The Diabolical Miss Hyde (28 page)

Even Eliza don't want me. Night after night, I've struggled on alone. And here he is, swallowing their lies. Believing he don't deserve to live.

Crack!
My palm stings. I've hit him. He don't recoil.

Enraged, I hit him again. My nails rake angry marks across his cheek. “Don't look at me like that. You got no right. I'm here, don't you get it? Don't you
dare
shrink away from me.” And I grab his curly hair in both hands, and my muscles burn to slam his head into the floor, but somehow his scent fills my nose and the lure of his strangeness drums fever into my blood, and I yank him to me and our mouths collide.

His teeth slice my lip. The shock tastes like blood and tears. He's rigid, disbelieving. I open my mouth, murmuring with no words, and something in him
melts
and he kisses me back. Rough, raw, hungry, that dark shadow-born thirst. Only I can understand. Only I can know. I'm a bad woman, right enough, only he's a bad man, too, a monster just like me, and it ain't the badness that's quivering him wild.

He's afeared he
likes
being bad.

He yanks my hat from its pins. My hair tumbles. I push him down and climb onto him in a pile of ripped red skirts.
His body is hard under my palms, perfectly remade, and my mouth waters. I want to taste him,
eat
him, see how it feels to be
known
. I lick his throat, he's salty on my tongue, taut in my teeth, and the sound he makes—half-purr, half-growl—makes me shudder and gasp and thank Christ he's already naked because I don't think I can wait for this. I fumble under my skirts. His thighs are slick between mine, his flesh hard and insistent. He feels nice in my hand, all smooth and burning, and I ease into the right place and push.

Oh, my. I push more, and the hot gladness eases deeper, tingles of starlight that I know are only the beginning. I move, and he moves with me, and for once I ain't drunk or stupid on laudanum and my every sense is singing.

His beauty stabs me breathless. Such perfect skin, such rich golden-brown hair. So blue, his eyes. So clear and stripped bare of pretense, my heart quails. I feel small and scared, as if I'm in the wrong place. As if this should be
her,
not me. As if it's her he really wants.

He pulls me down, kissing me, locking his fingers in my flowing hair. He makes love to me urgently, with purpose, seeking my pleasure, and I groan and let it take me. I can feel
her
stirring, awakening, and rebellion sparks fresh fever in my blood. Get lost, you hear me? Go away. This is mine.
He's
mine.

And it must be true, because what we're doing don't take long but it's sweet, so sweet. I shudder and gasp, fireworks falling, and it must be true, because nothing she can imagine could feel this good. It must be true, because as he finishes, his lips bruise my face and his fingers tighten in my hair and the name he whispers into my mouth is mine.

T
HE CRYSTAL PALACE GLINTED IN MORNING SUN, A
vast oblong structure of glass and steel, its arched gables soaring to the sky. Eliza hurried from the railway station tunnel and along the paved path across the park. She'd missed the early train and was running late again—this time for Dr. Percival's electrical demonstration, where she'd promised to meet William Sinclair.

Here on the city's outskirts, the air stank less of coal smoke and human waste, and more of green grass and sunshine. A few ladies and gentlemen strolled between elms and oaks in the grassy park, frilled parasols flittering in the breeze. One young lady in a blue crinoline led a pair of spaniels, while her servant wheeled a baby's pram.

Eliza quickened her step, inspecting the graying horizon for rain. She hadn't yet had time to visit Marcellus and retrieve Hippocrates, who according to Finch's telegraph had turned up at the pharmacy a few minutes after her abduction, yammering about heads in bags and strange men and
does not compute
. And she'd dropped her doctor's bag in the street, and it was lost. Her medicines for lunatics. Her precious optical,
irreplaceable. All surely stolen or scavenged by now. She'd never get them back.

Without them, and without poor hysterical Hipp, she felt nervous. Exposed. Unclothed.

Her cheeks flushed guiltily. She hadn't slept last night—Lizzie had held on until dawn, whereupon she'd wandered dreamily along Oxford Street until Eliza had fought to the surface and hurried home, trying to hide ruined red skirts under her cloak. Not an ideal morning.

On the train to Crystal Palace Station, the carriage had been warm and stifling, the rocking motion soporific, and Eliza had dropped into an exhausted stupor. Her dreams were . . . troubling, to say the least. And now she tingled all over, hypersensitive, as if she were coming down with a chill.

She knew what Lizzie had seen. What she'd done.

She'd felt everything, distantly, as if she peered through fogged glass at her own ghost. And like an accidental murderess, staring in horror at the blood dripping from her hands, it was too late to take it back.

The thing was done.

Her stomach churned. How could she ever face Lafayette again? How could she face her friends? She'd acted abominably. It was enough to ruin a woman for life.

But no one will ever know.

The dark whisper tickled inside her, tempting her to further sin. How could anyone know? No one had seen her. No one had watched her climb onto a naked, bleeding man in the filthy straw of an animal's cage and indulge her darkest needs . . .

Inside the Palace, conservatory gardens rambled, a mass of
overhanging leaves and exotic, brightly colored blooms. Statuary was dotted throughout, white marble cherubs and fountains and mock Egyptian ruins. The sun-warmed atmosphere made her sweat, the scents of tropical flowers cloying. Surely, her face was the shade of tomatoes. Someone would see, make some remark, humiliate her in front of everyone . . .

But the door attendant said nothing, only glanced at her, uninterested.

She paid her shilling and briskly straightened her dove-gray skirts. Ridiculous. No one could see. People did worse than this all the time, and it wasn't written across their faces. If she'd learned anything while assisting the police, it was that criminals looked just like everyone else, only happier.

But was she happy? Or disgusted? Mortified?

She hurried through the maze of garden paths, where butterflies flapped their rainbow wings and fat frogs croaked on shiny green lily pads. At the end lay a small amphitheater with steeply raked bench seats, similar to the operating theaters she'd attended during her medical studies. A crowd had gathered for the demonstration, mostly shabby students, plus a few fashionable ladies eager for titillation. Dr. Percival was popular, and few empty seats remained.

Amongst the crowd, no doubt, government agents lurked in disguise, ready to descend if the meeting grew too large or unruly. Any meeting larger than fifty souls was illegal. Royal Society agents, too, poised to arrest Percival if he showed the slightest deviation from orthodox science. She shivered, recalling the Philosopher's empty smile, his unveiled threats.
Alongside every misbegotten wretch who's ever had the ill fortune to
be your friend . . .
And then he'd let her finish her tea and go. Just like that.

But the mean old man expected her cooperation. That was clear. Give him A.R., and soon, or . . . well, she didn't doubt the Philosopher's power to ruin her with a wave of his bony finger.

Her stomach squeezed tight, a horrid sensation like crunching glass. What to do? How could she betray the guardian who'd been so kind to her? How would she even find him, let alone learn his plans?
Stick your pretty nose into my affairs, princess, and I'll make you wish you'd never been born . . .

To complicate matters, she still had investigations to make. Inspector Griffin's men were hunting Geordie Kelly for the Chopper murders. Harley was fair minded, not one to hang accusations on an innocent man. But once a suspect was in police custody, the evidence tended to stack up. And she knew that the Commissioner—that stuffy old cigar-chuffing gentleman who'd adopted Harley as his latest
protégé,
but only as far as Harley's success lasted and not for one moment longer—the Commissioner and his conservative Home Office paymasters would demand a quick result.

But there was more to this case than a lovesick simpleton. She was certain of it. And it wasn't just the piles of electrical detritus.

Shamefully unscientific, she knew. But somehow—and was it Lizzie's dark whispers, the intuition of a woman sly in street ways and half a criminal herself when it suited her?—Geordie Kelly just didn't
feel
right.

The demonstration was about to begin. Percival and his assistant were on the stage, fiddling with wires and arrays of electrical equipment. Eliza spied William Sinclair by the
entrance, his hat in his hands, and hurried over. “Will, I'm so sorry to be late.”

Will's face brightened. He wore a clean brown suit, and he'd scrubbed his Bethlem-scarred hands until the fingernails gleamed. “Eliza. I'm so pleased. You look radiant.”

Like a harlot,
her mind added, and she flushed again. “Oh. Thank you. Listen, Will, I've been meaning to talk to you about—”

“Ah-
choo!
” Will sneezed wetly, covering his nose. He had a bruise under one eye, another relic of Bethlem. “Ah,” he said indistinctly. “Sorry. The flowers, you know.”

“Bless you. I trust you don't have a chill.”

“It's nothing. Just the garden . . . What?” He'd seen her expression. “Oh. I ran into an old friend a moment ago. I hope you don't mind if he accompanies us. May I introduce—”

“The Doyen of Dreadful himself.” Eliza smiled coolly, but her heart sank. “Mr. Matthew Temple. What an enchanting surprise.”

Temple grinned his pointy-chinned grin, cracking dimples like a goblin's. “Dr. Jekyll, how serendipitous. Did you read my latest pamphlet? You're in it.
Slaughter at the Egyptian! A Tale of Magical Murder
!
”

“No, Mr. Temple, I did not. I daresay I shan't, either.”

“Oh, come,” said the writer easily. Despite his glaring orange waistcoat and necktie, his dark morning coat made him look almost respectable. Even if his hair did still stick up like a porcupine's needles. “It's a fantastic tale. The Chopper strikes again! Suspense! Mystery! Just the right amount of gore!”

“Bloodthirsty as ever. Did you ever consider publishing some responsible news?”

“One writes to an audience. If I make it boring, no one will read it. And even a sensational report is better than these poor women's deaths going unnoticed. Don't you agree?”

His sentiment surprised her. “Quite. I never imagined you cared.”

“I'd say there's plenty about me you've never imagined, Doctor.” Temple winked. “I'll even send you a free copy, since you're such a devoted fan.”

“Would you? Truly, sir, I'm all aflutter.” She fanned herself mockingly. But her tight muscles eased a little. She was anxious about spending time alone with Will. Surely, if he had romantic intentions, he'd never have asked Temple to stay . . .

Temple just laughed, good-natured. He had lively eyes. “The day I set
your
heart aflutter, I'll give up publishing for good.”

“Heaven forbid.” Will sneezed again and wiped his nose on a huge white handkerchief. “Are you two already acquainted? Small world, isn't it? Matthew and I attended classes together years ago.”

Eliza cocked her brows sardonically. “A medical student, Mr. Temple? Who knew you could be so useful?”

“A failed one, sadly.” Temple scratched his autumn-leaf hair, making it stick up even further, a gesture that would have been endearing if she'd liked him. “Never could figure a spleen from a gallbladder. Examinations
viva voce
were never my forte, either. I hold you educated folk in awe.” He winked. “Still, medicine's loss is literature's gain, eh?”

“And what a loss it's been,” she replied sweetly. At least he was making an effort to put work to one side for the day. “I believe the demonstration's about to start. Shall we take our seats?”

The three of them edged around the amphitheater to a vacant spot. The spectators fell into an expectant hush, and just as Eliza took her seat, Dr. Percival began.

“Animal electricity,” he announced. He was a tall old man with curling gray mustaches, dressed in a dark tailcoat and top hat. Beside him sat his electrical apparatus, a boxlike battery festooned with dials, levers, and glass-fronted needle gauges. His assistant, a young woman in a black dress, fiddled with a sheet-covered table.

“I'm sure many of you are familiar with Signor Galvani's work, animating frog's legs with electrical fluid,” Percival continued. “And the famous demonstration conducted by Signor Aldini on the hanged murderer, Forster.”

Percival went on to describe that particular experiment, in which electricity had been applied to a cadaver, with famously grotesque results. The dead man's face had contorted dreadfully, and horrid sounds had issued from his mouth. People had fainted in the theater. One audience member even died of shock, believing the corpse had come alive.

Eliza glanced at Temple, expecting him to look bored. But the writer watched Percival intently, absorbed. He wasn't scribbling notes. He didn't even have his recorder with him.

A science fan? To be fair, she didn't really know the man or his interests, outside lurid crime reporting and asking annoying questions. But she couldn't help the squirming suspicion that he'd known she'd be here.

Had Will mentioned her to his old friend? Had Temple attended with the intention of . . . what? Ambushing her with gruesome questions, as usual? Ingratiating himself into her good opinion?