It was so much easier to stay hidden, to stay safe.
“What about Mrs. Boyden?”
“Annalise . . .” The name sounded halfway between a prayer and a curse. “The mistake was mine. I knew her. I had always known her. We grew up together marauding across the moor—how could I not? She was clever and ambitious, unbound by anyone’s rules or expectations. I knew she was a liar, but the lies were always on my side—until I went away to school and came back to find her grown into a woman. She could have had me even then, if I had been anybody else. She was a consummate performer when pursuing what she wanted, and she wanted me.”
“But not the way you thought,” Lily put in quietly.
“No. Not the way I thought.”
“How did you learn?”
“A kiss. I begged it of her a month before our wedding. I was—well. A young man, in love. Impatient. And I learned she found me dull but attractive enough to be tolerable and weak enough to manipulate. She liked the notion of a title. She had also been engaging in intimacies with her father’s stable master, a married man with four children at home.”
“It isn’t just objects,” Lily blurted, shock releasing words which otherwise she might have tactfully kept to herself.
“No,” he replied. “It isn’t.”
The implication of that shook her into silence.
Every touch, a window into someone else’s history. Their secrets, their lies. Everything they’d thought or done laid open like a book he was forced to devour. There could never be anything as simple as a kiss for him, or a handshake, or a friendly embrace.
She thought of the warm, soft texture of Estelle’s cheek under her lips. The calloused grip of a stagehand giving a hearty congratulations after a sold-out performance.
The long fingers of the Earl of Torrington, ruffling her hair as he passed by on his way to her mother’s bedroom.
To be deprived of the simplicity of contact, closed off from it forever . . .
The loneliness of it floored her.
“But is it always like that? Doesn’t it come and go?”
“It was more spontaneous when I was younger, something that happened here or there. I could even choose to do it, when I was in the right frame of mind. But now it’s . . . consistent.”
“You mean that it’s always there.”
He nodded, the gesture tight.
“And it always works the same?”
“There are occasional anomalies.”
“What does that mean—anomalies?”
He shrugged, clearly unwilling to elaborate.
“Can’t you exert any control over it?”
“Ash has been trying to teach me.”
“That Chinese technique you were practicing in The Refuge.”
“The tàijíquán. Yes.”
“Does it work?”
He looked away from her, out through the soot-darkened glass.
“Ash says it will take time.”
“And the gloves?”
“They block it, at least so far as my hands are concerned.”
“Do you ever take them off?”
“Rarely.”
Of course. Why would he? When that carefully-sourced kid leather kept him safe from unwelcome revelations about the people he hoped to become close to, or from being ambushed by every stranger’s tawdry secrets.
It was his armor. If Lily had been able to devise some shield that protected her from the pointless knowledge of unavoidable horrors, she would have wrapped herself in it as tightly as she could.
It struck her then that the man sitting across from her in that wreck of a coach was perhaps the only one in the world who would understand that desire. He knew exactly what it felt like.
In the course of a single night, he had come to know more about her than any living soul.
It was not a notion she felt very comfortable with.
She reminded herself why they were there. A woman was dead, her killer still little more than a shadow across Lily’s mind.
“Did Mrs. Boyden have any enemies?”
“I am certain that she did, but I don’t know who they are.” He turned to face her, his eyes dark with sadness and weighted with intent. “Will you tell me whatever else you know?”
She pushed past her own discomfort with that question, knowing he deserved it.
“I know that he has been targeting mediums.”
“Annalise wasn’t a spiritualist.”
“No. The other victims were found in their beds, drained of blood without any visible wound.” She hesitated, then plunged on awkwardly. “I know it doesn’t sound at all like the same thing, but I could . . . feel it.”
Strangford was quiet. Lily forced herself to wait despite the urge to demand to know whether he believed her.
“There was not enough blood on the bed,” he said at last. His gloved fingers flexed against his knees. “Given the extent of her wound, one would have expected . . .”
“Yes,” Lily cut in, her own heart pounding. “You’re right. The sheets were practically unmarked. There was just a splash of it against the bed curtains, the pillowcase . . .”
It was thin as evidence went, certainly not enough to convince a cynical police inspector that there was a connection, but it offered Lily some slender reassurance that the truth she sensed from her vision was not just some sliver of madness.
“You said that he will try it again.”
She thought of Estelle’s pale face, the accusation in her glare. She nodded, unable to voice it, torn with guilt.
“Then we shall have to stop him,” he replied.
One word, one syllable . . . We.
It hit her with the force of a hurricane.
Outside the shadowy confines of the carriage, London continued to wake, echoing with the cries of street hawkers and the ringing of church bells.
Inside, Lily stared across the darkness to the stranger leaning against the weathered silk.
We shall have to stop him.
Was it possible?
It would never work, she reminded herself fiercely. It had always led to failure, every time.
And yet, there was Lord Deveral. Her brother.
If she could not hope to find the killer before he struck again, there was still a life she might save by ensuring that the monster who had done this was brought to justice.
It was madness. It was almost certainly doomed to failure . . . and yet the truth settled into her, as uncomfortable as the battered coach seat she sat upon.
She was going to try.
She would not be doing so alone.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” she admitted.
“We should start with the witness.”
“Witness?”
“If Lord Deveral didn’t do it, then he’s our best chance of learning more about what happened in that room last night.”
Lily’s heart sank.
He was right, of course. Interviewing Lord Deveral was the obvious course of action.
It was also the last thing she wanted to do.
The carriage lurched to a halt. Lily glanced out through the dirty glass and saw they had arrived at March Place. Strangford climbed out, then turned back to her.
“Do you require a hand to step down?” he asked quietly.
“No,” Lily replied, now fully aware of the import of the question. She lifted her skirts and climbed out of the carriage. She stopped next to him.
“Should I assume time is limited?” he asked.
She thought of the snow, the white flakes spinning through the air, and felt the chill of the early morning against her skin. “I don’t know,” she admitted.
“Then we must proceed as though it is. We should call on Lord Deveral this afternoon. When should I collect you? Is three o’clock too early?”
“No,” Lily replied, steeling herself. “I’ll be ready.”
He hesitated, as though there were more he wanted to say. Lily felt the same impulse twist inside of her, t
he utter inadequacy of polite conversation to respond to what had just passed between them in the dark confines of that run-down coach.
“Good day, then,” Strangford said at last. He bowed.
He climbed back into the coach as a window clunked open from above. The battered conveyance swung around and rattled back off the way it had come as Estelle, clad in a bright pink silk dressing gown, thrust her head out into the cold morning air.
She looked down at Lily, then raised an eloquent eyebrow.
“Well?” she demanded.
“I’m sorry. I really ought to get some sleep. I’ve had a long night.”
She glanced at the departing carriage.
“Have you, now?”
Lily felt a wave of tired frustration.
“It wasn’t . . .” She stopped. She was too tired to argue and any denial would only add fuel to Estelle’s fire. “I’m going to bed,” she announced with finality.
“Pleasant dreams,” Estelle countered as Lily trudged through the door.
NINE
WHAT DOES ONE WEAR to visit the brother who called you a whore?
Lily did not have much time to fuss over the decision. When she arrived back at March Place that morning, putting off Estelle’s blatant curiosity, she had thought it would be impossible to sleep.
Her eyes shut the moment she collapsed into her bed, still wearing her tweed skirt and boots, and did not open again until nearly half past two.
She wriggled into her corset, using the bedpost to help her tug the strings extra tight. The forest green silk she had chosen to wear featured waterfalls of fabric from a wide sash-belted waist, accented by velvet trim and embroidered lace. The fit was unforgiving but perfectly balanced high fashion with respectability.
Dress buttoned, she twisted her hair into an elegant chignon and topped it with a green velvet hat.
Casting your line for another fish, eh?
Her hand, preparing to jab a pin into place, faltered. The pin went awry, scratching her scalp. She cursed, pulling it out.
This was a fool’s errand. Lord Deveral would not admit her. No green silk would be enough to overcome his vicious dislike. Even if by some slim miracle he did let her in the door, he would hardly be inclined to tell her and Strangford anything useful about the death of his mistress. Why would he? Just because they claimed their interest lay in his welfare and not prurient gossip?
They certainly couldn’t tell him the truth.
She considered whether Strangford ought to make this excursion on his own. Lord Deveral’s opinion of her was clear and would certainly bias him even further against answering their questions. If she weren’t there, Strangford might stand a better chance of getting him to cooperate.
Of course, explaining that to Strangford would mean sharing the reason why Deveral despised her.
It’s because my mother was a whore, you see . . .
A knock resounded from the front door. Lily glanced at the clock. Strangford was precisely on time.
She finished lacing her boots, picked up her yew stick and headed down the stairs.
Mrs. Sprout’s handiwork had held up nobly against the rigors she’d put it through, but her leg was aching. She would be using the stick for more than show today.
She turned onto the landing by Estelle’s door. Below, Mrs. Bramble reached the front entrance and threw it open.
“Good afternoon, madam,” Strangford said politely. “Is Miss Albright in?”
Bramble took his measure, her gaze flicking from the just-too-long hair under his hat to the sober cut of his black suit.
“Hmph,” she said, her assessment clearly high enough to prevent him having the door slammed in his face, though perhaps not much more than that. “We don’t allow gentleman callers in this house.”
“He’s not calling. I’m going out,” Lily announced.
His gaze rose to where she stood. It locked there for a moment.
“Miss Albright.”
“My lord,” she replied, keeping her tone distantly polite. She was aware of Mrs. Bramble’s pointed curiosity as the woman glanced from her to the dark-haired nobleman on the threshold.
She finished descending and moved past the landlady. “Thank you, Mrs. Bramble.”
There was a hired hackney waiting at the curb. It was in better condition than the ride they had taken the night before.
Lily did not wait for Strangford to offer her his hand again. Instead, she put the staff to use as she climbed into the carriage, trying not to strain her protesting leg.
Strangford followed, settling himself beside her.
She directed her attention out the window as the carriage rolled into motion, not yet sure how to speak to the man beside her.
Someone on the street beyond the glass caught her eye, odd enough to register amid the blur of other passing figures. He was a tall man, whip-thin, dressed nattily in a green paisley waistcoat and a black bowler hat. He leaned against the house across the street from her own, looking quintessentially the part of the Oxford Street loafer—only March Place was not Oxford Street.
Lily had just enough time to register his presence before the carriage turned and he slipped from view.
“Your leg is bothering you,” Strangford noted.
“It’s nothing.”
They continued in silence. The intimacy of the morning had passed, replaced with what at first glance might look like polite distance.
It wasn’t.
Lily had never thought she would find another person who lived in the world of being ambushed by things one didn’t want to know and could never share.
Now here he was and she hadn’t the foggiest notion what to say to him.
“You don’t keep a carriage,” she noted, a lame attempt to fill the space of their silence.
“No. The coachman stays with my mother in Northumberland. She has more need of him than I do.”
“I thought maintaining a carriage was de rigueur for a nobleman.”
“So is going into debt. Neither are trends I’m particularly moved by. Besides, I like walking. Though it is hardly as exciting as your chosen mode of transportation.”
The Triumph. She had almost forgotten that he knew about her motorcycle.
“What about your horse?”
“Beatrice? I keep him stabled in Highgate. I have been told he dislikes the city.”
Lily wondered how precisely someone was told what a horse was feeling.
“I assume you know where we’re going?”
“Yes. Thanks to Mrs. Jutson.”
“Mrs. Jutson?”
“My housekeeper.”
“Does she know Lord Deveral?”
“Not at all.” He seemed to realize she was waiting for a bit more explanation. “I might have looked it up in Debrett’s, but the only copy in the house belonged to my grandfather. Lord Deveral obviously wasn’t in there. Thankfully, Mrs. Jutson is a fervent monarchist and keeps up on that sort of thing. Lord Deveral resides in one of his father’s houses. In Bayswater, on the park.”
One of their father’s properties, Lily silently corrected. It would not be the family townhouse. As Parliament was in session, the earl would likely be residing there himself. Lily knew where that was, in St. James’s, but had never seen it. She had gone out of her way once to avoid the street. What good would it have done her to look at a place she would never be welcome to enter?
The house they approached now would be one of who-knew-how-many properties that were part of the Torrington holdings. Had her father lived there himself when he was younger and the old earl, her grandfather, still held the family seat? She didn’t know.
“Your neighbor?” she asked, recalling that Strangford’s own home lay somewhere in Bayswater.
“More or less.”
They rode along for another minute.
“Did I ask you about your leg?”
“You did.”
An awkward silence settled back in. Lily could not think of how to break it. She w
asn’t sure she should.
They reached the eerily clean streets of Bayswater. The carriage stopped in front of an elegant townhouse set just across the road from the green, manicured expanse of Kensington Gardens. The house was Georgian, the limestone free of soot and ornamented with the sort of balconies that spilled flowers in the summer and evergreens over the holiday season.
“We’re here,” Strangford announced.
Lily hesitated only a moment before climbing out of the confines of the hackney into the cold gray light of the afternoon.
It was easily twice the size of the house that Lily shared with Estelle, Miss Bard, and Mrs. Bramble. Lily knew the rent on this place would top £1,000 a year, should her father have opted to turn it to making income instead of offering it for the use of his heir.
The door was polished ebony, the brass gleaming. Perfectly trimmed laurel hedges lined the steps.
The carriage rolled away behind them as Lily faced the front door.
She was aware of the people moving through the park behind her. A pair of well-dressed older women passed arm-in-arm, dangling parasols. A nurse minded a horde of aristocratic children who ran in screaming circles. A man in tweed leaned against the wrought-iron fence. Lily was quite certain the latter was a plainclothes policeman watching the front door. He was surely making a note of who came and went from the home of a lead murder suspect, and whether they were admitted.
She knew other eyes marked their presence as well. Word of scandal traveled faster than a telegraph wire in this world. The news that Lord Deveral was entangled in the murder of Annalise Boyden would have spread far by now. The morbid and the curious would be attending closely to what happened at this address.
She mounted the front steps, Strangford at her side.
The women stopped, ostensibly to chat about a pocketbook. The policeman looked up. She felt other eyes on her—a fellow reading a newspaper on a bench in the park, a passing street sweeper.
She held her back straight, her carriage as perfect as Mrs. Finch at the academy could ever have wished it.
Strangford clapped the brass knocker.
Footsteps were audible inside.
There was a pause, just long enough to start feeling unnatural, and then the door opened.
The Fire in the Glass Page 13
