“The woman’s taking a walk this time of night?” Drummond exclaimed. “Yes, Miles! Send a man out to escort the woman indoors at once. No one’s to go out after dark from now on unless another is with him, and that includes you. Did my nephew happen to say when he planned to return?”
“The earl did not know when he might be finished, sir,” Miles said as he handed the glass of spirits to Sinclair. “However, he did indicate that he hoped to return to the house before dawn.”
Charles smiled. “Typical of my cousin. Miles, would you please send Granger to look in on the earl? He told me he planned to visit someplace called Egyptian Hall. It’s in Piccadilly. I’d feel better knowing he’s home and unharmed.”
“At once, my lord,” Miles replied, setting the decanter on a table.
The butler left the room, and Kepelheim lifted the stopper on the decanter, sniffing the whisky. “I’ve always loved the Drummond Reserve. Spicy with notes of vanilla and cinnamon.”
The duke took the flask from the tailor and put his nose to the opening. “I’d not thought there was any left here. The Reserve was always Connor’s favourite. It’s aged in two different types of wine casks for fifteen years each. Strong stuff, this. Careful, Charles.”
The marquess gazed at the caramel-coloured liquid in his glass. “Down the hatch,” he said, tipping it back and swallowing every drop in one gulp. His eyes began to water, but the detective maintained composure, despite the intense warmth at the back of his throat. “Not bad.”
Drummond began to laugh heartily. “Heavens above, laddy! It’s clear you’re a Stuart, through and through. Now, off to bed, wi’ ye. Martin, I’m goin’ along to make certain my nephew doesn’t roll down the steps, but I’ll be back.”
The duke took hold of Sinclair’s arm and the two of them left the drawing room. Once they’d reached the duchess’s apartment, Drummond paused before opening the door into the parlour. “Are you sure you’ll be all right, son?”
“I’m fine. Thank you, James. As promised, I’ll leave the doors open again, for propriety’s sake. Let me know when Paul returns.”
“You should sleep,” Drummond insisted, “but I’ll tell him to stop in to say hello, if that’s what you want. Give my granddaughter a kiss from me, will you? Goodnight, Charles.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
The detective entered the dimly lit bedchamber, finding his beloved sleeping peacefully beneath several quilts, for the entire room felt cold. Despite his warnings to all staff, Sinclair noticed that one of the four windows stood open, so he closed it and turned the brass latch to lock it.
Wiping at his eyes, the marquess considered taking a bath to relax his weary muscles, but the combination of two glasses of wine at dinner and the large whisky had left him somewhat tipsy, so he settled for a quick splash of cool water upon his face. He then brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and returned to the bedchamber.
To his shock, the window stood open once more. Charles had heard no one enter the apartment, but he crossed through the adjoining parlour and even peered into the corridor to make certain that he and Beth were actually alone.
After relatching the window, he removed his coat and waistcoat, draping both across an armchair near the fire. He unbuckled the metal fasteners on the leather shoulder holster and added it to the chair as well. Charles then pushed the long sofa close to the duchess’s bed, aligning it so that it paralleled her mattress, drawing it near enough so that he could touch her hand if she reached out in the night.
Sitting upon the chair, he removed his boots and socks, and then unfolded the trio of quilts that Mrs. Meyer had left for his use, placing these and a pillow upon the couch. Remembering the conversation regarding the Verne novel, he dropped to his knees and examined the underside of the duchess’s bed, swiping his hands underneath the shadowy space, but found nothing. What happened to it? he wondered.
As he stood, intending to lie down on the sofa, he felt a deep chill. Inexplicably, the window had again sprung open, despite the fact that he had very carefully secured its lock.
Elizabeth stirred in her sleep, turning towards the window, and she reached out as if trying to touch something. “Paul,” she moaned, her eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids.
She’s dreaming about him, Charles realised. Why?
As he reached for the window latch, a large bird or bat flew past. The skies were still overcast, though the rain had stopped. The vault overhead appeared like an impenetrable dome of iron, for it seemed as though all the stars had winked out at once.
“Paul,” she whispered again, her voice raspy.
He sat upon the edge of the soft bed. “It’s Charles, dear. Paul isn’t here.”
She reached for his hand, though she still slept, perhaps trapped in a nightmare. He leaned over and kissed her soft cheek.
“Paul?” she called again, and the agony caused by the single word drove its sharp point into his heart as no material dagger might—so keen was the disappointment. Why does she dream of him?
“No, darling. It’s Charles,” he told her, his voice coloured with despair.
Her eyes flew open, and even in the dim moonlight filtering through the windowpanes, he could see the large black pupils, and it seemed to the detective that her gaze fixed upon something other than his face.
“Paul! He’s in danger! We have to help him!”
Josette Marchand cared little for England. Though French by heritage, the thirty-six-year-old widow had lived most of her life in Bouillon, a scenic village in the south of Belgium, near the French border. The nurse found Londoners noisy and ill-bred. The Stuart family were kind enough, but Josette missed the pastoral hills and farmlands of her former home. Walking through the scenic beauty of Queen Anne Park, especially after a rain, provided an escape from the clattering chaos of London, and she’d made a habit of strolling here after supper.
“Madam Marchand!” a man’s voice called from five hundred yards to the south. She turned to find a slender youth approaching. “Madam, you are wanted inside the house,” he said politely. “The duke and marquess ask that you return at once.”
It was a footman named Peterson, a handsome young man with copper hair and a constellation of pale freckles across his nose and cheeks. Marchand sighed. “I am needed?” she asked, her voice heavily accented.
The footman walked swiftly towards the nurse, his gloved hands in his pockets against the chill. “His lordship asks that no one be out after dark, madam,” the youth continued as he drew near. “Allow me to escort you into the conservatory.”
Marchand shook her head, irritated by the interruption. “Why this rule for me, eh? Am I not strong enough to keep myself safe? I wear a coat. Cold does not affect me as it might others. I am not frail duchess, m’sieur!”
Peterson’s steps slowed as he reached her position, just to the east of a boxwood knot garden. “Please, madam. I’m only following orders. Allow me to see you safely indoors.”
She shrugged. “C’est dommage. Such a pity, for the moon, she is lovely. Mais oui, I go, if it must be so.” She started towards him, but a movement along the north wall of the mansion caused Marchand to stop in her tracks. “What that?” she asked, pointing to the windows of the master apartment. “Is large bat or nightbird?”
“It might be a bat. We often see them ‘round here.” The sharp-eyed footman turned ‘round to look, and the sight forced air from his lungs in a great gasp of shock. “Good heavens! It’s a man!”
Sure enough, a humanoid creature was scaling the limestone façade, creeping upwards, inch by inch, using claws of living shadow—but as it approached the duchess’s window, it transformed into a vapour and entered her room through the tiniest of cracks, disappearing from sight.
Chapter Three
One hour earlier
Susanna Morgan had been waiting since eight o’clock. Sitting in a small salon ju
st off the main theatre of Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly, the buxom singer waved to the slender young man who served as waiter for the private meeting room. “You there!” she called. “What time is it?”
The youth glanced at his pocket watch. “Three minutes ‘til nine, Miss.”
Morgan tapped her empty glass. “Another white wine, then, I suppose. When does Maskelyne perform?”
“Ten o’clock, Miss,” he told her as he poured her a fourth glass of Chardonnay. “Do you wish to speak with him?”
“Hardly. His so-called magic is mundane, predictable, and really quite boring. Is he still working with that cabinet maker? That awful little twist—oh, what is his name again? Cooke?”
“Yes, Miss. However, we’ve another magician and a singer as prelude who’ll begin at half nine. And there’s also an amusing musical number on Jack the Ripper. It’s been quite well received.”
Morgan yawned. “Ripper is becoming somewhat clichéd, don’t you think? I see my friend has finally arrived. He’ll have whisky, I imagine. Be sure it’s your best. He’ll know the difference.”
“Yes, Miss.” The waiter bowed and departed, his somewhat effeminate face breaking into a broad grin as the newcomer walked past. “Welcome to the Egyptian, sir. May I bring you a drink whilst you wait for the prelude to begin?”
Paul Stuart handed the youth a sovereign. “Your best whisky. To the table in the corner.”
“Very good, sir,” the young man said, clearly appreciating the earl’s apparent wealth, muscular physique, and attractive face.
Paul’s raised eyebrow sent the lad packing. The earl strode towards the American, pulling out a chair and then sitting. “A rather strange place to meet, Susanna,” he said, removing his leather gloves. “I wasn’t aware you enjoyed magic acts. Forgive the late arrival. Couldn’t be helped. Have you found our errant physician yet?”
Morgan heaved a sigh, the movement straining the tight laces of her corsetted evening gown. “You crush me! Not even a moment of small talk? A ‘my you’re looking lovely tonight, Susanna’, or ‘is that a new perfume’? Is this how you treat me, when you’re already an hour late? As though I’m cutting into your family’s precious time? Really, Paul, I should just leave,” she complained, pouting as she stood to go.
Ignoring the woman’s theatrics, Aubrey remained seated, but he took her hand and kissed it nonetheless. “Do sit, Susanna. I might be late, but I would never deliberately ignore your charms. If it soothes your wounded vanity, then allow me to start again. It’s been a rather busy day, and I’m short on sleep, as I’m sure you know. But if anyone has cause to complain, it is I. After all, you stood me up on Monday.”
“A conflict arose,” the American cooed. “You know how that is. It couldn’t be helped, much like your family problems, but I promise to make it up to you, if you’ll allow me.”
“Not tonight, my dear,” he said, his blue eyes bright. “Another time, perhaps. What have you to tell me that’s so important that it cannot wait until a night when I’m less weary?”
“Now you really have hurt my feelings,” she complained. “I’ve not seen you for more than five minutes in over a month, and when you finally do meet me, it’s all business. Still, you’re looking rather well for someone who’s operating on little sleep. Quite well, in fact. Given the opportunity, I’m certain that I could wake you up,” the cat purred, leaning against the table to allow her generous bosom to push forward. The gown’s material shimmered like ice, for its pale blue satin was overlaid with hundreds of clear glass beads. Beyond form-fitting, the dress looked as if it had been painted on, making her assets seem rounder and more prominent.
Aubrey responded by smiling ambiguously. He’d known Morgan for nearly five years, and in that time, she had continually failed in all attempts to entice him into bed, but the Chicago-born songstress never wearied of trying.
“I imagine you would find ways to awaken me that are quite creative, Susanna, but as you already know, I’m not interested. It is not that you lack beauty, my dear...”
“Yes, I know. Your heart lies elsewhere, but why, Paul? Why waste your affections and energies on a woman who is now engaged to another? How did all that come about anyway?” she asked, her foot stroking his left calf.
Aubrey shifted position. In his time with the inner circle, the handsome earl had fended off many such feminine assaults, but her question drove into his mind like an icepick. Why am I still focused on Beth? Is it mere habit, or could it be I hope she will change her mind?
“It’s been in the works for a long time,” he lied. “Charles and Elizabeth go back many years. He’s just come into his inheritance, and...”
“Yes, yes, that is what the brain-dead reporters are fed, and they swallow it like a rainbow trout going after a tasty minnow, but you can tell me the truth,” she insisted. “When Clive and I shared your theatre box at the Lyceum last month, you and the duchess seemed quite close, but then perhaps she’s been secretly in love with this policeman all along.”
“Beth’s affections for Charles have been no secret to our family,” he said honestly, though the truth still stung. “Susanna, you slipped me a message on Tuesday evening, saying you had information of interest regarding Lorena MacKey. If you have nothing to share other than gossip and innuendo, then I’ll be going.”
The waiter arrived, and he set down the whisky, intentionally brushing against the earl’s hand as he did so. Paul glanced up. “Thank you, young man, but I assure you that I not interested. You are simply not my type.”
The youth’s countenance fell, but the earl smoothed it over by handing him half a crown as a tip. “Why, thank you, sir!” the lad grinned, a gold incisor glittering inside his otherwise nondescript mouth. “You’re most kind. Will you be stayin’ for the entertainment, sir?”
Aubrey shook his head, the long chestnut hair gleaming in the gaslight. “I fear that I cannot. I have business elsewhere.”
The waiter departed, pausing near the doorway to chat with a fellow employee, apparently boasting about his generous tip and the very handsome man who offered it. Paul saw it all and laughed.
The American touched his hand. “It seems that everyone wishes to share your bed, Lord Aubrey.”
“Not everyone,” he heard himself say, instantly regretting it. “Never mind. I’m more tired than I thought.”
“I like the beard,” she said, hoping to banish the duchess from his thoughts with a change in topic. “It suits you.”
“Does it?” he asked, stroking the coarse hair on his chin. “I’m leaving soon for a protracted assignment, most likely in Egypt. This will help me to blend in a bit more.”
“I doubt you’d blend in anywhere. It’s darker than I’d have expected. Your hair is such a beautiful shade of golden brown, I’d have thought your beard would be closer to auburn, yet it’s nearly black.”
“My father’s influence, I imagine. He had black hair.”
She smiled. “I saw him once—in your company. Ten years ago. I’d only just arrived in England, barely sixteen, and Clive had taken me to the opera. He pointed out you and your handsome father that night. Do you favour your mother?”
“Yes, actually. She had auburn hair. My sister Adele looks much the same. She is my mother made over, in fact.”
Morgan’s face pinched. “Didn’t Clive tell me that your sister is adopted? Don’t tell me that she was born on the other side of the blanket!”
Paul’s thoughts scattered, scrambling about for a means to cover the careless blunder. What is it about this woman that makes me say such things? “I’ve no idea where that rumour arose, but Della is a Stuart by blood. Clive is mistaken.”
She smiled, the sort of practised curl of the lip that implies secret knowledge. “Ah, well, that explains it.”
The earl rarely felt ill at ease, but he suddenly longed to be elsewhere—anywhere but here. Looking abou
t for an escape route, he noticed Serena di Specchio enter the salon on the arm of a gentleman who looked almost as if he could be Prince Anatole’s twin, though several inches shorter.
“Excuse me,” he told Morgan, standing. “I shan’t be more than a moment.”
Aubrey strode towards the corner, where the contessa was just sitting, her chair held by the stranger. “Good evening, Countess,” he told di Specchio. “Have you come for another evening’s entertainment?”
The Italian noblewoman showed little surprise at his appearance. “It is Lord Aubrey, is it not? Yes, I find magic acts most enjoyable, don’t you? Allow me to introduce my friend, Prince...”
“Razarit Grigor,” the earl finished for her, recognition hitting him at last. “It’s been a long time.”
The Romanian’s eyes sparked hotly in response. “I’d thought that might be you when we entered.”
Serena gasped, feigning amazement. “You know each other?”
“We do indeed,” the earl replied, sitting. “How long has it been, Rasha? Four months? Five?”
“Since the end of June, I think,” he said as the waiter arrived. “Vodka for me, young man. Your finest red for the lady, and I believe the earl is fond of whisky. Or perhaps you have altered your desires since last we met, Aubrey. Much has changed since then, I understand.”
The earl’s mouth upturned at the edges, and he glanced up at the waiter. “Nothing else. I’ll finish my drink when I return to my own table.”
Grigor laughed. “Perhaps, one glass is all a Scotsman can handle! One woman, one drink. You are wise to curtail your inclinations.”
Under other circumstances, Aubrey would never have fallen for such obvious bait, but fatigue had dulled his wits. “Have you any Drummond Reserve in stock?”
“We do, sir. It is quite strong, however.”
“I’m accustomed to its strength. A tall glass.”
The Blood Is the Life Page 6
