by Elisa Braden
He was a protector, she’d said. It was his nature, just as it was the nature of leaves to seek the sun or water to wash things clean or roots to anchor and branch. Nature had patterns. His had been set long ago.
He bent now and laid a kiss upon her cheek, near the spot where her hair had been torn. Her skin there had already healed. Her hair would grow. He kissed her shoulder and savored her soft warmth against his lips. His precious woman.
Yes, he was a protector. He felt the knowledge surge inside him now, like steel at his core. Whatever it took, he would keep her safe. That was the reason he’d been born.
He gave gleaming mahogany silk one final stroke then forced himself to leave the bedchamber. Downstairs in the morning room, he found Dunston and Drayton eating baked eggs and discussing Drayton’s examination of the bluff.
“No signs of a man,” Drayton said after greeting Phineas. “Groundsmen all claim they were nowhere near the cliffs when you and Lady Holstoke were on the beach.” Drayton took another bite and swallowed before continuing, “You certain of what she saw, m’lord?”
“Yes,” Phineas replied without hesitation. “My wife saw a man. I have no doubt of it.”
Drayton merely nodded, but Dunston shot Phineas a wry look. “Eugenia has been known to make mistakes from time to time, Holstoke.”
Phineas shook his head. “Not in this. She is not a fanciful sort, and her instincts are sound.”
Dunston’s grin was approving. “So, this is you in love’s thrall, eh, old chap?”
Nodding, Phineas drank his tea and smiled in return.
“Good.” Dunston’s eyes grew serious. “Take care of her.”
“I shall.” Again, he felt the rightness of his words, how they resonated through him like music.
“Now, then,” Dunston continued. “The blackguard must be nearby. Where haven’t we looked?”
“Are there caves about?” asked Drayton.
Phineas shook his head. “None I haven’t already searched.”
In truth, they’d searched everywhere—the entire Primvale estate, the surrounding cottages and farms, the two villages within walking distance, inns and lodging houses in Bridport. They’d found no trace of the poisoner, even with Dunston’s description of the man, recollected from Hawthorn’s sketch.
Phineas gazed down into his tea. Saw the few bits of herbs—lemon balm and mint and feverfew—floating on its surface. He’d formulated the tea to treat the headaches that had plagued him since he was sixteen. The alarming pain and partial blindness of the megrims had, in part, prompted him to research medicinal applications of plants, so in one sense, they had driven him down a path he might not otherwise have taken. But plants themselves intrigued him. They always had.
Now, as he considered everything they’d learned of the poisoner, he wondered if they’d gone about this all wrong.
The poisoner, too, had a motivation. A nature. His attacks had centered on Phineas, but Phineas himself had not been targeted. Rather, it seemed the poisoner wanted his admiration. Why, he could not say. All the victims had a connection to Phineas, apart from the prostitute. And her death had been the most violent of all. She had resembled Hannah, who had been hated and hunted for years by Lydia Brand, and who had stopped Lydia forever with a single shot.
Phineas frowned. The poisoner’s pattern aimed in a direction, like leaves growing toward the sun. It aimed toward Phineas, yes. But its nature best aligned with Phineas’s mother. He looked at the side of his teacup. Flowers and vines. Stems growing in the same direction. Similar plants. Similar patterns. The answer emerged from inside him as though it had been waiting there, trapped in a box that was now open.
“He is in Weymouth,” Phineas murmured, certainty resonating through him like music. He raised his eyes to meet Dunston’s, which were now alert and steely. “He would want to be where she lived before her death. Not here at Primvale, but at her house in Weymouth.”
Dunston did not ask if he was certain. He sprang from his chair, clapped Phineas’s shoulder, and said, “I shall ask Walters to prepare our mounts. If you own a pistol, Holstoke, I suggest you bring it along.”
“I prefer swords.”
Dunston grinned. A flash of eagerness entered his gaze. “By all means, a good hunter should use the weapon that suits him best.”
They rode out of Primvale as morning sun painted damp grasses in yellow light. Before they left, Phineas ensured Dunston’s men would remain on guard while he was away, and he’d charged Ross with informing Eugenia about their plans.
Weymouth, a seaside town favored as a summer retreat by kings and lords, lay twenty miles east. Riding hard, they arrived at his mother’s former residence in less than two hours. Lydia Brand’s house sat at the end of a row of fashionable terrace houses along Weymouth Bay. It was several stories high, white and symmetrical, with a garden on two sides surrounded by a high brick wall. He’d kept the house for a year after her death. Then, he’d sold it to a baron who’d used it for his mistress. Phineas did not know who owned the house now, but as they pulled up two houses away, he saw it had been poorly maintained. The paint on the door was peeling, the iron fence on either side of the front entrance had rusted, and grass grew high around the garden walls.
“Appears empty, m’lord,” Drayton noted, rubbing his thigh as though it pained him. “Any idea how many might be livin’ here?”
“No.” Phineas dismounted then closed his hand around the hilt of his sword. It fit his hand as beautifully as the curve of Eugenia’s waist. The long, thin blade fell along his thigh past his knee. “Perhaps no one does.”
They paid a lad to mind their horses then advanced on the house from three directions—Drayton at the lower side entrance, Dunston at the front door, and Phineas through the garden gate.
Phineas struck the rusted latch on the old wooden gate with a rock, then opened it slowly, flinching at the loud groan of the hinges. He glanced left and right as he entered, taking in the brick planters overflowing with greenery. Unlike the exterior, the garden had been not only maintained but also cultivated. Everywhere he looked were herbs and flowers growing in abundance. Cold settled into his bones as he spotted a heavily veined, dark-throated yellow flower in the rear corner of the enclosed garden. Hyoscyamus niger. Henbane. Even breathing its foul scent could produce intoxication.
White, lacy hemlock bobbed nearby. Tall spires of foxglove. He recognized several other toxic varieties, as well, all neatly contained and thriving inside pots and beds.
It was a bloody poison garden.
He withdrew his sword from its sheath, the weapon an old friend in his hand. Slowly, he worked his way toward the rear entrance, pausing briefly to pluck a leaf or two from several varieties, thankful for the protection of his gloves.
Just as he grasped the door’s knob, he heard Drayton give a shout. He charged through the door into a dark, damp interior, moving through the scullery and small kitchen toward the sounds of thudding feet and male shouts.
He rounded a corner and discovered Dunston crouched outside the entrance to the dining room. The other man signaled silence with a finger to his lips.
Slowly withdrawing a dagger from the sheath strapped to his thigh, Dunston placed it on the floor at the center of the entrance. He stood, keeping his back to the wall. Then, he called into the room, “Release him, now, my good man. No sense killing anyone when we may all depart with our necks intact.”
Laughter—high, rapid, and mad—was the answer. The sound chilled Phineas’s blood.
“He wants to fly, my lord. I can set him free. He shall fly and fly.”
Dunston shook his head as Phineas tensed. “Let him go, and we’ll leave here straight away. No harm done.”
“Oh, but you serve his lordship. And his lordship seeks my end.”
A hard, steely gaze settled upon Phineas. “Perfect rubbish. Everybody knows I despise Holstoke. He tried to steal my wife.”
“He is the son of a goddess. Why should he not take what he
wants?”
Dunston’s face was grim. He mouthed the word “mad” and gestured to indicate that the poisoner had a pistol directed at Drayton’s head.
Phineas nodded and carefully positioned himself on the opposite side of the doorway.
“Tell me your name,” Dunston called out.
“The Supplicant.”
“No, my good man. Your surname.”
“I serve a goddess. My name is nothing.” The voice, oddly pitched and jittery, sounded closer. Boots scraped across wood. “She only requires tribute. Sacrifice. She offers great power to those who serve her. Life which begets death. Her beauty sends a man to the sky.”
Phineas wrapped his gloved hand around his blade and drew the length slowly through. Then, he met Dunston’s eyes and nodded to indicate his readiness.
Dunston nodded in return, unsheathed his second blade from inside his coat, and called through the door, “Drayton would make a poor sacrifice, indeed, limping as he does. Why, I doubt he could even grasp another man’s ballocks with sufficient force to—”
The loud, piercing squeal was their signal. Dunston moved in first, but only by inches. Inside, Drayton clutched the smaller man in two places. One was his wrist. The other made Phineas wince. Dunston charged forward and removed the gun from the young man’s hand.
Phineas looked him over from head to toe. Hawthorn’s description had been eerily accurate—round, blue eyes, bland features. There was but one difference—the scar, long and jagged along the man’s neck. The poisoner was slight of build with every appearance of harmlessness. And he’d obviously been partaking of nightshades, probably henbane, for his pupils were unnaturally wide. Now on his knees clutching his damaged groin, the young man gazed up at Phineas with something approaching wonder. “My lord,” he said, his voice ragged from the pain Drayton had inflicted. “I have done well, haven’t I?”
Tilting his head, Phineas examined him, wondering how such a pathetic wretch had managed to do what he’d done. The young man was listless. Thin. Weak as watery porridge. Apart from which, he was clearly mad. Not in the same way as Phineas’s mother, who had been soulless and calculating. He was uncontrolled. Intoxicated by his own poisons.
“Holstoke.” Dunston’s tone was cautious, as though calming a fractious horse. “Perhaps you should wait outside, old chap. Mustn’t deprive the hangman of his rightful due.”
The tip of his sword drew a drop of blood from the poisoner’s throat. He scarcely remembered raising the blade. “How did you know her?”
A wide, beatific grin. The young man closed his eyes briefly. “She found me here.”
“In Weymouth.”
“Along the promenade. She invited me in. She made me fly.”
“Bloody, bleeding hell,” Drayton muttered. “The boy could not have been but fourteen.”
“That boy murdered five women,” Dunston gritted.
“Not murder,” the young man said, his eyes rounding. “Offerings.”
Everything inside Phineas went cold and dark. Even his fury felt like frost. “How many?”
“Never enough. The goddess should have more.”
Phineas bent down near the young man’s face. He could smell death on him. “Tell me how many you have killed,” he said softly.
An odd giggle. “More than five by now,” he taunted. His chest shuddered as though he could not control his laughter. He turned his jagged scar toward Phineas. “Tried to offer myself once. But the goddess needed my hands. The goddess is greedy.”
“The goddess is dead,” said Phineas. “And so will you be, soon enough.”
He laughed. Loud and high. He laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. “She—she will never die, my lord. So long as there are Supplicants to serve her.” He stifled one last chuckle. His chest shuddered. A small frown marred his smile. “Did you suppose I was the only one?”
Chills streaked his spine, setting his skin afire.
In the silence, Dunston cursed.
Drayton muttered, “Two of ’em? Bloody, bleeding hell.”
Phineas straightened. Tightened his grip upon his sword. “Who else?”
The young man whispered, “He will avenge her, my lord.”
“Who?” Phineas bellowed.
“I shall be a final offering.” He smiled. Shook. “A journey into the sky.” He closed his eyes.
Jerked forward.
And forced Phineas’s sword through his own throat.
*~*~*
Genie stabbed the bit of ham with her fork. “He might have waited until I’d awakened.”
Ross cleared his throat. “Yes, my lady.”
“Or, he might have awakened me himself. He has shown remarkable talent in that regard.”
“Certainly, he might have done so.”
She chewed her ham then sipped her tea. It was over-steeped again. Another annoyance. “In any event, he should not have asked his valet to convey the message.”
“I am certain he did not wish to worry you, my lady.”
“Well, I am worried. So, that idea is rubbish. It has been hours since he left.”
Ross inclined his half-bald head. “He did wish me to convey his most humble apologies.”
Her glare was her answer, but she elected to add, “What a lot of rot.” Tossing her napkin down upon her plate, she pushed away from the table and stood. “Deliver his messages if you must, Mr. Ross, but do not lie. Holstoke only apologizes under the severest duress. I wager he would prefer to be baked like a ham.”
A movement in the morning room doorway caught her eye. It was Hannah. Her eyes and cheeks glistened with tears. The sight sent a dreadful ache swooping through Genie’s belly. She rushed to the girl, who threw her arms around her and clung.
“What is it, dearest? What’s happened?”
“He—he …”
Oh, God. It could only be Hawthorn. Had he died in the night? “Take a breath,” she murmured. “Then tell me.”
Hannah released two sighs before she managed to choke out, “He is awake.”
“Oh!” Genie drew back and cupped the girl’s shoulders. “But that is wondrous news!”
Hannah nodded, her tears continuing to flow. “He has asked for paper and—and a pencil. He wishes to sketch the poisoner again.”
“Of course.” She looked to Ross, who nodded and murmured that he would fetch them straight away. Then, she examined Hannah’s eyes. Saw grief and joy battling there. “Come.” She drew her sister toward the table then handed her a napkin. “Dry your eyes.”
Hannah dabbed at her cheeks.
“Did he say anything to you?” Genie ventured. “Apart from his sudden desire to sketch, I mean.”
Pale eyes dropped to where the napkin twisted in delicate hands. “He asked about the poisoner. Whether I had been attacked.”
Genie nodded. “Go on. You obviously told him no.”
The girl’s lip trembled. “H-he asked why I was there with him.”
“And you said?”
Her eyes lifted to Genie’s. “I did not have an answer, Eugenia.”
She ached to see Hannah’s turmoil. The girl’s seamless shell of indifference was the only thing protecting her. Yet, she could not discard it to reach for what she most wanted—love. Genie had been forced to batter the shell relentlessly to crack the thing open. She’d been rewarded with a new sister, so it had been worth the trouble. But trouble it had been. Genie did not know if a man would have that sort of patience.
“He took my silence for … I’m not certain. A slight, I suppose. He suggested my purpose was to ensure he lived long enough to provide an image of the man who threatened my life. He requested the paper and pencil.” Her hands twisted the cloth tighter. “Then he asked me to leave.”
Genie swallowed the lump in her throat and raised her chin. “Perhaps he needed to use the chamber pot.”
Hannah blinked. Her lips tightened. Eyes widened. Then, she burst out with a gulp of laughter.
Genie grinned and giggled with her.
“Well, the man has been asleep for days, you know.”
As tension drained from Hannah’s shoulders, Genie insisted she eat. Then, while they sat together at the table, she complimented Hannah’s gown, which was a fetching icy-pink frock with little red rosettes at the hem. She discussed plans for a new cap to match her blue gown. The silk, not the velvet. No, the other silk.
She waited until Hannah had eaten everything on her plate before revealing that Phineas, Dunston, and Drayton had left for Weymouth, suspecting that was where the poisoner had been hiding.
Hannah paled. Carefully, she placed her fork beside her plate.
Footmen entered and began clearing trays from the sideboard. Clinking china and the cry of gulls outside were the only sounds for a long while.
Then, Hannah reached for Genie’s hand. “You fear for him,” she said softly. “As do I.” Vividly bright green eyes lifted to hers. “Phineas is strong. Brilliant and strong. I have never won a game of chess against him. Not once. And I am an excellent player.”
Genie nodded, tears springing to her own eyes. “I know. But he is the very heart of me, Hannah. So long as that is true—and it shall always be true—I will suffer for his absence.”
Ross returned to the morning room twenty minutes later with Hawthorn’s new sketch in hand. Genie took it from him and examined the face. She frowned. “Do you recognize him?” she asked Hannah.
“No. I don’t like his eyes.”
“What about them?”
“They are bad pretending to be good.”
Hannah had seen enough bad in her life that Genie accepted her assessment without hesitation. “Indeed. The worst sort of eyes, I daresay.”
More china clinked as one of the footmen sorted his tray. Genie’s attention snagged upon him. He wore the Primvale livery, of course. A wig. Blue coat with green facings and gold breeches with white stockings. But he was tall. Six feet, perhaps.
