Tarnished (14 page)

The boy could have been killed by a rival gang. There were many below the drift, each fighting for territory or wealth or recruits.

But I remembered his fighter’s eyes, earnest and crafty. That boy had been younger than Levi, I was sure of it. Clever and cocksure, but still just flesh.

I rubbed at my face, taking the time to let my limbs rest.

I’d learned two things tonight. One, not a soul knew about the death of the sweets, or else that would have been all the den would have talked about. Nothing got the blood surging like murder.

Two, the name of the professor who inconvenienced me was Woolsey.

But I could deduce a third: according to the rumors, that professor dealt in body parts, and Zylphia said those sweets had been missing organs.

There was nothing for it. I’d have to head home for the night and begin my investigations fresh. Without my original bounty. Without opium to sleep by.

My mood, bolstered as it had been, plummeted.

Chapter Eight

I
returned home, my thoughts swirling around and around. How would I locate this Woolsey? What clues did I have to go on?

Well, nothing, of course. Just missing organs and a professor that could be committing the crime.

How would I catch him?

I could pose as a prostitute, I supposed, but the odds of meeting the right man at the right time were slim enough. Besides, he seemed to be targeting sweets now.

Why?

Perhaps Hawke or the Karakash Veil had made an enemy of him? Perhaps one of the sweets had turned him down?

No. That seemed too simple for the brutality of the crimes. And it didn’t account for the two common doxies.

I got ready for bed on my own, washed the lampblack from my hair and studied the cards left for me on the nightstand. I didn’t usually receive any; such markers of social interest weren’t typically tossed my way but for a specific purpose.

There were two now.

I recognized my Lord Compton’s seal, and I picked it up as I slid into the bed. The card rasped against my sensitive fingertips, textured as good silk was textured. The sheets were cool to the touch; I blamed that when I shivered.

He’d left a note on the back, in simple, elegant writing.

I humbly beg your company on this matter.

I wondered if he’d left me the cards on his way below.

As the lantern flickered beside me, I reached over and found the second card—an invite, I realized as the bold script danced beneath the flame’s illumination.

A ball.
Another
ball. Lady Rutledge, I read as I skimmed the information. My eyebrows raised.

Lady Euphemia Rutledge was renowned for her library, and often entertained foreign dignitaries from various countries. She was a brilliant woman, and I had read many of her theories as reprinted in the periodicals that didn’t shy from a woman whose mind lent more to science than fashion or other delicacies.

I had always longed to meet her, but her society circles were so far adrift from mine.

I
had
heard, however, that the marchioness had no love for the lady. But that for some unknown reason, the widow was safely out of Marchioness Northampton’s vicious reach.

For that alone, I might consider going.

I tapped the card against my lips as I sank back into the softness of my pillows. If Betsy were here, she’d tell me that I was being foolish. Of course I’d have to go.

One didn’t spurn an invite from an earl.

“Unless,” I told the card in my hand, “such an invite is only designed to leave me once more cut at my lord’s whim.”

The thought stitched an icy knot in my stomach.

Then again . . .

A new thought unfurled. A mischievous thought, one trimmed in sudden sweetness of revenge. A picture of the earl rose in my mind, swathed in yellow fog and apologizing brusquely for a transgression not his. Ever so proper, my Lord Compton.

Even stepping into an opium den below the drift.

What would his lady mother say, I wondered?

But as I threw the card to the table, dimmed the lantern until the wick guttered out, I knew I’d never betray that secret. Not without some foolproof method to ensure my name was never dragged in alongside his.

A gentlemen could be excused his idiosyncrasies.

A lady would be packed off to an asylum or cast out below the drift.

Besides. We all had our secrets, didn’t we?

Some were simply more involved than others. Much,
much
more involved.

S
lam!

I was jarred awake from my nightmares, reaching for a weapon I didn’t have and ready to fight the ruffian that didn’t exist. Sweat clung to my skin, plastered my nightdress to my legs and breasts.

Booted feet echoed from somewhere in the house. Too rhythmic to be Booth’s. A guest?

An intruder?

I began to throw off the covers, intent on confronting the foolish criminal myself if need be, when the raucous cacophony of barking dogs halted me as surely as if I’d been bathed in ice. The noise echoed, as feral as if the animals making such a racket had risen from hell itself.

I sucked in a breath. A masculine voice slid through the floorboards, too muted to hear more than the deep rumble, and the noises stopped.

All at once, the energy of a sudden waking flipped to an icy sliver of fear winding down my back. Instinctively and without reason, I threw the covers over my head, huddling beneath them as I’d used to when I was a child.

Step-thunk.
The uneven rhythm of Booth’s footsteps preceded the other’s up the stairs, solid and defining. Booth murmured something. It was answered by the voice of a man I’d never grown to like.

Or to face.

For all my swagger, I’d once been much more of a terror in this house. At my worst, I’d left Fanny in tears and Mrs. Booth at her wits’ end. Yet it was Ashmore who frightened me into submission.

He was, in my memory, a large man, giant in stature, with features carved out of stone and hellfire in his eyes. Which were, of course, gleaming red.

My memory of years gone by has never been what it should be. Flights of fancy often intertwined with fact, but in Mr. Ashmore’s case, I was sure it was only a small stretch. I remember our initial meeting vaguely, and I am aware that it was not under the most cordial of circumstances. It had been a long night, and I was screaming at the top of my voice.

Wracked with illness, with pains through my body and head, I couldn’t sleep without nightmares and the fevers kept me restless and angry. I was frightened, above all. I wanted the opium that I’d been given all my young life, and couldn’t understand why my new keepers would not allow me the salve.

I did not know Mr. Ashmore was home, and when he burst into the room my governess locked me into, I had no time to realize anything but that there was a demon presence over my bed and a hard hand at my mouth. He bent over me, growled something low and demanding.

Likely, that I would be silent.

There must have been more. I would never simply acquiesce to such brutality, but I no longer recall. There was only an empty void behind that memory. A suggestion of fear, of something terrible. Some certain knowledge of evil, I was sure, but I had no real recollection. I awoke the next morning, snug in my bed and certain that I’d escaped the gates of hell itself.

When he was home, I hid. Unreasonable as my fear seemed by day, it persevered.

Now, as I lay staring into the darkness beneath my bedclothes, that same weight of presence hovered just outside my door. A curious snuffling echoed too loudly in my ears; I stuffed the edge of my coverlet into my mouth before I made a noise. My heart pounded as the door thudded softly, as if something tested its solid weight.

Had I locked it?

I couldn’t recall, and as my mind painted a picture of a large, perhaps clawed hand reaching for the latch, I balled my fists up into the blanket and pulled it tighter around my shaking body. Icy sweat drenched me.

I was a ward of the devil. I was sure of it.

Suddenly, that low voice murmured a sharp command. The door creaked, the snuffling stopped, becoming instead padded thumps that faded away down the hall.

Slowly, quietly, that presence eased away.

The dark closed in again, silent and thick. Now and again, I heard a muffled whisper from the small room Mr. Ashmore claimed as his own when he visited. Booth’s polished murmur rose and fell in small bursts, and I suspected that as much as I loved the butler, he was informing my demonic guardian everything he knew I’d been up to in his absence.

I wasn’t so foolish as to assume there were no spies in my house. Someone had to keep Mr. Ashmore informed, and the Booths had made no secret of their loyalty.

I eased from beneath the cover, poking my head out. I half expected it to be bitten off by some hovering creature in the dark. A thing with horns and leathery wings.

When only the usual patterns of my bedroom greeted me, I let out a silent sigh of relief.

If Mr. Ashmore stayed true to form, he would sleep nearly through the day to make up for his late arrival, and I’d be gone when he rose to leave again. In his wake, there’d be a new trinket or bit of foreign décor from across the world.

But my hand shook as I reached for the decanter upon my nightstand. As slowly as I could, desperate to keep the crystal stopper from clinking, I plucked the cap loose and held it clenched in one fist. I dared not set it down. It might make noise.

Alert the dogs, if not their master.

To . . . what?
I silently scoffed. Would he tear down my door? Slither inside and ravish me in my sleep?

Bollocks. He’d left me well enough alone since the one and only time he’d ever set foot in my presence.

But even as I thought it, I tilted the decanter to my lips and drank the rest of the ruby liquid inside. Let Betsy click her tongue and report its vanishing to Fanny, this was life or death.

The laudanum ran a long, warm line along my throat, into my stomach. The burn was welcome. It signified sleep. Blessed, peaceful sleep.

And yet, even with the laudanum, it seemed a long time in coming.

Chapter Nine

I
awoke with the awareness of pain dancing around inside my head. My mouth was dry, my body aching as I untangled it from the twisted snarl it had gotten itself into while I’d slept.

I reached over and pulled the rope to summon Betsy.

She arrived as I stretched, uncharacteristically quiet. Without fuss, I was bathed and dressed, my hair gathered into two separate braids and then pinned high atop my head in artful twists. The dress she’d chosen was striped poplin, peacock blue and white, with a typical froth of lace at the short, tight sleeves and trimmed all over with the same blue.

It was cheerful, crisp and light.

As she affixed a small bit of cerulean netting to my hair, allowing it to poof upwards in a fashionable net flower, I caught her hand. “Are you all right?”

“Just fine,” she said, and flashed me a smile. “Tired, miss.”

Guilt swamped me. Had I been working my friend too hard?

“Off you go, then,” she added, and I had no chance to answer before she bustled me out the door.

Arriving at the breakfast table, I saw Fanny as usual, but no sign of my mysterious guardian. Mrs. Booth hummed gaily as she carried in the tray. “Good morning, miss.”

I knew what made her so happy. She adored her employer, for reasons I couldn’t fathom. I grimaced. “Is that what this is?”

Fanny looked up from her tea. “Cherry,” she warned in dangerously dulcet tones.

Booth entered behind me, the paper tucked under his arm.

I slid into my customary seat. “Will we be foregoing the pleasure of my guardian’s company, then?” I asked, obediently injecting my voice with bright cheer.

“Sir had a rather long trip and a terribly late night,” Booth informed me. He set the paper down beside my plate, and I smiled up at him. “I imagine he’ll be abed for most of the day.”

“Lazy,” I observed, smothering my mischief against the rim of my teacup. The brew was strong, just as I liked it, and lacking in all but two lumps of sugar.

“Cherry.” Fanny sighed again.

“Well, we shan’t be waiting on his presence,” I said briskly as I reached for my toast. “I’m eager to go out today.”

“Oh?” Fanny ate with delicacy. It gave her much more time to talk.

I needed my energy. Most of the time, she filled the silence as I filled my mouth and scanned the papers. I reached for the
London Times
, briefly meeting my chaperone’s gaze over the crisp paper. “What?” I asked.

She studied me thoughtfully, her ice blue eyes measuring. “Have you an agenda in mind, or are you simply eager to be out?”

“Nothing in mind,” I hedged, returning my attention to the articles. I skimmed through most quickly; reading had never been a difficult chore for me. “They say the
Ophelia
is skyworthy, now. Do you suppose we’ll go to the christening?”

“I don’t see why not,” Fanny answered, but she wasn’t so easily distracted. “You have no desire to greet Mr. Ashmore?”

I frowned. Of the many responses I could have said, I chose the lie with ease. “Booth said he’s exhausted. Why, would you awaken him to dance attendance on us?” I didn’t like to say his name, if I could help it. It might have been akin to summoning the devil.

I could just imagine the name sliding from my lips, a sinister green mist. It would sprout wings like something alive, flit upward, defying every attempt to catch it. Leading me on a haphazard chase around the house until it slid like poison into that dark hall. Beneath his dark door.

Into his dark, slumbering thoughts.

By the revealing light of day, my fear of the man seemed both ludicrous and something worthy of shame. In my logical assessment of my reaction to him, I believed that it was the man’s own fault. What
natural
man would ignore his ward so thoroughly, remain gone from his own home for so long and go years without so much as a by-your-leave?

I’d had nothing but time to make up all sorts of fancies as to his whereabouts and habits, and it was no fault of mine that they strayed toward the grim and dark.

I repressed a shudder, snapping the paper briskly. “I’d rather he rested. I’ll see him when he’s awake.”

Although I hoped not.

“Indeed,” Fanny said, but dubiously. “Well, there’s certainly the theater. I understand that Fidelia Larken is engaged for a fortnight.”

I enjoyed the theater. Or at least, I enjoyed the lighter events at the theater. I’d tried to stay awake during some of the more ponderous operas and generally succeeded only in learning how to doze sitting up.

“Perhaps we can go,” I suggested, finishing the article quickly. The Queen’s new flagship wouldn’t rest in the shipyard for long. If they remained true to form, she’d want the sky ship at the forefront of her navy right away. Rumor suggested she was quite the intimidating beast.

The
Ophelia
, of course. Not the Queen.

“The markets in Chelsea will be closing for the season soon,” Fanny continued thoughtfully. “You’ll want to visit once more, won’t you?”

“Mm.” My eye caught on an article. An advertisement, more like.

I could almost feel the ideas in my laudanum-soaked brain click into place. They fired up, one by one, like the pinging retort of an aether engine. “Here,” I said abruptly. “I want to go here.”

Fanny frowned. “What are you looking at?”

“Professor Elijah Woolsey is holding an exhibit at the Philosopher’s Square.” It was all I could do to keep the triumph from my voice. I lowered the paper, summoning my best, most innocuous smile, and added, “Can we go, Fanny? Please?”

She was nobody’s fool, my Fanny.

“And what is he presenting?” she asked shrewdly.

Mrs. Booth raised her eyebrows at me as she refilled Fanny’s teacup. I’d find no help there. She and her husband had read the paper long before I rose for the day.

Drat. “It’s a scientific exhibit,” I explained. I set the paper down, careful to make sure the article in question remained out of sight. “It involves electricity.”

“And?” she probed, her gaze firmly on mine.

I shifted in my chair. “It’s a study on the conductivity of dead tissue.”

It was as if I’d thrown a rotten rat at her feet. She and Mrs. Booth both grimaced, but it was Fanny who set her foot down. “Absolutely not. That is no fit place for a young lady.”

“It’s only the Square,” I replied, brow furrowing.

“It’s not the Square,” she returned, “although heaven knows that is bad enough. Any so-called exhibit involving dead anything is simply a circus act in thinly veiled disguise. No, Cherry. I will not allow it.”

I threw my unfinished toast back to my plate, my temper spiking. “It’s not as if I don’t know what a circus act is,” I snapped.

She winced. “And well I know it,” she replied sharply. “That is, to this day, one of my great burdens. However, that doesn’t mean you can continue to gallivant about as if you still”—her lip curled, aquiline nostrils flaring as if the very word singed her tongue—“
worked
for that scoundrel.”

Although Society didn’t know about my time between the Glasgow orphanage and London, my staff did. It was not gossip they relished getting out, and I wasn’t anybody’s fool. No good would come of anyone else knowing.

I sighed. “It’s not a circus,” I said, attempting for logic. “It’s a scientific hypothesis.”

“The answer is no, Cherry.”

“What is so damaging about science?”

“Aside from the proven fact that it engenders in the female mind acute hysteria,” Fanny said evenly, setting her own toast down with extreme precision, “you are talking about an exhibit of dead flesh.”

My eyes narrowed. “Science does
not
engender hysteria.”

“Your very behavior assures me—”

My palms flattened on the table, causing the china to rattle as I pushed up from my chair. It groaned as it slid across the wood floor, and Mrs. Booth winced.

I didn’t care.

“Science,” I said, very coolly, “is what will save this society from its own humors. Neither faith nor fantasy, it takes the very elements of this world and outlines them in ways that allow us to develop better tools with which to survive. This is, madam, an age of reason, you know.”

Fanny rose as well, her lips thinned. “You have no pressing need to survive. You are an unmarried lady, and your only need is to settle upon a suitable husband.
That
,” she said over my sharp intake of breath, “will guarantee your survival more than any tool or whim of electrical whatnot.”

I strode from the table. “Fine,” I bit off over my shoulder. My skirts rustled loudly as I seized them in both hands and darted into the hallway. “Then I’ll ask my guardian!”

“Miss, please,” Booth began, likely to entreat that I leave his sleeping employer alone. I darted past him, feeling a twinge of guilt as I knew he couldn’t hope to catch me on his bad leg.

“Cherry St. Croix!”

I glanced behind me as I took the stairs, saw Fanny bearing down on me as Booth attempted to redirect his near-hysterical wife. Fingers pointed at me; I didn’t care.

I was in high bloody spirits.

I usually was, after a day at the opium dens.

I strode down the hall, stopped just in front of the closed silent door of my guardian. I raised my hand as if to knock, held it theatrically as I glared at Fanny down the hall.

“Shall I?” I demanded, but even I lowered my voice to a near hiss lest I waken the demon in his bed.

Fanny splayed a long-fingered hand across her bosom, her features pale. “All right,” she gave in, so much quicker than I expected. “We shall go, just be silent, you wretched girl.”

I drew back my arm, as if ready to knock, and grinned fiercely at Fanny’s gasp. Then I lowered it, demurely gathered my skirts once more, and sauntered away from the door. “I’ll be ready to go immediately,” I said primly.

“You’ll finish your breakfast first,” my chaperone warned, and preceded me down the stairs.

As I stepped out of the hall, a low, threatening growl rippled from the closed door behind me.

Something wild and primeval scored nails of fear across my soul. Every fine hair on my nape rose, and though Fanny reached the stairs before me, I very nearly beat her to the ground floor.

My heart slammed. How close I’d dared to get to the demon.

With the safety of a whole floor between us, I allowed myself a smile.

My whim wasn’t entirely without reason, after all. Professor Elijah Woolsey was, obviously, the professor of rumor. He dealt in dead flesh. He needed samples.

The slain prostitutes had been found with missing organs.

And what better way to experiment on dead tissue than to get it from them that wouldn’t miss the loss?

T
he Philosopher’s Square was something of uncertain territory. Most of the peerage chose to ignore its presence, leaving it to the care of the academics and philosophers that filled its corners.

For a few years after the Great Exhibition, the Square had been popular enough with Society. For days on end, a curious mind could have found aether contraptions on every corner; a brilliant mind behind every door. Many was the scientist, thinker, educator and likely mad genius who bemoaned the trampling of academia by the delicately shod feet of popularity.

Like most fashionable impulses, the furor died and everyone else forgot the origin of such wonderful inventions as aether engines, hypotheses such as the long-distance transmissions of energy or the application of sound within the tiny structures of matter.

And, rather important, Professor Elijah’s current work, which could revolutionize modern medicine. Assuming, of course, that the man survived Menagerie justice long enough to complete it.

Even suspecting his role as I did, I could appreciate the relevance and magnitude of the exhibition’s experiments.

The Philosopher’s Square was less a square than a collection of squat warehouses on the wrong side of Society’s acceptance. Much of the city’s brilliant minds came here, to study or lecture or, rumor had it, steal the ideas and inventions from one another.

Somewhat soothing to Fanny’s sensibilities—and much to my relief—the Square was located in London’s West End, although still below the drift. Once upon a time, it had been the home to one of London’s great universities.

A fire had destroyed it, and the municipal decay of the lower city ensured the dean looked up to the heights for new ground. I’m told my father once held offices here. How ironic that he’d survived one fire to perish in another.

On days when they cared to make a go of it, there could be whole parties of education-minded ladies and gentlemen from above and below. Intermingling, to a certain extent, but only for as long as a tour ticket allowed.

Hardly, Fanny had said, a fitting place for a young lady. But fascinating nevertheless.

Fortunately, we could take the St. Croix gondola to the West End docks, and from there navigate ourselves below. As Booth rapped sharply on the box top, I reached across the small space and drew the shades specially designed to keep the worst of the fog from creeping inside.