Her Dark Curiosity (2 page)

Lucy Radcliffe told me your circumstances,
he had said.
Is it true what you did to this doctor
?

He needn’t have asked. The scar at the base of Dr. Hasting’s wrist matched my old mortar scraper exactly.

I’m afraid so,
I’d said,
but I had no choice. I’d do it again.

The professor had studied me closely with the observant eyes of a scientist, and then demanded I be released into his custody and the charges dropped. Hastings didn’t dare argue against someone so highly respected. The next day, I went from a dirty prison cell to a lady’s bedroom with silk sheets and a roaring fire.

Why are you doing this
? I had asked him.

Because I failed to stop your father until it was too late,
he’d replied.
It isn’t too late for you, Miss Moreau, not yet.

Now, sitting at the formal dining table with a forest of polished silver candlesticks between us, I secretly kicked off my slippers and curled my toes in the thick Oriental rug, glad to put that old life behind me.

“An invitation arrived today,” the professor said from his place opposite me. The hint of an accent betrayed that he’d grown up in Scotland, though his family’s Germanic ancestry was evident in his fair hair and deep-set eyes. A fire crackled in the hearth behind him, not quite warm enough to chase the cold that snuck through the cracks in the dining room windows.

I shivered in my dinner dress. Months of proper food had helped me put on a little more weight, and now my corset dug painfully into my ribs. To make matters worse, my woolen underskirts itched like the devil. I’d never understand why the rich insisted on being so damned uncomfortable all the time.

“It’s for a holiday masquerade at the Radcliffes’,” he continued, removing a pair of thin wire-rimmed spectacles from his pocket, along with the invitation. “It’s set for two weeks from today. Mr. Radcliffe included a personal note saying how much Lucy would like you there.”

“I find that rather ironic,” I said, buttering my roll with the hint of a smile, “since last year the man would have thrown me into the streets if I’d dared set foot in his house. He’s changed his tune now that I’m under your roof. I think it’s
you
he’s trying to win over, Professor.”

The professor chuckled. Like me, he was a person of simple tastes. He wanted only a comfortable home with a warm fire waiting for him on a winter night, a cook who could prepare a decent coq au vin, and a library full of words he could surround himself with in his old age. I was quite certain the last thing he wanted was a seventeen-year-old girl who slunk around and jumped at shadows, but he never once showed me anything but kindness.

“I fear you’re right,” he said. “Radcliffe has been trying to ingratiate himself with me for months, badgering me to join the King’s Club. He says they’re investing in the horseless carriage now, of all things. He’s a railroad man, you know, probably making a fortune shipping all those automobile parts to the Continent.” He let out a wheezing snort. “Greedy old blowhards, the lot of them.”

The cuckoo clock chimed in the hallway, making me jump. The professor’s house was filled with old heirlooms: china dinner plates, watery portraits of stiff-backed lords and ladies whose nameplates had been lost to time, and that blasted clock. No matter how long I lived here, I’d never get used to hearing the thing go off at all hours.

“The King’s Club?” I asked. “I’ve seen their crest in the hallways at King’s College.”

“Aye,” he said, buttering his bread with a certain ferocity. “An association of university academics and other professionals in London. It’s been around for generations, claiming to contribute to charitable organizations—there’s an orphanage somewhere they fund.” He finished buttering his roll and took a healthy bite, closing his eyes to savor the taste. He swallowed it down with a sip of sherry.

“I was a member long ago, when I was young and foolish,” he continued. “That’s where I met your father. We soon found it nothing more than an excuse for aging old men to sit around posturing about politics and getting drunk on gin, and neither of us ever went back. Radcliffe’s a fool if he thinks they can woo me again.”

I smiled quietly. Sometimes, I was surprised the professor and I weren’t related by blood, because we seemed to share what I considered a healthy distrust of other people’s motives.

“What do you say?” he asked. “Would you like to make an appearance at the masquerade?” He gave that slightly crooked smile again, and a part of me wondered if he’d also taken me in as his ward to keep from growing too lonely.

“If you like.” I shifted again as the lace lining of my underskirt itched my bare legs.

“Good heavens, no. I haven’t danced in twenty years. But Elizabeth should arrive by then, unless there’s more snow on the road from Inverness, and I’ve no doubt we shall be able to wrangle her into a ball gown. She used to be quite the elegant dancer, as I recall.”

The professor stowed his glasses in his vest pocket with a warm smile. Elizabeth was his niece, an educated woman in her mid-thirties who lived on their family estate in northern Scotland and served the surrounding rural area as a doctor—an occupation a woman would only be permitted to do in such a remote locale. I’d met her as a child, when she was barely older than I was now, and I remember beautiful blond hair that drove men wild, but a shrewdness that left them uneasy. When he took me in, the professor had posted a letter to Elizabeth to join us for the holidays. He said it was to liven up the quiet house, but I had a feeling he hadn’t a clue what to do with a teen-aged girl and wanted a woman’s touch.

“You know how the holidays are,” he continued, “all these invitations to teas and concerts. I’d be a sorry escort for you.”

“I very much doubt that, Professor.”

While he went on talking about Elizabeth, I dug my fork beneath my dress and scratched the itchy fabric. It was a tiny bit of relief, and I tried to work it under my corset, when the professor cocked his head.

“Is something the matter, Juliet?”

Guiltily, I slid the fork into my lap and sat a little straighter. “No, sir.”

“You seem uncomfortable.”

I looked into my lap, ashamed. He’d been so kind to take me in, the least I could do was try to be a proper young lady. It surely wasn’t right that I felt more comfortable wrapped in a threadbare quilt in my secret attic workshop than in his grand townhouse. The professor knew only a very limited account of what had happened to me over the past year, a mixture of half-truths and outright lies. I had told him that the previous autumn I’d stumbled upon my family’s former servant, Montgomery, who had told me that my father was alive and living in banishment on an island, to which he took me. I’d lied to the professor and said father was ill and passed away from tuberculosis. I had claimed that the disease had decimated the island’s native population and I’d fled, eventually making my way back to London.

I had said nothing of Father’s beast-men. Nothing of Father’s continued experimentation. Nothing of how I’d fallen in love with Montgomery and thought it returned, until he’d betrayed me. Nothing of Edward Prince, the castaway I’d felt a strange connection to, only to learn he was Father’s most successful experiment, a young man created from a handful of animal parts chemically transmuted using human blood. A boy who had loved me despite the secret he kept carefully hidden, that a darker half—a Beast—lived within his skin and took control of his body at times, murdering the other beast-men who had once been such gentle souls. Edward was dead now, his body consumed in the same fire that had eaten my father. That didn’t mean, however, that I’d ever managed to forget him.

By the time I looked up, I found the professor’s attention had strayed to his newspaper. I returned to my baked hen, stabbing it with my fork. Why hadn’t I seen Edward’s secret? Why had I been so naïve? My thoughts drifted to the past until the professor let out a little exclamation of surprise at something he read.

“Good lord, there’s been a murder.”

My fork hovered over my plate. “It must have been someone important to have been reported on the front page.”

“Indeed, and unfortunately, I knew the man. A Mr. Daniel Penderwick, solicitor for Queensbridge Bank.”

The name sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “Not a friend of yours, I hope.”

The professor seemed absorbed by the article. “A friend? No, I’d hardly call him a friend. Only an acquaintance, and a black one at that, though I’d never wish anything so terrible upon the man as murder. He was the bank solicitor who took away your family’s fortune all those years ago. Made a career of that dismal work.”

Uneasiness stirred at the mention of those darker times. “Have they caught his murderer?”

“No. It says here they’ve no suspects at all. He was found dead from knife wounds in Whitechapel, and the only clue is a flower left behind.” He gave me a keen glance above his spectacles, then folded the paper and tossed it to the side table. “Murder is hardly proper dinner conversation. Forgive me for mentioning it.”

I swallowed, still toying with the fork. The professor was always worried that whenever an unpleasant topic of conversation arose, I’d think of my father and be plagued by nightmares. He needn’t have worried. They plagued me regardless.

After all, I had helped kill Father.

When I looked up, the professor was studying me, the laugh lines around his eyes turned down for once. “If you ever need to discuss what happened while you were gone . . .” He shifted, nearly as uncomfortable with such conversations as me. “You know I knew your father well. If you need to resolve your feelings for him . . .” He sighed and rubbed his wrinkles.

I wanted to tell him how much I appreciated his efforts, but that he would never understand what had happened to me. No one would. I remembered it as if it had happened only moments ago. Father’s laboratory burning, him locked inside, the blood-red paint bubbling on the tin door. I feared he would escape the laboratory, leave the island and continue experimenting somewhere else. I’d had no choice but to open the door. A crack, that was all it had taken, to let Jaguar—one of my father’s creations—slip inside and slice him apart.

I smiled at the professor. “I’m fine. Really.”

“Elizabeth is better with this sort of thing. You’ll feel more comfortable with another woman in the house, someone to speak with freely. What would a wrinkled old man know about a girl’s feelings? You’re probably in love with some boy and wondering what earrings to wear to catch his eye.”

He was only teasing now, and it made me laugh. “You know me better than that.”

“Do I? Yes, I suppose I do.” He gave his off-balanced smile.

It wasn’t my way to be tender with people, but the professor was an old curmudgeon with a kind heart, and he’d done so much for me. Kept me from prison. Given me elegant clothes, kept me fed on French cuisine, and did his best to be the father figure I should have had.

On impulse I stood and went to his end of the table, where I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and kissed his balding head. He patted my arm a little awkwardly, not used to me showing such emotion.

“Thank you,” I said. “For all you’ve done for me.”

He cleared his throat a little awkwardly. “It’s been my pleasure, my dear,” he said.

After dinner I climbed the stairs, jumping again as the cuckoo clock sprung to life in the hallway. I considered ripping the loud-mouthed wooden bird out of its machinery, but the professor adored the old thing and patted the bird lovingly each night before bed. It was silly for him to be so sentimental over an old heirloom, but we all have our weaknesses.

I went to my room, where I locked the door and took out the silver fork I’d stolen from the dinner table, admiring the sharp tines. The professor had set up accounts at the finer stores in town for me to purchase what I required, but what I needed was paper money for my secret attic’s rent, for the equipment and ingredients for my serums, few of which came cheaply. Grafting roses only paid so much. I stared at the fork, regretting the need to steal from the man who’d given me a life again. But as I looked out the window at the dark sky and saw the snow falling in gentle flakes into the garden outside, flashing when hit by the lights of a passing carriage, I told myself I was desperate.

And desperation could lead a person to things one might never do otherwise.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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THREE

T
HAT NIGHT, LIKE MOST
nights, I lay in my big empty bed, staring at the ceiling, and trying desperately not to think about Montgomery.

It never worked.

When I had moved into the professor’s home, he had wallpapered my bedroom ceiling in a dusky pale rose print. As I lay in bed my eyes found hidden shapes among the soft buds, tracing patterns, remembering the boy who would never give me flowers again.

“He loves me,” I whispered to nothing and to no one, counting the petals. “He loves me not.”

When I’d been a girl of seven and he a boy of nine, he’d once accompanied us to our relatives’ country estate. One morning after Mother and Father had gotten in a terrible row, I’d found a small bouquet of Queen Anne’s lace on my dresser. I’d never had the courage to ask Montgomery if he’d left them. When Mother found the flowers, she tossed them out the window.

Weeds,
she had said.

Montgomery gave me flowers on the island years later, when we were no longer children, and he’d outgrown his shyness. He’d won my affection, but his betrayal had left my heart dashed against the rocks, broken and bleeding.

“He loves me, he loves me not,” I whispered. “He’ll forget me, he’ll forget me not. He’ll find me, he’ll find me not. . . .”

I sighed, letting the sounds of my whispers float up to the rose-colored wallpaper. I rolled over, burying my face in my pillow.

You must stop with such childish games,
I told myself, as the place beneath my left rib began to ache.