Adam’s smile tightened as he swallowed against the tingling and heat rising below. “We can still spend a pleasant night together. Do you want me to bring you your nightclothes?”
“No,” he chuckled as he gently tugged at his partner’s braces.
“Have it your way, but you are going to be cold tonight.”
Slipping his arms through his suspenders, Adam let his trousers drop as he kicked off his socks and shoes. Immanuel stared up at his companion, running his eyes over his firm arms and chest. Much like Hadley, he was sturdy without being muscular or weighty. His breast was dusted with henna hair that trailed down his stomach and disappeared beneath his cotton drawers. How could he let Adam see him?
As the redhead bent down and kissed him, his hands slid over Immanuel’s shoulders, taking his shirt with them, but he stiffened and kept it tucked around him at his elbows. Wrapping his arm around his waist, Adam sat beside him on the bed and deepened his hold with each kiss until he and Immanuel breathed in time, and with a press of his hand, he lay back on the coverlet. When Immanuel opened his eyes a few minutes later, his shirt was tumbling off the edge.
In the dark, Immanuel hoped Adam wouldn't see how he had wasted away since September from starvation and illness. The body he had lived in for twenty-one years was gone and had been replaced by something frail. Like broken china, he had been hastily pieced back together. From afar he appeared whole, but lying beside him, Adam would surely see every scratch, crack, and gap. A hand trailed up his leg, but before his companion could reach for the button of his trousers, he hopped off the bed. If he could get under the covers quickly, maybe Adam wouldn't notice his defects.
Adam climbed onto his knees and watched Immanuel fumble with the button. His heart sank when his eyes followed the sharp outline of his rolling shoulder blades to a field of circular scars etched into his back. In the dim light, they shone against his ashen skin. The monster had held a lit cigarette to his back a dozen times, and for what? He averted his gaze only to have it fall upon the edge of a scar that disappeared around the curve of his torso. What had been done to him in the hell his companion refused to speak of? As Immanuel’s wool trousers finally sagged to the floor, Adam pressed his lips to the lasting reminders of his torment.
Immanuel drew in a sharp breath. His flaws had been found, but with each reverent kiss, the agony from the moment his flesh was incinerated dulled. There was love and goodness in this world, and they were as transformative as wickedness. He would always have to live with the horrors he experienced at the hands of Lord Rose, but Adam had the power to save him from the bitterness and grief of knowing true evil.
Standing behind him with his arms wrapped around Immanuel’s narrow waist, Adam’s lips grazed the stitches on his neck. “Come to bed, Immanuel.”
Silently, he followed Adam beneath the sheets. The redhead’s arms enveloped him as he rested his head on his breast, listening to the steady cadence of his heart. Adam rested his thumb in the dent on the side of his ribs where the bones had not aligned properly and stroked the soft flesh around it with his fingertips. Lying in the security of Adam’s embrace, Immanuel closed his eyes. This wouldn’t be a onetime thing, a fleeting embrace. There was a promise of tomorrows and of a life together that behind closed doors would flourish. Even if the world could never accept who they were, at least they had each other and the knowledge that someone else knew.
Chapter Twenty-Nine:
Nightmares of Devils
Immanuel’s body jerked, curling inward as his fingers gripped the sheets in pain. A cry escaped his lips, but with his mouth pressed into the pillow, it went unheard by his companion. He had to get out. Somehow he had to escape. His eyes flew open and met only the opaque fabric film of a blindfold. Frantically pawing at his face, Immanuel peeled off the sweat-drenched sheet. Relief washed over him, slowing his pounding heart as his eyes trailed over the tapestried wall ahead of him and the mullioned windows to his left. Flipping on the lamp beside the bed, Immanuel sighed. The catacomb was gone and in its place only inches away beneath the coverlet was Adam’s slumbering form. He was safe. The beating was a dream. The man in the mask wasn’t real, he told himself as he wiped the sweat from his forehead, his hand radiating heat. At least this time he didn’t wake up alone.
Inching closer to Adam, he leaned against the headboard but remained far enough away to take in his features in the diffuse light. A scant amount of auburn stubble darkened his jaw and throat, removing what little foppishness was left once he slipped from his fussy attire. The final traces of the offal from the cellar disappeared as he inhaled the faint aroma of Adam’s lavender cologne. With a smile he drew in a deep breath, tasting the subtle spice of his companion’s flesh and hair with its hints of black tea and nutmeg. He hadn’t expected Adam to coax him into bed after the resistance he put up in the past regarding his proclivities, yet he found himself drawn in and made to feel safe. A hand gently squeezed his beneath the sheet.
“What’s the matter?” the redhead murmured, pulling the blanket closer. “Go back to sleep, it’s early.”
“I can’t. I’m overheating.”
Adam’s eyes flew open as he threw off the covers and inspected Immanuel’s colorless skin and flushed cheeks. Sitting up, he put his hand on his companion’s forehead. “You are positively burning up! Are you all right?”
“Am I ever, Adam?”
Catching each other’s gaze, Adam’s eyes softened at the fatigue and spent fear lingering in his companion’s features. The color in his eyes and cheeks rose with feral heat, the same he had seen outside the museum. His skin glistened with cold perspiration, highlighting the peaks of his ribs as they pushed against the confines of his skin with each breath. A part of him wanted to take Immanuel in his arms and hold him until all dread and panic were gone, but the hardness of his eyes kept him from acting.
“It was only a nightmare. I will be fine.”
“Well, whatever frightened you is gone now.” Drawing Immanuel closer, he kissed his cheek. “Would you care to lie with me a little longer? The others probably will not be up for another hour or two.”
He closed his eyes as Adam kissed his shoulder, but the moment he relaxed, the vision of Alastair Rose’s saffron eyes burning behind the devil mask flooded his mind. Biting his lip, he suppressed a shudder. There would be no going back to sleep. A wave of heat flooded his face and neck, and he instinctively reached for the collar that was not there. The tapestries and wood-paneled walls distorted, growing closer with each quickened breath. All thoughts except escape fled his mind when a hand clasped his forearm. Immanuel jumped but forced a smile as he met his companion’s kind features.
“Are you sure you are all right? I can help you get dressed and call James.”
Immanuel swallowed hard between measured breaths. “Really, I’m fine. I just need to step outside and cool down.” Leaning in, he planted a kiss on Adam’s lips and hoped the other man could not feel his mouth quaver. “Sharing a bed with you does not make it easy.”
“Would you like me to accompany you?” he asked with a bright grin.
“No, stay. I shall only be gone a few moments.”
Climbing out of bed, he kissed Adam one more time before gathering his clothes off the floor. In the safety of his room, he wiped away the sweat with the icy water of the washbasin and donned Dr. Hawthorne’s hand-me-downs. Even if today was Christmas, he wasn’t feeling very festive. Lord Rose had cast a shadow over him again, ruining the moment when he awoke at Adam’s side.
Digging through his bag, he pulled out a rolled piece of paper tied with red ribbon. He had run out of money after they went to the opera, but he had to give Adam something for Christmas. Long into the night before they left Wimpole Street, he sketched his companion from memory, delineating the graceful curves of his face and the spark in his blue eyes. Immanuel peeked into Adam’s room and found him sleeping peacefully where he left him. Placing the scroll on the nightstand, he slipped into the hall and hea
ded for the foyer.
As he passed the drawing room, something moving within caught his eye. With soundless steps, he walked back to the door and peered inside. Sitting in front of the Christmas tree was Emmeline Jardine, absentmindedly stoking the fire. Her dark hair was mussed from sleep and hung about her head in a loose braid except in the front where it fell in curled tendrils. Sensing someone behind her, she pulled her quilted, purple dressing gown closer and stared up at him with wide eyes.
“I did not expect anyone to be up yet.”
“Don’t mind me. I was just stepping out for some fresh air.” He was about to leave when he noticed the red rim around her eyes. “Is there anything wrong, Miss Jardine?”
“No, I—” She sighed as she placed the fireplace poker back in its rack. “I was thinking about my mother. This will be my first Christmas without her.”
“I’m sorry you lost her.”
“We have both lost things that were important to us.” Her eyes flickered over the scar on his cheek. “Did you notice them talking about you at dinner?”
Immanuel shook his head. During dinner, he had been listening to Lord Sorrell and Miss Fenice’s recount the tales of their courtship and time in Palestine.
“Uncle James was telling Mr. Martin how you were attacked. What was it like to be electrocuted? Is Spring-heeled Jack really human? You are the only one who has seen him and lived.”
His throat tightened. Did she know her Lord Rose was the man who ripped the soul from his body? He eyed Emmeline suspiciously. Could he trust her? She had spent hours with this man, attended parties with him, yet she seemed oblivious to his depravity. Though he couldn’t prove it yet, Immanuel knew he had to be behind the death of Madeline Jardine, and Emmeline deserved to know the truth about her benefactor.
“He is human, but that is what makes him the worst type of monster.” Taking a deep breath, he chewed on his lip. “I have been meaning to speak to you about him. You are in grave danger.”
“Are you going to lecture me about not going out at night?” she scoffed as she rolled her eyes. “If so, save your breath. Aunt Eliza already did.”
“Forget it, you will find out eventually.”
“Find out what? I am not a child. I have a right to know why I am in danger.”
He had to tell her even if she would not believe him. “Lord Rose is Spring-heeled Jack.”
For a second, Emmeline’s mouth hung open before indignantly snapping shut. “Are you daft? Lord Rose is a gentleman from a respectable family, not some lunatic.”
“I know what I saw. Even through his mask, I recognized his face and his voice.”
“How would you know? You don’t even know him,” she badgered as she stepped toward him with an accusatory finger. “You only met him that day.”
“Keep your voice down. You will wake up the whole house.”
“I don’t care! You are lying. You do not even know what he looks like.”
“Before he put that blindfold on me, I saw his face every day when he beat me! I saw him in the Bodleian when he and his cronies kidnapped me, and he was there in Oxford when I pulled you out of the river. I know exactly what he looks like.”
Emmeline stared him down. His hands shook and his voice sharpened, yet it was never raised above a low whisper. It couldn’t be true. He was lying. That was the only explanation for his outburst, or maybe the attack had unhinged his mind. She couldn’t be right. Lord Rose couldn’t have kidnapped her. If he did, then he—
“He couldn’t have done that. He—” The crazed look in his eyes when he seized her by arms flashed but was drowned beneath her anger. “He would never harm me! He loves me, and one day, we will be married.”
“If he doesn’t kill you first. Do you think if we had not gotten out that he would have spared you? My life was all that stayed his hand against you.” As he locked eyes with her, her gaze faltered, falling to her feet before rising back to his face in strained defiance. “He killed two women! Do you think he would have thought twice about killing you if he had to, especially a girl who was presumed dead already?”
“No,” she cried, freeing more inky curls with each shake of her head, “no, no. He can’t be. You are lying! How dare you accuse him of something so horrid! You don’t even know him.”
“I am certain you know there is connection between Lord Rose and the murdered women. You know the comings and goings of the Spiritualists better than anyone, and I am sure you know the link.” Immanuel dropped his voice at the sound of a door squealing open somewhere in the house. “You can put him away for murder. For once in your life, Emmeline, please think for yourself.”
As he turned to leave, the rage churned up Emmeline’s throat until it roared out. “I hate you!”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Miss Jardine.” Stopping at the threshold, he stared into her owl-like brown eyes. Deep down something stirred even if she did not yet know it. He searched them and found that beneath the venom something else lingered in their depths. “My only hope is that you will see him for what he is before it is too late.”
Looking toward the oak door at the end of the hall, he turned. The heat and fear of his nightmares had finally left him. Even if the devil still haunted his dreams and left his mark upon him, he had cracked his hold on his greatest ally. Emmeline Jardine held the key to his undoing, and by underestimating his captives, he had brought about his own ruin.
Shutting the door behind him, he peeled off his jacket, tie, and waistcoat before slipping silently beside his slumbering companion. He rested his head against Adam’s chest and closed his eyes as the other man wrapped his arms around him. Soon, a plan would have to be set in motion that would put all their lives at risk, but with his partner’s arms holding him tight and his gentle breath against his cheek, Lord Rose was only a memory.
Chapter Thirty:
The Serpent
The front door of thirty-six Wimpole Street opened, admitting three cheerful revelers and one sullen teenager in from the cold. As the men carried in the remaining luggage from the steamer cab, Eliza gathered the letters strewn across the hall floor before they were once again trod upon. Emmeline stomped past with her head down but paused when she noticed her foot rested on a letter addressed to her. Her pulse quickened at the sight of the cultivated handwriting incised into the parchment. Flipping it over, she found a red wax seal with the letters A and R intertwined with a serpent. It had to be from Lord Rose, but what could he want from her? Maybe he knew she was coming out this season and wanted to catch her before any other man could. Scooping up the envelope, she continued toward the stairs as nonchalantly as she could muster.
“What did you get, Emmeline?” her aunt asked as she added another Christmas card to the growing collection on the hall table.
She froze. Even though his tirade had been over a day ago, anger still coiled around her chest, mercilessly constricting and consuming her. Keeping her voice level, she replied, “The Raleigh sisters sent me a Christmas card and a letter. Their parents must have told them they saw me at the Christmas social. If you will excuse me, I am dreadfully tired from the festivities, Aunt Eliza. I think I am going to lie down for a while.”
“All right. I will call you when dinner is ready.”
Dashing up the remaining steps, Emmeline pulled the door shut behind her, careful not to draw her aunt or uncle’s attention. Whether the note contained only a holiday card or a proposal, she wanted to be the first person, the only person, to read it. All of his past invitations to the Spiritualist society were addressed to her aunt, so why would he write a note directly to her? Tearing at the envelope, her hands trembled as she pulled the piece of paper out and held it under the gas lamp.
Dear Miss Jardine,
Since the night of the Christmas social, I have been unable to sleep after how I acted towards you. I was unduly churlish and unfairly abusive, and there is no way for me to express how deeply I regret my actions. My hope is that you will accept my humble apologies and th
ink me no less of a gentleman for letting my emotions get the better of me. It was wrong, but I am merely human and prone to ill-humor. Your offer of a dance was meant in kindness and should not have been so coldly rejected. In the future, I hope to take up your offer if it is still available to me.
This letter is not merely meant as an apology as I have been called to participate in an event of the utmost importance, and as the eventual successor of the Oxford Spiritualist Society, I would like to extend an invitation to you. On the third of January, Dr. Hawthorne and I will have an audience with the queen. Her Majesty has asked for a medium to be present during the proceedings, and I know no better medium than you, Miss Jardine. You have inherited your late mother’s aptitude for connecting with the dead, and as a young lady about to come into society, this would be a perfect opportunity to find favor with Her Majesty ahead of the others. The successful accomplishment of this classified endeavor will not only bring you accolades as a Spiritualist medium but will elevate your standing in court. If you would like to discuss what will be required of you, please send word as to what time we can meet in Mayfair since the matter is much too sensitive to discuss in public, and I will send your aunt an invitation. You may wonder why I am choosing you above a more experienced medium, but out of all the women in the society, I hold you in the highest regard.
Ever yours,
Alastair Rose
Holding the paper close, she caught a faint whiff of his spiced tobacco. The letter had been infused with his scent, and with the masked endearments, it was as good as a love letter. Emmeline smiled. He held her in the highest regard and begged for her forgiveness. Taking the letter, she sat at the vanity and pulled the pins from her coiffure until her hair fell upon her shoulders in thick ringlets. Of course she would forgive him. It was merely an outburst. A man of his stature must find socializing with the bourgeoisie a dreadful bore, but she was worthy of his attention. Lord Rose wouldn’t let her down. No, he meant to raise her up and give her every opportunity to improve.
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