The man gestured off toward the east. “Over at the West India docks. We asked around and from all accounts, he was an argumentative bugger and probably picked a fight with the wrong person. Happens a lot around there.”
Damn. No fine lady would be wandering around the docks at night. The murder might not be connected at all if fish were responsible for the missing brain. But this was the first similar crime his questions had uncovered. “Thank you. You have been most helpful.”
As Wycliff approached his door, he pondered how a murder at the wharf could be related to two in more civilised surroundings. Then one thought crashed through his mind. There was a new business at those docks. A high-end business that supplied the ton. Rowley and Sons, importers of French champagne.
He called out to the Runner before he disappeared along the road. “One more thing. Did you identify the corpse?”
The man tugged his cap back on his head. “Oh, yes. He worked for Rowley and Sons. Is that all, my lord?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Such was his gratitude that he tossed the man a coin he could ill afford to give.
While a theory coalesced in his mind, he pushed into his house and picked up the assortment of envelopes on the hall table. One was a notice from his landlord, giving him until the end of the week to vacate the premises. The eviction was not unexpected. The rent was just one of many bills he had neglected as he sought to satisfy his father’s debtors.
He walked through to his cold front parlour and tossed the letters into the grate. At least the invoices were good for something. He would use them to start a fire tonight.
He leaned one hand on the mantel while he stared at the scattered papers. Miss Miles might have been justified in her defence of the women Afflicted. He was beginning to suspect they were not responsible. Or at least not directly. For there was one deceased woman who had a connection with Rowley and Sons.
Lady Gabriella Ridlington.
Suspicions and theories would never satisfy his superior, especially not when members of the ton were involved. He needed proof, or even better, a confession.
Afternoon edged toward evening as he set out in search of Lady Gabriella and her beau, Mr Jonathon Rowley. He tried the most obvious place first—the large and imposing mansion in Mayfair.
The butler opened the door and then threw down the gauntlet for a staring competition. It would seem the lady in question had been quite adamant when she’d said she didn’t want to see Wycliff again. The infuriating guard dog at the door wasn’t going to admit him.
“I can come back with soldiers and force entry,” he informed the man. “Before I seek reinforcements, perhaps you could answer a simple question. Is Lady Gabriella at home?”
The butler narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. “No, my lord. My lady has departed for the evening.”
“Where has she gone?”
“That I am not at liberty to say. Good evening.” The solid door was slammed shut in his face.
“Damn it!” He pounded his fist into the brick by the door. If not for his glove, he would have removed a layer of skin from his knuckles.
This butler might be paid for his silence, but he would wager someone in the Rowley household would know where the prodigal son had gone.
21
Hannah was curled up in the library window seat with a book when Mary peered around the door.
“One of the Marquess of Loburn’s men is here for you, miss.” The maid held out an envelope.
Hannah placed a bookmark on the page and closed the book before taking the note. It was from her beloved Elizabeth. “Lizzie wants my company this evening.”
Part of her wanted to refuse. Two social outings in one month? That was unheard of for Hannah. She simply didn’t have the mental stamina to withstand the barbs thrown by Lizzie’s peers. But there was the annoying itch that had formed at the back of her mind after what she had seen at her father’s Repository of Forgotten Things.
Her mother said her gift was the ability to place herself in someone else’s shoes. That was easy to do with Emma Knightley. As they were both the only child of devoted parents, she could imagine all parties involved would do anything for the happiness of the others.
But she baulked at putting herself in Lady Gabriella’s shoes, even if they were exquisitely embroidered silk ones. Such a shallow and vain creature. Hannah saw no appeal in understanding her situation. Given the sharpness of her tongue and her Afflicted status, despite her wealth and title, Hannah could only imagine her shoes would convey a sense of loneliness with each step.
Loneliness! Her mind leapt on that word. Lady Gabriella was a woman uncomfortable on her own. She needed an audience to admire her beauty, her clothes, or her latest verbal barb. To what lengths would she go in order to ensure she did not see out her days alone?
Hannah shuddered at the implications, but her theory needed to be conveyed to Lord Wycliff. Since the murders, the wraith had taken to haunting social gatherings. Lizzie said he lurked in the shadows, no doubt waiting to pounce on the murderer. There was a good chance he might also be present this evening, and Hannah wanted to tell him why she believed him to be wrong in his identification of the murderer as one of the female Afflicted. Something within her whispered it could be a male Afflicted.
Hannah glanced at the large clock that hung above the fireplace. The hands told her that dusk had only begun to fall outside, dinner was still an hour away, and there was plenty of time for a young woman to make plans for the evening. Decision made, Hannah dropped the note on top of her book.
“I shall attend, Mary. Please tell the man I’ll be along shortly.”
“Yes, miss. We’ll have you dressed in no time.” Mary had a wide smile on her face. The maid enjoyed using her skills at hairdressing, and studied the newspapers and magazines to find the latest fashions. Hannah’s going out was a rare opportunity for her to practice the newest styles.
With Mary’s able assistance, Hannah was soon clothed in her second-best gown of pale lilac. Small sprigs of lavender were embroidered around the hem and neckline. Her long hair was piled up on top of her head, and wound through with a length of purple ribbon. The sides were secured with two small pins with twinkling diamond stars on the ends.
“You look lovely, miss. Don’t know what is wrong with all those young men that they aren’t lining up to dance with you.” Mary stood back to survey her handiwork.
“You are too kind, Mary. My dance card stays empty because my witty conversation is lacking and young men don’t want to be bored with the details of my father’s work.” Hannah glanced at her image in the mirror, but could only see her faults and how much she lacked compared to the luminous beauties who attracted all the suitors.
Holding in a sigh, she picked up her shawl. How marvellous it would feel to see beauty, or at least admiration for her intelligence, reflected in a man’s gaze. A puppy’s eyes would show her such things. She should ask Lizzie if any of her friends had spaniel puppies needing new homes.
Her mother awaited her at the bottom of the stairs. Seraphina clasped her hands together. “Oh, I love that shade of purple.”
Hannah brushed at her dress. Compliments made her uncomfortable, even from her mother. “I hear this colour is unfashionable and considered dowdy by some—it is similar to half mourning.”
Her mother snorted. “It looks divine on you and if anyone says it is half mourning remind them your mother is dead. Lavender has long been associated with grace, refinement, and intelligence—all things that reflect your nature.”
Hannah leaned down and kissed her mother’s veiled cheek. “You’re my mother. You are obliged to say such things.”
Seraphina pressed a slip of paper into Hannah’s hand. “Keep this close. I don’t like the idea of you encountering the Afflicted responsible for these heinous crimes.”
Hannah glanced at the scrap. She recognised the pattern of the notation, but not the language. “The mouse spell?”
The veil swayed as Seraphina
nodded. “Yes, but I used bigger letters so it would work on larger things.”
Hannah folded the paper up and tucked it inside her stays, over her heart. “Rest assured, Mother, I have no intention of confronting a murderer. I only want to find Viscount Wycliff and tell him he may be chasing a false scent.”
The Loburns’ expensive carriage, with its maroon-coloured velvet seats, took Hannah to the marquess’s home to collect an exuberant Lady Elizabeth.
Lizzie dropped onto the seat next to Hannah and took her hand. “Oh, Hannah! We will have such fun. Now that I am officially engaged and about to be a married woman, I can finally enjoy myself.”
The carriage gave a slight jolt as the horses set off. “Did you not enjoy yourself before becoming engaged? I rather thought you revelled in being surrounded by admiring eligible men.”
Lizzie huffed and smoothed a wrinkle in her blush pink gown. “An unattached woman must guard herself every moment to ensure she maintains a demure appearance.”
Hannah bit back a snort. She might be a wallflower, but she never wanted to be demure. If she had an opinion, she would speak it. Why should a woman hold her tongue just because a man could not hold his own in a lively conversation? Hannah would rather remain a spinster than end up trapped in a marriage where she could never voice her innermost thoughts without risking a reprimand from her husband.
Her mother’s words floated back to her, when they had discussed the dark days when female mages and aftermages were smothered at birth. A woman with power was the stuff of men’s nightmares—yet they thought women the weaker sex.
“There is a reason why I want to attend this party in particular. There is a boy aftermage in the household’s employ and rumour has it he can tell whether anything ails a person by touching them. I want to know…that is, if there will be any impediment…” Lizzie’s words trailed off as her hand rested over her stomach.
Hannah took her friend’s hand. A duchess had many duties, but the most important was to provide her husband with an heir. “You know I will keep any confidence for you. Where will we find this gifted boy?”
Hannah peered out the carriage window. They had not travelled far and were still in Mayfair. The distance was so small they could easily have walked, if it weren’t inappropriate for gently bred women to be on the streets at night unescorted. She looked up at the soft golden stone of the house. Lights seemed to blaze in every window and drifts of music wafted out to the driveway.
Lizzie waited for the footman to open the door and offer his assistance to her. “He will be in the stables at the home of Lord Byrd. The soirée is for his daughter’s twentieth birthday.”
Hannah let Lizzie drag her through the house and toward the ballroom. At one point her friend plucked two glasses of champagne from a silver platter and thrust one into her hand. She hoped that her friend would release her to hold her shawl and reticule as usual. She would rather retreat to the quiet by the walls and observe.
In the packed ballroom, Hannah finally understood Lizzie’s mission. Her dashing fiancé was in attendance. The duke’s gaze fixed on Lizzie and he pushed through the crowd, ignoring attempts to engage him in conversation as he made a beeline for his beloved.
“Lady Elizabeth, you are the air my lungs need to breathe,” the duke said as he took Lizzie’s hand and kissed her knuckles.
Lizzie giggled and tapped the duke with her fan. “You are a hopeless romantic, Harden.”
“You would inspire the dullest man to poetry with your beauty, my love.” He pulled her a little closer and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.
“I must dance with Harden, Hannah, but I’ll not be long, I promise.” With pure happiness lighting her angelic face, Lizzie was whisked away by the duke.
A laughing figure in a vibrant red wholly unsuitable for an unmarried woman crossed the floor. Hannah ducked behind a larger woman to avoid the cruel attention of Lady Gabriella Ridlington. Hannah found a quiet spot away from the large doors. She wanted to watch without being jostled while she scanned the crowd for a certain black cloud. Would he be in attendance? It was the first time Hannah had ever hoped to find a particular gentleman at an event. Which of course was a professional interest, not a personal one.
As she tapped a toe to the music, a familiar shape passed by, but not the one she sought. Miss Emma Knightley had her head bowed close to that of a young man wearing a dark green jacket. He ushered her through the doorway. Then he paused, looked back, and gestured to another wearing a maroon waistcoat under his black jacket, who broke away from a group to follow the couple.
Cold slithered down Hannah’s gullet. What was going on? She couldn’t stay in the ballroom. Even at the risk of missing Wycliff, she had to ascertain whether Miss Knightley was safe.
Hannah passed the task of watching shawl and reticule to a fellow spinster.
“Thank you,” Hannah said. As she added Lizzie’s silken items to the pile already being safeguarded, it occurred to her that her kind were like dragons, sitting on the pretty items they collected.
That gave birth to an idea for Lizzie’s wedding. What if her mother could conjure a dragon to watch over belongings while revellers danced?
Hannah exited the ballroom and started down a long corridor. She had no idea where Miss Knightley and the men might have gone—to a private room, or out into the garden for whatever nefarious thing they were about? She was quite certain it would prove to be something horrid, from the determined look shared by the two young men.
It would be unseemly for her to call out for Miss Knightley. Instead, Hannah crept along the corridor with her ears pricked. The whimper made her pause. From behind a door came a feminine gasp of pain that was followed by the loud bark of a man’s laughter.
“Oh, Miss Knightley, whatever are they up to?” Hannah whispered as she approached the source of the sound. Before she lost her courage, she pushed open the door. The tableau inside made her stop in her tracks.
Miss Emma Knightley sat on a chair with her arms outstretched. A young man stood on either side of her, each holding a knife in his hand. The man on the right in the green jacket had stabbed her palm with his knife—the blow that must have elicited the whimper. The other gentleman was in the process of drawing a line down the inside of her forearm. Blood welled in the wake of his blade, then, just as quickly as he cut, her flesh sealed the two edges back together.
“What is going on here?” Hannah demanded. She had wanted to find Miss Knightley, but never imagined to find her being physically tortured.
The men looked up and the one on the right said, “None of your business. Go away.”
“This is my business. Miss Knightley is a friend and I will not allow you to harm her.”
The one who had spoken, who had pale blond hair gloriously offset by the deep green of his coat, pulled his knife from Emma’s hand.
The young woman gasped and gritted her teeth to hold her hand still. Blood dripped onto a handkerchief spread over her lap, no doubt to protect her gown.
Oh! Now she understood the scene she’d found the night of the Loburn ball and the stain that had elicited Miss Knightley’s tears. Had a similar event happened there and it was her own blood that ruined the dress?
As they watched, the hole in Emma’s palm closed as her body sealed the wound.
The young man took a step closer and raised the knife until the tip pointed at Hannah’s left eye. “I said, this is none of your business. Now get out, unless you want to join her in amusing us.”
His accomplice sniggered.
“I am quite well, Miss Miles. Do not concern yourself.” Miss Knightley’s voice quavered and told Hannah the opposite.
Concern for Miss Knightley surged through Hannah, along with a dollop of outrage. She was tired of men pushing her around and who did this one think he was, to dare threaten her?
As she stepped closer, the paper her mother had given her scratched against her skin and reminded her that she was never alone. She stiffened her spi
ne and tilted her chin. “How dare you speak to me like that? My mother is Lady Seraphina Miles, once England’s premiere mage.”
The man sneered. “Your mother is dead.”
Hannah met the man’s gaze and refused to be cowed. “Yes, and death has not diminished her power, nor her maternal affection. Being Afflicted has released her from the strictures of service to England and she may now wield her power however she sees fit. Spill one drop of my blood and I assure you, there is no place on this earth where you may hide from her wrath.”
The man paused for a moment, then threw the blade at the table next to Hannah, making a thud as steel bit into the wood. Then he reached into his pocket, withdrew a coin, and tossed it at Emma’s feet. “Come on, Sedley, we’ve had our sport here. Let’s find warm and willing partners for more lively entertainment.”
Hannah stared at both men as they left, and waited until the door shut on their backs before rushing to Emma’s side. She knelt to examine the wounds in her hand and arm. Both had healed, leaving only the pink glimmer of fresh tissue. It was remarkable how quickly a well-fed Afflicted could repair her injuries.
“Why were you letting those men cut you?” Hannah asked.
Tears glistened in Emma’s eyes and she gave a sob. How curious that while the Afflicted did not breathe, they could still succumb to ragged tears. Stilling the heart didn’t stop the emotion that produced tears.
“Because they pay me. My parents have so little and I am such a burden. I have discovered that there are men like that…who enjoy cutting me…to watch my body heal the wounds.”
“Oh, Emma.” Hannah picked up the coin and pressed it into her hand. “It wasn’t red wine the night of the Loburn ball, was it? It was indeed blood, but it was your own that you had spilled on your gown.”
A tear rolled down Emma’s cheek as she nodded silently.
Wycliff was wrong. Again. Miss Knightley was innocent of the crimes he investigated.
Manners and Monsters, #1 Page 19