Cold Stone and Ivy (17 page)

“We were twins. Which explains the likeness to Remy, I expect. Ren was much the same. Very intense and self-controlled. He was exceptionally clever as well, just like Remy. He could figure anything out. Would run rings around the servants and rob ’em blind. If Ren wanted something, Ren would get it, come hell or high water. Money, land, horses, it didn’t matter. He always got what he wanted.”

He paused, took a long drag of the cigarette, let it roll in his mouth before exhaling.

“One day, he set his sights on Jane.”

She smiled now. “Jane. Their mother?”

“The prettiest girl in all Lancashire. Blonde, like Sebastien. The sweetest, fairest flower in a wildflower meadow.”

His words trailed off, and he stared into the fire, a sad smile on his face. Ivy watched him with new eyes now, wondering how Christien would look confessing the name of the woman he loved.

“Forgive me for asking, sir, but . . .”

“You want to know how they died?”

“Yes, sir. I believe I do.”

He studied her for a long moment, blew a stream of smoke out through tight lips.

“Violently, skirt. They died violently.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Of course you did. It’s a way of living for you, isn’t it? A vicarious adventure. Simply another line in someone else’s story.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I would expect nothing less from an East Ender like yourself.” He raised his cup, almost a toast. “A skirt needs some skills to survive in this world unless she has beauty, and God knows you have little of that.”

She took another sip of the coffee, marvelled now as the bitter taste had suddenly found a home on her tongue.

“So you raised them both then, after their parents died?”

“I raised Remy. Laury spent most of his time away.”

“Away?”

“At Lonsdale.”

It took a moment, but only a moment. She sat quietly as his words began to sink in.

No Czech machine-man should be experimenting on any Englishman . . .

“Is he a good doctor, this Dr. Frankow?”

Rupert snorted, flicked the cigarette into the fire, and reached for his paper.

“You’ve heard the rumours.”

“I have.”

“They’re all true.”

“What?” She sat up. “But I thought . . . but Christien said . . .”

“Oh stop fretting,” he grumbled. “I thought you were made of tougher stuff.”

“But my mother—”

“Is in capable hands. I don’t like Frankow and he doesn’t like me, but not many people like either of us, so it’s not surprising, is it? We both have a history and history is rarely pretty. Let’s end it there, shall we, little skirt? Women always bring such melodrama into the house. Can’t imagine what Remy was thinking, sending you here just because you found a bloody heart . . .”

And he snapped up the paper once more, bringing an end to the conversation.

The strange white-bearded man with the reticulating spectacles, the tap, clank, and hiss of his walking.

Look what he did to de Lacey . . .

She drew the blankets a little higher, suddenly very cold.

They sat that way for a very long time. Rupert would rise, nudge the fire with a long iron poker, sit back down again to read his paper. She sat, letting her coffee grow cold and thinking about the sadness that seemed to plague most families. She wondered if there was ever a family without its own particular grief.

And so she sat, lost in thought, when barking, bootfall, and the bellowing of voices rose from down the hall.

“No sir! No wet dogs in the ’ouse! The mop is only just fixed, and they’re leavin’ muck all over the floors.”

“But once they’ve dried by the fires, they won’t be wet anymore. I’m sure of it.”

It was Sebastien’s voice, and suddenly he emerged through the library’s double doors, a soggy package in his arms and a pack of wet dogs at his heels. He himself was drenched from head to toe and when he spun to face Cookie, the motion sent water spraying across the room.

“Do you have any more of the raspberry tarts?” he asked. “I would dearly love a raspberry tart for breakfast!”

“Raspberry tarts are for pudding, not breakfast.”

“Well, I missed the pudding last night, so I will have the tart now, then I will have pork at lunch, soup at dinner and eggs before bed.” And he smiled at her. “The entire day shall be backwards. Perhaps even Cookie will be sweet.”

Cookie scowled and swept her stony eyes across the room. Ivy swallowed, tried to sit up a little straighter, but it was no use. Cookie shook her head and flashed a glare at Rupert.

“You’re getting the ash all over the Turkish carpet again,” she growled.

Rupert glanced down, then back up. “I don’t know where that came from.”

She shook her head, turned back to her Lord. “Raspberry tart, is it?”

“And tea, please.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “And don’t forget the dogs.”

With a huff, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the library, six happy wet dogs in tow. Sebastien watched her go, creating a puddle from the rainwater dripping off him. He sighed and turned back into the room.

“Morning, Rupert, Miss Savage—
Oh!
Your hair . . .”

She felt the heat rush to her cheeks, reached a hand up to attempt to smooth things into place.

Rupert waved a hand. “She fell asleep on the window seat. Sit, Laury. Why the hell are you so wet? Were you out riding in all this?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I was.” Sebastien snagged a leather footstool and dragged it into the warmth of the fire. He peeled off his greatcoat, heavy with rainwater, and tossed it to the floor. Began to work on the buttons of his riding jacket next. “I got in just now.”

Rupert arched a brow. “From where, Laury?”

“Lancaster.” He tossed his jacket on the same pile, loosened the cravat at his throat, and began to mop his face with it. “I thought Christien was coming in on a commercial airship. I was hoping to meet him at the platform, but he wasn’t there.”

“Christien?” Ivy sat forward. “He said in a letter he’d come.”

“Well, he didn’t. His name was on the docket, so I waited for the next and then the next. Do you have any idea how many airships make the trip daily from London to Lancaster and back again?”

Ivy pouted. “I have no idea.”

“Neither do I. I waited for hours.”

Rupert was watching him with a strange look. “You rode to Lancaster last evening, spent the night on an airship platform, and then proceeded to ride back this morning?”

“Yes.” He smiled like the sun.

“Did this trip . . .
cost
us anything?”

“Nothing substantial, Uncle.”

“Hmph. And Gus?”

“In his stall at this very moment, sleeping on soft sweet straw, with a belly full of mash.”

“That’s a long ride.” Rupert scowled. “You had better check him in a few hours.”

“I will. Surely.” He looked at Ivy and smiled again. His eyes were brown, she realized. Most definitely brown, and she wondered why she could ever have thought otherwise. At this moment, he was as different from Christien as the sun from the moon. “I have something for you.”

“For . . . for me?”

He reached down, grabbed the package that was as soaked as he was. Passed it into her waiting hands.

“I figured if I couldn’t bring you Christien, I would bring you something else. Something more practical although considerably less romantic.”

“I’m not a romantic girl,” she said.

Rupert snorted and rolled his eyes.

“But thank you.” She turned the package over in her hands. “I don’t know what to say . . .”

“Well, open it and see what comes.”

The strings were tight with dampness, and she needed to work them over the wrapping in one long, knotted twist. The paper unfurled of its own accord, opening to a bolt of tan cloth.

She glanced up at him. “I don’t understand?”

“No, no.” He leaned forward. “Take them out. Take them out.”

She did, lifting the fabric high to reveal legs, like the paper cut-out dolls she had made as a child. Trousers, in fact, but slim-fitting trousers, with what appeared to be suede leather inseams and a brass button at each ankle.

“Breeches!” she exclaimed. “You found breeches! Are they fitted?”

“They’re boys’, actually. I couldn’t find breeches made for women. Perhaps they don’t make them. Honestly, I don’t see why you all prefer skirts. At any rate, I had to guess at your size. I do hope you don’t mind.”

She beamed at him. “I don’t mind at all. I think they’re wonderful!”

Rupert rolled his eyes once more.

Penny Dreadful was frequently a wearer of fine-quality breeches. She was a trendsetter, although few women had the nerve to follow that trend.

Sebastien leaned forward. “I picked out a mare for you as well, a spirited little bay. I think you’ll like her. Her name is
Rouen Delfina d’Arc en Ciel.”

“And her stable name?”

“Rue.”

“Thank you ever so much.”

Lottie appeared at the door.

“Breakfast is ready,” she said, and she curtsied. “Tea and tarts, in Middling.”

BREAKFAST WAS, AS
requested, simply tea with raspberry tarts. It seemed almost decadent to have the sweets and nothing more, but Cookie had loaded the table with them, so they ate until Ivy was certain she would never eat another raspberry tart again in her life. Rupert had disappeared immediately afterward, apparently to attend to some financial matters for the Barony. Cookie had disappeared, apparently to begin cooking the pork that was originally slated for dinner, and was now on the menu for lunch. Lottie had disappeared, apparently to steam the linens in the laundry. Davis had disappeared, apparently to the workshop where Cookie had projects awaiting him, and Ivy thought she had rarely seen her brother so happy.

The Mad Lord himself had simply disappeared.

And so, Ivy made it a point to wash, pin up her hair so as not to frighten any more gentlemen, and began to explore the other rooms of Lasingstoke. More specifically, to explore First.

She had only been there once after her disturbing interview with Dr. Frankow so now she took her time, admiring the construction of a dwelling well over a hundred years old. The ceilings were high and sculpted, the windows large, rectangular, and orderly. The walls were painted in creams and pinks, blues and greens, and it felt like an entirely different house than Second. Even today on the darkest of stormy days, First was lovely.

As she passed Sebastien’s office, she peered inside. It was empty. With a deep breath, she stepped into the room.

As disorganized as it had been the day before, she honestly couldn’t imagine doing any sort of work in a place like this. The letters from Victoria were gone from his desk and she marvelled. Of course, as a baron, he would have a seat in the House of Lords. She found it difficult to imagine him running Lasingstoke without Rupert or Cookie, let alone having a say in the running of the Empire of Steam.

Her eyes swept over the stacks of books, finding little of interest. Bound editions of
Peoples of the British Empire: a Census, The Manchester Birth Registry, A History of English Surnames,
and other similar titles made her yawn with boredom. Other books had more fanciful titles.
Spiritualism: The Next Age, An Illustrated Encyclopedia of Psychical Phenomena, The Ghost Club: Charter Members 1862–present,
to mention a few.
There were Bibles in various translations, some of them apparently very old, and other volumes of a similar nature, but differing languages. Books of faith, she reckoned, from distant lands.

Other titles were more disturbing.
Occultism: Seeing in the Dark
by Charles Livy.
Dancing with the Dead
by Ernst Stroud.
Angels and Daemons: A Clairvoyant’s Guide through the Seven Levels
, by Silistro. She shivered as she walked past. Perhaps there were some things about this man that she did not wish to know.

And then there were the papers. Newspapers and journals, tabloids and broadsheets. In fact, as she surveyed the room, she realized that of all the clutter in the room, by far the greatest was due to newspapers. Every horizontal surface had some form of newsprint, and not only the horizontal surfaces, for she noticed clippings posted to the far wall. In fact, she had originally thought it to be wallpaper. With a quick glance at the door, she slipped over to see what they were about.

Her chest began to tighten.

Whitechapel Horror,
read one headline.
London Startled Yet Again,
read another.
The Butcher of London
a third. Names were circled in ink, and she could make out a man’s handwriting and the words “At Seventh.” She frowned. Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols—At Seventh. Annie Chapman—At Seventh. But there were others.