Mrs Knightley made gasping noises and now resembled not the whippet, but a fish scooped onto land. “You are mistaken. Emma was at the theatre with respectable ladies last night.”
Wycliff ignored the older woman. It was none of his business if the daughter had deceived her mother about her activities. “Your whereabouts is my business when an Unnatural commits a murder during an event you attended.”
Miss Knightley glanced at her mother, then her gaze dropped and focused on the toes of her boots. “A gentleman took me. He thought it might be diverting. I did not find it particularly entertaining and so I left early. Now we really must be on our way.”
She looped her arm through her mother’s and half dragged the older woman along the pavement.
He watched them be swallowed up by the other pedestrians and then stepped to the curb and hailed a hansom cab. His luck held out at the Ridlington residence. The lady in question was in the foyer, about to leave.
“Oh. You,” she muttered as he crossed the threshold. “I had hoped never to see you again. Where is your dreary little mouse today—hiding in the wainscoting?”
He might be rude, abrupt, and intolerant of stupidity, but he would never be unnecessarily cruel for his own entertainment. Lady Gabriella was the type who made a sport of baiting others. He much preferred Miss Miles’s quiet presence to the empty nattering of other women. At least when she spoke, she was usually worth listening to.
“Miss Miles has important work to do assisting her father.” He wondered if they had made a start on the new study and what, as time unfolded, they would learn about the different feeding habits of the Afflicted.
The lady laughed, the sound constrained by the edge of porcelain around her lips. “Work. Of course her type works. It’s not as though eligible men would ever line up outside her door. Poor thing is too unattractive to ever make coin on her back, so she will need some activity to keep her when her parents are gone.”
If no young bucks had noticed Miss Miles, then perhaps that was their loss. There were many ways an intelligent woman could make her way in the world without resorting to selling her body. At least Miss Miles was capable of interesting discourse once her mind was activated, whereas Lady Gabriella would always be a hollow echo. For once, Wycliff kept that thought inside his head. “I wish to inspect your fingernails, Lady Gabriella.”
She waved to the man at her side while she fiddled with the angle of her hat. “Show him, Jonathon, so that we might be on our way.”
Her constant companion stepped forward. His complexion was flushed as though he were developing a fever, and tiny droplets of sweat clung to his brow. He swiped a handkerchief over his forehead and returned it to his pocket before holding out his hands. All ten nails were chewed to the quick. He flashed a quick grin. “I’m a nail biter. Terrible habit, I know. Developed it when Father made me work in the brewery. Long nails would get ripped clean off.”
Wycliff grunted deep in his throat. Damn. Not that he thought the wastrel would have any involvement. He was too busy throwing around his surplus money. He dismissed the man. “I need to see your hands, Lady Gabriella, not those of Mr Rowley.”
“I don’t remove my gloves for anyone.”
“You will for me.” Why did peers think they were above the law? Just because Death had failed to snatch her, didn’t mean Wycliff would also fail. He puzzled over her Unwin and Alder account. Two pickled cauliflower a month. One in plain vinegar, one spiced to her own recipe. Did she seek to heal a wound, but found the preserved matter insufficient?
She stared at him, her eyes hard behind the delicate mask. The painted blush to her cheeks belied the resistance oozing from her person. No, she would eat more than she required for the same reason she drank champagne instead of water—because she could.
“If it will get rid of you.” She pulled off the gloves and passed them to Rowley.
Wycliff leaned forward to inspect her hands and bit back his disgust. Rot nibbled at the ends. Many of the nails were missing where they had sloughed off her decomposing flesh. The sharp odour stabbed up into his nostrils and he squeezed them shut to stop the unwanted invasion.
“Satisfied?” She snatched back her gloves and presented her back as she put them on again.
“For now.” He was no further ahead. Both his main suspects lacked fingernails, and for plausible explanations.
“Don’t return, Viscount Wycliff. I intend to let my father know that you have made a nuisance of yourself. It will be another black mark against your name.”
He huffed in sardonic amusement. What more could society to do him? “I have collected so many such black marks that I imagine my name is fully coloured in by now.”
He walked back to the main road and considered his next course of action. He planned to dig around the fourth name on his list—the late Lady Albright. No one could be as forgiving as her reputation painted her to be. There must be lingering resentment. Perhaps she sought an excess of brains to cure her rot and restart her heart.
None of the women looked as though they harboured serious injury, nor did they have the glazed or desperate look that came from being in the grip of addiction. It was possible he had overlooked something or someone. Once he had questioned the late Lady Albright, he would re-examine all he had learned so far.
He returned to the modest terrace house and was admitted by the maid. The lady in question and her cousin were seated at a table, playing cards.
Mrs Hamilton threw her hand of cards to the green felt when she caught sight of him. “I must talk to the housekeeper.” She nodded at him as she passed.
The black-veiled creature didn’t move from the table, the playing cards still clutched in her gloved hands.
“There was another murder. At The Harriers club, last night.” Wycliff clasped his hands behind his back. Was he speaking to a rational being or a veil-draped mannequin?
“It was not I.” Lady Albright placed her cards on the top of the pack.
“Your husband was present.” He wasn’t sure what he sought here. But instinct told him that if he needled the right spot, he would learn something.
Her hand curled around the pack of cards. “But I didn’t go in. I only walked as far as the entrance and then realised I was being foolish and left.”
That was unexpected, and easier than he anticipated. The lady had just confessed she had been present and within sight of where the attendant had been murdered.
“Is it your custom to stalk your former husband in the evenings?”
She let go of the deck and curled her hand into a fist. “He is my husband before God. The law might declare him a widower, but I am not buried. I might lack a heartbeat, but I still have feelings. He cast me aside after all the loyal years I gave him.”
“Does that make you angry?” he murmured. He would have thought her anger would be directed at the man in question, not the servants around him. Or were her actions meant as a warning to her husband, a message that he was next?
She removed her hands from the table and curled them into her lap. “No, I am disappointed. I only seek to talk to him, but I am dead and persona non grata to him. I may reside in Hell, Lord Wycliff, but I am no murderer.”
He would be the judge of that. “I wish to see your fingernails.”
She pulled off the gloves and laid her hands flat on the table.
Wycliff took a step back. Most of the nails were entirely absent, the fingers rotted well down to the knuckle. Decay spread over her wrists and disappeared up under the long sleeves of her afternoon dress.
“I was one of the last to access the ‘pickled cauliflower,’ and so the curse devoured more of me than any of the others,” she said, her head bowed over her rotting flesh.
For the first time, Wycliff felt something stir within him, provoked either by the sight of the curse eating the woman, or her forlorn tone. “I am sorry,” he managed to say.
Looking at fingernails wasn’t helping. It was time to have a chat with Lord Albri
ght and see if the man lived in fear of his skull’s being cracked open.
18
Hannah sat in the window seat of the library. She had removed her shoes and sat cross-legged with a large ledger open before her. The book was ensorcelled so that entries made in its twin kept by Unwin and Alder would appear on the pages of the volume held by Hannah.
Sir Manly Powers had granted them permission to study the effects, if any, of the type of sustenance the Afflicted consumed. When she visited the premises of Unwin and Alder, she had been met with a most enthusiastic response. The owners were delighted to fully cooperate in the study.
New procedures were set in motion at the resurrectionists’ and her mother had worked an enchantment on the ledgers. Employees at Unwin and Alder recorded the details of each donor—name, date of birth, gender, and date of donation. Each entry was then assigned a number, which would be used to identify and track whose brains were delivered to whom.
Seated at the library desk, Seraphina studied the enormous tome that contained the mage genealogies. Each double-page spread recorded a mage’s seven generations, the names appearing with each birth until the magic trace was exhausted. The mage was counted as generation one. The second generation were devoid of magic, like Hannah. While she could feel magic, she had no ability of her own. The third generation were the most powerful aftermages. Generations four through seven possessed an ever more diluted form of magical ability. Some seventh-generation aftermages could only tell if it was going to rain or someone was about to knock on the door.
Hannah called out each name from her ledger and her mother scoured the genealogies to see if the person appeared. If so, Hannah wrote down A, for aftermage, and then a number to correspond to their generation.
For the two hours they had laboured, they had very few As to show for their work and the column was filling up with Os, for ordinary.
“We may struggle to conduct a viable study, there are so few aftermages among the donors.” Hannah called the next name, a Stephen Connors who had died aged twenty-four. As she read each name, she wondered at the life they had led. Who had they loved and what made them laugh?
Seraphina ran a gloved hand over a row of names, searching for Stephen Connors. “For all our magical abilities, mages are particularly inept at reproducing. Did you know that during medieval times, it was decreed that all mages had a duty to produce as many children as possible? Those kings wanted to swell their armies with powerful third-generation aftermage troops to defeat their enemies, so they ensured that each mage had a harem of women to impregnate.” Pages were flicked over and scanned before she announced, “There’s no Stephen Connors here.”
Hannah marked an O in the column for Type next to the man’s name. “That was rather foolish of those kings. Just as many girls are born as boys. You cannot decide the gender of your child.”
Seraphina turned over a few pages. “Ah. A woman with power—there is something to give men nightmares. The Middle Ages were our dark times, and a sad chapter in the history of womankind. Female aftermages were considered ungodly, and many a child was smothered at birth. A girl was no safer once she grew to womanhood, as many of our sisters were burned at the stake as witches.”
Hannah placed the pen down on a tray and pulled her knees to her chest. “Why did they fear us so?”
“Because they cannot control us. Only weak men fear strong women. Even female mages were not exempt from the orders of kings.” Her mother flicked pages back to near the beginning of the genealogy. Many pages were practically blank, with only a single name inscribed at the top.
“No,” Hannah gasped. There were only ever a dozen mages at any one time in all of England, Scotland, and Wales. Each one was valued for their skills, regardless of their gender. “But you are the first female mage in over five hundred years.”
More pages were turned until Seraphina stopped at one in particular. “No, I am not. Sadly I am merely the first in five hundred years to live to maturity. Those archaic men of God thought a girl must have stolen a mage’s power, and that if they smothered her, the power would be reborn in the rightful male body. Only one female mage escaped those dark days, aided by a mage who gave his life to protect her and the Unnatural creature men sent to kill her.”
A wistful smile touched Hannah’s lips. She loved that story with its fairy-tale elements. From death and tragedy had arisen a love so strong that the mage had been able to defy man and nature, and gave her lover the only known magically gifted second-generation children—three girls known as the Crows.
“I am glad we live in more enlightened times.” A vision of Viscount Wycliff’s angry face appeared in the thick glass beside Hannah. To give him his due, while he might not be enlightened, as least he disapproved of men and women equally.
“Even when monarchies and governments stay out of our private business, we still bear very few children. As though magic knows how to restrain itself. She cannot be compelled to create too many of us.”
Hannah crept over to her mother and peered over her shoulder. The page she lingered over had the name Seraphina Elizabeth Winyard inscribed at the top. A line connected her name to that of Sir Hugh Joseph Miles and the year 1790—the year they married. A short downward stroke ended in the name Hannah Elspeth Miles and the year 1794.
Her mother rested a finger under her name and the two dates in brackets: 1770–1813.
The year she died.
Her mother’s page in the genealogy was destined to remain empty space.
A soft knock came at the library door and then it was pushed open by Mary. She held out a hand toward Hannah. “Letter for you, miss.”
“Thank you.” Hannah took the slim envelope. When Lizzie wrote to her, the envelopes were normally much fatter as she detailed all the London gossip that had happened that week. She unfolded the single sheet to find a solitary line:
Your assistance is no longer required.
Viscount Wycliff
“I have been dismissed. Horrid man—he is convinced Miss Emma Knightley is the murderer.” She tossed the letter to the desk.
Her mother took the discarded letter and read the scant missive. “Viscount Wycliff might be unpleasant, but I did not think him unreasonable. He must surely have a reason for suspecting the young woman?”
Hannah bit back her retort. He did have a reason, but that didn’t mean she had to agree with him. He was wrong and she would prove him so, if only she could figure out who had committed the crimes.
Seraphina reached out and took Hannah’s hand. “You are always seeing the best in people, Hannah, and the viscount sees the worst. What a shame you could not meet somewhere in the middle and share your views.”
Hannah frowned at her mother. She didn’t want anything to do with the man. By dismissing her, he had removed himself from the chessboard of whatever game her mother had foreseen. “I do not want to meet him at all. I am glad our association is ended. The interviews were terrible to suffer through.”
“But you were there to ensure propriety was maintained. Was he really so rude to the unfortunate ladies?” Seraphina folded up the letter and placed it on the edge of the desk.
He was rude, but the fault had not been his alone. Hannah had betrayed Miss Knightley’s confidence. And then there was Lady Gabriella Ridlington, who treated Hannah as though she were a member of staff.
She brushed a hand over the cotton apron that protected her day dress, plucking at the durable fabric. “He was not the worst of it. Lady Gabriella made cruel remarks about my wardrobe.”
Pages in the large book turned as her mother returned to the more current generations. “Let her obsess over fripperies. We both know there are more important things in life than a frock.”
Hannah left her mother’s side to stare out the window. From up here, she could see the stream flowing down the side of their property. Willows dipped their graceful limbs and trailed tips that created small eddies. Beyond, like flecks of cream, sheep grazed in the meadows.
“It’s not like you to get upset over a dress, Hannah. Will you tell me what truly pained you about her words?” The wheels of the bath chair squeaked as her mother turned the contraption to face her daughter.
She fisted her hands in the apron. “Is it so wrong to want a beautiful dress? There are many women like me, plain creatures who will never bask in the light of adoration. But we still yearn to know, if only fleetingly, what it feels like to think ourselves beautiful. When you spend your entire life on the edge of the shadows, all you can think of is one glorious moment to feel the warm caress of the sun.”
She closed her eyes and willed away the tears. Silly to want something so far out of reach. But wasn’t that the way of life? People always coveted what they lacked.
“Hannah.” Her mother spoke her name with such a mingling of love and pain. “Do you know how it grieves a mother to not be able to soothe every pain her child suffers?”
“I am sorry, Mother. I did not mean to trouble you.” Hannah tried to smile as she threw herself down where her mother’s feet should have rested.
“Beauty is not found in a pretty dress, but in the reflection in the eyes of those who love you.” Seraphina lifted her veil, like the bride at the end of the marriage ceremony who anticipates the groom’s kiss. She flicked the muslin over her head and her gloved hands raised Hannah’s face. “What do you see when you look upon me?”
Hannah clasped her hands tight as she knelt before her mother, but she didn’t flinch or look away. “I see the powerful mage who gave me life, the mother who loves me unconditionally, and the woman who would do anything for her family.”
Manners and Monsters, #1 Page 16