by Elsa Holland
Unexpected.
He drew it out, the envelope and handwriting telling him it would contain instructions. He slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket, pressing it against his heart in anticipation.
He’d received two such letters before. The first, an address and name in Manchester, his girl in furs.
Not long after, another, this one harder to find. He’d laid the groundwork he needed in order to lure her and have a place to kill her over a few visits. A more elaborate and daring plan. One that would have its rewards.
Tomorrow they would meet. If he waited any longer to catch her, she may get spooked and run.
Goldbloom patted his chest. And now they had found a third. He smiled. They would always find them.
It had been very easy to lure his first girl, and tomorrow’s target would be no different. He knew the people they trusted, knew how to speak to them as if he were a confidant. He would say the girl’s anonymity had been compromised and he was there to take her to safety. The girl walked into a slum and up dark stairs with a man she didn’t know, thinking she ran from certain death when really she was already caught and running toward it.
There was a trip to Oxford Street, a new pair of brown shoes and measurements for a three-quarter jacket, then back to Victoria Station and off on the journey back home.
It was a few hours before Goldboom reached the nearest station and a further hour’s drive after that before he reached his village. His village. Strange how quickly the mind established attachments.
He lived alone, without staff, so there was no one at his cottage to make dinner, but he’d eaten enough. Instead, he went straight to the workshop out the back. The dogs lashed out against their chains as he passed. He should feed them.
He sat on the stool that allowed a view through the rectangular window. A full moon sliced a silvery line across the inky ocean below to the horizon. He opened the letter and placed it on the desk beneath the kerosene lamp. The script was a series of wax seals depicting various symbols. Their code.
Aries. The first of the astrological signs, thus the target was the first Painted Sister purchased by the Collector.
A Caduceus—the symbol for medicine. The Collector was somehow connected with the medical field.
A stag with a cross between its horns—a family crest—and the ruins of Holyrood Abbey—meaning Edinburgh.
He pulled out the book that listed the Collectors, their lineage and their registered purchases, which included Painted Sisters.
There was only one Collector in Edinburgh. He was a surgeon and his first Painted Sister was . . . Edith Andrews.
Edith. He smiled. They would meet again, and this time he would not be so easily distracted as when the Ice Princess and Blackburn had saved her.
The postscript was two sets of numbers—longitude and latitude—her location.
CHAPTER 54
Edith pushed the surgery swing doors open and walked through. The sight of the linen room made her chest hurt. A terrible fate to have love and pleasure so entwined with aching pain and useless longing. There had been pleasure, even as each touch, each thrust, had torn at her heart; the hard look in his eyes hiding the deep wound that her secret had caused.
There was very little for her to do today. There was no surgery for the rest of the week. The forgeries would not be ready for a further three days, which might as well be an eternity.
“Edith.” She spun around at his voice. The Butcher stood before her, face closed, a solid wall of man. Sensations skittled down her spine.
“Vaughn . . .”
They stood in silence as the events of their last meeting circled the air between them. His eyes traveled over her, but they were different; before he’d looked and wondered, now he looked and knew. That knowing only added to the tension.
Her body betrayed her with its immediate arousal. Like a trained monkey, it saw Vaughn and thought of touches, kisses, orgasms. Now, her body knew orgasms, knew stimulation and penetration, all the things she had risked exposure for. She could have feigned shock that first night, when he called to her from his dark tunnel. She could have refused him at every turn, and she didn’t. Eight days, she had promised herself, and here they stood, five days later, an ocean of experience crossed between then and now.
“Thomas suggested you could help in the lab if the surgery was closed for the rest of the week. I agreed.”
“Yes. I can do that.”
“Yes . . .?”
She scowled. “Yes, Doctor.” Edith ran her hands down the front of her skirt then touched her buttons at her sleeve.
“Don’t do that,” he growled.
“Do what . . . Doctor?”
Vaughn stalked forward, and she stumbled backward. Nerves rioting and body blasting to life at the thought he might reach out and touch her.
“Don’t touch your buttons.” His eyes had gone darker, the look he used to have when she knew he wanted her and couldn’t wait.
“I don’t touch my buttons.” She knew she did, it was a nervous habit.
“You always touch your buttons. I used to find it endearing, thinking it was a symptom of your modesty. Well, now we both know that is not the case. You have enjoyed hundreds of hours of male attention.”
Edith dodged to the side as he lunged for her and missed. Her heart suddenly hammering in her chest.
“Did the men who looked at you, touch you? Did you allow them to trace their fingers over your skin? How is it you seem to claim such innocence . . .” He lunged again, and she squealed, managing to wriggle out of his grasp as her skin flushed with pleasure. “But you kissed, licked and sucked my cock as if you could love it more than the man it was attached to. That takes a certain state of mind, a certain sexual maturity. How did you get that, Edith?”
CHAPTER 55
She looked down at her feet, thinking of her answer, and Vaughn took his chance. In less than a second he had her. Pulled her up against him, her wool, cotton and buttons pressed tight against his jacket. The kiss, her mouth, was sweet even as her hands pushed him away, even as she stiffened her lips. He threaded his fingers through her hair, tugging at all the pins which held that silk so perfectly in place.
Unexpectedly, she slipped her arms around him, digging her fingernails into his shoulders and kissing him back angrily. Slipped her warm, sweet tongue into his mouth and dueled with his. He sucked it, shocking her when she couldn’t draw it back. Held her so close every part of her was pressed against him. Fuck, he wanted her, wanted her more than he wanted anything in his life.
He pressed his face into her hair, drew in her scent.
“Edith. Edith. Edith,” he whispered against her. “What have you turned me into?” A bastard, no doubt.
But a man couldn’t be with a woman he could not trust, and certainly not a woman who did not trust him. He let her go, then walked to the back door that led to the courtyard and opened it.
“Try and earn your keep in the lab today.”
Her hands fixed her hair as she marched past him, scowling her worst at him. He was going to put her through hell, he just had to keep his hands off her.
But, now he had some investigative work to do.
Vaughn took a set of keys out of Price’s cupboard and went up to the third floor. The lock to her room opened easily. He entered and closed the door quietly behind him.
The room was well ordered, no stray bits of female apparel and the small bedside table was bare. He went to the small desk. There were medical journals, notes, books, but nothing personal. No photos of family, no small pieces of jewelry, scarves, soft furnishings. Even her toiletries were kept to the bare minimum, as if her life had started afresh.
As if her life had started afresh. He rolled that thought around in his head. That was worth exploring. She had worried that she was followed; had she run from something or someone?
He opened the wardrobe. Very functional. He moved the clothes aside and tested the back. There was no give. He squatted down and fe
lt the bottom—yes, there was the false floor he remembered. He found the small opening and levered up the wood.
She had found it as well.
There was a satchel.
He took it to the desk, sat down and opened it. Papers for an Edith Andrews, birth certificate, bank details. He folded the papers and placed them back. There was a list of surgeons with his name circled as well as three others, a few others with notes alongside their names.
There were more papers. A newspaper clipping, a call for doctors in Zimbabwe with the missionaries. Letters between Edith and the Church when she was at a London address. He wrote the address down, would ask Price to check it out; Price had a friend in London, a butler in service down there, who may be of use.
The church administrator had asked for a copy of her qualifications and a letter of reference. Edith’s reply had said it could take some time, but she would arrange it. Was she a doctor? He was sure he would have known if she was. She was knowledgeable, yes, but trained? No.
There were train tickets booked for London in three days’ time. She was preparing to run. He looked at the date of purchase—it was shortly after her arrival . . . she had always planned to run.
There was also a note regarding a local bookshop. Any man with an active libido knew the shop—it had an illicit sex shop in the back. The address was pinned to a large envelope. Vaughn opened it up.
There were two photographs, one hand colored. His hand shook, and he suddenly felt ill. It was clearly Edith—her tattoos, that body, made her immediately recognizable. The man in the photograph had his back turned yet he seemed oddly familiar. The collar and the chain, what did that mean? How often had he asked her if there was a man? Now it seemed there was more than one; this was not a picture of artist and model.
In the other photograph, she stood alone, without the mask, her eyes shuttered and closed. He had learned to read those eyes as well as any book these last two weeks. It was clear that she had not been happy when the image was taken. She looked as if she did not want to be there. Clearly, she did not care for that man.
Vaughn had two addresses, the potential employers with the missionaries who awaited Edit’s ‘qualifications and letter of reference’ and the address she had written from in London. He placed all the items as he had found them except for the photographs of her. Those he wanted some detailed answers on. He closed the door of her bedroom softly behind him and went back down to his study.
After dinner, there was a knock on his study door. It was Price.
“The address you asked about? The home of a Mr and Ms Hurley. My contact in London had heard things about them. Eccentric spinster twins known for having many young wards, something about fostering women in the arts, or something of that nature. The Hurleys were not part of regular society; they traveled in elite, yet unorthodox circles.”
“Did he say where?”
“I understand they closed their London residence quite suddenly and have moved to their estate outside Bath.”
Vaughn nodded, and Price excused himself.
Edith’s lack of conventionality started to make sense. However, her being photographed naked, save for a bird mask, on the end of a chain did not. His hopeful heart created scenarios of artistic eroticism, but his rational mind went to far darker places.
CHAPTER 56
It was icy cold. Edith wore her coat, scarf, gloves and hat yet, as she set off once again to the forger, it was as if the cold was coming from inside her.
For the last two days she’d helped out in the anatomical lab. Vaughn brooded from a distance, occasionally swooping in and looking at her anatomical drawing, leaning too close as he pointed out its shortfalls.
There had been more of those sudden unexpected kisses up against a wall. Hot intense kisses, always with the same request ‘tell me the truth Edith’ before he stalked off. Gone were those exciting and tantalizing intimate touches she desperately wanted, the promise of them held out like a carrot as he taunted her with small tastes of him between barks and bites. He wanted the truth. He wanted the secrecy gone and his fears allayed; that was his price.
The truth was the one thing she could not give him. Not if she valued both their lives.
At the Edinburgh Bibliotheca of Foreign Books, she gave the secret hand signal and was ushered in to see Mr Wire.
“It would have been better if you’d sent someone.”
“There is no one.” Her hands curled.
He nodded and removed a large envelope. “I think the work came out quite well.” Mr Wire placed silver-rimmed reading glasses on his face and looked at the documents carefully. “You’re forging The Butcher’s papers—does he know?” She was silent, and he waved his hand as if the answer made no difference. “I’ll give you this much, Miss Appleby—you know how to play dangerously. Surgeons are a different species, I’ve come to understand. They have to be, given the nature of their occupations. In fact, some of them are born into money and choose to do it merely for gratification.”
He wrote an amount on a piece of paper. “This is what it will cost you.” It was exorbitant, nearly all she had until she visited her bank again in London, but she nodded.
Edith sat down and checked the work—the paper, seal, and calligraphy were perfect. A small spark of hope ignited within her—she might just make it out alive.
Mr Wire leaned back in his chair. “The Butcher takes plenty of charity work. You’re his new nurse.”
“What makes you say that?”
“My wife’s brother was in with the Butcher last week, some issue with his stomach. Doing fine now. People like to talk, he turns the nurses over, regular patients lay bets on how long one will stay. There’s mixed bets on you, but we both know you’ll be running soon.”
Edith ignored the probe into her plans. “Mr Laughlan, perhaps?”
Mr. Wire leaned forward. “Yes, did you assist in his surgery?”
“Yes. A twisted intestine; it would have killed him if he hadn’t come in. A less experienced surgeon could have caused a rupture or a twist further along. Dr Vaughn is the best man your brother-in-law could have had.”
“Have you ever held the scalpel yourself?”
“I have, a little, and want to do more.”
Mr Wire leaned back in his chair and nodded. “As I said before, your name is marked. I wish I could have done the work for you in-house, but it had to be sent out. The forger may or may not have been told to watch for your name.”
“Does the Butcher know who he has under his roof? You must know the danger in which you place all those who deal with you. If the doctor so much as has a lurid thought about you and your master finds out, there will be one less surgeon to take in all of those charity operations. Did you consider that when you knocked at his door?”
The discomfort she had felt these last few days increased. It was possible, even if she got away, that they would track her back to Vaughn and make him pay. She had thought if she had kept her secret safe, that he would be too. She was wrong. She felt ill.
“I thought I might get in and out.” Edith counted out the money on the table.
He shook his head again. “The devil’s lair, my dear. You could have wandered into any other city in the north and perhaps slipped away unnoticed. Not that you could have a fellow or anything, looking like you do.” There was that look. The look of a man who had seen her naked.
There had been a couple of other surgeons with qualifications from the same university but Vaughn’s advertisement for staff had been so timely, his high turnover of staff also meant he may not be fussy, might be in a hurry. It had been a high risk but one that was paying off if she left immediately.
Mr Wire then turned his attention to the bills, counted and recounted, then held them up to the light. “You can’t be too sure,” he mumbled.
“Everything is in order; our business is concluded. May I suggest you go directly to the train station?
“If I was taken, would you hear of it?” She swallowed.
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“Most likely.”
“If you do, can you get word to this address?” Edith gave him Blackburn’s address.
Mr Wire wrote down the details, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, with men like this at your service, if you can’t find a way to survive then none of us stand a chance,” he said, referring to Blackburn.
Back on the street, the weight of guilt sat even heavier on her chest. Mr Wire was right; she had put Vaughn’s life in danger simply by being in his employ, let alone all the rest. She should have done more research.
Edith walked through the narrow, cobbled alleys back to George Street. Tension tightened her shoulders and she glanced back for the third time. The street was so busy with other pedestrians that it took a few blocks for her to realize a man in a black coat and bowler hat was following her. Lifting her chin and bracing herself for a confrontation, she stopped. Sounds amplified, her hands clenched around her handbag. It wasn’t much but perhaps she could use it to hit him in the nose or neck. Holding her meager weapon close, she spun around.
The man wasn’t there.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t close.
She moved into the adjacent alcove of a fabric and haberdashery shop and pushed herself as close to the wall as possible. The stone was cool through her coat as she waited to see if he would follow. With each second that dragged by, the band of steel around her chest tightened, making each breath a near impossibility. But he didn’t pass by. She took a quick peek down the street, but there was no sign of him. Leaning back, eyes closed, she went through one scenario after another, of who he was, who he worked for and what would happen if he followed her back to Surgeons’ Square. Each ending was less favorable than the last, and its consequence churned in her gut.
“Miss Appleby.”
His voice rippled warm and thick in the frosty street. Pleasure softened the tension in her jaw and, ludicrously, it felt like a solid, safe cocoon slipped around her.
