Eve Silver (10 page)

“Taken?” Darcie croaked.

Sally nodded. “Each one had a piece missing. Except the old man. The first girl was slit open stem to stern, and her female insides were gone, if you know what I mean.”

Darcie felt the raw acid of horror claw up her throat. She had heard of the Whitechapel murders. Who could live on these streets and not hear of the killings? But she had never heard about body parts being taken, and the thought of it made her ill.

“They say he must be a doctor,” Sally continued. “All his cuts are clean and sure, like he knows what he's doing.”

For some inexplicable reason, Darcie thought of the two men and the heavy chest—the delivery she had witnessed when she had first arrived at the house on Curzon Street. Her gaze shot to the doctor's broad back. Looking up, he caught her staring at him. His eyes were bleak and cold, his expression chilly as ice-kissed granite.

He knows,
she thought. He knows something about those women. As quickly as the idea skittered across her mind, she thrust it aside, giving herself a mental shake. Oh, God! The terrible irony of it. She had no right to wonder what he knew, when she herself knew more than she should. The old man, the dead old man...Steppy.

“All done.” Damien finished winding the bandage around Sally's thigh. Excusing herself to go to the water closet, Sally rose unsteadily and limped from the bedroom, leaving them alone.

Darcie watched as Damien poured fresh water over his hands, and then worked the soap between his long, lean fingers. An inexplicable warmth washed over her, suffusing her limbs, warming even the breath of air she drew into her lungs. Unable to look away, she stared at Damien's hands, his strong, masculine hands, as he poured more water to rinse away the soap. She wondered what it would feel like to have those hands on
her
thigh, touching
her
skin. She could almost feel the glide of them, wet and slick with soap, moving over her in a silky caress.

Startled by the bizarre turn of her thoughts, Darcie jerked her head back, blinking rapidly as she tried to push away the image of Damien Cole's hands on her body.

There was something terribly wrong with her. How could she listen to the horrifying description of the Whitechapel murders in one instant and then lust for Damien's touch the next? For that was what it was. Lust. A desire to feel his hands on her, his lips on her, his body pressed to hers.

What depravity had overtaken her, that she would imagine this man taking liberties with her person? That she would find the image appealing? Darcie sank her teeth into her lower lip, frightened by the nature of her thoughts, alarmed that she would have such thoughts here, in this den of iniquity, where Sally had so recently sprawled nearly naked on the bed.

Ah, but perhaps that was her answer. Here in this place where life had soured and death waited somewhere in the alleyways outside the door...rules were different here.

Suddenly, Damien turned and met her gaze, as though he had sensed the vivid images that had passed through her thoughts. With slow, precise movements he rubbed his hands on a clean towel, drying them. Tension pulled at the sensual line of his mouth.

His eyes darkened, and he took a single step forward.
He is going to kiss me.
The thought pounded through Darcie’s brain, tantalizing her.

“Y-you were kind to c-care for her,” she stammered, desperate to break the frightening spell that wove about her senses like smoke curling from a flame.

“Was I?” His voice was rich and low. He tossed the towel on the table, his eyes never leaving hers.

Darcie held her breath, suspended in an agony of uncertainty. Unfamiliar emotions clawed at her. She opened her mouth to speak, to cry out in protest, or perhaps it was to beckon him nearer. She felt ashamed by her overwhelming attraction to him, appalled that she could feel such need here, in this place. Stunned by the intensity and rapidity of her reaction, she tried to sort out the disparity of these feelings against the backdrop of Mrs. Feather's house.

She heard the soft click of the door as Sally returned. Abruptly, Damien turned away, his mask in place once more. Gone was the heated regard, replaced by an expression of studied civility.

Darcie breathed a shallow sigh at the interruption. And as she watched Damien clean and pack away his surgical tools, she wondered:
If this is relief, why then does it feel so much like disappointment?

o0o

Hours later, Darcie sat cross-legged on her bed, running a brush through her dark hair. The day had been a long one, and the muscles of her lower back felt tired from the hours she had spent hunched over her sketchbook, drawing and redrawing her illustrations. “Mary, tell me about the maid who left.”

“Janie?” Mary asked, her voice hushed. “She just up and disappeared.”

“Where did she go?” Darcie began to plait her hair.

Mary shook her head and lowered her voice even further, as though afraid that the walls might have ears. “None of us knows. She was a nice girl. Her parents died of the pox, and her brother's wife wanted no part of her care. So she went into service. This house was her first place.” She looked nervously towards the closed bedroom door. “And maybe her last.”

Darcie raised her brows but made no comment on Mary's suspicions. In the weeks she had been at Curzon Street, she had come to know the other woman well enough to acknowledge her penchant for the melodramatic. “Were you friends?”

“We were friends. Like I said, she was a nice girl. Never talked much about her past, except to say that her brother's wife didn't 'ave much use for her. Still, I'd 'ave thought she'd at least take the time to say good-bye to me.” Mary pursed her lips. “Unless she never had the chance.”

She rose and crossed to the fire, using the poker to stir the glowing embers. A thoughtful frown creasing her brow, she turned back to face Darcie.

“You know, it was the day that she left that I found the bloody handkerchief I told you about. The doctor, he left before dawn that morning. I know because I heard a strange noise and went to the window to see what it was about.” Mary jutted her chin towards the small window above Darcie's bed.

As if in response to Mary's comments, the glass pane rattled and shook, buffeted by the wind. The two women exchanged a look as a jagged bolt of lightning sliced the darkness of the night sky.

“Storm's coming,” Mary whispered, her face a pale oval in the dimness of the room.

“I have no fear of storms,” Darcie said, thinking about the storms she had weathered, huddled in a doorway or a corner of an alley in Whitechapel. To face a bit of rain and thunder from the warmth of this chamber could hardly be viewed as a hardship. Returning to their earlier topic, she encouraged Mary to continue her story. “What did you see when you went to the window?”

“The noise drew me,” Mary responded. “Janie wasn't in her bed. I kneeled there and looked out. It was dark, the first light just creeping into the sky.” She paused, a faraway look in her eyes.

Darcie waited for Mary to gather her thoughts.

“It was strange,” Mary said, resting her forefinger against her chin as she spoke. “Two men were dragging a chest across the cobbles.”

Her interest snared by Mary’s description, Darcie sat up straighter. “Two men?”

“Mmmm. A tall, skinny one and a short fat one. I couldn't see their faces.”

Darcie’s pulse beat a little faster. “They were carrying a chest?”

“No.” Mary shook her head. “Not carrying. I think it was heavy. Looked to be, anyway, 'cause they were pushing at it and pulling on it, dragging it from the carriage house—”

“
From
the carriage house?” Darcie interrupted. When she had seen them, they'd been dragging the chest
to
the carriage house.

“Definitely from it,” Mary said. “I watched them till they were out of sight. Then I saw the doctor come out of the carriage house. I sneaked down the stairs and watched him go into his study.”

Leaning forward in anticipation, Darcie waited for Mary to finish the story, but her friend just sat on her bed, staring into space, her fingers splayed across her throat. There was something in her expression that made Darcie shiver.

“What happened then?”

Mary started at the sound of Darcie's voice, as though she had forgotten she was not alone. “He was there only a short time, Dr. Cole was, then he came out again, and I followed him down to the entry hall. Poole was nowhere in sight. The doctor let himself out, and I ran to watch him through the front window that looks out onto the road. You know the one.”

Darcie nodded.

“The doctor himself climbed up to the box and drove the carriage, no John Coachman in sight. It was that morning that I found the bloody handkerchief, tossed on the study floor beneath the desk,” she whispered, her voice tight. “And Janie never came back to bed. Not that night or any other. I never saw her again.”

“You can't mean that you think Janie was in the trunk? That Dr. Cole drove her away in the carriage?” Darcie exclaimed, running her palms up and down along her upper arms, vainly trying to vanquish the horrible chill that shot through her.

“I don't think anything.” Mary hugged herself and looked away. “All I knows is he was gone for a day and a night.”

“But you do think something!” Darcie exclaimed as any number of scenarios and denials clambered through her brain. “You cannot mean to imply that Dr. Cole perpetrated some evil upon the girl?”

Mary pressed her lips together.

“If you think it, why do you stay on here? Why not leave?” Darcie asked, though she knew the answer. It was not so easy to find a place. She knew that better than most. And if Mary left here without securing a character, her task would be that much more difficult. Still, if Mary truly believed Damien had done something terrible to Janie, how could she
not
leave? “Mary—”

“I've nothing more to say,” Mary cut her off. The window rattled wildly in its casing, caught in the fury of the burgeoning storm, and Mary's gaze darted frantically to the window and back.

“Mary, please—”

Mary shook her head, her eyes wide, the pupils dark, and Darcie read the panic in her gaze. Rain drummed against the roof and slashed at the window. Mary’s face was chalk pale, her lips bloodless. With a sigh, Darcie let the matter drop, unwilling to press her friend's fragile nerves any further. Clearly, she would get no more answers tonight.

In silence, the women slid beneath their coverlets. The day had been long and tiring, and Darcie’s lids felt heavy, her eyes gritty, and all that Mary had told her jumbled her thoughts. Rolling to her side, she closed her eyes and willed her breath to come slow and even, her mind to seek a calm place. But the lovely oblivion of sleep eluded her and she was left to toss restlessly about. The patter of the rain was steady. The howl of the wind found the chinks and cracks in the walls.

With a sigh, Darcie threw back the sheets and swung her legs over the side of the narrow bed. Taking up her shawl, she wrapped it around her shoulders, rose, and tiptoed to Mary's bedside. Despite her blatant fear of the storm, the other woman was fast asleep, curled on her side, her hands tucked under her cheek. Treading silently, Darcie slipped from the room.

A book, she thought. Surely Damien would have a book that she could read, something that would calm her and help her sleep. Perhaps a volume of poetry. He had told her that she might borrow anything that caught her fancy. With that in mind, she made her way in the direction of his study.

She took no candle. The way was familiar.

As Darcie rested her hand on the door handle, a soft tapping sound drifted upward from the lower floor, followed by the creaking of the stairs. Someone was coming. She slipped into the doctor's study, leaving the door open a crack, unwilling to come face to face with Poole at this late hour. Through the narrow opening she watched as a quiet shadow moved along the hallway.

Not Poole, she realized, for as the man passed the study doorway, she saw the golden strands of his hair. Damien. Her heart thudded as she watched him move past.

 He carried no candle, making his way sure-footed in the darkness, until he reached the end of the hallway. He paused, and then entered his bedroom.

Pushing the study door fully open, Darcie slipped from the room and moved soundlessly along the hall until she reached the end. She flattened herself against the wall. He had left the portal slightly ajar and a thin finger of light cut the darkness, spreading across the carpet that covered the floor of the hallway. Looking down, Darcie realized that the carpet was a dark, rich red. She had never before noticed that it resembled the color of dried blood. A shiver coursed through her body, and she wondered at the source of her unease. She had walked this hallway dozens of times. There was nothing sinister here. Yet, despite the fact that she repeated that thought to herself over and over again, she could not quite convince herself of its veracity.

She meant to walk past Damien’s door and ascend to her chamber, but as she hovered on the threshold, a movement from within caught her attention. Sidling closer, she found could look into Damien's bedroom without being observed. He stood with his back to her, staring into the fireplace, his shirt pulled from the waistband of his breeches and hanging loose from his broad shoulders to his hips.

Suddenly, he turned. Darcie froze, barely daring to breathe. He stood, his head cocked slightly to one side, his eyes fixed on the door.

Oh, please don't see me,
she thought with mortification. To be caught spying on him would be the worst humiliation. On the tail of that thought came the realization that her brief glimpse of Damien had been wrong somehow. There was something out of place….

Daring much, she leaned forward a bit more, breathing a faint sigh of relief when she saw that he was no longer looking her way. Her eyes traveled the length of him, pausing as she registered the source of her puzzlement. Damien's white lawn shirt hung open, revealing the skin of his chest, his abdomen. The front of the once-pristine garment was spattered with dark blotches, irreparably stained. He looked as though someone had thrown a bottle of ink at him, the marks spreading across the white cloth. Except, the stains were not the color of ink. They were the color of the hall carpet. The color of blood.