“Her sons must miss her very much.”
“She died while giving birth to Jonathan. Only Lord Blackwell remembers her. She adored dancing, I hear, and when she died, the old earl had the ballroom completely shut up. It’s not been used in ages. And as for this immediate area surrounding the house—well, nobody cared much for it after Clara and Marie died. This was Marie’s domain. She and the head gardener, Mr. Clancy, managed the whole of it together, and I’m afraid her death nearly sent him to his own.”
“He’s a human, then?”
“Partially. He had an accident as a youth that required limb replacement and a heartclock implant. His brain is still intact, but I hear he was never a chatty one to begin with. He came on as a young man when Jonathan’s mother was in her prime, and when Marie grew older, they became close friends. Once Marie died . . . well, I doubt he’s spoken two words to anyone since.”
“And Clara and Marie died six months ago?”
Kate nodded.
Lucy frowned. “And you’re sure Marie was murdered?”
Kate winced. She took a deep breath and began walking down the garden path that wound through the thick undergrowth. Lucy followed, tugging the collar of her fitted jacket snugly to her scarf against a cold blast of wind.
“She was torn to shreds,” Kate murmured, and Lucy had to lean in closer to hear her. “It looked as though she’d been attacked by a wild animal or possibly a vamp, although there were no traces of venom, no puncture marks, and she’d definitely not been drained.” Kate grimaced. “From what I understand, there was blood everywhere. Ghastly. Her death was ruled an accident, but Lord Blackwell and Jonathan both believe otherwise.”
“And you don’t believe it was an animal attack?”
Kate shook her head. “Marie had a gift with animals. She had always been able to communicate with them in a way nobody had ever seen. As a child, she could coax the lions and tigers at the London Zoo to eat right out of her hand, and they submitted to her when she reached through the bars to pat their heads or scratch their ears. Stray dogs in the village marketplace, feral cats, even circus animals—they all loved her.”
They continued in silence for a few minutes, their steps soft on the damp ground littered with leaves and twigs. Lucy looked back as they walked around a bend; the house was completely hidden from view.
“Do you often walk out here alone, Kate?”
“Not alone. I come here almost daily with Jonathan. I hate to be shut up in that house.” Kate was winded, and Lucy slowed her stride, linking her arm through her cousin’s.
Lucy frowned in thought. “As Jonathan is heir presumptive, does he not have a separate estate? Perhaps from his mother’s family holdings? One of the lesser titles?”
Kate nodded. “He does, but the property has been vacant for several years and needs some work done before we move into it. If we decide to, that is.”
“Why would you not?”
Kate sighed. “Jonathan adores his brother. He worries about him, says there’s something not quite right with him.”
“Many soldiers often return from conflict with problems ranging from fits of temper to extreme melancholy. Daniel is . . . Well, he’s not himself either. The Society has even asked me to consider researching possible solutions in the form of botanical aids.”
Kate shook her head with a slight frown. “Jonathan doesn’t know quite what it is, and I certainly don’t know the earl well enough to offer an educated opinion.”
They fell silent again and followed the path, which continued to twist and turn. Lucy was about to suggest they turn back when they came upon a gray stone wall that rose above their heads.
“What’s this?”
“Marie’s sanctuary. Full of roses and other plants I know nothing about but which you could probably identify easily.”
Lucy slowed and examined the wall. Long tendrils of ivy spilled over the top of it from the inside. “It’s enclosed?”
Kate stepped off the path, motioning to Lucy. “The door is over here.” They walked around the corner of the stone structure to the third side, where Kate stopped.
The gate was a substantial oak affair, darkened from the rain. With a glance at Kate, Lucy tried the door handle. It held fast.
“Mr. Clancy—the gardener—and Lord Blackwell are the only two people with keys.”
“And they want it preserved in her memory with nobody going in or out? I understand grief, but I would think they would want to keep it beautiful for her.”
Kate bit her lip. “I don’t believe anyone can bear to enter. It’s where her body was found.”
Lord Blackwell, if I have your support with this piece of legislation, it could mean improvements in workhouses and orphanages all over the country. The others will follow your lead if they believe you are in favor of the changes—just think of the good you would be doing for the betterment of all mankind!”
Miles brushed past the eager young lord without sparing him a glance. “I haven’t the time, Brunsworth. Try someone else.”
“But Blackwell!”
Miles maintained his pace through the parliamentary building until he was finally out the front door. Of all the things that came with the earldom, the House of Lords was his least favorite. He had enough on his hands with the estate. His father had adored the attention and status that came with Parliament. Craved it. Miles wished for a way around it.
“Blackwell!”
Miles turned with irritation and a quick retort at the ready for young Brunsworth but paused when he saw who had called to him. Against his will, his heartclock stuttered as the man neared, followed immediately by a sense of rage Miles found himself working to contain.
“Randolph.”
Bryce Randolph smiled, but it was little more than a thinly veiled sneer. “I haven’t seen you much since our time abroad.”
“I admit that rather surprises me.” Blackwell calmly tucked his paperwork under his arm and donned his gloves. “You are one who favors the art of spying, after all. Not very discreetly, of course.”
Randolph eyed him, a slight flare of his thin nostrils. Everything about the man was thin, from his physical stature to his personality. The only thing he had in excess was a sense of obsequious ambition and a transparent desire to be more important than he was.
Randolph smiled. “I thought it might interest you to know that I now hold a seat on the Predatory Shifter Regulations Committee.”
“And why would that be of interest to me?”
“One would think a peer of the realm would actively concern himself in efforts to keep Her Majesty’s subjects safe. I told the Committee that you and I served in the same company during the war, and that you would certainly keep me apprised of anything that would involve the interest of the PSRC.”
Miles, still and silent, watched Randolph until the other man moved slightly, showing an inkling of discomfort. “I have an appointment to keep,” Miles murmured and turned to leave.
“You should expect an invitation to appear before the Committee in the future. To share any knowledge you may have, of course,” Randolph called after him.
Miles tamped down an urge to whirl around and shove the man through the building behind them. Running, avoiding, hiding . . . It was not in his nature to do so, and yet it had become necessary to his survival.
The Blackwell carriage stood at the ready and carried him quickly through the bustling streets of London. Traditional, horse-drawn conveyances battled for space with automated horseless carriages that spewed steam and ground gears. Market vendors vied for the attention of the masses that walked up and down the streets, shopping and conducting business. It was cold out, and the wide assortment of colored corsets, blouses, vests, trousers, and other accoutrements that were usually on display were covered by long cloaks and woolen overcoats.
The hats were easily visible, t
hough, and rarely were there any two exactly alike. The haberdasheries in London’s clothier district were very particular about that. Top hats with mesh veils, large flowers, and stylish goggles along the brims graced the heads of women whose elaborately braided and curled hairstyles had likely taken the better part of the morning to create. Men also donned top hats of varying styles and heights but typically avoided the fripperies the ladies seemed to enjoy.
A variety of automatons walked the streets alongside humans. Some were more humanlike than others, depending on the level of skill possessed by the programmer who outfitted them with the stiff tin punch cards that allowed them to function. Most households that used ’tons paid professional programmers to create the sort of servant they required. Many of the younger generation, however, were taught programming in school; as a result, a growing number of families across the country enjoyed the convenience of programming their own ’tons and were no longer at the mercy of a programmer’s busy schedule.
Miles preferred to travel in one of the estate’s enclosed horseless vehicles with a driver up top. His ’ton chauffeur maneuvered the vehicle with practiced ease, and not having to navigate freed Miles to review the thick stack of paperwork that invariably accompanied him whenever he ventured into London.
“Dr. MacInnes, then, my lord?” the chauffeur asked through a speaking device that broadcast directly into the body of the vehicle.
Miles pressed the talk-back switch. “Yes, Collins. And I will not be long—you will wait outside.”
“Very good, sir.”
Collins’s accent was stuffy and cultured. Miles’s father, the late Donovan Miles Percival Blake, had insisted all of his ’tons be programmed to emulate the class and sophistication of loyal, educated servants. Since his return from battle, Miles had found it rather grating and was considering having them all redesigned. He missed the comfortable cadence and diversity in language and class that had flowed around him during his time in India.
Miles looked out the windows at the gray London day. The sky was dark and a good match for his mood. He had long ago abandoned the hope of a normal life, one filled with the joys of hearth and home. He had experienced it for a short time as a child until the death of his mother, and once he realized that the family legacy—or curse—was fully upon him, he had squelched any latent, lingering desire for conventional happiness. All there was for him was to preserve the estate and leave it in good condition for Jonathan and his future family. It might well happen sooner rather than later. Miles felt his own days were numbered.
He gathered the heavy thoughts around him like a cloak as he exited the vehicle and climbed the steps to a well-appointed town house in the middle of Chillington Square. A swift knock summoned a pleasant looking ’ton, who, when he saw Miles’s face, took a step back before standing his ground and pasting a smile firmly in place.
“Right this way, Lord Blackwell,” the servant said, and Miles followed him, keeping his expression neutral with a fair amount of effort. Even automatons, nonhumans, recoiled from his appearance. He’d had the scar for years, but in those years, he could count on one hand the number of people who hadn’t looked at him with a measure of fear, disgust, or morbid curiosity.
He entered Dr. Samuel MacInnes’s office, and the servant closed the double doors quietly behind him. Sam glanced up from his desk, then rose, a broad smile crossing his handsome face. He approached Miles with long strides and enveloped him in a quick embrace and a slap on the back.
“How goes it, then?” Sam gestured to a pair of chairs in a seating area near a window that looked out over a small garden.
“Well enough.” Miles sat and regarded his friend for a moment. Broad through the shoulders and athletic to the core, Sam had been one of Miles’s closest friends and confidants during the war. He was the light to Miles’s dark; he doubted Sam had an unpleasant bone in his body. More annoyingly, he was too perceptive by half.
“You’re fatigued.” Sam braced one booted foot atop the other knee and studied Miles with narrowed eyes and an expression Miles had come to know all too well.
“I am fine.” Miles raised a hand. “Do not begin prodding me like one of your laboratory specimens.”
“You should know that the new device is only weeks away from completion. We could conceivably conduct the transfer in a month. Perhaps less.”
Miles frowned and looked out at the garden that had been pruned and clipped for the pending winter. “I do not know if it is even worth the effort. The risk to you is incalculable, and for what?”
“For your life. I should think that would be all the reason we need. And I am not worried about the risk. I can always claim ignorance.”
Miles looked at his friend with eyelids at half-mast. “Nobody would believe it.”
“I’ve performed the procedure for you once before. All we are doing now is updating the device. Perfectly reasonable, no cause for suspicion.”
“Bryce Randolph has secured himself a position on the PSRC. If I wasn’t certain before, I am now; he knows I’m a predatory shifter.”
That gave Sam pause. He finally inhaled and let it out on a quiet sigh. “Has he threatened you?”
“Not in so many words.”
“Does Oliver know?”
Miles shrugged.
“We continue as planned. I have some leisure time coming. I’ll return to Blackwell with you this evening. I need to measure your vital signs after charging.”
For all that he was grateful for Sam’s unflagging help and support, he had to wonder if it was worth the bother. Prolong his life, and for what? To endure several more decades of society’s fear? The constant worry he might accidentally kill a loved one? It wasn’t in his nature to quit, however, and he wouldn’t put Jonathan through the pain of another loss. He finally nodded at Sam. “Thank you for your help.”
Sam grinned. “I shall think of a favor in return,” he said and stood. “In the meantime, you will join me for lunch. I have no house guests this month and am finding it a trifle dull.”
Sam was an expert at keeping a mood light. His eyes, however, had betrayed a glimmer of concern, and Miles almost wished he hadn’t seen it. Sam was a good physician, and he had never coddled Miles or insinuated in any way that Miles couldn’t care for himself. If his friend was actually worried, it didn’t bode well. But whether he was concerned about Miles’s appearance or the fact that Randolph had insinuated himself onto the Committee, Miles was unsure.
By the afternoon of the second day, after a short jaunt into Coleshire that had Kate drooping from exhaustion, Lucy knew there was definitely something ailing her cousin, but she was at a loss to explain it. With Mr. Grafton’s permission, she mixed a few select herbs in a teacup and had Kate drink it. She tucked Kate into bed to rest and promised her cousin she would be able to entertain herself.
Lucy made her way toward her room at the far end of the hallway in the north wing. Kate had been clear that Lord Blackwell’s suite of rooms was in the south wing, and he didn’t appreciate visitors. When Lucy had asked if there was anything of interest in the south wing, Kate had told her the ballroom and billiard room were both located there.
Lucy frowned as she approached her room. Suppose Kate and Jonathan wanted to host a ball? Kate had use of the front parlor—should anyone brave the manor’s fearsome reputation—but perhaps Jonathan would like to treat his friends to a rousing game of billiards. Such things weren’t allowed because they were near the beast’s lair? She sighed and pushed her door open. It wasn’t fair, really, to call him a beast. Kate did, but only when there was nobody around to overhear.
He has that horrible scar . . .
Kate’s words echoed in Lucy’s mind, and she shook them off with some effort. Supposedly the man remained in residence, although he did travel frequently to London, and Lucy had to assume she’d meet him at some point. As much as she considered herself a fair judge
of character and a kind person, she dreaded the moment she’d come face-to-face with the earl. He now loomed so large in her mind as the beast everyone claimed him to be that she almost hoped she might finish her visit at the manor without ever having to come in contact with the man.
With determined resolve, she made herself comfortable at the writing desk where she’d placed her notebooks and research materials under lock and key. Flipping through the pages, she considered the work she’d done on her recent research expedition. She’d proven herself to the Botanical Aid Society on more than one occasion with remedies she’d created for various ailments, and her current assignment was more significant than anything she’d done to date.
One of the sketches in her notebook depicted a vampire with mouth open, fangs exposed. Next to it she’d written various combinations of herbs and medicines she’d collected abroad that might counteract the illegal botanical aid known as Vampiric Assimilation Aid, which allowed vampires to exist among the living in broad daylight. Though many vampires had been eradicated from London, most had been exiled to Scotland during the past decade, and the new illegal aid had produced an upsurge in the population. When vampires couldn’t be detected, they were free to either bite and kill or create more of themselves at will; undead who managed to control themselves were few and far between. Very rarely did a person turn and manage to maintain any significantly lasting semblance of his or her former soul.
She reflected on the letter she’d read during the flight to Coleshire regarding the most recent developments into vamp investigation. Noting the things Gregory had listed, she updated her own records and nibbled on the end of her fountain pen, heavy in thought. It was laughable that Director Lark believed Lucy could simply switch off work-related matters as easily as she would a Tesla lamp.
Beauty and the Clockwork Beast Page 3
