Manners and Monsters, #1

by Tilly Wallace

  “It was red wine. I told you. You saw it,” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry. I had to tell the viscount what I saw.” Guilt created a hollow void inside Hannah. How had Wycliff managed to flip their roles and make her the awful one in the room?

  “Fetch the dress, Emma. That will satisfy the viscount, I am sure,” her mother said.

  The young woman nodded and leapt to her feet. She hurried from the room as though she couldn’t wait to get away from Hannah the Horrid. Wycliff stalked to the window and stared out at the street with his hands clasped behind his back.

  Mr Knightley bowed his head. “I shall never forgive myself.” His muttered words broke the heavy silence.

  “What can you not forgive?” Hannah asked.

  Mrs Knightley sniffed and then dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “All her friends spoke of the Russian émigré who had a limited amount of the amazing face powder used by the Tsarina. They all wanted some. They said it would give a woman a delicate complexion of the finest porcelain. She talked of nothing else for weeks and weeks, but it was so expensive—”

  Mr Knightley squeezed his wife’s hand and took up the narrative. “We acquired a jar for her birthday. Emma was overjoyed. Then one by one her friends fell ill, until one day, the French curse snatched our darling daughter too.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Hannah looked around the room and thought how easily this life could have been hers. Both families were minor nobility who struggled to make ends meet. Two sets of loving parents would do anything for their only daughters. As she gathered her thoughts, other things registered in her mind. The unfaded shapes on the walls where paintings had been removed. Marks in the rugs made by the phantom feet of chairs. The lack of candlesticks, bookends, or ornaments on the shelves.

  Emma returned with the gown draped over her arms and extended from her body as though trying to remove herself from it. Wycliff turned from the window and peered at the stain. A collection of dull brown dots and dribbles marred one portion of the satin. It could have been wine, gravy, or paint.

  He picked up the section of fabric and sniffed. His nostrils flared as he drew a deep breath—and then he sneezed. “What have you covered this with?”

  Emma crumpled the gown in her arms and clutched it to her chest. “A cleaning paste. I was hoping to wash the stain out, but it didn’t work. I cannot remove it.”

  He grunted deep in his throat as he pulled forth a handkerchief and sneezed into it again. Whatever Emma had used on the stain worked better on the viscount than snuff.

  “When did you last feed?” he asked as he waved away the gown.

  From the sofa, Mrs Knightley made a horrified noise and lurched to one side in a dead faint. Mr Knightley caught her in his arms and lowered her so that she rested against the rolled arm.

  The older gent glared at Wycliff. “Steady on, my lord, there is no need to be vulgar.”

  Therein lay one big difference between Emma’s family and Hannah’s. There was no fainting over feeding habits in the Miles household.

  Wycliff arched a dark brow and tsked at the unconscious woman. “Your daughter is Afflicted. She has to feed to stave off the rot. Given that she exhibits very few symptoms apart from her pallor and lack of breathing, I assume she is well fed?”

  Emma moved to stand between Wycliff and her parents. Her protective instincts had clearly been aroused and she used the treacherous dress as a shield. “My parents see to my needs and I have a monthly delivery from Unwin and Alder. You can confirm that with them if you wish. I assume there will be no more questions. You have disrupted our day quite enough.”

  He stared at the young woman for a long moment, then he spun on his heel and left.

  Hannah rose, embarrassed at the role she had played in these events. “I am sorry. I do hope you can forgive me for telling him about the stain.” She dropped a curtsey and followed the viscount out.

  In other circumstances, if their paths had crossed, they might have become firm friends. Hannah suspected she had irreparably damaged such a possibility now. As she climbed into the waiting carriage, she wondered if there was any point in rebuking the viscount for being rude.

  Again.

  The man seemed oblivious. Society’s disapproval was water off the duck’s back and didn’t affect him one bit. How could he rail against society’s treatment of him while inflicting his own prejudices on others?

  11

  “It could be blood on her gown, but I could not tell. The cleaning paste had distorted its appearance and odour.” Wycliff rapped on the roof and the carriage moved off.

  Hannah would see to it that he didn’t condemn Emma based on an indeterminate stain on her dress. “Or it could simply have been red wine or even gravy. I couldn’t distinguish what it was and I saw it the night of the ball. And, need I remind you, I am well acquainted with the sight of bloodstains. Besides, Miss Knightley has loving parents who see to her hunger. She is remarkably untouched by her Affliction and is no starving specimen.”

  Black eyes drilled through Hannah and made her squirm on the seat. “What will they do when they have sold all the furnishings? How will they pay her monthly account then, to ensure she doesn’t rot on her feet?”

  Ah. She wasn’t the only one who had noticed the missing effects. The impact on families such as the Knightleys made it all the more imperative that her father find a cure. If the Afflicted women could be wrested back from death, they could go on to live normal lives. Women like Emma could marry and present their parents with grandchildren to love and dote upon.

  “I do not know, my lord. Perhaps they will sell the house and move to rented lodgings? Some parents will go to extraordinary lengths for their children.” Hers would. Never for a second did she have cause to doubt what her parents would do for her. “Would you condemn Miss Knightley because at some time in the future she might fall behind in her account with Unwin and Alder?”

  He made that rough noise in the back of his throat and stared out the window. For some reason it reminded her of a dog’s growl and conjured to mind her mother’s comment about finding her a dog for company.

  Please don’t let it be a foul-tempered hound like this one.

  The carriage swayed over the cobbled streets and Hannah let the movement soothe her mood and carry her thoughts soaring over the rooftops. She was so used to silence between them that the viscount’s next words caught her off guard.

  “Does it make any difference whether the Afflicted ingest the brains of those who carry a trace of magic from a mage ancestor, or those from an ordinary person?”

  “Pardon?” Hannah took a moment to pull her thoughts back from where they had scattered themselves across the sky.

  When she looked across the carriage, for once his face seemed relaxed when he spoke to her, his eyebrows at ease and not duelling one another. If he smiled, he might even be considered handsome.

  “The curse was created by French mages,” he said. “I wondered if feeding on the minds of those with magic in their blood might somehow alleviate or affect the symptoms differently.”

  Hannah stared at him. It was a genius hypothesis and one that had not occurred to either her or her father. They had studied the difference that species of brain made, and fresh brains versus a number of preserved states, but they had not considered the particular type of organ within their own species. “I don’t know. We have never pursued that line of enquiry.”

  “Perhaps it is not relevant.” He turned back to the passing traffic out the window.

  “No, it’s not that. It is simply a question we haven’t postulated. I admit we have so much to learn about the Afflicted we are sometimes struggling in the dark seeking a light to guide our way.” She worried her father would work himself into an early grave trying to find a cure. Hannah alleviated his burden as much as possible, but more men were needed to investigate a cure, to spread the load that consumed their family.

  Lord Wycliff met her gaze and the open, interested look stayed o
n his face. She took the lack of disapproval as encouragement to expand her ideas.

  “We know so little of how the physiology of a mage’s descendants—the aftermages—differs from that of an ordinary human. For example, does magic reside in their mind, their blood, or their soul? And flowing from that, could consuming magic relieve the effects of the dark magic the French inflicted upon these women?” Hannah’s mind was abuzz with possibilities.

  While it might not be a cure, what if ingesting natural magic bestowed some resistance to the rot? Then she considered her mother’s condition—being a mage had not offered any respite from the symptoms. Or did magic have to be consumed? That, of course, would create a horrible side effect in an increased demand for the bodies of those with mage blood in their veins. They would have to maintain secrecy in any such study.

  His lips quirked upward for a brief moment in what could almost be mistaken for an attempt at a smile. The effect was quite devastating and stole Hannah’s breath. Then the brows narrowed again and she was released from his spell. “Unwin and Alder are required to keep records of what they supply to the Afflicted. If they also record the names of the donors, it would allow you to ascertain which are the magically gifted descendants of mages. With that information, you could implement such a study.”

  Hannah couldn’t wait to discuss this new idea with her parents. They would have to consult the mage genealogies, a task her mother could undertake. Then they could cross reference those with records of donors and divide the Afflicted into groups to study. “This could be groundbreaking. We could have one group supplied with magically gifted minds, one with ordinary, and one with an even mix of the two. I must consult with Father so we can get this underway as soon as possible.”

  His lips quirked in that all too brief smile again, then his attention drifted out the window.

  There was one more thing Hannah had to do. The words almost stuck in her throat and she had to try three times to spit them out. “Thank you, my lord, for this most excellent idea.”

  He huffed, but at least it wasn’t a growl this time.

  The carriage took them the short distance to the Talbot residence. Wycliff actually waited for her on the pavement and held out his hand. Hannah touched his glove as she stepped down, then he walked beside her to the front door. He was positively civilised.

  It couldn’t last.

  The butler showed them through to a parlour with deep red and cream walls, whitewashed floors, and striped sofas. Lady Talbot continued the theme of red and cream with a gown that appeared to be made of a fabric inspired by the wallpaper. She had a short and curvaceous form, and her dark hair was peppered with grey and tucked up under a cap.

  She wore no veil or mask, nor did she employ a fan. That wasn’t conclusive as to the state of her pulse though. Decay might not have blemished Lady Talbot’s outward appearance, just as Emma Knightley remained free of visible signs. Some women were fortunate in being infected last and therefore had the benefit of prompt access to pickled cauliflower to keep the rot at bay.

  Lady Talbot laced her hands together and gestured to a chaise opposite. Her gaze darted to Wycliff, who prowled the outer edges of her parlour, and back to Hannah. “Please be seated, Miss Miles, Lord Wycliff.”

  Wycliff waved away her offer. “What were your movements the night of the Loburn engagement ball?”

  Lady Talbot smiled at Hannah and then spoke to a cushion next to her, unable to meet Lord Wycliff’s piercing eyes. “I only danced one or two sets. I much prefer to catch up with my friends and watch the young people. It was quite a delightful evening and Miss Miles, your mother’s magical gift was simply bewitching.”

  “It was charming, with the crystal butterflies and their music. But Lady Elizabeth was the star of the evening. She will make a most beautiful bride, don’t you agree?” Hannah gathered her thoughts and fell into the easy patter of light conversation.

  “Oh, yes. Such a handsome couple.” Lady Talbot’s hands fidgeted with the fringe on the cushion.

  Hannah reviewed what little she knew of Lady Talbot. She had married at least fifteen years previously and was in her forties. She had ably performed her marital duties by providing the necessary heir and a spare before indulging herself with a daughter. She could have suffered the cursed plague and kept the protection of her husband. Not all lords took the opportunity to set aside older wives for younger versions. Some men had genuine affection for the mothers of their children and kept up the appearance of the wife still being alive.

  Wycliff paced in front of the fireplace like a caged beast. Then he spun and pinned the older woman with a black glare. “Does your husband know about your lover or do you try, none too successfully, to keep him a secret?”

  Hannah was struck dumb for the second time that day. Lady Talbot looked on the verge of apoplexy. Her face turned a deeper shade of crimson than the burgundy drapes. Her eyes widened and she puffed in and out like a fat lap dog who has chased a rabbit for miles.

  At length, she managed to draw a gulping breath. Then she raised a hand and pointed a finger at Wycliff’s head. “How dare you! My affairs are most decidedly none of your business.”

  “We’re done here. Come, Miss Miles.” With that, he strode from the room.

  Hannah blinked, wondering what on earth had just occurred. She had been warned the man was rude, had seen him ride roughshod over a number of ladies already, but to deliberately insult a member of the ton was beyond the pale. She rose on shaky legs and dropped an even shakier curtsey to the other woman. “Thank you so much for your time this afternoon, Lady Talbot. I can only offer the most sincere apology for Lord Wycliff’s behaviour. He is most keen to solve the murder that blighted Lady Elizabeth’s announcement, and that makes him rather abrupt.”

  “And I am sorry for you, Miss Miles. What crime are you being punished for, that you must endure his company?” She peered over Hannah’s shoulder, as though making sure the he in question did not return.

  “I’m not sure what affront I committed to be so burdened, but it does seem to be my lot in life to apologise in his wake.” There was a distressing regularity to the way these interviews played out. Ladies would admit them. Lord Wycliff would insult them. Hannah would try to repair the damage he inflicted.

  No wonder Lady Loburn and Sir Manly Powers had insisted that a young lady accompany the viscount on his interviews. Someone had to do all the apologising.

  Lord Wycliff waited in the carriage, his fingers drumming against his cane. A gentleman would have waited on the pavement for Hannah and offered her a hand into the carriage. How odd that, given all she had seen of the vile man, she still expected him to behave like a gentleman.

  Hannah took her seat and glared at him. If she were a mariner, Wycliff would be the albatross around her neck. How would she ever be free of him? Admittedly, he had suggested the brilliant idea of studying the types of brains the Afflicted consumed, but that didn’t make up for his behaviour.

  She couldn’t wait for the interviews to be over so she might never see his face again. No matter how handsome the lines of his profile, they didn’t soften the ugliness on the inside. “There was no need to be deliberately rude to Lady Talbot.”

  “At the Loburn ball I saw Lady Talbot in the intimate embrace of a man who was not her husband.” He rapped on the roof of the carriage and it moved off. Then he set the cane aside and reached into his jacket pocket for the list and pencil.

  Hannah stared at her strange companion. The man lacked even the most fundamental understanding of how to behave in polite society. Had he even been raised in proper company? Or, as she suspected, had the young boy simply been left in the dog kennel to fight over scraps? “There was no need to call attention to her indiscretion.”

  He looked up and arched one black brow, a quizzical look on his face. “She blushed.”

  “You stormed out because she blushed?” The woman had looked positively on the verge of an apoplexy and it was lucky she hadn’t had to restart
her heart—

  Oh. The clues clanged together in her mind. However had she missed it?

  “The Afflicted are dead. As such they have no pulse, and their hearts do not beat. It is scientifically impossible for one of the Afflicted to blush, as you should be well aware. Therefore our interview was concluded.” He flicked open the sheet of names and crossed one off in his bold hand.

  All her life, Hannah had given her elders and betters respect. She did as she was told and never spoke out of turn. She held her silence no matter how provoked. Or she had—until she had the misfortune to cross paths with Viscount Wycliff. Since being forced into his company, she had witnessed him humiliate women with no regard for the poor creatures’ suffering. He had forcibly stated his opinion that the unfortunate Afflicted should be rounded up and burned alive. Or burned dead. No, that wasn’t right, either. Well, bother the semantics—he wanted to inflict upon them a torturous ending by fire.

  Hannah Miles had, quite frankly, had enough.

  “I am curious, my lord. Do you possess a natural talent for cruelty, or have you practiced for many years to perfect the verbal barbs that you inflict on those less fortunate than yourself?”

  At first she wondered if he had heard her. He remained motionless. Then his head turned and his black eyes fixed on her.

  He glared at her for such a long time that Hannah longed to look away or to disappear into the cracks between the cushions. But there was no escape. Having commenced this line of attack, she must stay the course. She would not show cowardice to this hellhound. Yes, that description fit him—he was a dog sent from Hell to vex her. She dug her nails into her palms to keep her gaze fixed on his.

  His nostrils flared and reminded her of a bull just before it charged. Had she made him so very angry? Good. He deserved it for his thoughtless treatment of the late Lady Albright, Miss Emma Knightley, and Lady Talbot.