly provided your direction. Have no fear I mean to expose those secrets you and your associates keep. I have no wish to cause another soul in this world harm, though you may have little cause to believe me when I tell you who I am and what I have done. However, owing to your interest in the matter, I am sure you already know.

  I am Lt. Col. Alyosius Finch, a Specialist under His Grace, the Duke of Brightlingsea, and an architect of the Final Solution of Sevastopol. I make no excuses for what at the time we felt was a Necessary Evil. I still cannot entirely regret it.

  However, I will not condone the present policies of the Allied Forces following the resignation of His Grace. You have professed a similar, public opinion, which has earned you such infamy among your compatriots. I am counting upon that infamy, however, to rescue me from my current predicament.

  I have come into possession of a certain casualty of war that our superiors have ordered terminated. However much we have been assured of their inhumanity, I have seen the lie of this with my own eyes. These Russian Abominables have suffered enough at the hands of their own masters, who fashioned them into these wretched creatures of war. This particular model has lost his ability to speak, and communication remains severely limited. As you are originally from that region of the world, or so legend has it, I believe you would have better luck assisting him. I fear discovery, and have not your resources to remove him to a safer location. I await your response,

  A. Finch

  Aline didn't know how long she sat there, staring blankly at the letter, her mind reeling with its implications. She didn't even know where to begin. Her whole conception of British history had been undermined in a few paragraphs.

  What had truly happened during the War? At Sevastopol? She was beginning to think it was not what she'd been taught in school, which painted the British Army and its allies as noble and just victors.

  But these considerations paled at the moment to the fact that her uncle had been an officer under Brightlingsea himself, and she had never known.

  But this was the least of the letter's blows. She was not an idiot. All the clues were there. But the clues added up to an impossible answer. Alexandre Romaine was merely a poor Gallic translation of the Professor’s name; her uncle seemed to be referring to Fyodor in the letter; and legend had it this Alexandre Romaine was from Russia.

  Legend? She thought of that secret drawer downstairs, full of letters to men she'd never heard of, to men who should be long dead. That earliest, precious page had been dated 1581. The same year that horrible painting in the secret room had depicted.

  She shuddered. What she was beginning to suspect was too fantastic to entertain.

  This is not your penny-dreadful, she told herself. Whatever you're thinking is just not possible in the real world.

  There was one way to know for sure if the man her uncle had written to in 1855 was the same one he'd written to in 1891. But she had to return to her flat to look through Alyosius' old things for the answer.

  She rose and went to the window. It would be dawn soon, hardly the prime time for psychopaths to strike. Surely it would be safe, if she went with Fyodor. The Professor had said she could leave the house if she had an escort.

  Though why she was paying heed to anything that man said after all she was beginning to suspect, she had no clue.

  She pulled her bloodstained, wrinkled gown back on and struggled to steady her shaking fingers long enough to do up the buttons. Then she repocketed the letters and went in search of Fyodor.

  She didn't have far to look. He was standing guard right outside her room with the hellhounds, wide-awake and looking grim as always. Aline studied him with new eyes after what she'd read in the letter. She'd never considered who he'd been before the war, or how he'd ended up an Abominable Soldier. Clearly, it had not been by choice. And according to her uncle, if the British Army had had its way, all of his kind would have been summarily killed.

  When she just continued to stare at him, the human side of his face gave her a questioning look.

  "You knew my uncle," she stated. Because she knew in her heart that much of the letter was true at least.

  Fyodor's brow rose, his mouth took on a grim cast. It was response enough, in Aline's opinion. Her heart sank a little more.

  "Is the Professor out with the police?"

  Fyodor nodded.

  She breathed with relief. The last thing she needed was to face Romanov at the moment. "I need to go to my flat for some of my things."

  He shook his head and made a few hand gestures she was able to interpret. He'd send someone for her things.

  But she wasn't about to trust anyone at the moment.

  "I need to go myself," she insisted. "I need some particular feminine items. For a particularly feminine complaint."

  As she'd hoped, the word feminine had overwhelmed Fyodor. His human side went scarlet, and he looked as if he'd rather be back in the Crimea than listen to her.

  "And the Professor said I could leave the house, if I had an escort, did he not? I'm not a prisoner, am I?" she demanded.

  Fyodor gave her an unhappy frown, took out and tapped his wireless.

  She shrugged and swept past him towards the stairs. "Fine. Inform him if you must. But let's be on our way."

  When he continued to hesitate, she put her hands on her hips and glared at him. "It's dawn, for heaven's
sakes. Nothing's going to happen at this hour. And besides, if you can't protect me from this psychopath, then it doesn't matter where we are, does it?"

  He sighed and followed her.

  In the end, with Matthews also off hunting for the killer with the police, Fyodor had her ride in the steam carriage with the dubious protection of the hellhounds, who did more drooling on her already ruined skirts than any actual guarding. She would not be wearing this gown again, not that it was much of a loss. The Professor had certainly made his opinion of her gown clear last night in the garden.

  Not. A. Single. Stitch.

  Had it only been last night he'd whispered that in her ear? It seemed several lifetimes ago, so much had happened since then.

  Any fears she had of being attacked in broad daylight faded completely by the time they reached her boarding house. Her landlady, Mrs. Phillips, greeted her at the door with her usual warm smile. When she caught sight of Fyodor, the color left her face, however, and her smile wavered. But she had become accustomed to Aline's strange entourage, so she let him inside only a little reluctantly. The hellhounds were a new addition, however, and it took a stern look from Fyodor's fierce visage to convince Mrs. Phillips to let them pass.

  Fyodor checked her room briefly, and then took up his post outside the door. He'd agreed to give her privacy, if the hellhounds accompanied her inside. They did so, wandering around her flat, sniffing everything in sight. When Ilya lifted his leg near one of her favorite plants, she squeaked out her protest and shooed him away.

  "Behave, you beasts!" she cried. "I've no patience left for the two of you. Not now."

  They looked unimpressed at her temper and watched her as she went to her closet, pulled out a fresh frock, and quickly changed into it. She'd worry about bathing later. Right now, she had too much on her mind.

  She pulled out a small step stool from the back of the closet, mounted it, and reached onto the top shelf. She found the old metal lock-box that had belonged to her uncle and pulled it down. She’d kept it when she'd moved, but she'd never gone through its contents. All she'd known was that it contained documents precious to her uncle, and she hadn't the heart to get rid of it.