Frank narrowed his eyes, fighting to keep the ire out of his voice. “Tell him I will call for him when I do.” Would everyone simply leave him alone, and let him work?
Mr. Harris tilted his head and a flicker of concern passed over his features. “He really wanted Miss B found. Post haste.”
“I know.” Frank had only been in the cellar for half an hour, yet he’d never felt more drained. His nerves had sparked out, causing his fingers to tremble. His pulse was erratic, and he nearly cursed picking up Christian Wolff’s book. He almost regretted the day he chose to enter the profession, because it had all led him here.
He was the son of a gentryman. He didn’t belong in a cellar in Seven Dials, locked in a room with a man who’d killed four women.
And those were only the ones they’d found.
“Dr. Lockwood—”
Frank slammed his fist on the table.
There was whispering, and then the door closed.
Mr. Hit grunted, and Frank narrowed his eyes at him, challenging him.
This made Hit’s mouth twitch, but he said nothing.
Frank turned back to the madman, now more than a little mad, himself. “She moves like flickering flame. My desire’s inferno ever expands.”
Dahl came more alert and pulled in a shaky breath. “Shall we... voyage to Italy?” Another great trembling breath. He’d been beaten quite severely, it seemed. “Loll... in the waters of the... sea.” He grinned.
Frank frowned. “Where is Miss B?”
Dahl ignored him. “While the white c-crest... of waves wash me clean?”
Frank strolled across the room and grabbed the man by his coat. “Tell me where she is!”
“I’ll have n-no more... thoughts of... she.”
“Damn you!” Frank backed away, before he ended the life of the only man who could tell them where Miss B was. He ran his hands through his hair, wishing it was slightly longer, so he’d have something to pull.
Dahl went on, finishing the poem. Frank listened as he started again, and groaned. Then he moved over to the table and started reading along with Dahl. Not purposefully at first, but then he really started to listen.
“I need ink!” Frank shouted. “A pen! Pencil, or what have you.”
It was brought to him in seconds, and Frank began to write down the letters that had been capitalized in the poem.
S-A-I-N-T-R-A-M-S-E-Y.
Saint Ramsey.
The man had written a clue in his own poem.
“Saint Ramsey!” Frank shouted. “She’s at Saint Ramsey!” The school wasn’t far from Seven Dials.
Frank ran to the door just as Mr. Miff opened it, nearly running down Mr. Harris, who was in the passageway, and fleeing through the servants’ floor before taking to the main set of stairs and down the long hall toward the front door.
“I need a horse,” he told the butler. His heart was beating like a drum under his skin. His stomach was on fire with anxiety.
“Where are you going?” a great voice spoke from behind him.
* * *
2
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CHAPTER TWO
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Frank turned to look at Gryffon Bancroft, as he stepped out of the drawing room and into his foyer.
Mr. Bancroft was tall, athletically built, and pale to the extreme, in a way that made one think they were seeing a vision come up from the belly of hell. His eyes were an endless black, and his hair a fine white, yet he was not much older than Frank.
At thirty, he’d become known as the owner of London’s most extravagant garden, Babylon. The truth was, his wealth came from other activities. For, while he charmed the ton with exotic plants and music, Bancroft was also London’s very own Lord of the Underworld. He controlled vice, and made criminals pay a toll for their misdeeds. His ability to control both the wealthy, and the not-so-wealthy, made it hard for the authorities to touch him.
“I know where Miss B is,” Frank got out, just as everyone else from the basement, except for the earl, made it to the foyer.
“We’ll take the carriage. It’s ready.” Bancroft started for the door, and Frank followed with Mr. Hit and Mr. Harris.
Two carriages pulled up in front of them. Men stepped out, and one was shouting.
“They likely have my brother inside!” It was Mr. Grayly, come to take the earl away. “They stole him from his own rooms! Bancroft! Come out here and face me!” The other men who started for the house were in uniform, dressed like the military.
Their carriage fled then, but not because Bancroft feared any mere mortal. He simply had better things to do. The earl was likely to be gone by the time they returned, and Frank wondered what would happen to him, if anything.
“Are you sure about this?” Bancroft asked.
Frank wanted to reassure him, but knew it would be best to simply state the truth. “You can never be sure of anything, with a mind like Dahl’s.”
Bancroft glowed in the dark. He’d never be missed, even if there was little light. He was like a phantom. His black eyes stuck out of the shadows, giving him the look of the Grim Reaper. The man didn’t need to make threats. All he had to do was keep a focused eye on someone he wished to intimidate.
That haunting gaze turned to the window, just as the carriage began to slow. “We’re here.”
Frank was the last out of the carriage, but the group seemed to let him lead.
Saint Ramsey’s School for Girls was actually in St. Giles. Designed like the buildings around it, the school was made of plain bricks and held several floors. It was a good place to hide someone.
Frank readied to knock on the door, but something stilled his hand. Instead, he reached for the knob and simply opened it.
The hall before him was black.
“I need light,” Frank said.
A lantern from the carriage was handed to him, and he moved forward.
“Which way?” Bancroft asked, right on his heels.
“I don’t know.”
Frank moved the lantern and saw that many of the doors seemed to be boarded up.
At the end of the hall was a drawing room, and a set of stairs. A woman dressed in nothing more than a nightrail and robe was descending the stairs.
She gasped at the sight of them and started to run back upstairs.
“Wait!”
Mr. Hit had her before she could get very far, and efficiently covered her mouth before she could scream. For a large man, he was quick. “Scream, and we’ll kill every person in this building.”
The threat was distasteful, but adequate.
The woman’s blue eyes widened, but she didn’t scream as Mr. Hit pulled away his hand. “Please,” she whispered. “They’re just young girls.”
“We don’t want the girls,” Frank said. “Well, maybe one. I am Dr. Franklin Lockwood. What is your name?”
His title seemed to calm her, but then she looked at Mr. Hit. “I’m Mrs. Little.”
“Did you get any new girls recently?” Frank had no clue how old Miss B was. When he’d first been forced into the cellar, he’d thought Miss B was Bancroft’s mistress, but when the note had said Saint Ramsey, he’d changed his mind.
The woman shook her head. “We haven’t the room to take any more girls. That’s why the home is being redesigned. Mr. Huey is adding more rooms and hiring more maids in the coming months.”
Frank looked around the drawing room, and at the doors that were closed off.
Bancroft asked, “How long has the home been under renovations?”
“A month,” the house’s mistress said. “That’s how long we’ve been forced to use the back door. No one but the workmen come through this way, but never at night.”
Miss B had been missing for over a fortnight, Bancroft had told him, earlier that night.
“What floors are closed off?” Frank asked.
“Lead us there,” Frank said, more hastily than he should have.
Mrs. Little frowned, but led the way. They crossed the room and stopped before one of the boarded doors. “There’s another way from the garden, but I’m not dressed to go outside. Either way, I assure you, no one has been in this area for—”
She was pulled back, just as Mr. Hit lifted his heavy foot and smashed through the boards. The door splintered, and then he gave it a few more kicks, forming a large hole.
“Oh, my,” Mrs. Little said. “Mr. Huey will not be pleased. I can assure you—”
“Go to bed,” Bancroft commanded, after dropping a heavy purse into her hands. The coins jingled.
The woman looked up in wonder, and then fled the room.
Frank climbed through the hole that led into an empty room and saw the door on the other side. His heart was once again racing.
“Let me lead,” Bancroft said. “I don’t know… what state she’ll be in.” He seemed to believe they’d come to the end of their journey, and that Miss B was dead.
Frank swallowed, and followed the man, stopping as the door was opened, and walked down the stairs only a pace or so behind.
There was light at the end, and Frank knew they’d found her.
Bancroft lifted his hand, making everyone behind him stop. “Wait here.”
He went alone, and disappeared beyond a corner.
The light flickered when he passed it, a lamp perhaps. Then there was a shuffling sound before a terrible noise rose, from what sounded like a strained throat. The poor woman was alive.
The scream of pure terror was mingled with heart-shattering sobs.
He could hear Bancroft whispering, trying to be soothing, a tone of voice Frank had never heard the man use— though they’d only met that night.
It wasn’t working.
Then Bancroft’s pleas grew louder and nearly frustrated. “Diana, please.”
Diana. Roman goddess of nature, the moon, and the hunt. She sounded more like the wounded creatures she’d been predestined to take care of. It hurt Frank in a way he didn’t understand.
“No, stop that, Diana. You’ll hurt yourself. Wait. Don’t fight me.” Bancroft’s voice was hard, but Frank could hear the man’s heart breaking.
He took a step, and a heavy hand on his shoulder brought him to a halt.
“Mr. Bancroft said to stay ‘ere,” said Mr. Hit.
Frank looked up at him, just as Diana screamed again. “I can’t leave her like this. It’s not in my nature to do so.” He could very well be killed for crossing the final few steps to Bancroft, but he was a doctor, before he was a coward.
* * *
He’s not real.
He’s not real.
When the vision reached out for Diana, she used her hands to crawl to him. No. He’d not take her again. He’d been a fool to free her hands this time. God, why couldn’t she just die? He was touching her again. His hands on her ankles burned.
She opened her eyes and saw black.
Gryf?
No, it wasn’t real. Gryffon wasn’t real.
How many times in the last few days— or was it weeks? How many times had she thought of him, dreamed of him coming for her? He never came. His touch always turned to another’s. That man who only ever made her hurt. She couldn’t trust him now.
She screamed and wept, fought to get away.
She did finally, and fell from the table she’d been tied to. Her legs didn’t work, but she crawled with her hands toward the corner. Her cage was in sight. At first, when he’d put her in there, she’d hated it, but then she’d grown to learn that it was safe there. If she was in her cage, he’d leave her alone. He never touched her there.
Never.
She scraped her hands on the hard floor and fell onto her elbow. She gasped at the pain; yet continued to crawl. The pain was now simply a part of her, always there. She could ignore it for a time. Like brandy to the throat, her skin had built a tolerance for it.
She made it to her salvation and closed the door behind her.
She screamed when she saw Gryffon still there, and banged her head on the wall, trying to make him go away. She didn’t want her brother to be there. He had to go away.
“I’m leaving!” her brother shouted.
She looked up and saw his hands were up. He was backing away from the cage, getting farther from her.
He’d never done that before. Usually, when she pictured her brother coming for her, Gryf would turn into him, her captor. Then he’d torture her. Bled her of her tears, and the will to live. Of her hopes and dreams.
She leaned her head to the side and watched him.
It ached from where she’d hit it. Her vision blurred for a moment. She saw feet, then legs, moving toward her.
He was coming for her.
She froze and pulled her knees over her nakedness, as though that had ever stopped him before.
She looked up and stopped.
She didn’t recognize this man. Her vision returned, and she moved this way and that, slowly, trying to make out his face from between the bars.
Then she looked over the rest of him and knew immediately that he was out of place.
He didn’t belong here in hell.
He was too perfect.
An angel.
He was a marble statue come to life, carved by the most meticulous artist, with strong handsome lines and gentle eyes. They were green and gold like summer moors, hills of endless grass, with the pleasant sounds of birds and the buzzing of bees. She closed her eyes and could almost hear them. She could feel the wind across her face, guiding her hair away.
She opened her eyes and realized it wasn’t the wind, but his hand.
Who was he?
Had God finally answered her prayers?
His hair was gold, cut with just enough length to show short waves. He was like a prince from a child’s tale.
He was speaking, and likely had been, for a while.
Why wasn’t he causing her pain? No one ever came who didn’t cause pain.
“May I carry you out of here?” he asked quietly.
She swallowed and tried to laugh. She might have, if her throat worked. Didn’t he know she couldn’t leave? She could never leave. This was where she would die. Alone, with the people in her head.
At least she’d finally envisioned something lovely.
She was glad he was there.
He turned, and a sheet of fine silk appeared in his hands. It had probably fallen from the skies; given to him by The Almighty, himself.
Her imagination had truly crafted a masterpiece this time. All she needed was for Jean-Baptiste Lully to descend from the clouds, so he could put it all to music. She’d dance her very best before the heavenly host.
The silk was laid upon her and stung where her skin was cut. She didn’t like it.
“It’s all right,” her marble man whispered. He spoke quietly, but she could still hear the baritone. She’d been in the theatre far too long, to have missed such a thing. “I’ve got you.”
He moved closer and she smelled lemon, sandalwood, and musk. Together, it was extremely cleansing to her senses. His arms went around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder.
She felt her body being lifted; and allowed her ivory giant to take her away.
* * *
3
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CHAPTER THREE
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Diana awoke in a room she recognized as a bedchamber in her brother’s house, but didn’t dare to move. Her eyes moved over the blue and gray patterned walls, then down to the matching blanket that covered her. She moved slightly, brushing her skin against the silk sheets. Her limbs settled further into the soft mattress, until it all but engu
lfed her.
Diana Sensational Spinster's Society (The Spinster’s Society) (A Regency Romance Book) Page 2
