The Deathsniffer’s Assistant (The Faraday Files Book 1) (36 page)

“Miss Faraday,” Chris said, very quiet. He found he couldn’t quite look at her, and focused on his hands folded before him, instead. “If you don’t disagree, I’d really prefer to work tomorrow.” He lifted his head to offer her a tremulous smile, and saw her considering him as if he’d just told her something very revealing. Maybe he had. “After all, we have so much to do, and it’s been nearly a week since the Duke passed.”

She raised her eyebrows in a silent question, one he chose not to answer. They watched one another, holding their ground, until finally, Olivia stirred. She shrugged one shoulder and started forward, brushing past him on her way deeper into the office. “Fine,” she said. “I prefer it, myself. Spending a day crying over the dead won’t bring them back.” She opened the door to the flickering light of the hallway, turning back to meet his eyes over the curve of her shoulder. “You’re dismissed. Try to organize all of today’s notes into something readable for tomorrow, won’t you? I want to read over everything and get my bearings.” She turned away. “Good evening, Mister Buckley,” she murmured, and then the door closed behind her.

Chris walked with his notebook held before his nose. It was perhaps not the most dignified way to travel, and he was sure he drew baffled looks from passersby, but for once, he didn’t care. It seemed a waste to spend the entire walk simply staring at nothing, mind wandering, heart clouding, when he could be working.

True to his hastily given word, he remembered most of the summary of events she’d given in the reception room of her office. Perhaps it wasn’t accurate to the letter, and the possibility existed he’d forgotten a word here or a phrase there, but he thought he’d gotten most of the beats down. He was putting the finishing touches on the end of their exchange about Ethan Grey, weaving,
we know next to nothing about him find out more
when he had to use one of his hands to fumble with the gate to the Buckley manor. He went over what he’d weaved while he made his way down the front walk, feeling the city go silent and the sylphs ruffle his hair and coat as he passed the soundshield, and taking note of the sound of a horse or unicorn whinnying in the carriage house before he reached the door and tucked the notebook under his arm. Fernand would be here, then. The thought put a smile on his face. They could all have dinner together. Perhaps Miss Albany would be willing to stay for it. She’d proven herself an ally, and he needed those…

He noticed a moment after hanging up his coat that one of the voices that had stopped talking in the parlour at his entrance did not belong to Fernand Spencer at all.

He turned towards the parlour, feeling as if he was moving through gel, half expecting to see Avery Combs sitting there once again with his snake’s smile and fancy words and unwelcome intentions. But there was a different stranger sitting across from Rosemary’s governess, today, an older, warmer, less urbane man, whose lined, smiling face Christopher recognized in an instant.

The man stood and inclined his head with respect. “Christopher Buckley,” he said. “I’m―”

“I know who you are,” Chris interrupted. He still held the doorknob with one hand, and he found himself gripping it like a lifeline so as to not fling himself at the man in a rage. His arm trembled. Yesterday, well, he had not been himself. Today would be different. Today, he would stop this before the snake oil salesman got two words out of his mouth. He was
not
going to let
anyone
use Rosemary. “Doctor Francis Livingstone,” Chris said, and the famous scientist had the grace to look abashed as he smiled.

“It does get hard to be anonymous when your face so often appears in the papers,” he said mildly, and Chris allowed himself to release the doorknob and start into the parlour. What he was feeling must have showed on his face, because Doctor Livingstone’s voice trailed off the moment he opened his mouth to speak again, and his smile wilted.

“I don’t know what exactly it is you want,” Chris began, his voice a low growl of a threat, vibrating through his throat. “But I know it has to do with Rosemary, and all the clever little ways she can be used to benefit
someone’s
agenda.” He balled his hand into a fist. “Rosemary is
not
a pawn,” he declared, letting his voice carry. “She is a
girl
, a sweet little girl who isn’t old enough to have to deal with
any
of this. She
deserves
a chance at a normal life.”

He could have kept going, but― “I completely agree with you,” Doctor Livingstone was saying, making calming gestures with his hands. “I couldn’t possibly agree
more
, Mister Buckley. That’s why I’ve come.”

Chris blinked and choked down a laugh. It was too impossible, too unbelievable. Did this man, this ubiquitous speaker and figurehead, known to all and sundry to be the undisputed leader of the reformist movement, think he would be
believed
? “Are you
insane
?” he asked. Dimly, he was aware he should speak more quietly, so Rosemary didn’t hear the upraised voices from below, but all he could see was white-hot anger. “Do you think I’ll
believe
that? I know who you are. I know
what
you are. You show up here, uninvited, with your agenda in hand—if you think I’ll believe my sister is
anything
to you but a piece to be played against the traditionalists, you must think I’m an
idiot
. And if you honestly, actually think you’re
any
different from Avery bloody Combs―”

“Mister Buckley!” Miss Albany’s voice registered through his rage, and he felt her hands on his arm. “Mister Buckley,
please
, listen to me!” She tugged at him.

Some sanity came back to him. He remembered where he was, took note of his surroundings. Doctor Livingstone was looking back at him gravely, and Miss Albany was at his side, clinging to his upraised arm. He’d been shaking his fist in the doctor’s face, he dimly remembered. Miss Albany’s fingers dug into his topcoat like claws.

He swallowed, trying to contain his emotions and hold onto the clarity he felt now. His eyes slipped from the doctor’s, turning to meet his governess’s. She stared up at him, brown eyes wide, expression pleading. She quailed a bit under his gaze, slightly relaxing her grip on his arm and settling back onto her heels. “Please, Mister Buckley,” she murmured. “He didn’t just show up. I…” Her eyelids fluttered, and she looked away. Colour touched her cheeks. “I asked him to come.”

hat
?” Chris tore his arm from Miss Albany’s grasp. “You―” Rage contorted his face. “You had no
right
!” He all but roared into her face. “You’re nothing but her nanny! I am her brother.
I
decide who―”

“You asked me to help protect her!”

“I assumed you would go to the police!”

“The police?” Miss Albany crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. “Well, you work with them, sir. Why didn’t
you
go to the police?”

The question stymied him. He blinked. True enough, he’d spoken to police of all stripes today. Officer Dawson and her unit had featured prominently in his actions. But they were so flawed, so human; they were a normal part of his daily life. They couldn’t protect Rosemary. “I…” he stammered.

Miss Albany shook her head, frustration on her face. “Exactly. Perhaps you sensed the truth. All you have to do to give up your authority of Rosemary is to put her into someone else’s custody.
Anyone
else’s custody. And the police are not a flawless body of protectors! They are people with agendas and wishes, and they are almost all traditionalists. They’d have used this to bring her in ‘for her protection’ and before sunset, she’d be in Sir Combs’s grasp!”

His heart rejected the logic of her words even as his head understood it. “So you brought
him
here?” He jabbed a finger in the direction of the silent doctor. “You brought
Francis Livingstone
into my home? How can you possibly think I’d―”

“Please, Mister Buckley, just listen to what he has to say!” Miss Albany pleaded, her voice loud enough to drown his out. Her eyes were wild and her cheeks flush. “He can help. I swear he can help! It’s not like the Combses. It’s nothing like that. Please. You asked me to protect Rosemary. Can you trust me just a little further?” As she spoke, her voice grew quieter and quieter, until she was all but whispering as she repeated her entreaty. “
Please
.”

He stared at her. He met her eyes with all the intensity he could muster, searching as deep as he could go for something that would tell him whether to believe her or not. He wished he could read her like she could read him. If he could just tell what she was feeling, know if she was
honest
, if he could
believe
her…

But he couldn’t find what he looked for. He blinked hard and pulled his gaze away, and set his jaw. “Go to Rosemary,” he said tightly. “Whatever you’re about, I don’t want you here.”

Miss Albany’s lips thinned and her grip tightened on his arm, but then, stiffly, she bowed her head and hurried away, grey skirts rustling. Chris watched her go out of the corner of his eye, and then, when he could see her no longer, turned his attention to the unwanted guest.

The doctor wore an apologetic smile. It seemed sincere. His hands were folded before him. They studied one another in silence, and Chris searched the man as he had Miss Albany. He found just as much.

The doctor blinked rapidly and turned his face away. “Rachel told the truth,” he said.

“Rachel.” The use of her given name was not lost on him. “How do you know her?”

“Her elder brother is a friend of mine,” the doctor said, and his lips twisted slightly at those words, like he’d tasted something foul. “No. Garrett Albany is an indispensable ally, but I should never call him a friend. Rachel, however…well, I hold her in much higher esteem. I rarely hear from her, and our paths rarely intersect, but she never has something to say that I regret hearing.”

What do you want?
Chris wanted to ask.
What help could you possibly offer Rosemary?
But now that his blood was flowing normally and the red haze over his vision had cleared somewhat, his instincts were returning in full force. He forced a smile. It felt tight and false, but it was a smile. “I had a very trying day at work,” he said, in way of explanation for his previous outburst. “And my sister…”