Heart of Brass (10 page)

A handkerchief appeared before her blurry gaze. She took it gratefully and wiped her eyes. Then, because it could not be ignored, she also blew her nose. Her spaniel, Beauregard, who had been sleeping on a nearby chair, looked up at the noise.

“Please don’t give it back,” came Alastair’s low, gravelly voice.

She laughed—not just because of the expression of mock horror on his face, but because Alastair always made her laugh. “I imagine there are scads of formerly distressed damsels across Europe who have one of these squirreled away in their lingerie drawers.”

“They are legion,” he replied drily. Then he grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the cabinet and poured her another glass. “Come, sit with me. Tell me everything.”

Arden tucked the damp linen into her sleeve and followed him to the sofa.

He did not attempt to hold her, which said more for his character than any daring rescue or dangerous intrigue he’d orchestrated on behalf of the Wardens. He was not one to take advantage of a situation—or put either of them at risk of doing something they’d both regret. He thought too much of her—and too much of himself.

She told him about waking up to find Lucas in her room the night of the murder at Hammond & Sons, and about the poppy in the carriage, and finally how she’d gone out for a bit of air that evening suspecting that he might come for her again. Hoping that he might. The only thing she didn’t tell him was about the kiss—not because she didn’t wish to hurt him, but because that was private.

When she finished, Arden found Alastair watching her with a deep frown on his lightly tanned face. “Mind control,” he muttered. “Christ Jesus.”

“You believe me?” How incredulous she sounded—pathetically so.

He nodded. “I don’t want to, but I’d be a fool to do otherwise. I’d rather suspect the Company of doing the impossible than dismiss the notion and end up buggered.”

Unlike Inspector Grant, Alastair did not apologize for his choice of words. Then again, he knew Arden could turn a coarse phrase when she wished.

“What do I do?” she asked.

“What do
we
do,” he corrected her, pouring a drink for himself as well. “I’m not about to let you go through this alone—Huntley either, for that matter.”

Her shoulders slumped with great relief. To have him believe her meant more than she could ever hope to articulate. “All right then, what are we going to do?”

“If he’s been sent here to kill you, he’s obviously going to try again to complete his mission. We will have to set a trap.”

A frown pulled at Arden’s brows. “He’s strong, Alastair. Unnaturally so. I think he could have snapped my neck with one hand. And he’s heavy—more so than a man his size ought to be.”

Her friend did not seem surprised by this. “They’ve undoubtedly augmented him, probably with internal armor and metal plating on some of his bones. We’ve had success with it recently on some of our own agents as well.”

With that statement the pair of them directed their attention at Alastair’s right hand. It looked relatively normal except for the scars. His hand had been crushed several years ago. Dr. Evelyn Stone operated, laboriously replacing and reinforcing his bones with metal—even the joints were delicate and complicated hinges. Arden knew this because she constructed those joints and assisted the smithy in forging the new bones. It had taken hours for Evie to work around the tendons and muscle, but the end result was that Alastair possessed a hand that was incredibly strong and dexterous.

“Isn’t the procedure dangerous?” she asked, even though she knew the answer.

He nodded. “If Huntley survived it, no wonder they altered his mind as well. They wouldn’t want to risk losing him—he’s too powerful a weapon.”

A human-automaton hybrid. Arden shuddered at the thought. She was all for the progression of science, but there were some things that seemed wrong—even to her. Saving Alastair’s hand was one thing, but filling a man full of metal in order to make him a more efficient warrior was quite another.

Arden raised her glass to her lips and drank. Soon her muscles would become wonderfully languid and she would go to bed, slipping into a dreamless sleep. “We’d better make certain it’s a good trap, then. If we fail it could end up costing both our lives.”

“Do you own a pistol?” he asked.

“You know I have several.”

“Keep one beside your bed—within easy reach. I’ll be by in the morning. I believe I know exactly how to capture our boy without harming him.”

Hope blossomed in Arden’s chest. She reached across the short distance between them and took Alastair’s scarred hand in her own. “Thank you.”

His fingers curled around hers. She watched as he swallowed, a frown marring his brow. “You do realize that if the Company has tampered with his mind he may not be the man you married. He may never be that man again.”

The truth was a hard and bitter lump in her throat. “I know.”

He squeezed her fingers, his gray gaze strangely vulnerable. “I want you to know that I’m here if ever you have need of me, no matter what the circumstances. Or the need.”

Oh
no
. No, after all these years don’t let him do this now. “Alastair—”

She swallowed the rest of her words as his mouth claimed hers. It was a passionate kiss—one that should have weakened her knees and dropped her drawers—but she felt nothing, nothing but the horrid guilt of wondering what she had ever done to win his regard.

He released her, a flush across the top of his high cheekbones, regret dimming his gaze. “I should apologize, but I won’t. If Huntley is back I know I’ll never have another chance to kiss you again. I couldn’t let the opportunity slip away.”

Arden opened her mouth, but the words got tangled up in her tongue and refused to come out.

“Not a word,” he said, rising to his feet. “We can pretend this never happened if you like, and I will do whatever you ask of me where your husband is concerned. He was my best friend and I will do everything in my power to reunite the two of you.”

“Why?” she demanded, finally finding her voice.

The twist of his lips could hardly be called a smile, for it was completely void of humor. “Because I love you, Arden. That’s why.” Then he turned on his heel and strode from the room, leaving her reaching for the bottle of whiskey.

Chapter 6

Arden had been asleep for a grand total of four hours when someone knocked on her door. Loudly.

“What?” she yelled, stomach and bed rolling as though on the open sea. Most people would swear to never drink again at this point. Arden knew better than to make such empty promises.

The door opened. In the predawn gloom her bleary eyes made out the silhouette of Mrs. Bird. The older woman was in her nightclothes and cap. “I’m terribly sorry, my lady, but there’s a gentleman here—”

Arden bolted upright, swallowing hard to keep her stomach where it ought to be. “Is he from the sanitorium?” Had her mother had another apoplexy, or worse?

The housekeeper’s expression could only be described as sympathetic—perhaps with a little indulgence tossed in. “No, ma’am. He says Inspector Grant sent him.”

Damn and blast. Another murder. “Tell him I will be down directly.”

The older woman nodded, then hesitated. “Do you…do you require any assistance, Lady Huntley?”

Arden’s lips twisted, her expression as unsteady and brittle as her constitution. “You’re a love, Mrs. Bird. Take yourself back to bed. I can look after myself.”

The housekeeper didn’t look as though she believed that last part, but she dipped a curtsy and left the room. Arden crawled out of bed and staggered to the wardrobe. She used her nightgown as a chemise and pulled a gown of thin russet suede over her head. It had a built-in corset that laced in the front. She didn’t bother with stockings, just shoved her feet into matching boots. Her head swam as she fumbled with the laces.

She had passed out with her hair up, so she didn’t have to tend to that. She was a little steadier on her feet as she walked to the door. She opened it to find Mrs. Bird on the other side holding a glass of cloudy liquid.

“Your tonic, my lady. I thought you might have a need.”

“You deserve a raise in wages, Mrs. Bird.”

The woman’s plump cheeks dimpled. “Indeed, ma’am. Drink up now.”

Arden took the glass and downed as much as she could in one swallow. It was foul stuff, but it worked.

Another long swallow. With a grimace, she handed the empty glass back to her housekeeper. “Thank you.”

“If I might be so bold, I worry about you, my lady.”

Arden stifled an unladylike belch and brought her hand up to clap the other woman’s shoulder. “I worry about me too, my dear Mrs. Bird. I will endeavor to alleviate both of our concerns in the future.”

Mrs. Bird didn’t look as though she believed that any more than Arden did. Arden took her carpetbag from where it sat beside the door and crossed the threshold.

Inspector Grant’s man waited for her in the hall at the bottom of the stairs. He removed his cap when he saw her. “Beg your pardon, Lady Huntley. Inspector Grant bade me to tell you he wouldn’t have sent for you at such an ungodly hour if he didn’t have need of you.”

“No need to apologize, sir. Let us not keep the inspector waiting any longer.” She took a cape from the closet and allowed the young man to place it around her shoulders before leaving the house.

The police carriage was horse-driven—real horses, not automaton. Good lord, it was going to take forever to get where they were going. At least she would be as sober as she was likely to get by the time they reached the scene.

Thankfully the officer sat up front with the driver, leaving Arden alone in the coach. She rested her head on the hard cushions and closed her eyes, letting the tonic do its work. By the time the ill-sprung, rickety vehicle hobbled to a full stop she was as much herself as she could be.

She didn’t wait for someone to open the door for her—it seemed such a silly thing given the circumstances. The steps weren’t equipped to automatically drop, so she gave them a nudge with her boot and then descended to the damp pavement.

It had begun to rain since she left the house—and this time Mrs. Bird hadn’t thought to make her take her umbrella. At least her cape would save her gown from ruin. She slipped the hood up over her head and trotted after the officer who guided her to where Inspector Grant waited. She had to dodge puddles already forming on the uneven cobblestones.

She didn’t know where she was exactly. Given the direction in which they’d traveled and the smell, she guessed they were near the docks. Daylight was a sliver of gray on the horizon, but already there was activity around a few of the warehouses. The workers and middle classes were coming to life just as the upper and lower levels of society were going to bed.

Or being yanked out of them whilst still somewhat inebriated, as the case might be.

“Lady Huntley,” the inspector said, doffing his hat. “My apologies for the hour, but we have a situation much like what we had at Hammond’s, and I need your expertise.”

Arden met his gaze from beneath her hood. “You want to know if it’s the same man.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She straightened her shoulders as rain pelted her back. Her cloak would be covered with dots of grime when it dried—the air down here was thick and sticky with coal dust, coal being a cheaper method of generating the heat needed to create steam than the gas and oil used in better neighborhoods. “You’d better take me to her then, Inspector Grant.” Her stomach recoiled at the thought, but duty took precedence over the fact that she’d felt compelled to drink herself stupid over Alastair’s kiss and declaration.

He led her to a narrow alley between two ancient buildings that seemed to have nothing more than spite holding them upright. There, on the worn stones, lay the body of a woman, already wet with her own blood. The rain and filth of the alley only served to spread the crimson stain throughout her clothing and skin.

It was not as bad as the girl at the factory, but bad enough. This woman—and she was just barely one at that—had been slit from belly to throat, her petticoats thrown up around her thighs.

Her stockings had been mended more times than Arden could count, and her petticoats—a dull gray beneath the faded, and too-short blue gown—were patched and frayed. Whatever sorrows and trials life had thrown her, poverty was not one Arden knew except by sight. It was a fact for which she was entirely grateful. How sad to have to sell oneself and still not have enough to purchase tooth powder or a bar of soap.

She crouched beside the body to get a better look, lifted the petticoats with one gloved hand, and saw a glint of thick moisture on the girl’s thigh. Men were so free with the stuff. She’d seen it all manner of surprising places and locales. How unfortunate that there wasn’t a way to trace the ejaculate to the man. They’d take care where they left it then.

“Did you rearrange her clothing, Inspector?” she asked, darting a quick glance at Grant.

He bobbed his head in a curt nod. “She may have been a dollymop, but she deserves a bit of dignity.”

“You dear man.” Obviously she was still a little drunk, but the compliment was deserved no matter how much it embarrassed either of them. “He used her then, before he killed her.”

“I hope it was before,” one of the younger officers commented.

Grant chastised the boy for speaking so in front of Arden, but she called him off. “I hope so, too,” she agreed, before turning her attention back to Grant. “Did Dr. Stone deduce that there had been sexual congress with the Lynbourne girl?”

The older man gave a curt nod, his sharp gaze on the young officer. The poor thing was going to get a serious talking-to later, Arden suspected.

“No wonder you asked for me. The murder is very similar to that at Hammond’s.”

“Except this poor thing was a far cry from a debutante,” Grant added.

“Indeed. Well, let’s find out, shall we?” She opened her bag and removed her gear.

“Excuse me, Inspector?” One of the officers stood at the entry to the alley. “We have a potential witness, sir. I thought you might like to speak to her.”