by LENOX, KIM
“Miss.” Archer reclaimed her attention. He clutched his towel, unable to release it as long as she stood in their midst. “I beg only a moment, so that I may dress.”
In those few moments he could interrogate Leeson and extract an explanation for her unexpected presence at Black House. But with a glance, he could see the damage had already been done. Despite the brave set of her jaw, her remarkable eyes glimmered with tears.
“I wrote you a number of letters,” she whispered. “Did you receive them?”
Archer cast an intense glance at Leeson, who responded with a sheepish shrug and shake of his head.
“It appears not.”
“What about my telegraphs?”
Another glance. Another shrug.
“I received no telegraphs.”
She nodded curtly. “Why must you look to him for every answer?”
“Because Mr. Leeson handles my correspondence and obviously does an awful job of things, Miss—Miss—”
Damn, he had stepped in it now. He knew her name to be Elena, but could not, for all the sinners in hell, recall her surname.
Leeson mumbled the answer.
Archer blurted, “Miss Whitney.”
Elena gasped, her eyes widening in realization. “You don’t even know who I am.”
“I know who you are,” he barked, furious with his secretary for speaking the answer out loud, when silent communication would have been the obvious choice. Realizing how harsh he must sound, he attempted to redeem himself in a subtler tone. “I simply could not recall your name.”
Tense silence held the room.
He uttered, “If I could just put on my shirt and trousers, we could—”
“Perhaps tomorrow.” The girl straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. Her eyes no longer met his. “I am obligated elsewhere tonight and fear I am already unforgivably late.”
“Miss Whitney—”
“A pleasant evening to you all.”
To his dismay she set off toward the door where, her arms crossed, Selene stood, a petulant gatekeeper. She offered no leeway, and as Elena passed through, their skirts brushed heavily.
“Don’t do it, Selene—” Archer warned.
But Selene’s hand already gripped the edge of the door.
Elena’s head pounded with the same intensity of the door that had just slammed behind her. All this time, she had lived in Lord Black’s home and appreciated his generosity, believing he was a man to be respected, that he had bestowed his guardianship upon her out of kindness, and out of respect for her deceased father. She had waited for him to return to England, craved his company and imagined him to be some sort of surrogate family, or at least a friend. Someone who might answer her questions, or provide the key to unlock her memories.
Now she realized he was none of those things, and devastatingly, she was nothing at all to him. He was simply a rich profligate, too involved in himself to remember her name, let alone be concerned with her past or future. Had he even written the letter?
She waited until she’d reached the hall to ease her shriveled lungs with breath.
“Good evening, Miss Whitney,” a voice trilled from above.
Two footmen carried Mrs. Hazelgreaves down the staircase, step-by-careful-step. Velvet straps bound the elderly woman into her favorite chair. “My apologies for being so late, dear. I forgot my wrap, and as usual Mary Alice was nowhere to be found. These young men were kind enough to carry me back up.”
Mrs. Hazelgreaves wore a pale pink gown—pink was her favorite color. The faces of the footmen had surpassed pink. They were red with exertion, and their liveries were soaked through with perspiration. A few more steps and they settled her diminutive, gray-haired companion to the floor. If Mrs. Hazelgreaves were aware of Lord Black’s return to England, she gave no indication.
Elena considered sharing the news, but decided on silence. Mrs. Hazelgreaves, who had never met his lordship either, would certainly insist on making his immediate acquaintance.
“What is it, dear? Are you ill? You look piqued.” The old woman sighed heavily. “I warned you about working with those unfortunates in Whitechapel. Filthy and diseased, they are.”
“I’m not ill.”
Not in the way Mrs. Hazelgreaves meant anyway.
Mrs. Hazelgreaves continued to hold out hope Elena would change her mind about working in Whitechapel, or working at all for that matter. For that very reason, Elena hadn’t yet shared the news of her application to medical school.
Elena knelt beside the chair and unfastened the straps with frantic hands. It was only a matter of time before the new arrivals would venture out from the study, and she had no intention of greeting them again.
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Young ladies of privilege aren’t intended to take employment. I dread what Lord Black will say when he finds out.”
“Perhaps you should write him a letter,” Elena bit out from between clenched teeth.
She presented her arm and assisted Mrs. Hazelgreaves out of the chair. Servants appeared, bearing long cloaks that they draped over the ladies’ shoulders. The main doors of the house flew open, and a footman swept in, his cloak dripping onto the marble floor. He lifted an enormous umbrella, even though a generous porte cochere would offer them due protection from the downpour.
“Careful, girl,” her companion warned. “Don’t let the rain cockle your gown.”
Elena was no longer concerned about her gown. Instead, it was her sanity that was now in serious danger of becoming cockled.
Archer thrust each button through its corresponding hole. “I don’t like surprises.”
“My apologies, your lordship.” Mr. Leeson grasped up a leather case and riffled through its contents. “I just don’t understand. . . .”
Selene huffed across the room and flung herself onto the chaise, pouting as she always did when they spoke the ancient tongue, a language that at only nineteen hundred years of age, she did not understand.
“I asked you to take care of her.”
“I did take care of her, sir.”
“I meant for you to take her to a hospital.” Archer arranged his silk necktie with practiced expertise. “And then perhaps arrange for her to attend one of those girls schools.”
Leeson’s eye narrowed, and he thrust his barrelchest outward. “You told me to use my judgment.”
“Something I shall not ask you to do again.”
Amaranthine Reclaimers hunted. They did not intervene. By sparing Elena’s life that night on the roof, Archer had revealed a dangerous weakness within himself, one he still did not understand and had ruthlessly striven to purge ever since. That she had appeared tonight, in his very sanctuary, when he had considered her to be a forgotten part of his past, left him highly unsettled.
Mr. Leeson appeared to find that which he searched for. He set the case aside and sifted through several thin booklets.
“Here we are. Listen carefully.” Opening to one dog-eared page, he read aloud in an affected voice, “With a generous dower from her uncle, a dressing room full of exquisite Worth gowns, and invitations to the Season’s most exclusive balls, Minerva was assured of betrothal to a wealthy suitor within the passing of three months’ time.”
Archer snatched the volumes away and sifted through them. “Minerva Fairchild’s Love Story? His Lordship’s Hidden Heart? You made your decisions regarding Miss Whitney’s future based upon penny dreadfuls?”
Mr. Leeson stiffened. “These novelettes are an accurate reflection of modern culture and ideals. Even so, things haven’t changed much over time. Mortal women have always required two simple elements to achieve happiness: a wealthy husband and babies.”
“Surely you jest.”
Archer couldn’t claim to know what might please a mortal woman. Although necessity required him to move amongst them at times, he took care to keep himself distinctly apart. The few he had passed time with had seemed to enjoy sex an inordinate amount.
&
nbsp; “No, it’s true,” Mr. Leeson assured him. “You know of my interest in mortal behavior. I’ve gathered many sources besides these.”
“You don’t say.”
“I thought to myself, why shouldn’t we give the girl those things? We had no intention of returning to England for at least another decade. During that time the house would remain fully staffed, and the carriages would sit unused. Heaven knows you’ve enough wealth to last a thousand mortal lifetimes. Better that Miss Whitney benefit than no one at all.”
“You should have warned me. I didn’t even know her name, for God’s sake.”
Archer closed his eyes, trying to forget the look of betrayal she’d thrown him just before leaving the study.
Leeson bit his lower lip. “Miss Whitney’s appearance was as much a surprise to me as to you. Your London barristers were to submit requests for additional funds if the girl depleted those I . . . er, you, originally allocated, including a generous lump-sum settlement if she were to become betrothed to a suitable gentleman, the details of which would, again, be handled by a committee of your barristers. I never received a request, and so naturally, believed her to be successfully wed.”
“What of the letters and telegraphs she mentioned?”
“I never received any.”
“Why would she claim to have sent them, if she did not?”
A dark realization swept over Archer. He glared toward Selene, who lounged on the chaise, twining her long hair around her fingers.
“Selene, do you know anything about the letters and telegraphs that were sent by Miss Whitney?”
“Hmmm,” she sighed heavily, and crossed her ankles upon a tufted cushion.
“No doubt burned to ash,” muttered Mr. Leeson.
More likely, Selene had eaten them. A bibliophile of immortal proportions, she suffered a quirky, fetishlike hunger for the written word—a hunger of the most literal sort. She devoured all varieties of letters, newspapers and books like an indulged child might gobble down sweets.
“I have no patience for this,” Archer growled, thrusting one arm, and then the other, into its coat sleeve. “Not tonight when there is so much to be done. But Selene, please know you and I will discuss this matter further, and in excruciating detail, when I return tomorrow morning.”
“We’re going out?” Selene shot up, dropping her guise of languor. “I’ll fetch my mantle.”
He grasped her by the arm as she swept past. She twisted, pressing herself and all her womanly attributes against him. With smiling lips and direct gaze she sought to provoke, and to tempt, but he felt nothing for her, no spark of their former passion. He never forgave a betrayal.
“Understand this,” he uttered quietly, “because I will not repeat myself. We don’t work together. We will never work together again.”
Selene jerked away, a deep flush claiming her cheeks. “I’m a Reclaimer, damn it, just like you. We’ve two targets, working in ridiculously close proximity to each other. It only makes sense we unite our efforts.”
“I’ve already got your damned errant brother to deal with. I don’t need you underfoot as well.”
“That’s not fair.” Her fists curled into the silk of her skirts.
“You don’t think so?”
“Of course not.”
“You’re right. I’ve changed my mind.”
“You have?” She stepped forward, her expression easing into hopefulness.
“You won’t be going out at all tonight.”
She froze. “What?”
“That’s right. Drink wine. Play cards with Leeson.” Archer narrowed his gaze into hers. “Eat some books. But you are forbidden to leave the premises of Black House.”
He strode from the room, firmly shutting the door against her shriek of fury.
In the hall, he grasped the wooden handle of the brass bell and gave it a stiff ring. Footsteps sounded from down the hall. Mr. Jarvis appeared.
“Yes, my lord?”
Archer glanced at his pocket watch. “I’ll need the coach again.”
“Very good. I’ll inform the mews.” The man bowed, then retraced his steps.
“Mr. Jarvis,” Archer called after him.
“Yes, Lord Black?”
“I wish to be taken wherever Miss Whitney has gone.”
Chapter Three
“The stuffing in this cushion is too soft. It is only a matter of time before my back begins to ache.” Mrs. Hazelgreaves scowled and gripped the pommel of her cane.
Elena and her companion had only just arrived at Lord and Lady Kerrigan’s Curzon Street house. After they’d made their way through the receiving line, Mrs. Hazelgreaves had been all too eager to find a place to perch.
“Please, take my chair.” Elena stood. “It’s rather firm, and the arms are padded as well. May I get you some lemonade?”
Lady Kerrigan’s “small, casual affair” had turned out to be neither small nor casual after all. Guests thronged about from one opulent room to the next, admiring the family’s extensive collection of sculpture and gilt-framed art. On the far side of the gallery the carpets had been rolled back, and a small orchestra played Strauss.
“Perhaps later, dear. For now, I simply wish to sit and take everything in.”
Still shaken from her unexpected introduction to Lord Black, Elena agreed, more than content to attend to her elderly companion and act as nothing more than drapery for the remainder of the evening. Besides, her feet ached from her long day at the hospital.
Like most of the great Mayfair houses, the Kerrigan manse had not been refitted for modern gas illumination, but a chandelier grand enough for any Parisian opera house hung from the center of the gallery’s paneled ceiling. The Venetian fixture boasted a cascade of crystal tears all around, and no less than a hundred burning tapers. Candelabrums and mirrored wall sconces provided additional light along the periphery of the elegant room.
Mrs. Hazelgreaves reached out to clasp Elena’s hand. “Oh, lovely. Here comes your Dr. Harcourt.”
“Please don’t say that.”
“Say what?”
“That he is my Dr. Harcourt. You make it sound as if I have a tendresse for him.”
“Well, you ought to.”
“I most certainly ought not. He is my supervisor at the hospital.”
“He shouldn’t be.”
“Shhhh.” As discreetly as possible, Elena wedged her blank programme du bal, which listed the order of dances for the evening and twenty blank spaces for the scheduling of partners, between her seat back and cushion.
“Mrs. Hazelgreaves. Miss Whitney.” Harcourt beamed his golden warmth upon them. He first reached for the older woman’s hand and kissed the backs of her fingers. His eyes met Elena’s before he bent to do the same with hers. “I am so delighted you were both able to come.”
“We’re honored to share in her ladyship’s special occasion.” Mrs. Hazelgreaves beamed.
Harcourt glanced aside. “Here comes the queen of Curzon now.”
Lady Kerrigan glided toward them, a vibrant, pale-haired jewel in green silk. Elena straightened in her seat. Dr. Harcourt moved to stand at her side.
“Miss Whitney,” announced Lady Kerrigan. “I vow you look so lovely tonight it makes my heart absolutely weep with admiration.”
Elena did not miss the manner in which Dr. Harcourt’s beautiful mother examined her from head to toe.
“Thank you, Lady Kerrigan.”
“Charles tells me you’ve settled into your duties at the hospital splendidly.”
“I’ve enjoyed every moment I’ve spent there.”
“Wonderful. The service of London’s deserving poor is such a worthy cause. Me, I prefer the shops of Bond Street.”
“Much to my father’s woe,” chuckled Dr. Harcourt, eliciting a laugh from everyone. In truth, her ladyship’s activism in a number of charities was well-known to all.
Lady Kerrigan’s face assumed a more solemn mien. “Seriously, Miss Whitney, I would be remiss if I d
id not make mention of my fear for your safety. The murders of those women—”
Dr. Harcourt interjected, “Not a single one of which has taken place upon the grounds of the hospital.”
“But only a few streets away!” Lady Kerrigan clasped a hand upon his arm. “Too close for my comfort.”
“I have repeatedly voiced the same fear.” Mrs. Hazelgreaves gave a feathery sigh.
Harcourt shook his head. “I assure you both, upon my honor, Miss Whitney is in no danger whatsoever—not unless she takes to wandering the streets and alleys of the East End alone in the hours after midnight.”
Elena added, “It’s true. I’ve never feared for my well-being while at the hospital.”
Whatever had occurred in the fog outside the hospital that afternoon did not count, of course, because she’d only frightened herself.
Lady Kerrigan pressed her lips together. “I won’t make mention of it again, not tonight anyway, because I’m not going to allow that ghastly beast to ruin my birthday. I simply wanted Miss Whitney to know how I felt.”
“Thank you for your concern, Lady Kerrigan.”
Her ladyship nodded before moving closer to Mrs. Hazelgreaves’s chair. “On another note, Mrs. Hazelgreaves, I have so much to tell you. Mother has written from Venice. . . .”
Elena knew from prior conversations that, decades before, Mrs. Hazelgreaves and Dr. Harcourt’s paternal grandmother had been debutantes together.
Harcourt extended a hand. “Let us dance while they share news.”
“Yes, dance,” urged Lady Kerrigan. To Mrs. Hazelgreaves, she murmured, “Beautiful young people. How I envy their youth.”
Reluctantly, Elena left her chair. She had no desire to dance, but she did need to speak with Dr. Harcourt privately.
“Miss Whitney,” Lady Kerrigan called after her. She waved a white card. Elena’s heart sank. “Don’t forget your programme. I expect to see the remaining spaces filled by midnight. Several eligibles have already made inquiries.”
Elena retrieved the card. “Thank you, your ladyship.”
