From behind the door, two male voices fought for dominance. The deeper one cried out while the other retaliated indecipherably, but his sharp tones still broke through the oaken door.
The fraudulent medium’s eyes lit up. “Speak, spirits! Tell me what you want to us to know! Share your divine knowledge.”
The six unassuming guests turned toward the door behind them as the knob turned but stopped as a scuffled erupted behind it. There were muffled grunts and cries followed by several bangs as something heavy hit the door. With the others distracted, Emmeline gave Madam Nostra a discreet kick in her knocking leg. Someone had to let her know she wasn’t fooling everyone. As the psychic’s bug-eyes met hers, the door burst open, slamming and embedding its knob into the wall. An older, brass-haired version of Alastair Rose stumbled in, nearly pulling an elderly gentleman from his chair as he grabbed him for support. Alastair whipped into the room, grasping his elder brother by the shoulders before wrenching the blubbering man toward the door.
“You are making a spectacle of yourself, Alexander,” he hissed under his breath as his brother tried to shake free beneath his claw-like fingers. He looked over his shoulder at the table of guests staring at them. “Everyone, please excuse my brother. He is not in his right mind. Let’s go, Alexander.”
“Why are you doing this? Please, Alastair! Please, I just want them to try to— I just want them to try,” the man sobbed as he sank to his knees in front of the table.
Alastair’s face blanched before burning back to red as he struggled to pull his hysterical brother back to his feet. How dare he barge into his place of business and cause a scene. Now, he was sobbing in front of two of his best mediums and a handful of guests who had come for a séance but would only remember the lunatic who barged in. With a sharp twist, Lord Montagu shook off his brother and staggered forward until his hands came to rest on the tabletop. Reaching into his rumpled jacket, the marquess withdrew a delicate aquamarine and pearl necklace.
He held it out in his trembling palm. “I need to know if she is at peace. Please. I need to know.”
“I told you, brother, it is too soon for them to do that!” Alastair’s hand clamped down on his shoulder again, digging into his flesh. “Come now, Alexander. You are making a fool of yourself.”
Emmeline stared up at the pitiable form of Alexander Rose. His eyes were sunken with fatigue and burned with tears. Grey and gold stubble dotted his chin and cheeks, and along with his creased suit and loosely knotted tie, he appeared closer to a beggar than a nobleman. As a stifled groan broke from his lips, the sour, sweet odor of stale alcohol wafted across the table. Eliza Hawthorne and the others sitting around Madam Nostra averted their gazes as if he were not even there. How could they ignore him? Lord Montagu was the lovesick knight she read about in so many books. He was the faithful man who gave up his existence for the love of another. In her seventeen years on earth, she had never seen someone feel anything so deeply.
As Alexander closed his eyes in defeat and gave into the hand that forced his shoulder toward the door, Emmeline called out, “I would like to try.”
Alastair’s eyes widened as his brother placed the necklace into her narrow palm. “This is ridiculous. Miss Jardine, Miss Waters has not even been buried. It is much too soon to do a reading. Do not give into the fancies of a troubled mind.”
She stared up into Lord Montagu’s pained, amber eyes. How could Alastair be so cruel as to deny his brother closure? “I can at least try.”
Swallowing hard, Lord Rose held his breath. He had seen her abilities with his own eyes, and now more than ever he regretted ever bringing her to the Spiritualist society. She was just like her mother.
Emmeline shut her eyes and held the necklace between her palms. All thoughts cleared from her mind as the others remained silent, but nothing came. No thoughts or smells or visions passed through her mind’s eye. She clasped the piece of jewelry tighter, but it didn’t make a difference. Alexander looked at the dark-haired girl hopefully, but Emmeline shook her head and carefully trickled the chain into his hand before closing his fingers around it with her own.
“I am so sorry, Lord Montagu. I am afraid it is too soon for me to see anything.”
The older gentleman squeezed his hand against the stones in the pendant and nodded. His eyes and chest burned as he smiled bitterly but softened when he saw her large eyes film upon seeing his expression. “Thank you, miss. Thank you for trying. At least— at least I know now.”
“Satisfied? Come, brother, let’s leave them to their séance now,” Alastair snapped as he finally led the inebriated man out the door.
The others at the table sat in silence, unsure of what to do after all the hubbub. Could the spirits perform after such an interruption? Before Madam Nostra could continue her charade, Emmeline pushed away from the table and moved to her aunt’s side.
“Can we go home now? I do not feel very well,” she whispered into her ear to keep the others from hearing or seeing the tears hanging in her eyes.
All she ever wanted was to be like her mother, to use her powers to help people and give them the closure they so ardently sought, but these mediums were no better than fortune tellers at the fair. They were frauds, but was she one too? When there came a time for her to finally help someone, to make them feel better, and to share something only the spirits could know, she had nothing to offer. Maybe she, too, was just another spectacle.
Chapter Twenty-One:
Revelations
Immanuel drew in a deep breath and smiled at his reflection in the bedroom mirror. There had never been a time when he had been dressed so well. With the trousers and dinner jacket borrowed from James and the accessories and white waistcoat from Adam’s expansive wardrobe, he looked like a man out of an advertisement. Turning in front of the mirror, he admired his narrow waist and long legs. He pushed a curled tendril of blonde hair out of his eye, but when he scrutinized his face in the glass, he saw only his old self. His life was finally going in the right direction. Patting his pocket, he confirmed he had the money for dinner with him. He was about to settle in near the window when a steamer cab pulled up to the pavement. Immanuel slid open the sash as the redhead stepped out.
“I will be right down!” he called as Adam smiled up at him and ducked back into the cab.
With a final check in the mirror, he grabbed his top hat and trotted down the two flights of stairs to the front rooms. He paused on the last set of steps as he listened to the voices in the parlor. The Hawthornes and Miss Jardine were supposed to be going to a party, and he thought they had left already.
“Immanuel, please come here for a moment,” Dr. Hawthorne called from within. “I would like to introduce you to someone.”
He glanced out the window. Even though he knew it would be quick, he really did not want to keep Adam waiting, but when he crossed the threshold into the parlor, the breath caught in his throat. Immanuel froze as his eyes fell upon the demon in the dinner jacket standing at the hearth. Hardening himself to the invisible blows, he stared into Lord Rose’s steady gaze, but with each flicker of the fire, the nobleman’s shock disappeared as a flash of the baneful nature behind his eyes surfaced before sinking out of sight. He knew he was afraid. Alastair Rose could sense the momentary paralysis when prey realizes they are in the predator’s sights.
“Lord Rose, this is my assistant, Immanuel Winter. Immanuel, this is Lord Rose, the head of the London Spiritualist Society.”
As Alastair Rose proffered his hand, he locked eyes with Immanuel, narrowing them just enough that they flared orange in the light. The corner of his lip curled into a smirk as he eyed the young man’s ashen cheeks and deformed eye. Seeing the primal fear in his victim’s eyes set his blood racing. He had him in his power.
But that was exactly what he wanted. The beast was smiling at him, at his terror. No one, not even Lord Rose, would ever make him feel powerless again. Immanuel gripped the man’s gloved hand and lingered with his thumbnail embedded in h
is palm.
“We have already met,” he said as he held Lord Rose’s widening gaze. “Good day, Lord Rose, Dr. Hawthorne.”
Without looking back, he donned his top hat and burst into the icy night air. Immanuel let out a constrained breath, the air rolling into the aether in a puff of white smoke. The knot that had been in his chest since he arrived at Wimpole Street finally unfurled as he took another lungful of cleansing air. He stood up to the man who had nearly destroyed his life, and maybe now he could move on.
Settling in beside Adam, fear’s cloying grasp pulled at his heart and mind, but tonight, he refused to give in. He couldn’t be upset when Adam was beaming. As always, he was handsome with his crimson mustache and perfectly coiffed hair. His inky black tailcoat and white vest hugged his body, but his achromatic attire was enlivened by a pink rose tucked into his collar and his vibrant hair and eyes. Tonight Immanuel was determined to embrace life.
“I— I picked this up for you. I thought you could wear it in your buttonhole.” Adam reached into his dinner jacket and pulled out a sprig of miniature blue flowers with golden faces surrounded by blades of grass.
Immanuel smiled at the familiar flowers. “Myosotis scorpiodes.”
***
Alastair Rose hung at the edge of the drawing room, smiling when the other Spiritualists came to greet him, but he was far into his own mind. He hadn’t expected to see the German at the Hawthornes’ home. His escape with Emmeline and resilience had not been part of his plan. After the way he beat him without mercy day after day, he had expected the boy to be dead or at least afraid of him, yet he called his bluff. The terror had died right before his very eyes and what replaced it was something that struck fear into the nobleman’s heart. He knew who he was, and he acknowledged it in front of the others. Something had to be done. If not, the boy would be his undoing.
From across the room, Emmeline watched Lord Rose standing against the floral wallpaper. Seeing his handsome features set in a pensive frown in the midst of everyone else reveling brought her back to the Samhain party. She wasn’t dressed nearly as well since she only had half a dozen dresses now, but the music was the same, half of the people were those who had ventured to Oxford in October, and she thought she looked fetching in her red velvet dress. Glancing over her shoulder, she confirmed Aunt Eliza and Uncle James were deep in conversation with some doctor who had a handlebar mustache. He sounded like a bore, but at least he would give her the opportunity to dance with Lord Rose even if it was almost two months late.
“Miss Jardine!”
Emmeline turned and met the soft gazes of Mr. and Mrs. Raleigh. She smiled as the chubby, blonde couple fawned over her. Complimenting her complexion, how happy they were to see her alive and well, how their daughters missed her back in Oxford. She would be coming back to Oxford, wouldn’t she?
What could she say to them? After months away from home, she hadn’t even thought of the three girls who had practically been her sisters. Now that her mother was gone, there was nothing left for her in Oxford.
“The resemblance is uncanny. You are as beautiful as your mother,” Mrs. Raleigh said as she took in Emmeline’s purple dress. Her pale face was framed with curled, dark hair and pearl earrings like her mother wore to so many dinner parties.
As she opened her mouth to reply, her eyes trailed to Lord Rose. He cut through the crowds and turned down the hall toward the front door. She covered her mouth and with her tearless eyes cast down, she murmured, “Please excuse me.”
Keeping her head down, Emmeline wove between the chattering men and women in their finery. At the door, she waited to see if anyone would call her away, but no voice or hand came to stop her. A gust of cold, damp air bit into Emmeline’s arms and neck as she stepped onto the cobbles. Rubbing her arms, she drew closer to the figure standing in the shadows. If it hadn’t been for the faint glow at the end of the cigarette between its lips, she wouldn’t have seen him. Whorls of smoke streamed from his mouth and nose as he exhaled, the darkness cutting his face like a mask. Emmeline edged closer, pushing her arm into the side of her gown in hopes of creating a greater swell at her neckline, but as quickly as his eyes fell on her, they returned to the road ahead.
“The band is lovely this evening. I do hope they will play the Sleeping Beauty Waltz soon. No one has asked me to dance yet.”
Alastair took a long draw on his cigarette and retorted, “Not now, Emmeline. I am in no mood.”
She stared at him with her wide owl eyes, moving from his furrowed blonde brows to the tip of his cigarette. “Is it because of Katherine Waters?”
“Why would you bring her up?” he asked, his voice sharpening as he kept his eyes locked across the street.
“Lord Montagu is your brother, and he was very distressed about her death the other day. It must be upsetting to you to see your brother so sad, especially since she was your friend too, wasn’t she? You were always together at our parties.” She waited for an answer but was only greeted by a mouthful of smoke. “I know it was too soon to read the necklace, but I was hoping maybe in a week or two to try again. Mama said—”
Before she could get the words out, Lord Rose gripped her arms. He loomed over her, glaring at her with blazing saffron eyes as he growled, “What did you say?”
“I— I thought I could try and—”
“Don’t you dare question my authority!” The heat from his cigarette radiated dangerously close to her skin as he squeezed the flesh of her arms harder. His lips curled back to reveal his saliva-shined canines and his sulfurous maw. Anything she found beautiful fled from his lupine fury. “You will do as you are told. I am the head of this society. Do you understand? You have no say in anything. You work for me.”
“You’re hurting me.”
“I don’t care.”
Emmeline stood paralyzed in his grasp as his jaw clenched and his eyes held hers. She could barely breathe with him holding her in so tight a grip, but as he bored into her sockets, an image flashed in front of her vision. Headington Hill burned while the man stood in the shadows of the trees with only his orange eyes catching the moonlight. No, it couldn’t possibly be him. It just couldn’t.
“Mention Kitty again, and you will never do another reading for as long as you live.”
With a shove, Lord Rose released Emmeline’s arms. She stumbled back into the damp masonry of the Spiritualist society. As he opened the door, light and laughter streamed out, yet she couldn’t move. Had he really been there, watching while her mother burned? And if he was holding her, then maybe he kidnapped her too, but why? Her throat thickened as she rubbed her arms where bruises rose from his steeled fingertips. She inhaled sharply, her breath devolving into stifled sobs before she could stop herself. He didn’t care.
***
The Royal English Opera House was one of the most beautiful buildings Immanuel had ever seen since arriving in England. From the outside, it reminded him of a mosque or a sandcastle with its red and tan stripes and minarets, but when he ventured inside, he determined that it reminded him of a layer cake. The entire opera house was comprised of stacked layers of grandeur coiling up from the stage. As they ascended the grand staircase to reach the level of their box, he could not help but marvel at the green marble columns and alabaster balusters that sat atop more venous marble. A Grecian temple couldn’t have contained more luxurious stone or honored the muses better than the Royal English Opera House. If there hadn’t been so many people crushing past him to reach their seats or companions, he would have touched the stone or studied the capillaries cutting through the massive slabs.
The moment they closed the door of their private box on the first circle, the bustle of the theatre melted away. The box was as fine as the rest of the theatre with wooden paneling and solid doors built to block out the sound of those in the corridor behind them. With a bow and a grin, Adam ushered him into the chair closest to the stage to ensure his good eye would catch the majority of the action below. Immanuel looked out over t
he balcony at the faceless people in the seats above and below them and those in the boxes on the other side of the stage. Did any of them feel as happy as he did tonight? His heart quickened as the lights dropped and the curtain opened on the Tavern du Plat d’Etain. After sitting in silence for an entire act, Immanuel’s study of Marot’s plight was interrupted by Adam nudging his arm.
“Aren’t the costumes superb?” Adam whispered, inadvertently tickling Immanuel’s ear with his mustache as he handed him a pair of opera glasses from inside his jacket.
Immanuel closed his left eye, but the player escaped out of the binoculars’ view before he could catch a glimpse of the costume’s detail. He smiled and handed the glasses back to him, but as Adam let his hand drop next to his lap, his companion reached for it. They were sitting only inches apart, and with the lip of the balcony in front of them, no one would see their small token of intimacy. A smile crept across Immanuel’s face as he ran his gloved hand over Adam’s, catching the boney prominences of his knuckles and the sculptural smoothness of his fingers beneath the fabric. Intertwining their fingers, he let their hands rest between them and went back to watching the comedy play out below.
Swallowing hard, Adam resisted the urge to pull his hand out of Immanuel’s grasp as he stroked it and finally let it drop on the edge of his seat. The presence of the door behind them had never been so apparent until that moment. What if someone came in and saw them? No one was in the box beside them, but anyone could barge in. If it was someone he knew, he could be fired or brought up on charges. His life could be ruined. Their lives could be ruined. Taking a deep breath, he attempted to silence those fears, but as he raised his eyes, they came to rest on the boxes on the second circle. If they were to look down upon them, what would they see? Could they see their fingers intertwined, bridging the distance between their bodies? Immanuel was still contently watching the opera, and with a gentle tug, Adam dislodged his hand as if to scratch his wrist. When he put it down, his companion moved to return to their prior embrace, but Adam quickly tucked his hand across his stomach out of reach.
The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Box Set Page 42
