Eve Silver (31 page)

Your friend,

Janie McBride

The missing maid, Janie. Not dead, Darcie realized, but safe and happy with her new husband in the country. All thanks to Damien.

“Oh, my goodness,” Mary whispered as Darcie finished reading. “All these months, I thought she was dead. I thought Dr. Cole might have—” She broke off, looking sheepish. “Well, I didn’t really think it. It was more of a good story to scare myself at night. I never truly imagined that Dr. Cole would… that he could have…” Her voice trailed away, and she rolled her eyes before continuing. “I’m very glad to hear that she is well and happy.”

Darcie smiled, relieved that the mystery of the girl’s disappearance had been explained. Janie had been pregnant, and Damien had helped her. She, too, felt happy for this unknown girl, happy that Damien had done her a good turn. Yet, a part of her could not let go of the suspicions and wariness that had prompted her to follow Mary to her chamber just now.

Mary had explained nothing, and the question of why Poole had been skulking at her heels in the night-darkened house gnawed at Darcie like a sore tooth.

o0o

 Late the following afternoon, Darcie sat in Damien’s study, frowning at the anatomy book she held open in her lap. The drawing of the ethmoid bone with its elaborately scrolled, delicate conchae began to blur before her on the page. A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. She glanced out the window to find the sky filled with ominous gray clouds. Deciding that there was only so much Latin nomenclature she could absorb at any one time, she closed the book with a soft thud.

 Although the weather had turned foul, she refused to let it affect her mood. She crossed to the bookshelf and carefully returned the tome to its place. She wondered if Damien would return soon, and could not suppress the smile that curved her lips at the thought of him. He had told her that morning that there were several urgent errands he needed to attend to, a mysterious sparkle in his eyes. Darcie suspected those errands had something to do with her.

Turning away from the shelves, she was about to leave the room when she heard the welcome sound of Damien’s footfall on the stair. Smiling, she went to the door of the study and watched him stride along the hallway toward her. His honeyed hair was combed and tamed into tidiness. The white of his shirt contrasted with the black cloth of his trousers and waistcoat, accentuating the muscled leanness of his long body.

“You are magnificent,” she said.

“You are biased.” He pressed a kiss to her lips, drew back for a second, and then returned for a longer, more thorough greeting. “I couldn’t resist,” he said with a grin, then stepped full into the room, drawing her against his side. “Come sit with me.”

Darcie allowed him to escort her back to the chair she had sat in for some hours. As she sank down on the cushioned seat, she ran her hand along his forearm, then twined her fingers with his for the span of a second before allowing his hand to slide free of her grasp. She could not seem to get enough of touching him.

He sat in the chair beside hers, angling it so he faced her.

“So what mischief have you been about today?”

“None today,” she said. “But last night, I did come upon a puzzle.” Thrusting her hand in the pocket of her dress, she closed her fingers around the scrap of cloth.

“Why the frown, Darcie?” Damien asked, instantly alert.

Drawing the cloth from her pocket, Darcie smoothed it flat on the desktop. “Do you recognize this?”

Damien picked it up and turned it over in his hands, before laying it back on the desk. He met her gaze, his expression inscrutable.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

“I found it on the floor of your chamber some days ago. Beneath the nightstand. Do you recognize it?”

He nodded. “I do. The shape of it is odd, like a map of Italy. I, too, found it. I must have thrust it in my pocket.”

“And then you dropped it. Perhaps kicked it away beneath your nightstand.”

“Perhaps.” He stared at her, waiting.

Darcie took a breath then continued in a rush. “Damien, I know where this came from. Mary was attacked, and her smock was torn—”

“Attacked? When?” In his shock, Damien half rose from his chair before, realizing his actions, he sank down once more.

“The night we worked on Dr. Grammercy’s heart…”

“The day we dissected the heart,” Damien mused, staring absently toward the neat rows of books on the opposite wall. “I recall that I worked late that night. Long past midnight I had a brief visit from an old acquaintance.” There was an odd inflection in his voice, leading Darcie to wonder if he had been pleased about that visit. It sounded as though he had not.

Darcie tipped her head, studying him. “The way you said that, I hardly think that you consider the gentleman a friend.”

“I do not. In fact, I consider him contemptible. I had not expected his visit, nor do I understand what he wanted here. It was an inane encounter, and it seemed his sole purpose was to remind me of the occasion of another time we had met. In Edinburgh, many years ago.” He was silent for a moment. “When I left the laboratory I found the cloth at the bottom of the stairs.” His gaze shot to hers, anxious, troubled. “That was the night Mary was attacked? Are you certain?”

 “Yes, I found her in her bed. She was distraught. Her smock was torn and there were marks on her neck.” Closing her eyes, Darcie vividly recalled the horrific bruises on Mary’s throat.

“Marks? Describe them.” He leaned forward in his chair, his expression intent.

“Finger marks.” She splayed her fingers against Damien’s throat. His pulse beat beneath her fingertips. “As though someone had put their hand about her throat and choked her,” she whispered, and dropped her hand.

Damien looked ill. “Our Mary? Why was I not told? My God—” He lifted the cloth from the desk, turning it slowly in his hands, his expression distant, unsettled. “Finger marks? Around her throat?”

He appeared to wrestle with some unknown concern, and then raised his eyes to hers. “Who, Darcie? Did she tell you who?”

There was something in his eyes, some dark and desperate recognition that made her swallow against the nervousness that skittered through her belly. Feeling suddenly afraid, she shook her head.

“It was the same in Edinburgh. The girl in Edinburgh,” he said, more to himself than to her.

Confused, she waited for him to explain. Then, as the seconds ticked past, she realized that she needed no explanation. He was referring to the girl who was killed in Edinburgh, the one Dr. Grammercy had told her about. Damien knew something about her death, and somehow it was linked to the attack on Mary.

Damien rose. “I must speak with Mary. She’s seen his face.”

“Oh, my God,” Darcie breathed. “She’s not safe.”

“No, she is not safe. I will take her to Bow Street, to Trent. And I will tell him what I know.” He turned and strode toward the door.

“Damien,” she called after him.

His shoulders tensed, and he turned slowly to face her.

“You know who it is, don’t you?”

“I have my suspicions. I won’t know until I speak with Mary.” His expression was bleak. “I thought it was coincidence. He was there in Edinburgh. He provided my alibi. And again, he was at Mrs. Feather’s house on the night that Sally was killed. Here, the night Mary was attacked… The acquaintance I told you about.” His brow creased as he struggled with some memory. “He was in Whitechapel the night I first met you, at Mrs. Feather’s house. If I am right… Darcie let no one in this house while I am gone. No one. Do you understand?”

o0o

The storm arrived with a vengeance. The wind wailed and howled, rattling the window in its wooden frame. Rain pelted the glass, sluicing in thick rivulets from the gutters. Darcie paced the confines of Damien’s chamber, wondering what exactly was transpiring at Bow Street. Did Damien truly know the identity of the terrifying fiend—the murderer unburdened by guilt or remorse—who stalked the alleys of Whitechapel?

She paced ten steps to the casement, then turned and counted ten steps back to the foot of the bed. She repeated the trip again and again. The household had retired long ago, though she suspected that the servants were equally unnerved by the fact that Damien and Mary had yet to return. Poole had acted nervous as a cat, stalking to the window of the front parlor and peering out into the street before twitching the curtain back in place.

“She’s safe with Dr. Cole,” he had muttered, his gaze locked on Darcie’s as though seeking reassurance. “She’ll come back to me safe and sound, won’t she?”

Darcie had only nodded in mute assent as she realized in that moment that Poole’s nocturnal wanderings had nothing to do with the sinister, and everything to do with love. He must have been meeting Mary in the moonlight the night Darcie had come upon them as they returned to the house. “You love her.”

“And at long last, she has developed some affection for me in return.” He had turned back to look out the window once more.

And still, hours later, Damien and Mary had yet to return. Wrapping her arms about herself, Darcie sank down on the bed in Damien’s chamber. Her agitated emotions allowed her no ease. She rose and strode to the window.

Edinburgh… Alibi… Mrs. Feather’s house on the night that Sally was killed.
Damien’s words played over and over in her mind. She gasped as a jagged bolt of lightning rent the dark night. Whirling from the window, she tried to think of something else, but again her concentration was dragged back to their earlier conversation and some elusive point that danced just beyond her reach. The night Inspector Trent had taken Damien to Bow Street, Dr. Grammercy had tried to remember the name of the man who had provided Damien’s alibi in Edinburgh. Something with an A. Lord Ashton. Lord Alton. He had not been able to recall.

Darcie chewed on the inner edge of her lip, lost in reflection of the maddening certainty that there was some connection she was missing.

The night Sally was killed. Poor Sally.

Memories slammed one into the next.

But you were here before.
Sally had recognized her as the bedraggled waif who had come to Mrs. Feather’s House on a rain-soaked night.
I remember, 'cause it was the night Lord Albri—
Darcie froze. An image formed in her mind, and she shivered. The man who had followed her to Hyde Park. She had glimpsed his dark hair and long black cloak from the carriage window.

Dark hair.

There were many dark haired men.

He was in Whitechapel the night I first met you…

That night, she had huddled in a shadowed doorway and breathed in the smell of death as she stared at the hem of a long black cloak. That night she had seen Lord Albright in her sister’s foyer and known that he treasured the suffering of others.

Lord Albright.

She remembered the scream she had heard echoing through her sister’s house after he had ascended to sample the
treat
he had demanded.

Dr. Grammercy’s voice came to mind, naming the man who had been in Edinburgh at the same time as Damien. Lord Ashton, he had said. Lord Alton. But no, he had been mistaken. She knew now the name of the man with a chilling certainty.
Lord Albright.

A man without a conscience, without a heart, without a soul. A man who frequented Abigail’s brothel. She remembered the way he had looked at her in her sister’s front hall, his eyes a window to the bottomless black pit that was the wasteland of his being. She knew who the killer was.

She felt certain that Damien had realized the likelihood that Albright was the murderer, had taken Mary to share her story with Inspector Trent. Darcie shivered. Abigail might have knowledge she was unaware of, knowledge about the killer. She might well be in mortal danger.

Darcie hesitated, weighing her options. Wait for Damien to return. Go to Abigail forthwith.

Damien had cautioned her to let no one in the house. He had said nothing about leaving.

Semantics.

He would not want her to go.

But could she simply leave her sister’s safety to fate? She could not. That did not mean she would be foolish or reckless, but she must go to Abigail, must warn her. She dare not wait for Damien to return for who knew how long that might be. How could she live with herself if she came too late?

Once more, her niggling certainty that in the end she must rely on no one but herself proved true. She could not say that she was pleased about that. But it was what it was.

She lifted Damien’s pillow and inhaled the lingering scent from the fabric. “I will be careful,” she whispered.

Then taking up her shawl and wrapping it about her shoulders, Darcie brought her reticule and hurried from the room. Poole was nowhere about. The house was dark and silent.

She grabbed an umbrella from the stand in the front hallway and left the house. The wind caught her and nearly spun her about as she descended the front stairs. Bending forward, she pushed on, her entire concentration focused on finding a hack to take her to Hadley Street.

The rain hammered her mercilessly, obscuring her vision. The pounding intensity of it, combined with the wretched viciousness of the wind, soaked her to the skin within minutes. The umbrella proved sorry protection against the storm.

She struggled every step of the way to Hyde Park. There she spotted a lone carriage for hire. Waving frantically, she summoned the attention of the driver and was quickly ensconced in the dry—if somewhat malodorous—interior of the conveyance. She sat, shivering, praying that she was not too late. Her entire being was focused on a solitary goal. She must warn Abigail. She could not bear the thought of losing her sister once more, having only so recently found her.

She huddled against the squab, the damp and the chill taking their toll. By the time she reached Hadley Street, she was shivering uncontrollably and her teeth were chattering so hard they clacked against each. The driver took her coins, but when she bid him wait for her, he looked nervously about and shook his head, his words snatched by the storm but his meaning clear. With sinking heart, Darcie stood in the drenching rain watching as the hack drove away.