by C. J. Archer
"I forgot to show you something yesterday, on our tour," he said.
"I would hardly call it a tour. You were the worst guide."
"I showed you every room worth seeing."
"With the blandness of an automaton. There was no vivid description, and no stories about the previous occupants or the rooms themselves."
"You didn't need a description since you could see the room for yourself, and I'm not a storyteller."
"So I see. So what room did you forget to show me?"
"The dungeon."
I gasped. "There's a dungeon under our feet?"
"The previous house on this site was medieval. When the house was removed, the dungeon was not filled in. It still has chains hanging from the walls. Would you like to see it?"
"No! What makes you think I'd want to see a dungeon?"
"Boys like gruesome things."
I strode past him up the stairs. "Not this boy. I've seen enough gruesome things in my life without needing to see more."
He followed me up in silence and together we headed back to his rooms. Once inside, he locked the door and pocketed the key in his trouser pocket.
"So what happens now?" I asked, throwing myself on the sofa. "Are you going to question me again? Has the visit from the committee members rattled you enough that you want to throw me in the dungeon and apply the thumb screws?"
"No."
"Then we have hit a wall. Your men will learn nothing of use by roaming around London, and you have learned nothing of use by roaming around the grounds with me."
"You're mistaken." He touched a teapot sitting on a tray on his desk to test its temperature then poured two cups. He handed one to me then sat on the chair opposite. "I've learned a great deal from our conversation."
He couldn't have. I'd not said a thing about my gender, my necromancing, or my home. I'd been very careful. I sipped, watching him through my hair.
He sat back and sipped too, never taking his gaze off me. He seemed to enjoy drawing out the moment, teasing my frayed nerves to breaking point. Finally, he placed the cup in the saucer. "You're witty and observant," he said, "and educated."
"That's not very useful."
"And your accent changes when you're not thinking about it."
I lowered my cup. Had my accent changed or was he bluffing? None of the boys ever commented on the way I spoke. I was always careful to sound like one of them.
"When you feel comfortable, it becomes more refined. It's a north London accent, middle class, perhaps originating not far from here. You only resort to gutter language when you think it will make an impact and drive home the disguise you've built for yourself. When you're having a conversation with me alone, it changes. My guess is that you haven't lived on the street all your life, but came from a good home before your circumstances changed."
A good home. That's what everyone called middle class households like mine. A good home inhabited by a good man who'd sadly lost his cherished daughter the same night his wife died. Yes, that summed it up nicely.
Fitzroy watched me, and I watched him in return; my heart had sunk to my stomach. So he'd been kind to me only to get me to relax in his presence and extract information from me. I should have known and been more alert. I should not have lowered my defenses for a moment. I should not have allowed myself to be coaxed into submission like a dog.
I tossed the cup and its contents on the beautiful thick rug and marched toward the bedroom. I slammed the door and looked around for something to throw. I picked up the bowl of water from the washstand but lowered it again.
I'd been around boys for so long I'd forgotten how not to behave like them.
With a sigh, I lay on the truckle bed. After an hour or so, Fitzroy entered. He didn't speak; he just set my book down on the bedside table and left again.
I warred with myself. I wanted to read, but he was so smug—so arrogant—that I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of letting him know that he'd understood my needs. It felt like letting him win.
When I could stand the boredom no longer, however, I retrieved the book and flipped to the page I had read up to. My temper was only harming me, not him, after all. With that in mind, I returned to the parlor and passed by his desk, where he sat conducting his scientific experiments. I would have preferred to watch him but I was determined not to show any interest.
"There's cake," he said without looking up.
A slice had been set down on the table near my cup, which had been retrieved from the floor. It was empty and the rug damp where I'd spilled the tea. I padded back to his desk and the teapot and refilled my cup. I had the sudden urge to spill it over his experiments and ruin them.
As if he knew what I was thinking, his hand darted out and caught my wrist. The brown liquid in the dish in his other hand didn't so much as splash a drop over the side.
"I wasn't going to do it," I said.
He paused then let me go. I returned to the sofa and continued reading from where I'd left off. It was another mystery book. Perhaps that was the only type of fiction he read.
Fitzroy was packing up his experiments when there was a knock at the door. "Sir!" called Seth. "We have news."
They couldn't have found out about me. Surely not. I tucked my legs up beneath me and gripped the book harder.
Fitzroy let Seth and Gus in. Their hair was damp with sweat, and dust smudged their clothing, hands and faces. Their gazes flew to me.
I swallowed heavily.
Fitzroy waited patiently for them to begin. I didn't know how he could remain so calm and not pester them to speak. I was coiled tight and felt sick to my stomach. I pretended to read.
"We did as you said, and asked some questions of the little gutter snipes," Gus said. "Cost us a bleeding fortune."
"But we found out much," Seth went on. "Something very curious is going on, sir."
I felt their gazes on me again and glanced up. I closed the book. There was no point trying to fool anyone.
"Curious how?" Fitzroy asked. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest. Although the men looked exhausted, he didn't offer them a seat or refreshments.
"We traced him from district to district, just as you told us to," Seth said. "He was remembered, and it wasn't hard. In fact, it was too easy. They recognized him from our description immediately."
"We found out where he were three years ago, then four and five," Gus said, staring at me. He had an odd expression on his face. It took me a moment to realize he was wary, perhaps even scared.
"It was then that we understood why it had been so easy to trace him," Seth said. "He was always the same as the way we described him—a young lad of thirteen with a pointed chin and with brown hair hanging over his face, only staying for six months or so then moving on. A lad who never told anyone where he was from. Exactly the same, sir. He never aged."
They weren't the smartest fellows. Fitzroy wouldn't have needed to go back all five years to realize something was amiss. He was looking at me now too, but it wasn't clear what he thought of my supposed agelessness.
"Is it magic?" Gus whispered, still staring at me.
I wasn't clear if he was addressing me so I refrained from answering.
"Perhaps he's actually an elderly man," Seth suggested.
I smiled. They couldn't be further from the truth.
"You said you traced him as far back as five years ago," Fitzroy said. "No further?"
"We hit a dead end, sir," Seth said. "Five years ago, he just seemed to suddenly appear from nowhere. The gang he joined doesn't know where he came from before that. The trail went cold in Tufnell Park. We're sorry, sir."
I was giddy with relief and gripped the book harder to anchor myself. My cheeks warmed again, and I hadn't realized I'd gone cold until that moment.
Fitzroy dismissed his men.
Seth and Gus left, their gazes upon me as they backed out of the room. The poor men looked terribly confused, although less worried since I hadn't shriveled them with
my "magic."
Fitzroy came to my side and calmly squatted down. His face was only inches from mine, but I didn't dip my head. I watched him through the strands of my hair, daring him to see the woman behind the veil. Did he realize what Seth and Gus's findings meant? The man's pitch black eyes gave nothing away.
"Tell me your secret, Charlie." His deep voice rumbled from his chest and vibrated over my skin. The undercurrent raised the hairs on the back of my neck.
"Or what?"
"Or I will need to employ more…drastic measures."
I huffed out a humorless laugh, flipping out the hair at my nose. "I have nearly starved to death, almost frozen to death, been beaten to near death, left to rot in jail with men who wanted to do things to me that made me want to die. Unless you plan on killing me, your drastic measures will be a gift by comparison."
I stood, and he stood too, blocking me. He towered above me, and I was more aware of the difference in our sizes than ever. But he didn't touch me. He simply eyed the book clutched in my arms then walked to his desk.
Did he mean to deny me the books? Perhaps other entertainments too, or even his company? I would regret that most of all—and I wished I wouldn't.
"Boring me to death is something new, at least."
***
I slept fitfully that night. My nightmares kept waking me. I wondered if I'd made any sounds and woken Fitzroy too. The devil in me hoped so.
He was gone before I got out of bed in the morning. When I tried the door to see if he'd forgotten to lock it, Gus spoke from the corridor outside.
"Don't try escaping, lad. You won't trick me today."
"Where's Death?" I asked.
"Out."
"How long will he be?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"On how quick he'll be."
Breakfast must have been sitting on the tray for some time. The bacon was cold and the toast limp. I nibbled the bacon before returning to the bedroom and washing.
I read all morning. Fitzroy had not removed the books, thank goodness, and he'd even left the newspaper. I read it too, for variety. His threat of "drastic measures" had come to nothing, it seemed. So much for my fears.
Gus and Seth took turns at bringing in tea and then luncheon, and finally dinner arrived as dusk settled on the horizon. Fitzroy was still out, they said. His long absence stretched my nerves, and I couldn't concentrate on reading anymore. I knocked on the door.
"I want to go for a walk," I told whoever was on the other side.
"No," Gus called back. "You're not allowed out today. Death's orders."
I sighed. "Come inside and play cards with me then."
"Can't do that neither. Death said we're only to come in to bring you food."
"So I can't even have a bath in the bathroom?"
"Why do you want another bath? You had one two days ago."
I kicked the door. "I hate you!"
"Because you can't have a bath?" He grunted. "Don't see how that's my fault."
"What about warm water? Can I have some delivered to the bedroom?"
"S'pose so."
I heard his heavy footsteps disappear, but they returned almost immediately. Seth mustn't be too far away.
Several minutes later, Seth delivered a jug of hot water. I added it to the cold water in the basin and dipped my fingers in. Perfect. Perhaps I'd wash my hair again. It still smelled faintly of kerosene.
"Civilization agrees with you," Seth said with a nod at the water.
"What do you mean?"
"You were filthy when you first came here, and now you want baths all the time, and warm water for washing. There were no baths or warm water where you came from. It'll be hard to give it up and go back to that life."
Yes, it would be hard. I'd settled into the easy life at Lichfield Towers much too readily, and the thought of walking away from it was becoming less and less appealing with every passing day.
What would happen if I gave in and told Fitzroy everything? Would it really be so bad?
Seth left and the lock on the main door clicked. I shut the bedroom door too, just to be safe, and removed my clothes. I washed my body first and dried off with the towel, then tipped my head forward into the basin and rinsed my hair. I closed my eyes as water cascaded down my neck, over my ears, my face. Its warmth was heavenly. I sighed.
"You lied to me." The familiar, deep voice sent my heart plunging to my toes. I opened my eyes to see Fitzroy standing beside me, his fists clenched into tight balls at his sides. From the angle of my position, I could not see his face, yet I knew he could see me. All of me. There was no hiding my nakedness now, or my womanliness.
CHAPTER 8
Slowly, slowly, I straightened, turning away from him and covering my chest and nether regions as I did so. Nobody had seen me naked since I was a little girl, and my humiliation was absolute. My face and neck burned. My heart smashed into my ribs. I wanted to run. I wanted to curl into a ball and hide under the blankets. Hot tears stung my eyes and my lower lip wobbled. I bit it hard.
A towel came around my shoulders. I grasped the edges and pulled it tight around my body. It provided enough modesty to allow me to turn around and meet Fitzroy's gaze. A gaze that quickly flew to my face. Had he been staring at my legs? If so, there was no heat in his cheeks, nor his eyes. They grew blacker as they drilled into me.
"You should have told me," he snarled.
"Should I?" I shot back. "You kidnapped me, held me prisoner, and want my necromancy magic for reasons I can't yet fathom, and yet I should have trusted you enough to tell you my greatest secret?" The moment I'd said it, I regretted it. I'd just admitted to being a necromancer.
It probably didn't matter now. He showed no surprise. I suspected he'd discovered more than my gender today.
He lowered his head but continued to watch me through those midnight black eyes of his. His chest and shoulders heaved with his deep breaths, and his jaw was set like iron. His unbound hair tumbled forward. He couldn't have looked more like the devil if he'd worn horns and carried a pitchfork.
I tossed my head, flicking my wet hair back. I no longer needed to hide behind it. His eyes roamed over my face, slowly taking in the parts of me he'd not seen until now. I felt my blood heat again and I prayed I could control the blush. Fortunately, his gaze met mine once more, and his fury returned. Indeed, he seemed angrier than ever.
As was I. He may have discovered my gender, but he hadn't switched to acting the gentleman. He hadn't left me alone to dress. Did he expect me to do it in front of him? I couldn't guess what he wanted. All I knew was that he was furious with me.
"Are you mad at me because you didn't realize sooner?" I smiled, but it was all teeth and no humor. "The clever Lincoln Fitzroy failed to notice that I was a girl. How disappointed in yourself you must be."
He shifted his weight, and the movement had me stepping back, away from him, out of his reach. I'd said too much. He would surely force me to stop talking somehow.
Yet he didn't come closer. To my surprise, the fury in his gaze dampened a little. His body was still rigid, however, and his hands balled into fists.
"You're right. I should have noticed. But to be fair, you were very good, Charlie. Or should I say, Charlotte."
I jerked my head to the side. Being called by that name brought back memories; some good, some horrible and sad. But it also felt wrong. I wasn't Charlotte anymore. She was gone. "My name is Charlie and that's what you will call me."
"I'm not angry because I didn't see what you truly were," he said. "I'm angry because you lied to me about it."
"Of course I bloody lied! Do you know what it's like for girls living on the streets? It has been…difficult as a boy. As a girl…" I shook my head. I couldn't finish the sentence. I didn't want to think about the horrors that would have befallen me if people had known I was a girl—and a virgin from a good family at that.
His fingers uncurled at his sides. He crossed his arms. "You think I woul
d have taken advantage of you?"
"I don't know. You did kidnap me and were rather rough in the process."
"That's because I thought you were a boy."
"You think it's acceptable to be rough while kidnapping a boy?"
"I kept you in here. In my private chambers."
"What was so improper about that? You didn't see anything until today. And you already knew I was a woman when you marched in here," I added with a sniff. "If impropriety bothered you, you would have knocked first."
"I could have hurt you. You resisted me in the street, you tried to escape and kill me in the process. I could have hurt you at any of those times to stop you." He lowered his face to mine. "I do not like to hurt women."
"So my lie upsets your moral code? Ha! Forgive me for thinking you a hypocrite, Mr. Death."
His lips tightened. His nostrils flared. I feared I'd gone too far, but it would seem his moral code was strong—at least where the harming of women was concerned.
"You didn't hurt me much," I told him. "Even though you probably wanted to, after I shot you." As soon as I said it, I wished I hadn't. I didn't want to soften. I wanted to remain mad at him for walking in on me. Anger was better than humiliation. I still felt sick, knowing that he'd seen everything. He couldn't fail to measure me against Lady Harcourt and other beautiful women he must have bedded. My body was skeletal compared to her lushness. How he must find the comparison amusing.
"Get dressed." He stalked to the door, his strides long and purposeful. "This conversation isn't finished."
I glared at the closed door, anger and humiliation swirling inside me because of that man. That insufferable bully. I hated him. Hated his smugness and arrogance, hated the way he stomped over my pride. I was caught between wanting to slap his cheek and never seeing him again. One would satisfy the furious woman in me, the other the embarrassed one. I would both slap him and leave if I thought I had a chance of success. But I wasn't fast enough to hit him and he'd proven too difficult to escape from so far.
I took my time dressing. I sat on the bed for an age, the towel wrapped around me, and thought of all the tricks and horrid things he'd done to me in the last few days to fuel my anger and dampen the embarrassment. But there were so few instances. He'd even shown kindness, on occasion. Whenever I thought of those times, and how I'd wanted more of them, I felt even sicker at what he'd seen and what he must think of me now.
