Nessy's Locket

by A. W. Exley

  The queen stared at him, and Nate stared back. Cara had the sense that just as he mimed responding when the monarch pulled his strings, he also mimed letting her win the staring contest by diverting his attention elsewhere. In this case, he adjusted a silver cufflink set with a diamond.

  A tiny smile twitched at the corner of the queen’s mouth. “We have given Mr Charles Darwin permission to spend time with our dragons. He is most keen to write a book about our dragons.”

  Charles Darwin lurking in the trees on their estate? Cara would be hard pressed to object to the famous naturalist making a study. However, she would be putting her foot down about one aspect of Darwin’s studies—his adventurous palate. “I do hope he’s not planning to write a cookbook, Your Majesty.”

  “We do not follow your meaning, Lady Lyons.” The queen’s sharp gaze went from her former pirate to Cara.

  Cara felt like the child caught with her hand in the cookie jar and told to explain herself. Surely the queen must know of Darwin’s reputation? “Mr Darwin is known for his adventurous palate, ma’am. At college, he was president of the Glutton Club, which sought to consume the flesh of exotic creatures. It is said that even now, he tastes every animal he studies.”

  There were stories that on finding the last dodo in the world, thought to have become extinct in the seventeenth century, Darwin promptly had it stuffed, roasted, and then toasted the creature’s sad extinction.

  The queen peered inside the dispatch box and pulled forth a bundle of papers. “He will be instructed to curb his appetites, Lady Lyons. In return, you will give him access to our creatures. Mr Darwin is in deteriorating health; we doubt he will trouble you overlong.”

  Did she mean he might expire while stalking a dragon? Cara didn’t want to fuel the already wild rumours about her by being held responsible for the naturalist’s death. The scientific and religious communities were still reeling from the publication of his book On the Origin of Species. What would they say if he died by dragon?

  “As you command, ma’am,” Nate said.

  They were dismissed, and Nate took Cara by the elbow and propelled her towards the door before she could muster her arguments.

  “If Darwin sticks a fork in any of my dragons, I’m going to have him stuffed and roasted,” she muttered once they were safely inside their coach.

  “He won’t be going anywhere on his own. I’ll have him closely monitored.” Nate took her hand and kissed her knuckles through the soft leather of her glove.

  That mollified her somewhat. She still wouldn’t trust the man and intended to have words with Kirill so the dragon knew to protect Pavlin and Calypso from any dinner invitations.

  Back at the house, as Cara sorted through her correspondence, a cream calling card fell out of the pile. Nobody ever actually visited their Mayfair house. Society was collectively too aghast to be seen at the home of the villainous viscount and his scandalous trouser-wearing wife. Small cards and missives, such as this one, were delivered by street urchins paid with a coin to enter the lion’s den.

  The notes were penned by women who Helene referred to as injured birds. Well-bred women with indelicate problems that no one could help them with—until Cara came along. Helene had first recommended one seek her help, and whispers spread outward from there. Like ripples on a pond’s surface after throwing a stone, requests for her help multiplied.

  If you sit by the Long Water, facing Kensington Gardens this afternoon, I shall find you.

  —S

  Such vague requests tugged at Cara’s curiosity. She could ignore it, but she would never know what issue gnawed at a woman who thought she had no recourse but Cara. Some wanted an item retrieved. Usually something foolishly given to a lover, and with the dalliance over, they wanted the evidence reclaimed. Others had darker problems. Like a husband who drank too much and then beat his wife.

  Those beasts received a special visit from Nate’s men, and if that failed to elicit a change in behaviour, some women were helped to new lives elsewhere. Others simply endured, too trapped in their gilded cages to break free but needing the release of crying on Cara’s shoulder at the cruelties of their world.

  “Grab your hat, Brick. We’re going out!” Cara hollered down the hallway.

  Jackson hated it when she yelled. He said it was unseemly for someone of her position. Cara thought it was far quicker to shout than to send footmen scurrying around the house.

  Brick emerged from down the hall, an umbrella hooked over one arm and his bowler in the other. He cut a dapper figure, especially now Cara and Clarence were paying for the best tailors to mould their fabrics to his large frame.

  “I swear you have a more extensive wardrobe than me,” Cara said as she took his arm.

  “Clarence has a reputation to maintain. Wouldn’t do to have his partner looking shabby.” Brick winked as he handed her up into the carriage.

  “My heart bleeds for your hardship.” She settled herself in a corner. At least the babe seemed to have likewise settled into its accommodation and no longer did battle with her stomach. It had been over a week since she had last lost her breakfast.

  Brick clutched a hand over his chest and shook his head. “It’s truly terrible. The long hours spent poring over fashion magazines. The days spent with the tailors drawing designs, picking fabrics. And the fittings—” He flung his hands up into the air.

  Cara laughed and resisted the urge to poke him with her parasol. “Stop being so overly dramatic. We both know you love every second of it.”

  The carriage dropped Cara and Brick in Hyde Park, and they strolled along the path from the Serpentine to where the river became known as Long Water. Cara picked a bench in a quiet spot, far away from other seats and the path, so that any conversation couldn’t be overheard.

  She shooed Brick away. “Go sit elsewhere, please, so you don’t scare my injured bird away.”

  “I won’t be far, and you’re to stay in sight. I’d never forgive myself if the water surged up and grabbed you again.”

  He said the words lightly, but they sent a shiver of fear through Cara. The Curator was dead and would never again send his river serpent to fetch her. Could he? The memory of being swallowed by the Thames still haunted her at odd moments.

  Brick took a position in view of Cara and pulled a book from his jacket pocket. She stared at the river and dared it to rise against her as she waited.

  Nannies strode past pushing prams with huge wheels. Others had rambunctious children on leads to stop them all scurrying in different directions. It was difficult to imagine that one day, if fate smiled upon her, her child would run through the park. It still seemed unreal. Would she wake up one day and be ready to take up motherhood, or was it thrust upon you when the newborn emerged?

  A few courting couples took advantage of the seclusion of this end of the park, walking scandalously close, fingertips almost grazing. None looked like her injured bird until a woman approached across the grass. She appeared of a similar age to Cara, in her early twenties. A hat with a short veil perched atop a brunette bun. Her walking gown was fashionable but not fancy. The large check print in shades of brown and cream kept it from being too sombre in appearance.

  “Thank you, Lady Lyons, for meeting me. I am Lady Sabine Fortwright.” She sat next to Cara and closed her parasol. For a long moment, the two women sat in silence watching ducks paddle downstream while the mysterious Sabine gathered her courage.

  “I need you to orchestrate my death.” The woman’s hand tightened on the silver handle of her parasol.

  Cara swallowed what she had been about to say. Here was a request she had never heard before. It took her a moment to compose a response. “I do not know what rumours you have heard about me, but I am no executioner.”

  “Oh, I assure you I am not ready to shuffle off this earth yet. If I wished a permanent solution, I would dramatically jump off a bridge into the river, since I cannot swim. I am in a situation that requires all of society and my family to beli
eve I have passed.” Calm brown eyes regarded Cara without any hint of swirling madness.

  Her curiosity sat up and poked her, waiting to hear what problem demanded such a final solution. “An extreme measure to take for whatever plagues your life.”

  “It is the only way we can be together,” Sabine whispered, and a tear glistened in her chocolate eyes. She produced a small cream handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

  Ah, forbidden love. Most couples just eloped to Gretna Green and crept back to society once the dust had settled. Better to seek forgiveness than ask permission. There must be something about this coupling to remove that option. One already married, perhaps?

  “For me to help, I need to fully understand your predicament. I promise you the utmost discretion, but you must trust me if I am to help you.” Cara watched a duck climb up the bank and peck at the long grass.

  Often, dealing with these women was like trying to coax a skittish kitten to a bowl of milk. Words had too much power in their world, and it took only a whisper to destroy reputations.

  “I am twenty-one years old and unwed. I am also the oldest of three daughters, and I must marry before my younger sisters can debut and seek their own match.”

  Stupid rules, Cara thought. Young women were forced into loveless marriages because it was expected of them. Well-bred broodmares were sold off to reproduce and perpetuate their husbands’ titles and fortunes.

  “I love someone of whom my family does not approve. More than that, if we made our love public, it could ruin my family and destroy any chance for my younger sisters to make suitable marriages.”

  “Who do you love that you are prepared to sever all connections with your family?”

  A smile touched Sabine’s full lips, and a wistful look bloomed in her eyes. “My seamstress. Our friendship sprang up during fittings, and from there grew into something deeper. My family were horrified when I called her friend and forbade me from ever seeing her again. Imagine if they knew how passionately I love and adore her.”

  Cara blew out a sigh. Her attention drifted to Brick, surreptitiously reading a book and keeping a watch over his charge. Society frowned at his relationship with the former Lord Dennington, who had recently become the Duke of Clarence on the death of his father. But rising to one of the highest ranked titles in England had some benefits. No one dared outwardly criticise them, but it didn’t silence the whispered barbs.

  “I love my family and I love Esther. If we were simply two working class women, no one would raise an eyebrow to us living a quiet life together. But a noble girl has but one duty to her parents: to marry. I cannot forsake Esther for a cold match, but to openly love her would bring down ruin upon our house.” A tear ran down her cheek, and she wiped it away with a gloved hand.

  “Have you thought on all you would give up? The comfort of your position and contact with your sisters.” It seemed callous, to dismiss love for creature comforts, but Cara wanted to be sure the woman had thought through all the consequences.

  The smile returned to her lips and a glow shone through her eyes. “That is what Esther says. She is concerned that I would no longer have contact with my sisters. But once they marry, I will seldom see them anyway.”

  Love was all well and good, Cara thought, but it didn’t pay the bills. “It is hard to appreciate what it is to be cold and starving when you have a roof over your head and a cook in the kitchen.”

  “Better a loaf of bread in happiness than caviar in misery. Perhaps in years to come, when my sisters have families of their own, I might be able to write to them and ask their forgiveness.” Sabine watched a duck drift by, letting its body be taken by the flow of the water.

  “All I ask is that you consider it with your eyes fully open. I do not doubt your love, but having lived a sheltered life, you need to be aware of what a working class life entails.” Cara wondered how to test the woman’s resolve. Her death was such a permanent thing to bring about.

  “Esther is a skilled seamstress, and I can also sew. We will be able to move to another city and start fresh. Hard work does not scare me.”

  Speaking of sewing sparked an idea in Cara’s mind. “My husband and I run a school in the St Giles Rookery. Perhaps you would consider doing some charitable work there while we lay our plans for your demise?”

  Sabine arched an eyebrow. “If that is what I must do. Would you allow Esther to join me, and we could run sewing classes for the girls?”

  “That’s a wonderful idea. We want to give all the children a chance at a better life, and not all of them are suited to pursuing book learning. Sewing is a skill many could use.” This plan could work out brilliantly. Cara was always looking for ways to improve the lot of those born in the Rookeries.

  Lady Fortwright tucked her handkerchief back into her reticule. “Thank you for your help, Lady Lyons.”

  Cara stared at Brick’s strong profile. “What I do is little enough. I only wish I could build a different world.”

  Sabine followed her line of sight. “The Duke of Clarence is fortunate that his position allows him more freedom to love as his heart chooses.”

  “Is he truly free, though?” Cara whispered.

  Cara promised to consider how to stage Sabine’s death, and in return she agreed to spend time in the St Giles Rookery. Once the young woman had disappeared around a bend in the path, Brick put away his book and joined Cara.

  “I think the French were right with their revolution,” Cara said as she stared at the empty path.

  Brick held out his arm to her. “Kill all the nobles and start again?”

  “Yes. We live in a world where the opinion of others is given too much power. Words shouldn’t be able to destroy love and happiness.” Society had destroyed Cara. A child painted with the taint of the crime committed against her, while the perpetrator was unaffected. Until Nate delivered justice for her.

  Brick helped Cara to her feet. “Luckily, I have a thick skin, but I know what others say about me and Clarence. Wasn’t too long ago we could have been hanged for loving each other.”

  “Well, you would have hanged. Clarence would have just missed the season in disgrace.”

  Brick chortled. “A handsome face and a title excuse most crimes. I forgive him when he steals all the bedding.”

  “He is lucky to have you. You two are quite simply the best dressed couple in London, if not all of Europe.”

  Brick tucked her closer as they neared Rotten Row and more people surged around them. “He pretends indifference, you know, but I see when they cut him.”

  “Then he is fortunate to have you to protect him from their knives.” Just as she would do whatever was needed to protect her family.

  8

  After a restless night, Cara rose early, driven from bed by an urgent call of nature triggered by her growing resident. Unable to go back to sleep, she headed downstairs to her study. She sat on the floor, working through the pile of personal papers Nate had retrieved from the Curator’s compound. Papers had been separated out from all the other items that were carted off to a secure warehouse. As she read through his letters, the sheer array of artifacts he sought to acquire staggered her.

  She never dreamed the world contained so many nightmare objects. Foolishly, she and Nate had agreed to become the queen’s artifact hunters. They were responsible for finding the antiquities and locking them away where they could never hurt Victoria’s subjects again.

  Among the many things she wished she could undo, she wished they had never built the secure catacombs under the house. How could she sleep with death and destruction waiting to be unleashed underneath them? There must be other caverns on the property they could convert. Her fledgling maternal urge wanted the dangerous things far from where her family slept and played.

  Somewhere in all the papers they gathered, Cara hoped for a clue about the obsidian box and whatever horror it contained. It was the one artifact she wished they didn’t keep stored at the Lowestoft estate. She would rather bury it in
a coffin in a long-abandoned part of Kensal Green cemetery. Better for the thing to be lost to time. But Nate insisted on knowing what it was and muttered something about know thy enemy.

  She dropped one sheet into a box on her left and picked up the next page from the container on her right. This one was a brisk refusal to do business with the Curator. Just as her hand moved it to the discard box on the left, her brain fixed on a single phrase used by the author—cannot be stolen.

  A gasp left her throat as she started the letter again. She had found it. The one piece of information she needed, the answer to the question of who held the stone. Her gaze dropped to the end of the letter and a sweeping signature. Underneath, the author had written Count Alfonso Mancilla.

  “I’ve found him,” she whispered.

  “Who?” Brick asked, looking up from his novel.

  She glanced up and waved the letter at her bodyguard. “I’ve found who has the stone. I am quite sure of it. The Curator was trying to buy or steal an artifact residing in Spain. That is the last known location for the foundation stone from the Great Wall.”

  Brick placed a bookmark in his novel and closed it. “Spain isn’t far by airship. Do we pop over and steal the stone?”

  Cara let out a sigh. There was the problematic part of the equation. “No. It cannot be stolen or purchased, only given. We need to think of another way.”

  Brick scratched his smooth chin. “Ah. Blackmail, then?”

  Did that count as stolen? Cara was leaning towards not. If blackmail worked, the holder would then give the stone to them. “Yes. Now we know who holds it, I need Nate to dig into the man’s life and ferret out all his dirty little secrets.”

  Aethergraphs went out to Nate’s agents in Europe, and a special request was delivered to a little man in the foreign office who owed Nate a rather large favour. Then there was nothing to do but wait. And tackle another box of the Curator’s belongings.