Breathless (Scarlet Suffragette, Book 2): A Victorian Historical Romantic Suspense Series

by Nicola Claire

  “The what?” Andrew asked, stiffening.

  “Someone who loves birds, Inspector,” I replied sweetly. “It’s an aviphile. A rather new term coined some time after 1870 when the scientific word for birds - avian - became popular.”

  “Where do you get this nonsense from?” he asked, looking at me aghast.

  He didn't mean it; he admired my depth of knowledge. What was it he had said? I am in awe of your intelligence. One does not become intelligent without reading a wide variety of subjects.

  “Formerly, one would have called them ornithophiles,” I went on, ignoring him completely. “For ornithology, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “The term is a broad enough one,” I said, as we walked into the hallway and the inspector closed the door behind us. But not without one last look up and down the street. “For instance, it does not specify as to which bird the bird-lover loves.”

  “Anna.” A warning.

  “You think I don't see you, Andrew,” I murmured. “You think I only see a man. But I assure you, I see much more than that.”

  “That is what scares me, Anna.”

  Mrs Lancaster appeared on the landing above, causing the inspector to rush out a greeting, relief coating each word. I smiled as I followed the lady into the parlour, where breakfast had been laid out, and Sergeant Blackmore was regaling the assembled boarders in spirited talk of his journey from New Zealand.

  “’Twas a fine steamer,” he said, as Andrew held out a chair for me at the table and took one to my side. “Cut through the waves like a hot knife through butter,” he added, slathering a bit of toast with said butter while he talked.

  I leant over to the inspector and said quietly, “The term for someone who fears birds would, therefore, be aviphobia or perhaps ornithophobia. Would you agree?”

  Andrew closed his eyes slowly and breathed through his nose in jagged breaths.

  “Again,” I added, “the terms do not specify which birds one fears.”

  “Your point, Doctor?”

  “Oh, I have no point, Inspector,” I said, louder now, a smile gracing my lips. “Merely making conversation.”

  “I have never known you, Dr Cassidy, to merely make conversation. If you speak, there is always a purpose. At least, to your mind, there is.”

  Blackmore snorted, then covered it with a large piece of toast thrust into his mouth. He chewed merrily, his eyes darting back and forth between the inspector and me.

  “Oh, how well you know me, sir,” I said gaily, causing the women around the table to titter behind their napkins. “Indeed, my point, Inspector, is there should be a word for a specific genus of avian one either loves or hates. For instance…”

  Andrew leant his head forward and pinched the bridge of his noise.

  I proceeded unperturbed.

  “…a lover of nightingales should be called a luscinia-megarhynchos-phile.”

  “A what now, Dr Cassidy?” Blackmore asked, his eyes flashing that alluring mischievous glint yet again.

  “The binomial for nightingale, Sergeant,” I replied, sipping my tea.

  “Quite a mouthful, that,” the sergeant declared.

  “Yes, which is why I’m sure, they are called aviphiles,” I admitted. “But I do detest ambiguous titles.”

  “You would,” Andrew muttered.

  “Therefore, I ask you, Inspector,” I said, turning partially in my chair and holding his dark eyes, “are you a luscinia-megarhynchos-phile?” Silence. “Or a luscinia-megarhynchos-phobic?”

  “Can I be neither?”

  “No, Andrew,” I murmured. “You cannot.”

  The parlour thickened with silence. Not even a scraping of knife through butter to be heard.

  “It’s just a bird,” Andrew said softly.

  “You and I both know it is not,” I replied.

  “You are incorrect, madam. Birds hit windows all the time.”

  “Nightingales?”

  “Leave this, Anna. I beg you.”

  I reached into my reticule and pulled out the letter. Then placed it carefully on the table before him.

  The faint hint of jasmine met the still air.

  The image of a nightingale winked from the corner of the page.

  Andrew’s hand shook when he reached out to touch it.

  And then he pushed back his chair, making the women in the room jerk in alarm, and strode from the room. His limp nearly causing the manoeuvre to be unmanageable.

  I reached down and lifted the missive off the table, flicking my eyes over the assembled guests, begging their forgiveness in that one swift glance.

  And then chased after the man whom I loved with all my heart and who constantly failed to love himself in turn.

  And Felt Bitter For My Efforts

  Anna

  He stood in the parlour, staring out of the bay windows, or perhaps at the settee he’d kissed me on. His back was straight, his shoulders rigid, tendons in his neck stood out starkly. He knew I was there, but he did not turn to face me, nor did he make a comment upon my arrival.

  “I’ve been receiving the letters for close to two months now,” I said into the thick silence. “This one arrived yesterday.”

  “It is not from whom you think it is,” he said to the window.

  “The nightingale…”

  “A coincidence. The writing is disparate.”

  Of course, he’d recognise his wife’s hand.

  “In any case,” I said, covering my disappointment, “the letters originated in the Dutch East Indies.”

  “The Dutch East Indies?” Andrew repeated, spinning to face me at last. His eyes searched mine. “I had not thought…”

  But he didn't finish the sentence. He shook his head and started pacing. I feared he’d exacerbate his injury with the irate way he strode across the carpet.

  “What have the missives to say?” he asked, continuing his rapid march.

  “More of the same,” I replied. “Some included gifts; pressed flowers, small beads, a bottle of perfume. Almost as if…”

  “He is courting you,” Andrew finished.

  “Yes.”

  “Any idea who he might be?”

  “Until this morning, I had not a single one.”

  “The nightingales match?” he moved closer, holding out his hand for the letter. I held it close to my chest and raised my eyes to his. “Anna? May I?”

  “Will you run again?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t running.”

  “Then hide, perhaps?”

  “Nonsense.”

  I arched my brow at him. He sighed and double fisted his cane before him, standing to full height; looming. I suppressed the smile that wanted out and handed him the note.

  “Can you identify the scent?” I asked.

  “Jasmine,” came the immediate reply. I could not tell, however, if that was simply because the fragrance was common, or because he had experience scenting such.

  “Before you ask, I do not recognise the penmanship,” I declared.

  “And the MM? Are you acquainted with one with such initials.”

  “No.” I shook my head and started pacing. Between the two of us, we’d wear out poor Mrs Pugh’s rug in no time at all.

  “‘Imitation?’” Andrew read. “To which act does he refer?”

  “I’m sure I do not know.”

  “Perhaps your efforts in medicine? Forensic surgery?”

  “A valid guess.”

  “But if the letters originate in the Dutch East Indies, how is it he is aware of your degree?”

  “Are we to ignore the nightingale?” I asked abruptly.

  “The one in the corner?” Andrew peered down at the hand-drawn bird.

  “And the matching one which hurled itself at the window as we kissed.”

  He flushed; which was charming and unexpected. Then straightened himself and scowled down at me.

  “Perhaps it would be best not to discuss such matters openly.”

  “Sh
all we retire to your room, then, Inspector? Where we shall have privacy?”

  “Anna!”

  I couldn't help it; I smiled.

  “Damnation, woman! I am trying to save your reputation!”

  “Then, perhaps, you should not have ravished me so thoroughly.”

  I regretted the words immediately. Confirmation of the blunder followed in swift, hard tones.

  “I assure you, it shall not happen again.”

  “That is what I am afraid of,” I muttered, turning away from him.

  Silence met my back, but I felt the heat of his gaze. It wasn’t quite the heat I would have liked, right then. But Andrew was a complicated and determined man; I’d have to make my move slowly; catch him unaware. It was devious in nature, these thoughts, but my heart sped up, and my brow shone with perspiration, and my breaths caused an ache to appear in my bosom.

  Apparently, I liked the chase.

  “The bird is significant, is it not?” I enquired, staring into the ashes in the hearth.

  “You ask if my wife used it on occasion as a motive, do you not?” Andrew said softly.

  “Yes.” I turned to look at him; I needed to see his face when he spoke of Eliza May. I needed to know what drove him; what caused that pain he tried to hide every single day. The thought of what she had done to harm him, in their own home, no less, brought unbidden tears to my eyes. How frightful. Such betrayal. It explained a lot of Inspector Kelly’s idiosyncrasies.

  Andrew stared down at the image of the bird and nodded. “Yes. She had an affinity with birds and plants. She…she was quite knowledgeable, in fact. Studied them, one might say.”

  “Including the properties of nightshade?” I tentatively asked.

  His eyes came up to mine, and I almost stumbled back a step at the horror I saw there. He masked it immediately, but the shadow of the emotion left me reeling. What had she done?

  “Anna,” he said, almost urgently. “Eliza May is not to be troubled with. She is dangerous.”

  “I had worked that out, thank you.”

  “No,” he said desperately. “You have no idea.”

  “She hurt you,” I said taking a step toward him. “Left you trapped in a burning building. That alone tells me all I need to know.”

  “That was a kindness,” he snapped. “Taking pity on a wounded creature. Abandoning her prey to a lesser fate.”

  “You talk as if she is some monster.”

  “She is more than that. She is…” He struggled to find the right word. His eyes searching the room as if the shadows hid the answer. “She is evil personified,” he finally managed. Then turned away as if ashamed.

  I stood still for a long moment. Andrew is not a fanciful man. He acts on what he sees. On what is tangible to him. He does not fear ghosts or apparitions, or creatures from books. He has worked and lived on the streets of Whitechapel, made his living hunting men like Jack the Ripper. Devoted his existence to the protection of man.

  I could not fathom the haunting his mind had suffered at the hand of the woman he supposedly had loved.

  “How did you meet her?” I asked before I thought better of it.

  “Through Leman Street,” he said, voice rough and hard to hear.

  “In a professional manner?” Had she been a criminal already?

  “Yes.”

  “You arrested her?” I sounded as shocked as I felt. Andrew turned and looked at me, sadness sweeping across his face.

  “No, Anna. She was quite respectable then.”

  “Then…?”

  “She consulted with a number of cases.”

  Like I did. Like I had in Auckland, under Andrew’s guidance.

  I stepped back and placed a hand on the mantle above the hearth, my breaths quickening, my mind whirling.

  “She sold herself as a botanist,” Andrew said carefully, his eyes watching my every reaction. “We’d had a number of poisonings. She was the foremost knowledge on such.”

  “A woman,” I said, appalled at the dichotomy. A woman considered the pinnacle of wisdom on a topic of dire importance, assisting in a male dominated profession. Openly. With acceptance.

  With such acceptance, a senior officer had married her.

  Eliza May Kelly had lived my life; the life I wanted with all my heart.

  And had shattered it without a backwards glance.

  My fists curled, my breaths rasped; jealousy was not an emotion I was familiar with. But I embraced it.

  And felt bitter for my efforts.

  And The Shock On Anna’s Face

  Inspector Kelly

  I watched as Anna absorbed the impact of my words and crumbled. I took two steps toward her, and she immediately gave me her back. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Anna was hurting. I had hurt her. I reached out and touched her shoulder; she stiffened. I paused. And then I pulled her close, wrapped my arms around her slender frame, and pressed her back against my chest, breathing deeply.

  Her entire body shook; so fragile, so precious. She ducked her head, her hands fisting at her sides, averted her eyes, her breaths shallow and sharp, making my heart ache.

  I didn't know what to say to make this better. I didn't know how to soothe her pain. I’d never intended to divulge so much, but Anna had a way of making me open up and forget myself. Of wanting to let her in when I shouldn’t.

  I regretted my honesty a thousandfold. If I could have turned back time, I would have.

  I held her and said nothing. Did nothing. Just let her feel my presence and through it, my support.

  I’m not sure how long we stood like that, but it was long enough for breakfast to have finished, and Blackie to enter the room. It was certainly not the first time he had interrupted us, but it was the first time I didn't step back from Anna.

  My eyes met his across the room, an understanding shared. I nodded toward the letter on the settee, where I had dropped it, and he silently crossed the space and started to read, head bent, back to us.

  “Anna,” I said softly, brushing my lips in her hair. “We must address your letters.” I despised myself for bringing them up. “How many have you received?”

  “Ten,” she said quietly, not sounding at all like her fearless self.

  I stroked a hand over her shoulder, down her arm, resting it on the curve of her hip. Such intimacy was atrocious, but I couldn't stop myself. I leant forward and inhaled her clean, fresh chamomile scent. My fingers flexing where they gripped her.

  “I can't seem to step away,” I whispered, the statement sounding more surprised than angry. I should have been angry; this was a compromise Anna should not have to bear. But my inability to remove myself from her vicinity left me feeling astonished, rather than riled.

  “Would you like I should make a move first?” she asked, a small smattering of her former self emerging. A twitch of her lips, as she half-turned her head towards me, had me aching to touch mine to hers.

  “It might be prudent,” I advised, “we are no longer alone in the room.”

  Anna jerked in my arms, and any moment now I expected her to step free of my embrace, place respectable distance between us. As she should have. But this was Anna; my fiery, fearless Anna. And I couldn’t have been happier to see her again.

  “I think that horse has long bolted,” she said at normal volume, garnering a clearing of his throat from Blackmore.

  “Don’t mind me,” he said over my shoulder. “My lips are sealed. Always ‘ave been, always will be.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” I said, making to move away from the enticing heat before me.

  Before I’d taken a step, however, Anna’s hand came up and cupped mine, her fingers tightening briefly. A show of support? An acknowledgement of what we had shared? Forgiveness?

  I lifted her hand to my mouth and kissed it. Her eyes met mine as she turned in my embrace.

  Something had changed between us. Something perhaps unavoidable, but nevertheless uninvited.

  “Anna,” I whispered. My voice at once regr
etful. We couldn't do this. There were so many reasons why we shouldn’t even be contemplating this. The most prevalent being the ghost of a nightingale with the sting of a viper.

  Anna just held my gaze with a determined one of her own.

  “The closer you get,” I whispered, “the hotter you’ll burn.” I could attest to Eliza’s skill with flame.

  She arched a brow, then replied equally as intimately, “I rather like the burn, Inspector.”

  My breath left me as her heat retreated, my fingers twitching to haul her back, my heart thundering, my body shaking, my ballocks damn near blue and threatening to bring me to my knees.

  I remained with my back to the room while I attempted to bring myself back to order, listening to Anna’s dulcet tone as she conversed with Sergeant Blackmore.

  “‘MM’,” he said. “How very ambiguous.” I turned in time to see him wink at Anna.

  I offered him a glare and received a smirking grin in return.

  “Yes, frustrating, isn’t it?” Anna remarked. “I know not of anyone who could claim those initials. But I find the Dutch East Indies post stamp most alluring.”

  “Not the reference to this chap admirin’ your imitation of ‘im, then?”

  “Well, that is a conundrum,” Anna admitted. “But there could be any number of reasons as to why he thinks I follow in his footsteps.”

  “Dr Cassidy’s degree,” I announced, entering the conversation.

  “Of course,” Blackie said, looking down at the letter again. “But surely there were more than just yourself graduatin’ the School of Medicine?”

  Good observation. I nodded my head. “You’re right. Even if a woman gaining her degree in medicine is a rarity as such, it is not a singularity.”

  “I topped my class,” Anna said, her face blushing slightly.

  “Well, well,” Blackmore said. “Congratulations, miss. Never doubted you.” His smile was infectious and genuine; Anna basked in his praise and then sobered.

  “Still,” she said, “medicine is a far stretch.”

  “Then what else?” I mused. “The other letters? Did they offer any more insight into character or name?”