by LENOX, KIM
When he was almost to the doors, something changed—he passed through a tangled cluster of thoughts that made him pause. Immortal thoughts were, by the natural order of things, protected. He would not be able to read Leeson or Selene’s thoughts—or the thoughts belonging to the immortal apparently mingling here amongst the Kerrigans’ guests. However, a number of women presently entertained fantasies about someone he easily recognized. He searched and quickly found a fair-haired gentleman standing head and shoulders taller than the cluster of beautiful women gathered around him.
“The elusive Lord Black,” the blond Amaranthine lauded, lifting his crystal glass in salute. A close-cut beard framed the mischievous slant of his smile.
A host of female gazes alighted upon Archer. They were mature women—the choicest widows in attendance, and likely a few adventurous married ladies as well. A surge of interest rippled through them at Archer’s approach. Marcus Helios, Lord Alexander, sensed it too. His smile grew instantly frigid.
“Alexander,” Archer acknowledged with a shallow tilt of his head.
“What a shock to see England’s most reclusive peer out and about amongst us lowly mortals.”
A private immortal jest, one in which Archer found no humor whatsoever. Unlike him, Mark had always enjoyed dabbling in the social affairs and the beds of humans.
“No less a shock to see you here. Certainly you have much to prepare before your departure?”
A unified protest went up from the ladies, and they vehemently shook their coiffured heads.
Mark scowled. “I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed. I’ve no plans for travel.” He settled his glance upon one young woman, and then another, the smile instantly returning to his lips. “Perhaps only for a house party in Yorkshire or a hunt in Kent.”
The females tittered delightedly.
“You and I will talk.”
Mark raised the glass to unsmiling lips. “I have no doubt of that.”
“Good evening.” Archer bowed to the ladies, and pivoted on his heel to resume his travel toward the doors.
“Black,” Mark called after him.
Archer paused, feeling the young immortal’s regard strike him like a wall of ice. “Yes, Alexander?”
“Your ward is ever so lovely.”
Mrs. Hazelgreaves scowled out the carriage window, fixing Elena and Lord Black in her suspicious gaze. The air held the scent of rain. Beside them, the door of the vehicle creaked open in the wind, and the stairs hung down. The footman stood at a respectful distance. Additional conveyances arrived to collect members of the raucous and well-dressed crowd gathering atop the steps, while others were just arriving.
“Will you be returning to Black House as well, my lord?” Elena asked, not ready for the evening or her time with her mysterious guardian to end.
“Not yet.”
She could not help but wonder where he would go. Did Lord Black belong to a club like the other gentlemen of his class? Did he gamble, smoke or drink?
“I still have so many questions for you.” She grasped the opening of her cloak against the night chill. His gaze settled there, against her hands, then swept upward to her lips.
“I’ll answer all your questions in the morning.” He lifted his hand, then touched her cheek with his fingertips. Excitement danced low in her stomach.
A hard tap sounded on the pane beside them.
“I suppose I should go,” she whispered. Regret weighed her voice.
He withdrew his hand slowly, smiling. “Good night, then, Miss Whitney.”
His hand moved to her elbow, and he helped her inside.
A half hour later, Archer’s carriage trundled off the Strand onto Whitehall. Though the time was just after midnight, London’s streets thronged with traffic and the more restless creatures of the night. When the columned façade of the Admiralty came into view, Archer closed his eyes and altered to shadow. His vehicle clattered off into the distance.
He hovered in the dark street, surrounded by rain-slicked cobblestones. Cloaked by darkness, he swept beneath the archway of Number 4 Whitehall, and slipped between the door and its frame.
He followed the discordant notes, the teasing blackness and the stench of his prey, like a black sonata on the wind. Along the way he passed a sergeant and three uniformed police constables.
Finally he came to a small, windowless room off the assistant commissioner’s office. Inquest reports, photographs and empty cups covered the tabletops, but of most interest to Archer was the box of letters.
He lifted the first, with its accompanying envelope, and scrutinized each stroke for angularity and width, tension and control. He smelled the paper and the ink, and tasted its peculiar bitterness upon the air. Soon, there were two stacks before him, authentic and false. With jaded eyes, he sifted through the images, those of Polly Nichols and Dark Annie, two women who could not have deserved the gleeful savagery the Whitechapel Killer had inflicted upon them.
Archer had seen enough. In his vaporous retreat he brushed against Inspector Abberline on his way in. Twisting low, he skimmed along the tiled floor and exited to the street.
There, he inhaled and drank deeply of the darkness. He summoned the turning, the terrifying predator within him that he would never allow Miss Whitney, in all her renewed innocence, to see again.
Chapter Four
“Miss Whitney, I trust you enjoyed your evening out?” Mary Alice emerged from the distant end of the hallway, her smiling face a startling contrast to her black maid’s garb, which blended seamlessly into the shadows. She carried a brass coal bucket.
“I did, thank you, Mary Alice,” Elena replied.
She’d enjoyed a perfectly scandalous evening if one were to interpret Mrs. Hazelgreaves’s demeanor on the carriage ride home. Despite Elena’s attempts at conversation, there had been only silence and scowling. As the footmen carried the old woman up the stairs, she had slumped dramatically in her chair and demanded a tonic be rushed to her room.
Perhaps now that Lord Black had returned, there would be discussions as to her future. She rather hoped the formality of a companion could be dispensed with, as she had no desire to advance herself in society, or attract the interest of a wealthy or titled suitor. She had danced around the issue with Mrs. Hazelgreaves for months, citing her lack of memories as her reason for avoiding the afternoon calls and myriad of social events to which they had been invited, but truly, once her medical education began, she wanted to devote herself completely to her studies. She and Lord Black had gotten on . . . so well. Her cheeks flushed. He seemed the sort of man in whom she could confide her aspirations, and she looked forward to easing that burden from her mind.
Mary Alice turned as if to accompany Elena to her room. “I’ve just added coal to your grate, so your room will be toasty and warm. Let’s take down your hair and I’ll help you undress.”
“Thank you, Mary Alice, but it’s late. I can manage myself. Please go on to bed.” Truth be told, Elena couldn’t wait to be alone to savor the thrilling events of the evening. Even now, the intense attraction she’d felt with his lordship seemed a seductive dream.
The brown-eyed maid hesitated, gripping the handle of the coal bucket with both hands.
“What is it, Mary Alice?”
“There was something else I wished to tell you, but I can’t seem to remember what.”
“I’m sure if it’s anything important, you’ll remember and tell me tomorrow.”
After another moment’s rumination, the servant shrugged good-naturedly. “You’re right, of course. Good night, Miss Whitney. You have only to ring if you require my services.”
“Sleep well.”
Elena continued on alone into the darkness. The wall sconces had been dimmed and provided only the faintest light. Before tonight, the corridor had always felt ominous, like a tunnel of some forgotten catacomb—much like the rest of the vast structure. With Lord Black’s arrival, each richly carpeted stair, each hallway, seemed infused with his power
ful presence. She couldn’t wait until morning, when they would meet again, and all her questions would be answered. At the same time, she wasn’t ready to close her eyes on what had been an unexpectedly wonderful night. She had remembered how to dance. Perhaps other memories would soon follow.
“L’Eté.” She spun around, remembering his voice and his touch. Her skirts whirled out, darkly vivid, to whisper against the wood paneling. She turned the brass knob and entered her room.
Yet disturbingly, she wasn’t alone. Indeed, the person she least wished to encounter bent shoulder-deep inside the open doors of her wardrobe. A garnethued bustle wiggled about, giving away the intruder’s identity.
Elena crossed toward her bed, and laid her shawl against the coverlet.
“Good evening,” she said.
A hollow thunk sounded from inside, pate against wood.
Lord Black’s traveling companion backed out, touching long, elegant fingers against the back of her head. Her luxuriant hair fell free about her shoulders and shone like mink in the lamplight.
“Hmph,” she sniffed, visibly irritated to have been interrupted. She didn’t appear the slightest bit ashamed to have been discovered foraging in another woman’s belongings.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know exactly what I should call you. We were not properly introduced this evening.”
“I am Selene, the Countess Pavlenco,” the woman announced. Pride sparked in her dark eyes.
Why would the countess travel with Lord Black if they were not married? Were they lovers, or did they share some other relationship?
With that curiosity burning in her mind, Elena continued their introduction with a question. “Forgive my boldness, but is there a . . . er . . .”
“A Count Pavlenco?” Her ladyship assumed a doleful, entirely unbelievable expression. “I grieve his loss to this day.”
“My sympathies.”
“You are too kind.” She leaned casually into the V of the open wardrobe and rested her arm along the top edge of the door. Rich, faceted gems shimmered on her fingers. “Obviously, I have carried on.”
“Is there something I can help you with?” Elena seated herself on the velvet coverlet at the end of the bed.
“I find myself in need of a night rail.”
Elena kept the look of surprise from her face. A night rail? So personal a garment? What woman did not travel with several?
“I see,” she responded carefully. “Your trunks have not arrived?”
“Of course they have.”
“And you do not have a night rail amongst your things?” It wasn’t good manners to be so blunt in one’s questioning, but neither was it polite to dig around in another person’s private belongings. At least they were on an equal footing of sorts.
Full lips curved into the most cutting of smiles. “Not one, I’m afraid.” Her teeth gleamed brightly. “I forgot how prudish Archer’s English servants could be.”
The countess certainly dropped enough hints that she and Lord Black were involved in some sort of romantic affair. Common sense warned Elena, like a wet slap in the face, to forget her attraction to his lordship, and keep herself as far away from him and his peculiar associates as possible. In all likelihood he would not remain in London long, and any dalliance, emotional or otherwise, would end only in pain.
Elena said, “To your left, in the middle drawer. I prefer the one on top, but you may borrow either of the others.”
Selene disappeared into the shadow of the wardrobe, and Elena heard the rattle of the tiny silver handles. After a moment, the countess twisted round with the garment plastered against her front. Her eyes narrowed with displeasure above the prim, high collar. The hem hung at an awkward length between her knees and ankles. The sleeves fell short as well, giving her a distinctly Amazonian appearance.
She smiled tightly. “I hadn’t realized you were such a child.”
Elena wasn’t really all that petite, but statuesque did not begin to describe the countess.
“I can only offer more of the same. There is a matching robe behind you. Certainly tomorrow you can visit the shops and find something more suited to your tastes. Lady Pavlenco, are you cold?”
The countess tossed her head. “I’m famously hot-blooded. Why do you ask?”
“Your lips.” Elena leaned forward, squinting. “They’re . . . blue.”
Not really blue, but smudgy and dark.
“Oh, hmmm.” Selene licked them and swiped a thumb across. The smudginess disappeared, almost as if it were ink. Blinking rapidly she announced, “Likely his lordship has returned by now. I ought to go to him before I am missed.”
Elena answered without thought, “He won’t be back until later.”
The countess stiffened from head to toe. “And how would you know that?”
“We found ourselves at the same social event this evening, and he indicated he would not be returning directly.”
Selene paled. She took a few steps toward the bed, the wadded night rail clasped against her breast. Her shoulders convulsed, and she pressed a hand against her mouth.
“Des phénomènes relatifs . . .”
The words burst from her lips almost as if they had been belched. Such a familiar phrase, still Elena couldn’t place it.
“My lady, are you all right?” she asked, now feeling a twinge of regret for the woman, for obviously her emotions and passions hinged very much upon his lordship. A warning alarm sounded off inside Elena’s head. Was Lord Black such a dangerous man to admire?
Selene dropped to the coverlet beside Elena. All confidence and fire appeared to have abandoned her. Another spate of words burst from her lips.
“A la polarisation rotatoire des liquides . . .” She struck a balled fist against the center of her breasts.
Elena stood. “I’ll call for some tea. Sometimes that settles the—”
“I’m fine,” Selene growled, grasping Elena’s forearm and pulling her back down beside her.
A rap sounded on the door.
“Yes?” Elena called.
Mary Alice stepped inside, the coal bucket still hanging from the crook of her arm. “I thought I heard voices.”
She bobbed shallowly before extending an envelope.
“Your ladyship, a message has arrived for you.”
Selene leapt up and snatched the missive. With her thumb she broke its red wax seal. Feline eyes scanned the card within.
“Huzzah!” she exclaimed. Her gaze skimmed over Elena dismissively. “It appears I won’t require your little doll dress after all.”
With a grin, she tossed the night rail to the bed. Brushing past Mary Alice, she dropped the note into the bucket and disappeared into the corridor.
Elena and Mary Alice considered each other, until at last Elena spoke. “Earlier, when you said you’d forgotten something, was it that you’d seen the countess in my room?”
“Surely not . . . ,” the maid murmured faintly. “I would have remembered her, wouldn’t I? She’s rather the memorable sort.”
“Indeed she is.”
Mary Alice hovered for another moment before saying, “Well, then. Good night, miss.”
“Good night.”
Mary Alice pulled the door closed behind her.
Elena bolted from the bed and yanked open the door.
“Mary Alice!”
But Mary Alice hadn’t gone far. The young woman stood on the other side of the threshold, squinting at the smoldering card that she held pinched between her thumb and index finger. Shamefacedly, she offered it to Elena.
“I won’t tell if you won’t, miss.”
Gray smoke arose in tendrils between them, scenting the air with ash.
“Agreed.”
Elena claimed the card, careful not to touch the blackened edge, and again retreated to solitude. Drawing near the lamp on her escritoire, she bent to read the message:
Come to me.
Her chest tightened. A lover’s summons? She frowned, hating the curiosity tha
t compelled her to open her desk. Within moments, she’d laid the card and the Cairo letter side by side. Was the handwriting the same? She couldn’t be certain, due to the brevity and slapdash penmanship of the note. Certainly, both were written by a masculine hand.
Stung by the whole exchange with the countess, and the likelihood of her relationship with his lordship, Elena hurriedly pulled the pins from her hair and changed into her night rail. She folded the one Selene had discarded and returned the garment to the bottom of the drawer.
Far too distracted to sleep, she selected a medical text from the top of her reading stack and settled onto the window seat. She tugged a blanket over her legs for warmth, all the while trying to blot out the lingering memory of Lord Black’s arms around her, and the intensity of his gaze upon her mouth. A movement along the edge of the courtyard caught her glance. She wiped the gathered condensation away to see more clearly. A carriage, nearly obscured by fog and shadows, raced around from the mews and toward the front of the house—certainly to take Selene to meet the writer of the mysterious summons.
Burrowing her shoulders into the pillows, Elena cleaved open the book to the section she’d last left off reading.
She found only a jagged gap.
The entire section of Pasteur’s germ theory, in its original French translation, had been torn from the binding.
St. Botolph’s immense steeple speared upward into London’s night sky. Archer leaned against the cool concrete, staring down into the labyrinthine maze of the East End. The ledge beneath him, and the air all around, vibrated with the sonorous crescendo of the church’s pipe organ, a wakeful clergyman’s entreaty to the cadre of prostitutes who even now circled the church’s sidewalks, calling to strangers with offers of illicit pleasure.
The stalls of Aldgate had closed hours before, but the smell of fish, cabbage and blood still lingered. Gas lamps dotted the thoroughfares, too dim and widely spaced to provide more than faint illumination. Once, this place had been nothing but endless fields, and later, a battlement. Since then the streets had seen the parade of kings and popes, not to mention pestilence, executions and fire. And always, there had been the ever-burgeoning population and crime borne of abject poverty.
