Manners and Monsters, #1

by Tilly Wallace

  “What of the body? If an Afflicted did indeed remove the footman’s brain, then he will rise in a few days as a secondary Afflicted,” Hannah whispered her words, cautious that no one overhear them.

  She remembered the horrifying discovery they made when the Affliction had first struck. Two innocents had been murdered by family members who were driven mad by their condition. The victims in turn rose from their coffins with a ravenous and uncontrollable hunger. Those creatures, lacking their minds, were things to fuel nightmares. Mages, politicians, and high-ranking peers worked hard to protect England from such a terrible plague.

  Sir Hugh glanced around, confirming no ears listened to their secrets. “We will give his family time to grieve first, then we shall ensure he does not rise. The marquess knows what must be done.”

  Satisfied, Hannah allowed herself to be helped up into the carriage. On their way home, she rested her cheek against the worn fabric of the seat and closed her eyes. Her mind was in turmoil as she sorted through events of the evening…and the dark eyes that had drilled through her. With only a look, Lord Wycliff had stripped away her protective layers as though he saw all her flaws, naked and exposed.

  The sway of the carriage lulled her and she drifted in a half sleep. The world had changed since Napoleon’s defeat the previous year, bound in chains of dark magic and imprisoned beyond the reach of his mages. Victorious Englishmen came home, but for some officers their celebrations were cut short to discover their aristocratic wives or sisters had fallen ill and expired.

  Lady Miles had been one of the first to die abroad. She had wielded her power for England on the Peninsula when she and two of her companions succumbed. At first it was assumed to be some French plot to assassinate the powerful English mage. Only the passage of time had revealed the true extent of the disease.

  Hannah’s mother and the others continued to deteriorate, even as their husbands fought on to push back the French. Then, in 1814, the French planned to unleash their plague on English soil. Through the actions of an English agent, the spread of the cursed face powder was limited to a few noblewomen in London.

  Society couldn’t afford to ostracise women in such high places, so the rules adapted.

  These days, there were three expectations of a young lady of breeding.

  She should be accomplished in at least one of the arts.

  She should be decorous at all times.

  She should never reveal the true state of her decay.

  Society was built upon appearances and the sufferers engaged a number of tricks to hide the rot that consumed them from the inside. Heavy powder was one. A fan in constant use, another. A veil, as though in mourning, for those beyond a light repair. The wealthiest used a fine porcelain mask to trick the eye into seeing unblemished skin.

  These unfortunate women were known as the Afflicted. A handful of women at Lizzie’s engagement party had been victims of the Unnatural plague. Hannah knew some, for they visited her father heavily veiled, hoping he had some advance to reverse the damage. To think one of them might have been capable of such a brutal murder sent a shiver down her spine. How uncouth.

  The jolt of the carriage stopping jerked her full awake and her father took her hand to help her down. As they climbed the steps to their Westbourne Green home, Hannah paused under the fading moonlight. The water in the nearby canal burbled as it flowed past one side of their property, cutting them off from their neighbours as effectively as a moat.

  “Do you think it was one of them?” she asked.

  Sir Hugh looked up, his gaze tracking a star, or perhaps simply a moth drawn by the lamp shining beside their front door. “Yes. Poor fellow had his brains completely removed and there’s no sign of them. If it wasn’t an Afflicted woman who is now a danger to society, then it was someone who wanted us to believe it was one of them.”

  Hannah tried to clear the mist gathering in her mind. Her fuddled thoughts were simply the result of a tiring evening. Yet all she could see was a pair of midnight eyes, piercing her soul and demanding to know her secrets.

  The next morning, Wycliff stood before his superior to seek a warrant to serve on the Marquess of Loburn. In his time in the army, General Sir Manly Powers had been responsible for the formation of the Highland Wolves, a regiment of lycanthropes. His military position had turned into a civilian one after the war; he had been chosen recently by Parliament to spearhead the new Ministry of Unnaturals.

  As Wycliff outlined the events of the night before, a look of incredulity rolled over Sir Manly’s face that had nothing to do with the unseemly demise of a footman. “You asked Afflicted women to reveal themselves? In public? What were you thinking, man?”

  Wycliff kept his hands clasped in the small of his back as he stood at ease before his commanding officer. He locked his frustration deep inside. His reasoning should have been obvious. “Given that the nature of the crime pointed to a particular type of perpetrator, I thought to narrow down the possible suspects with all dispatch, sir.”

  Sir Manly snorted. “This is why no one likes you, Wycliff—you’re too damned impertinent.”

  At least a soldier always knew where he stood with Sir Manly; there was no mollycoddling. Wycliff was well aware of society’s opinion of him and he had no intention of tugging his forelock and being obsequious to earn a pat on the head like a good boy.

  The general dipped his quill in the ink pot and wrote a few lines in a bold, sweeping hand, then added a dollop of wax into which he pressed his seal. “Find a sensible woman to accompany you when you interview the ladies. Can’t have you upsetting delicate constitutions more than you have already.”

  It took all his control not to burst out that the very idea was ridiculous. “They are dead, sir. I fail to see how I could upset them further than death already has.”

  “You will mind your manners around noble ladies and find a woman to act as chaperone. Am I understood?” Sir Manly dangled the warrant just beyond his reach.

  It would seem that to achieve his objective, he would have to find a pliable woman to deposit in a corner and steadfastly ignore. “I understand perfectly, sir.”

  Warrant in hand, Wycliff rapped on the Marquess of Loburn’s front door at the ungodly hour of ten o’clock. He didn’t care. Last night he had caught Sir Hugh’s whispered not again and ferreted the truth out of him. A murder had been committed by one of the foul Afflicted and he intended to find out who and bring them to justice.

  The butler showed him into a parlour, where he prowled in front of the cold fireplace. Waiting. This was his life. His title opened doors, but he often found the rooms beyond deserted, the occupants having beat a hasty retreat out another exit. He was the undesirable, often left waiting in corridors or neglected rooms.

  Society had judged him based on rumours and assumptions and then cast him aside. They expected him to scurry away like a chastised child, but he would not go quietly into the night. He was not so easily dissuaded that he would give up and go home with his tail between his legs. Those men didn’t appreciate the extent of his patience. War had taught him the value of waiting.

  He pulled a small volume from his jacket pocket, perched on a chair, and read.

  It was two hours before Loburn appeared.

  “Do you know what blasted hour it is?” the marquess demanded as soon as he entered the parlour.

  A rhetorical question, since the clock was chiming twelve. Wycliff stood and tucked his book back into his pocket. His movements were slow, almost exaggerated. A small gesture that allowed him, in turn, to keep the marquess waiting, although for mere seconds and not hours. Only then did he bow. “I believe it is exactly ten hours after a footman was murdered under your roof by one of the Afflicted.”

  The older man rocked back on his heels. “You don’t know that.”

  “No. But the circumstantial evidence is rather compelling, is it not?” Wycliff brushed the sleeves of his black jacket and tried not to care that he was unwelcome in this house. Not that any
household greeted him with open arms, except the brothels, and they were most pleased to see his purse, not his person.

  Loburn tucked his hands behind his back and, standing, denied Wycliff the basest civility of a seat. “Regardless, you’re wasting your time here. The magistrate has the matter in hand.”

  “The magistrate was this morning directed to hand the matter over to me.” He reached into a different pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper. “This is my warrant from General Sir Manly Powers, authorising me to investigate all matters that involve an Unnatural creature.”

  Loburn snatched the paper and held it at arm’s length. “You’re working for the Ministry of Unnaturals? I never thought that would make it past Prinny.”

  “The Prince Regent specifically tasked us to deal with these creatures loose in England. I am the first investigator, and I report to the general. Who, as you see, has the power to remove this matter from the hands of the magistrate. I am directed to uncover the person responsible for the murder committed here.” He couldn’t stop his upper lip from curling back as he muttered the word person. The idea of what some women had become was distasteful and his tongue was reluctant to form the word. They were little better than walking corpses, but because they had titles and fortunes, they escaped the grave. Perhaps they would be better employed in the medical schools, advancing mankind’s knowledge of anatomy.

  “What do you want?” Loburn returned the paper and walked to a chaise. He flicked out the tails of his jacket and sat, but left Wycliff standing like a new recruit in the army. Another subtle signal that he was unwanted.

  The warrant was carefully folded and tucked away. “You will provide the guest list of all those in attendance last night.”

  Loburn gave a snort. “No.”

  Wycliff clenched his hands together behind his back. The prick of his nails in his palms gave him a focus point with which to control his temper. He needed to extract the list from Loburn and flying into a rage would achieve nothing, even if it would make him feel better about the way society treated him. “I need to identify which women present are lacking a pulse, so I may begin my enquiries.”

  “I’ll not have you interrogating our fellow nobles in your rude and obnoxious manner and stirring up unnecessary trouble.”

  That was uncomfortably close to what Sir Manly had said earlier. Where would Wycliff procure a woman to stand as chaperone while he asked his questions?

  The standoff was averted when the door opened and Lady Loburn entered wearing a pale blue morning robe with ermine trim.

  Wycliff bowed and murmured, “Lady Loburn.”

  “What do you think, my dear?” Loburn said to his wife. “Wycliff has demanded all the ladies’ names so he can question them.”

  She moved to her husband, who stood and took her hand. “Most certainly not.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” The marquess stood a little taller now that his wife had taken his side.

  “He cannot do that on his own. He does have a reputation for being blunt,” Lady Loburn said.

  Her husband frowned. “You think he should have access to our guest list?”

  Wycliff was going to jump in, wave his warrant, and demand the information, but for once, he might achieve his goal by letting events play out.

  The lady’s piercing gaze fixed on Wycliff. “A crime has been committed in our home and the perpetrator must be found. It would have upstaged Lizzie’s engagement in the papers today if Lady Miles had not worked her magic while the marquess greased a few palms. Obviously, we cannot have Lord Wycliff terrifying delicate ladies of our acquaintance. I would, however, trust Miss Hannah Miles to ask discreet questions on his behalf.”

  “What?” two men said in unison.

  Now Wycliff frowned. The conversation had taken an unexpected detour, but it might neatly solve his problem. He just didn’t want to leap at the offer like an untrained pup. He must put up some resistance to the idea first. “There is no need to involve anyone else in this enquiry, particularly not a woman.”

  Lady Loburn fixed him with an unwavering stare. “Miss Miles is the soul of discretion and she is known to our circle. Her presence will reassure those you intend to interview.”

  Wycliff’s anger began to crawl its way back up his chest. Why did society insist on treating him like a child in leading strings who needed a governess to restrain him? “This matter is not appropriate for a young lady of quality.”

  “Hannah is the daughter of Sir Hugh Miles, the doctor who is devoted to finding a cure for the Afflicted curse. She is her father’s assistant and as such, has a unique insight into those you suspect of this crime.” A faint smile pulled at Lady Loburn’s thin lips.

  Wycliff rubbed his chin as he considered the idea. He knew of Sir Hugh’s reputation. His wife had been one of the first known Afflicted and also a mage. If the daughter had some understanding or intelligence about the Afflicted, she might be of some assistance. It would also satisfy Sir Manly. Once his superiors were happy with his arrangements, he had only to scare the woman off so he could continue—alone—to investigate the crime.

  “Very well, if that is your condition for handing over the list.” He ground out the words, but they were said now.

  Lady Loburn smiled, but it was a cold thing that made Wycliff suspect he had just been manipulated by the older woman. To what end? “Excellent. I suggest you visit Sir Hugh and ask Miss Miles to call and retrieve the list. I will draw up the names of all the women in attendance and have it waiting for her to collect.”

  That wasn’t quite how he’d wanted matters to unfold, but for the sake of another few hours he would soon have exactly what he wanted. How hard would it be to convince one foolish chit to hand over the list?

  5

  The beautiful primrose yellow silk dress that Hannah had worn to the ball was hung over the top of her dressing screen. She couldn’t bear to shut it away in her wardrobe just yet. She rose and as she dressed in a grey striped cotton dress, she touched the silk gown with a fingertip. What would it be like to wear such fine dresses every day?

  Discarding the whimsical thought, she tied a tough canvas apron around her waist to protect her clothes while she assisted her father. It didn’t matter whether it were man or mouse that secreted bodily fluids, they proved equally stubborn to lift from her clothing. She was too practically minded to be careless with her dresses, and it wasn’t as though anyone apart from her parents or the staff would see the ugly apron.

  Today was a rare occasion—they would perform an autopsy on a woman who had died from her Affliction, who, moreover, was actually dead and not sipping tea in a parlour in London. Although the Afflicted among the ton appeared lifeless with their dull complexions and lack of pulse, they still shopped in Bond Street and rode in Rotten Row, unlike this poor woman, who lay still and lifeless on the table.

  “Who was she?” Hannah asked as she laid out her father’s equipment: scalpels for flesh, a small hand saw for bone. An instrument to help crank open the chest cavity was lined up next to metal bowls waiting to receive internal organs.

  Hannah pondered the deceased’s life and what path she had walked that had brought her in the end to Sir Hugh’s stone table. It was unusual for someone to fall victim at such a late date. No new infections had occurred since the initial outbreak two years ago. The original plague had burned through the upper echelons over a period of a few weeks and then subsided.

  Investigation and her father’s tireless work had uncovered the source of the infection—a very expensive face powder used to whiten the complexion. That was why it only affected a handful of men and no one from the lower classes. Constant blotting of the ladies’ faces allowed the disease to seep into their skin. Or had they inhaled it with the fine powder?

  While they had identified the means by which some members of the ton had been infected, exactly how it worked and what dark magic animated the dead were questions her parents still strove to answer.

  “In life, she was a w
oman who earned her way as a maid in the employ of a woman of the demimonde. Then she happened upon a container of contaminated powder.” Sir Hugh eyed the equipment arrayed on the tray and picked up his favourite scalpel.

  “I thought they had all been destroyed.” Hannah folded the sheet down to the woman’s waist, so her torso was exposed to the overhead lamps—candles with mirrors behind them to amplify the light they provided.

  Once the connection had been made to the cause of the plague, the contaminated powder had been gathered up and burned, along with the two people responsible for selling the magical poison. Only the samples held by her father were spared. Those were kept locked in a safe. He wanted to discern what within the fine substance stilled the heart, yet kept the limbs and mind animated.

  Sir Hugh looked up at his daughter and narrowed his gaze, as though trying to determine how much to say. “It would appear a gentleman purchased the powder as a gift for the courtesan two years ago. It sat unopened on her dressing table all this time, among numerous other gifts from her admirers. Eventually she moved rooms and in the tidy-up, the container was given to this lass, her loyal maid.”

  “A gift that was no gift at all, but a death sentence. But why did she die completely? Why has she not remained ambulatory?” The question worried at Hannah’s mind. Why had the plague taken a different course in this woman? The Afflicted sickened and their pulses stopped, but they continued to go about their daily tasks.

  “That is what we must try to discern. From what I understand, she continued to function for six months after her heart stilled. Then, last week, she simply fell down and didn’t rise again. Perhaps the curse is altered by the age of the powder?” Sir Hugh sliced through the skin of the woman’s torso with his scalpel and Hannah helped to peel it back, revealing the layer of muscle underneath.