Eve Silver (21 page)

“But
how
do you know that? What are these terrible secrets?” Darcie demanded.

Abigail shrugged. “I know men. And I can recognize another tortured soul when I see one. There are rumors that he was ejected from the university for strange experiments, and worse tales that he cares not where his bodies come from...”

Sucking in a deep breath, Darcie fought the cold fingers of dread that crept along her spine. “They are only rumors.”

“Suit yourself,” Abigail said, the uncaring words belied by her concerned tone. “But take care.”

“I will take care, Abigail. And I'll return another day.”

With a last quick hug, Darcie hurried from Mrs. Feather's house, back to John who paced beside the waiting coach.

Chapter Eleven

The ride back to Curzon Street seemed interminably slow. Darcie wanted to be away from Whitechapel, away from the harsh memories that haunted those streets. She felt overwhelmed by all she had learned, and even more confounded by all she had been unable to unearth. She knew now that Damien had been to Hadley Street the night of Sally's murder, knew that he'd had his surgical tools with him. She had seen his bloodstained shirt—which could be explained now by his efforts to help Mayna.

But what could explain away the disembodied heart in his laboratory?

She wrapped her arms about herself and shivered.

Abigail claimed that Damien had saved Mayna's life the same night Sally was brutally murdered. Could a man save one woman then turn around and kill another? That made no sense at all.

Pressing her palm against her forehead to rub absently against the dull ache that throbbed there, Darcie agonized over her suspicions. She was enamored of Damien, entranced by him. How could she suspect him of any involvement in such a repugnant crime? He was a doctor, a healer. And though he was an anatomist—one who perhaps bent the rules more than a little—that in itself could not be used as evidence of his involvement in Sally's murder. He had made no secret of the fact that he dissected bodies. In fact, quite the opposite. It was an open and accepted part of the daily doings of the household on Curzon Street. Yet, even that was suspect, for why did he carry out his work in the laboratory above the carriage house? Why did he not perform his dissections at a medical college? Abigail's suggestion that some dark secret held the answer to those questions bore further consideration.

She wondered if a man could be mad one moment and sane the next, in one instant a horrific murderer, in the next a dedicated doctor. She had no proof that Damien Cole was anything other than he appeared, and her heart argued that he was a good man.

She was talking herself in circles. Her mind spun with conjecture and despair, and with each terrible question that jumped to the fore, she was simultaneously confronted by the memories of the night she had spent in Damien's glorious embrace. She refused to believe that she had lain with a murderer. Heartsick, she stared unseeing out the window as the coach drew to a halt in front of the house. The question was, could she trust Damien Cole; did she dare to trust him?

John opened the door and helped her down, narrowing his eyes as he examined her for a long, intense moment.

“Your visit with your sister upset you,” he said, his brow furrowed in concern.

“No, John. Not at all. I just have a great deal on my mind.”

“You be careful, missy.” He held her fingers for a moment longer than necessary, and gave them a reassuring squeeze. “I'd hate to see you hurt.”

Cocking her head to one side, Darcie pressed her lips together, and tried to decide how to phrase her response. She was tired of trying to guess at the cause of the cryptic warnings she had received. First her sister had warned her about Damien Cole, then Poole, and now John was cautioning her about
something,
but he hadn't said exactly what she was to be careful of.

Tired of the monsters conjured by her imagination, preferring whatever awful things the truth might reveal, Darcie caught John's arm as he made to move away. Best to just confront the issue head on and be done with it. “What exactly am I to be careful of, John?”

His eyes widened in surprise, dropping to the place where her fingers curled about his forearm. Clearly he hadn't expected her query.

“You be careful of Dr. Cole, be careful or you’ll find yourself mired in the muck.”

For a moment, Darcie was stunned speechless. She wondered at John's meaning, unsure if he was cautioning her to be careful of Dr. Cole in the general sense, or if he knew about her personal involvement with Damien.

“Why should I be careful of Dr. Cole?” she queried, trying to maintain a calm facade. “And how will I become mired?”

“Well, you're helping him with his work. It ain't right. A body should be buried right and proper, shrouded and shriven, not poked and prodded and cut up on a table. Bad enough that the doctor feels the need to carry on so. But to involve a wee thing like you....” John shook his head. “A woman....”

Darcie barely restrained a sigh of relief. So, he knew nothing of her liaison with Damien. His warning was simply a caution that she remember her place.

“Thank you, John. For taking me to see my sister,” she said, squeezing his arm gently for a brief second.

He patted her hand, then nodded brusquely and moved off to drive the carriage round back.

Inside the house, Darcie hung her bonnet on a peg and hurried upstairs to Damien's study. She knew he would not be there, did not expect him to return from his lecture for many hours yet, but she wanted to be near his things, to touch his desk, his chair, his books. There was a certain comfort in the familiar, and she needed that right now.

“Ah, here she is.”

Darcie stumbled to a halt as the deep timbre of Damien's voice greeted her arrival. She was surprised that he had returned before her. She paused in the threshold, her eyes meeting his, and she found him watching her with an intent expression. For the briefest moment, she felt they were the only two beings on earth, and her heart resounded with joy at the sight of him. The sensation was a primitive thrill that over-rode all her fears and misgivings.

Damien rose at her entry, and as he did so, she realized that they were not alone. A second man pushed himself up from his chair, his movements hampered by his rotund girth. He was a man of middle years, short in stature with bushy side-whiskers that bristled along the angle of his jaw. Darcie smiled uncertainly, her gaze gliding back to Damien.

“Miss Finch, may I present Dr. William Grammercy. Dr. Grammercy, Miss Darcie Finch, the artist responsible for the excellent illustrations we have been discussing.”

“Remarkable drawings, Miss Finch.” Dr. Grammercy's shaggy brows crunched together as he peered at her. “Bit odd for a woman to be doing such work, but I cannot argue with the results. I daresay I'm well pleased with your rendition of my heart.”

“My rendition of your heart?” Darcie asked in confusion, glancing quickly back and forth between the two men.

“The heart we dissected the other day was given to me by Dr. Grammercy,” Damien clarified. “After I told him of the skilled artist I had employed to illustrate my specimens, he decided that the heart would fare better with me than it would with him.”

“And it turns out I was quite right. Quite right. Excellent job, my dear. Most excellent.”

As the doctor bobbed his head in punctuation of his effusive praise, waving his arms in an all encompassing circle, Darcie drew back, half fearing that in his eagerness to express his enthusiasm for her work, Dr. Grammercy might actually clap her on the back. Her gaze shot to Damien, and she found him regarding her with amusement.

“Well, my boy, I'll be on my way. A pleasure, my dear.” Dr. Grammercy inclined his head to both Darcie and Damien. “No need to see me out.”

“On the contrary,” Damien objected. “I have one last question for you, regarding the matter we spoke of earlier.”

“Mmmm.” Dr. Grammercy nodded, his gaze sliding to Darcie, then quickly away.

The two men took their leave and departed the study. She could hear the soft murmur of their conversation and the occasional word that drifted back to her.
Whitechapel… sexual insanity… Bedlam… Thank you for coming…. Yes. Good-bye.

The words did not fit together in neat array. Sexual insanity? Bedlam? She could not fathom what they were discussing. Adding to the confusion was Dr. Grammercy’s revelation. The heart that had haunted her ever since she had read the newspaper article…Dr. Grammercy had supplied it.

Darcie sank into a chair as the reality of what she had learned penetrated fully. Her wariness and confusion floated to the ceiling like butterflies set free. She wanted to jump up and dance. Good heavens! To think she had suspected Damien, actually considered the possibility that he could have been responsible for Sally's death... The heart was not Sally's. Of course it was not Sally's!

She nearly giggled with the euphoria of her relief.

Her thoughts went to the blood stained shirt that she had watched Damien burn. The stains had not been made by Sally's blood as Damien tore her heart from her body—oh, how could she ever have thought it so? Obviously, the stains had arisen as Damien struggled to save Mayna's life.

She felt ridiculous to have ever considered another possibility, like a schoolgirl imagining shadows in the dark because she had been frightened by a fairytale.

Damien’s footsteps sounded on the stairs, heralding his return. Darcie leaped to her feet. She longed to catapult herself across the room, to fling herself into the shelter of his arms. Instead, she fisted her hands at her sides, feeling uncertain of exactly what her place was in his life.

He paused in the doorway, his heated gaze raking over her, and then he held out his hand.

“Damien,” she breathed, gliding across the space that separated them, drawn by the need to be close to him.

Pushing the study door closed with his booted foot, Damien pulled her against him and lowered his lips to hers. She kissed him with all the pent-up emotions that had built and churned throughout the day, her mouth open and seeking, her tongue twining with his. His ardor answered her in kind. His hands stroked her back, smoothed their way to her bottom, then up again.

When he broke the kiss and drew back, they were both breathless.

“Was the day so very long?” he asked, his lips shaping a barely-there smile.

“Yes,” she whispered, thinking of her ghastly suspicions, her disturbing trip to Mrs. Feather's, the blood stained walls in the upstairs chamber. “So very long.”

“Did you ride in the park?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I went to see my sister.”

His brows rose in surprise. “You went to see Mrs. Feather?”

“Yes.”

“I see,” he said, though his tone and his quizzical expression suggested that he did not see at all.

Clasping her hands nervously together, she ran her finger over her scar. Darcie glanced at the desk where the miniature rested, a silent witness, a wraith from the past. Now was the time. She had to ask.

“Damien, the girl in the picture, who is she?”

He drew a sharp breath, his expression growing shuttered. “Where did that question come from? I thought we were discussing your visit with Mrs. Feather.”

Darcie moved to the desk and lifted the miniature, examining the small dark-haired figure, searching for enlightenment. There were no answers to be found in the minute brush strokes.

Raising her eyes, she found Damien watching her intently, his expression unreadable. His thoughts were hidden behind the polite mask she knew so well, his features arranged to give no indication of his secret contemplations.

“Perhaps this
is
a discussion of Mrs. Feather,” he observed dryly. “Exactly what did your sister tell you?”

“She told me that a girl died with your name on her lips. She told me that you came and carried her away.”

He turned from her and crossed to the window, resting one shoulder against the frame, staring out toward the carriage house. She pressed her lips together, waiting. With a soft sigh, she replaced the picture on the desk.

“Please,” Darcie whispered forlornly. “I have shared with you the darkest secrets of my soul. Will you share nothing with me?” One heartbeat, two—Darcie lost count as she waited for his answer. Drawing a shaky breath, she stared at his broad back. “Will you not entrust your secrets to me?”

He did not turn to her, did not acknowledge by word or movement that he even recalled that she was there. The silence blossomed and swelled, a dark flower winding tight tendrils about them both.

Slowly, she began to back away, intent on leaving him to his reflections. Her heart was heavy at his unspoken rejection, his unwillingness to let her into his inner sanctum, to share his secrets with her. Oh, he had shared his body. Beautifully, gloriously. But now she understood that though he had cleaved through her walls and barriers, leaving her defenseless, she had had no similar impact on him. She had not touched his soul, had not gained his trust.

The realization was like a physical blow, the pain as swift and great as though she had been struck. She loved him with all that she was and all she would ever be. There was no doubt in her mind. The thought was both wonderful and terrifying, filling her with unspeakable joy and desperate longing. Still, she could not deny the one dark truth that cast a pall on her emotions. Despite the love that burst through her defenses, flouting her carefully erected guards and the darkness of her past, there was still a kernel of reserve, a part of herself that did not fully trust him. How then could she condemn his reticence?

“Why do you wish to visit my own personal hell?” he asked curtly.

Darcie hesitated, searching for the right words. A partial truth was best, for she sensed that confronting him with her newly recognized sentiment would only serve to alienate him. At length, she spoke. “Because you toured my hell, walking hand in hand by my side as I confronted my demons, and you made me less afraid. Those memories have dulled for me. I would do the same for you.”