“Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?” His tone was benign enough, but a muscle worked in his jaw.
She lifted her chin a fraction. “My name is Lucy, my lord. I am Kate’s cousin.”
“And she has invited you for a visit.”
“Yes. And I appreciate your gracious hospitality.” She thought she heard him grinding his teeth.
“I take it your visit will be a short one.”
Mercy, he was large. He had to have known he was intimidating her. He was a peer of the realm, and as such would adhere to social graces, which did not include taking such liberties with uncomfortably close proximity. Society was thankfully past the day when time spent alone in a room with a gentleman meant swift and definitive social ruin, but it was nighttime, after all, and he was standing much too close. She felt heat radiating from him—or perhaps it was her own flushed face.
“My cousin is ill, and I intend to remain until I am convinced she is well again.”
“She has an army of servants and a husband who can care for her.”
“Forgive me, but your brother knows nothing about illness or healing. And Kate informed me that the one doctor Mrs. Farrell contacted attempted to bleed her with leeches. I find that barbaric and ridiculous.”
“I suppose you are a medical professional yourself, Cousin Lucy?” He withdrew a white handkerchief from his pocket and slowly wiped the liquid from his sloshed drink off his fingers.
Uncertainty again lost to anger, and she welcomed it. “I am a botanist and well versed in botanical aids. As you don’t seem inclined to provide for the family who lives under your roof, it is going to have to fall to someone else.” She had the satisfaction of seeing his expression slacken momentarily before he narrowed his eyes at her.
“I provide very well for those under my roof, and I take exception to the fact that you would insult me in my own home. Your cousin did not seem to be suffering overmuch the last time I saw her, now that she has taken on the role of lady of the manor.”
“If you knew her in the least you would realize that is the last role in the world she wants. I don’t care if she becomes queen, I would rather she be healthy,” Lucy shot back and gestured in frustration, only to realize she still held the tea canister and hot teapot. It bumped against his arm, and he looked down at it and then back at her.
He seemed absolutely flummoxed, and had she not been angry and still a bit terrified, she might have smiled.
“I have brought a friend with me—a doctor—who will see to Kate in the morning,” he ground out. “And in the meantime, I’ll thank you to remain in your room during the nighttime hours.”
Her face felt hot again in spite of her resolve to remain unaffected. “I do not usually make a habit of wandering the house at all hours, especially in this ensemble,” she said, hearing the stiffness in her tone. “I was . . . I wasn’t resting well and needed some warm tea, and I thought I might find a book of poetry or a novel to calm my nerves.”
He glanced down at the pot in her hand. “How much tea were you thinking of drinking?”
“Enough to put me to sleep.”
He worked his mouth and seemed to be searching for something to say. She dropped a quick curtsey and said, “Good night, my lord. Again, my apologies for disrupting your . . . quiet.” She’d almost said “brooding” but caught it on the tip of her tongue just as it was preparing to fly out.
She turned and made for the door as smoothly as she could, praying she wouldn’t trip and ruin a grand exit.
Miles stared after the retreating figure, his head spinning. When he had lifted the glass to his lips, the apparition of a woman had given him such a start that he’d dropped the brandy, spilling it over his hand in the process. She had been startled—likely horrified—to have come upon him. When he read the conflicting emotions on her face, he had been assured she was flesh and blood, not a spirit.
He disliked being surprised, and woven through his anger were threads of fear. He’d unleashed it on her without saying much of anything—knew it had hit its mark because he had read it clearly on her face when she’d turned to flee. And when he’d invaded her personal space and saw her breathing quicken and her pulse point pounding at her throat, he’d wanted to reach out and shake her for making him uncomfortable in his own home. But she had stood her ground, dared to insult him and his methods of caring for his family, and hadn’t retreated, gasping in fear or fainting as his own wife had done on more than one occasion before her death.
Thoughts of Clara never did him any good, and he felt his black mood deepen. He made his way back to the hearth and sank into the chair closest to the fire. Leaning forward, he braced his forearms on his knees and buried his head in his hands. It had been a wretched night at the end of a wretched weekend.
He had seen Marie.
She’d been furious, the way she had occasionally been on the mortal side of life’s veil. He had never known someone with such a fiery personality, and he was grateful to realize it had accompanied her into the next life. She was still herself, and he found himself oddly relieved. The fact that she was lingering around the manor was unsettling, however.
That evening marked the first time he had seen her. Jonathan had told him Kate suspected there was a spirit about and that it was likely Marie, but he had scoffed at the notion. The last thing he wanted was a Medium wandering the halls, lighting incense and intoning gibberish. Now that he had seen his sister with his own two eyes, wearing the very dress in which she’d breathed her last, he was forced to admit he’d been wrong in dismissing Jonathan’s observations. He knew of the existence of ghosts—he’d seen enough on the battlefield to acknowledge the reality of them—but for his sister to reappear in all her beautiful fury had stopped him cold.
She hadn’t said a word, merely looked at him as he’d entered his suite after telling Marcus, his valet, that he didn’t require any help. The sight of her had stolen the breath from his lungs, and he ached. He and Jonathan both had adored Marie—they were the elder and younger bookends to her vibrancy and life—and when she’d . . . gone, the gaping hole she’d left behind had been excruciating. It still was.
After Marie’s death, Miles had kept himself busier than was probably healthy, and Jonathan had Kate, but in the quiet hours when he couldn’t escape his own thoughts, he was forced to consider the most horrifying thing of all. And it was the reason he’d not enlisted Oliver’s help in searching for her murderer.
Miles was a werewolf, and he might have been the one who’d killed her.
Lucy returned the teapot and canister to a confused Mr. Grafton the next morning before she made her way to the breakfast room. She had slept longer than she’d intended to, which shouldn’t have surprised her. After leaving the library and its surly master the night before, sleep had been a long time coming. And she hadn’t retrieved a book from the library, which had been her goal in the first place.
She noticed Lord Blackwell as soon as she entered the room. He had a presence about him that would have been overwhelming in an opera hall. He was dressed entirely in black, again, the only contrast the white shirt that showed beneath his suit coat and vest, and a perfectly placed charcoal-gray cravat. He should have looked every inch the gentleman, yet he seemed rather predatory—even larger in the light of day. He stood just inside the door and spoke to a man who looked vaguely familiar to Lucy. An image of him hovered on the fringes of her memory.
Blackwell met her eyes, but he might have been a statue for all the inflection she read there. She turned her attention from him with a concerted effort and noted the absence of Kate and Jonathan, but the presence of the three Charlesworths, two of whom looked beautiful and one who looked surly.
She studied the men standing by the door, trying to determine why she knew the guest; he glanced at her, then looked more fully at her face. His mouth turned upward in a wide grin, and he approached
her with quick, long-legged strides.
“Miss Pickett! What a surprise to see you here. I don’t suppose you remember me?” He offered his hand, continuing before she could reply. “Samuel MacInnes. Daniel and I were in the same company during our time in India, along with Blackwell.” He gestured with a thumb over his shoulder. “I met Daniel during our pre-deployment training and visited your home with him just before we shipped out.”
“Dr. MacInnes, of course!” Lucy returned his smile. “Thank you for bringing Daniel home safely. My mother was beside herself the entire time he was gone.”
“Please, I insist you call me Sam.”
Lord Blackwell shifted slightly, and Lucy noted his approach from the corner of her eye.
“Are you Daniel’s wife, then?” the earl asked her, frowning.
Samuel MacInnes chuckled. “I’m fairly certain he would have mentioned a wife, Miles. This is his sister, Lucy.”
“Yes.” Lord Blackwell studied her face—looking for a resemblance, perhaps? “I’m glad to know the connection,” he said, stiff and formal as though the confession was painful for him. “I hold your brother in very high regard.”
“Daniel is a very likable fellow.”
Lucy studied the pair of men with interest. Samuel had referred to Lord Blackwell casually, without deferring in any way to his rank or title. Samuel was a wealthy doctor but untitled. She wondered if Daniel enjoyed the same ease with them.
For a moment, she was irrationally defensive of her brother. He was wealthy beyond measure with his airships; the money had bought him status with society, but there were those who still considered him gauche. New money, as others had also viewed their father. That people looked down their noses at Daniel set her teeth on edge. They likely looked upon her the same way, but she didn’t care a fig about that. She had her friends, her social life, and had been popular in school. She was happy and had little use for snobbery anyway. She didn’t care for the good opinion of those who would judge either her or Daniel by their ancestry.
Mr. Grafton’s head assistant spoke from the doorway. “Breakfast is served.”
As the party seated themselves around the table, Mr. Grafton’s automaton servers delivered the first course from the sideboard.
Lucy found herself seated between Arthur Charlesworth, who smelled pleasantly of cologne, and Samuel MacInnes. Aunt Eustace had been angling to sit next to Blackwell, so when Samuel beat her to the vacancy, Lucy breathed an internal sigh of relief. Blackwell occupied the head of the table, and across from Lucy were Candice and Aunt Eustace, who seemed to occupy two spots all by herself. The hostess’s seat opposite Lord Blackwell was conspicuously vacant.
“So, Dr. MacInnes—Sam,” Lucy said, hoping to engage him in conversation before Arthur could begin, “what is it that occupies your time now that you’re home from the war?”
“I have a medical practice and perform surgery at the hospital in London. I also like to make time to visit with friends and family when I can.”
“Perhaps you have better luck finding Blackwell at home than we do,” Aunt Eustace interjected. “My only two nephews, and only one of them is usually in residence.”
Samuel cleared his throat, and Lucy looked to the head of the table. Lord Blackwell continued his meal without even seeming to notice that Eustace was in the room.
Interesting. Jonathan was clearly irritated by the woman, as was Kate, but the elder brother simply dismissed her.
“Of course, when my brother was alive,” Eustace continued, “we were always assured he would be here to spend time with us. His only relations. His untimely death certainly changed the tide of familial affection.”
Arthur stiffened beside her, and Lucy wondered what the woman was implying. Untimely death? Aunt Eustace clearly had an ax to grind with the new earl because Jonathan and Kate were nothing if not warm and inviting to her despite their obvious distaste.
Blackwell finally raised his head and scrutinized the woman with such a cold stare that Eustace visibly shrank back in her seat, mumbling something Lucy couldn’t hear. Lucy couldn’t say that she blamed her; those blue eyes were deadly. Candice angled her head over her plate, but not before Lucy saw something suspiciously resembling a smirk. There was also a flash in the young woman’s eyes—something calculating—that she had smoothed over by the time she resumed her meal.
Arthur exhaled quietly and pushed his food around a bit before setting the fork down and opting for a drink of juice instead.
Samuel remained silent, but Lucy noted his white-knuckled grip on his knife as he spread jelly on his toast. She glanced up, and he looked at her askance with a wink that was probably meant to reassure but was at odds with the rest of his somber expression.
Lord Blackwell continued his meal, the only evidence of any emotion showing on the side of his face where the jagged scar stood out in stark relief against his complexion, which had darkened a shade. A muscle in his jaw flexed as he cut a piece of ham and speared it. Arthur had implied that the scar had been the result of a duel with a jealous husband, but as she considered it in the light of day, she came to a conclusion: Either the earl’s opponent had used a ridiculously dull blade or the scar had come about through an entirely different accident. It was not the result of a clean slice.
Conversation resumed, stilted at first, but eventually flowing back into a normal rhythm. Dr. MacInnes and the earl discussed former associates from their regiment, and Arthur leaned into Lucy. “He never wanted the earldom, you know. The suggestion that he might have killed his father for it is absurd. My mother certainly does not mean to imply it.”
Lucy squinted at him. Was there no end to the backhanded defense of his cousin? Why on earth did he keep telling her such things? Truly, if Arthur sought to protect or improve the earl’s reputation, he’d do a much better job by keeping his mouth shut. Against her better judgment, and to satisfy her curiosity, she murmured, “Is that why he sought out a commission in the army?”
Arthur nodded and then amended the gesture, saying, “Well, I can’t be certain, but that is what I presume. He doesn’t explain himself to anyone.”
“And had he died in battle, the title would have passed to Jonathan,” she murmured.
“Indeed,” Arthur said, dismissing his mother’s crassness. He picked up his fork and resumed his meal. “Lady Blackwell, his mother, provided her husband the heir and the spare.”
“And the old earl had but one sister, your mother.”
“Correct.”
Lucy bit her lip to check her next comment. No other relatives but your family. And you stand just behind Jonathan to inherit.
Miles left the dining room without bothering to engage in niceties. He motioned for Sam to follow him to the observatory, his mood foul. He didn’t trust his aunt as far as he could throw her. Simply sharing the breakfast table with her had been enough to turn his stomach.
And as for the lovely Miss Pickett—she was the only bright spot in the room, and he didn’t appreciate it. She had been dressed in the height of fashion, her tight black outer corset laced atop a white blouse and dark green skirt. The entire outfit had emphasized her frame to perfection. She had worn small, black pearl earrings—he’d noticed those because of the way the curve of her jaw flowed gently to the graceful line of her neck. The deep brunette curls looked as soft as silk, piled artlessly atop her head whereas last night in the library the whole of it had cascaded down her back, uninhibited by pins and ribbons.
He rarely made a point of noticing a woman’s appearance, much less her attire. But he could hardly be faulted; he was a man, after all, and Daniel’s sister had been graced with a figure that would tempt a saint. He had watched her as she viewed the whole breakfast spectacle with the slightest hint of a smile on her face. If she were anything like her brother, she would be an astute judge of character. She clearly recognized his relations for the ridiculous lot t
hey were, and the way his cousin Arthur had leaned into her side for intimate conversation had set his teeth on edge.
They all needed to leave. The whole lot of them, including Miss Pickett. Especially Miss Pickett. That he had noted so many ridiculous details about her was beyond irritating.
“In a hurry, old man?” Sam called out from behind him.
Miles stopped outside the observatory, realizing his thoughts and his pace had run ahead of his friend.
Sam joined him, a bit winded, and together they moved to the center of the room where a large wooden desk sat near a huge telescope that faced the glass-paneled ceiling. On the far side of the room was a makeshift bed next to a table that held a contraption Miles both depended upon and hated.
“You having to charge more frequently?” Sam asked.
Miles nodded.
“Well, as I mentioned before, the new apparatus is nearing completion. It will make your current beauty a thing of the past.” Sam sat at the desk and flipped open a book. He turned several pages before stopping to display an intricate design he had drawn himself. His attention to detail had always been impeccable, and his mind often traveled at a rate that was, at times, dizzying for Miles to follow. “This is what it will look like.”
Miles looked over Sam’s shoulder. “I shall have to take your word for it. I see gears and pins, but am lost much beyond that.”
“Here is what I’ve changed.” Sam pointed to the top of his diagram with a pencil. “I added one more cog up here—just a small one—but I think that might make the difference. It distributes the burden more evenly among the others, making the whole of it more efficient.” He looked up at Miles. “The added piece makes for a smoother revolution and takes some of the stress off the larger components.”
Miles rubbed the back of his neck as he studied the piece. Now that Sam had pointed out the difference between this drawing and the one he’d presented on his last visit, he saw where the adjustments had been made and the logic behind them.
Beauty and the Clockwork Beast Page 6
