Manners and Monsters, #1

by Tilly Wallace

  Wycliff grunted, but refused to turn his attention to the inside of the carriage. Hannah was used to being ignored, so she occupied herself by mentally reviewing the previous day’s autopsy results. Why had the unfortunate woman’s heart rotted? Sir Hugh had unlocked his safe, where he kept a portion of the face powder, to infect a new trio of mice. They would observe the creatures as the disease took hold and stilled their hearts, looking for signs that the passage of time affected the curse and likewise changed the effect on its victims.

  Hannah was so engrossed in her internal observations that she failed to notice the carriage coming to a stop. A cough that sounded distinctly like a grumble came from beside her and she looked around and blinked, taking a moment to orient herself.

  Wycliff arched a dark brow. “When you are ready. Although I suppose I should be thankful you didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with vacuous chatter.”

  Hannah opened her mouth to comment, then snapped it shut again. The man was insufferable, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her rise to his bait. Instead, she clutched her reticule in one hand and placed the other on the side of the carriage as she stepped to the ground. Unassisted.

  They were in a middle-class neighbourhood with a tidy row of modest brick town houses. Hannah had a vague recollection that the late Lady Albright now lived with a cousin.

  Wycliff charged past her up the front path and rapped sharply with the cast-iron knocker. Hannah trailed behind and wondered whether the man would temper his blunt edges when dealing with the tragic resident.

  A maid in a white cap answered the door, glanced at Wycliff, and then visibly retreated back into the house. Hannah let out a sigh. She should carry a bucket of water to extinguish the numerous fires the viscount would no doubt ignite.

  Inside the cool interior, Hannah followed the tails of Wycliff’s coat, which flicked at a corner and disappeared into a side room. Voices came from beyond. By the time Hannah reached the door, two startled women were rising from their seats and the maid was hiding in a corner behind the tea table.

  The late Lady Albright wore dark grey with her customary heavy black veil pinned to her cap. The veil dropped over her shoulders and came well below the high neck of her dress. Like Hannah’s mother, gloves covered her hands and were tucked under the long sleeves of her gown. The other woman wore a bright orange morning dress and looked to be in her mid-fifties. Both women stared at Wycliff as though a hound from Hell had just charged into their parlour.

  “Lady Albright,” Hannah said and bobbed a curtsey, ignoring the viscount. “I do not believe I have had the pleasure of meeting your cousin?”

  The veiled woman took a step closer and gestured to the Gerbera daisy at her side. “Miss Miles, may I introduce my cousin, Mrs Hamilton?”

  Heads were nodded, and knees dipped.

  “I’m sure you know Viscount Wycliff,” Hannah murmured.

  On hearing his name, the man finally offered a scant bow. “I am here to discuss the murder that occurred at the Marquess of Loburn’s ball. I desire to know your whereabouts during the evening.”

  Lady Albright put a hand to her chest and the veil fluttered closer to her face with her indrawn gasp. “Surely you do not suspect me?”

  “I suspect all the Afflicted in attendance that night, until I have eliminated them as being responsible.” He clasped his hands behind his back, the move of a soldier making himself comfortable.

  Hannah approached the older woman, offered an apologetic smile to her cousin, and then took Lady Albright’s gloved hands in hers. She drew the woman toward a chaise and urged her to sit.

  “If I am not required for this interview, I have duties to attend to.” Mrs Hamilton gestured for the maid to follow her and departed.

  “Take your time to answer,” Hannah said. She ignored the glare heating the middle of her back. The man could learn to wait. The footman was dead, and giving the Afflicted woman a chance to gather her thoughts wouldn’t bring him back.

  “Did you see that Lord Albright was in attendance with the new Lady Albright? She recently gave him a second son and he is much enamoured of her.” The light tone of the late Lady Albright’s words was unable to mask the deeper heartache beneath.

  Hannah had heard the twitter among the other women. They had hoped for a spectacle when the deceased wife met the living one. They were sadly disappointed when the late Lady Albright had not an unkind word to say about her replacement.

  “Yes. I heard. It must be very difficult for you.” The Afflicted suffered in more ways than the original curse. Lady Miles had been rejected by society for her magical abilities; dying and being numbered among the Afflicted made little difference to her. Others felt the loss of their status and friends more keenly.

  Wycliff tapped a toe. “Your movements, Lady Albright.”

  She raised her head, only the barest facial details visible through the thick veil. “I do not dance, and therefore I was happy to chaperone the younger people while they chatted. I spent most of the evening to one side, by the entrance to the dining room. Numerous people saw me there. I am somewhat distinctive,” she said, one hand resting briefly on her veil. She then gave the names of several young courting couples she had supervised that night. Wycliff jotted the names in a small notebook.

  “Did you see the butterflies that Mother created?” Hannah had looked for the older woman in the crowd but failed to find her.

  “I left early and am sorry I missed the wonderful enchantment. I found I had no stamina for staying overlong.” The black veil bobbed with each syllable.

  Poor thing, Hannah thought. It would be taxing to gaze upon a cruel husband and his beautiful wife while others waited for your façade to crack.

  Wycliff fixed Lady Albright with a hard stare. “When did you last feed?”

  Hannah was glad that his behaviour meant no one had rung for tea, or she might have choked on her drink.

  Lady Albright rose on unsteady legs and her gloved hands went to her neck. She pulled forth a long silver chain with a small key at the end. She crossed the parlour and fitted the key into a cabinet that rested on the sideboard. She opened the door to reveal the contents.

  Inside sat a jar, much like those used to preserve fruit. Slivers of what appeared to be some pale vegetable floated in a clear liquid.

  “My husband may have cast me aside, but my friends have not. Lady Loburn ensures I have a monthly delivery. I am no starving monster, if that is what you seek.”

  “Can anyone verify what time you left the ball?” Wycliff asked.

  Lady Albright gestured to the open doorway. “You can ask my cousin’s maid. She opened the door to admit me when I returned.”

  Wycliff grunted and made another note in the little book, after which he replaced it in a jacket pocket. “Come, Miss Miles, we have much to do.”

  With that, he strode from the room.

  Lady Albright shook her head as she closed and locked the cabinet. “I do not envy you, Miss Miles, if they expect you to keep him in check.”

  “He is somewhat of a bolting horse.” Hannah sat for a moment, since her mind baulked at following him like an obedient puppy.

  “Better hope he does not break a leg on uneven ground,” Lady Albright said.

  Hannah rose and dipped her knees, the angle of her head concealing the slight smile that touched her lips. From her brief acquaintance with the viscount, he did have a tendency to rush in without checking the lay of the land first. Was that why Lady Loburn had insisted she attend the interviews with the viscount—in case he hurled one insult too many?

  Hannah found the pavement devoid of the viscount, but the carriage door hung open. As she steeled herself for close quarters, she spied a familiar face—the young woman who had wept over her spoilt gown at the Loburn ball. The two of them glanced at each other and the woman stopped with a shy smile as recognition bloomed between them.

  Bother. They had not been formally introduced and as such, they weren’t su
pposed to talk to one another. But they had already broken that rule over a ruined dress.

  Hannah dropped a quick curtsey. “I am Miss Hannah Miles.”

  Her new acquaintance mimicked her action. “Miss Emma Knightley.”

  Oh dear. Hannah knew that name—it was on Lord Wycliff’s list. She hadn’t been able to conjure a face to go with the name when she had discussed the woman with Lizzie and Lady Loburn. Of the same age as Hannah, Miss Knightley’s fiancé had called off their engagement two years ago and she had not made any new connections.

  Hannah glanced to the carriage. She could alert Lord Wycliff, but the footpath with so many people around was no place for a woman to be harangued by the man about her unnatural appetites. The woman deserved the privacy of her own parlour.

  “Did you manage to remove the stain from your dress?” Hannah asked.

  Emma glanced down at her gown, a sensible striped cotton much like the one Hannah wore. It appeared neither of them had the disposable income to stay abreast of fashion. “No, sadly. But I believe I shall be able to cover the mark with some embroidery.”

  “Salvageable then, at least.” Hannah kept the smile on her face as she inspected her counterpart. The rise and fall of Miss Knightley’s chest was irregular and shallow, as though it were no instinct, but a deliberate exercise she had to remember. In the morning light, there was a slight grey pallor to her face under the layer of powder. The faint whiff of cloves confirmed it.

  “Yes. If you’ll excuse me, I must be on my way. My parents are expecting me.”

  They bobbed their goodbyes and Hannah watched the other woman thread her way through the pedestrians.

  “Oh, dear. Another one,” she whispered.

  Miss Knightley was one of the Afflicted and Hannah didn’t think the stain on her dress had been red wine. Perhaps Lord Wycliff would finally muster up a smile when she told him the news, right before he admonished her for not dragging him from the carriage to interrogate the poor woman.

  8

  By the time Hannah stepped into the carriage, Lord Wycliff was staring intently at his pocket watch. Silent disapproval at Hannah’s failure to rush after him imbued the very air in the shabby interior. He huffed as he snapped the timepiece shut and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket.

  You would almost think he was late for an appointment with the Prince Regent, the way he glared from Hannah to the neighbourhood in general. No doubt he suspected them of conspiring to disrupt his orderly plans.

  The viscount rapped on the carriage roof. Then he pulled out the list and crossed off the name of Lady Albright.

  “I met Miss Emma Knightley just now,” Hannah told him. “You can change her notation—she is indeed one of the Afflicted. Last evening I saw her in the front parlour, with a most unusual stain on her dress that she said was red wine.” Hannah rushed through a confession that felt like a monumental betrayal of the other woman. Now she had set the viscount on Miss Knightley’s trail.

  Lord Wycliff’s eyebrows shot up. Would he smile…? No. Not quite, but for once he didn’t look entirely displeased. He ran a finger down the list and then scribbled something next to her name. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I hardly think the footpath was the appropriate place to air Miss Knightley’s private business.” The man really did lack the most basic regard for common decency.

  He huffed and put his list away. “We will call on her after the others, once she has had time to reach home.”

  Two more women were visited, questioned, and found to be entirely ordinary. Their names were likewise struck through with a heavy hand. One admitted behind her fan to Hannah that she was in a delicate condition, but the news was not yet public. As soon as he caught the whispered words with what seemed to be bat-like hearing, Viscount Wycliff swept out of her parlour without so much as a nod goodbye.

  Another woman choked on her biscuit at the mere suggestion she might be one of the Afflicted and had to be thumped on the back by her footman. Wycliff grunted, called Hannah to heel, and left the premises. Apparently nearly choking to death was sufficient to be removed from his list of suspects.

  Next they tried the modest Knightley family home, only to be told that Miss Knightley was out. How odd. She had told Hannah she was returning home directly.

  “I shall return tomorrow,” the viscount said, and barely waited for Hannah to take her seat before instructing the carriage to move on. As the carriage rumbled through the streets to the next address, his dark regard turned to her. “This process would be accelerated if you would reveal the Afflicted on the list.”

  “As I have already told you, Lord Wycliff, I am not omnipotent. There are thousands of peers in London and only two to three hundred Afflicted, and I am not acquainted with every single one. I know some and can guess at others, but many have not revealed themselves and are entitled to keep their state private.” The more he snapped, the more Hannah fought to block his barbs.

  Being in the man’s presence was exhausting. Hannah thought he might accidentally smile or laugh over the course of the day, but not a single shaft of sunlight broke through his thundercloud demeanour. How she wished her mother’s mage blood coursed through her veins, so that she could call down an actual lightning bolt to strike him! That would give him something to pout about.

  The mismatched horses pulled them toward Mayfair and another ambush-style interview. Hannah stared out the window as Londoners went about their daily lives. How many Unnaturals were concealed among the hustle and bustle of activity? Did commoners rub shoulders with vampyres, lycanthropes, or selkies as they went about their day?

  The Afflicted like her mother were just one type of creature that defied Nature’s laws. There were many more that the government sought to number and administer under the new Ministry. Even the army had a regiment composed of vicious lycanthropes who terrorised the enemy with gnashing teeth. Or did they only do that in newspaper illustrations? Hannah had not met a lycanthrope in person, so could not judge how many teeth they showed.

  “What do you know of Lady Gabriella Ridlington?” the viscount asked, pulling her attention back inside the carriage.

  Hannah knew of the earl’s daughter by name and reputation only, neither of which painted her in a favourable light. They rarely crossed paths and when they did, such as on the night of the ball, there was usually some subtle put-down at Hannah’s expense. The lady had declared she would never marry, which raised Hannah’s suspicions as to the state of her heart. If she possessed one.

  “I believe she is an Afflicted, but we do not move in the same circles, so I cannot confirm my suspicion. She has never journeyed to consult with my father, although he is not the only scientist working to find a way to reverse their condition.”

  The earl kept a large house in London, set well back from the road and guarded by wrought iron gates. The dusty hired carriage stopped outside the grand home. Lord Wycliff opened the door and jumped down before the footman could bustle over.

  For once, he actually turned and offered a hand to Hannah. She blinked at him, then laid her hand in his as she stepped down. His skin seemed warmer than normal under her glove and he snatched it away as though she had burned him.

  “I wish to speak to Lady Gabriella Ridlington,” Wycliff said to the butler.

  Hannah hung back. The grandeur of the house and the haughty demeanour of its occupant loomed over her and pressed her to the tiles of the foyer. How she longed to disappear into the panelling, but the entrance was bright and white and there were no dark corners to hide her. There wasn’t even a palm large enough to conceal her, only alabaster busts on narrow plinths that were eerily similar in appearance to Hannah’s fabric-draped mother.

  “Lady Gabriella is not at home to callers today, my lord,” the man replied.

  Wycliff fixed him with a withering stare. “She will see me. I am on official business for the Ministry of Unnaturals, investigating a murder. I can always return with a troop of soldiers to seize her and ta
ke her away for questioning, if she would prefer.”

  The man blanched and hurried away. He returned mere moments later and gestured for them to follow him. A short distance down a wide hallway, he pushed open double doors and bowed. “Lord Wycliff, my lady, and another.”

  And another. Hannah didn’t even warrant a name or a scant description. Perhaps she did a better job of blending in with the walls than she thought.

  The man stepped back to allow them to enter. The lady in question reclined on a chaise in an opulent parlour. Waterfall silk in a pale blue adorned the walls. The sofas were upholstered in cream and blue. Dark blue drapes hung from a soaring ceiling and dropped to the floor with the drama of stage curtains.

  Lady Gabriella was clad in sunburst yellow, the only bold punch of colour among the hues of blue and cream. She shone like a star in the sky. In one hand she held a fan of ostrich feathers, the plumes dyed a deep navy, and fanned herself with leisurely strokes. “This is the most horrid intrusion. I do hope no one saw you arrive.”

  Wycliff strode to the middle of the room, while Hannah edged around the sides and stopped to admire a selection of Wedgwood plates that complemented the room’s colour scheme.

  “I am an agent of the Ministry of Unnaturals, tasked with investigating a heinous murder.” Wycliff flicked out his coattails and took a seat on the opposite chaise, without waiting to be asked to sit. “I wish to know of your movements during the evening of the Loburn ball.”

  Hannah remained standing and hoped that if she kept still, no one would notice she was there.

  Lady Gabriella rose to a sitting position and leaned her elbow on the rolled end of the chaise.

  Hannah moved closer to contemplate the other woman’s cool beauty. The aristocrat possessed skin so delicate one could almost see the blue veins running beneath. Her eyes were the crisp blue of a clear summer’s day. Blonde hair was arranged in a cascade of curls that brushed against her cheeks.