“Please don’t tell my parents,” Emma whispered.
Hannah took her hands in her own. “Of course not. But I would seek your consent to discuss your situation with my father. There may be a way we can keep you supplied with what you need. He is most curious to determine why you do not exhibit signs of rot like the other Afflicted.”
The other young woman squeezed her hand. “I would appreciate it if an arrangement could be made. I do so worry about my parents. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like a few moments to myself.”
“Of course.” Hannah paused midway to the door. “I am so very sorry, too, for the way Lord Wycliff spoke to you, and for my part in the proceedings. I have deeply regretted that day.”
The other woman wiped away the tears and managed a weak smile. “Apology accepted. Shall we make a fresh beginning?”
“I would like that. Thank you.” With one worry lifted from her shoulders, Hannah left Miss Knightley to collect herself while she gathered her own thoughts in the corridor.
Miss Knightley had a sad secret, but it wasn’t a murderous one. She would tell her father when she returned home. Was it possible that the process of cutting and healing herself kept the rot at bay? That it might explain her remarkable condition? Maybe cutting allowed the disease to escape and not ferment within Emma’s skin. Thoughts of Egypt and the mummification process once again slipped through Hannah’s mind.
Yet running below the rational questions was vindication. She would tell the wraith to his face that he was wrong if she ever—
As she turned a corner she bumped into a dark presence. Hands grabbed her shoulders as she stumbled backwards.
“Miss Miles, what are you doing here?” a rough but familiar voice said.
“You are wrong,” Hannah blurted, as though he had knocked the words from her.
22
Dark brows pulled together as black eyes regarded her. “You came here solely to tell me I am wrong?”
It sounded a tad impertinent when he put it like that. “No, of course not. Lady Elizabeth asked me to accompany her. But I had wanted to speak to you, my lord. I believe your investigation is focused in the wrong direction. Miss Knightley is innocent, and I think there is compelling evidence that a man—”
“Jonathon Rowley is Afflicted,” he interrupted.
Hannah swallowed the words on her tongue. That wasn’t the response she had anticipated. He was supposed to deny her theory and she had a long and convincing argument prepared to make him see that she was right. Now she was the one who needed convincing. “Mr Rowley? How did you arrive at that conclusion?”
His hands dropped from her shoulders, but two warm impressions remained on her skin. “A body was pulled from the Thames three weeks ago, down by the West India docks. It transpires the man worked for Rowley and Sons. Or he did, until someone bashed his head in and removed his brain. What made you suspect a man was responsible?”
“I have seen the Afflicted men who are interred to keep the people of London safe. They are addicted and have ravenous, uncontrollable appetites. My father hypothesised that if such an individual fed frequently enough, he might be indistinguishable from any other living person. At least, while in the early stages of his addiction. But I fear that if Mr Rowley is newly Afflicted, he might not last long.” She thought of the body that had lain on her father’s autopsy table, and the rotted organ they had found in her chest.
Lord Wycliff’s nostrils flared and he ground his teeth. “He will not last past this night if I have anything to do with it. Have you seen either Mr Rowley or Lady Gabriella this evening?”
“I saw them briefly, but I did not wish to cross paths with either.”
The viscount cast around the corridor. “We must find them. Given how events unfolded at the Loburn ball and at The Harriers, he will be seeking a private spot and an unwary aftermage servant.”
Hannah suddenly remembered the conversation with Lizzie in the carriage. Apart from seeing her beloved duke, she had had another reason for attending the party. “There is a boy here who is an aftermage, rumoured to be able to diagnose a condition with just a touch.”
Hannah wouldn’t betray her friend’s nervousness over the pressures that would weigh upon her as a newly married duchess. Society and her husband would expect the required heir and spare. Lizzie had hoped the gifted boy might be able to tell if there were any impediment to fulfilling her duty.
Black eyes burned with a cold fire as he stared at her. “Where will we find him?”
We? Lord Wycliff had dismissed her with a terse note. Now he included her in his plan as though she were an equal? Thinking of notes brought to mind her mother’s. Hannah might be able to provide practical assistance in apprehending the murderer. Given the coiled energy in the viscount’s form, it seemed a better course of action to stay beside him and not in his path. “I understand the boy can be found at the stables.”
Wycliff grabbed her hand and pulled her along with him. Along the corridor they raced, toward the back of the house. Liveried servants squawked and dodged out of their way like ruffled chickens.
They burst from the back of the house into a courtyard. Down wide stone steps the viscount tugged Hannah, and across the cobbles that stretched from house to stables. A mist had descended with the night, and the air seemed close. The lanterns gave only small circles of light as though they struggled to penetrate the inky darkness.
“There!” Hannah spied a flutter of deep red silk that caressed the corner of the building and then disappeared from sight. Lady Gabriella was wearing such a dress. They were close to their quarry.
Wycliff plowed around the side of the barn. At the rear, a small addition butted up against the stables. The side they approached had no windows, only a rough-hewn door. A muffled cry came from inside, then a thud.
“Hit him again!” Lady Gabriella’s voice hissed and escaped through gaps in the building like steam from a kettle.
Without pausing, the viscount threw himself shoulder first into the door. Wood splintered as the lock burst from the frame and the door was flung open.
Hannah glimpsed Jonathon Rowley with a fire poker in his hands, seconds before Wycliff launched himself forward and bowled the other man over.
A youth lay on the floor, blood seeping from a head wound. Were they too late?
Lady Gabriella squealed as her beau was knocked to the ground by the charging hellhound. Hannah stood in the doorway, not entirely sure what to do with herself. Her education as a quietly bred young lady had been deficient in fighting tactics. She might not be able to throw a punch, but there was one thing she could do—make sure the man’s accomplice didn’t escape.
“You!” Lady Gabriella spun and glared at her.
The two men exchanged blows that fell with the whack of fist against flesh. They picked themselves up off the floor, attacked, and crashed into a table that was pushed against the wall and under the sole window in the room.
“You will stay here, Lady Gabriella. You will stand trial for murder.” Hannah pointed a finger and thought she sounded rather authoritative.
The lady in question laughed, a sneer on her face. “I am leaving and there is nothing you can do. I have the protection of my family.”
Hannah wanted nothing more than to wipe the sneer from the young woman’s face. Or even better, to reveal her for what she really was on the inside—rotten. Hannah reached out and snatched a length of ribbon. Not the wide silk one wound around the woman’s hair, but the narrow one holding her delicate mask in place. Hannah tugged and the bow came undone.
“What are you doing?” Lady Gabriella raised her hands to her face and leaned away from Hannah until the ribbon tightened between them.
Hannah refused to yield the length of buttercream ribbon, the shade an exact match to her opponent’s hair. Having untied it, she wound it around her finger and then yanked with all her might. The mask came free of the woman’s face and as it fell, Hannah let go of the ribbon.
The porcel
ain shattered on the slate floor. Lady Gabriella gasped and swiped at Hannah but she jumped backwards, out of reach. The other woman’s face had the characteristic blue-black patches of decomposition that gave her skin the appearance of mottled marble. She almost looked like a painting, if one had been left in the rain and the colours had run and merged together.
“You horrid creature! You’ll pay for that. Just wait until my father hears of this.” She picked up her skirts and elbowed Hannah to one side.
Hannah reached into the top of her stays and pulled the piece of paper free. Then she jumped at Lady Gabriella as though she played a childhood game of leap frog. She caught the other woman smack in the back and knocked her to the ground. Trying hard to forget about maintaining an air of calm dignity, Hannah sat on the other woman. With one hand, she lifted the hair free of the Afflicted woman’s nape and pressed the paper to the exposed skin.
The words transferred themselves from paper to skin with a sibilant hiss. They glowed orange for a moment and then wriggled as though each letter were a tiny worm that burrowed into Lady Gabriella’s body.
“What have you done?” She stopped struggling to throw Hannah off. The Afflicted woman’s arms and legs fell still. Lady Gabriella didn’t move as she muttered curses at Hannah. For a well-bred young lady, she had a particularly foul turn of phrase.
Hannah climbed off the prone woman and stood, keeping a tight grip on the slip of paper. She stepped over a knocked-over chair to check on the boy and ascertained he still breathed. Then she considered how to help Lord Wycliff.
The two men were still fighting their way around the room as though they were intent on destroying the lad’s home. The table and chairs were knocked over. Blankets were pulled from the bed as they grappled with one another. It was a miracle they hadn’t trampled the lad sprawled on the floor.
The viscount grabbed Rowley by the collar and shoved him up against a shelf that rattled the plates and cups it held. “I can do this all night, Wycliff, because my body repairs any damage you inflict and I do not tire. You cannot win.” Rowley reached out with one hand, grabbed a plate from the shelf, and smashed it over the viscount’s head.
Hannah studied Mr Rowley. With the benefit of hindsight, he displayed symptoms of addiction that could be mistaken for the beginnings of a fever or drunkenness. His eyes shone too brightly. His complexion was flushed and red. Sweat dribbled down his forehead. Although to be fair, there was some exertion involved in the fight. She marvelled that he displayed no rot, but then, he was eating to excess.
“Do you by chance have a plan, Miss Miles, since you have incapacitated Lady Gabriella?” the viscount asked as he blocked a punch and delivered one of his own.
“Yes. If you could hold Mr Rowley still?” She danced out of the way of the combatants. In the small space, it was difficult to stay out of their way and not stand on the unconscious boy. She cast a worried glance at the lad. He hadn’t stirred, but other than reassuring herself that his chest rose and fell, Hannah couldn’t afford just yet to tend to his head wound.
“I am trying,” Lord Wycliff grunted as he wrestled the other man.
Rowley swung his arms, trying to dislodge the viscount. Wycliff grabbed him around the middle and refused to let go. He dug his shoulder into the other man’s sternum and step by step, pushed him backwards to the wall.
“Gracious,” Hannah whispered. The scientific part of her mind tried to calculate how much force the viscount had to exert to pin a frenzied Afflicted to the wall. He seemed very strong. Almost unnaturally so.
“I need him facing the wall so I can reach his neck,” she said.
The viscount shot her a decidedly unamused glance. He took hold of Rowley’s left hand and spun him, as though he led in a dance. The other man kicked out, but Wycliff took advantage of the momentary shift in balance. Keeping hold of Rowley’s hand, Wycliff ducked under his arm and behind him. He pulled up the Afflicted man’s arm as he spun and used it as leverage to drive them both into the wall.
Rowley cried out as his hand was dragged up his spine. With the viscount pressing on him, he was unable to wrest himself free.
“Now, Miss Miles! I cannot hold him for long.”
Hannah stepped close, leaning against Lord Wycliff as she reached up and pressed the text to the back of Mr Rowley’s neck. The words glowed as they sizzled against his skin. Then he grunted as each letter burrowed into him. He emitted a soft oomph as his knees gave way and he collapsed to the ground.
Wycliff stared at his fallen opponent, now prone at his feet. “What was that?”
“An immobilisation spell that my mother gave me.” Hannah folded up the slip of paper, careful to keep all the text on the inside, before she slipped it back into the top of her stays.
The viscount tugged on the points of his waistcoat as he adjusted his clothing. “How long will it last?”
“Two hours for mice. I cannot say how long for them.” Hannah stared at the viscount. Blood dribbled down his temple and his lip was split on one side. His black hair was terribly dishevelled and a button was missing from his waistcoat. He looked terrible…and yet rather more human at the same time.
“I’ll fetch some rope from the stables and alert the staff.” He ducked through the open door and was swallowed by the dark.
Hannah knelt next to the lad and pressed two fingers against his neck. She was reassured to find a strong pulse. A quick examination revealed no other wounds apart from the gash to his temple and a large lump where his head must have hit the ground. Hannah folded her handkerchief into a neat square and pressed it to the cut. “You will live, young man, assuming there is no permanent damage from the blow. Though it might require stitches, from the look of it.”
Wycliff returned with a length of rope and dragged first Mr Rowley and then Lady Gabriella to the middle of the room. “I found a servant coming to investigate the shouting. I sent him to fetch the authorities.”
“Do you need medical attention?” Hannah took stock of the viscount’s injuries.
Wycliff had taken several blows and been hit over the head with an assortment of belongings. Blood and scratches marred the hard planes of his face. He waved her hand away. “I’ve suffered worse and lived.”
They soon had both Afflicted secured, hands tied behind their backs and arms bound to their torsos. They propped the two against each other, still unable to wriggle so much as a fingertip, but somewhat revived. Lady Gabriella cursed them both.
“I love you, Gabriella,” Mr Rowley declared, unable to see the woman lashed to his back.
Cold eyes glared at Hannah. “Oh, do be quiet, Rowley. My father will have us released as soon as he hears.”
“No. He won’t.” Wycliff crossed his arms and examined his broken fingernails. “You will both be charged with murder, but given your Afflicted status, you will be dealt with by the Ministry of Unnaturals. Your father cannot help you now.”
Mr Rowley turned into a blubbering mess now that he was captured. “You cannot blame me. Gabriella did this to me. You must feed me. The hunger is agony and it tears me apart. I require sustenance. The boy is a mere servant—he is no loss to the world.” His eyes rolled up in their sockets until only the white showed, and an angry edge crept into his words.
“I told you to be quiet,” Lady Gabriella hissed.
“I might be able to assist you, Mr Rowley. Might I enquire how long have you been one of the Afflicted?” Hannah asked. The opportunity to question an Afflicted in the grips of a mad hunger but not yet unintelligible was too great to allow to pass.
His lips pulled back and he bit out each word as though he suffered a great deal of pain. “A little over a month.”
“Did you attempt a normal feeding regime of a sliver a day?” How she wished she had her notebook to record his responses.
He sneered. “I starve and you expect me to be satisfied with a mere wafer? I am a man with large appetites.”
In three weeks he had consumed as many minds. With no self-co
ntrol, his hunger would continue to escalate even as his outward condition deteriorated. They should be grateful only three people had died and no more.
“Lady Gabriella, if you had any regard for your companion, how could you do this?” Hannah tried to puzzle out the other woman. How could a woman kill the man she professed to love? It made no sense.
Lady Gabriella snorted. “You will never understand, with your little mind and your boring, pointless existence. Rowley shares my appetites for many things. Together, we experience ecstasy beyond your comprehension. Servants are the cattle we feed upon in order to live forever and an aftermage tastes so much sweeter.”
Hannah rankled at the insult. She most certainly did not have a little mind. With regard to the topic of the Afflicted, she knew far more than Lady Gabriella. “You won’t live forever, and you have killed Mr Rowley twice. Once when you infected him with your old face powder, and he will die a second time within the next few months.”
“You don’t know what you are talking about.” An eye roll dismissed Hannah as effectively as if the noblewoman had turned her back.
“On the contrary, I do. My father and I have discovered that the curse in the powder deteriorates over time. A woman infected six months ago recently dropped completely dead. Her heart had rotted inside her body. If he follows the same pattern, Mr Rowley will succumb to internal rot before the year is out.”
“What?” Mr Rowley exclaimed. His eyes widened as he tried to glare at the woman behind him.
At that moment soldiers appeared in the doorway. “Viscount Wycliff?” the sergeant asked.
Wycliff drew papers from his jacket pocket. “I am authorised by the Ministry of Unnaturals to investigate two recent murders. These two are responsible. I require that you take them into custody at the garrison. They must be kept most securely as they are Afflicted and dangerous. No one is to be allowed near them until I arrange for them to be moved to a location controlled by the Ministry of Unnaturals.”
As the soldiers took hold of the bound couple, Hannah knelt by the boy, who stirred. “I will take the lad to my father. His wound needs tending.”
Manners and Monsters, #1 Page 20