by LENOX, KIM
They all sat rigidly on the chairs and on the sofas, their gloves and hats resting properly upon their knees. They reeked of old money, old houses and old sensibilities.
All returned his tight smile—and stared at him as if he were the devil.
His selection had not included an obvious choice: Dr. Harcourt. Admittedly, after that night at the ball, he had developed a childish envy of the handsome doctor.
Soft footsteps sounded upon the marble outside the salon door, and suddenly Mrs. Hazelgreaves and Elena stood in the doorway, Elena more beautiful than he had ever seen her.
Her hair had been swept upward into a polished, sophisticated style, one that only enhanced the brilliance of her eyes and the shape of her delicate nose. She’d rejected the white standard of a society debutante, and instead wore aubergine silk, artfully cut to display her lush, womanly attributes to perfection. Society’s celebrated darlings had nothing on his beautiful ward.
Despite Elena’s claim of disinterest in society, she didn’t appear the slightest bit uncomfortable delving into the room of strangers. Indeed, with the first smile, her warmth radiated throughout, and the mood immediately transformed from tense and somber to lively and gay. Each of the gentlemen leapt up from their seats, two colliding at the shoulders in their attempt to assist her to her chair. Mrs. Hazelgreaves fluttered off to the distant corner of the room.
Once Elena was seated, the gentlemen returned to their seats. Archer sighed with relief, thankful to have everyone’s attention drawn away from him. At the same time, his heart remained weighted like a great clod of lignite in his chest, knowing one, if not all of these gentlemen would be vying for the right to court his Elena.
For the briefest moment he envied their mortality and wondered how it would be to live their life, instead of being charged with the eternal responsibility of culling the vilest and most deteriorated of souls from humanity.
“Tea, your lordship?” Elena leaned toward him, her breasts delectable in their silken cradle. She balanced a dainty teacup and saucer in her hands.
He accepted the cup, feeling huge and bullish. Really, the whole tea ritual was ridiculous.
Lord Rathcliffe openly ogled Elena’s breasts. Archer scowled, mentally crossing him off the list.
Lord Levinger leaned forward in his chair. “I understand you’ve spent some time volunteering at the charity hospital in Whitechapel.”
Elena smiled sweetly. “I’m actually employed there as a probationary nurse.”
Rathcliffe’s matronly sister nodded and glanced about with obvious nervousness. “I’m sure your time there is very rewarding.”
“You must tell us all about it,” someone else encouraged.
Elena crossed her hands on her lap. “Oh, I don’t wish to bore you.”
Lord Nevil, who stood near the mantel, gushed, “I’m certain any story you tell will be nothing short of fascinating.”
“Very well,” Elena conceded graciously. “One afternoon a gentleman came in with his foot so swollen we could hardly get his boot off to see what was wrong. And then once we did, do you know what we discovered?”
“Tell us, Miss Whitney.”
“Maggots.” She smiled as innocently as if she were talking about rainbows and butterflies. Only now did Archer suspect the depth of the rebellion within her. “Yes, it’s true. A boot—and a leg—full of maggots.”
Heat blazed up Archer’s neck, into his face.
“Oh, dear,” a dowager-countess-someone-or-other exclaimed, sounding ill. “Look at the . . . at the time. We promised Lady Eggerton we would stop by this afternoon as well.”
With that, Elena stood. Though she said nothing to Archer, her level stare brazenly confessed all. He had never imagined Elena capable of such outright defiance. She politely stood near the door and thanked everyone as they passed through, for calling. When everyone had gone, she bustled out of the room.
“Elena,” he thundered, going after her, but she lifted her skirts and escaped up the stairs.
He would have followed her, but he heard the sound of a woman’s muffled laughter in the room behind him. Pivoting around, he returned to the salon to find Mrs. Hazelgreaves watching their visitors’ hasty escape from her perch beside the bay window. Now that everyone else was gone, and he focused his attention on her, he realized the frozen, rather plastic quality of her features.
“You,” Archer growled, advancing on her.
Mrs. Hazelgreaves pushed herself up from her chair. “Your lordship. I am so mortified things did not go as we had planned.”
“Oh, I believe they went exactly as you planned,” Archer accused threateningly.
“What are you saying?”
Archer shoved his palms hard against her narrow shoulders, sending the old woman flying over a low table, and back into her seat with such force the chair tipped backward on two legs.
“Ooooh! Oh!” Her arms flailed for a moment, until she went over in a profusion of frilly-lace underskirts.
Two bare, very hairy, very masculine legs jutted straight into the air, ending in black trouser stockings and large, leather ankle boots.
Archer planted his foot against the edge of the seat, and shoved downward hard enough to bring the chair upright again. Mark stared back at him, the old woman’s green gown hanging in loose tatters around his muscular shoulders.
“Damn it,” he shouted, clearly furious to have had his ruse discovered.
Archer hissed, “I thought we had an agreement.”
“Hang me at Tyburn, why don’t you?”
“I would. But you’d only come back. That’s the sorry thing about immortals.”
Mark shoved himself up from the chair and stalked in a wide circle around his superior Guard, the destroyed silk dragging along behind. “You know who bore me, Black. You know my history. It’s against my nature to abide by any agreement when I’m not the one who will come out on top.”
One of the kitchen maids bustled in with an empty silver tray.
“Oh,” she gasped, her eyes as wide as wagon wheels at the sight of Mark standing like a half-naked god in the remains of the shredded gown.
Archer met her on the carpet.
“Let me take that.” He reached for the tray.
Too shocked to do anything otherwise, she handed it over. He touched her hands, his eyes flashing metallic black. The girl’s face went blank. Like a sleep-walker, she exited the room.
Archer lowered the tray to a table and returned his fiery gaze to Mark. “But why this? Why did you take on the appearance of Mrs. Hazelgreaves?”
“I’ve improved, haven’t I?” Mark grinned rakishly. “You sat in this room a whole half hour with me and didn’t realize.”
“Why?” Archer thundered.
The muscles along Mark’s shoulder rippled with tension. “Because it’s obvious you care for the girl.”
“I’ve a responsibility to her, yes.”
“It’s more than that, Black. You’re utterly distracted by her. A mortal.” He laughed derisively. “I thought that if I could thwart your efforts to marry her off, she’d keep your attentions elsewhere.”
Archer gritted his teeth in impatience. “While you Reclaimed Jack.”
“That’s right.”
“Alone?” Archer laughed acidly. “Do you plan on Transcending to do it?”
“Maybe I made that part up. Perhaps when I translated the scroll, I—”
“I can read Akkadian, Mark.”
Mark glared at Archer, disbelieving.
Archer rattled off verbatim a few lines from the prophecies. As Guards had the ability to do, with one glance he’d recorded the entire document in his mind and had mentally scrutinized every character at a later time.
“You were testing me?”
Archer nodded curtly. “Guess what? You failed. I had to know if I could trust you. And just like before, Mark, it’s obvious I can’t.”
“You can’t hold this grudge forever. What happened in Paris must be relegated
to the past.”
Archer clenched his eyes shut. Paris. Paris had been a bloody farce. “This is no petty grudge. You and Selene lied.”
“Lied. What a nasty interpretation.”
“You used lies and subterfuge to intercept correspondence about that soul.”
Mark crossed his corded arms over the tautly stretched green silk of his bodice. “You were occupied with a bigger hunt. Time was of the essence—”
“Sealed correspondence, from the Primordials, intended for me. And you used the information therein to Reclaim the target. My target.”
“One bloody soul off your perfect record, Archer, and you would punish us forever for it.”
“My displeasure has nothing to do with that soul, or with my record. It’s called trust, Mark.”
“No, it’s called ambition,” Mark growled. “You’re not the only Amaranthine who’s got it. Yes, you were our mentor after our recruitment by the Primordial Council. Yes, you taught us to Reclaim, but did you think we’d remain under your thumb forever? It was time for the both of us to break free.”
“Do you think I wanted the both of you constantly dragging on my coattails? It is the Primordials—not I—who determine your independence, or lack thereof. You knew the rules, Mark, and you broke them, all for a bit of glory. Look what it got you. A blown assignment, the distrust of your peers and the displeasure of the Council. Selene, at least, attempts to make her amends. But you—you continue with your reckless arrogance.”
Mark’s jaw clenched into a rigid line. His eyes flamed with defiance, but he offered no further response.
Archer required none. He was finished with this conflict.
He demanded, “Where in the hell is the real Mrs. Hazelgreaves? You haven’t killed her, have you?”
“She’s fine,” Mark seethed. “She’s in one of the unused bedrooms, resting until I return.”
“How long has she been there? Have you been impersonating her all this time? Since the onset of her melancholy?”
“Of course not. Only this afternoon. She’s been ever so malleable, and from a matchmaker’s standpoint has become your greatest champion. Still, I couldn’t have her meddling too deeply in Miss Whitney’s affairs, or there’d be no room for all that delicious impropriety between the two of you.” He chuckled. “I’d hoped she could preside over tea, but she’d tippled one too many of my special tonics this morning and wasn’t at all able to receive guests.”
“Special tonics?” Archer glowered.
“Melancholy. Such an inaccurate diagnosis.”
“You’ve had her high as a hot air balloon on black lotus flowers for the past two weeks, haven’t you?”
Mark’s eyes narrowed. “She’s never been happier.”
Elena descended from the hackney with her hastily packed valise in hand. She entered through the rear entrance of the hospital. Down the hall she found Nurse James at her desk.
The woman looked up from beneath her white cap. “Nurse Whitney, I wasn’t sure we’d be seeing you again.”
“I hear you are a bit shorthanded.”
“That we are.”
“I’ll just sign in at the dormitory, and I’ll be back to see where I am needed.”
A quarter hour later, Elena returned in uniform to the sick ward. The fastest way to forget Lord Black and her feelings for him was to move forward with her life. Alone. She didn’t know how she was going to go to medical school with no inheritance from her father, and no support from her guardian, but she would find a way.
“Nurse James, who is the next patient to be seen?”
“Actually, could you return Mr. Stephenson to his room?” Nurse James nodded toward a man who sat in a wooden chair against the wall. He wore pajamas and a bowler hat. “A policeman found him outside a few moments ago, crawling down from the common room window. That’s the third time this week.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Elena studied him. His shoulders were slumped, and he stared at the open palms of his hands.
“Nervous exhaustion, the doctors say. He’s consumed by these Ripper murders, always writing letters to the newspapers and the authorities, laying out his theories. Anyhow, he’s harmless as a mouse. Could you take him up to the Currie Ward?”
“Certainly.” She patted the man gently on the shoulder. “Mr. Stephenson, I am Nurse Whitney. I’m going to see you to your room.”
Elena escorted Mr. Stephenson up the stairs to his room. After tucking him in for a rest, she pulled the door to a crack behind her.
“Nurse Whitney.”
Elena turned to see who called her. Dr. Harcourt exited one of the neighboring rooms. With him were three gentlemen who wore official-looking badges. He nodded to them, and they moved past Elena to descend the stairs.
Harcourt shook his head. Lines of frustration creased his brow. “Detectives. They’re interviewing everyone, thinking the Ripper might be someone with surgical or medical knowledge. They’ve even made inquiries as to Mr. Merrick.”
Elena protested, “Mr. Merrick can’t hold his head up straight, let alone attack a woman on the streets.”
“After interviewing him themselves, I think they understand better now.”
“Do you think it might be possible the killer is associated with the hospital?”
Harcourt shrugged. “I’ve no idea. I’d hate to think someone I worked alongside was capable of something so vicious. But enough talk of that morbid subject. I am so pleased to see you. You’ve come back to work, then?”
“Yes. And I hope I still have the hospital’s approval to take residence in the nurses’ dormitory? I’ve already moved my things in.”
His brows went up. “Certainly. We can use all the nursing expertise we can get. We received three more resignations over the previous days, each insisting they will not return until the Ripper is captured.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. And I’m sorry I haven’t been here for the past two weeks.”
“It’s not your fault. I completely understand Lord Black’s feelings on the matter. In fact, I can’t believe he’s changed his mind.”
“I don’t know if he has. I didn’t consult him before returning.”
Dr. Harcourt’s smile faded. “Elena . . .”
“Really, I’m sure he’s delighted I’m gone. I don’t think he ever really wanted the responsibility of a ward. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what to do with me, other than marry me off.” She smiled faintly.
“His name carries power, Elena. If he’s displeased by your return to the hospital, he could cause trouble. Perhaps you should return to Black House until things are settled.”
“He won’t cause trouble. In fact, I doubt he’s even noticed my absence.”
A petulant statement on Elena’s part. She could not deny looking around each corner, secretly hoping Archer would be there to beg her forgiveness and tell her everything would work out just as she’d planned. And then, of course, there could be more kissing.
When had she become such a ridiculous woman?
Leaving Harcourt, Elena returned downstairs and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening immersed in the injuries and maladies of the district. The intensity of the work soothed her frayed nerves and made her remember exactly why she loved medicine, and serving the less privileged of the city. She’d just dropped off a bundle of dirty linens at the laundry when Nurse James approached.
“We’re glad to have you back, Nurse Whitney, but don’t exhaust yourself. Remember—we’ll need you again tomorrow, bright and early. Go have a bite to eat before the dining hall closes, and turn in for the night.”
Only then did Elena realize the intense ache of her back and legs, from being on her feet for hours on end.
She nodded, “Thank you, Nurse James. I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
She didn’t feel at all like eating. A vague curiosity had prodded at her for the past several hours, one that wouldn’t be silent until she eased her mind. The detectives had come here looking for suspect
s, but what about victims? She delved down the corridor to the reception rooms, which had already been closed for the night. Only the light from the hallway lamps illuminated inward.
Elena went to the porter’s desk and lit his lantern before seating herself in his chair. Five leather-bound registry books occupied a shelf beneath the desk, each with a span of dates written on the spine—all but the last. She selected that volume and flipped backward through the pages, until she came to the previous July and August, leading up to August 31, when the Ripper’s first known victim, Mary Ann Nichols, had been murdered. Drawing her index finger down the columns, she proceeded through each of the pages, scanning the names, all written in the porter’s fine script.
Rose Smith, 16 George Street.
Jane Ransom, 107 High Street.
After an hour of scouring months and months of entries, she stood and stretched, exhausted but relieved. While she’d spotted a few variations on names that might match the Ripper’s victims, there was no obvious pattern or concentration of incidence. She supposed one could not forget women from the street had a habit of changing names to suit their purposes. She closed the registry book and stared out into the darkened room, only to be startled by a face staring back at her.
“Mr. Stephenson! What are you doing here?” He groused, “I couldn’t sleep with all those wagons clattering past my window, and there are lunatics in the common room, so I came here for some quiet.”
“It’s very late. I’m sure the street traffic has settled down. Let’s get you back to your room.”
Elena helped him up by the arm and led him on a familiar path to his room.
“Home again,” he announced morosely as they passed through the narrow threshold.
“You’ve been a patient here at the hospital since July?” Elena asked.
“Yes. I do like it here.” With gentle guidance, she lowered him to sit at the edge of his narrow bed, then removed his slippers. He lay down on his side. “I used to be a surgeon, you know. I studied medicine in Paris.”
