A light knocking on the door broke the girl’s tearful reverie as she clutched the picture to her chest. He was in the doorway carrying a tea tray. Her eyes roamed up to the liver scar across his cheek, the lasting reminder of her twenty-two days in captivity. Every time she looked at him, the inhuman howls of pain surfaced in her memory followed by the reverberating smacks of flesh being struck and the pleadings for mercy half indecipherable and the rest horrifically comprehensible. She had moved past all that now. She was becoming a medium. She wasn’t stuck there helplessly counting the days by his lamentations.
“I thought you could use some tea,” he began softly as he waited to be allowed in.
“How thou—”
“Go away!” Emmeline spat as she spun her body toward the wall, blocking him from seeing her face.
Eliza gaped at her niece but quickly turned to Immanuel who stared back uncertainly. “That was very thoughtful of you, Immanuel. Thank you.”
He nodded stiffly and placed the tray on the dresser a little harder than he intended, rattling the porcelain cups and pot. “Good night, Mrs. Hawthorne.” His tone sharpened as he added, “Miss Jardine.”
When the door across the hall thudded shut, Eliza Hawthorne’s steeled eyes fell on the sulking child beside her. “What is the matter with you? Have you no manners? Immanuel is nothing but kind to you, yet you treat him worse than you would a dog. I demand to know why.”
“I hate him.” She kept her head on her knees as she turned the picture of her mother her siblings away from her. “I hate that he makes me think of that place.”
Eliza sighed as she poured herself a cup of tea. “That is not his fault, Emmeline. He is as much a victim as you are if not more. You should be blaming the men who took you and Immanuel, not him.”
She would if she knew who they were, but the only tangible proof was etched on his face.
“You should talk to him. The two of you are the only ones who can understand what the other has gone through. Maybe you can help each other heal by talking about it.”
Emmeline feared that what he would tell her would be worse than anything her imagination could create, and for that, she remained silent.
“I want you to apologize to him in the morning, Emmeline.”
“I will,” she croaked as she laid the photograph on the nightstand and watched her aunt move to leave. “Aunt Eliza, am I a bad person?”
The redhead lingered on the threshold. “No, you are not a bad person. You are a child who has not yet learned compassion.”
“But bad people are selfish, and mama always told me I was terribly selfish.”
Looking over her shoulder, she saw that the girl’s wide eyes were diminished by striations of pained red and her mouth was drawn bitterly straight with the realization of her guilt. “Work on it then and better yourself. That is all I have ever wanted for you, Emmeline.”
When the other woman was out of sight, Emmeline crossed the boards to the pot of tea and poured a cup. Even if the sight of him upset her, she couldn’t let tea go to waste. With only a sip, she knew it was exactly as she liked it. It was a light hyson tea, and each mouthful tasted like a cup of flowers. Her mother would always tell her it tasted like lawn clippings, yet the man down the hall had made it for her without prompting. Aunt Eliza was right, he had gone through it with her, yet he didn’t regard her as a disdainful reminder of the past. As she drained the teapot one cup at a time, she knew she had to keep her word. She would apologize to him in the morning. He at least deserved that.
Chapter Eighteen:
The Gentleman Devil
Miss Katherine Waters watched as her lady’s maid removed her coiffure and brushed away the creases until her hair tumbled down in loose chestnut ringlets. She had finally gotten the chance to wear the apricot dinner dress her father had bought for her in France, and even if it was a little big on her, the night had gone exactly as planned.
“How did the dinner go, milady?” Kirby asked, her dark eyes crinkling into a smile as she unbuttoned the back of her mistress’s gown.
“Splendidly. Father adores Alexander just as I thought he would. The idea that one day I will be the Marchioness of Montagu only makes him love him more. Who wouldn’t love Alexander though? He is more than I deserve.” Her soft, hazel eyes fell upon the purple-tinged diamond ring that had once been his mother’s. “You will come with me to Eidolic Hall, won’t you, Kirby?”
“Yes, ma’am, as long as Lord and Lady Waters will allow it.”
“Of course they will.” She paused as the dumpy maid helped her step out of the gown and slip her camisole and petticoat off. Miss Waters smiled as she gazed at her reflection in the vanity. The corset cinched in her already narrow waist until she could nearly wrap her hands around her middle. Her limbs and chest were thin but gradually filling out now that her past ills were behind her with the aid of Alexander’s unwavering support. “Mother has her own lady’s maid, but I will still need one after I am married.”
The maid tugged the strings of her corset until, with a sigh, the boning’s grip loosened, allowing her body to unfold and relax for the first time all day. As she stood in only her chemise and bloomers, she raised her eyes to the darkened window on the other side of her bed with a start. For a second, she was certain there had been a grimacing, grinning face peering in, but that was impossible. No, her room was on third floor. Her doctors always told her she was susceptible to becoming hysterical when she was overly tired, and that must have been it. With an exchange and flutter of fabric, she was in her nightclothes, tucking her silk dressing gown close as Kirby tidied up her toilette before slipping out for the night.
Miss Waters lingered in the stillness, listening to the wind lash against the windowpane. When she was certain she was the last one awake, she tiptoed to the dresser at the far end of the room and soundless slid open the bottom-most drawer. Shaking the lid off the box, she drew out its precious cargo of lace and silk. Her wedding dress had only arrived a few days before, but every time she was in the room, she found herself staring at it and lovingly stroking the fine fabric. Her mother would think her foolish for being so infatuated with something she wouldn’t wear for months, but she did love Alexander Rose. He would make her life better.
A steamer horn blared behind her, and she dropped the bridal gown as she flinched. Behind the bed curtains, the drapes danced in front of the open window. Katherine frowned as she tucked the dress back into its casket and crossed the vacant room. Staring out into the night, she saw nothing but the iron filigree of the decorative balcony rail just beyond her reach. She smiled to herself. Did she really expect to find a face glaring back at her? As she shut the window against the winter dampness, the murky tang of tobacco ash blew across her nose in a long puff. Her body froze before her eyes ever fell upon the massive figure obscured between the bed curtains and the window’s drapes. Katherine Waters hesitantly raised her gaze to meet the creature’s saffron eyes, which glowed in the shadows behind his molded leather mask.
Her throat tightened, refusing to form a sound, as she stepped back. The monster’s unnaturally long legs terminated in a metal, hoof-like pad, but as it stalked her, it moved with the controlled, rolling gait of a panther. The humanoid beast was nearly seven feet tall with elongated metal nails at the ends of its fingers, which caught the dying light of the fire as they flexed and reached as if to snatch her. His body was clothed in black but peeking from beneath his cloak were jutting brass ribs that covered empty yet opaline lungs. As her back collided with the oaken poster of her bed, Katherine stared into his face. While the mouth and chin were of a man, the top was that of a sharp-featured demon with curled horns. Had the devil finally come to collect her sullied soul?
“God, help me.”
“God has no business here, Kitty.”
Kitty. Only one person called her that. “Alastair?”
“Ah, you recognize your devil,” he drawled as he slipped a claw into the knot of her dressing gown. “At least th
at is what you called me the last time we were together. It suits me, doesn’t it, Kitty?”
She shrunk from his probing fingers but was halted by the unforgiving surface of the bedpost. “Touch me, and I swear I will scream.”
“By the time they get in here, I will be long gone. When you start babbling on about devils and men in masks coming through the window, do you think they will believe you? If you scream, you will be sent back to the doctors.”
“What do you want, Alastair?”
A cold grin passed his lips, chilling Kitty to her core. “To see you, of course. How could I not congratulate you on your brilliant maneuver? You were able to seduce both brothers.” With barely a tug, the robe fell open, revealing her gossamer nightgown and the pale pink flesh hidden beneath it. “But Alexander will never enjoy your company as much as I have. Is he aware that he is engaged to a fallen woman?”
“Yes,” Kitty snapped as she swatted at his hand, “he knows it all, and he loves me anyway. You soiled my reputation, but your brother is willing to make it right, which is better than anything you did.”
“Any soiling of your reputation was done by you, Kitty, not me. You are the weak one. You couldn’t resist,” he dropped his voice as his body brushed hers, “but you enjoyed every moment of it until you got caught.”
Her hazel eyes glowed with rage. “I hate you. You ruined my life.”
“You hate me?” The devil feigned surprise with his carefully cultured mask of innocence. “I should hate you. I am the one who was thrown over for my own brother. You could not bear to leave the family, but you could not stand to be with the one who couldn’t bring you prestige.”
“That is not why I am marrying Alexander. I love him. You would not understand that, Alastair. You will never understand what love actually means. Your brother treats me like a lady and not a harlot.”
The anger climbed up his veins as he loomed over her, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. “You are worse than a harlot, Kitty. Harlots know what they are. You pretend to be a lady, a future marchioness, but you are selling yourself for a title. You chose my brother,” he spat as his fingers contracted near the trigger of the brass and leather gauntlet, “because he is the first born, the only one who matters. I was merely a means to have him come in and rescue you.”
The young woman’s breast trembled as the words fought their way to the surface. No matter what he was, man or devil, he would not speak to her that way. “I didn’t leave you for money. I left because you nearly drove me mad! Your constant talking and touching made me sick. You are the one who sent me to the doctors, you drove me to starvation! Six months with you made me pray for death, and your brother was willing to do what was right when you wouldn’t! Alexander isn’t a coward.”
His jaw clenched and his lip curled into a sneer as she stared up at him in defiance.
“He isn’t a freak like you!”
“Good bye, Kitty,” Alastair hissed as he plunged the metal fangs at the end of his fingers into the woman’s fragile throat.
Her eyes widened as he squeezed the trigger, flooding her frail body with current. The prismatic brew under his ribs glowed as Kitty Waters’ body buckled and struggled to break free from unseen binds. When her hazel eyes rolled back in their sockets, the machine pulled the last of the energy from her body and deposited it into the confines of a quartz jar. With a final convulsion, her head fell back and all that held her standing was the bed frame and the three metal tines skewered into her neck. Alastair pivoted the woman’s body until it was resting on top of the bed and carefully dislodged the needles from her flesh. A minute trickle of blood escaped the wounds but stopped before it reached her pillow. As he slung her legs onto the bed, he noticed the purple gem on her ring finger. He yanked it from her boney finger, leaving pinpricks of blood on her hand from each of his metal nails. Taking the vase of flowers from her bedside table, he threw the thick porcelain to the floor with a clatter and waited at the window. Below him voices murmured and moved up the stairs, so he lit a cigarette and slid open the pane.
“Miss Waters! Miss Waters, is everything all right?” When the maid didn’t receive an answer, she cracked open the door. Her eyes fell upon the beast at the window, looming over her mistress like an incubus. A fog of smoke leaked from his lips and nose as his blazing eyes met hers. Finally, her gaze travelled to her Miss Waters, who lay crumpled on the bedcovers with her silk robe and hair fanned around her. A scream rose from her throat, and the creature slipped out and bounded down London’s streets, disappearing into the misty gloom.
Chapter Nineteen:
Murder in Mayfair
It had been a very peculiar week for Immanuel Winter. Not only had he entered into a relationship with a man whom he could trust and maybe even love, but he received an apology from Emmeline Jardine, which he was fairly certain was the first nice thing she willingly said to him since they arrived at Wimpole Street. Now, he was being roused in the middle of the night by Dr. Hawthorne to accompany him somewhere, but he was too drowsy at the time to remember where. He rubbed his eyes and laid his head against the shadowy interior of the steamer. The brim of his top hat dug into the back of his head and fell over his eyes. When did he put that on? He ran his hand down the front of his jacket and waistcoat to confirm he was actually dressed, and thankfully, he was. Sitting beside him was Dr. Hawthorne with his Gladstone bag at his feet and a leather-bound ledger on his lap. Behind his glasses, his mind had retreated to its laboratorial recesses and begun playing out scenarios from the little he gleaned from the driver who came knocking at two in the morning.
Indistinguishable houses blurred past the deadened portion of Immanuel’s vision. As they rounded another corner, one house stood alight. Six black and grey police steamers huddled outside the cream bricked building with its red door and eye-like windows, which seemed to blink through their iron lashes as someone paced within. A growing throng of men lingered outside the door, clambering for information and straining to peer through the slits between the lower most drapes despite the late hour. A stalwart constable stood guard at the door, jutting his potbelly to block any reporters who dared to intrude upon the professionals inside, but when James’s head poked from the cab, the policeman’s eyes brightened and he allowed the doctor and his companion passage. The shabby reporters crushed against them, crying for information, and tried to follow the two men into the empty foyer. While the constable shoved the men back with a wave of his nightstick, Immanuel and doctor darted inside.
The gilded and marble foyer stood desolate, but the faint creaks and cries from above hinted at the presence of the men who had come from the Scotland Yard steamers. As Immanuel followed Dr. Hawthorne up the steps, voices permeated the layers of plaster and paneling. The door to a darkened parlor stood open, revealing a woman lying prone on a divan. An equine-featured gentleman with red-rimmed, hooded eyes held her hand between his as she mumbled under sedated breaths. Immanuel averted his gaze. It was not his place to intrude upon these people in their hour of grief. How was Dr. Hawthorne able to barge right in and mount the steps as if he lived there?
Even if he could not see the constabulary, he could hear their authoritative tones as they interrogated those left in the house. Only when they reached the uppermost floor did Immanuel spot the lumbering drones of Scotland Yard bumbling through the townhouse. They buzzed in and out of empty rooms and milled in the halls to exchange information and instructions, but upon seeing the funereal figure, silence fell over the men as they parted to allow him passage. Death had entered, instinctively drawn toward the solitary door at the end of the hall.
Immanuel shifted uncomfortably under the men’s dark, probing gazes at his back. Could they see the sins he committed written on his soul? There was a fugitive in their midst, a foreigner with whom they could never empathize. He was guilty and rightly so, though not justly. How could he be punished so severely for something beyond his control? The crime had been sanctified by men centuries ago who lacked emp
athy and sought only to dominate and demoralize the supposed heathens. No, they could not dominate him anymore. Men like Lord Rose, whose cruelty knew no bounds, would never control him again. His need for and desire to express his love was no concern of those who had ever only cultivated hate. They would think him foolish for repeating what nearly sent him to prison in Germany, but Adam was worth it and so was he.
As James Hawthorne stepped out of his line of vision, Immanuel froze. Nestled between the four great oaken trunks was a maiden. Her chestnut curls cascaded across the pillow and spilled over the lace collar of her gauzy gown and silk robe, which lay torn open at her sides. A few detectives stared out into the pluvial blackness of the balcony while others quietly scratched information into pads of paper, oblivious to the woman with her eyes shut in repose and her limbs lax against the coverlet. A lump formed in Immanuel’s throat as his eyes roamed over her scratched hands and ashen lips. There had been bodies at Oxford or beneath thirty-six Wimpole Street, but they had always existed in a marmoreal vacuum. This woman was the daughter of the people only a floor below who clung to each other in inexpressible grief. Only a few hours ago, she had a life of her own, and this room with its vanity, tapestried canopy bed, and shattered porcelain vase of amaryllises had been hers. In her bedroom, she was still someone.
“You have a helper now, Dr. Hawthorne?” one of the detectives in a dark suit asked, his mustache and muttonchops wriggling with each grumbled word.
“For now. Inspector Kemp, Immanuel Winter.”
Immanuel was about to proffer his hand when he realized the detective had not even looked up from the shards of porcelain on the damp rug.
The coroner stepped over the scattered flowers and leaned close to the inspector as his eyes traveled over the other men in the room. Their uniforms were too pressed, too clean for everyday wear. “Why are the queen’s men here masquerading as police?”
The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Box Set Page 40
