Emboldened by the experiment, Lizzie and the duke tried a few more dance steps. The crowd was captivated as the two danced to music created by their magical clothing. Draped in the sparkling butterflies who were also tiny musicians, they seemed ethereal—like fairy folk come to dazzle lesser mortals.
Hannah could only gape at the beautiful display. The newspapers would be filled with stories of the sight for weeks to come. Pride welled in her chest. Her mother had crafted the most beautiful engagement gift. What woman wouldn’t want to be clothed in singing, jewelled butterflies?
The dance ended and the two players bowed to one another. As the last note faded, the butterflies once again took flight, leaving Lizzie and the duke in their fabric evening wear. As a flock, the butterflies rose up and hovered. They formed two entwined hearts that seemed composed of a thousand diamonds, and made everyone sigh.
Their display over, the butterflies rolled together into an enormous sphere and with a silent bang, they exploded and rained down upon the floor as tiny, sparkling confetti. Flakes covered Hannah’s outstretched arms in shimmering scales and for a moment, she was part of the magic that had enveloped the couple.
The ballroom floor now resembled the ocean when the sunlight lights the waves and dusts the surface with gems. The candles relit themselves in the overhead chandeliers and wall sconces.
Lady Loburn drew a handkerchief from her bosom and dabbed at her eyes. “That was beautiful. Do tell Sera it was a most marvelous culmination of the evening.”
“I shall tell Mother everything, Lady Loburn,” Hannah said as she closed the box and picked it up.
Their hostess gestured to the musicians at the end of the room and the dancing continued, while Hannah returned to her place at the side, away from anyone’s notice.
3
Perched on her chair, Hannah watched as men claimed partners for the country dance and escorted them to the floor. Her mother had wanted her to have two dances, but she had only managed a polka with her father, catching him on the way to the dining room. None of the men cast any glances in her direction.
With one exception.
A shiver worked down her spine.
She peered through the crowd and tried to find the late Lady Albright, but she could see no trace of the woman veiled in black. Odd that she wore mourning colours when she was the mourned. Perhaps she draped herself in black to mark the death of her marriage. The current Lady Albright laughed and smiled out on the dance floor. If the sight made Hannah uncomfortable, she could only imagine how it hurt the displaced woman.
“She must have gone already,” Hannah murmured into her glass of punch.
A violinist hit a sour note that screeched in a long, never-ending wail. Hannah winced, as did the dancers. Across the room, Lord Wycliff turned his penetrating stare to the performer responsible for the noise. Out on the parquet floor, the dancers made a misstep. The carefully orchestrated score turned chaotic as the musicians lost their way. Dancers missed their cues and a crisis was narrowly averted when they all halted before any of the couples crashed into each other.
Still the high-pitched wail continued, though the players had all silenced their instruments. Then Hannah placed the sound. It was no out-of-tune violin.
It was a woman screaming.
Then it ended abruptly.
Wycliff bolted from the room, shoving people out of his way. Gasps turned into louder remarks. “How rude!” The viscount was like a bloodhound on the trail of a fox and nothing would stand between him and the source of the cry.
All the other women in the room gathered to one side of the ballroom like herded sheep, their men standing guard. Women clasped hands, supported the distraught, and whispered among themselves.
Except Hannah.
She dropped her glass on a sideboard and wove her way through the immobilised dancers, her gaze locked on the direction Lord Wycliff had taken. He had gone to find what had prompted the scream, she was sure of it. On the way she met her father, emerging from the billiards room.
Sir Hugh reached out and squeezed her hand. “Stay here.”
Hannah snorted under her breath at his two short and unnecessary words. She wasn’t staying anywhere. Then he also disappeared. Hannah was either blessed or cursed with her mother’s curiosity, a large dose of her father’s intellect, and the stubbornness of both parents. She gave her father’s broad back a head start and then brazenly disobeyed by following him.
Up the stairs, through the enormous archway of the ballroom, and down a darkened hallway she chased the last echo of the ear-piercing sound. When she came to an intersection in the corridor, she listened for the pounding footsteps of her father.
Two footmen approached her from the other end of the corridor, clumsily carrying a maid slumped between them. The prone woman’s arms draped around their necks and each man had an arm hooked under her knees. One footman looked apologetic. How unseemly of them, he seemed to say, to carry an unconscious servant where any guest could see them.
Hannah guessed the woman was the source of the screaming and had fainted, which accounted for the blessed cessation of the high-pitched sound. It was a wonder it hadn’t set off all the neighbourhood dogs.
“Is she unharmed?” Hannah asked, scanning the unconscious woman for visible injuries.
“Yes, Miss Miles. Just out cold,” one of the footmen answered.
Being familiar with the house, Hannah prised open a section of panelling to reveal the servants’ narrower hall beyond. “Good. Take her below stairs to revive, before anyone else sees you.”
“Thank you, Miss Miles,” he said as they passed through the aperture to return to their world below.
Farther down the corridor, men loitered in a doorway. Hannah edged closer to peer around them. Within, all was in darkness, save one bright point of light from the sole candelabrum on a desk. The long silver arms seemed out of place, better suited to a large table, and looked as though someone had hastily set it down.
A footman moved around the room lighting candles in the wall sconces. The growing light revealed the feminine touches in the room, from the lace doilies on the backs of the chairs to the soft pink hue of the chintz. Hannah had spent many an hour at the desk in this room, writing letters Lady Loburn dictated while she reclined on the patterned chaise.
She had chased her father to the private study of the lady of the house.
As the footman moved with a lit taper, piece by piece the dark was pushed back and the full scene revealed. Light flared over the cause of the screaming. Lying prone on the expensive carpet was the outstretched body of a man. His hands reached for something beyond his grasp, his body clad in the maroon livery of the Loburn household.
If this was simply a collapsed footman discovered by the maid, why all the screaming?
Someone in front of Hannah gasped and shouldered her out of the way in his hurry to leave. He ran past her, making gagging noises, and disappeared into the greenery of potted ferns. Hannah filled the vacuum his body had left, affording her a better view of the tragedy.
An interesting smell wafted to her nostrils and she closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Sweet and yet with a savoury hint, it made her mouth water and she swallowed, tasting the air. It reminded her of the hors d’oeuvres that had been served earlier in the evening—salmon with a delicate hint of zesty cucumber. But what was a footman doing in here with one of the platters?
Opening her eyes, she stared at the head of the deceased—for it was plain that he had left this world and was not merely unconscious. His head was no longer a neat oval, but collapsed in on one side, from his left ear to the top of his scalp and from front to back. A full quarter of his skull appeared to be missing. The scene had the appearance of a hungry child diving into a pie and wrenching apart the crust in its haste. The skull glistened where someone had broken the edges. The unfortunate’s brains would have spilled forth over the Persian carpet, had they not been absent.
Hannah cast around for what might
have caused such a terrible injury, and lighted on the metal globe of her ladyship’s paperweight, discarded on the floor next to a piece of skull with dark hair still attached.
Oh, no. Hannah had seen such an injury before—two years ago. The mysterious malady that struck down some members of the ton produced a startling appetite in the Afflicted. Even as their pulses slowed and then stopped, they developed a craving for forbidden fruit.
Such was what it meant to be one of the unnaturally Afflicted.
A hideous, gnawing hunger for brains.
It was a side effect that very few knew. Hannah was privy to the information because of her work with her father, and her mother’s Afflicted state. When Sir Hugh and Lady Miles determined that some of the ton had been stricken with the same curse that had killed her, they were able to prepare for the inevitable craving. Sir Hugh sought out illegal resurrectionists in order to have enough slivers of brain on hand to feed each woman as she turned. All the while, he worked tirelessly to convince the Prince Regent and the Prime Minister of what would need to be done.
It had taken two gruesome murders like the one laid out before Hannah now to finally galvanise those in power into action. A new business arose, providing the Afflicted with “pickled cauliflower,” specially treated to ease their symptoms.
The general population heard only rumours and panic had been prevented by a typhus outbreak that killed hundreds of Londoners. The status of the Afflicted further shielded them. When you were related to politicians and peers at the highest level, you were treated differently and had access to ways to silence the tongues of gossips. The people on the street were too worried about dying from overcrowding and poor sanitation to pay any attention to what happened in the dining rooms of the toffs.
Without the necessary sustenance, the bodies of the Afflicted deteriorated and they rotted in their expensive silken shoes. Regular consumption allowed them to heal their own wounds to some extent, but if rot set in too deeply, nothing save the removal of the limb would halt its progress.
Hannah wondered what had provoked the death of the footman. Had one of the unfortunate ladies in attendance succumbed to her frenzied hunger? Hannah could think of no other explanation for why the man’s brain was missing from his skull. The Afflicted had their appetites, but if they all started simply taking what they required from unsuspecting Londoners, the city would descend into terrified chaos within a day.
The general population of England was kept in the dark about the exact nature of the disease that had stricken a small percentage of upper-class women. Just as many men worked hard to ensure the public stayed in a state of blessed ignorance through every means at their disposal.
Sir Hugh knelt next to the victim and his broad back broke Hannah’s fixation on the missing brain matter. Only then did she notice the other occupant of the room. The dark shadow lit by candlelight only emphasised his resemblance to the Grim Reaper, bent over the slain man as though he were there to harvest his soul.
Lord Wycliff looked up as though he had sensed her regard and scowled in her direction. His expression was unreadable apart from a general sense of disapproval. No doubt women were not meant to be in the presence of death, but Hannah handled it often in her work alongside her father.
She shook her head and took a step backwards. There was nothing she could do here. Her help would be needed in the ballroom to quell the panic that would arise in the rest of the guests. The maid who had discovered the crime and raised the alarm with her screaming would prompt questions that would need smoothing over. Such matters never stayed below stairs. Indeed, servants were the mechanism by which gossip spread from household to household. Like fire, the more scandalous tidbits raced upstairs.
Hannah found Lady Loburn at the end of the hallway as though she dared not approach, even though it was her most private sanctuary that had been violated. The woman kept clasping and unclasping her hands, like a bird trying to find the right spot on its perch.
“What news, Hannah?” Her gaze narrowed to the avian stare.
Hannah glanced around to be sure no one would overhear her. “A most heinous crime, I am afraid. It seems one of the maids discovered a footman’s body on the floor in your study, and from what I could discern, he has been murdered.”
Lady Loburn gasped, one hand flying to her mouth even as she uttered a muffled, “No. Not under our roof, and certainly not tonight. This will ruin Elizabeth’s evening, and it was all going so splendidly.”
Hannah took the older woman’s hand and drew her back toward the ballroom. “Shall we ask the musicians to play another tune? I’m sure a waltz will distract everyone from the terrible screaming. And perhaps more champagne for the guests? It will soon be time for the final toasts.”
Lady Loburn squeezed Hannah’s hand. “Yes. You are quite right. Let us organise a distraction while the men deal with events.”
Hannah busied herself with ensuring that the evening recovered from the unexpected intrusion. She found the butler and asked him to keep everyone’s glasses full while Lady Loburn instructed the musicians to resume their play.
Lizzie and her fiancé took the central position as the waltz struck up. Soon the source of the screaming became a whisper behind fans, until a man strode to the middle of the room and the revellers pulled back to give him space.
Tall and lean, Viscount Wycliff moved with the feline grace of a dancer, or a lethal fighter. Light on his feet and soundless, he glided over the parquet floor. He wore the darkest blue velvet coat, with a black waistcoat underneath. The candlelight picked out the subtle metallic embroidery of glinting navy. Raven-black hair was cropped short and dishevelled in the popular Brutus style. Although with this fellow, it looked as though it happened by nature rather than design, as he ran long fingers through his hair and further elongated the wild locks on top. His face was all sharp angles with slashes of black brows, his high cheekbones underscored by elongated sideburns and a square jaw.
Hannah shuddered. The wraith kept materialising before her like a reoccurring nightmare. While the viscount wasn’t handsome, he was certainly striking. The sort of man you couldn’t ignore—not because of his looks, but because his entire persona reached out and demanded your full attention.
His eyes were points of darkness, like peering into a bottomless well at night. He narrowed his gaze as he surveyed the assembled dancers. Only when he had turned full circle did he speak.
“This evening a man has been most savagely murdered in such a manner as is done by one of the undead who cannot control their hunger. The Afflicted among you will step forward and make your presence known.”
Gasps ran around the room. To most people, the Afflicted were gentle and charitable women, not depraved murderers. To point a finger at one as being a possible murderer was a heinous accusation. Women fanned their faces and stared at their neighbours. A woman with a white muslin veil over her face stepped back into the crowd, to be swallowed protectively by those on either side.
Hannah closed her eyes for a moment to centre herself. What right did this man have to ruin Elizabeth’s ball? The matter should have been dealt with in private and behind closed doors, not shouted into a ballroom to distress everyone.
“This is uncalled for.” One chap stepped forward. “Leave the women be. They have suffered enough.”
The black gaze swung to the challenger. He cocked his head, like a lion inspecting an insect that crawled over its paw. “Because they are dead you think they should be excused any crime? Tell me, who would remove the brain of a living, healthy man if not one of the cursed Afflicted?”
Hannah had already asked herself that question, and it unsettled her to share as much as a thought with the brooding viscount.
4
Women gasped. Another swooned and only the quick actions of her companion saved her before she hit the hard floor. A few men wobbled on their feet before grabbing hold of strategically placed chairs to balance themselves.
“Steady on!” someone y
elled from the back of the room. “There is no need for such vulgar descriptions with ladies present.”
“But how many of these ladies are Afflicted? Shall we number them?” Wycliff murmured. He cast his eyes downward, as though contemplating the intricate pattern made by the myriad tiny strips of wood under his feet.
When he looked up, his midnight gaze bored straight into Hannah, as though he expected her to turn traitor to her sex and point out who among the women had no pulse. She did the calculations in her head. Approximately two to three percent of the ton were Afflicted. With two hundred people present at the ball, that meant possibly four to six Afflicted among them.
The Marquess of Loburn moved to the centre of the floor and squared off against Wycliff. “You will remove yourself, Wycliff. You have no authority to humiliate the unfortunate women among us with your outrageous accusations. Quite frankly, I’m surprised you were invited this evening.”
One black eyebrow arched. “I have a newly established authority in matters concerning Unnaturals.”
Loburn did not move as he protected those under his roof. “Not that I recognise. The magistrate has been called and the matter is now in his hands. Given the victim was a footman, it is probably some unfortunate domestic matter or a gambling debt. We don’t need you spreading lies.”
Wycliff drew himself up and it seemed every person in the room held their breath, waiting to see what would happen.
“I shall return with the relevant authority to extract the names of the Afflicted you harbour.” With that, he turned on his heel and stalked across the ballroom and up the stairs.
As his shadow was swallowed in the corridor, those present exhaled a collective sigh. Conversation rose and fell around the room as the murder and call to unmask the Afflicted was discussed. Hannah dodged around the huddled groups as she sought out her father.
“I think now might be the time for us to retire. There is nothing more we can do here, and morning is not far off.” He drew her back to the entrance and asked a footman to have their carriage brought around.
Manners and Monsters, #1 Page 3
