The Fruit of the Poisonous Tree: Stoker & Bash, #2

by Selina Kray

  Instead she grabbed a hatpin from her dressing table and stabbed it into her thigh. Once, twice, three times, picking at old scars. She found her reflection in the mirror, as boyish, pale, and angular as Miss Kala was curvy and sensuous.

  A knock at the door saved her putting her fist through it.

  Aldridge with the tea. Before bidding him enter, she covered her leg and speared the hatpin into one of the poppets Minnie had knit for her. A tongueless man with much to say, the warmth of Aldridge’s smile was its own comfort. He made an elaborate show of pouring the tea, a ritual from when she was small. Callie remembered riding through the house on his back. How he would position himself behind Hiero when they played cards, his stealth gestures helping her cheat. How he stood by her when she had to shoot her favorite horse.

  After serving her, he poured himself a cup and dragged over a chair. They drank in silence, sharing no more than a look until Callie found her smile.

  Hiero took a long, satisfying sniff of his soup bowl, drinking in the spicy wafts of steam. He shut his eyes. His nostrils prickled with the smell of garlic, cumin, cayenne, and mint, massaging his senses with the scent of nostalgia. Their cook, the not-so-mini Minnie, knew how to sing to his heart. Through his stomach, of course, but neither of them would have cared for the normal route.

  As Hiero took up his spoon, he glanced across at his Kip, slurping with gusto. He might have predicted Kip would be undaunted by spice, but it was, as always, good to know his instincts had been proven right. And wonderful to have Kip back where he belonged, in his seat at their table. He resembled something of a Gulliver amongst the Brobdingnags, flanked between Han and Angus—Hiero hadn’t noticed how abnormally tall his household was until the advent of Kip and Miss Kala—but the comparison suited him. All was right with the world, in Hiero’s estimation, so long as they adventured together.

  Hiero relaxed into his seat, content to observe his makeshift family as they bantered and bickered. Angus flirting with Jie while she cleared the soup bowls, bouncing their daughter Ting on his knee. Minnie fussing over the roast Aldridge carried out. Shahida regaling Kip and Han with tales from a youth spent helping her parents run a dockside inn. Callie in a world of her own, brooding over some aspect of the case. The empty chair ever reserved for his dear, departed Apollo at the head of the table appeared less empty than usual, or perhaps it was simply that Hiero felt full.

  When Kip caught his eye, an upraised brow questioning Hiero’s quiet, he barely resisted the urge to reach across the table to take his hand. To pull him over to claim his seat at Hiero’s side. To link arms, nudge shoulders, bend their heads together to whisper sly comments and witticisms. Why weren’t these good people, this haven, enough for Kip? The home Hiero had schemed and scrounged and slain giants for, Kip regarded as a burden. Worse, a cage.

  Hiero knew better than anyone how his eagle could soar. But even noble birds of prey needed a roost.

  “Sachertorte?” Kip gasped when Minnie set her pièce de résistance in the middle of the table some time later.

  How long, Hiero couldn’t say. He’d pecked at his meal, preferring to watch Kip eat. That he lunged at every plate like a vulture over a fresh carcass gave Hiero yet another reason to fret over his current lodging situation. But something about their—rather magnificent, as it turned out—pudding had sparked more than Kip’s appetite.

  “A favorite?” Hiero queried.

  Delicately, as one would a newborn babe, Kip cradled the plate proffered him. “My first taste of Vienna, the day we arrived.” He forked off a piece and shut his eyes, savoring. And smiled. “The taste of the new.”

  Hiero was grateful when Han asked, “A holiday?”

  Kip shook his head, swallowed hard. “My father’s work. He’d gone ahead. Mother and I followed once he’d found rooms.” Hiero didn’t miss how Kip stuttered on “Mother,” the memory of his parents as raw as the day they died. He never spoke of them; this was its own rare treasure. “Travel didn’t agree with her, especially by sea. The Danube is a gentle river, but it turned her green. Once Father had settled her in our flat, we went exploring. With all the new places, new people, new languages, I spent most of the afternoon clinging to his trouser legs.”

  “Bold to transplant such a young family,” Callie woke from her brooding to comment.

  “We lived in Venice when I was an infant, but this was the first place that marked me.” Kip scarfed down another bite as if it might disappear. “And what child wouldn’t be marked by stall after stall of sweets. A garden of sweets! In every color and flavor I could imagine.” Little Ting squealed with delight when presented with her own piece. Kip chuckled. “Precisely, young miss. I couldn’t choose, so Father decided for me. The royal pâtissier had just that year given common bakers the recipe for his greatest confection, Sachertorte.”

  Kip broke off a large morsel and scooped out the apricot filling, smearing it across his tongue with the back of his fork. Hiero had never before been jealous of jam.

  “Magnificent, Minnie,” Kip declared when she finally joined them. “You’ve given me a... a touch of home.” He blinked away a glimmer in his eyes, bowed his head.

  Hiero wanted to shoot across the table and seize him. Make a thousand promises he couldn’t keep. Banish the specters that would forever haunt his Kip’s heart. Instead he cleared his throat.

  “And us the secret to fattening you up. Another slice for Mr. Stoker, if you please.”

  Kip scowled in his direction but didn’t refuse.

  A rap on the door heralded a note from the concierge at the Albion, one of Han’s spies who intercepted any correspondence they preferred be kept away from the house. Armed with coffee—spiked, in Hiero’s case—and good-night kisses from Ting, they adjourned to the study. Kip had spent the hours before supper filling the chalkboard with facts and strategies. Hiero had taken a much-needed nap. But when he saw the results of Kip’s labor, he felt a sudden surge of drowsiness.

  “Now to the matter at hand,” he announced to no one in particular. He sprawled out in his usual armchair with what he knew was an air of virile insouciance and fixed his eyes on the only thing in the room of any consequence. “What wood mouse perished in the name of that regrettable attempt at a mustache? What possessed you to commit such an atrocity against such a poor, defenseless creature, i.e. your upper lip?”

  Kip blushed to his ears. Han and Callie succumbed to coughing fits.

  “You disapprove?” The shy look Kip cast his way dissolved in the heat of Hiero’s smile.

  “I object. Strenuously. It’s such a crime you should arrest yourself.”

  A quirk to the corner of his lips. “You may deploy your razor as you see fit once our plans for the morrow are set.”

  “Ha!” Hiero beamed. He did love it when Kip came out to play. “Well said.”

  Han cleared his throat. “The note.”

  “What note?”

  “That you received just now.”

  “Ah, the note.” To Hiero’s surprise, it was still in his hand. Instead of his cup. He thrust it at Han. “Read it, will you?”

  With an audible sigh, Han perused the contents.

  “Sister Juliet’s act of contrition?” Kip guessed.

  “Quite. Shall I spare you?”

  “No, let’s have it.”

  “Mrs. Sandringham,

  Forgive me. You alone can understand the terrible burden. When the Mother calls, we cannot fail to answer, though it cost us in body, mind, and self. She has whispered your name in my ear, and so I welcome you, Daughter. Your place is among us. Bless us with your presence tomorrow, alone, and together we will sing her name.

  Yours faithfully,

  Sister Juliet Tattersale”

  Callie sighed. “Her commitment is admirable, in its own way.”

  “Hardly commitment if she believes it,” Han countered.

  Kip, to everyone’s surprise, looked to Hiero. “Thoughts?”

  Stunned by Kip’s confidence in him
, he collected himself. “Her first move is to cut out Mrs. Sandringham’s most trusted advisor. Amateur. The instinct to create a connection is smart, but in a note? Misjudged.”

  “You think they mean Mrs. Sandringham harm?” Han asked.

  “Undoubtedly. She’s made the minimum effort to woo her. She smells a rival.”

  “Not entirely without merit,” Kip remarked. All eyes turned to him. He shrugged. “You struck too soon. Being charlatans, they recognize charlatans.”

  Callie huffed, folding her arms under her breasts. “My performance convinced.”

  “Your performance did convince the zealous,” Kip insisted. “But it was unwise to present yourself as a rival. Most of the Daughters are there for virtuous reasons. Your Sister Nora, for instance. But will she take your side against Juliet? Will any of them? No. I agree with Hiero’s assessment. By insinuating you are also possessed by Mother Eve’s spirit, you’ve endangered yourself.”

  Anger fired her. “We all endanger ourselves with every case. You took on a cage full of lions!”

  “Not by choice.”

  “You would not put such restrictions on Han or Hiero. I am as capable as any of you.”

  “And so you are. And so are the Daughters capable as any of the villains we’ve encountered. This isn’t a question of womanhood, but of risk.”

  “You will not prevent me from retrieving my mother!”

  “I have no intention of doing so. But your original plan is forfeit. To surrender yourself to the Daughters without a guardian is folly.”

  “Hiero will accompany me.”

  “They already wish to cut him out. They won’t hesitate to do so. As a man, they can and will insist he lodge elsewhere.”

  “You wish to prevent me from learning about your case. If I’m too close, I’ll discover things that will reveal the identity of your client.”

  “That is unlikely, as I mean to do most of the discovering myself. Though I may call upon you, if need be. But your first and only mission must be to retrieve your mother. Not to prove the Daughters frauds...” He turned to glare at Hiero. “... and not to reveal the contents of Rebecca Northcote’s box.”

  Hiero’s eyelids had, admittedly, drooped a bit during their quarrel. They shot open now, to be confronted once again by Kip’s upraised brow.

  “What? Moi?” He tried and failed to project an air of innocence. “What possible interest could I have in a long-dead swindler’s trinket-holder?” All three of them now stared at him with matching pointed looks. “Anyone searching for other than her false teeth and the deed to that house are in for a disappointment.” Unwavering, their gazes sharpened such that Hiero felt pinpricks across his chest. “Oh, very well! The box will remain untouched.” Each in turn nodded, withdrawing their attention. “Until such a time as dear Lillian is safe. After I make no promises.”

  Hiero resented their collective eye-roll.

  “I may have a solution,” Han said, “to the matter of Miss Pankhurst infiltrating unaccompanied.” Hiero did not miss how he appealed to Kip, not Callie. “A ladies’ maid.”

  Callie’s face turned the color of a ripe plum. “No.”

  “Explain,” Kip forestalled her.

  “The story we’ve concocted for Mrs. Sandringham is that she is a wealthy widow whose husband perished at sea and stranded her in Italy. She discovered herself her pregnant, but not by his efforts. Not by anyone’s efforts, in fact. A religious woman, she turned to prayer in the gardens of her local convent, where she met Father Coscarelli. She decided to return to England when she heard of Mother Rebecca’s prophecies from a trusted friend. Perfectly reasonable that a ladies’ maid would continue on with a mistress of means who had always been kind to her.”

  “With her husband gone, yes.” Kip tapped his piece of chalk on the desktop. “But anyone we send would be in just as much danger from the Daughters.”

  “Not if the woman in question—”

  “No,” Callie growled at Han. “Absolutely not.”

  “She is more than capable,” Han countered. “She can defend herself. She’s of likeable character. She’ll go unnoticed by the Daughters from society backgrounds and ingratiate herself with those from poverty. And she will know how to get word to us the second trouble strikes.”

  “If you think her so skilled, why not send her in my stead?” Callie hissed.

  “Forgive me, but of whom are we speaking?” Kip asked.

  “Miss Kala,” Hiero enlightened. “Much as it aggrieves me, I must second Han’s proposal.” He deflected the daggers Callie shot his way with a flick of his hand. “She will protect you with her life.”

  “She’s the reason Mother was taken!” Callie fury flamed so hot she turned to the wall to smother it.

  “For which she’s desperate to make amends.” Han moved to her side, reached for—but did not touch—her shoulder. “Let her help.”

  “No,” Callie snarled into the wallpaper. Which was, Hiero observed, a fitting shade of crimson.

  “Overruled.” Kip’s gentle voice reverberated with such authority that Hiero went weak in the knees. “If the Daughters welcome you into their fold at your appointment tomorrow, you will do so accompanied by Miss Kala. Otherwise I will proceed with my investigation and make every effort to liberate Mrs. Pankhurst in due course.” Kip glanced at Hiero and Han for confirmation. “Gentlemen, are we agreed?”

  “Call yourselves gentlemen if you like.” Callie whirled around to confront Han. “You’re no better than the men who set those women on the path to the Daughters.”

  Appearing bewildered, Han answered, “Pity you won’t accord Miss Kala the same confidence you seek from us.”

  “She has done nothing to deserve it.”

  “And you have everything to lose if you’re discovered.” Again he ghosted his hands along the edge of her arms. “No one on this team can do this alone. It’s not a matter of belief in your abilities, but awareness of the situation’s limitations.”

  “Mark that.” Hiero twiddled a finger in Han’s direction. “Wisdom.” He received a crude gesture in response.

  Callie exhaled so forcefully Hiero was astonished she didn’t blow Han halfway to Reading.

  “Very well. If Miss Kala is amenable...” Hiero sensed she couldn’t bring herself to complete the sentence.

  The perfect opportunity to change the subject.

  “And you, my fine ferret-lipped swain.” He made bedroom eyes at Kip. “Will you be joining our party?”

  “Not likely to be a better opportunity to gain access in an unofficial capacity,” Han noted.

  “And we are somewhat adept at providing the requisite distraction.” Hiero pulled out his handkerchief, twirled it about, and—poof!—made it disappear.

  Kip chuckled with delight.

  “Yes, why not invite the entire household?” Callie grumbled. “Han could pose as a conquistador seeking spiritual retreat, Angus as his bannerman, Jie as a harlot bearing the spawn of Satan, and Minnie as her midwife-cum-exorcist. Beware, you doting Daughters, the circus has come to town!”

  She collapsed into the armchair opposite Hiero before stealing a sip of his coffee. All three men were now afflicted with Han’s earlier bewilderment.

  “Drat,” she declared with a pensive expression. “I do see the reason of it. Tim, you must come. But how will we explain your presence?”

  “By not explaining it.” Hiero once again drew their hawkish stares. “Coincidence, my dears, is the conjurer’s neatest trick.”

  Chapter 5

  Callie shifted in her seat, wishing herself able to mask her restlessness as Hiero masked... well, everything. Except the depth of his attraction to Tim, who fidgeted beside him. Not from nerves, Callie thought, but due to Hiero’s proximity. The comedy of mannerisms playing out before her—Hiero using the tilt of the carriage to lean closer, Tim angling to receive him before remembering himself; Hiero laying a hand beside Tim’s thigh, Tim contorting in a casual manner to nudge it away—might have amus
ed were she not so anxious.

  A pair of magnets, they were, attracting or repelling by virtue of direction. Their aura, visible only to those closest to them, gave one the tingles. Callie almost envied them until she remembered how dangerous that aspect of their partnership was and how secret it must remain.

  She attempted to settle back against the velvet cushions, closing her eyes while she communed with what Hiero called the core of her character. Anything to avoid the thought of Miss Kala riding up front with Han. How he endured her indefatigable stream of chatter, which underscored the rattle of the wheels on cobblestone, Callie didn’t know.

  The starch in her freshly laundered white robes prickled the hairs on her legs, arms, and neck. Callie had eschewed her crown of stars for a sky-blue cloak meant to evoke the other Mother of Us All, the one suspiciously unmentioned in all of Rebecca Northcote’s prophecies. The cloak’s silk sparked against the velvet cushions, jolting her whenever she moved. Only the cold steel of her MAS revolver, sewn into a hidden pocket in her knickers, gave her any peace.

  Three hard knocks on the ceiling signaled their imminent arrival. Callie felt as if they pounded on her skull.

  “No improvisation.” Tim’s warning forced her attention, though his message was for Hiero. “More than one life hangs in the balance.”

  The carriage slowed to a halt. With a pointed look at Hiero and a wink of encouragement for Callie, Tim slid out the door. His plan was to petition in person for an appointment, which they would interrupt, insisting he join them for their interview with Sister Juliet. Relieved her part in this was minimal, Callie concentrated on evoking just the right “troubled angel” expression, the one that had duped Sister Nora.

  Callie counted out five minutes under her breath before the carriage lurched forward, only to stop again after rounding a corner. She listened to the muffled argument that erupted outside, ignored Hiero’s glimmer of pride as he watched Tim through the door, waiting for his cue. Once Han had wrenched it open, Father Coscarelli sprung out, all Italian charm and magnanimity. The deal was struck before Callie emerged, feigning dazed contentment. Han pressed a supportive touch into the small of her back as he helped her out of the carriage. Her inner smile instantly became an inner frown when he passed her off to Miss Kala.