Eve Silver (26 page)

Suddenly desperate to return to the safety of the house, Darcie pushed open the gate and hurried down the stairs.

 Returning to the parlor, Darcie lit a lamp once more. Rational consideration dictated that she was overtired, overwrought, and in all ways hard-pressed to form a valid opinion about almost anything. In all likelihood, there had been no one watching her.

But what if there
had
been someone there? She wrapped her arms about herself, feeling chilled. Seeking a distraction, she focused her attention on Dr. Grammercy, who was reclined on the sofa, exactly as she had left him.

Poor man. He looked terribly uncomfortable. It was truly beyond the bounds of friendship to expect him to stay here on the sofa for the entire night. When Damien had made the request, he had likely thought that his absence would be brief. But she suspected that Damien would not return this night. The time had come to send Dr. Grammercy home.

“Dr. Grammercy,” she said, shaking him gently.

“Yes, yes, a brandy,” he muttered as he bolted upright.

“The hour has grown late.” Darcie dropped her hand from his shoulder and took a step back. “I cannot imagine that Dr. Cole meant for you to remain here all night when he asked you to sit with me for a short while. ‘Tis time for you to seek your rest in your own comfortable bed. This sofa will not do.”

“Not sleeping.” He scrubbed one hand over his face. “Resting my eyes, you know.”

Despite her heavy heart, Darcie smiled. “I know you would stay here until Dr. Cole’s return, for you are most kind. I thank you for your company, but I feel terribly guilty denying you your rest.” She hesitated, unsure of the appropriate etiquette. She was acting the part of hostess in the parlor of her employer, who was also her lover, and quite possibly the prime suspect in a series of hideous murders. Salty tears of frustration and despair pricked her eyes.

Inspector Trent would not have kept Damien so long unless he believed he had good cause. She could only pray that Damien was not being subjected to any physical form of coercion. The thought brought a bubble of nausea to her throat. Whatever just cause the inspector thought he had, he was mistaken. She would gladly forgive him his error, if only he would send Damien home.

Wiping her tear-dampened eyes with the back of her hand, Darcie glanced at Dr. Grammercy as he heaved himself from the deep cushions of the sofa. She was glad that his attention was elsewhere so he did not notice her distress. And she was glad that he would now take his leave. His presence would not hasten Damien’s return. Besides, she longed for a moment of true privacy, for the chance to unfold her convoluted thoughts and sort through them one by one.

“If you’re certain, my dear?”

Darcie tried to muster a smile, but from the answering flicker of concern in Dr. Grammercy’s eyes, she suspected she had failed dismally. “I am certain.”

“I’ll be on my way then.” His voice was brisk with false joviality.

“Thank you for staying with me.”

Suddenly, Dr. Grammercy grabbed her hand, staring intently into her eyes. She started in surprise. He opened his mouth, leaning close, as though ready to impart some important information. Darcie tensed as she waited for whatever he might say. Then his expression shifted, and he closed his mouth, leaving her feeling deflated, and more than a bit puzzled.

He sighed. “It will be fine,” he said, and nodded once, offering Darcie his arm. “Come see an old man to the door.”

Holding the lamp high to illuminate their way, Darcie linked her arm through his. She welcomed the warmth of human contact, found it comforting.

Together, they made their way through the darkened house. Darcie wondered what had become of Poole, and why he had left not a single lamp burning in anticipation of his master’s return.
Unless he did not anticipate such a return.
The thought made her stumble.

Dr. Grammercy looked at her with concern. She shook her head mutely and they continued on their way.

After seeing him out and locking the front door, Darcie stood in the hallway, feeling lost. In that moment, the silent house seemed to echo her own loneliness. Without Damien, it was like a tomb—soulless, a shell without a heart.

What was her place here? Was she to sleep in her bed under the eaves, or was she expected to be waiting for Damien in his chamber upon his return?

Darcie blew out a long, slow breath. It was positively ludicrous that she was faced with a question of etiquette in regard to whose bed she ought to choose. The decision was irrelevant, really. Whichever bed she chose, she doubted she would be able to sleep.

“Upstairs with you now,” she whispered aloud. Slowly, she climbed the stairs and walked along the shadowy hallway, her lamp sending a soft glow ahead of her. She paused outside Damien’s chamber, staring at the closed door. She longed for him, longed for his touch, the comfort of his presence.

Tentatively, she pushed open the door, feeling torn. She had no wish to invade his privacy, but she longed for some physical connection to him. Surely their earlier intimacy had meant something? He had seemed to indicate that it did.

Darkness shrouded the room. There was no fire in the empty hearth. Darcie entered, the light from the lamp she carried throwing flickering shadows across the walls. She walked to Damien’s large canopied bed, and pushing aside the heavy velvet bed hanging, she laid one hand on the cool surface of a pillow, her fingers sinking into its softness. Placing her lamp on the night table, she lifted the pillow, pressing her nose to it, inhaling the scent of sandalwood and sunshine. A tight band of sorrow squeezed her chest.

The bed sheets were tidy. Mary, or perhaps Tandis, must have been here since her afternoon tryst with Damien. The thought brought a heated flush to her cheeks. Carefully, she placed the pillow back on the bed.

Taking her time, Darcie moved through the room, lightly running her fingers across Damien’s shaving brush, the front of his armoire, the drapery that adorned the window. With a melancholy sigh, she returned to his bed and sank down on the inviting surface, trailing her hand over the polished wood of his night table. Inadvertently, she brushed against a small volume of poetry he kept there, and she heard it fall to the ground with a dull thud.

Balancing the lamp as she moved, Darcie knelt on the floor and looked for the book. It lay, half hidden by the far leg of the small table. Bending forward, she lowered the lamp to get a better view, and reached for the volume. Her fingers closed around it just as her eyes were drawn to a crumpled cloth on the floor near the bedskirt. She pulled the book free, keeping her eyes fixed on the bit of cloth.

After placing the book on the nightstand, she angled forward, straining to reach as far back as she could. She caught hold of the wadded material and dragged it into the light. Resting back on her haunches, she smoothed the cloth flat on the floor, tracing her index finger around the jagged edges of its odd shape—the jagged outline brought to mind a woman’s boot.

The shape tugged at her memory, and then the recollection came to her. This was the cloth she had seen Damien turn in his hands the night she had found Mary weeping in her bed. The night Mary had been attacked.

Darcie pictured the torn edge of Mary’s smock, and suspected that this would be a perfect match. She shivered. A terrible image of Mary pulling frantically away from the man who had harmed her formed in Darcie’s mind. She imagined the sound of rending cloth, imagined Mary’s cry as she broke free. The vision was horrifying.

Damien could not have been that man. She knew that with bone deep certainty. Who, then, had done something terrible to Mary, and how had this scrap of her smock come to be in Damien’s possession?

Darcie rose and tucked the piece of material up into her sleeve. She moved from the night table to the window, staring down at the back drive as she had the night Mary was attacked. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, wondering if it truly was only mere hours since she had lain in Damien’s warm embrace, only hours since she had known such joy. Now she was haunted by questions and worries, and a gnawing fear for the man she loved.

Taking up her lamp once more, she turned and left Damien’s chamber as she had found it, deserted and silent as a tomb.

Chapter Fourteen

 “Did you sleep at all, poor lamb?” Cook jumped up from her place and patted Darcie’s arm reassuringly as she entered the kitchen the following morning. “Come and have a spot of breakfast. A good strong cup of tea will brace you up a bit.”

She could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes upon her. The smell of bacon and eggs permeated the air, but rather than making Darcie feel hungry, it made her feel slightly ill. Sliding into her seat, she mustered a weak smile for Cook’s benefit. She was grateful for the other woman’s welcoming presence.

Glancing up, she met John’s concerned gaze across the table. He nodded at her encouragingly. Darcie marveled that only last night she had been elevated from the servant’s table to the master’s table, and this morning she had returned to the kitchen to take her meal. How strange that she felt comfortable in both worlds.

 Cook doled scrambled eggs and toasted bread onto her plate, and though the food was like dust in her mouth, Darcie forced herself to chew and swallow.

Glancing around the table, she wondered what the other servants thought about the previous evening’s events. At the very least, Poole knew that Damien had left in the company of Inspector Trent. She could only guess at the story circulating among the others.

She took another mouthful of egg, and hazarded a quick look at Cook from beneath lowered lashes. The woman appeared to be her usual unflappable self.

Swallowing her food, Darcie turned her attention to Mary, who sat on her left. She opened her mouth to inquire how her friend was feeling this morning, but found the other woman looking at Poole with a strange, almost soft expression on her face. Even more odd was the way Poole was looking at Mary. Tipping her head to the side, Darcie watched the peculiar interaction in confusion. She had never seen Poole with anything other than a sneer contorting his features, but at this moment, his gaze fixed on Mary’s green eyes, he looked almost agreeable.

Shifting her attention to the coachman, Darcie spoke softly, feeling the weight of the morning hush. “John, will you take me to see Dr. Cole?”

The coachman’s head snapped up, and he stared at her for a long moment. “At the jail?”

She swallowed against the lump in her throat. Would Damien be in a cell, caged like some wretched beast, or would he be held in an office at Bow Street? She had no idea, though she had heard tales of what went on below the Bow Street Station. Men in Whitechapel spoke of the holding cells and the strong room—and the interrogations done there. She could feel the eyes of the other servants boring into her, and she thought that they, too, must know the terrible stories.

“I wish to go to Bow Street,” she said. “And I can only hope that Inspector Trent will see me. And see reason, as well.”

“What will you do there?” Tandis asked shyly, surprising Darcie with her softly voiced question, for the young maid rarely spoke. “I ask because I thought that Dr. Cole might be hungry and want some food. My Uncle Jack landed himself in Fleet for his debts. Ten long months he was there, and I don’t know as he’d have been fed a morsel if my Da hadn’t paid good coin to make certain he had food and bedding.” She looked around at the other servants, nervously gauging their reactions.

“That’s a wonderful idea, Tandis,” Darcie said, feeling warmed by the little maid’s concern for Damien. “Thank you.”

“It is a fine idea,” John agreed. “Don’t know as Dr. Cole will ‘ave been brought to a holding cell. Might be in a room with that inspector asking him questions all night.”

“Either way, I expect he’ll be tired and hungry,” Cook said.

“He’ll want a fresh shirt,” Poole said. Darcie turned in surprise.

“I’m sure he’d appreciate one,” she said quietly.

The butler stared at her from his lofty position at the head of the servant’s table, and the concerned expression in his eyes made Darcie frown in confusion. Gone was the chilly superior, replaced by a man who joined in her concern for Damien.

The support of the staff bolstered her determination to confront Inspector Trent and attempt to convince him to allow her to see Damien.

“Trent is questioning the wrong man,” Poole said brusquely, echoing her thoughts. “The sooner he comes to understand that, the sooner he can move toward arresting the perpetrator of this terrible chain of crimes.”

“Yes,” Darcie agreed, though her attention had shifted to Mary, who had slumped low in her chair and was nervously twisting her napkin between her hands, wringing it tighter and tighter. Darcie closed her hand around Mary’s, stilling her anxious movements. The other woman made no move to pull away, nor did she reach out to Darcie. After a long moment, she lifted her head and met Darcie’s gaze, her green eyes haunted and fearful.

Darcie frowned as Mary withdrew her hand, wishing that her friend would share her concerns. She wondered once more if whoever had harmed Mary on the night she was attacked was somehow linked to the murders. She had no specific reason for connecting the two, save for instinct.

“Right,” John said, drawing her attention. Tossing his serviette on the table beside his now-empty plate, he rose and nodded at Darcie. “I’ll go harness the horses. About twenty minutes, then, missy?”

“That will be fine, John. Thank you.”

She watched as he strode from the room. Picking up on the suggestion that Tandis had made, Cook rose and took down a large wicker basket from a high shelf. She began to gather bread, cheese, and cold meat. After a brief hesitation, she added several small, pink-iced cakes to the basket.

“Dr. Cole has no liking for sweets,” Darcie said, feeling forlorn as she recalled her conversation with Damien.

“Usually he doesn’t, but today might be the day.” Cook smiled at her reassuringly.

Darcie took up a clean serviette, rolled it into a cylinder and tucked it into the basket.