The Curse of the Brimstone Contract

by Corrina Lawson

  She reluctantly shook her head and kept a firm grip on her tongue. If she could keep her temper with her father, she could keep it now. “What I wish is to have had no need to come to you, sir, but that is sadly not the case.”

  “I’m clearly your choice of last resort. That would not be unusual among my clients.” He smiled thinly, as he had a moment ago in his workroom. “Please, stop glaring at me, Miss Krieger, and have a seat. We will both be more comfortable. Also, no more calling me sir. Mr. Sherringford will do.”

  “I was not…” She cleared her throat. She had not been glaring. She had been studying him. In this setting, he belonged. The softer light burnished his hair and skin, as some silks glowed in certain candlelight. Now, she could well imagine him a gallant romantic hero as well as a champion. “I suppose I was glaring. My apologies. I have never done anything like this before. It has me off-balance.” She clutched her pendant tight as she sat down. “How much do you charge, sir?”

  “That depends,” he said.

  “On how much I can afford to pay?” she asked.

  He drew his eyebrows together. She had angered him somehow. Again.

  “It depends on your problem. I have valuable work, as you saw. I dislike interrupting it.”

  “So it must be a problem that can be solved quickly?” Trying to sort what he meant was like trying to get a proper measurement off a squirming customer.

  “On the contrary, only a complicated problem would be worth setting aside my other matters. As to the fee, if it presents a proper challenge, I will waive it.”

  “Excuse me? Usually, more work means a higher fee, not a lower one.”

  “So I have been told. But those are my terms.” He looked at her and opened his palm, clearly signaling the next move was hers. “You definitely seem like a person who might have a worthy case. Thus my interest in hearing you out.”

  She had an unsettling feeling that he was as interested in her and why she had come to him for help as he was in the problem itself. To him, she might be like one of his experiments, something to be examined and studied. Did he have feelings underneath his cool demeanor?

  “I am not certain if my problem is complicated. My mother believes I could be imagining it. Or even losing my mind. Yet there is still a woman dead, and I want to know how she died.”

  He held up a hand. “Slowly, Miss Krieger. We’ll get to the dead woman in a moment. Let us go back to that harsh comment from your mother. What led to her saying that?”

  “Because even sometimes I believe I am losing my mind. The events seem impossible.” Time to get the matter out on the table. “Have you heard of Lady Grey’s death?”

  “Something about an accident with a steam carriage?” he asked.

  “I saw her accident clearly, Mr. Sherringford. She was wearing a scarf I had designed and that scarf wrapped itself around the back wheel as if it had a life of its own. It seemed no accident to me.”

  Sherringford abandoned his languid pose and sat up straight. “Is that so?”

  “I will swear to what I witnessed. And other witnesses saw the same.”

  “But not your mother?”

  “No.”

  “The explanation could be as simple as a sudden rush of air from the steam carriage,” he said.

  “Air that caused the scarf to wrap tight around a wheel? I think not.”

  “And thus your mother calls your mental state into question.”

  She nodded curtly.

  He relaxed back in the chair. “Miss Krieger, this is about the prettiest problem someone has brought to me in an age. I must hear the full story. Pray elaborate.”

  Joan cleared her throat. That sounded like a compliment. “Where do I start? What do you need to know?”

  “Start with the beginning. Leave nothing out. Let me decide what’s important.” He closed his eyes, put his fingers in a steeple and sat back in his chair. Yes, she was right. He belonged in this room as much as in the laboratory.

  “The beginning.” She took a deep breath. “My family runs a well-known tailor and seamstress shop in West London, as you must have guessed.”

  “Krieger & Sims, yes. You are a unique shop. It is unusual to find ladies’ and gentlemen’s attire under the same roof.”

  “Yes, it is.” He was familiar with the business. Good. But if he wanted the beginning, she would go back to that. Going over the familiar would give her time to gather her scattered wits. “My grandfather, Mr. Hans Sims, began the tailor shop, while my grandmother, Rebecca, ran the section for women’s clothing. When their daughter, my mother, married my father, she took over managing the seamstress shop, though my father is in charge of the overall business and has the final say in matters, of course. Unfortunately, for the past decade, my father’s mind has not worked as it should.”

  “And this is part of why your own mother questions your sanity?”

  “Yes,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Elaborate on your father’s condition,” Sherringford ordered.

  “Is that necessary? I haven’t come for a solution to my father’s difficulties.”

  “I need to know all I can about you and your surroundings. All information is important.”

  She set her jaw. “My father’s wits often fail, and he becomes unaware of his surroundings. He also can fall into fits. These begin with verbal threats, can move to physical violence, and generally end in a trance state that can last anywhere from minutes to hours. Doctors have not been able to help us.” She stared down at the carpet, waiting for Sherringford’s response.

  “Go on,” he said in a quiet voice.

  She stayed focused on the carpet. “My mother and our business manager, Samuel Roylott, handle our assistant tailors, our customers and the bookkeeping. Mr. Roylott, of course, deals directly with the male customers. I hire the seamstresses, watch over their work and contribute to designs.”

  “Your arrangement clearly works,” he said. “You make very sturdy overcoats. I had one. It took much longer to rip in the seams than my previous coat.”

  “It should not have ripped in the seams at all!”

  “Well, it might have had something to do with my using it to dangle off a roof.”

  She leaned forward in her chair. “When did you dangle from a rooftop?”

  “Not important.” He waved away the digression. “But this unfortunate circumstance with your father has been an ongoing problem, and you have handled it until now. But somehow Lady Grey’s death has made it worse?”

  “Lady Grey’s death was just the latest and most severe blow. We began to have customer issues about three months ago,” she said. “They led to financial difficulties, which led to—”

  “Stop,” he said. “Tell me about the customer issues.”

  “They have no relevance to Lady Grey’s death.”

  “Miss Krieger, you have gone to considerable effort to come to me.” He tapped the edge of his armchair. “I decide what is relevant and what is not.”

  She inclined her head, a tacit admission that he was correct. “It was bad luck. One of our most important customers, the Earl of Southwick’s heir, hanged himself with a cravat that we had made as part of his eveningwear.” She sighed and wished those seams had ripped like Sherringford’s coat. “The earl cut off his business with us because of the association with his son’s death. We had already ordered and paid for materials for a number of items for his household. Then his friends canceled orders as well. We took a considerable loss.”

  “I expect so. And you thought Lady Grey’s patronage could make up for this loss?”

  “Yes,” Joan answered. “During a regular fitting, she saw one of my personal sketches. I have some, um, unusual ideas about what women should wear. Some call them indecent. I call them practical. Lady Grey liked them and asked me to make her driving clothes.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Something like what you are wearing?”

  “No, this design was inspired by those who travel by dirigibles.
Lady Grey’s driving attire was very different and was made to move, not protect.”

  “Describe it,” he ordered.

  She did, in detail, down to Lady Grey’s bloomers. He had said not to leave out anything.

  “Those are radical designs indeed, Miss Krieger. And Lady Grey was wearing them when she died. Unfortunate.”

  “Very.”

  “And if she had lived, she would have told all her rich and open-minded friends about the designs, thus solving your financial difficulties.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And now that is out of the question.”

  “Yes.”

  “May I point out that if I prove Lady Grey’s death was murder, not an accident, and murder via a scarf that you made, Miss Krieger, that’s not going to improve your financial situation. It would possibly make it worse.”

  “I want the truth, Mr. Sherringford. And I want justice for Lady Grey. It will not bring her back, but she deserves that, at least. If our business cannot be saved, well, that must be faced. But I will not sit around and wonder why. I must know.”

  “And there is nothing else causing you difficulty?”

  She thought of Milverton’s offer of marriage. “Nothing that pertains to Lady Grey. My other problem is a private matter.”

  “Nothing is private now that you have come to me.” He held out his hand and opened his palm. “If you want answers, there can be no secrets here.”

  “Will those secrets leave this room?”

  “Not without your consent.”

  This was the third time he had prodded her to provide more personal information. She supposed trusting him was as irrational as the instant dislike she had had for Colonel Moran in that short encounter after Lady Grey’s death. But trust Sherringford, she did.

  “My father has arranged a marriage for me with Sir August Milverton.”

  “You are just full of the most interesting revelations, Miss Krieger,” he said blandly. “How did that come about?”

  Sarcasm or compliment? Joan decided that Sherringford’s remarks were both. “Sir August Milverton has been a customer for many years and has occasionally invested money so that we can expand the business. My father trusts him, as does Mr. Roylott. And this is a way to ensure my future.”

  “Your father, who has insane fits, trusts Sir August Milverton. I cannot imagine why that would give you pause,” Sherringford said, definitely being sarcastic now. “He’s above your station, not of your faith and at least two decades older.”

  “Just what I said.” A nice summary of her own misgivings, though Sherringford’s “above your station” rankled. “You know the man?”

  “Only by reputation, which is quite mixed. So he wants you as his long-awaited wife? Well, that is fascinating.”

  “I thought so,” she said, echoing his bland voice.

  Sherringford smiled thinly. “And what does Sir August Milverton say about the reasons for his offer?”

  “According to my father, he says he cares deeply for me.” She blushed.

  “And you think he’s not infatuated with you? That’s not so outside the realm of possibility, Miss Krieger. You are an arresting creature, you know.”

  What did he mean by that? She cleared her throat. “I know my limits, Mr. Sherringford. I’m not displeasing to the eye, but neither am I beautiful enough to make Sir August behave so rashly. I am no Helen of Troy, no prize. I’m not worth the difficulties inherent in marrying so far out of his class.”

  “I would not be so sure. Your assets may be hidden among coal but there is a diamond there.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Sherringford made another noise at the back of his throat and waved his hand at her again. “Let’s just say you certainly are not without quantifiable assets, Miss Joan Krieger. Still, your point is that you feel Milverton has hidden motives?”

  “He must.” She closed her hand around the pendant again. “When I expressed my fears to my mother, she said while she preferred me to marry a man of our faith, she believed this could be a good situation. I would always have a home, and my children would have rank and education. She implied I was simply concerned about the expectations of the marriage bed.” Joan stared at the floor. “She said that was a natural worry, especially given Milverton’s age, but it would be fine.”

  “Was your mother correct? Is that your main objection?”

  Not if it were you I was marrying. The thought blurted into her head unbidden. Thank God she had not said it out loud. She felt her whole face grow warm. No doubt she was blushing furiously now. “With Sir August, yes, I am most worried about it.”

  “Be precise in why you believe that. That you are afraid of him, I can deduce. But a woman who marched into my workshop and demanded help would not be afraid to face a marriage bed under any normal circumstances.”

  For the first time, Joan was convinced Sherringford was not only listening but truly interested in her answer. Perhaps that was why she felt such a sudden attraction to him. He paid attention.

  “My contact with Sir August has been minimal over the years. Men aren’t allowed into the women’s side of the business. We have spoken briefly a few times. In those moments, he quite literally made my skin crawl, Mr. Sherringford. He looks at me and I feel like an object. He speaks to me not as you are doing, but merely as a master to his pet.” She shook her head. “There’s something vile about his motives. I feel it. I know it.”

  “You are saying you sense some underlying menace in him?” Sherringford asked.

  She nodded stiffly, preparing to be mocked. “That’s not exactly the way I would have said it but, yes, that is accurate.”

  “Just as you are convinced the scarf decided to murder Lady Grey.”

  “I cannot speak for the scarf’s motives,” she snapped.

  He snorted. “True enough. But the two feelings are related. You wouldn’t be the first person with a touch of the mage gift that allows them to sense danger. In your case, either in the form of a scarf that contains some sort of spell or a suitor with potentially dangerous motives.”

  Mage gift? A spell? “Magic, sir? You say I have magic? You’ve lost me.” She slumped back in the chair and felt all the blood drain from her face. A mage gift? Never had she considered that.

  “It’s not so impossible.” He smiled, not his thin smile but a true one.

  Oh dear, she thought. He was not just charming when he chose to be, he was downright arresting.

  “No, I didn’t read your mind. Your thoughts are plain on your face. Miss Krieger, the great lords like to think they are the only possessors of magical power.”

  She found her tongue again. “And that is incorrect?”

  “Say ‘incomplete’ and you would be more accurate. Often feelings like the one you cited about Milverton are due to unconscious talent. In other words, trust your instincts. You were right to come to me about all this.”

  “Thank you. You cannot know how much that means to me.”

  “Then I will endeavor to be worthy of your trust instead.”

  She cleared her throat. “Mr. Sherringford, my head whirls. I must hear more about this ‘unconscious’ talent of mine.”

  “Later.” Sherringford flicked his fingers. “We must stick to the problem at hand. One task at a time.”

  If she could have gathered her scattered thoughts, she would have objected. But her brain did not seem to be fully functioning yet.

  “First, I need a full picture of your household’s feelings on the marriage. Your father pushed for it, your mother will accept it. What does your business manager believe?”

  “Since Sir August has pledged to help the business financially once we are married, I expected Mr. Roylott to have no qualms about it. My marriage would save his position. But he objects to the match.”

  “Why? Is Mr. Roylott protective of you? A surrogate father of sorts?”

  She nodded. “He’s protective of our family and has been very careful to hide my father’s i
llness, lest scandal erupt. Mr. Roylott works so hard and diligently. He has been nothing but concerned for our situation all this time.”

  “Is he Jewish?”

  “His mother was, and she married outside our faith and regretted it. He has told me that a few times. I believe that is why he objects to Sir August as my suitor.” Joan frowned.

  “I see.” Sherringford nodded and went silent.

  She took a deep breath, waiting for his verdict. She was almost afraid to ask more about her mage talent. If it was unconscious and she didn’t have deliberate access to it, what good was it?

  She would take good old-fashioned common sense over some unseen and unusable force. She was no mage. That was laughable. What would she do if someone challenged her to provide a demonstration of her power? Offer to sew magic?

  Ridiculous.

  Nervous while Sherringford contemplated God knew what in silence, she scratched her hand where the edges of the gloves met her skin. It was strange that the gloves would irritate her wrists. It could not be the material. It was a soft cotton-and-wool blend.

  Sherringford bolted out of his chair and grabbed her hand, peeling off her glove before she could object.

  More than anything he had done so far, that shocked her. So much so that she was silent at the intrusion.

  He traced the bruises around her wrist, careful not to press on them. “Your father did this?”

  She clenched her jaw and did not answer. That, she had never intended to reveal about her father’s fits. It was a private family matter.

  “Do not concern yourself with the bruises. They matter little to me.”

  “They matter a great deal to me.”

  Sherringford knelt next to her chair. He peered at her face. He might be viewing her with pity. He could be simply studying her. She could not discern which it was. It was most unnerving and yet somehow enticing. He also kept hold of her hand, equally unnerving.

  His touch sent soft tingles up her arm.

  Sherringford straightened and released her hand. He kept her glove clutched in his fist.

  Oh, come back. She drew her hand close to her chest, covering the bruises on her wrist. “Why did you take my glove?”

  “This is a very deep problem. It has many angles, some of which I suspect you are not aware of as yet.”