by Ciar Cullen
“Whatever the truth, she unquestionably wants your undoing.”
“Where is she now?”
“Rumors have her in New Orleans, but I saw no evidence of it. You claim she is in Europe. Is it not like the woman to be talked about on more than one continent?” Annaluisa sighed. “There are too many of us, Georgy, don’t you think? How many have you made? How many have they made? It’s causing a political stir, alliances, betrayals. We have grown faster than the great new cities of this continent can absorb us. Soon there will be nowhere for you to cower in the shadows.”
“It’s terrible in Europe. I just came from London, and in the decade I’ve been away things have gotten very dicey.”
“So you fled back to your brother’s arms, as you’ve always been a lone wolf with no alliances.”
“Yes, my fluffy white tail was singed by one of Madam Lucifer’s jesters. He will make no more jokes for her, but there are hundreds, thousands perhaps, to take his place. No doubt she is displeased with me for removing one of her lieutenants.” Who to trust now? Phillip alone?
“Ah. Marie de Bourbon does have the longest memory. Not too fond of me, either. Do you know that the last time I saw her she accused me of stealing a rather enormous emerald from her? At least three hundred years ago!”
“No doubt you did.”
“Of course. But my point is that she remembered.” Annaluisa shook her head sadly. “So, back to Kitty. This is a fairly intolerable situation, as I adore Phillip. Fortunately there is no governing House in Baltimore, or they would have his head. A human lover who knows so much…”
George rubbed at his chin. “Haven’t we all gone through a spell of wanting a normal life and trying to make it happen? That is what’s at play here. She knows and yet she loves him.”
“What does she know, exactly? Phillip swore that she doesn’t know about me but that the jig is up for you. How does that make you feel? If you killed or turned her, Georgy, it would be as if you are no longer brothers, and I know that despite your differences he loves you and you love him. You must realize what a precarious thing this is. You pretend to be ambivalent about your relationship with Phillip, but I know the truth.”
“I do realize. Everything. Of course.” You have no idea. But I need him.
“Ah, I hear a carriage. Let me go apply more paint so that I may play my role. One of the guests is the child of a friend. I’m feeling generous. She needs a bit of gypsy magic to sooth her wounded soul, although she doesn’t realize it.”
George glanced up. “Oh, anyone I know?”
“Shush, here they come. Straighten your necktie, Georgy, and join your man at the door. Be a good host, or Kitty will call in the voodoo priestesses.”
“More likely to call in her Irish priests, Annaluisa,” he called after her as she scurried upstairs.
The not-so-dulcet tones of Etta and Agnes Langhan, their wealthy spinster neighbors, made George cringe as he joined his butler at the door. “Phillip will pay for this, Jameson. The Langhan sisters?”
“Indeed, sir. We must steel ourselves for the evening. Hopefully the piano has not also fallen out of tune.”
George patted Jameson’s back and then slipped him a ten-dollar note. The butler surely earned more than the average banker in Baltimore, but that seemed the price of secrecy. That and…certain other precautions. No vampire would work as a butler, at least not for very long. And so, mortals. Jameson had lasted longer than any before him.
Plastering a smile on his face, the one that Phillip often called his crocodile grin, George politely ushered in the rotund duo. The Langhan sisters were the pinnacle of Baltimore society, avid art collectors, friends of poets and novelists, and prone to chatter in French so poorly accented it made George’s teeth ache. Behind them, Phillip ushered Kitty on one arm and a rather ordinary plump blonde morsel on his other. On another night she would be his mark for an evening snack, despite her unattractive limp. Tonight he would treat her as though anything she uttered fascinated him.
He was about to close the door behind them when he realized the party was not yet complete. A tall, slender woman had her back to him and seemed fascinated with something on the ground outside. He laughed as she knelt on all fours, pulled a matchbox from her bag and lit a match, and ran her hand along the wet grass and mud fronting the house.
“Perhaps she’ll hold that position for me,” he muttered, taking in her slender waist, full bottom, and breasts straining against her gown. A much better morsel!
The blonde woman suddenly squealed and scurried past George, rushing out and back to the other’s side, pulling at her sleeve and whispering into her ear. She seemed upset.
“Why, Phillip,” George said, feeling his brother’s presence beside him, “what on earth is your guest up to?”
Phillip joined him in the doorway and shrugged. “How peculiar. You two should hit it off.” He lowered his voice and whispered, “Be nice. Perhaps she is not quite right.”
The woman stood, brushed off her dress, and turned to the house. George forgot to breathe for a moment, and by the look on her face, so did the object of his attention.
“Why, she’s really as beautiful as I remembered.”
Phillip elbowed him. “You know her?”
She stood naked in a window and watched me flee my victim’s bedroom. “Oh, I’m mistaken. She looks like someone else.”
The blonde seemed flustered as she pulled her friend up the stairs, the latter walking slowly as if in a trance. Yes, she might be a little daft, George decided. But when she passed by him, she cast a quick glance at his face and pretended to smile.
Pretended? His heart quickened, fear and excitement warring within. Did she truly remember him? It had been dark and misty. He’d been disguised. Well, honestly, he’d been drunk on fresh blood and wasn’t sure.
They assembled in the parlor and Kitty made the introductions. The blonde…he forgot her name the moment it was mentioned. The brunette was Lillian Holmes, of the Federal Hill neighborhood. That would put her in the right location.
The blonde spoke in a rush. “Why, please excuse Lillian. She dropped her ring upon exiting the carriage and knelt to look for it. Isn’t that right, Lil?”
Lillian stared straight on at George for the first time, a hint of a smile pulling her lip up on one side. She narrowed her eyes, and although she fussed with her bag, she never broke that stare. “That is quite right, Bess. So lucky that I found exactly what I was looking for. One can never be quite certain in the dark, but some objects are not easily mistaken.”
A deep sense of satisfaction and longing sang through George’s veins. A formidable opponent, this Lillian Holmes seemed. All the sweeter to be brought to her knees, literally and figuratively.
The guests were silent, watching him and Lillian as if they didn’t know what sporting event was about to commence but knowing a competition when they saw one. Yes, he would give her a good run. Here was a mortal woman worth his time, at least for a short while. She would be the amusement to help take his mind off a far less attractive and deadlier foe.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In the lion’s den.
Lillian forced her gaze away from the Leaping Man. How could it be chance? Surely some nefarious plot was unraveling before her eyes, although she was no longer looking on from a safe distance. No, she sat within a few feet of an exquisite, evil murderer.
She turned and withdrew from her bag one of the pills the good doctor has given her, feigning a touch of her handkerchief upon her neck. But at a snicker from her right, she looked up. He’d seen her. Actually, he hadn’t taken his gaze off of her, even though his eyes seemed half-closed.
Lillian had felt herself be undressed by a man’s gaze before, but this was undressing down to the bone. His dark eyes seemed to deepen in color as she met his gaze. Did he breathe? He seemed carved of pale stone, his thick raven hair accentuating the pallor. It should have repulsed her, but she stared transfixed by his…spell? Yes, it was as if he cas
t a spell on her.
This medicine. Am I imagining things?
She forced herself to sit straight and to hold her hands still rather than reach for Bess’s and flee the house immediately. Uncle would not flee. He would stay and play cat and mouse with his prey, learning more than the criminal meant to reveal. But Bess was no Watson, and Lillian gulped down the horrible thought that she might be putting her friend in danger as well.
She forced a bit of a smile at the sisters Langhan, bedecked in many yards of black and burgundy silk and bantering back and forth about a burgeoning French style of painting. What to do? These women were at risk also, were they not? Or were they part of a gang of murderers, however unlikely it seemed?
Kitty Twamley sat nearby, smiling merrily, clearly enjoying the night already, clearly happy to be at a social event. How many events like this had the young woman longed for but never been invited to? Like Bess, Lillian realized. No doubt she’d been uplifted in station by association with her betrothed. Still, she seemed innocent enough. Not part of a pack of murderers.
Lillian’s head swam, and her hand shook as she reached for another pill. Damnation, but they were so weak compared to Mrs. Winslow’s remedy! How could she be so uncertain? She’d studied, prepared as well as any detective could. But she was a fool. You have no real training. Charlatan, egotistical charlatan. Now what?
She resolved to wait.
Her limbs grew heavy, and a bit of her tension drained away as she sipped at her cordial and the pills soothed her nerves. You always have your pistol, she reminded herself. They could stay a while, collect some data and then call directly on Constable Johnnie Moran, who was likely dining at her home right this moment. She had arranged a pleasant dinner for him and Aileen to take the place of this engagement.
“Pride goeth before the fall.”
“Excuse me, Miss Holmes?” The Leaping Man leaned forward, a different intensity in his stare now. He was no longer undressing her with his eyes but trying to read her thoughts, and it seemed as if she were back in Dr. Schneider’s office. The scrutiny made her skin burn and her heart quicken.
“Did I say something, Mr. Orleans?” God, had she actually spoken aloud?
“Please do call me George. I believe you quoted a famous saying about pride. I concur, of course. I’ve often told dear Phillip here the same thing. He, however, insists I am the more prideful of the two of us.”
“That does not surprise me. You are the older brother, it seems? Are there any more in the family?”
“Alas, only us. I hope that does not disappoint.”
“Hardly. I do not believe Baltimore could contain more than two Orleans siblings.”
The Leaping Man cocked his head to the side, and the nervous game relaxed for a moment as he seemed to see her anew. “And what makes you say that?”
“You both fill the room somehow.” Her head began to throb, and she set down her glass. How many pills had she taken?
“Are you all right, Lil? You’re a bit pale.” Bess had linked arms with her and whispered into her ear.
“As pale as Mr. Orleans?” Lillian whispered, wondering if her friend noticed how unnatural both brothers seemed. “Yes, quite all right. A glass of water might be welcome.”
George heard her and signaled to the butler, who quickly returned with the requested beverage. She sipped, and the cacophony of voices faded into the background.
A few deep, cleansing breaths and she turned back to George, whose appeal shocked her anew. “Have you been in Baltimore long, Mr. Orleans?”
“Do you dislike the name George? I would change it for you—”
“Your answer, George?”
He quirked a brow and sharply sat up. Lillian knew he must think her quite insane, first seeing her examine the soil outside his house to compare it to that found on her neighbor’s fire escape, and now to appear so fragile of constitution and so sharp of tongue…
Why did she care what a cutthroat thought, no matter how handsome and extraordinary? Here is your Moriarity. You wanted one. Do not lose sight of that.
She didn’t get her answer from George, as Madam Annaluisa Pelosi swept down the staircase in a swirl of scarves and bangles, leaving a trail of exotic scents in her wake. Lillian groaned, having forgotten the entertainment portion of the evening. What an annoying distraction.
As the guests greeted Annaluisa, she warded them off with a dramatic flourish of her hand and drew a scarf across her face. Then she beckoned to a round table at the far end of the room.
“Oh, a séance?” Bess breathed out excitedly. Everyone bustled toward the table but Lillian and George.
He stood and extended his hand to help her up, but she was frozen, turned to stone by his intense stare, which failed to be softened by his smirk. “I believe we are required to join…although I sense you have no more interest than I in the spirit world. Perhaps you would prefer to steal away?”
“In your company? I believe I would prefer the company of spirits.”
He laughed openly, and Lillian felt herself smile against her will. How could this handsome, intelligent man be the Leaping Man? And yet, he must be. Then he is the worst kind of evil, for he is charming, she reminded herself. Not in the false way her fortune-hunting suitors were charming. Not the studied charm of society. No, this man had depth and perhaps a bit of sorrow or pain that made him endearing despite his reprehensible actions.
She took his hand, and despite the coldness emanating from it her body warmed at the contact. Again a bit dizzy, she did need to rely on his steadying arm.
They walked to join the other guests, and as they did she tried to secure more data. “George, you never answered. How long have you been in Baltimore? Where are you from?”
“A good long time, and France. Would you answer the same?”
“You have no accent that I can detect. I have been here all my life. Although my family—that is, my uncles—live in England.”
And now he knows more about you than you do about him. You have met your match, Lillian Holmes. Or worse. There is real evil in the world, Mr. Conan Doyle had written. And I am holding Evil’s arm, she thought.
They took the only two spots left at the table, George to her right and Phillip to her left. Lillian barely cared about looking for the medium’s tricks, which might be an amusing challenge on another evening. No, she had to confirm her suspicions about George. Had he known the Mayor? Was he in the employ of a political enemy? But what of her young neighbor? Who could possibly want the death of an ordinary, innocent boy?
George sat too close. He studied her without looking at her, and the hairs on her arms bristled at the sensation.
Lillian caught the most fleeting contact between George and Annaluisa as she instructed her guests to hold hands atop the table. What was their connection? They certainly had met before this evening. Was the medium a partner in some awful plot? Lillian cast her gaze about the room, finding only the butler lurking in the shadows and the other guests showing varying degrees of interest or amusement.
You have your pistol. But now she would have to release the hands of the Orleans brothers to fetch it from the bag in her lap.
The séance proceeded as Lillian expected, with the snuffing of most of the candles in the room, chanting and swaying from Madam Pelosi, and a bit of snickering from the Langhan sisters. Their mirth ceased when the medium announced the arrival of their first otherworldly guest.
“Who is this? A famous artist, he claims. A Monsieur Eugene Delacroix?”
“Oh! We have one of his works!” Etta Langhan said to her sister, who nodded. “Could he want to speak to us?”
“Yeeeeeesssss… he would like to thank you and implores you to continue your patronage of artists like the talented Miss Twamley.”
“Gracious!” Kitty exclaimed.
Lillian resisted sighing loudly.
George leaned behind Lillian toward his brother and whispered in French, “Isn’t that the chap you commissioned to paint a mural
when you were on the throne? Had him locked up for some reason?”
“Quiet, you idiot,” Phillip retorted in the same language.
Throne? What on earth had George meant? The artist had been dead for decades in any case. Lillian resisted a reply in French to show them she had heard. No, do not play all of your cards now. Perhaps they will continue their conversation.
The spirits evidently lined up to speak through Madam Pelosi, as there was a communication for each person at the table: Kitty’s brother Patrick was happy after his illness and reunited with his parents, which made her brush a tear from her cheek; Agnes Langhan would make a great scientific discovery, according to her former colleague; Bess’s grandmother assured her of an unexpected treasure; and Phillip and George’s father was sorely disappointed in them, urging them to apply themselves more. The last elicited a howl of glee from the pair, making it clear that Annaluisa was in on the joke with them.
Lillian pushed down a lump in her throat. Thank God, no message for her. The medium no doubt understood she was too intelligent to fall for such a crude game. But… But what, Lil? Who would you hear from, even if it were possible? Your parents would not reveal themselves in life, much less in death.
Bess, trying to be helpful, glanced at her, and Lillian shook her intention off with a glare.
“The spirit world has not ignored your friend, Miss Wheeler.” Annaluisa moaned and swayed again, eyes closed.
As if he read her dread, George squeezed Lillian’s hand gently and leaned close. “You do understand that this is a game? Your blood pounds through your veins at a startling rate. Please, do not be afraid.”
“Of course not.” But fear gripped at her chest, fear of the man who tried to calm her, fear of the woman who tried to trick her, fear at the sensations swirling in her head, through her body. Another pill would help, but it was too late for that.
