by Nancy Gideon
“Any changes, and you will come to me immediately.”
“Yes, of course. I have more invested in the success of this than you do, Doctor.”
“Come dine with us tonight at seven. If you are going to court my daughter, I’d as soon it be done properly.”
Louis smiled and gave a slight bow. “As you wish, Doctor. I shall look forward to it.”
And at seven, they dined on an excellent meal prepared by the Howlands’ kitchen and delivered up by a scowling Mrs. Kampford. Louis provided a bottle of vintage French wine, and, over rims of cut crystal, he and Arabella exchanged speaking glances. Table talk was amicable and general—Stuart’s work, Louis’s ventures. In all, it was a pleasant evening, the type a prospective suitor spent with his intended’s family. And when Louis excused himself with a polite murmur, neither father nor daughter guessed that in his brief absence he was on his knees in the shadows, retching up the meal with a convulsive violence.
MAC REEVES SUCKED down his gin and kept a sharp eye on the smoke-shrouded door that looked out on Tooley Street in Bermondsey. A reeling pattern of seafaring men stumbled in and out but he watched for one in particular, one with whom he’d yet to refine the details of their next riverside robbery. As the moon was full, they couldn’t slink about in cemeteries to perform their grim work unseen, so he was looking for other means to earn himself enough blunt to get by until his next sack-’em-up job. Though he drank, he wasn’t drunk. It paid to keep the wits about at all times. Indulgence was for safe hidey-holes where he’d bed a tart or two and sop up gin until he passed out. This was a night for business, and it paid to keep alert.
Which was why he was so surprised to find a gentleman standing at his elbow. He’d not seen the man approach, and from where he sat with his back to a wall, the gent couldn’t have come up behind him. He just appeared, silent, ghostlike, and Reeves didn’t like surprises.
“Are you Mac Reeves?” The drawl was low and heavily accented, some foreign flavor that had a ring of the familiar to it.
“Who be askin’?” he growled, scowling at the fellow; a real dandy he was, too. For all his fine clothes, an experienced bloke would know him for a plump pocket, yet none of the nefarious fellows sitting near them paid him any mind. In fact, none seemed to notice him at all. Reeves felt a disturbing shiver as he stared up at the stranger’s smooth countenance.
“Someone who could be very grateful for a little information.”
“Yeah, well I ain’t in the information business, see? So you’d best be takin’ yer fancy arse outta here afore you get rolled for your purse.”
“I have no fear for my safety and I know your business, Mr. Reeves, which is why we sought you out.”
“We?” Hard eyes flashed about, but he could see no other fitting a tie to the dapper foreigner.
“Mr. Reeves, my companion and I would like to ask a few questions of you. We would pay well for your time.”
A sudden clatter of gold across the tabletop jerked Reeves’s breath up short. He was quick to rake it in close before anyone else saw. A man weren’t safe with his own peers—especially with his own peers. As greedy as he was, Reeves had survived too long on caution.
“I don’t know you, and I don’t talk to strangers ’bout my business.”
The man smiled a slow, silky smile, and he shifted slightly so Reeves could see his eyes. Iridescent pale blue eyes, seeming to pulse with an inner brilliance... odd, so odd, Reeves couldn’t look away.
“Ah, but we are old friends, are we not?” the mysterious fellow murmured, and Reeves found himself nodding. His head was buzzing, but it was like no kick of ruin he’d ever experienced. When the gent said, “Come,” he could form no objection. He rose up from his chair, leaving the gold on the table, and followed the tall figure to the door and to a secreted coach wreathed in late-night mists. He stepped inside without pause and settled upon the plush seat next to the fine gentleman. Across from them sat a woman—he could tell by her scent, but her face and figure were concealed within the folds of a cloak.
“Mr. Reeves?” Her voice tingled along his nerve endings in a prickly quiver.
“Yes, mum?”
“We will not detain you for long. We’ve been led to believe that you are the manipulator behind a series of deaths and deliveries of the dead.”
“Y—yes,” he heard himself say, and he couldn’t believe he was damning himself so easily before two strangers.
“I am interested in several recent corpses, bodies emptied of their blood. Do you know of what I speak?”
“Yes.”
“Good. And to whom did you make these deliveries?”
“To a Doctor Howland, at his home.”
“Howland?”
“Stuart Howland. Paid me real good and up front for ’em, too.”
“Excellent. And what was he doing with these bodies?”
“Can’t say, mum. Odd doings.” Then he clamped his mouth shut with an effort. Wouldn’t do to spill too much and cut himself out of a tidy profit in blackmail.
“Would these doings involve a dangerously handsome man of breeding with an accent like my companion’s?”
That’s where he’d heard it before, Reeves realized in a far distant daze. Now he recalled. His greedy mind managed to scrape up enough resistance so he could mutter a rough, “No, I don’t—”
Then the man beside him moved. Reeves assumed he did, though he didn’t see any actual motion. Suddenly, the manicured hand clutched his thick throat and Reeves could feel his windpipe crumpling beneath an amazing strength.
“Think harder, my friend. His name is Luigino, but he could have changed it to—”
“Louis,” Reeves gasped. “Louis Radman.”
“Louis,” the woman purred. “Yes. And where can we find him?”
“Don’t know. Truly I don’t know. Can’t be hard to track down, him being an aristocrat an’ all. A marquis.”
“A marquis,” the man drawled, sounding impressed and amused. “Gino has done well for himself, hasn’t he, cara. And you, Mr. Reeves, have been a great help. We need to reward you for your graciousness.”
And just as Reeves was beginning to smile craftily, grateful that the encounter was almost over and that it would see him reimbursed, the gentleman shifted toward him on the seat. And in the poorly lit coach interior, the blue eyes glowed with deep blood-red centers.
Gasping, Reeves grabbed for the door, but the long-fingered hand had him by the neck, crushing the breath and struggle from him, yet careful not to press so hard as to rob him of consciousness. Careful not to deprive him of the horrible sight of the man’s face drawing near, of his lips drawing back in a ghastly grin, of his fangs coming down. Reeves tried to scream.
It came out as a gurgle. For the man had torn his throat open with those sharp, unnatural teeth before leaning back to savor the dying terror in Reeves’s eyes.
The last thing Mac Reeves heard was the woman’s tinkling laughter.
“REALLY, GERARD, you are making a terrible mess.”
“I’m sorry, mia amate. You know how I am when I’m made to wait for what I want. But I’m being selfish. Did you wish a taste?”
The woman folded back her hood and as always, Gerardo Pasquale was stunned by her beauty. Her pouty lips curled in distaste. “Non, I prefer to dine with a subtle wine, not the unpleasantness of cheap gin. But you go ahead.”
He smirked at her. “Such a lady you are, Bianca. Too much above dirtying yourself with the lower class.” He laughed and caught her by the front of her cloak, dragging her forward so he could kiss her. And despite her proud disdain, she sucked eagerly at his lips and lapped the smear of blood from his face, then sat back, breathing hard.
“So,” she murmured uncaringly, “you prove I am a creature led by my lusts.”
“If not, w
e would not be here. Or do you prefer to call it love? Mal d’amore. Love sickness, no?”
She frowned at his dry remark and her haughty beauty sharpened into something not nearly so pleasant. “Take care, Gerard. Do not mock me. You were most willing to come.”
“Yes, but not for the same reasons as yours.”
“My reasons are my own. Now, I am hungry.” She thumped the roof and called up, “To Catherine Street.” For a moment, she watched Gerardo feed, fighting down her own twist of need. She was more patient than her avaricious friend. She could wait for more tempting fare strolling unsuspectingly at the Drury Lane Theatre. Pushing aside the window drape, she looked out at the sights. “Ah, London. I have not been here since—let me think, since 1680-something.”
Gerardo glanced at her and supplied a crimson-stained smile. “Then you’ll have plenty of old friends to look up.”
Bianca’s lovely features hardened as she let the curtain fall. “Just one, Gerardo. Just one.”
And she couldn’t wait to renew the acquaintance.
Chapter Eleven
LOUIS STOOD UP slowly and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. He felt as if his jaw had been broken as he worked it gingerly. Across from him, Takeo relaxed his offensive pose and bowed slightly.
“Do not gloat, my friend. There was a time when you would not have come within a mile of striking me.”
The boy grinned and bounced lightly on his toes, beckoning with his fingers. Louis smiled back wryly and settled into his sparring stance, balance carefully distributed along a natural, flex-kneed position and fists ready to block or punch. He deflected the first few strikes with an instinctive agility, throwing blows aside and dodging kicks. But it wasn’t easy, it was work. And it wasn’t the type of fighting one would see at Crawley Down or hear discussed at the Daffy Club or Jackson’s Rooms on Bond Street. It wasn’t bare knuckling in the traditional English sense, but rather a form of defense that spanned back into the religious temples of China, a combination of graceful self-protection and lethal attack. Takeo had taught Louis the forms because the artful moves intrigued him. Now he was more serious in his interest... especially when the boy’s foot shot through his guard and planted with a cracking force in the center of his chest. The marquis stumbled back and fell, skidding along the tiled floor, where he continued to lie, gasping for breath.
“I think you’ve broken my ribs,” he wheezed, and the lad rushed over to kneel down.
And as soon as he did, Louis had him by the shoulders and flipped him neatly. Before the boy could scramble up, Louis rolled to his feet and came down with one knee on the youngster’s sternum. With a guttural cry, he drove the heel of his hand downward with killing force, halting just shy of Takeo’s face. Had contact occurred, the boy would have died instantly with the shattered bridge of his nose piercing his brain.
“I may be slow, but I am still clever.”
The lad grinned in appreciation and bounded up the moment he was released. When Louis urged another round, he shook his head and held his hands up in a harmless manner.
“Come on, Takeo. What’s wrong? Have I worn you down?” But he knew just the opposite was true. The boy was worried about him. A swelling had started at his cheekbone, and his body ached in a dozen places from Takeo’s well-placed abuse. He’d been stripped down to the barest skills, and feared they would not be enough to serve him. It was a humbling reduction. He’d had the endurance of a bull and the strength of ten. He could shatter walls with his fists and get such elevation on his kicks, he seemed to fly. Now he was winded and hurting from a light workout, and he was scared.
“Again, Takeo.”
But the boy shook his head, placing cautioning hands on his shoulders. Louis flung them off angrily.
“No, I don’t want to rest. I must get stronger. I am weak. I am powerless. I am like a baby who is helpless to defend himself. I cannot afford it, Takeo. There are too many who now know my name.”
He was thinking of the engagement announcements proudly heralded in the Morning Post, the Gazette, and the Times. Howland had wasted no time in proclaiming his daughter’s rise in status—and his own. But with it came the kind of publicity Louis shunned out of habit. He was a creature who’d survived long by his own cunning and his care to exist quietly, with no undue attention that might sharpen into suspicion.
Takeo gripped his master’s hand and struck his other over his heart in a gesture of loyalty. Louis’s features gentled to a smile.
“You have done well, my young friend, and I have trusted you with my care. Perhaps I worry too much. Better that than too little, eh?”
Takeo’s concern didn’t lift. He brought his hand up and down to his mouth to pantomime eating. Louis grimaced. Even the thought of forcing a meal woke nausea. He’d yet to find anything his system would accept and it was steadily draining his strength. The scent of cooking meat revolted him. While he enjoyed experimenting with the different tastes and textures, the end result was tearing him up inside. He kept telling himself time would solve his troubles, time and determination. He didn’t want to go to Howland, not this close to his wedding date, not until Arabella was his. Because if something was wrong, if he was reverting, Howland would lock his love away, and an eternity without her would be twice the hell it had been.
Louis sighed. “All right, I will try.” And with the utmost reluctance and discouragement, he went into the kitchen, where Takeo had secured a small corner to cook only for himself, up until recently.
On the table was a cut of beef still wrapped in butcher paper. In the tray beneath it, juices pooled. Without thinking, Louis dipped his fingers into the meat drippings and sucked the flavor from them. Rich, fresh, and bloody. And before he could stop himself, he’d ripped the paper away and set upon the haunch of beef like a ravenous dog, tearing off and swallowing great chunks until the gnawing burn in his belly eased. Then his frenzy slowed and he took great care in draining the raw juices into a crystal goblet and drinking them down after rolling the taste about his tongue like the finest of wines.
He was washing his face and hands when the first vicious cramp doubled him. He rode it out, breathing hard into the pain and clenching his teeth to forestall the provoking roil of his stomach. Finally, the urge to retch quieted and he applied fresh water to rinse the slick of sweat off his skin. And he smiled with grim satisfaction. He’d eaten. Not the most elegant of meals, but solid in substance. A small step closer. A baby step. But he wouldn’t let that matter; it couldn’t matter. He would do whatever was necessary to fit into Arabella’s world.
ONE OF THE MOST disagreeable tasks was settling his debts and promises. He’d chosen an informal dinner for the hospital’s Board of Governors and a few select guests to see it done. That list included Stuart Howland, his lovely daughter, and Wesley Pembrook. And before that august company, he bestowed upon Mr. Pembrook an impressive medical practice bought out with his own coin—to thank the young doctor for his kindnesses to the Howland family. And as Wesley beamed and ingratiated himself to the Board, Louis fixed him with a cold warning stare which Wesley would be foolish not to heed.
“That should shut him up,” Stuart grumbled as Louis came to bow over his daughter’s hand. Over the past few days, the doctor had lost much of his liking for his scheming apprentice. He had nothing against ambition—he just didn’t care to have his crumpled reputation used as a stepping stone.
Louis gave him an impassive glance. “If not, there are other measures. As I promised, the threat of Mr. Pembrook is gone.” He’d not yet released Arabella’s hand, and used it now to draw her closer. “Good evening, my love. How well you look. Were we not in the center of attention, I would show you how much I’ve missed you.”
Arabella colored prettily, but her eyes were all smoky intensity. “I will hold you to that, my lord, the moment we are alone.”
Pretending not to overhear t
he intimate exchange, Stuart looked instead toward the fawning Wesley. When their gazes met, Wesley excused himself and sauntered over to greet them. His stare narrowed as Louis squared up at Arabella’s side in what could be described as a territorial bristle.
“Doctor, Miss Howland, my lord.” He sketched a graceful bow. “I’ve come to convey my overwhelming thanks for your generosity.”
“Even generosity has its limits,” Louis told him in a chill voice. “Bother us again and you will find it overtaxed. And we wouldn’t want things to get... unpleasant, would we?”
Wesley raised a haughty brow. “Do I take your meaning, sir?”
“You’d be wise to take what you’ve been given and be grateful. ’Twould be quite tragic for an old friend of the Howlands to disappear on the crux of his career success, shall we say, without a trace?”
“Like Reeves?” Wesley sneered in a low aside.
“Who?”
“Mac Reeves, the graverobber you employed.”
Stuart shot a frantic look about to make sure no one had overheard, but Louis’s glare never flickered. “So that was his name. What of him?”
“No one knows. He simply vanished off the streets one night.”
“A hazard of his profession, I would guess, but not of my doing.”
“So you say.”
“I do. And now, you bore me, Pembrook. Please go away, far away, and trouble me no more. You’ve gotten far better than you deserve.”
Wesley looked to Arabella with a surly scowl, his gaze covetous. “As have you, my lord.” He bowed to the lady and stiffly took his leave.
“That’s the last of him,” Stuart claimed with a gruff satisfaction.
BUT HOLDING TO his arm, Arabella was not so sure.
The only thing she was sure of was Louis. She had no doubts there. She loved him, he cherished her, and they were going to be wonderfully happy. No one was going to get in their way—not Wesley, not her father, not even the secrets she’d yet to guess about Louis’s past condition. She’d waited too long for this perfect love to let anything spoil it.
