Accursed (14 page)

In the beginning, he had tried to shirk the duty he and Tamara shared, and return to the normal life he had mapped out for himself. In time, though, he had come to realize that the responsibility could not be ignored. Evil was afoot in the world, and just as Maurice Swift had once chosen his nephew Ludlow, so had their grandfather chosen them to take up the fight. Now William looked on their commission with pride, and he knew that Tamara felt the same.

He sighed as his foot touched the last stair and he moved toward the kitchen. What a strange dichotomy their relationship had become. First he would discuss with Tamara his concerns about the things Oblis had said—the dread that had blossomed within him, even worse than the tremor that was always there in the demon’s presence. Then he would plead with her to forgo the tryst she had set with John Haversham for this evening. Sparks would fly, but there could be only one outcome. She simply
had
to listen to reason.

In the back of his mind, there lingered a third conversation he knew he could not escape. But there was no easy way to broach the subject of his invitation to the Algernon Club tomorrow night . . . an invitation that had not been extended to her. An ordinary girl would understand that it was a gentlemen’s club, and therefore off-limits to the fairer sex. But Tamara was no ordinary girl.

This
girl loved a good fight.

“Excuse me, Master William—”

Farris had stepped through a door from one of the side rooms, and his large, callused hands were anxiously twisting together. Since William still held the breakfast dish in his hands, Farris took it immediately.

“I’ll take this to the kitchen, sir.”

Yet he made no move to proceed. Instead he cleared his throat and stared down at his feet.

“What is it, Farris?”

“It’s something with the mistress, sir. She’s had some bad news, I’m afraid. She’s in a right state—”

The man was saved from having to explain further when the sitting room door swung violently open and Sophia emerged. Relief washed across her face when she saw him. William heard sobbing, and was momentarily confused, thinking it came from Sophia herself, that she might be unwell.

Then he realized his mistake, rushed to the door, and saw Tamara standing by the window. One hand covered her mouth, and her face was flushed with emotion.

“Tamara, what is it—” he began, rushing to her. She fell against him, and her whole body was shaking.

“It’s Helena, Will, she’s . . . she’s taken her own life.”

The words tumbled from Tamara’s lips. William stiffened, then he looked up at Sophia, who nodded, her eyes large and wide.

“But . . . that’s impossible,” William stammered. Helena had been a friend of Tamara’s from time immemorial.

“I’m afraid it is the truth. As much as I regret to give it credence.”

The voice was soft and masculine, with a hint of grief floating underneath the calm surface. William had been so overwhelmed by his sister’s agony that he hadn’t even noticed the presence of another in the room. Now he turned and saw the man whom he knew must be the courier of this horrid news. Helena’s half brother, Frederick Martin.

T
HE ATMOSPHERE IN
the sitting room did not feel real. Everything seemed transparent, as if shimmering in the morning light. Like a dream. Tamara put her hand to her own cheek. The feeling of soft skin under her fingertips wasn’t enough to pull her back to reality. Even if she had pinched herself, she didn’t think that it would have proved that this was the waking world.

When Frederick had first told her the news, she had refused to believe him. Her dear friend had absolutely no reason to take her own life, as far as Tamara knew. Helena lived in a world of her own creation, a place that was fueled with charcoal and paper and paint. What urgency could issue from that place, such that it would cause her to kill herself?

“I, myself, took dinner with her,” Frederick recounted. “She seemed . . . how should I phrase this? Out of sorts, not herself.” His words were low and melodious in her ear. It struck Tamara that his attitude was odd for someone who was dealing with so horrifying a discovery. Indeed, grief did strange things to people.

“It wasn’t until this morning,” Frederick continued, “that a passing charwoman found her body on the sidewalk below Father’s study. She must have thrown herself from one of the windows during the night—”

The door to the sitting room opened, and Martha came in bearing a tea tray and some sandwiches. Thus interrupted, Frederick waited until the maid had finished her duties and departed before continuing.

Tamara had placed herself in one of the armchairs, so that she could be alone. It also had the added comfort of smelling faintly like the tobacco her grandfather had loved to smoke in the evenings.

Oh, how she wished that her grandfather were here now. He would know exactly what to say to make her feel better. Tears pricked the inside of her eyes, but she blinked, defying them.

She looked to where Sophia and William had taken up residence on the love seat. She noted how closely they sat together.
Hypocrite,
she thought. He went on and on about her lack of propriety, but he refused to see how improperly he behaved with Sophia.
And she encourages it.
Even as Tamara watched, Sophia’s fingers snaked toward William’s, between the seat cushions.

Tamara gnawed her lower lip. She didn’t really care how her brother conducted himself, save that he held her to a different standard. It was more that she so disliked Sophia. And that this morning—just this morning—she so wished that she could have William to herself.

Helena was . . . she could scarcely credit it, but nor could she deny it . . . her dear friend was dead. Gone. Tamara wanted to sit with her brother and mourn. She didn’t feel like competing with Sophia for her brother’s attention.

Martha gave her a gentle nod, eyes full of concern. The pity that infused Martha’s gaze made Tamara’s heart hurt. She realized that Farris must have told their housekeeper the awful news.

When Martha had gone, Frederick once again took up his tale.

“I’ve sent a message to Father at Oxford. He and Mother will return as soon as it can be arranged, I expect.”

Tamara watched him closely now, as he spoke. There was grief in his voice, but his eyes . . . his eyes said something else. He was upset that Helena was gone, that much seemed clear, but there was something strange in his gaze. Something
wrong.

Granted, he and Helena weren’t as close as she and William, but most likely that was because they hadn’t spent as much time together. Still, she had sensed genuine affection between them.

What, then, was this?

Frederick stood to inherit everything upon his father’s death. Helena had her dowry, but that wouldn’t interfere with the bulk of the moneys.

Even so, suspicion lingered in her. There was an air about him that she could not dismiss. She was glad that her housecoat covered her arms so that Frederick could not see the goose bumps that rose instinctively in his presence.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that William’s gaze was fixed on her. Did he sense it, as well? She turned and raised an eyebrow, as if to ask that very question, and William replied with the slightest of nods.

So he felt it, too. This made Tamara even more nervous. She felt horribly underdressed in her housecoat. She grabbed the robe’s ties and pulled them taut around her middle.

Poor, sweet Helena. She did not deserve this death.

A shudder ran through her as she began to weep softly once more. Tamara wiped her tears away with the back of her hand, hoping no one would notice. Oddly, it was Sophia who offered her a handkerchief. She took the piece of dainty silk and dabbed at her eyes.

Something broke inside her then. She could barely see the room around her as tears clouded her vision into a muddled blur.

J
OHN HAVERSHAM STOOD
in his dressing gown, watching life pass by on Brook Street beneath his second-story window. He had decided that tea was best taken with a view. He had returned home fairly late the previous night, and wasn’t quite awake as he watched an older gentleman in a double-breasted frock coat try to navigate his way against the flow of pedestrian traffic. He wondered where the old man was going in such a hurry.

His observations were interrupted by entrance of his valet, Colin Thompson. Colin was in his early thirties, but carried himself like a man of much greater maturity. He rarely spoke, but when he did, John listened carefully. Colin was crafty and wise beyond his years, with a hint of Machiavelli in him. They met when he had come to John’s aid once during a bar brawl in Bowmore, and ever since he had been John’s man.

Colin was dressed in his signature black waistcoat. He eschewed color whenever possible, preferring the severity of black. Only if they were spending the evening by the docks would he stoop to put on clothing of dirty brown.

His light blond hair was shellacked to his egg-shaped head, and his blue eyes were rimmed with red, tired from the drunken evening they had shared the night before.

“I’ve made arrangements for a carriage to fetch Tamara Swift at her home this evening,” Colin said. His voice was low and even.

John nodded, pleased that everything was as it should be.

“Thank you, Colin.”

The valet bowed and left the room. John watched him go, then settled into the high-backed dressing table chair he had pulled over to the window and returned to his morning tea.

He had set up residence at Mivart’s less than a year before, but already he felt more at home in these accommodations than he ever had at his childhood residence in Edinburgh. In Scotland, he had lived under the rule of his overbearing father, Weatherly Haversham—a self-made entrepreneur who owned a dozen whiskey distilleries. Even at the University of Edinburgh—where he had studied the classics—his father’s notoriety had made it impossible for him to exist on his own terms.

Then, after university, just when he had thought himself free of his father’s rule, he had foolishly allowed himself to be railroaded into running one of the man’s floundering distilleries on Islay. Five years later, when the establishment was finally turning a profit, he had left Scotland, a husk of his former self, hungry for independence and the chance to write.

He had realized then that in all his life, he had never truly been himself. When he sought his fortune in London, it had opened his mind and soul, finally allowing him to be free. There was no one here to tell him what to do, and that suited him very well, indeed.

The rooms he kept weren’t extensive, but they were quite comfortable, even for a man who had been raised as a child of privilege. He took such pleasure in maintaining his own lodgings that sometimes he found himself staying inside until late in the afternoon, using the hours to write extensively, then leaving only to dine at Hancock’s on Rupert Street. Or, on special occasions, dressing down his appearance and his accent enough to pass as a working Scot at the Highland Mary.

There, he would take off his shirt and pull a few bloody noses, just for the love of sparring and the free whiskey his skill brought him.

Boxing was a love he had acquired at university, but it was only while in Bowmore that he realized what an asset he possessed. In the public houses of the small Scottish village at the head of the Loch Indaal, he had honed his skill, using his hands to butcher flesh with a beauty and grace that won him many an admirer—male
and
female.

John had found that, once they knew what he was capable of doing, the men who worked under him respected him, and did what he asked. He was able to win their allegiance in a way that his fortune could never have accomplished. This was a whole new world for him, far from the one in which he had been raised, and he found that he liked the coarseness of the working class, their drunken embellishments and homespun kindnesses, far more than the pretensions of the upper classes.

Tomorrow night, if all went as he intended, he would put on his rough clothes, and he and Colin would go out to the Isle of Dogs, looking to fight. It would be a reward he gave himself for all the hard work he had put into negotiating this evening’s outing with Tamara Swift.