“But will she even remember her cousin, Clarissa?” The letter had been in that box in the attic for a long time, after all. Sitting on a narrow bunk, Connor rested his head back on the pillow of his folded jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and settled in for a long wait.
Cavendish had taken his watch, but the shadows creeping across the floor, and the chill settling into his bones marked the passing of hours, rather than minutes. Finally, his chin fell onto his chest, his eyes closed, and sleep brought down the shutters on his exhausted brain.
The shake on his shoulder rattled his teeth, and as his head jerked up, a boot scraping down his shin laid a trail of fire which shot him to his feet. His fists clenched and ready to punch out, he focused on the midnight-blue uniformed figure grinning at him and took a deep breath.
“Go on, laddie,” said the smug officer, lifting his chin to catch the dim light. “You know you want to.”
Staring the copper in the eye, Connor studiously unrolled his sleeves, buttoned his cuffs, and beat the creases out of his jacket. “Do I take it I am I free to go?” he said brazenly, even though he could not hope it would be that simple.
The constable laughed harshly and said, “Not so fast. You’re wanted in the interview room.”
Laying a rough hand on Connor’s shoulder, he pushed him towards the door and escorted him down the bare corridor. Connor knew the officer was looking for a fight, a reason to charge him, and he delighted in the small victory.
Shaking off the restraining hand, Connor walked over the threshold into a room where a solid wooden table dominated. Seated beyond it were a gentleman and a lady Connor knew instinctively to be Lord and Lady Cranham.
Constable Cavendish stood resting on the wall with a sour expression on his face. The Cranham’s gold ring sat on the table top, still inside a plastic bag until Lady Cranham picked it up and turned it out into her palm. Looking Connor in the eye, she said quietly, “I believe this belongs to you? Cornelius Packham?” She smiled, and Connor’s heart felt lighter than it had in many years as a semblance of his mother’s expressions flitted across her features. “Or would that be Sanderson?”
“Forgive me, Your Lordship, but surely you need more proof than that?” Cavendish could not contain his irritation.
Cranham shot him a crushing glance. “I thank you, Cavendish, for bringing the situation to our attention. We will deal with it. There is no question of theft, and there is an end to it. Now, if you can leave us.”
Seconds later, as the door closed and they were left alone, Connor said, “I apologize, Your Lordship. Your Ladyship.”
“Why did you not come to us?” A small frown settled over Lady Isobel’s features. “We would have helped you. Sponsored you. The chief consultant at the hospital tells us you saved a man’s life.” Indicating Connor’s porter’s garb, she added, “You are better than this. Clarissa would be turning in her grave... you must let us help you.”
“I thank you for clearing my name, but no.”
As Lord Cranham barked his disapproval, Connor stared him down.
“You are very generous, but this is enough. I shall not be a porter forever. But I shall do it my own way.”
Approaching the table, Connor softened his words with an apologetic smile, and accepted the ring Lady Isobel offered. “If I may keep this, that really is all I need right now. If you’ll excuse me?”
As Connor left the room, pulling the door closed behind him, regret settled in his gut. He did not feel good about snubbing Her Ladyship, and her muffled words of entreaty drifting through the air brought him no relief.
“But George, surely there is something we can do?”
“He is a fine young man. Clarissa would be proud. Don’t worry, my dear, I shall keep an eye on his progress, and when, as I am sure that he will, he applies for an internship, he shall have my sponsorship.”
Connor walked away down the corridor, shaking his head, but the glow inside him was undeniable. He had felt an instant connection to the Cranhams. Maybe getting to know them would not be so bad.
True to his word, His Lordship kept his distance, and if Connor suspected his hand in transferring out the incompetent intern who had taken the ring from his pocket and hoped to see Connor go to jail, there was certainly never any proof of it.
One day, just before Connor’s twenty-second birthday, George Cranham arrived at the sanatorium bearing the bad news that Victor Sanderson had drowned in a ditch of dirty water when he had wandered from the road on his way home. The axle broke on his carriage, and Victor, having an appointment with a client, rashly set off on foot, leaving the coachman to wave down the next carriage that came along the road, and ask for help. Connor’s father had been drunk. Lord Cranham did not refer to it, but Connor knew.
It took Lady Isobel another six months to persuade Connor to let the Cranhams help him, but finally, he enrolled at the Royal Eye Hospital at St George’s circus, along with his distant cousin, Reggie, and the two became firm friends. Has it really been seven years since a stolen ring decided my fate?
Chapter 7
Inevitably, Connor being merely middle class was like a red rag to a bull to the likes of Rufus Clare. He was less happy to have the dynamic, driven young Connor join the team... and threaten his place. And now Connor had beaten Rufus to a pulp, things were set to get a lot worse.
In a world where connections and sponsorship were crucial, Rufus’ uncle Cedric holding the position of chairman on the hospital’s board of Governors had a lot to do with their mentor, Sir John Creedy’s tolerance of Rufus’ mediocrity. Lord Clare has a lot of clout. Are my days under Sir John’s tutelage numbered? Of course, Connor admitted, being dead, or undead, or whatever the hell he was, was going to cramp his style.
Connor had wondered if Lord Cedric Clare would be at Cranham Hall this evening, and he was relieved that was not the case, and he would not have to suffer the older man’s scrutiny.
“Not just a truculent seventeen-year-old, you were somewhat pig-headed and stubborn right up to your twenty second year... as I recall,” Lady Isobel rejoined lightly to Connor’s quip.
When he did not respond, Lady Isobel suddenly frowned and Connor knew instinctively he had been standing too still. He quickly plunged his hands through the raven sweep of his hair, as was his habit, and transferred his weight from one foot to another. I must be careful of that. Standing unblinking and not breathing were becoming a natural state, discomfort and cramping muscles was a thing of the past.
The dinner gong sounded with a mellow note, and the drawing room erupted into concerted movement. Isobel rose gracefully to her feet, and whispered, “Lady Victoria is alone this evening, with Larry working away. I’m sure your company will cheer her up.”
Connor was relieved to be partnering Reggie’s eldest sister at dinner. At twenty-five years of age, and married to Sir Larry Fountain, she was an earnest young woman and had always been easy to talk to.
As Lady Isobel left him, and before he sought out Victoria to offer his arm, Connor scanned the assembled company until he found Uncle Edgar. Inclining his head, Connor smiled and raised a hand in greeting. Disguising his urgency, he smoothly closed the distance, arriving at Edgar’s side as the ladies, scattered around the room like a meadow of flowers in full bloom, stood and shook out their colorful skirts.
Connor carefully shook hands with the gray-haired, stout figure.
“Good evening, young man. I hear you are interested in hearing about my trip to America.”
“I am, indeed, sir. I understand that electro-shock therapy is proving very effective in managing hallucinations and delusions?”
“Ah, yes. The advances are remarkable.” Edgar’s enthusiasm for his subject lifted his clouded gray eyes to clear blue as they twinkled in the lamplight.
Connor stared into the florid jovial features, clenching his fists tightly as excitement made Sir Edgar’s heart beat faster. And, as his mouth watered, Connor suddenly wondered what adrenalin tasted like.
Glancing briefly at his wife, Lady Stella, and collecting her mew of disapproval, Edgar smiled regretfully as she said with gentle reproach, “Now, Edgar...”
Connor smothered his own smile as the enthusiasm of Edgar’s sharp scientific mind transformed to the meek indulgence of a man still smitten by his wife of thirty years.
Tidying his mustache with a thoughtful hand, he said, “Why don’t you come by my offices tomorrow, Cornelius? I’m sure the ladies would find our conversation very tiresome. Let’s say, midday, tomorrow?”
Remembering the burning sensation of the errant beams of sunlight on his skin, Connor arranged an expression of regret on his face. “Sadly, it is a busy day for me. I wonder, would five o’clock be too late?”
Sir Edgar nodded obligingly as he tucked Lady Stella’s hand into the crook of his arm. “Of course,” he said as they drifted towards the dining room.
Following suit, Connor found Victoria, bowed, and lifting a mocking brow, he said, “May I escort you to dinner? I think Lady Isobel is hoping you will keep my manners in check.”
Victoria laughed. They both knew that he ran the risk of being the most proper young man in the room.
The low murmur of conversation accompanied the procession through to the dining room as Connor concentrated on his timing. Walking slowly presented an interesting challenge. A flash of red serge caught his eye, he noticed that Lavinia had chosen to favor Captain Rice this evening, and aversion swilled an oil-slick of distaste in his gut. I don’t trust the man.
During dinner, Connor’s keen sight tormented him. He watched as Lavinia laughed delicately at Rice’s amusing quips, and, taking a deep breath, he drowned in the delicate scent of perspiration as her cheeks flushed at his compliments. He felt like a peeping tom. Even their lowered tones were clear as a bell to him as he discovered he could tune into the pitch of each human voice at will.
Connor frowned. Lavinia’s heightened pheromones were easy to understand, but, Captain Rice sweating and his jittering nerves were a mystery. He is scared? Well anxious at least. Why?
After dinner, the ladies departed in a gliding procession of silk draped swans, drifting by to enter the salon. Connor chivalrously bent over Lady Victoria’s hand and touched it to his lips. “It was a pleasure, My Lady. It has been an age since I have had such an enchanting dinner companion.”
Victoria laughed. “You are very kind, cousin.”
Her levity melted when Lavinia passed by. With a heavy sigh, her restless fingers rustling the fabric of her skirts, Victoria said, “Captain Rice is very...”
“Pompous?” supplied Connor, smiling tightly.
Meeting Connor’s direct gaze, she held her tongue. ‘He’s not you’, was the thought clearly written in her wistful glance before she moved away.
It was the first time that he realized awareness of Lavinia’s crush had rippled throughout the Cranham family. No, he is not me. And I do not trust the skunk.
As he followed Reggie into the library, joining the other men for cigars and cognac, his thoughts turned to his plan of escape. His meeting with the mysterious Malachi loomed as a specter, floating in and out of Connor’s consciousness. But, seeing Captain Rice’s guarded look sweeping the room, intrigue held him still. The man is up to something.
He did not have long to wait. Captain Rice clicked his heels, bowed smartly to Lord Cranham and left the library. He’s visiting the restroom... or so the discreetly murmured apology to His Lordship had revealed.
Connor doubted that very much, as the heady aroma of adrenalin oozed enticingly from Rice’s pores. His heartbeat thundered beneath the gold buttons on his chest, despite the calm, half-smile on his handsome face.
Cocking his head, Connor listened to the receding sound of the captain’s footfalls as the gleaming boots brushed rapidly over the thick wool-pile carpet that ran the length of the hallways of the house.
My, he is in a hurry.
“If you’ll excuse me one moment, Reggie, I seem to have mislaid my handkerchief.” Connor smiled absently as he placed his brandy bowl on an occasional table, rose to his feet, and left the room.
Tracking Captain Rice through the rambling corridors of the house, Connor battled the urge to close the distance too quickly. It is good practice, moving in deathly silence.
The dopamine-rich trail thickened to a mouth-watering aromatic cloud, and Connor knew Captain Rice had stopped walking. He darted a glance around the corner, and fifteen yards away his quarry was tapping his foot, impatiently waiting for someone to arrive.
Six inches from the toe of Rice’s gleaming boots the rich burgundy shade of the carpet stopped, marking the end of the upstairs territory. On the other side of the line was a thinner oatmeal-colored carpet. The grubby stripe along its length marked the path of the constant coming and going of the upstairs servants. The ones that wore starched uniforms, served the Cranham family, and were all but invisible.
Connor heard the shallow breathless sighs at the same time as he registered the swish of cotton fabric brushing against her thighs. So, he is meeting a maid.
He slipped smoothly across the hall and stepped inside the morning room. Closing the door all but a half an inch, he watched as the slight girl came into view. A grimy cap covered her hair, and sweat stained the collar of her pale-gray dress to charcoal.
Ivy, the tweeny! Connor was not a snob, Lord knows he had had his tough times, but he considered a ladies’ maid to be far more Rice’s style. The tweeny was not good enough to be seen above stairs. The thin girl’s red raw hands, with coal dust ingrained in the cracks in her fingertips, told the tale. She was up at four a.m. cleaning out the grates of each one of the fifty-one coal fires required to heat the three floors of Cranham Hall. Emptying the chamber pots and stripping the beds when the family were safely downstairs was about as glamorous as her life got.
Connor bunched his hands into fists. He instinctively knew he was not going to like what happened next.
The tweeny maid was still a yard away when Captain Rice reached out a hand, grabbed her arm and yanked her sharply forward.
“Ow, Mattie, that ‘urts,” she hissed.
The captain shoved his jutting chin down into her upturned face, his stubble grating across her cheek as she shrank away. “Don’t call me that. And how do I know it’s mine... that Doctor Sanderson is always sniffing around below stairs.”
“’E’s a gent,” Ivy breathed raggedly through the pain as Rice’s fingers dug in harder.
“So you say.” His other hand caught hold of her starched cotton skirts and jerked them up viciously. He shoved her back, his knee pushing between her thighs as her shoulder blades collided painfully with the wooden rail that ran the length of the wall. “But, I bet he’s sampled the goods, so don’t tell me the brat is mine.”
Connor clenched his jaws shut and reined in his anger.
“I swear. It’s yours, Matti...” Her face drained of color and she flinched when Rice spoke again.
His fingers framed her jaw and he squeezed. “You listen to me. I have my sights set on better things than some scrawny, filthy servant. You’ll drink a bottle of gin and keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you.”
“But, I’ll be put out in the gutter. You said you loved me.”
Her eyes flashed defiantly, and, sensing the tension sweeping through Captain Rice as his blood flushed his face plum with anger, Connor took action.
Taking a lump of still warm coal from his pocket, he unwrapped it and bowled it accurately along the hallway, bouncing it from the wall where it left a black smudge, before it clattered down the strip of carpet and landed at Ivy’s feet.
She gasped, and the captain stepped back as though he had been burned.
“Willie’s coming with the coal scuttle.”
Shooting a glance up the empty passageway, Captain Rice hissed, “Just remember what I said. Keep your mouth shut.” Turning briskly on his heel, he swept away, and as his footsteps faded, Ivy buried her hands in he
r face.
Connor wanted to comfort her but she must not know he was there. He wiped his hands clean on the lawn handkerchief, and stuffed it back into his pocket as he retraced his path to the library and slipped silently back inside the room. His step faltered when he realized the ladies had joined the party.
The captain was already there, standing at the hearth, warming his hands at the burning coals poor Ivy had most likely struggled to pile high in the fire grate. The smile on Rice’s face was fixed, and spite glistened in his eyes as he stared across the room at Lavinia.
So, thought Connor, this would be his better thing?
Connor scanned Lavinia’s gently radiant features as she laughed aloud at Reggie’s joke, and his gut ached. The wide scoop of the neckline of her green silk dress accentuated the graceful line of her shoulders. The feminine sweep of silken black strands of hair piled on top of her head drew Connor’s eye to the entrancing arc of her throat, and he was certain the pulse beating there stuttered as Lavinia glanced over at him.
Her eyes were darkest-brown with flecks of smelted copper dancing in their depths. And her skin, dressed with an ethereal glow to Connor’s new vampire-acute vision, was dusted in pearl-tinted glitter.
Captain Rice abruptly obscured his view when he appeared beside Lavinia and offered his arm.
Connor’s mind turned urgently to escape as his muscles tingled with anger, and suddenly the darker-red shade of blood, spilling over the scarlet fabric of Rice’s uniform became an enticing prospect. He swallowed the wash of citrus tainted saliva, and tamped down the desire to feel hot blood pumping into his mouth. His cold, firm skin hardened to a harsh mask and without words, he caught Reggie’s eye.
The laughter on his friend’s face melted as he excused himself from his father’s conversation and quickly crossed the room.
“You look like hell, Connor. Do you want the carriage brought around?”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll borrow Sabre, if I may. I can leave him at the farriers.”
Death of Connor Sanderson: Prequel to Fire & Ice Series (Fire & Ice - Prequel) Page 6
