Heart of Brass (6 page)

The smaller man tilted his head thoughtfully, his gaze focused elsewhere. “Is that so? What sort of things?”

Five shrugged. “Little things—driving in the country, how to get to certain places. I think I might have been someone important, and married.”

The Doctor smiled, but there was little humor in it. “We all like to think of ourselves as someone important.”

“I’m not imagining things,” Five retorted somewhat defensively.

Now the smaller man met his gaze—directly and unflinching. “I didn’t say you were, but in a case such as yours, it is perhaps best to do a little investigative work before we tell ourselves you are regaining your memories. Now, in the chair, please.”

This time Five did as he was instructed. He sat down in the chair and tried not to drive his knuckles into the doctor’s scarred face as the man closed one, then the other shackle. He was now totally at the mercy of another. The realization brought a thin layer of sweat to the back of his neck.

“Any other concerns I should know about? Any idea why you were unable to achieve your objective last evening?”

He leaned his head back against the padded rest. “I had my hands around her throat and she woke up. She said…” He frowned, not wanting to give the name away. “She spoke as though she knew me. I felt as though I might have known her too.”

“But that is impossible,” the Doctor argued, piercing the skin of Five’s arm with a needle. Five watched as the plunger was depressed, releasing God-only-knew what into his blood. “She is a countess, and there is no way a man such as you would have ever known a woman of her social stature.”

That was true, but it didn’t change that she had known him. “It threw me off-kilter. I was told to retreat, and so I did.” He looked down at his shackled wrists as he spoke, unable to look the other man in the eye as he lied. He had run because she scared the hell out of him, not because he had been told to.

The world tilted slightly. Five blinked as the floor seemed to sway beneath him. Christ, what was in that syringe? He opened his mouth to ask, but his tongue refused to work.

“She won’t be able to discombobulate you so easily next time. Close your eyes please. You might feel a slight discomfort—”

The rest of what the Doctor said was lost as white-hot pain lanced through Five’s mind. It was as though someone had literally set lightning loose in his head, so bright was the flash. His body arched, limbs straining against the restraints as his brain burned. His own cries echoed in his ears, reverberating throughout the room.

Writhing, Five fought as the pain intensified. It felt like needles of ice piercing his brain, as though his mind was a collection of butterflies being pinned for exhibition.

Again and again the needles stabbed until he couldn’t take anymore. The pain and the drug finally took their toll and he faded into sweet, welcoming darkness.

When he woke, the Doctor was sitting on a stool by the table not far away, watching him and sipping a cup of tea.

“How long was I asleep?” he asked.

“Not long.”

He tested the shackles. He could snap them if he wanted. “May I leave now?” He didn’t like the Doctor. He didn’t know why, but the man made his flesh creep.

“In a moment.” The Doctor set his cup on a saucer and rose to his feet. “I want to ask you a few questions first, just to make certain you are feeling better.”

“Better?” He scowled. “Was I sick?”

“A little,” the small man replied, clasping his hands behind his back. “What is your name?”

“Number Five,” he replied with a scoff. Did the man really think he wouldn’t remember who he was?

“Have you ever been to London before?”

“No.”

“Has anything you’ve seen here seemed familiar to you?”

“No.” He’d only been in town for…a day? Or was it two? And seeing the sights hadn’t been high on his agenda. “Are we finished?”

The Doctor made no move to unlock the shackles. “Almost. What is your mission while here in London?”

“To hunt down the woman who murdered Victor Erlich three years ago.”

“Arden Grey, Lady Huntley.” The smaller man’s eyes narrowed, as though looking for some kind of reaction, and then widened again. “What are your orders when you find her?”

Five looked up, a slow smile of anticipation curving his lips. “To kill her.”

The murdered girl was identified as the daughter of Baron Lynbourne. Her name was Angeline, and she had been eighteen years of age. Her parents had held hope of her finding a husband that Season. She was reported to be a spirited girl with a pleasant personality, liked by all who knew her.

The only thing that could have made the tale more tragic would have been if she were an only child. However, Lynbourne and his wife had other children to help them through their terrible grief. Their lives would never be the same, regardless. That was why it was called “loss,” after all.

Arden wasn’t acquainted with the baron and baroness, at least not closely. Of course they had been introduced once upon a time, and often were invited to the same events, but that was the extent of their familiarity. Still, she ordered an arrangement of white calla lilies to be sent round to them, along with a card expressing her condolences.

That was all she could do. Her loyalty to the Crown prohibited her from approaching them on a more intimate level, but even if it did not, she would hardly open a dialogue with the grieving parents. What would she tell them, that she had seen their daughter’s mutilated corpse? That she had seen the moments of her death? These were not the details that comforted the distraught, and they would serve no purpose but to cause them more pain.

But she sent flowers because she was no stranger to loss, or to grief.

Three days had passed since she’d awoken to find Luke in her bedroom, and she was beginning to wonder if he had indeed been a dream, or some grand figment of her imagination.

There was no way she could have imagined his touch—or the ruination of the French doors. No, he was very real.

Was it true what Zoe surmised? Had he been sent by the Company to assassinate her? It seemed too fantastical to believe, but it was just probable enough to tighten her chest. It explained why she’d woken to his hands around her neck, and why he had run. It also explained why he didn’t know her.

What in the name of God had those villainous bastards done to her husband?

Tears burned the backs of her eyes, clutched at her throat, but she held them at bay. She would not cry. Tears were the refuge of the hopeless and the helpless, and she was neither.

It was odd that she turned to friends within the Wardens for strength and assistance, when it had been Luke who brought her into that world. Of course, growing up as she had and aiding her father in his work, she had seen some of it, but it wasn’t until her marriage that she slowly began to insert herself into that life of intrigue and danger. Becoming a full agent after his disappearance had been just another way to hold on to him—look for him. Who would have thought that it would become such a large, defining part of her? She had purpose. More important, she had a distraction.

Arden knew Luke would be back for her—felt it in her bones. She had neglected to tell Zoe that, however. No doubt her friend suspected it as well. She probably wondered if Luke was a traitor not only to his wife but to his country. Arden had to admit the terrible thought had crossed her mind.

It was time to get out of the house and stop dwelling. This sitting about feeling sorry for herself would not do any more good than feeling helpless would.

Three of the garments she had ordered from Zoe had been delivered the day before—God bless automaton sewing skills! Arden went to her room and summoned Annie to help her dress in a suitable costume for going out.

Opening the armoire, she made her selection of clothing, placed the hanger in the slender compartment to the left, then closed the door and pushed the button on the side of the wardrobe. The heavy oak trembled slightly as the small engine within chugged to life. Soon, she heard the familiar sound of boiling water whooshing through pipes and the gentle hiss of steam—the remnants of which drifted from the copper pipe on top. The entire process lasted perhaps a minute before shutting down. Arden waited another minute before she opened the door once more.

The ensemble she had chosen was a wine-colored gown with a jaggedly ruffled skirt, short sleeves and a bodice made of snug-fitting leather in a matching shade. The front had tightly cinched buckle closures that eliminated the need for a corset beneath. The built-in steam chamber in the armoire had released any wrinkles that might have marred the fabric. She was dressing when Annie arrived to do her hair, which was quickly twisted into a thick knot on the back of her head.

She finished the ensemble with black velvet boots that hugged her calves and a tailored black pelisse which ensured she would be warm in the damp outdoors.

Annie went to call for the carriage with the Huntley crest on it to be brought round. As much as Arden loved to drive her smaller vehicle, in case of threat she was safer inside an enclosed carriage with a driver.

And if that threat happened to be her husband, perhaps he’d see the familiar coat of arms and remember who he was. She sincerely doubted it would happen that way. In fact, she rather hoped that if the sight of her didn’t make him remember, then nothing would. It was a selfish hope, but she held it nevertheless.

She pinned a small velvet top hat onto her hair, positioning it with a jaunty tilt toward her left eye. Satisfied that she looked suitable to her social position, she gathered up her gloves and bag and left her room.

Downstairs Arden smelled the clean, lemony scent of a scrubber cleaning the marble floor. The machine stood waist-high, and looked very much like a large, tall cooking pot. A boiler beneath kept the water hot and provided power as the machine propelled itself around the hall, cleaning the floor with long, armlike limbs that had scrub pads instead of hands.

“I’m so sorry about that, my lady,” Mrs. Bird, the housekeeper, gushed as she bustled seemingly from out of nowhere to push the little automaton on its way as though it were an errant child. “I meant to have the floor cleaned before you came down.”

Arden smiled. “Don’t fret so, Mrs. Bird. I shan’t expire from seeing housework being tended to. Although you may want to have Ronald look at the scrubber when it’s done. It sounds as though it might be having difficulties.”

The housekeeper nodded. “Of course, my lady.”

She didn’t miss the faint blush that filled the widow’s smooth cheeks. “You might also want to take one of your apple tarts. I know for a fact that Ronald’s very fond of apples.”

The woman’s eyes widened a fraction. “Is he now? That’s very good to know, ma’am.”

Still smiling, Arden pulled on her gloves and bid the housekeeper a good morning. Then she ventured out into the gray, drizzly day where her carriage sat waiting. It was a fairly large, impressive vehicle, with puffs of steam drifting from the gleaming brass pipe on the back. Burgundy and black lacquer, it had large black wheels and a padded bench for the driver up front. It was a formal carriage, and could be secured to a team of horses should the occasion—such as a royal invitation—arise. Queen Victoria respected modern advancement, but expected it to respect
her
more. Court fashion was always a decade or two behind the times, no matter if it was for hair or horses.

She glanced up at the driver. “Downing Street, Gibbs.”

The burly man tipped his well-worn hat. “As you wish, my lady.”

One of her footmen opened the carriage door for her, and the small steps automatically flipped down for her to climb. A large drop of rain landed on her cheek, and she turned to the footman to ask him to run into the house and fetch her umbrella, but Mrs. Bird was already there, object in hand.

“Thought you might be wanting this, my lady.”

Gratitude curved Arden’s lips. “What would I ever do without you, Mrs. Bird?”

The older woman flushed, but she met Arden’s gaze—something servants rarely did. “God willing neither of us will ever have to find out, ma’am.”

Arden’s throat tightened and she swallowed against it. “Indeed.” She climbed into the carriage, not daring to wonder at what might happen should Henry succeed in having Luke declared dead, despite her certainty to the contrary. She certainly had enough money and options to live out the rest of her life as she wished, but for nine years this house had been her home and the people in it her friends, family and employees. Many of them had been with the Grey family their entire careers. She couldn’t expect any of them to give up working for an earl to come work for her.

The footman closed the door. Arden tapped her umbrella on the roof to let Gibbs know she was ready to depart. The carriage eased into motion, the familiar sound of the engine a soothing rhythm. It had an almost mesmerizing effect, lulling her into a state of tranquility despite the emotions threatening to rage inside her. It felt very much like when Luke first disappeared. She’d been lost and numb and yet so very, very angry. Yet she’d been unable to give into that rage—not as she wanted anyway. Grief always ruined it, and now she feared if she let it out it simply would never stop.

So she pushed it down, as she did most strong emotions, and forced herself into a state of dispassionate disinterestedness so she could think clearly. However, she wasn’t too keen on thinking at the moment either.

The carriage swayed a little as it traveled over cobblestones worn smooth by decades upon decades of carriage wheels, horse hooves and human feet. Arden leaned her weary head against the soft cushions and closed her eyes.

She jerked awake when the carriage stopped, bolting upright and immediately checking her cheek for drool. Thankfully there wasn’t any. Weariness clung to her as she blinked and straightened her hat and hair, brushed her hands over her coat and skirt to smooth them.

She peeked around the closed blind. They had reached her destination.

When the door had been opened and the steps lowered, Arden stepped out into the light but steady rain, glad for her umbrella, which she opened and held over herself for shelter.