His Wicked Sins (21 page)

enjoyed him. Not only his physical allure, though that certainly swayed her. She found

him fascinating and frightening and reassuring all at once.

Earlier, in the garden, when he had put his mouth on her wrist, tasted her, she ought to

have been terrified. She shivered.

Yes, that was what he had done.
Tasted her.

And instead of feeling frightened, she had been tempted. Enthralled.

Beth curled her fingers in the heavy curtain and rested her forehead against the cool

glass. The quiet wrapped close about her, smothering her like a shroud. In that instant, she

found the silence awful and she longed for the street sounds of home. Not the loud

cacophony that always boomed outside their horrible little flat, but the softer sounds of the

house in south London. The morning call of the milkmaid or the baker. The wheels of a

carriage and the hooves of horses ringing on the cobbled road.

Here, there were no such sounds, and no familiar city sights. There were only the sky

and shadows and the black shape of the trees in the distance. For an instant, the moon

hung bright and clear, and then the wind moved the clouds across its face, leaving the

view beyond her window murky and forbidding.

Beth wrapped her arms tight about her waist.

In the now-muted light, the back garden seemed grim and frightening, dotted with

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ghostly shapes, the high wall that surrounded it sinister somehow. And there, at the far

edge of what she could see, the three dead trees with their twisted branches. They only

added to her unease, lending an awful, eerie nature to the place.

A general distress settled over her, a clammy shroud. She was faced with all manner of

frightening things, the surge of new and unfamiliar emotion, the anxiety of her separation

from her family, the worry that all was not right in this place. That someone stalked her,

watched her, and now came into her own sanctuary to touch and move her things.

Or was she fashioning dark and threatening mountains where only tiny hills existed?

'Twould not be the first time.

She shuddered. Old fears blended with the new, and suddenly the room felt close,

stuffy, the walls moving in on her until she thought she would be crushed. The suddenness

and strength of the assault was overwhelming, far stronger than it had been in many years.

The box was tight, barely big enough to hold her, and she pressed at the lid and sobbed

until her throat was dry and sore. Dark, so dark. Please … please… Someone come.

Someone save me.

Trembling, battling the horror of her memories, she leaned close to the window and

stared out at the night, pretending there were no walls, no darkness. Pretending she did not

feel the bite of ancient terrors.

Suddenly, a flicker of movement in the garden caught her eye. She shifted to one side,

peering through the glass, trying to see beyond her own reflection, but in the moments that

followed she saw nothing out of the expected.

She had almost convinced herself she had seen nothing in the first place, that it was

only her anxious nature that conjured ghosts and goblins, when the shadows changed once

more and a dark shape separated itself from the trees beyond the wall.

Broad of shoulder and narrow of hip. A man.

His hair was dark, or mayhap he wore a dark cap. The contrast made his face pale in the

night, tipped up toward her. With a gasp, she drew back. But he was too far away for her

to see his features clearly, which meant he was too far away to see hers.

Mr. Fairfax? She could find no reason to think so, other than the wayward meanderings

of her imagination.

She leaned close to the cold glass panes once more. He was as he had been, frozen in

place, his face turned to her window.
Watching
.

An ugly swirl of fear uncurled in her belly.

She was about to move away, to draw the curtain, though it would mean she would

have to burn a rushlight the whole night through, when she caught sight of someone

moving swiftly across the back garden.

The moonlight illuminated the figure but a moment, and Beth saw it was a woman,

garbed in a dark cloak with a scarf or hood pulled over her hair. Her stride was confident,

her form lean and tall, and though Beth could see nothing of the woman's features, she

recognized her as Miss Percy.

How odd. What could Miss Percy seek in the late hour of the night, slinking about

without lantern or light? Did she go to meet that man who lurked and … watched? The

thought made Beth shudder.

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Peering into the darkness, she squinted against the night. She could see the heavy hedge

of the back garden, a dark, blocky shape, and beyond that the outline of the trees, black

against a blacker sky. She searched for the man she had seen earlier, but he had melded

with the night and she could see him no more.

Then, she thought she
did
glimpse him, almost obscured by the trees, the pale shine of

his skin, the glint of his eyes, looking not at Miss Percy, but at Beth.

A fist closed about her heart, tighter and tighter still. Was he the same man she had

sensed watching her on the road? In the garden? Who was he? What did he want?

Had he been here, in her room, touched her possessions? Or was she feeding the spark

of her own unease, seeing a wolf where there was only a lamb, allowing her anxious

nature to spin fancies and fears?

He stepped back, his form blending with the other shadows of the night.

Miss Percy had reached the hedge now. She paused, looked cautiously about, drew her

scarf closer about her face.

And then she too was swallowed by the darkness.

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Chapter 12

Stepney, London, January 15, 1813

G
innie. Dead. Oh, God, she was dead, torn and cut, her blood a dark, glistening pool.

Henry wanted to touch her. To gather her in his arms and keep her safe, hold her safe. Too

late. Too late.

Who had done this? And why?

Why? Why? Why?

Sam Loder stared at him in mute sympathy, his normally ruddy color gone to ash.

"Henry," he said, his voice gruff. "This is no place for you now."

No place for him.

He swallowed and almost choked on the mad cackle that ached to spring free of his

chest.

There would never be a place for him.

His heart, his hope, his faith had died here today.

He had loved her, more than he had realized.

Seeing her here, gray, lifeless, her hair matted with blood, her clothes saturated with it

… her blood … the horror of it was a jagged wound inside of him. Carefully he squatted

low, mindful not to step in the blood, and he reached out to lay his hand on her shoulder.

How long he stayed crouched by her side, he could not say, but after a time he became

aware of a high keening sound, tuneless, terrible.

And he realized the sound came from him.

Blinking, he battled with himself, but the tears slid free and scalded his cheeks. He

shook his head, rose, stood staring down at her.

He was cold, as though he'd been dropped in the Thames in the dead of winter. A bone-

deep ache made him feel he could die, close his eyes, lie down on the floor in the pool of

Ginnie's blood, and die. He thought of her, all alone in the darkness, and he felt sick.

Tearing his gaze away, he stared straight ahead at a thin crack that ran down the wall,

and a smudged hand-print beside it. A small handprint, like a child's.

Something nagged at him, breaking through the haze of shock and horror. Something…

He forced himself to follow the thread of his thoughts.

The girl.

"The child," he croaked, distress scrabbling through him to lodge like a rock in his

chest. His heart beat a frantic tattoo, horror and overwhelming grief clouding his mind.

Ginnie
. She was dead.

But the girl…

His gaze slid to Ginnie's body once more. He wanted to gather her in his arms, kiss her

sweet lips, feel her breath on his cheek.

Nevermore.

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He shuddered.

Ginnie, with her golden ringlets… Gone… Gone…

Where was her hair, her beautiful hair?

The girl—

"Where is the girl?" Henry asked, turning to the others as he spoke. He forced himself

to concentrate though he felt as though a tempest raged inside him, whipping about,

screaming to get free, tearing all rational thought from his mind.

He ached to break something. The wall. The lamp. He wanted to beat something until

his fists were raw and bloody.

"The Trotters' granddaughter," he rasped. It hurt his throat to speak.

Sam was in the parlor with Robert Seymour, a seasoned officer who had arrived some

moments past and immediately set about searching for clues. Neither man even glanced at

Henry, and he realized that he had spoken so low that they had not heard him, not a word.

What was the child's name? He tried to recall, and failed. A surging sadness so acute

that it was almost pain tore through him. She deserved to have a name.

Spinning around, he peered down the darkened hallway, his heart pounding a hard and

brutal rhythm.

"Look here," came Robert Seymour's voice from inside the parlor, tight with

excitement. "There's blood here on the windowsill."

Henry glanced back and saw Robert lean out the open parlor window, his hands braced