by Anne Stuart
“I’m dying of syphilis. My comfortable life is over anyway.”
Collins expressed no sympathy or regret. “At least you’re taking Mrs. Cadbury with you. Should have kept to cleaner whores, but you like a bit of the mud, don’t you?”
“It was her fault. After that young girl died she wouldn’t allow me into her tawdry establishment, and I had to make do with the filthiest of streetwalkers. If her life wasn’t about to end I’d rape her myself to make sure she died of the same disease.”
“I thought all whores had it.” Collins sounded no more than mildly curious.
“Not the delicate flowers of Mrs. Howard’s establishment. That’s why they could demand the highest prices. They were very particular about their clientele, as if the sluts had any right to be.” He cleared his throat and spat. “And she was a worthless lay.”
All right, now she truly was going to throw up, Emma thought, thinking of frozen lakes and snow-covered hills. She had never looked at the men who’d been led into her room, never noticed who she’d been servicing in her drugged stupor. The very thought that Butcher Fenrush had once touched her was enough to make her gag.
“I might take a poke at her before I finish her off,” Collins said in a thoughtful voice. “Dunno whether I have the French disease or not, but if she dies being afraid of it then so much better. She owes me for the beating I got.”
“You should have finished her off before Rohan’s brother rescued her.”
“I likes to take me time.”
She felt the boot again. “Think she’s still knocked out?” Fenrush said.
“Hard to say. Might be dead already—she hit the marble floor hard.”
“She’s not dead,” Fenrush said grimly. “You said yourself, life’s doesn’t work out so conveniently. Haul her up and take a look.”
Oh, Christ, Emma thought, letting her body go completely limp. If she had to look at the man she might really throw up.
It took what little fortitude remained her to keep from reacting as Collins wrapped his big, cruel hands around her arms and hauled her up, but she managed to remain limp, eyes closed, as she was dumped onto a seat and the covering was ripped from her head.
She wanted to suck in the fresh air, to blink as murky light penetrated her eyelids, but she did nothing, simply lolled on the seat like a rag doll.
Someone kicked her leg but she didn’t react. At least it was an improvement over her ribs. If those splintered she’d have a hard time running, and she was going to need to be able to, sooner or later.
She felt a hand on her breast, tweaking it cruelly, but she still remained passive, and she heard Fenrush’s snort of disgust. “How hard did you hit her? She’s still out cold.”
“I didn’t hit her—I told you, she smashed her head on the marble floor. T’aint my fault if it scrambled her brain. She’s going to be dead in a short time—what does it matter to you?”
To her disgust she felt the seat shift as Fenrush moved closer. He stank of body odor and formaldehyde, and she couldn’t react, mustn’t react, when he put his doubtless filthy fingers on her face and pried up an eyelid.
That was one thing she couldn’t fake. “I thought so,” he said with a little crow of triumph. “She’s faking. She’s been awake all this time.”
But Mr. Fenrush’s knowledge of human anatomy had always been imperfect, and he wouldn’t know a sign of life if it bit him on the arse. She let her eyelids drop to half-mast, staring at him blearily and making a mumbling sound from behind the revolting gag, then sank back and closed them again, seemingly succumbing to unconsciousness once more.
“I dunno,” Collins said. “Looks kinda half dead to me.”
She heard Fenrush’s snarl. “You are hardly a respected medical professional.”
Neither are you, Emma thought, allowing her body to sway a bit. Since total insensibility was denied to her, she could instead appear dazed, non compos mentis, and an idiot like Fenrush wouldn’t know the difference. Collins said nothing, and Emma didn’t dare let her eyes do more than flutter open. He was picking his teeth. She closed them again.
They were in a carriage, or what passed for one, though it couldn’t be the fancy conveyance Fenrush travelled to work in each day. This one had no springs, the seats were torn and stained, and the smell was appalling. It must have . . . oh, god.
She knew that smell. Fenrush had risen to the top of his profession on the strength of his ability to procure one of the most needed of medical commodities. He’d been able to deliver hundreds of cadavers to the surgeons’ academy, some dead not more than a couple of hours, and no one had asked where they came from. They’d come from this carriage—the unmistakable smell of putrefying flesh was everywhere.
She gagged, unable to help herself, and no matter how hard she tried, visions of mountain streams and snow couldn’t stop her. If she vomited she would die, and Fenrush and Collins would watch her, unmoved. She gagged again, trying to swallow her bile, trying to think.
The mountain stream came again, and the snows, but the vision was clearer, and she knew where she was, even if she’d never set foot there in her life. She was in the Highlands of Scotland, by a deep, icy mountain burn, and Brandon was in the water, naked, long hair flowing behind him, swimming, impervious to the cold, impervious to everything as his eyes met hers across the distance, blue and calming, and she felt tendrils of comfort seep into her bones, cool, clean, washing away the horror.
The slap across her face jarred her back, but the crisis had passed, and she was tired of not fighting back. Her eyes flashed open, her hatred piercing through Fenrush’s smug face.
“I told you she was awake,” he crowed.
He was an unexpected-looking man, bluff, seemingly cheerful, full of bonhomie for his staff and the world at large. No one would look at him and think he was a monster.
“Of course you were lying,” he went on. “Women always lie and whores are women.”
She could have come up with an argument for that if she hadn’t been gagged, but instead she simply put all her fury into her eyes.
“I knew you remembered me,” he went on, his voice hurried, anxious, so at odds with his cheerful face. “I was just waiting for you to make your move, to try to take me down. You knew I wasn’t going to let you, didn’t you? I could see you watching me, see you planning your attack, but you should have known you could never hurt me. Good always triumphs.”
He was mad, Emma realized without a trace of sympathy. This wasn’t rational—she still didn’t recognize him or remember anything of a past encounter, and the man actually thought he was on the side of the angels. If Collins recognized his employer’s delusions he didn’t pay any attention, still picking at his blackened teeth.
Fenrush’s eyes were bulging slightly. “Why aren’t you saying something? Haven’t you got more lies, more excuses, aren’t you going to say you love me, that you never wanted. . .”
“She can’t talk,” Collins weighed in. “You told me to gag her. If you want her to speak then you have to take off the gag. In fact, this’d be a good time to get rid of her.”
Fenrush’s look of disgust was laughably patrician. “I am not going to ‘get rid of her’ as you put it. I couldn’t expect a man of your limitations to understand, but I have a plan. Dumping her on the side of the road is not part of it. Fire, Collins. Only fire washes away all sins.”
Fire and washing were pretty much opposites, Emma thought, letting her contempt distract her from her current disastrous position. She had to content herself with giving him a look of withering disdain, then leaning back and closing her eyes as if he bored her.
It worked. He yanked her forward and tore the gag away, spittle flying from his mouth as he screamed at her. “You will not ignore me! You are worthless, a travesty, a mockery of all that is sacred and noble in the medical profession! You filthy, disease-ridden trollop!”
“I gather you’re the one who’s disease-ridden,” she said calmly, surprised her voice so
unded so normal. “I myself am quite healthy, and signs of the illness would have been noticeable by now if I had it. You kill more patients than you save, I save more than die, and as for all that is sacred and noble, you provided a never-ending supply of freshly-killed bodies for research, enriching your pockets and leading to your appalling appointment as head of the surgeons’ hospital, when there should have been little doubt you were murdering people for their corpses.” It was a wild shot across the bow, but it hit its mark, and there was no way she could hide her horror.
“Fact is, he didn’t kill ‘em,” Collins pointed out. “I did, me and me mates. Though occasionally he’d have to finish ‘em off if we got sloppy and delivered some still twitching, but I thinks he enjoyed that.”
“Shut up!” Fenrush screamed. “They were worthless, the dregs of society. They gave their lives for science, they. . .”
“They gave their lives for your pockets,” Collins said. “Admit it. And they weren’t all low-lives—you sent me after some of the gentry when someone paid you enough. There was that young man—son of a duke, he was, and those two old ladies. What’d ya want them for?”
Fenrush no longer looked like a cheerful shopkeeper—he was pasty, pale, and sweaty. “I admit there is no use for female cadavers in science,” he said loftily. “But I have benefactors, and small favors must be dispensed to keep them happy.”
Emma opened her eyes. “Small favors like killing their wives?”.
“Shut up, bitch,” Fenrush snarled.
“More like their mothers—both of them were too old to fuck before I did ‘em,” Collins said. “You’re a different matter.”
She didn’t even blink, looking at him like he was a slug. “I’d be surprised if your bollocks are still up to the task.”
He lunged off the opposite seat, but suddenly there was a blade between them—and not a small one. Fenrush held the saw used for cutting through bone, and it would slice through Collins quite easily. “Sit down,” Fenrush said icily. “I told you I had plans for her. She’ll go with the others. That is, if this time you did your job right.”
Collins sat back, disgruntled. “It’s taken care of. One spark and it’ll go up, with all them dollymops inside. But not this one. I deserve my go at her.”
“Especially this one,” Fenrush said. “She must burn the brightest.”
Emma promptly vomited.
Chapter 27
He couldn’t find where she’d gone. He’d been dead asleep when Noonan had come barging into the room, and his immediate, groggy thought had been to protect Emma, hide her from intrusive eyes, but the bed was empty, cold without her, and Noonan ripped the covers off his naked body.
“You’ve done it this time, me boy,” he said. “She’s run off, and if you have any sense you’ll let her go.” He paused, running his eyes down Brandon’s length. “Though it seems you enjoyed yourself well enough.”
He got out of bed slowly, not bothering to glance down at his body. There would be small bites, scratches, love marks. He’d managed to drive her into a frenzy, and each mark on his body was a badge of honor, far more than his battle wounds. “What are you talking about?”
“Your girl’s gone. Run off just a minute ago—told me to tell you goodbye. What’d you do—bungle the job? That’s not like you.”
Brandon didn’t waste time with niceties—he washed himself with the bowl of cool water, splashing it liberally on the floor before looking around for his clothes. They were scattered over the floor, and Noonan was already handing him his drawers. “Where was she going?”
“She didn’t tell me, you young fool. I don’t guess she wants you to know.”
He yanked his breeches on over the drawers. “What did she say? Was she angry?” He was having trouble thinking straight—why had she left? He was going to . . . he wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but one thing he’d been certain of. He wasn’t going to let her go.
But she had gone anyway.
“Let her go,” Noonan said again. “What have you got to offer her, eh? She’s nothing but trouble, when you’ve got that nice girl to marry so you can settle down and become a good, solid gentleman around town.”
He cast Noonan a dangerous look. “That sounds like pure hell.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want her!” The words burst from him, and the simple truth shocked him. “I want to take her to Scotland and never come back. I hate the city, hate the south. I want her and the glens and the lochs and the cold rain, and by God that’s what I’m going to have.”
“And what if she doesn’t want the same thing? Maybe she’s a soft southern girl.”
“She wants the same thing,” he said, knowing he was right. “She’s just afraid to fight for it.”
“A woman who won’t fight isn’t worth having.”
He considered hitting Noonan, but the man was twice his age and half his size. “I don’t know why she ran, but she’s fought all her life, and if something is right she’d do it, no matter what the cost. She just needs to realize this is right.”
There was a pause, and then Noonan laughed. “Glad you figured that out, boy. For a smart one you can be thickheaded as a goat.” He tossed him his jacket. “She went on foot, heading toward the docks. I expect she’s either gone back to that doss house she was living or on to the hospital. You want a horse or a carriage?”
“Neither. If she’s walking then we’ll be faster going the same way. Go fetch me a cup of tea while I find the rest of my clothes. I’ll meet you at the front door.”
“Aye, aye, cap’n,” Noonan said, disappearing from the room, leaving Brandon to berate himself for falling asleep.
Emma was nowhere near her rooms, and no one had seen her for days. The people in the shabby neighborhood were neither villains nor whores in the light of day, but solid working class, and they spoke of Emma with pride and affection. She’d made a difference there as well as in the lives of what his brother had called “the Gaggle,” and his rage at himself grew exponentially.
“Must be the hospital then,” Noonan observed. “Or we could wait for her here—she’ll have to come back sooner or later. We could get breakfast in that tavern and watch for her.” There was a plaintive note in his voice that Brandon ignored.
“The hospital, it is. It seems to be the only thing she cares about besides the women she’s helping.”
“And you think she’ll turn her back on all that and come to Scotland with us?” Noonan’s voice was caustic.
“Yes.” It was that simple, he was that sure. He should have told her, should have asked her, but the night had been overwhelming, and he hadn’t been able to do anything but hold her, lost in her. It wasn’t too late to fix that. It couldn’t be.
The streets were growing more crowded as the day progressed, and they threaded their way through the crowds as quickly as they could, slowed down by a group of toughs who took exception to being jostled and weren’t interested in an apology.
It had delayed them almost ten minutes but in the end he was exhilarated, his fists bruised, a cut on his mouth, and the sense that he was finally doing something simple, something right. Noonan was an able fellow warrior, and the five toughs were laid out in various states of disrepair as the two of them moved on, faster now.
Temple Hospital was a gray stone building, dark and depressing, so grim Brandon wondered how Emma could stand going there every day, but Benedick had assured him that she loved it, and his brother never lied.
He’d have to build her a surgery in Scotland, something a bit more cheerful, with lots of windows to let in whatever light the contrary Scottish weather felt like providing. If she didn’t mind this dismal place then the frequent overcast skies up north shouldn’t bother her.
But there was no trace of her, and no one seemed to know anything, even when he mentioned Benedick’s name. Emma was gone, and he had absolutely no idea where she was heading.
Back to Melisande was a possibility, but he didn’t thi
nk so. If she wanted to avoid him that would be the last place she would choose. Rage and hopelessness filled him, and he wanted to hit something, someone in his fear and frustration. Didn’t she realize she was in danger? Didn’t she know. . .?
“Begging your pardon, sir,” a small voice said, and he turned to look at a tiny scrap of a female, bucket and mop in hand, standing a few feet away in the deserted hallway of the surgery. It was little more than a whisper, and when he didn’t move she gestured him closer with one small hand. He went.
“Are you looking for Mrs. Cadbury, sir?” she said in a low voice, casting a furtive glance around as if to make certain no one overheard her.
He barely managed to keep his voice calm. “Yes, I am. Apparently she hasn’t been here today—at least, that’s what everyone tells me.”
“Not true,” she said. “She was here, all right, talking to one of them doctors, when Mr. Fenrush’s man came up and pushed her. She fell and hit her head, and then Mr. Collins picked her up and took off—it looked like it was to Mr. Fenrush’s office. They wouldn’t let me follow, but I kept me eyes out, and not long after Mr. Fenrush and his man took off in the old carriage, the one they use for bringing the bodies in.” The woman shuddered. “Not nice, that carriage. They had me clean it one time and you couldn’t get the smell out of it.”
“Was Mrs. Cadbury with them?”
“Couldn’t see—just Mr. Fenrush and Collins were sitting on the seats, but that didn’t mean they didn’t take her. I mean, where is she, if not with them, I ask you.”
Cold resolve filled him. “Did you see which direction they were headed?”
“Dunno. Up north, maybe.”
North. The carriage was heading north, toward Suffolk where Starlings and the Dower House stood. Brandon had no proof they were headed there, he had only his instincts to rely on, but he had learned to trust them.
