Nature of the Beast

by Hannah Howell

  A group of men huddled around a bed in the middle of the large room, among them Mr. Simon and Mr. Franks, and two men she thought must be from Bow Street. One of them—dark haired and swarthy—seemed familiar, and she wondered if he was the officer who had attended the ward before, the one who had declined Mrs. Bayley’s offer of tea.

  “I tell you, sir, that I saw Mr. Thayne lurking about when I left last night,” said Mr. Simon.

  “And what time was that?” asked the constable.

  “Just before midnight. I know it because as I walked through the front doors, I heard the clock strike the hour.”

  “And did you speak with Mr. Thayne at that time?”

  “I did not. But I believe it was he that I saw.”

  “You believe it was he?” the second constable asked. “Did you see him or not?”

  Mr. Simon’s lips thinned, and when he spoke his voice was high with irritation, his cheeks flushed red. “I did not see his face clearly, but I saw enough of him to determine his identity. His height and build are distinctive.”

  The dark-haired constable cocked his head to one side, and said, “You and he are of a similar height.”

  “I tell you the culprit is Mr. Thayne,” Mr. Simon insisted. “He has been on this ward each time someone died of the strange and inexplicable wounds perpetrated upon their bodies. He and I had words over the care of each of those patients. And—”

  “And I would like to know exactly what you accuse me of,” Killian said in a ringing voice as he stepped through the second doorway on the far side of the ward. His gaze slid to Sarah, lingered in an instant of connection, then slid away. He scanned the faces of the men assembled around the corpse. “For if I was here each time, so were you. Does that bring you under equal suspicion, Mr. Simon?”

  Killian stepped deeper into the room, holding to the shadows, out of the spill of morning light that came through the window.

  “It does not.” Mr. Simon’s words fell like drops of burning acid. “As to what I accuse you of, the way of it is clear enough. Five dead bodies. I accuse you of having a hand in that.”

  “Ah.” Killian raised a brow. “And when exactly did this patient expire?”

  “Last night,” snarled Mr. Simon. “I saw you here.”

  “Did you?” Killian did not appear particularly perturbed by the assertion, but Sarah noted the constables studying him with wary assessment.

  He prowled closer, avoiding the dappled light leaking through the grimy windows, his dark garb blending with the gloom, his bright gold hair the only pale thing about him. There was grace and power in the way he moved, and suddenly, Sarah wished there was not. She wished he were ungainly and gangly. Less masculine. Less threatening.

  Her gaze slid to the constables. Of a sudden, she saw Killian exactly as they must, as a powerful man who would surely emerge the victor in almost any altercation. All the more so if he chose to attack a sick and weakened patient.

  He would never do that. She knew it. There was no question in her mind or in her heart.

  In time, an explanation of these repulsive acts would surely come to light, and that light would not shine on Killian Thayne.

  But the constables did not know it, and they had stepped toward him into the shadows, flanking him on either side as though to block any possible escape. They began throwing questions at him like darts.

  The drone of their voices buzzed as they challenged and prodded and Killian answered each sally with calm equanimity. But with both Mr. Simon and Mr. Franks interjecting, the constables were increasingly disinclined to believe him. Their doubt was written on their faces.

  For the third time, one of the constables asked him, “And exactly where were you at midnight last night, Mr. Thayne?”

  For the third time, he answered, “Occupied elsewhere.”

  He sounded amused, and Sarah thought his attitude only further inflamed the officers, inclining them to believe the worst of him.

  “I am afraid that will not do, sir. I need details of your whereabouts, and witnesses who can attest to your activities during the time in question.”

  Sarah held her breath, her throat tightening, horror and fear congealing in a sickening knot. They believed that he had done this thing. They were convinced that he had killed this man in a hideous, unthinkable manner. No, not just this man. Many people. They thought Killian was responsible for all the questionable deaths on the ward.

  Killian’s gaze met hers, and he made a small jerking movement of his head, as though willing her to leave. She understood then that he meant to protect her, even to his own detriment.

  “I must insist that you accompany us to Bow Street, where we can finish this discussion in a more appropriate venue,” said the taller of the two constables as he exchanged a quick look with his companion.

  Her fear magnified. She had heard about the interrogation rooms beneath the offices at Bow Street, heard about fists and cudgels and the manner in which suspects were encouraged to answer questions and admit their guilt. Anyone who lived in this parish had heard the horrible tales. The thought that they might carry out such brutality on Killian, the image of him beaten and bloodied, made her ill.

  Before she could ponder ramifications and consequences, Sarah stepped forward and said, “He was with me. I am your witness. He was with me”—her chin came up, and she finished firmly—“all night.”

  Killian swung his gaze to her, pewter and ice, and she read his shock that she spoke in his defense.

  “He was with me,” she said again, louder, firmer. “So he could not have killed anyone because he accompanied me to my lodging and remained there with me from ten o’clock last night until dawn.”

  She heard gasps and murmurs, and only then did she realize that Mrs. Bayley and the matron and the other nurses had all gathered in the hallway just beyond the door, that the surgeons and apprentices and patients all leeched on to the exchange.

  Their censure hung in the air like a foul smell.

  Of course, she had known it even before she spoke. In saving Killian Thayne, she had doomed herself. A woman of loose moral character was not a woman to be respected and offered the opportunity of advancement on the wards.

  Once before, the day Mr. Scully died, she had stepped forward in Killian’s defense. That day, he had saved her from herself. But today, she was not so lucky, for so speedily had she forged into battle, there had not been a moment for her protector to stand before her.

  “You assert that Mr. Thayne was with you the entire night?” the constable demanded.

  “I do,” she replied.

  “The entire night?” The second constable stepped between her and Killian, using his physical presence to sever any influence that proximity might have over her answer.

  She held his gaze and waited for uncertainty to creep to the fore on little rat feet. In truth, she could not swear that Killian had sat in the chair every moment of the night, guarding her door while she slept. He had been gone when she awakened, and he could have left at any time after she closed the portal and locked it.

  Her gaze dropped to the dead man on the bed. This time, the killer had ripped open the victim’s throat. And still, there was not a drop of blood spilled.

  I hear your blood rushing in your veins, Sarah. Killian’s words echoed in her thoughts. How could he possibly hear her blood? How? And why had he said such a thing at all? I am not like other men.

  His own softly spoken admissions were rife with macabre possibilities.

  With a shudder, she looked away from the corpse, her gaze lifting to meet Killian’s over the constable’s shoulder.

  The silence hung heavy, like a thick, cloying fog.

  “Miss Lowell,” Killian said, his attention focused upon her, and she knew he meant to say more, to sacrifice himself for her honor, to ensure that her name not be besmirched by her assertion that he had remained at her side the night through.

  “Killian Thayne never left my side during the hours between ten o’cloc
k and dawn,” she said again, her tone steady and sure. She knew it for the truth. He had told her he would guard her and keep her safe, and he had meant it. Whatever beast lurked beneath Killian’s skin, it was not a beast that had done this murder.

  She turned her attention fully on the dark-haired constable and stared him down, though her legs trembled beneath her skirt, and her pulse pounded so heavy and fast it made her temples throb. She must find a way to make these men understand that they were looking for their monster in the wrong place.

  “He is not your killer, regardless of what Mr. Simon believes he saw. In fact, Mr. Simon”—she turned her head toward the man in question and found him watching her with narrow-eyed rage—“I believe you said that you saw the patient alive sometime close to midnight, a full two hours after Mr. Thayne left King’s College. With me.”

  All about her were gasps and murmurs and she knew what they thought. That she had lain with Killian. That she had allowed him liberties of a base nature.

  She almost laughed. Why did their attention focus on the salacious, rather than on her implication that Mr. Simon’s proximity to the patient was equally suspicious, if not more so?

  Killian’s eyes met hers, and she read confusion and awe, as though he expected anything but her defense of him. As though her support was a treasure of infinite value. In that instant, she wanted to stride to his side and take his hand between her own, and decry their vile suspicions.

  In that instant, she wished she were guilty of all the lascivious acts they suspected. She wished that she had allowed him those liberties, that she deserved the horrified looks they cast her way.

  The truth was, she might well have allowed them, if he had only asked.

  Because…oh, sweet God…her heart twisted and she felt the blood drain from her cheeks. She was in love with him.

  The magnitude of that realization left her reeling.

  She was in love with Killian, despite—and because of—all his secret layers and hidden depths, all the mysteries and shadows that dogged him.

  She was in love with a man they suspected of murder.

  Sarah turned the corner onto Coptic Street a little over an hour later, her feet moving one before the other, a mechanical tread that carried her to the hovel that had become her home. Her heart was heavy, her thoughts bleak and twisted.

  The constables had drawn Killian off to a separate room to question him further, but they had not taken him to Bow Street, and for that she was grateful. Still, she was consumed by worry and fear, tormented by the overwhelming knowledge of how deeply she had come to care for Killian, by the danger that surrounded him, and by her own tenuous circumstance.

  The early morning’s sun was gone. A thick fog had rolled in, heavy and damp. Caught in the gray blanket of cloying mist that clung to her skin and obscured the way, she could see little of what lay ahead.

  Sounds echoed about her, the creak of a wheel, the jingle of a bridle. She stumbled, then righted herself, glancing about as though waking from a daze.

  Continuing on, she passed a mangy dog that sniffed at the gutter; then she jerked to a stop as Mrs. Cowden’s house materialized from the mist, ghostly tendrils wrapping about the crumbling chimney and sagging fence. The sight of the house, fog-shrouded and shabby, drove deep the vile desperation of her circumstances.

  With sneering antipathy, Mr. Simon had dismissed her from her post. She no longer had her position at King’s College, and she had little hope of finding another. There was no chance that she might receive a recommendation from anyone at the hospital. She had effectively slammed that door when she had spoken in Killian’s defense.

  Tears pricked her eyes, and she dashed them away with the back of her hand. There was no value in tears of frustration and anger, fear and hopelessness. They would only serve to leave her nose red and her lids puffy.

  They would neither change nor solve anything.

  In the end, she would still have three days left until her rent was due once more, with no means to pay it.

  And she would still be in love with Killian Thayne.

  At this moment, she could not say which of the two quandaries was fraught with the greatest uncertainty.

  Her options at the moment were so narrow and frayed, she was having a difficult time seeing them at all. And despite that, she knew that if faced with the same choice in the same setting, she would again do exactly as she had done. Because she could not let them take him.

  The sound of wheels clacking on the cobblestones and the clopping of horses’ hooves made her head jerk up and her gaze dart along the street. As though teased apart with the edge of a knife, the fog gradually parted to reveal four great black beasts and, behind them, a gleaming black coach. Instinctively, she stepped back, only to find the carriage rocked to a halt several paces away, before Mrs. Cowden’s lodging house.

  A prickling sense of expectation bloomed, for she had no doubt as to the owner of the carriage. She had known by his dress and his mode of speech that surely Killian was from a different world than the other surgeons at King’s College—a different world even than the comfortable one she had been raised in. But this coach, with its gleaming finish and beautifully matched horses, spoke of wealth beyond what she could have imagined.

  The sight of it was both welcome and worrisome, for Killian’s presence here created a labyrinth of complexities and enticements.

  A footman climbed down and stood by the carriage door. He wore a smart green and gold livery, as did the coachman on the bench.

  Feeling as though she slogged through a bog that mired her every step, she walked the last dozen paces to the coach.

  “This way, miss,” the footman said, indicating the door on the far side.

  Wary of the horses that snorted and pawed the ground, she offered them a wide berth as she rounded the carriage. The footman opened the door. She blinked and peered into the dim confines. Killian sat in the far corner, wrapped in shadow and mystery.

  The collar of his cloak was raised high, and his hands were gloved in black leather. She frowned, certain there was some significance to that, but unable to place exactly what.

  “Come inside please, Sarah,” he said. “I wish to speak with you.”

  A request? An order? She could not say. But since she had much she wished to ask him, much she wished to say, she took the footman’s offered hand and allowed him to help her inside the coach.

  Settling herself in the corner opposite Killian, as far from him as the small space would allow, she waited in silence as the footman closed the door, leaving them alone. She could see only the gleam of Killian’s hair and the hint of highlight on his brow, his nose, his chin. The blinds were pulled down over the windows, and wishing to have a clear perspective of his expression, Sarah reached to draw one up.

  He moved quickly, leaning forward to trap her wrist, his gaze intent, and she thought she ought to be afraid. But she was not. For some inexplicable reason, when she was with Killian, she felt safer, more secure, more confident than she ever had in her entire life. She felt as though he opened a dam and let her soul dance free, let her be exactly who she was.

  Strange thoughts. Mad thoughts.

  “Leave it,” he said softly. “The light is too bright.”

  She thought he spoke in jest, but a glance disabused her of that notion. He found even this fog-shrouded day too bright for his comfort.

  For a flickering instant, she had the terrible thought that he was as her father had been, an opium addict whose eyes were pained by even modest illumination. Yet Killian evinced none of the traits associated with that malady. Her father had been lethargic, his pupils ever constricted, his speech slurred. He had shown no interest in his appearance or grooming. In the end, she had barely known him, for his mannerisms and behavior were so drastically altered.

  By contrast, Killian was alert, his clothing impeccable, his intellect sharp and clear.

  Perhaps he simply disliked the sun. Perhaps. But wariness unfurled inside her, an
d she thought otherwise.

  “Are you cold?” he asked, cutting the silence.

  It was only then that she realized she was trembling.

  He did not wait for her answer, but loosed his hold on her wrist and spread a thick blanket over her legs, then used the toe of his boot to push a warming brick along the floor. “Drape the blanket over top and the heat will rise to warm you.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, touched by his consideration.

  He settled back in the corner and studied her for a moment, leaving her strangely uncomfortable and disconcerted.

  But no longer cold. The blanket and the brick saw to that.

  “It seems you are ever leaping to my defense, Sarah.” He dipped his head, toyed with the edge of his glove, then looked up once more, his expression intent. “Why did you lie for me?”

  She sucked in a startled breath. Lie. Had she lied? Had he left his place at her door and returned to the hospital at midnight? She did not believe he had, and that made her either very intuitive or very foolish.

  “They were going to take you,” she said, her voice low. She dropped her gaze to the tips of his perfectly polished boots. “The constables. They were going to take you to the interrogation rooms at Bow Street. They would have hurt you.” The thought of that horrified her.

  She raised her head and saw that he watched her with complete attention, his expression one of bemused wonder. Her heart leapt at the emotion she read there, the fact that he clearly was both puzzled by and appreciative of her defense of him.

  “I would rather that than any harm befall you,” he said flatly. “I wish to see you safe, Sarah. Safe and protected.”

  The warmth that flooded her at those words, at his implied affection, was delicious.

  “Then you must understand that I could not bear for them to hurt you,” she whispered. “And they would have…to make you confess to a crime you did not commit.”

  He made a small smile, faintly sardonic. “And you know that I did not commit it?”