Darke London

Uncanny Chronicles 1

by

Coleen Kwan

To Dad. I miss you every day.

Chapter One

Through the long hours of the night London pitched and groaned, a restless creature in uneasy slumber. A thousand fires flickered across its twitching back. Over rivers and hills it sprawled, swallowing up quiet fields and meadows, an insatiable protean organism powered by a life of its own. To the north, the edge of the city lapped up against ancient hamlets, preparing to overtake them one by one. And just a few miles past, surrounded by winter fields lying fallow, sat a crumbling manor house, its lichened facade bravely and futilely facing the city’s inevitable onslaught. Tonight its peace was broken by a rider galloping up the drive, his horse all afroth, a limp figure clasped in front of him. They slithered to a halt outside the stout oaken door. Still carrying his load, the rider dismounted awkwardly and ran towards the house.

Julian Darke battered his shoulder against the oak door. His arms were fully occupied with the comatose woman, and he dared not set her down. In his agitation he had some strange notion she would disintegrate if he loosened his hold.

“Figgs! Open up,” he bellowed, his lungs burning with the effort. Despite the frigidness of the night, sweat poured down his back, soaking into his shirt and britches. He kicked at the front door with his scuffed boots and cursed like a tar.

On the other side of the oak, heavy feet shuffled, then a key rattled in the lock, and the door finally groaned open. Julian barged in, shoving aside the lumbering manservant.

“Call my father,” Julian ordered. “Rouse him if you must. Quick, man. Don’t just gawp there. Can’t you see this is a dire emergency?”

Not pausing in his stride, he moved down the dimly lit hallway. His shoulder muscles twinged under the weight of the woman in his arms. She couldn’t have weighed much, but he’d held her debilitated form steady on his mount for what had felt like hours, and his limbs shrilled for respite. Not yet, not yet. The peril had not yet passed.

He kicked open the door to his father’s examination room. Despite the darkness he trod surefooted to the table in the centre of the room, where he gingerly lowered his burden onto the surface. Not the faintest sound issued from the bundle of cloak that was the woman he’d carried home. His throat tightened. Surely she hadn’t perished just when he’d brought her to safety?

“Julian? What’s going on?”

He turned to see his father entering the room. Despite the lateness of the hour, Elijah Darke was still fully dressed in suit and waistcoat, reading spectacles perched on the end of his nose, an unlit pipe in his hand.

“This woman needs our help.” Julian gestured towards the figure lying on the table. “She’s gravely injured. She needs both our expertise.”

Pocketing his pipe, Elijah approached the table and turned on the twin lamps suspended above the examining table. Julian let out a small sigh of relief. In a crisis, his father was always clear-headed. He would act first and ask questions later.

“What have we here?” Elijah lifted the stained cloak covering the woman. He froze. “God in heaven! Her face—”

Julian nodded grimly. He had seen her face earlier on and, after a cursory examination, had instinctively hidden it with her cloak.

“Good grief, son, you’re injured too!” His father’s face whitened as he stared at Julian. “You’re covered with blood.” He moved towards Julian and hauled open the lapels of his rumpled coat.

“A few scratches only. Most of the blood is hers.” Impatient, Julian tore off his bloodied coat and dropped it to the floor. “It’s nothing, Father, nothing compared to her wounds.”

His father made a testy growl. “Your injuries need proper seeing to.”

“Later.”

“You cannot assist me in that state. At the very least wash your hands.” Elijah divested himself of his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and scrubbed his hands at a washstand.

Julian hurriedly followed suit, flung on one of his father’s clean aprons and within moments was back at the table. His father had peeled the cloak back from the woman’s body and was bending over her.

“Well?” Julian asked.

His father grunted. “See for yourself.”

For some reason, instead of staring rudely at her exposed face, he found himself reaching for the hood of the cloak and smoothing it back from the woman’s head. A handful of brown curls tumbled out, incongruously bright and clean and fresh against the oozing mess staining everything else. The tang of spilt blood hit the back of his throat, like the taste of pennies. He swallowed hard, aware of his roiling innards. Why was the smell of blood unmanning him like this? Since he was old enough to walk, he’d assisted his father. He had lanced boils, drained suppurating wounds, stitched up gaping cuts, all with nary a wince. And he was a qualified doctor too. He’d dissected corpses, amputated arms and legs, trepanned a number of patients. In all these years he’d never suffered a queasy turn, and yet now his stomach threatened to unman him. Why now? Why did this woman affect him so?

She was a stranger to him; he’d never laid eyes on her before this evening. It must simply be his body protesting, sapped of energy after the tribulations he’d faced tonight. He willed his nerves to steady as he took a proper look at the woman.

Under the harsh, hissing light, the white of her face was crisscrossed with deep gashes, like a peach haphazardly sliced open. Mercifully both eyes appeared intact and unharmed. Congealing blood spattered the front of her dress, the pattern of the faded cotton submerged beneath the sticky mess. A swelling contusion on her right temple indicated the heavy blow which had rendered her insensate.

Elijah lifted up one of the woman’s hands. “What happened here?” His voice was rough with disbelief.

Julian could only shake his head at the bloodied stumps, all that was left of the middle and ring fingers. He had bound his handkerchief as best he could around the hand, but there had been considerable loss of blood, and the fingers had been crudely removed, leaving behind a messy lump of flesh.

“Can we save her hand?” he asked.

“We shall do our best.”

Using a sharp pair of scissors, Elijah began to cut off the woman’s dress in order to complete his examination. As the shears tore through the thin material, the woman moaned. It was no more than a murmur, but it seemed the most blood-curdling sound Julian had ever heard. She squirmed, her flailing arms almost knocking the scissors from Elijah’s hand.

“Hold her down, son,” Elijah barked.

Julian obeyed, but the instant he pressed down on the woman’s shoulders, her eyelids flew open. Two green eyes stared up at him, frozen in a moment of sheer terror. With the glaring lights overhead, he must appear like a dark silhouette looming over her, Julian surmised. And then every thought fled from him as she started to shriek and thrash her limbs, struggling with all her might to free herself.

Elijah exclaimed as the scissors were knocked flying from his grasp.

“Hush now, hush. You’re safe—” Julian tried to comfort the woman, but she only fought harder, her strength surprising him.

She thinks I am her attacker, that monster assaulting her with his knife. The realisation was enough to make him lift his hands away from her. She tried to sit up, but before she could move Elijah darted in and covered her nose and mouth with his chloroform pad. Her muffled screams continued, her eyes above the pad bulging with horror, but moments later her eyelids drooped, and she collapsed back on the table.

Julian smeared the back of his arm across his clammy brow. Silent and shaken, he helped his father remove the remnants of the woman’s dress. Underneath the workaday cotton twill, she wore a chemise and drawers, white and freshly laundered. Over them, a cream-coloured boned corset. Against such neatness, the crimson splashes on her underclothes stood out in stark contrast. Elijah snipped away the layers of fabric then examined the patient more closely.

“A number of stab wounds to her shoulders and upper chest,” he said in his dry physician’s voice. “One perilously close to the carotid artery, but nothing as bad as her face and hand. What a frenzied attack. It’s a miracle she survived.”

Julian stood in a daze, the woman’s terrified cries still echoing in his head. The sight of her naked chest stirred not the slightest concupiscence in him, although she had a fine figure, her arms nicely muscled, her breasts high and round and crowned by brown-pink nipples, her stomach smooth and taut. Such a healthy young woman had no business lying on this operating table.

“Julian?” His father’s voice broke through his milling thoughts. “I’ll do what I can for her hand, but first you will have to attend to her face.”

Julian drew in a deep breath. He ought to have anticipated this. In the past few months, his father’s shaking palsy had become more pronounced, and he would not be able to perform the handiwork required on the woman’s face as dexterously as Julian could.

“Very well.” Julian clenched his jaw. A tot of brandy would do wonders for his nerves. On the other hand, he needed all his wits about him if he was to operate on a lady’s face.

He swabbed the raw flesh as gently as he could, glad she was unconscious to the bite of carbolic acid. Cleaned of its sticky red mask, her face emerged, a pale creamy fruit split open. Her nose was small and narrow, her mouth generously curved, her eyebrows arched like delicate moth wings. Thick russet curls framed her neck. She wore no cosmetics or artificial enhancements, no ornaments or ribbons in her hair, two tiny gold earrings her only adornments. Beneath the horrible knife wounds scoring both cheeks, he could yet discern her beauty and natural freshness. It was up to him to repair the desecration of her face. He turned to the tray of instruments and selected a needle. His hand was not quite steady; it took him several attempts to thread the needle. He shut his eyes and fought to clear his mind. Forget what happened earlier. Forget everything except the task at hand.

He opened his eyes and began to stitch.

Some time later—he knew not how much time had passed but his back was aching and his knees were trembling with exhaustion—he dropped his needle for the last time on the tray and heaved a deep sigh.

“Good job, son.” His father clapped him on the shoulder.

Lifting his head, he saw that his father had cleaned the woman’s hand and sutured up the stumps of her fingers.

“I’ve seldom seen such savagery directed at a woman.” Elijah rumbled in disgust as he finished winding a bandage around the woman’s palm. “What kind of monster did this?”

“A ruthless one. He would have killed her if I hadn’t happened along.”

By mutual consent, they both switched their attention to the remaining wounds on the woman’s chest. While his father took care of the neck wound, Julian focussed on the cuts to her left shoulder. Now that he’d worked on her face, her nakedness started to distract and disturb him in ways new to him. Given his age, looks and disposition, he’d had his fair share of paramours and seen plenty of naked female bodies, but this was different. This woman roused strange, uncomfortable feelings in him. He clamped his jaw tight, dismayed by his reactions. The poor woman was his patient. He shouldn’t take prurient pleasure in her nakedness, especially when she was in such a vulnerable state. He bent over his task and tried in vain to block out the image of her firm, round breast so tantalisingly close to his fingers.

“And where did you just ‘happen along’?” Elijah asked abruptly.

Julian blinked. “A deserted dock near the Isle of Dogs,” he answered cautiously, knowing full well what would happen next.

“I see.” A heavy frown creased Elijah’s forehead as he continued to disinfect the woman’s neck. “So, you just happened to be passing a deserted dock near the Isle of Dogs late at night and miles away from home, and you just happened to come across a beast doing unspeakable things to a defenceless woman. Is that it?”

“Father, I—”

“Do you know this woman? Tell me the truth, Julian.”

“No! I’ve never seen her before tonight. I swear.”

“And her attacker?”

“I would recognise him again anywhere. He was unusually big and ungainly, with pockmarks around his eyes.” Julian paused. “I don’t know who he is, but I know who he works for.”

His father expelled a sigh heavy with resignation. “Let me guess. He works for Thaddeus Ormond, and you know this because you’ve been haranguing Sir Thaddeus. Yet again.”

“I’ve not been haranguing Ormond. He refuses to receive me,” Julian protested, bitterness tingeing his voice. “But if I’d not been following him, this poor creature would be dead.”

“How is she connected with Sir Thaddeus?”

“I don’t know. All I can tell you is that I followed Ormond when he left his house this evening.” His plan had been to accost Ormond in public, because he could no longer gain access to him at his Mayfair townhouse, having already been thrown out by Ormond’s sneering footmen. But for the moment he preferred to keep this detail from his father.

“I followed him to a rather mean street near Spitalfields,” Julian continued. “He stopped outside a shabby house and this woman emerged. She appeared quite willing to get into his carriage. I followed them for some while. They came to a halt at a deserted spot, and the woman seemed to fall from the carriage as if she’d been pushed out. Then, a large ruffian suddenly approached and dragged her away. Ormond made no attempt to help her. In fact, he stuck his head out and watched on as the animal threw her into another waiting carriage and sped off. I followed the vehicle, but lost it when we approached the Thames. By the time I found it, the woman was struggling with her attacker. She fought valiantly, but he hit her over the head. She fell to the ground, and no doubt he was going to finish her off before dumping her in the river when I came to her rescue and beat him off.”

“Hmpf.” Elijah grunted. He dressed the last of the woman’s injuries, then wound a bandage around her head to protect the stitches. He beckoned Julian to help him fold a clean sheet around their patient’s body. “That’s all you and I can do for her at present. We’ll let Figgs and Mrs. Tibbet put her to bed upstairs.”

“No, I can carry her up myself—”

“You’ll do no such thing. I must see to your injuries.”

“They’re nothing but scratches. I’ll see to them later myself.”

Elijah’s face turned puce. “I know you’re a strapping lad of four and twenty, but you’re not too old for a good old-fashioned beating if you disobey me.”

Elijah had never so much as raised a finger against Julian. The idea of him administering a beating was ludicrous, but not the slightest bit amusing. Julian sank down in a chair. “Very well, Father,” he said with unusual meekness.

His father summoned the servants and gave them instructions. Figgs gathered up the cocooned woman and left with the housekeeper trotting behind.

“Take off your shirt,” Elijah ordered Julian when they were alone.

Julian silently obeyed. The shirt peeled off reluctantly, sticking to the congealed blood oozing from his cuts. His father grimaced before he set about cleaning and dressing the wounds.

“So you managed to beat off a large assailant armed with a knife?” Elijah said after a few minutes, his tone remaining stiff.

Julian nodded tiredly. Now that the immediate crisis had passed, exhaustion threatened to swamp him, and he was glad to be seated. “Sparring with Gareth has its uses.”

“Indeed, but you were lucky. The man had a sharp knife and a savage temper. Any one of these cuts you sustained could have been fatal.” He jabbed at Julian’s chest with his acid-soaked cleaning pad.

Julian winced. “He was big and vicious, but he fought without discipline. He’ll be nursing a few bruised ribs tonight. I only wish I could have held the cur captive and forced him to—argh!” He flinched as carbolic acid soaked into a deep cut. “Do have a care with that, Father.”

“You wouldn’t wish to suffer blood poisoning, would you?” Elijah rubbed the pad even harder across an open gash, the merest tremble in his jaw betraying his emotion. “For God’s sake, Julian. When will you leave off this mad pursuit of Ormond?”

Julian gritted his teeth. Carbolic acid he could take, but the raw appeal in his father’s voice was infinitely harder to withstand.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I know I am privileged to call you my father. I know I am being ungrateful and misguided and foolish. I know all these things but…but for the life of me I cannot relinquish my search, not when I’m so close to the truth.”

His father uttered a deep sigh that seemed weighted with decades of melancholy. He screwed shut the bottle of carbolic acid, his hands shaking infinitesimally. At sixty, he was still a handsome, active man, but tonight the creases in his face were sharply accentuated, and he looked every one of his years.

“What is the truth? All I know is that I found you on my doorstep twenty-four years ago, and throughout those years you have been my true son, my only son. That is all I know, and that is all that matters to me. I wish it were so for you too.”

The simplicity of these quiet words pierced him. Elijah was right. They were father and son in everything but blood. That’s what mattered, that should be enough. It was enough. He didn’t want any other father but Elijah. But…but…rational reasoning was no match for illogical yearning. Who was he? Where did he come from? Why was he abandoned? All questions Thaddeus Ormond knew the answers to, he was convinced.

“I only wish to talk to Ormond,” Julian said.

Shaking his head, Elijah wound bandage tape around Julian’s chest. He remained silent, but his grim expression spoke volumes. Finally he said gruffly, “Sir Thaddeus is an arrogant nobody puffed up on his lineage and not much else. Do you honestly wish to be associated with such a family, regardless of how illustrious their pedigree might be?”

Why did Elijah always have to sound so right? And why did that merely make him more stubborn?

“Sir Thaddeus couldn’t possibly be my natural father, of that I’m satisfied, but he knows the truth. He knows who gave his sister that brooch. If he would only tell me—”

Elijah uttered a frustrated growl. “That brooch is cursed! I wish to God I’d never told you about it. I wish I’d thrown it away years ago.”

Julian’s fist clenched. “You would do such a thing? The only link between me and my mother?” The night he was left on Elijah’s doorstep, he’d been wrapped in a woollen blanket, the folds secured by a brooch in the shape of a bee. That brooch was his. He would never part with it for all the riches in the world.

“Yes! If I’d known it would come to this, then a thousand times yes.” Elijah waved agitatedly towards the table in the centre of the room. “Instead of that poor child, it could have been you lying on that table, your face slashed to ribbons. Or worse. You could be sinking to the bottom of the Thames, or bleeding to death in the slums, or battered senseless in a dark alley. Until tonight you have only been disparaged and ridiculed by Ormond, but now everything has changed. Don’t you see the danger in your reckless pursuit?”

Julian stared. He’d never seen his father so impassioned, almost distraught. Guilt stung him, as it always did when he disappointed his father. He owed Elijah so much, and his compulsion to discover the truth about his parentage was verging on obsessive. Perhaps it would be prudent to rein in his pursuit for the time being. The injured woman was not safely out of the woods yet. Infection could set in, and she would be shocked by the scars on her face. She needed his attention, and besides, there were other ways of pursuing Ormond without confronting him. The little Huguenot jeweller, Mr. Cazalet, who had identified the brooch for him, he might have more information to impart. Julian could pay him another visit whilst also tending to the woman and finding out more about her.

“I’m always careful, Father. And after tonight I will be doubly so. I have a patient to watch over for the next few weeks. I’ll have little time to chase after Ormond.”

His father snorted. “Yes, you’ll have your hands full caring for that young woman, but I doubt that will take your mind off Sir Thaddeus, since you’ve no idea what her connection is to him. For all we know, she could be his secret mistress whom he wished to be rid of.”

Julian’s jaw dropped. How stupid of him not to suspect that. Certainly the woman possessed a unique allure, and she had accompanied Ormond willingly enough. But she didn’t seem the right type for a mistress. Her modest dress, her lack of adornment, her firmly muscled body and short fingernails—all were indications of someone who led a more active life than simply pleasing a man. His teeth clamped together. No, she couldn’t be the kept woman of a pompous fiend like Sir Thaddeus. But why was the notion so repugnant? Was it because he found her desirable himself? He thrust the unwelcome thought from his mind. Until he was sure of her, he couldn’t make any assumptions.

“I’m sure she’ll tell us when she’s regained consciousness,” he answered stiffly.

Elijah tugged at his bottom lip. “Whoever she is, I hope she possesses inner strength. Your skill with the needle is remarkable, but nothing can save her from severe scarring. If she was a kept woman, her days are well and truly over.”

With that sombre prognosis, Elijah exited the room, leaving Julian alone to nurse his bruises.

Chapter Two

In the dim glow of Nellie’s lamp, the walls of the corridor ran green with moisture. The dank, musty smell of earth pressed down on her mouth. A longing for fresh air assailed her, but she forced herself on. Consider yourself lucky you are not one of the inmates, she told herself sternly. These pitiful creatures passed their endless days here in the isolation ward, their only relief the laudanum her father, the hospital’s resident doctor, doled out miserly.

A sudden howl from close by caused her to cringe. That was the poor woman who’d arrived three weeks ago. At first, she’d been allowed to mingle with the other patients, but her constant crying upset the others, and when she’d attacked one of the wardens with a fork, they had dragged her away to the isolation ward. Out of sight, out of mind. Down here no one could see her tearing at her hair day after day until bald patches peppered her scalp. Phillip, Phillip, she moaned intermittently. That must be the name of the well-to-do gentleman who had delivered her to the asylum, her husband perhaps, or her brother. Whoever he was, he’d seemed enormously relieved to be rid of her.

At the door to the woman’s cell, Nellie stopped and peered through the small, barred opening. Darkness swallowed up the room, a darkness thickened by the sour stench of human waste.

“Mrs. Lancaster?” she whispered.

Silence, and then a hoarse sob emanated from the suffocating blackness.

Nellie rooted in the pocket of her apron for the dried apricots she’d brought with her. “Mrs. Lancaster, it’s Nellie. I have something here for you.”

“Who is that?” a reedy voice quavered. “Is that you, Phillip? Have you come to take me home? Oh, I knew you would come. I knew you would not forget me. Oh, Phillip.”

“N-no, it’s not Phillip.”

“But it must be you, Phillip. It must.” The voice grew querulously stronger. Out of the shadows, a figure shuffled towards the door. “So cruel, so cruel, Phillip. I’m not yet dead, but already you have buried me. Buried me alive.”

“Mrs. Lancaster?” Nellie’s heart started to thud as the dishevelled shape appeared out of the darkness. Be calm, she is behind bars. The unwashed stench thickened.

“My name is not Lancaster.” The woman grabbed hold of the bars with filthy hands, the fingernails torn and bleeding. “It’s Barchester.”

“But it can’t be! That’s…” Nellie lifted the oil lamp higher. Like a bruise the yellow glow crept over the woman’s face. “Barchester is my name…”

“Then I must be you. I must be Nellie Barchester.”

No. No. But the woman behind the bars was indeed herself. Her eyes were rolling, her hair crazed, her dress filthy, and her face smeared with drool and snot and unspeakable things. But she was unmistakeably Nellie Barchester. Locked up and forgotten. Legally dead. Buried alive.

Horrified, Nellie stepped back. The lamp slipped from her grasp. It crashed to the floor and burst into flame, setting her dress alight.

Nellie shrieked. The flames leaped up and ravaged her face. She clawed at her cheeks. The pain, oh, the pain was unbearable…

A vortex of agony sucked her up. Fire and darkness shuddered and roared before abruptly dissolving. Her eyes peeled open, and she realised she’d been dreaming. A terrible dream, an unspeakable nightmare, but she was safe, she wasn’t in the asylum. She was lying in bed and her heart was pounding—

A face swam into her vision. A face bent and buckled and folded, with a gaping cleft splitting his upper lip and eyes like beads sunk into his doughy flesh. The face of a man-beast, a pagan creature… Someone screamed; she realised it was her. The creature frothed at the mouth, his guttural grunts sounding like an antagonised bear. He flapped his arms at her…except one of his hands was not flesh and bone but an ugly metal pincer, gleaming with menace as it lunged towards her.

She thrashed her arms at the man-beast as her screaming continued. Bellowing and sweating, the animal held her down by the shoulder. The cold metal of his pincer burned her skin. Her body shrieked with pain as the sensation of flames engulfing her face intensified.

“I’m here, Figgs,” a male voice spoke. “No need to panic.”

Her breath caught on a sob. That voice, so familiar and yet so strange, so comforting and yet so fear-inducing. Her heartbeat stuttered, then hammered faster. A dim shape hovered over her. She strained to make him out, but the effort only increased the itching agony searing her face.

“Hush, now,” the man said.

Hush now. She’d heard him say that before. Hush now. You’re safe. But how could she be safe when she was trapped behind bars? Her skin burned, her muscles convulsed, a scream built in her throat, but when the stranger placed his hands on her wrists, the sensation was oddly soothing, his calloused palms cooling the maddening itch, chasing away the fire ants crawling over her skin.

She moaned and blinked harder, struggling to make out the features of her comforter, but the fog around her curdled and swallowed her up, leaving behind only the imprint of his fingers on her wrists.

Nellie opened her eyes. For a few moments she wondered at the light around her, before she discerned it was weak sunshine seeping through a crack in the curtains. Dust motes floated in the milky light. She turned her head to look around but winced as instant pain seized her neck and shoulders. The room wavered around her. She shut her eyes and waited for the dizziness to subside before resuming her inspection.

She was lying in a large comfortable bed with clean linen sheets and quilts keeping her warm. A fresh fire burned in the grate. The room was haphazardly appointed with dark, old-fashioned furniture. Heavy damask curtains drawn across the windows maintained a dim twilight. It was quiet, and she was alone. Bandages encased her head, with apertures for her eyes, nose and mouth. Beneath the bandages her skin felt tight and raw and itchy.

Panic quavered in her stomach. Where was she? Why was she lying in a strange bed? And what had happened to her face?

The door opened, and a young man entered the room. His expression altered as soon as he caught sight of her.

“Ah, you’re awake,” he murmured, moving closer.

His voice sparked recognition in her. This was the man who’d chased away the man-beast of her nightmares. He’d saved her, and yet, as he approached the bed, she found herself shrinking away from him. Was this stranger friend or foe? He seemed so tall, and his eyes, deep-set in his angular face, were pitch black and intensely focussed on her.

He paused as he noticed her distress. “Don’t be alarmed. I wish you no harm.” He drew up a chair next to her bed. “My name is Julian Darke. I live here with my father, Elijah. We’re both doctors.”

He spoke as if being a doctor implied a certain trustworthiness. But her father was a doctor, and in the end she hadn’t been able to trust him. This young man didn’t look like the degenerate her father had become. He was rugged and masculine, dressed rather untidily, his necktie flopping loose, his black hair awry, his jaw lightly stubbled. His swarthy, earthy appearance was not unattractive, but she could not afford to trust him—or anyone—wholeheartedly yet.

She opened her mouth to speak, but her lips were chapped and her tongue so dry her throat seized up. The man quickly poured her a glass of water and held it to her lips. The cool liquid eased the aridness of her mouth.

“My name is Nellie,” she eventually managed to croak out. “Nellie Barchester.”

She didn’t pause to consider why she dissembled about her surname, but every instinct warned her to tread with care. This young physician might have rescued her, but he was a total stranger and his motives might not be as pure as they appeared.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Barchester.”

“How—how long have I been here?”

“Three days. You had a fever, but it’s abating and the danger has passed.”

Her heartbeat faltered. Was the danger truly over, or was it still threatening?

She moistened her lips. “Where are we?”

“This house is called Monksbane, and we are a few miles north of the city.”

The location meant nothing to her. She’d been in London only a few weeks and knew very little of its environs. If they were away from the city, that must account for the peacefulness outside.

The man leaned towards her, his expression tentative. “Miss Barchester, do you remember what happened to you the night of your attack?”

Ice flooded her veins. Even as her brain went blank, horrifying images flashed across her mind’s eye. The ride in Sir Thaddeus’s carriage. Hope turning to disbelief as he delivered her into the arms of her abductor. The deserted dock and the stench of the river. Fear and abject desperation as the knife blade slashed repeatedly into her. Falling to the ground, dirt and blood on her tongue. The terror of dying alone in the darkness.

“Miss Barchester?”

She had to get away. She must escape. She tried to pull herself upright, but her muscles refused to obey her.

“Miss Barchester! You must stop struggling or you’ll hurt yourself.”

Why could she not free herself from the cursed bed linen? Why was she so limp and feeble? She pushed and pulled at the sheets, dully aware of a growing ache somewhere in her body, until finally she managed to thrust her arms out. She stared at the bandages wrapped around her left hand, at the gap where two middle fingers should be.

“My hand,” she gasped. “Oh…” She drew in a slow, quivering breath as the amorphous ache in her body crystallised around the stumps of her missing fingers. Her flesh was swollen, tender, but the physical pain was not as great as she might have imagined. Rather, it was the idea of the mutilation that made her mind go blank with horror.

“Your hand is healing well,” Julian Darke assured her quickly. “The threat of infection has passed.”

But how ugly her hand appeared. This…thing had no right being attached to her. She could barely look at it. She hid her left arm under the sheets. Using her right hand, she tentatively fingered the bandages around her head. “And my face? What happened here?”

He shifted in his seat as his expression grew wary. “You do not recall?” he asked gently.

Memory returned like a flood of boiling water. She remembered the flashing blade as it scythed towards her, her bleeding hands raised in defence, and then a faint stinging across her cheeks like the flick of a fine whip, followed by a warm wetness trickling over her skin. That was all. There’d barely been any pain then, unlike now, when her entire face crawled with a prickling sensation.

She fell back on the pillows. “Oh dear heaven,” she whispered.

“Who did this to you, Miss Barchester?”

His insistence made her heart thud painfully faster. An image of her assailant hovered over her. He was built like an ox, with pockmarks around his hard, murderous eyes. His fists were like rocks, and he’d stunk of sweat and animal fat. Her fingers tightened on the sheets as she glanced away. “I don’t know. I’d never seen him before.” She knew who had paid him, though, but for now she dared not share that information. “I’ve no idea who he is.”

He drew in a quick breath. “None at all?”

The sharpness in his tone made her look up. Medical concern had given way to exceptional interest. His burning black eyes sent an involuntary shiver down her back. Julian Darke was not merely a good Samaritan; he was after something more.

“Why do you ask?” she countered. “Did you see something?”

He leaned back in the carved oak chair. “I will tell you what I saw that night, Miss Barchester. I saw you get into a carriage with a man called Sir Thaddeus Ormond. I saw you being abducted and taken down to a deserted dock. And I saw you almost stabbed to death before I managed to intervene.”

The mere mention of Sir Thaddeus Ormond was enough to turn her stomach to water. She clung onto the sheets as though they were a crucifix. Dear God, her instincts were right. Her rescuer wasn’t just a disinterested passerby. Somehow he was connected to Thaddeus Ormond, and therefore she couldn’t trust him. Not yet, not until she was more certain of his motives.

“Thaddeus Ormond?” She attempted a nonchalant shrug without much success. “Oh, he is merely an acquaintance.”

“A mere acquaintance, is he?” His hand curled into a fist on his knee. “A mere acquaintance who delivered you into the clutches of your would-be murderer.”

Beneath the quilts her legs trembled, but she refused to give in. “Why are you so interested in him?”

“Zounds! Why do you wish to protect him? After what his animal did to your hand, not to mention your face…” He gesticulated towards her, a lock of his untidy hair falling over his brow.

She tugged at the bandages encircling her head. “H-how bad is it? I want to see.”

His voice lowered. “Later, when you’re stronger.” He placed his fingers over hers. “I’ve been remiss in my duties. I shouldn’t have upset you with my impertinent questions.”

“I shall be even more upset if you don’t remove these bandages.” She yanked at the fabric, unease worming harder as she read the worry in his expression. “Will you assist me, or do I have to rip these off myself?”

He hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Very well, but you must remember the body takes time to heal.” She held herself still as he slowly unwound the cloth. The bandages coming off were spotted with dried blood, but she said nothing, simply waited until he had finished. She had to wait a little longer as he examined her face, probing her flesh gently with his long, sensitive fingers. From a drawer in the table next to the bed, he drew out a small round mirror and handed it to her.

Finally. Without hesitation she lifted the mirror and stared into it. A stranger gazed back at her. The stranger’s face was swollen and scratched, bruises blooming black, purple, green. Deep gashes marked both cheeks, the worst ones travelling the entire length from the outer corner of her eye down to the tip of her chin. Dozens of tiny black stitches, each one impossibly small, followed the splits, holding together the red, slightly distended flesh. Bits of dried blood and dead tissue sprinkled the fissures.

Her stomach clenched in denial. She sucked in a long breath, and then another. A frenzied urge to tear at her face almost overwhelmed her, and it took all her strength to remain perfectly still.

The man beside her cleared his throat. “The wounds are healing nicely. The inflammation is abating. I should be able to remove the stitches in a couple of days.”

She swallowed. The stony lump in her throat was immoveable. “Will—will I have scars?”

Stupid, stupid question. Of course she would have scars.

“I’m afraid so,” he said gently. “I am sorry.”

His sympathy scoured her. He’d saved her life, and here she was worrying about something as inconsequential as scars. What a vain simpleton he must think her.

“This stitching is extremely fine,” she remarked, determined to meet this challenge with all the composure she could muster. “Is that your doing?”

He inclined his head. “I took as much care as I could, but…” He lifted his shoulders.

“No, I’m very grateful to you.” She lowered the mirror. “For everything you’ve done. I can’t thank you enough.”

He rolled up the soiled bandages. “You won’t require these anymore.” He stood to leave. “You should rest. We’ll speak again later.”

When he had left the room, she raised the mirror again and studied her reflection for several long minutes. Her hair was lank and matted with sweat and dirt. Apart from the angry red scars, her skin was like putty, grey and slack. Heavy dark circles hung beneath her eyes. She could barely recognise herself. She looked like a grotesque patchwork doll torn apart and haphazardly stitched together again by a drunken seamstress. Coupled with her defiled hand, she was an abnormality, a freak in a menagerie. A woman like that should be hidden away, locked behind bars.

Her chest heaved. Disgust and fear welled up. She flung the mirror away from her. It crashed into a dim corner and broke with a tinkle of glass. She pulled the covers over her head, but the mocking shadows were inside her, and there was no escaping them.

Chapter Three

Three days later the last of the fever had vanished, and Nellie was strong enough to leave her bed. The temptation to hide beneath the covers still assailed her, especially when she woke each morning and remembered afresh where she was and how she had come to be there, but she knew the only way to overcome her difficulties was to seize them by the scruff of their necks.

This morning she was sitting on the edge of her bed when Mrs. Tibbet arrived with hot water. The housekeeper had been assisting her with her ablutions each morning, but today Nellie was resolved to manage on her own.

“You’ll feel better on your own two feet,” the housekeeper opined as she set down the jug with a thump. The woman was small, round, dark and wrinkled, and resembled nothing so much as a walnut. A few whiskers sprouted from her bulbous chin, and she spoke with a peculiar whistling lisp. “There’re some clothes I’ve aired for you in that there wardrobe, if you’ve a mind to join the family for breakfast.”

“Oh, thank you. I think I will go downstairs.” For the past few days she’d been fed only watery gruels, and the thought of a proper breakfast gave her extra impetus to emerge from her room.

“Have your wash, then, m’dear, and I’ll help you to dress.”

Nellie opened her mouth to assure the housekeeper that she could dress herself, but the muscles in her arms and shoulders were stiff and aching, constricting her mobility, and she realised she’d need some assistance.

She rose to her feet and approached the washstand. Her legs were not completely steady, in part because of her lingering torpor, but mainly because of what she would see in the large bevelled mirror above the washstand. Ruing her cowardice, she marched across the room and glared defiantly at herself in the mirror. She might look macabre, but she would wash and make herself presentable and go downstairs for breakfast like any normal person.

Clumsily she washed herself using only her right hand. Yesterday Julian Darke had removed the stitches from her face. He’d worked with remarkable finesse, barely causing her any discomfort. She knew she was lucky, that most doctors would have left her face a butchered mess, but she couldn’t help flinching at the ruins of her once perfect complexion. She sighed in exasperation. What could she expect from others if she was so squeamish herself?

She put on the clean chemise, drawers and stockings Mrs. Tibbet handed to her. There was no sign of any corset, but she didn’t need one when she slipped on the white dress and saw it was fashioned in the Empire silhouette, a style that had been popular decades ago. Made of cotton and embroidered silk, the dress floated over her body, as gauzy and delicate as a cloud. The frock was simply beautiful, something a well-to-do young lady would possess, and she, plain Nellie Barchester, with red scars crisscrossing her cheeks and a disfigured hand, had no business appropriating it. But there were no other clothes for her to wear, and Mrs. Tibbet was already fastening the buttons down the rear of the dress.

“Eh, you do look a treat,” the housekeeper said with some satisfaction as she handed a pair of cream slippers to Nellie.

Nellie fingered the intricate embroidery, marvelling at its fineness. “But whose dress is this?” As far as she knew, Mrs. Tibbet was the only other female in this house.

“Why, yours of course!” Mrs. Tibbet stared at her. “The master will be pleased to see you in his favourite dress.” Before Nellie could question her further, the strange little housekeeper bustled out of the room.

What on earth could Mrs. Tibbet have meant? It made no sense at all.

Nellie’s hand shook as she opened the door. For a moment the familiarity of her room pulled her back, but she stepped out with a firm tread and made her way downstairs. To her relief, Julian stood waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.

“Mrs. Tibbet advised me you’d be coming down.” He greeted her with a smile, and she found herself smiling back in return. Now that she was upright, his handsomeness hit her afresh. Besides being tall and graceful, his unruly black hair and golden skin lent him a certain exotic air, and there was a spark in his jet black eyes as he surveyed her. “You look very well,” he added.

She smoothed down the front of her dress uncertainly. “I’m not sure who this dress belongs to. Mrs. Tibbet seemed to think it was your favourite…?”

“Mine?” Julian looked startled before his expression cleared. “Oh, I think she might have been referring to my father, there. You see, that dress belonged to his late wife. She passed away many years ago, hence the outmoded style of the frock. Mrs. Tibbet gets confused at times.”

“I understand. But won’t your father mind me wearing his late wife’s clothing? I wouldn’t want to cause any distress.”

“Elijah won’t mind in the least, I assure you. He was called out early, so we breakfast alone.” He ushered her into a dining room. Here, ancient oak beams, timber panelling, dark furniture and faded carpets all conspired against the wintry sunlight leaching through leaded windows. Opaque portraits of long-dead ancestors peered down at them from the walls. Thick velvet curtains were drawn back, revealing a rambling, frostbitten garden beyond.

When Mrs. Tibbet set a platter of beef rib roast on the table, Nellie stared in surprise, but Julian appeared quite unperturbed. “Thank you, Mrs. Tibbet.” He waited until the housekeeper had departed before addressing Nellie. “As I said, Mrs. Tibbet becomes confused about certain matters, especially when it comes to meal times. We are just as likely to get roast pork for breakfast as we are bacon and eggs, and similarly so at dinner.”

Mrs. Tibbet returned with roast potatoes, stuffed onions and gravy. Julian carved some beef for Nellie and passed her the plate. She could eat only a few bites of meat and potato, her stomach rebelling against the rich fare. Fortunately, the housekeeper had also provided a pot of tea, and she poured herself a large, reviving cup.

“Do you come from a long line of doctors?” she asked, tilting her head towards the portraits on the wall.

Julian blinked at the paintings as if seeing them for the first time. “No indeed. Most of those men were wily aldermen and councillors. The Darkes rose to prominence during the Civil War. A tricky time for staking allegiances, but the Darkes managing to alter tack as the prevailing winds changed, so to speak.” He paused, an odd look on his face. “Perhaps I should clarify that my father adopted me when I was just a babe, so I’m a Darke by name, but not by birth.”

“Oh.” Not knowing quite how to respond, she found herself blurting out, “My father is a doctor too.”

“Your father?” Julian’s eyebrows shot up. “I hadn’t heard you mention him before. Will he not be anxious about you? Do you wish to send him a message?”

Flustered, she dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Er, no, that would only cause unnecessary alarm. I—he lives in the Midlands, you see, and knows nothing about—about me being in London.”

And even if he did, he wouldn’t care, except to curse her for deserting him. Once, he’d been a kind enough parent, but after her mother’s death he’d retreated, gradually losing himself in a haze of opiates, until there was nothing left of him except a bitter, selfish husk. No, she could never return to him or that life.

“Is there anyone else you wish to contact?” Julian asked. “Anyone else who might be concerned about you?”

This wasn’t the first time he’d asked her, and just like before she shook her head. She couldn’t contact Pip. Not yet. A part of her longed to think Pip would be distraught over her sudden disappearance, but that was the romantic fool in her. She had to be sure of her facts before she revealed herself to him. And besides, there was another, far more primitive, reason for her reluctance. Of their own volition her fingers strayed to her cheeks and traced the bumpy outline of her cicatrix. How would Pip react to her flawed face, her disfigured hand? He used to call her his buttercup, his sweet pea. But what would he call her now—goblin, troll?

With a shiver she balled her napkin in her lap. “No, there is no one.”

“You’re recently arrived in London then?” Across the table Julian’s expression softened. He had beautiful eyes, dark, almond-shaped, fringed by thick lashes. And he gazed upon her without the slightest trace of revulsion, in fact, almost the opposite, as if he enjoyed looking at her. But then, he was a doctor, and she was his patient. No doubt he was only admiring his handiwork.

Again she nodded. “I, er, have been looking for work. I’ve some experience as a nurse.” Pip had objected to the idea. Even though they were living in penury, he couldn’t countenance the thought of her labouring for a wage.

“I suppose you assisted your father with his patients?”

“As much as I could.” Increasingly her father had come to rely on her. The governors of the asylum were none too particular about the medical attention given to the patients, but some semblance of competency had to be maintained. Her father’s slide into dissipation had been gradual, but as it worsened she feared his ineptness would be uncovered and they would be thrown out on the street. So, bit by bit, she’d taken over much of her father’s routine duties, and as long as the patients were kept docile, the wardens had seen fit to look the other way. Since she had left, her father would have to fend for himself, a fact he’d be none too happy with. If he’d been more of a father to her, if he’d at least protected her from the abhorrent advances of Mr. Crawley, she might have stayed. But it was all too late for speculation.

“However, I doubt I’ll find much employment now.” She lifted her left hand and ruefully waggled her remaining fingers. “My hand is not much use, and my appearance is enough to give a child nightmares.”

“Don’t lose all hope, Miss Barchester. You’re only at the beginning of your rehabilitation. I predict you’ll be more sanguine in a week or so.”

His confident tone made her study him curiously. “Have you been practicing long, Doctor?”

“A number of years. I’d spent some time studying at Edinburgh University, but returned here to assist my father. He’s involved with setting up a new hospital nearby, and cannot see as many patients as before, so I’ve taken up the slack, so to speak.”

She was impressed, as the medical school in Edinburgh was renowned for its research in anatomy and surgery. She could not have asked for a better-qualified physician to operate on her damaged face.

Julian set down his knife and fork and wiped his chin with his napkin. “Now, if you’ve finished breakfasting, I shall show you the rest of the house.”

Monksbane House, as it was called, had started off several centuries ago as a small Tudor manor, and over the years successive owners had demolished bits and added other wings in haphazard fashion. Julian led Nellie through a maze of rooms, some surprisingly spacious and airy, others so cramped he had to bend his head to avoid the ancient, blackened beams. Generations of Darkes had left behind a multitude of furniture, paintings, porcelain and carpets, everything cluttered and dusty.

“I’m afraid this house is too much for Mrs. Tibbet,” Julian apologised, as if noticing for the first time how unkempt some of the rooms were.

“Could you not hire some maids to help her?” Nellie asked.

“We do, but they constantly refuse to stay. Mrs. Tibbet tends to frighten them off.”

“Oh? I hadn’t noticed her being particularly fearsome.”

They were standing in a dim gallery where the sunlight struggled to penetrate the dirty windows. Julian blew at a cobweb dangling from the ceiling. “Mrs. Tibbet is prone to seizures. Some people—many people, in fact—find them frightening, especially ignorant young maids, all of whom think Mrs. Tibbet is possessed by demons, despite my repeated explanations.” He frowned. “You don’t believe in that superstitious nonsense, do you?”

“No, of course not.” She’d witnessed plenty of seizures in the asylum and had grown accustomed to them, though the spasms and frothing of the patients had always distressed her.

Julian nodded. “If you do happen upon Mrs. Tibbet when she’s having a seizure, you need only ensure she’s not choking on something and roll her on her side when the convulsions subside. Contrary to popular belief, you do not have to restrain her, and she will recover in due course.”

Nellie listened to him with growing surprise. Many of the patients at the asylum had been brought there solely because of the seizures they suffered. They were thought to be mad and dangerous. Yet here was Julian Darke telling her these people didn’t need to be incarcerated or treated so harshly.

“We have a hard time finding housemaids,” Julian said. “But Mrs. Tibbet has been with us for many years.”

And so he and his father put up with their untidy surroundings and eccentric meals for the sake of the housekeeper. Such a benevolent attitude she’d never encountered before. Little wonder he hadn’t thought twice to come to her rescue. He was simply that sort of man. If it hadn’t been for him, she would now be a lifeless corpse rotting somewhere unspeakable.

“Miss Barchester, are you feeling quite well?” Julian said.

It must have been the thought of death that had made her pale. Biting her lip, she replied steadily, “Quite well, thank you.”

“Perhaps a turn in the garden would do you good.”

“Yes, certainly.” She nodded. She’d been cooped up with her dark thoughts for too long; some fresh air would help to clear the shadows dogging her mind.

But a few minutes later, armed with boots and shawl, when she stepped outside with Julian, her nerves were not calmed but rather assaulted. Skeletal trees towered over them like the bleached bones of whales, piles of dead leaves rattled in the keening breeze, dried grass crunched underfoot like crumbling bone. From the garden walls, jackdaws cackled at her. Against the arid wind, her scars tightened and ached, and her eyes blurred and watered, unaccustomed to the harshness. Shivering, she pressed her hands to her cheeks and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Is there some shelter nearby?” she asked Julian.

“Of course.” Seeming to sense her discomfort, he took hold of her elbow. “My workshop is just past this hedge.”

He led her round a laurel hedge and into a large brick building. Inside, it was slightly warmer and smelled of sawdust and grease. As her eyes adjusted to the interior light, she saw it was indeed a workshop. There were benches and shelves filled with equipment and tools of every kind. In the centre of the workshop stood a wheelchair with some sort of engine attached to its rear. A man, who’d been polishing the smokestack of the engine, stood to attention as soon as they entered the workshop.

Drawing in a quick gasp, Nellie halted abruptly. It was the man-beast of her delirium, the hulking creature with the split mouth who’d frothed and bellowed at her. She’d thought him just a nightmare, but here he was in the flesh, his face screwed up in a ferocious scowl— And that hand of his clutching a cloth, that was not flesh but the eerie metal pincer she recognised from before… Her throat tightened as she recoiled from the creature.

“Miss Barchester, it’s only Figgs, our manservant.” Julian’s calm voice broke through her gathering turmoil.

His manservant? She swallowed and peered at the man-beast more closely. His scowl was more timorous than fierce, she perceived. It was merely the crags and bumps on his face that gave him such a forbidding expression. And the split in his mouth was due to his cleft palate, which was also responsible for his unintelligible mutterings. And the metal pincer was there because he had no left hand at all. He wasn’t a beast, just a humble servant regarding her with apprehension because of her reaction to his unusual appearance.

Shame instantly engulfed her. With her facial scars and mutilated hand, she was every bit as deformed as this man, and yet she’d reacted towards him with such horror. Was that how she wanted others to treat her?

“F-Figgs, I do apologise most profusely.” She stepped towards him and tried to give him an encouraging smile.

Startled, the servant garbled something out which she couldn’t understand. For a moment she wondered if her smile had seemed hideous to him.

Julian nodded at the man as if he understood him perfectly. “Very well, Figgs. Carry on.” He waited until the man had shuffled out of the workshop before addressing Nellie. “Figgs lost his hand when he was a boy, run over by a coach. He is a little hard to understand, especially when he’s nervous, but he’s a very loyal servant. He’s been with us for years.” He moved to the wheelchair Figgs had been polishing and ran his hand over the shiny smokestack. “What do you think of my contraption?”

She examined the machine more closely. “It looks like a steam-powered wheelchair.”

“Exactly right. I call it my motor-chair. It can travel for two hours on one load of coal.” He grinned at her, pride in his machine showing through.

“I thought you were a doctor, not an engineer.”

“I’m a bit of both. I trained as a doctor, but I’ve always had an interest in making things. In Edinburgh I was able to combine my fascination with anatomy and engineering. These days I hope to use both skills to help my patients. This motor-chair is for an ex-soldier who lost both his legs in the war. Fortunately he’s wealthy enough to afford it. The motor-chair was easy enough to build, but other items are more of a challenge.”

She glanced at him curiously. “How so?”

“Well…” He gave her a considering look before beckoning her to one of the benches. “Come over here. I’ve been working on something recently. I wasn’t going to show it to you just yet, but since you’re here I see no reason not to.”

Thoroughly intrigued, Nellie moved closer. On the bench were a few pliers and cutters, together with coils of wire and a small wooden box. Julian moved around the bench to stand opposite her and placed his hands on the box. He studied her with an air of suppressed anticipation.

“Miss Barchester, unfortunately there is no remedy for your scars. I tried to stitch as carefully as I could, and of course the scars will fade a little, but you will never be rid of them.”

At his words, she lowered her head, unable to take the frank pity in his eyes. Julian had just acknowledged that she was ugly and unappealing, and would always remain so. Her heart dipped, and she had to clench her hands to stop them from trembling.

Julian began to speak quickly, stumbling over his words. “Deuce take it, I didn’t mean to offend you, Miss Barchester. I—”

“No, no. I’m not offended.” She gulped but could not meet his eyes.

“I meant no offence. I merely wished to point out that—oh, dash it all. See here, I have something to show you.” He threw open the box and pulled something out. “Look, Miss Barchester. See what I have made for you.”

Hesitantly, she lifted her gaze until she spied the object in his hands which he held out for her inspection. “What—what is it? It looks like a glove.”

“Precisely, but this is no ordinary glove. It has two artificial fingers to replace the ones you lost.” Raising the glove, he waggled it at her.

Nellie stared at the disembodied fingers waving in front of her. She’d never seen anything like that before. They looked bizarre…grotesque…like spare parts for a broken marionette… Is that what she was to him? A damaged puppet for him to dabble with? A surge of nausea stung the back of her throat.

She glared at him. “How dare you.”

A look of complete confusion came over him. “But, Miss Barchester, I only wish to help you—”

“Help yourself, more like. Is this what you do, Dr. Darke? You experiment on devastated patients for your own gratification? Am I just another of your human menagerie, like Figgs and Mrs. Tibbet and your legless soldier? Well, you can think again. I won’t be a part of your sick endeavours.” She stared at her dismembered hand, and all the anguish she’d been suppressing welled up in a bitter tide. “I wish to God you’d never rescued me. I wish you’d left me to die instead,” she muttered, before she whirled around and fled the building.

Chapter Four

Julian spurred his horse on down the muddy road, eager to put distance between himself and Monksbane. Or rather, between himself and Nellie. The stinging words she’d flung at him reverberated in his head. Had he done her a grievous disservice in saving her life? He’d been so puffed up with his deeds that he hadn’t properly taken into consideration her sensibilities. And now she thought he viewed her as nothing more than a sideshow freak, a submissive patient with whom he could experiment. Intolerable!

He’d become too distracted with Nellie Barchester. He’d allowed his blossoming feelings for her cloud his judgement. Yes, he admired her instinct for survival, her deep well of inner strength, her grace that transcended her ravaged face and hand, but he knew very little about her. She was connected to Sir Thaddeus Ormond, yet she refused to tell him what that relationship was, and until she did could not be trusted. He had to remember that. And, too, he had other fish to fry, not to mention numerous patients he’d neglected in the past week.

The road soon reached the built-up areas that marked the creeping tide line of the encroaching city. Fields and woodland gave way to rows of terraced housing, quiet receded before rumbling trains and raucous traffic, and the grey sky faded to a dirty smudge. He had a few patients here, some humble factory workers, other more well-to-do folk who commuted on the train to the city—shop clerks, articled clerks, government workers. He did his rounds, and then was on his way again.

The city burgeoned like a great, grimy pudding smothered in a thick sauce of smog. Hunched across the landscape, hordes of factories belched out smoke like so many fire-breathing dragons. Fine specks of ash sifted through the air to settle on everything in a sooty film. Julian’s pace slowed as the roads became choked with all manner of carts, wagons, omnibuses and carriages. He’d enjoyed his years of study up north in Edinburgh, but London was like no other city, and the place did not agree with him. It was too dense, too avid, too clamouring, too vast. The day was half-gone, and he still had a way to travel, but he pushed on. His ears ached with the din of clattering wheels and angry drivers. Pungent odours assaulted his nose as he neared Mr. Cazalet’s street. Here were row upon row of narrow houses, many of their front rooms serving as shopfronts. Tailors, watchmakers, milliners and shoemakers plied their trade, while match girls, organ grinders and costermongers tramped up and down the road, hawking their wares.

The retired jeweller seemed pleased to see him again—perhaps he didn’t have many visitors—and ushered him into his modest house. An enormous fire roared in the fireplace, filling the small sitting room with a stifling heat. Mr. Cazalet, apparently immune to the heat, made coffee for his visitor before taking the armchair closest to the fire. While the old man chatted about the comings and goings of his neighbours, Julian sipped the strong, black coffee from a seat furthest away from the fire and surreptitiously loosened his necktie. After a while, he was able to steer the conversation back to the subject of his brooch. This time, he did not have specific questions for the jeweller. On his previous visit, Mr. Cazalet had already pulled out one of the many ledgers that lined the shelves of the room and showed him the entry meticulously recorded—one ruby-and-diamond bee brooch repaired for Miss Ophelia Ormond—that had finally pointed Julian towards Sir Thaddeus Ormond. This time, he merely wanted to know anything about the Ormonds that the jeweller might be willing to tell him.

Mr. Cazalet was surprisingly forthcoming. He’d sold several pieces of jewellery to the Ormond family, and they’d sent many of their repairs to him. That was some years ago. And then suddenly they’d started selling jewellery through him too.

“Not only jewellery, but silver plate too,” Mr. Cazalet said. “Rumour had it Sir Thaddeus’s father had lost the family’s country estate! Gambled away, they said, just before he died. The Ormonds were hard put to meet their debts.”

This was news to Julian. He’d been inside the Ormond’s West End townhouse, had seen all its showy grandeur. How had the family fortunes been restored?

But Mr. Cazalet had gone on to a much more important subject. “That was about the time Miss Ormond came to me with her bee brooch. She came into my shop herself, you see. Didn’t send in her maid or footman like she usually did, just her and a companion, her old governess, I believe. No doubt she wanted to keep her visit a secret.”

Julian had brought the bee brooch with him. He drew it from his pocket and fingered it, the refracted light glowing into his eyes. It was a neat little piece, finely crafted even if the jewels were of no great value. Ophelia Ormond had personally brought in this brooch to be repaired because she didn’t want anyone to know of it.

“Ah, ’tis a pretty thing.” Mr. Cazalet nodded his gnomish head towards the jewel winking in Julian’s hands. “Just the sort of thing a young beau would give to the woman he was wooing. Miss Ormond paid me in cash for the job. Didn’t want the account going to her brother. She was very afraid of her brother finding out, and I’m not surprised. Always a hard man, he was.”

“Do you know who gave her the brooch?” Julian sat tensed on his hard stool, barely able to breathe as the old man packed a long pipe with baccy.

Mr. Cazalet wrinkled his brow. “I don’t recall any name.”

Disappointment crushed his lungs. He shouldn’t have hoped; there was no reason why a genteel young woman like Ophelia Ormond would tell a mere jeweller something so personal.

“But that brooch was very precious to her,” Mr. Cazalet continued. “She begged me to take good care of it. Not that it’s worth that much, mind, but it must of meant something to her.”

“And the woman who accompanied her?”

Mr. Cazalet sucked on his lit pipe. “Nay, she were a plain old bird, anxious about Miss Ormond, is all I remember.”

“Did you see Miss Ormond again after you’d mended the brooch?”

“Never again, no.”

“You seem very sure.”

“After you left the last time, I checked my ledger, but there weren’t no more entries for Miss Ormond after that.”

Julian gripped his knee in some frustration. The date in the jeweller’s ledger was less than a year before he, a newborn babe, had been left at the door of Monksbane. Who had given Ophelia Ormond that brooch? A man she cared about deeply. Someone she’d kept a secret from her domineering brother. Someone not suitable to associate with the Ormonds, let alone sue for her hand.

Julian’s imagination roamed down a well-worn path. Disaster had struck Ophelia. She’d fallen pregnant, and either she was abandoned by her lover, or Sir Thaddeus had forbidden her to marry him. Julian preferred to believe the latter. So poor Ophelia had been bundled off somewhere to hide her disgrace, perhaps with only her old governess for support. It was a common, sordid story. Unwanted babies born out of wedlock could be handed off to so-called “baby farms”, to be used or abused as luck would have it. But somehow Fate had intervened on his behalf, and he’d been deposited on Elijah Darke’s doorstep. Ophelia Ormond might not have been able to keep him, but she had done her best for him, and the brooch she’d left with him confirmed that.

Moisture prickled unfamiliarly behind his eyes. He gritted his teeth until the weakness passed. On the street outside, a muffin man tramped by, his raucous bell jangling Julian’s nerves. Using his coat sleeve, he wiped away a rivulet of perspiration from his temple.

Still smoking, Mr. Cazalet, unaware of his turmoil, was rambling on. “That were the last I saw of the Ormonds. Shortly after, I heard tell Sir Thaddeus married a brewer’s daughter with fifty thousand pounds to her name. No doubt he didn’t want to do business with me again, not when he’d used me to sell off the family silver. Eh, I weren’t sorry to lose the business. Sir Thaddeus is a hard sort of gentleman, very hard.” Removing his pipe from his mouth, he sat forward in his armchair, his eyes gleaming behind his pebble-like spectacles. “Young man, would I be wrong in assuming you’re somehow linked to the Ormonds?”

Frowning, Julian contemplated the old man. How far could he trust him? Then again, he’d already revealed so much just by showing him the brooch. He twirled the piece about in his fingers, then pushed it back into his pocket. “I merely seek the truth.”

The old man shook his wrinkled head. “Be careful what you wish for. Especially if it involves Sir Thaddeus. He’s not a man to cross. If I were you, I would be happy with my lot.”

A quick retort rose to Julian’s lips, which he hastily bit off. Mr. Cazalet was an old man enjoying the fruits of his retirement. Of course he’d preach caution. But he, Julian, was young, fit and determined. He wouldn’t let Sir Thaddeus’s reputation scare him off. Nellie’s attack had shaken him, yes, but he wouldn’t allow mere thuggery to stop him.

He rose to his feet. “Thank you for your kind hospitality, Mr. Cazalet.”

“Oh, taking your leave already?” The jeweller looked disappointed. “I hope you’ll return. I have few visitors these days.”

“I will do that,” he promised.

The old man accompanied him to the front door. “This used to be a good neighbourhood,” he said, pursing his lips at a group of rough-looking men dawdling on the corner. “It used to be respectable people only around here, but with all the trouble on the continent this city is being overrun by foreigners.” He shook his puny fist at the loiterers. “Troublemakers, the lot of ’em!”

Mr. Cazalet’s own forbears would have been émigrés, but Julian refrained from pointing this out and instead took his leave. Outside, the setting sun was a dull bruise on the gritty bowl of the sky. His mare snickered at him as if to say she was weary of the city and wanted to return to her quiet stable. He patted her mane as he pulled himself into the saddle. He knew just how she felt. He longed to reach Monksbane too. But thoughts of home only reminded him of Nellie and her acrimonious accusations. As a consequence, he chose not to hurry, but instead kept his mount to a steady walk.

It was afternoon when Nellie ventured from her room, resolved to apologise to Julian. It had taken her less than five minutes to acknowledge she’d behaved appallingly and owed Julian a heartfelt apology. But she needed to calm herself first, and when she had and descended the stairs, there was no sign of Julian or his father in the house.

She entered the kitchen, where Mrs. Tippet and Figgs were sitting at a table. Figgs had been cleaning a lamp, but as soon as she entered he reared to his feet, a hunted look in his eyes as he nervously tugged at his cleaning cloth.

“Oh, Figgs, please don’t let me disturb you.” She attempted an encouraging smile, and he rewarded her by very slowly resuming his seat and warily continuing with his cleaning, using his pincer appendage with remarkable dexterity.

The cavernous kitchen, though thoroughly ancient, was surprisingly neat and well-kept compared to the rest of the house. Mrs. Tibbet sat at the table polishing a vast amount of silverware. The utensils were already gleaming and, by the look of them, a great quantity of their gilt had already been polished off, yet the housekeeper rubbed the silverware relentlessly. She pronounced to Nellie that she was about to prepare oatmeal and smoked kippers, but Nellie suggested that the hungry doctors would really prefer soup, guinea fowl and lamb cutlets. Mrs. Tibbet cocked her head and eyed her doubtfully, and then said, “Very well, missus,” as if Nellie were the mistress of the house. Thinking it was all to do with the borrowed gown she wore, Nellie decided to say nothing more and left the housekeeper alone.

She waited in the drawing room for Julian to return, but it was not he who arrived home first, but his father. When Elijah Darke entered the room, Nellie started to her feet, acutely conscious that she was wearing his late wife’s clothing.

“Good evening, Miss Barchester,” he greeted her in his deep, mellifluous voice.

“Good evening, Dr. Darke.” While she’d been convalescing in bed, he had briefly introduced himself to her, but this was the first time she’d met him on her own. As his gaze flickered over her garb, she diffidently tweaked at the skirts. “I hope I cause no offence, sir. This was the only dress Mrs. Tibbet provided for me.”

A flash of pain passed through his eyes so quickly she thought she’d imagined it. Inclining his head, he said graciously, “Not at all. I’m glad to see that frock being worn again. You look most charming.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated before adding, “May I ask when the younger Dr. Darke is due back?”

“Not for a while, I’m afraid, according to the message he left me.”

So it came about that she sat down to dinner alone with Elijah Darke. He was most impressed by the meal she’d persuaded Mrs. Tibbet to prepare and told her so. He talked about the new hospital he was helping set up, and about his son who had recently joined his practice. Julian, he informed Nellie, was a great help to him, especially now, when the hospital consumed most of his time, and the years were catching up with him.

“But my son is a very different physician from me,” he said as they ate lemon syllabub. “Julian is full of unique ingenuity, for he’s not just a doctor but a gifted engineer too. He views the human body as a superb piece of machinery and comes up with the most amazing ideas. Take, for example, his inventions for replacing lost limbs. Most clever and innovative. I’m very proud of him, though I don’t often tell him that.”

Nellie felt herself grow warm as Elijah’s praise for his son only intensified her shame. When would Julian return so she could apologise to him?

“Well, it’s good to see you back on your feet, Miss Barchester,” Elijah declared when they had finished their meal.

“I feel much better.” She hesitated as she perceived a hidden question to his seemingly ordinary observation. “I want to thank you and your son for your kind hospitality. I’m very grateful to you both, and—and you can rest assured I will not overstay my welcome.” But where would she go from here? For a moment complete panic blanked out her mind. She was penniless and friendless and had nowhere to go. Even the clothes on her back were not her own.

Elijah Darke waved his hand. “Oh, you’ll not be leaving so soon, I hope. Not when you’ve shown such promise with Mrs. Tibbet. I haven’t enjoyed such a satisfying dinner in a long time. And besides, you are still recuperating from your nasty assault.”

“I am much obliged, but I’m not sure I should trespass on your hospitality indefinitely.”

“Come, now. You would be doing me and Julian a great favour if you could persuade Mrs. Tibbet to cook appropriate meals. A great favour. You’ve no idea how much I detest porridge for dinner.”

Nellie couldn’t help smiling at that and assented, even though she suspected this was only Elijah’s way of allowing her to stay without feeling she was a burden.

As they rose from the dinner table, there was a knock at the front door, and the thought that Julian had returned caused her heart to start hammering. But when Elijah opened the door, it was not Julian but a stranger who strolled into the hallway.

“Heigh ho, Doctor. Do you have a dram of whiskey for a thirsty rascal?” The man greeted Elijah in a jovial manner. Spying Nellie further down the hallway, he doffed his hat and sketched her an extravagant bow. “Why, good evening, miss.”

As Elijah made the introductions, the stranger stepped forward, his eyes fixed on her, but just a few feet away he stopped abruptly, his smile freezing. A hot flush swamped Nellie’s body. The blood surged into her cheeks and thudded in her ears, drowning out Elijah’s voice. The stranger continued to stare. All she could think was how ugly she must appear to him, and how vain of her to care about a stranger’s opinion. It ought not to matter what he thought of her, but somehow it did. As her damp hands clutched at her skirts, the stumps of her missing fingers itched madly, reminding her of their absence, and the scars on her cheeks tingled too. Elijah was saying something, but she couldn’t hear for the rushing noise in her ears. Unable to withstand the pressure, she mumbled something incoherent, before turning away to hasten up the staircase.

Julian arrived back at Monksbane with his growling stomach reminding him he hadn’t eaten all day. He saw to his horse, then foraged for bread and cheese in the kitchen. His father, as usual, was still up and would stay up reading past midnight. Julian sat with him but was disinclined to tell his father how he’d spent the majority of his afternoon. Elijah seemed preoccupied with more pressing matters.

“I heard from Lord Penton that he’s selling Lime Hill to an investment company who wish to divide it into building lots,” Elijah said.

Lime Hill was just to the south of Monksbane, separated by a few fields and a small wood. Their neighbour, Lord Penton, had lost a fortune through injudicious investments, so the sale of Lime Hill was no great surprise, but the thought of suburban streets and houses springing up so close by depressed Julian. “I suppose it’s selfish to begrudge people space for decent housing,” he said. “But I hate the thought of having the city right on our doorstep.”

“It is inevitable.” Leaning back, Elijah contemplated the volumes of books lining his library. “Soon, the metropolis will have us in its sights, and it will be our turn to feed its insatiable appetite.”

“We’ll never sell our land!”

A brief smile flickered across Elijah’s weary face. “Never?” Julian opened his mouth to argue, but his father waved him away. “It’s too late in the night to debate the matter. Go to bed, son.”

So Julian bid his father good night, lit a candle and made his way upstairs. He had almost reached his bedroom door when he heard a creak behind him and turned to find Nellie peeking at him from her room. Nonplussed, he stopped, not anticipating their meeting so soon. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been furious with him, but now her expression was far from angry.

“Miss Barchester?” he said stiffly, wary of the wrath that had previously come whirling out of her without warning.

She left her room and stood in front of him, her hands clasped in front of her, her expression clouded and uncertain. “Dr. Darke, I must offer you an abject apology,” she said in a hesitant voice. “Earlier today I accused you of the vilest ambitions, but I realise now you were only trying to help me. I’m truly sorry.”

At her humble words, his coolness instantly melted. “I’m sorry too,” he said, striding forward. “I should have explained myself first, not thrust that thing in front of you so impetuously.”

She nodded and blinked, relief spreading across her face. “I would like very much to see your artificial fingers. Right now, if you’re not too tired.”

He had been tired, but not anymore. “It would be my pleasure,” he replied warmly.

Pulling her shawl around her shoulders, she fell into step beside him as he held the candle aloft to light their way down the staircase. As they stepped out into the freezing night air, he said to her, “I heard from my father about Mr. Derringer startling you earlier tonight. I must apologise for him. Gareth is an old family friend but a bit of a scallywag, and sometimes he forgets his manners. He didn’t mean to distress you.”

She pressed her lips together. “No, I should be the one to grow a thicker skin. People will stare at me, and I need to become accustomed to that.”

Her grimness took him by surprise. It seemed ludicrous that she should be so ashamed of her appearance. To him the scars on her face were not hideous defects but symbols of her grace and strength of character. Hers was not a soft, soothing beauty but one tempered by adversity. Her body, scarred though it was, was infinitely lovely, and the way her diaphanous gown flowed over her curves only served to highlight her attractions.

“If a man stares at you, you should not automatically assume he’s repelled by your appearance,” he couldn’t help saying. She gave him a startled glance, but aware he’d said too much, he ushered her into his workshop and busied himself lighting some lamps as he quickly changed the subject. “I’ve always been interested in mechanics, and my work as a doctor led me to a fusion of ideas. I’ve been experimenting with the notion of creating artificial body parts, not just rigid bits of metal, but actual functioning pieces. You’ve seen Figgs’s appendage. It’s a crude implement forged many years ago by a blacksmith. For the past six months I’ve been working on a proper replacement hand for him. It’s been problematic, but when you, ah, arrived, it got me thinking that perhaps a couple of missing fingers would be easier to replicate than an entire hand.”

He waved her towards the bench and opened the wooden box she’d seen earlier. This time, he spread the glove out on the bench so she could study it. At first glance the glove appeared to be made of grey lace, but in reality it was made of a very lightweight metal mesh, almost like chainmail but much finer and more flexible.

“You made this yourself?” She picked up the glove and examined it closely, turning it this way and that. “The craftsmanship is most impressive.”

A spurt of gratification flashed through him, and he couldn’t help grinning at her. “Thank you, but I think what’s inside is more amazing.” He picked up the metal glove carefully. “You see, where your missing fingers are, I have inserted fully functioning fingers made of steel and rubber.” He wiggled one of the digits. “Look, its articulation allows it to act just like a human finger.”

“But how does it move of its own volition?”

“It cannot, unfortunately. But there is a ring inside the glove that goes onto the wearer’s index finger. The ring is connected to the two artificial fingers and has specially designed springs which work so the two fingers will mimic the movements of the index finger. Therefore, should you curl your index finger, so will the substitutes, and similarly when you stretch it out. At least, that’s what it does in practice. I haven’t been able to test it fully on an amputee yet.”

He proffered the glove towards her. She gazed at it with some trepidation as if she feared it would bite her, but after a moment she stuck out her hand towards him. “Go ahead, put on the glove.”

This time, it was he who hesitated. “I must warn you, you might experience a little pain in your wounds.”

She uttered a choking laugh. “After this past week, I’m well acquainted with pain. Don’t worry. The pain will be nothing.”

Slowly he took her hand in his and gently probed the stumps of her fingers. He tried to examine her with a doctor’s dispassion but couldn’t help a sudden rush of pleasure at touching her. The skin on the back of her hand was soft and smooth, the flesh of her palm firm and sturdy. The warmth of her hand triggered a sensuous fervour like a burst of apple-scented sunshine. Ambushed, he sucked in a quick breath, only to realise it wasn’t just his hand quivering, but hers too.

“Am I hurting you, Miss Barchester?” he almost stammered.

She blinked at him, a dazed look in her green eyes. “Pardon?”

“Do you wish me to continue?”

Nervously she licked her lips, which caused a sudden stab of desire in his loins. The urge to press his lips to the softness of her inner wrist almost overwhelmed him. Never had he experienced such a precipitous onslaught. Surely she must sense his arousal. Great dickens, he must look out if he were not to make a colossal fool of himself! He was a physician, she was his patient, and he ought to conduct himself with the proper decorum.

She nodded her head. “Please continue,” she answered firmly.

Once more Julian bent to his task, willing himself to ignore the delightful feel of her skin. From the innards of the metal glove, he teased out the metal ring which he slipped onto her index finger. He instructed her to curl her finger, and when she did so, a look of amazement broke over her face as she saw the artificial digits of the glove move in unison. She repeated the movement and each time the glove faithfully copied her. Satisfied, Julian drew the rest of the glove over her hand and fastened it at her wrist.

She twisted her fingers this way and that. “It’s a miracle,” she exclaimed. “Quite ingenious.”

Julian grinned back at her, deeply gratified by her reaction. “It works better than I’d hoped. I will need to adjust the length of the fingers; they’re slightly too long. There’s one more function I’d like you to test. Hold up your hand and squeeze your thumb hard against your index finger.”

Nellie did as he asked. The glove emitted a minute click, and two tiny blades shot out from the tips of her synthetic fingers. “My God! Switchblade knives.”

“Small, but sharp. They wouldn’t kill anyone, unless you nicked a major artery, but it would inflict a nasty cut, and it has the element of surprise. I thought you could do with some hidden protection, but if you don’t like them they can easily be removed.”

She tested the finely honed instruments on a piece of paper. The blades cut through cleanly.

“No, leave them,” she said. “How do I retract them?”

“You simply squeeze your thumb again.”

She practiced the triggering mechanism several times. “They’re like the claws of a cat. Rather apt, considering the stripes on my face.”

The glove, he saw, had given her new confidence. She looked different, more assured, altogether more attractive.

He smiled at her. “Miss Barchester? You look quite fierce now that you’re armed. I should hate to accost you in a dark alley.”

She blushed faintly and smiled back at him. “‘Miss Barchester’ is so stuffy and formal. Please call me Nellie.”

His grin widened. “As long as you’re happy I’m not taking liberties. And of course you must call me Julian.”

“Thank you, Julian.” She flicked the blades up one last time. “From here on, no one will be taking liberties with me.”

Chapter Five

Two days later, the lowering sun squinted through the trees as Julian plodded towards the house on his tired mare. The animal slowed to snatch a mouthful of winter grass from the verge, but Julian didn’t have the heart to hie her on. At least one of them ought not to suffer after the miserable outing.

As he approached the house, Figgs loped out to meet him and take charge of the horse.

“Is my father home yet?” Julian asked.

“Nay, sorr,” the man whistled through the cleft in his lip.

Julian entered the house, relieved that he wouldn’t have to speak to Elijah for a while. He needed some time alone, time to make sense of all that had occurred today.

“Julian? Has something happened?”

The shadowy interior of the sitting room shifted, and Nellie moved towards him. She stood calm and poised, a piece of sewing in her hands, her coppery brown hair thick and glinting on her shoulders.

“I’ve had some bad news,” he heard himself say. He hadn’t meant to speak about his afternoon, but now he had, and it seemed he might as well continue. “Someone I know has died.”

“Oh, no.” She started towards him as if she meant to touch him, but appeared to change her mind and instead gestured towards the nearest settee. “Please, sit down. You look exhausted.”

Through his disquiet, he was dimly aware that the sitting room looked far neater than before. The windows were clean, the carpet swept, the dust banished, the clutter put away. All Nellie’s doing. And the shirt she’d been mending was one of his too. He dropped onto the nearest settee, and as soon as he hit the cushions a grey cloud rose up from his clothes.

“My goodness, you’re covered in ash.” Nellie tapped the sleeve of his coat, eliciting a further puff of dust. “Where have you been?”

“In the city, sifting through the remains of a burnt-out house. It belonged to a retired jeweller, a Mr. Cazalet. He died in the fire, in his bedroom upstairs.”

“That’s terrible. When did this happen?”

“Last night. I went to visit him today, but it was too late.” He rubbed his gritty eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as frustration welled up once more. “Too damned late.”

Nellie’s skirts rustled as she stood. He heard the chink of glass against bottle, and a moment later she nudged a tumbler of brandy into his grimy hands.

“Tell me what happened,” she said as she reseated herself.

Nursing the tumbler between his hands, he gazed at her, grateful for her presence. After the horrendous hours he’d passed, she was a gust of fresh air, a drink of pure water. She was the one person he wanted to confide in. Needed to confide in.

He dug into the inner pocket of his frock coat and pulled out a small brooch. “See this? I was left on the doorstep of this house wrapped in a plain woollen shawl and nothing to identify me except this brooch.”

He handed it to Nellie.

“It’s not particularly valuable in monetary terms,” Julian continued, “but it’s the only link to my true parentage.”

Nellie nodded slowly as she traced the circle of tiny diamonds surrounding the ruby. “A delightful piece, nevertheless. It must be a comfort to you, knowing that your mother left this with you, that she didn’t abandon you out of choice.”

Grimacing, he took a swallow of brandy. Was it a comfort or a curse, possessing that brooch? Wouldn’t it have been better if his mother had left no clue? Plenty of newborn babes were abandoned by their mothers. He would have grown up happy and grateful for Elijah’s care and love, and not spared a thought for the woman who’d given birth to him. But instead that wretched bee brooch had needled him all these years, taunting him with the promise of finding his parents, reminding him each time he looked at it that beneath his veneer of success he had no history, no antecedents, no identity.

“Six months ago I decided to try to track down the owner of that brooch,” he said, his voice roughening as he recalled his quest. “I trudged from one jeweller to the next, making endless enquiries. As I’ve said, the brooch isn’t very valuable, so few people were willing to trawl through their records of twenty-odd years ago. I almost gave up, until I met Mr. Cazalet. He was retired and had plenty of time on his hands. He was happy to go through his old books, and eventually he found that yes indeed he’d repaired that very brooch more than twenty-five years ago.” He paused as he realised he was coming to a crucial part of the story. He sat up, the better to gauge Nellie’s reaction. “The person who brought in the brooch was a young woman called Ophelia Ormond, the sister of Thaddeus Ormond.”

Her skin paled, throwing her scars into rough relief. “Ouch.” She winced as she pricked her finger on the pin of the brooch. A tiny bead of blood welled up on her fingertip. “I know nothing about Ophelia Ormond,” she muttered, averting her eyes as she dabbed at the blood with a handkerchief.

“You don’t?” He kept his gaze fixed on her. “She’s been dead many years, but I thought perhaps Sir Thaddeus might have mentioned his sister to you.”

“What makes you think that?” She tipped up her chin defiantly.

“Because I know you’re connected to Thaddeus Ormond in some way.” She twisted her head away, but he continued, “Nellie, you’ve suffered a terrible assault, and your life has been irrevocably altered. As a physician, I’m aware I should allow you all the time you need to recover, but a man is dead—an innocent, harmless old man who did nothing wrong except help me with my enquiries, but now he has perished, and I fear I’m to blame.”

Nellie spun round, her eyes wide with shock. “But…you said the old man died in a house fire.”

“I told Thaddeus Ormond about Mr. Cazalet.” Julian pushed to his feet and gulped down the last of the brandy. The alcohol bit into his empty stomach, but there was no relief. “You see, I went to Ormond with my bee brooch, foolishly thinking he might be able to shed some light on my mother, but he was outraged at my impertinence. His family traced back to the Norman conquest, how dare I turn up on his doorstep casting aspersions upon his dead sister! I grew angry with him, insults were exchanged. I hammered him with all the facts I’d gathered.” Up and down he paced the carpet as his memories tormented him. “I told him about Mr. Cazalet, about Ophelia having the brooch repaired, and now…now Mr. Cazalet is dead, and it’s my fault.” Coming to a halt, he smacked his fist against the mantelpiece.

“But you can’t be sure of that.” Nellie jumped to her feet and stood in front of him. “Houses burn down all the time. It could have been an accident.”

“Perhaps, but my gut tells me otherwise. Sir Thaddeus warned me never to go near him again before ordering his footmen to throw me out of the house. I thought he was malignant and arrogant, but I didn’t comprehend how dangerous he was until I witnessed your abduction.”

“So…you were shadowing Sir Thaddeus that night.” She drew back slightly. “It wasn’t mere serendipity.”

“I should have known how ruthless he could be. I should have warned Mr. Cazalet that he was in danger.” But instead he had dallied at home, ministering to Nellie’s needs. Not that she required much help from him in her recovery. She was rapidly mastering the metal mesh glove and could manipulate the artificial fingers with expert dexterity. As for her facial scars, they were healing as well as could be expected and didn’t need a doctor’s attentions anymore. But he had continued to whittle his time away with her, telling himself his interest was merely professional, but knowing deep down it was much more than that.

He studied her anew. In the diffused interior light, her striped face took on an otherworldly air. Instead of mutilation and horror, he saw an unconventional beauty, a lustre emanating from her inner strength. But his fascination for her had lulled him into a false sense of security, and he had to face the consequences of his distraction.

Gripping her upper arms, he pulled her closer. “Nellie, why won’t you tell me everything you know about Sir Thaddeus? Why the devil are you still protecting him after everything you’ve suffered? Why?”

Instead of crumpling into tears, as he’d half-feared, she braced herself against his hold, her eyes flashing with green fire. “Protecting him! I’m doing nothing of the sort. I loathe and despise Sir Thaddeus. I curse him with every last breath in my body.” The ragged hoarseness of her voice left him in no doubt of her feelings.

“Ah, so you admit to knowing him, at least.”

“Yes, all right. I do know him, though I wish to God I’d never laid eyes on him.” She paused, her throat working as she swallowed convulsively. “He is a bully, a thug, a monster. He will stop at nothing to get his way.”

Julian felt her tremble in his arms, saw tears spring to her eyes. She’d been such a pillar of fortitude, but here she was on the brink of breaking down. A delayed reaction, he thought. Nothing to be concerned about. But the physician in him could not control his other, less noble urges. He slid his arms around her and held her in a loose embrace.

“He wanted you dead, Nellie,” he murmured. “Why was that? What did you do that drove him to such lengths?”

Gulping, she shook her head, emotion robbing her of speech. In an effort to comfort her, he found himself rubbing her back in slow circular motions, and the feel of her body through the soft fabric of her dress sent a tingling warmth shooting through him.

“I’m sorry for distressing you,” he said. “I thought you might be ready to talk, but I see—”

“No, you’re not distressing me.” His nostrils filled with her scent—almond oil and citrus and femininity. She sniffed and dashed the heel of her hand against her damp eyes. “It’s just…I go to pieces whenever I think of what that brute did to me, and—and I’m reminded every time I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror…” Her fingers scraped over the track marks on her cheeks. “I’m a freak, an abomination—”

“Don’t say such things. Do you hear me? I won’t have you debasing yourself like that.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Would you rather I’d left you to die out there? Would you?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps it would have been better.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying that.”

“But look at me. I’m a creature of the shadows. People shy away from me at the first glimpse of my face.”

“Do I shy away from you?” He held her by the shoulders and forced her to look at him. “Well, Nellie, do I?”

She chewed on her lower lip, frowning. “No, but…but you’re a doctor. You’re used to seeing deformities.”

He sighed, his attention caught by the generous swell of her lip beneath her white teeth. The tingling warmth spread through his entire body, coalescing in his loins. “I am a doctor, yes, but I am also a man, and when I look at you I see a strong, vibrant young woman who has much to live for.”

Nellie gave a dry laugh. “Thank you, Doctor. I know you’re only trying to lift my spirits, but thank you anyway.”

“You think I’m dissembling?” Impatience and desire stirred his blood. How could she be so blind? Before he knew what he was doing, he slid his hands up and cupped her face. Her lips parted in surprise. Emotion overpowering self-denial, he lowered his head and pressed his lips against hers. He’d intended to give her just a friendly buss, but the soft generosity of her mouth ambushed him. Heat flared through him. The kiss deepened, he revelled in her sweetness. He ran his fingers through her thick curls to cradle her head all the better to taste her lips. She quivered against the length of his body, but she did not pull away, and her tacit consent emboldened him to wrap one arm around her waist and pull her even closer.

Lifting his head a fraction, he saw she’d shut her eyes tight as if she wanted to divorce herself from reality. But her lips were soft and rosy and inviting, and he couldn’t resist them. He kissed her mouth slowly, startled by the sensations she aroused in him. She was like no other woman he’d ever caressed. She was unique, precious, and he wanted to suck the marrow from every moment of the embrace.

Trailing his lips over her cheeks, he dropped kisses over her cicatrix, eager to memorise every bump and dip, but she instantly jerked her head away.

“Don’t, I beg of you. Please, stop.”

Her hoarse rebuke was like a douse of cold water. Julian released her. She pressed her hands against her cheeks, and the sight of her anguished expression made his heart contract.

“Nellie, I…” For the life of him he couldn’t think what to say. He ploughed his fingers through his hair, tearing at the knots, as if to punish himself.

“How can you…” Her fingers crept over the choppy skin of her cheek. “Doesn’t this…disgust you?”

“No!” He stared at her. “I don’t make a habit of kissing women who disgust me. Rather, the opposite.” He paused before reaching out and gently peeling her fingers away from her face. “I admire you, Nellie, and I admire your looks.”

“How can you?” She shook her head. “I’m a travesty compared to what I was before…”

“But I didn’t know what you looked like before.” He chafed her frozen fingers between his two broad palms. “And besides, it’s what lies beneath the skin that counts. It’s how a woman conducts herself that’s more important than any fleeting beauty.”

Several moments passed as she gazed at him before she slipped her hand free. “That is true, and in that regard I haven’t conducted myself well either. I should not have allowed you to kiss me, Julian, and I should not have allowed myself to enjoy it so much.”

His heart leaped before the rest of her words sunk in. “What do you mean?”

The delicate bone structure of her face stood out in stark relief as she clenched her jaw. “I mean, it was wrong of me to allow such intimacies between us because I’m not a free agent.” She held his gaze. “You see, I am already married.”

Chapter Six

“Married?” Julian shrank away from Nellie. His frozen rictus could not have been more horrified if she’d sprouted a second head. “Who are you married to? Surely not…” A vein pulsed in his perspiring brow. “For the love of everything, tell me you are not married to Thaddeus Ormond.”

“N-no,” she choked out. “Not Sir Thaddeus, but his son. I am married to Phillip Ormond.”

His eyes darkened to black, fathomless pools. He wiped the sleeve of his jacket across his forehead. “Phillip Ormond. I see.” Hauling in breath, he swung away and stalked over to the brandy bottle on the sideboard. The clatter of glass against glass sounded unnaturally loud in the hushed sitting room. “May I pour you a drink?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

She nodded and took the tumbler he proffered with hands that shook uncontrollably. Reckless, she swallowed an incautious gulp, wincing as the brandy lit a fiery streak down her throat.

“You told me your name was Nellie Barchester.”

The accusation in his statement made her bite her lip. She smoothed down the skirts of her dress as she fought to regain her self-control. “I’ve only been married a few weeks. I—I haven’t yet become accustomed to using my married name.” In truth, there was much about married life she hadn’t grown accustomed to. Being called Mrs. Phillip Ormond had been the least of her concerns.

“So. Are you going to tell me how you came to be married?”

He stood away from her, his expression austere, his entire bearing hard and distant. Her heart sank. Until then, she hadn’t realised how much she’d counted on being in Julian’s good graces, but now his forbidding countenance chilled her to the core, causing the words to stutter out of her.

“Yes,” she whispered, clasping her tumbler of brandy. “I shall tell you everything…”

The asylum where Nellie and her father lived took a variety of patients. Some were clearly deranged and lived permanently at the asylum, but others were suffering only temporary lapses, and departed once they recovered.

One day Phillip Ormond was brought to the asylum. For several weeks he’d been staying at a nearby inn, until his increasingly unsettling behaviour and mounting unpaid bills had resulted in an altercation with the innkeeper. He’d suffered a nervous collapse, and the irate innkeeper had summoned the constable, who’d promptly bundled him off to the asylum, keen to be rid of the problem.

From the first day, Nellie was drawn to the young man. She was nineteen, had spent most of her life at the asylum, and had little experience with personable gentlemen. That he was a gentleman was evidenced by his unblemished face and smooth hands, his soft, springy curls, his finely tailored clothes and boots, and the leather-bound books of poetry in his luggage. The fact he appeared not to have a penny to his name was neither here nor there. Nellie found herself spending many hours at his bedside, mopping his fevered brow, tucking in his sheets, spooning mutton broth into his mouth. She daydreamed about who he was and what she might say to him when he recovered, and her innocent fantasies helped to lift the tedium that was her daily rote.

As the young man regained his strength and mental capacities, she spent even more time in his company. He seemed to find her presence soothing, and she was flattered by his attentions. They talked about poetry and literature—both subjects Nellie was not well-versed in, but she was more than happy to be instructed by him—and when he grew stronger they strolled around the blighted grounds of the asylum. In his company the decaying gardens became flourishing arbours, and the raw north winds were spring breezes. She fell in love, and to her utter amazement, her feelings were reciprocated.

He loved her passionately, Phillip told her. She was his angel, his stalwart, his saviour. In the depths of his breakdown, it was she who had guided him back to sanity, she who had banished his torment and suffering. He could not live without her.

Three weeks later she eloped with Phillip Ormond, and they ran off to London.

Grimacing, Julian dusted some ash from his sleeves and tugged at the lapels of his frock coat. “From the sound of it, it was quite the whirlwind romance,” he said with more than a touch of acidity.

Nellie laced her fingers together, uncertain of his mood. Where was the impassioned rescuer who’d gone to such lengths for her, who’d kissed her just a moment ago with searing intensity? As she gazed at him, she struggled to recall the features of the man she’d married in so much haste. Phillip, her husband, with his fair hair and cherubic looks, soft hands and impractical disposition. So different from the man standing aloof from her here. Julian was gypsy dark, vivid, rough at the edges, dynamic and…exciting.

She bit down on her lip to punish herself. She should not be thinking such things, just as she should not have let Julian kiss her.

“Yes, it was a whirlwind romance,” she agreed.

But was it romance at all? She’d thought she was in love with Phillip, but she wasn’t so sure anymore. Cloistered away in the asylum, with a father dissipated and corrupted, she’d been naive and ripe for any kind of romance, and Phillip Ormond had been the first personable young man to cross her path. Of course she’d fallen in love with the idea of him, and of course she’d accepted his marriage proposal, dazzled that such a fine gentleman as he would wish to marry a humble doctor’s daughter.

“Why did you elope?” Julian asked, his expression taut. “Surely your father couldn’t object to such an advantageous match?”

Her father… Dear heaven, even now it was painful to recognise the degradation to which he’d sunk. Inhaling a deep breath, she answered steadily, “Unfortunately my father would not have seen it that way. He has become…rather partial to laudanum, and I took it upon myself to perform many of his duties. I knew he wouldn’t be happy at my leaving, for it would have been to his detriment.”

Julian stared at her. “My God, an opium addict in charge of patients. Surely the board of governors would have found him out?”

Yes, Mr. Crawley had discovered her father’s secret, at the same time as he’d begun to take an unhealthy interest in her. Mr. Crawley, one of the governors, was broad and stout, with foul breath and fingers like bunches of sausages. She’d found his manners unctuous and unpleasant, and always managed to slip out of his presence at the earliest moment. But one day he’d cornered her in a linen closet. With his pudgy fingers, he’d grabbed her thigh and, breathing sweatily over her, had advised her to be more friendly to him or he would have her father sacked. The odium of his advances was nothing compared to the shock she’d suffered when, having spilled out the awful incident to her father, her beloved parent had suggested she submit to Mr. Crawley’s overtures. That was when she knew she had to escape, and Pip’s proposal had offered a neat solution.

But this aspect of her past was too degrading to share with Julian. Lowering her gaze, she murmured, “He was not permanently incapacitated. With some effort he could maintain a facade of professionalism.”

“So you and Phillip ran away to London. And Sir Thaddeus?” Julian’s voice roughened. “Was he aware of you?”

“Of course not, or the marriage would never have happened.” Nellie rubbed her temples as a sudden headache hammered against her skull. “Sir Thaddeus had no idea even of Phillip’s whereabouts. Phillip had run away from home, so to speak. He was mortally tired of his father’s interference in his life, yet he was too afraid to stand up to him, so he left their London home without warning and simply disappeared. He put up at the local inn for a few weeks, but his funds ran out, and the thought of returning to his father was too distressing. I think that was what triggered his nervous collapse in the first place.”

“Hmm,” Julian grunted, glaring at the empty fireplace. His skin, usually such a warm golden hue, had become grey and stretched around his taut mouth. “I don’t understand. Phillip was afraid of his father, yet he took you back to London to be married. Did he really think Sir Thaddeus would welcome you with open arms?”

The derisive bite in his voice stung her. “What are you implying? Do you too think I’m unworthy to marry into the Ormond family, a nobody like me?”

“I think nothing of the sort, dear girl. I’m merely pointing out that Phillip must have suffered some delusions if, knowing how his father worships the family name, he thought Thaddeus would approve of the marriage.”

Nellie balled her hands, the artificial fingers gnashing against the metal glove. Grimly she made her hands relax. “I am no ‘dear girl’, and yes, Phillip had hopes of a reconciliation with his father, as far-fetched as that sounds to you.”

“But his hopes were dashed, and he abandoned you to go crawling back to Thaddeus.”

No! The denial leaped to her lips but found no voice. Sick at heart, she spun away from his scorn. She stared out the window at the trees bending under the wind, their branches bleeding like black veins against a charcoal sky.

A footstep sounded behind her.

“Nellie? I’m sorry, that was…uncivil of me.”

Instead of derision she heard compassion, and it snaked through her defences, cracking open her reticence.

She turned to him, seeking the warmth of his eyes. “No, don’t apologise. The truth is, everything started to go horribly wrong as soon as we reached London.”

Her first glimpse of London was from a lurching third-class train carriage as they neared the end of their arduous journey. In her exhaustion, the city seemed like a monstrous dragon, breathing smoke and fire, heaving and groaning with millions of people, a restless, snarling, ravenous beast which, she feared, would eat her whole.

With the city bursting at the seams, it wasn’t easy to find a place to stay, especially given their slender means. They managed to find dingy lodgings to the east of the city. It was only temporary, Pip assured her. As soon as things were straightened out with his father, more funds would be forthcoming, and they would be able to move to a more salubrious suburb of London. Nellie was more concerned that they were living together in sin, even though Pip slept on the floor. She was no puritan but was anxious they be married as soon as possible. At her behest, Pip obtained the special marriage licence required, and they were hastily wedded with little fanfare by a doddering, red-nosed vicar in a drab church. It was hardly the fairytale ceremony Nellie had pictured in her girlhood, and she couldn’t hide her disappointment. Pip kept on apologising and stressed several times that when their financial position improved they would be married again with much more pomp.

The very next day they presented themselves to Sir Thaddeus at the family home.

The grand Georgian townhouse in Mayfair, with its marble floors, painted frescoes and gallery of long-dead ancestors, was Nellie’s first inkling of trouble. She’d known Pip came from a wealthy family, but she hadn’t expected such ostentatious riches. And when Sir Thaddeus received them, all her worst premonitions started to shrill at her.

Fastidiously dressed in impeccable black, Sir Thaddeus Ormond cut a commanding figure, but it was his eyes which gripped her attention. Hooded and sharp as an eagle’s, his eyes raked her from top to toe as Pip made the introductions, leaving her in no doubt as to his fury.

“Your wife!” he fumed at Pip. “Have you gone stark raving mad? Who is this…this person?” His stinging glare at Nellie made her shrivel. One look instantly marked her as inferior in everything that mattered to him—class, lineage, breeding, heritage. She was as inconsequential as the dirt beneath his fingernails, and just as welcome.

“I d—do apologise, sir, but we could not wait,” Pip stammered out, his brow bathed in sweat.

Sir Thaddeus glowered at him, ignoring Nellie’s presence so pointedly it was as if she didn’t even exist. Gradually the puce in his face receded, and the incandescent rage in his eyes cooled to an adamantine glitter. Unclenching his jaw, he said more evenly, “I’m glad to see you’ve regained your senses and returned to London.” He put his arm around his son’s shoulders and wheeled him away from Nellie. “Come into my study, boy. We have a lot to discuss.”

“But—but sir, my wife…” Pip darted an anxious glance at Nellie.

Sir Thaddeus’s hawk-like face wrinkled up as if he’d caught an offensive smell. “That is one of the subjects of discussion. She can wait here,” he added over his shoulder.

Nellie waited for Pip to shrug off his father’s hold and protest, but instead he seemed to shrink under Sir Thaddeus’s arm. “Do you mind waiting, Nellie? We shouldn’t be long.”

Nellie stared after father and son in disbelief. Humiliated, she was forced to sit under the disdainful watch of a footman who failed to offer her any refreshment. Twenty minutes later, Pip returned, alone. He was shaking uncontrollably and could barely speak with any clarity. He grabbed Nellie’s arm and bundled her out of the house.

On the way back to their lodgings, she received the story in dribs and drabs. Sir Thaddeus was adamant that Pip get rid of Nellie. He was to divorce her, Pip told her, on the grounds of adultery. Sir Thaddeus had given Pip the name of someone who would assist him in the matter, and would pay for the man’s services, but nothing more. Until Pip rid himself of his guttersnipe wife, Sir Thaddeus wouldn’t give him so much as a farthing.

“Guttersnipe! How dare he?” Nellie seethed, stamping her boots as her indignation grew. “I may not be able to trace my ancestors back to the Domesday Book, but I’m more than respectable enough. I hope you rebuked him severely, Pip.”

Pip merely wrung his hands and hunched his shoulders. “You do not understand. My father is inordinately proud of the Ormond name. We have so many illustrious forebears, so many achievements. But I am the last of the Ormonds, my father’s only son. It’s natural he’s upset at me marrying without his permission.”

“How can you defend him so? His behaviour towards me was an insult and a slur.”

“Please, Eleanor. Our marriage came as a great shock to Father, but hopefully he’ll come round if we lay low and give him time.”

“Eleanor? Why are you calling me Eleanor?”

“Well, it is your given name.” Pip shrugged uncomfortably. “And Nellie sounds so, er, so…”

“Common?” She laughed bitterly and trudged even louder, scuffing her boots along the rough pavement. They were so poor they couldn’t afford a cab, and here was Pip wanting to call her Eleanor.

“All will be well,” he pleaded. “We simply have to give my father time to adjust.”

She stopped in her tracks and stared at him, wondering how he could be so spineless. “We don’t need to wait for your father to come round. I have nursing experience. I can apply for a position at one of the hospitals here in London.”

Pip looked aghast. “You? Work? No, I could not allow my wife to work. It’s—it’s degrading, intolerable. I’ll not have it. Do you hear me, Eleanor?”

She heaved a gust of exasperation. “Those are fine principles, but principles won’t feed us or keep us warm at night.”

He winced as if such basic needs were too vulgar to be mentioned. “My reputation would not survive such an affront. You cannot become a drudge.”

“You didn’t object when I was nursing in the asylum.”

“But you did it out of kindness not mercenary gain. You were an angel of mercy. My angel. Oh, I cannot bear the thought of you becoming tarnished and coarsened. Please, my dear, let’s not argue any further. My head is splitting after quarrelling with Father, and all I wish is to get back to our lodgings and find some respite. You do understand, don’t you?”

He gazed at her with a pitiful expression, and the sight of his agony melted her rancour. Poor Pip. His father was frightful, as bad a parent as her own unfortunate father. She and Pip must stand together. And besides, he was still recuperating from his mental collapse. She had to allow him some leeway. She was his wife, and she ought to be supporting him instead of haranguing him like a fishwife.

“Of course, my dear. Let’s get home as quickly as possible. Shall we catch the omnibus?”

She linked her arm with his and led him across the road, but even as she chided herself to be a better spouse, the niggling disquiet within her wouldn’t be silenced. When they reached their dingy lodgings, Pip retired to bed, declaring that he ached all over. She tried to rearrange the blankets, but he insisted she join him in bed. He clung to her, his head on her bosom, and would not let her go. As the night wore on, he became agitated and delirious. He moaned for his mama over and over, and Nellie could do nothing to calm him. The sound of him lamenting his long-dead mother set her teeth on edge. Was this really how a grown man ought to behave? Ashamed of her thoughts, she berated herself for her lack of charity and tried to whisper words of comfort to him.

Over the following days Pip’s collapse worsened, and Nellie feared she would have to summon a physician, but she had no connections in the vast metropolis and very little money. Fortunately he began to recover. The fever passed, and he lay in bed listlessly thumbing his poetry volumes and sighing heavily. His nightly cries to his dead mama continued, though, and Nellie found them so unnerving she took to sleeping on the narrow settee whose broken springs tortured her back all night long.

One day he went out and came back looking far more animated. He had a newspaper with him and showed her an advertisement for a spiritual medium who, for a small fee, would conduct a private séance for select customers.

“I’ve always believed there is a close connection between this world and the next,” Pip said, all eagerness. “Madame Olga can communicate directly with the spirits who have departed to the afterlife. Her address is in Aldgate, not far from here. Shall we go?”

Nellie was appalled. “You surely don’t believe in all that flummery, do you?”

Pip gave her an offended look. “You shouldn’t mock something you have no understanding of. If you don’t wish to attend, I shall go by myself.”

“But, Pip, we have little enough for food, and we’re behind on our rent. You can’t mean to squander money on such silliness.”

“Oh, bosh! You’ve no business telling me what to do with my own money.”

His haughty glare, too reminiscent of his father’s, made her heart sink. She tried to reason with him. “Pip, how will contacting the dead help us in our predicament?”

For a few moments he sucked on his lower lip and eventually replied, “I wish only to speak with my dear mother and know she is well. Would you deny me that chance?”

Her heart sank even further. She knew firsthand the pain of losing a mother. During her years of debilitating loneliness, at times she could have sworn she’d sensed the gentle presence of her mother’s spirit comforting her. But purposely attempting to commune with the dead—that was dabbling with the occult and best left alone. However, if it would stop Pip’s nightly cries, then perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad thing for him to consult Madame Olga.

“No, of course you must go,” she said.

“I knew you would see things my way. And, my dear, do stop frowning so. I cannot have a wife with wrinkles.”

So Pip went to Aldgate and returned filled with awe at the spiritualist’s powers. She had communicated with his dead mother, Pip told Nellie, and his mother had assured him she was at peace. Nellie was relieved, but her relief was short-lived when the following day he announced he was attending yet another session with Madame Olga. They argued once more. They were almost penniless, and Nellie knew the only solution was for her to seek work at one of the hospitals. But Pip obdurately refused, and a warm exchange ensued, which left neither party satisfied. As if to press home his views, Pip pointedly returned to the spiritualist. When he came home, he was contrite but not remorseful, and though they were reconciled, Nellie was deeply troubled by the course their relationship appeared to be steering. The following morning she decided to seek employment at one of the hospitals without Pip’s knowledge or approval. If she was successful in her quest, then she would address his criticism. She put on her bonnet and jacket, told him she was going to the market and left the house. When she returned, Pip had vanished, and he remained gone for the rest of that day and the next.

“This husband of yours,” Julian said with a cold glare. “Is he a man or a mouse?”

“No, you’re too hard on him. Who wouldn’t be damaged by a parent like Sir Thaddeus? I myself know…” She trailed off just in time. The memory of her own father’s abandonment of her was too raw and fresh to share with anyone just yet.

“He is a mouse, then. No man continues to lay the blame for his conduct on his father.”

Nellie shook her head. “He’s a gentle soul caught in the most trying circumstances.” Even as she spoke, she wondered why she leaped so quickly to Pip’s defence. Was it because she secretly shared Julian’s low opinion? No, she cared for Pip. She was his wife. She loved him. Didn’t she?

“Hmpf. He’s a weak weasel who abandoned you as soon as your back was turned and ran squealing back to his dear papa. Isn’t that what happened?”

She winced and twisted her fingers together. Such brutal words, but she refused to believe them. “I don’t know what happened, but I suspected his father was involved. I thought perhaps Pip had gone to see his father and taken ill while he was there. So I returned to the Ormond house, but the footman wouldn’t let me in.” She paused, breathing harder as she recalled the humiliation of standing on that doorstep, pleading with the supercilious servant to allow her entry.

A glimmer of compassion showed in Julian’s dark eyes. “What did you do?” he asked more softly.

“I was furious to be treated like a mere street peddler. I banged on the door, but no one answered. I was so incensed I picked up a handful of gravel and hurled it at the windows.”

Julian’s eyebrows shot up. “Never! I’d liked to have seen that.”

She gave a rueful laugh. “I don’t know what came over me to turn me into such a hellion, but a few minutes later a Peeler came by, attracted no doubt by the commotion I was causing, so I desisted and returned home. That night an urchin knocked on my door and said a gentleman in a carriage was waiting for me downstairs. I went down and saw it was Sir Thaddeus.”

Julian’s eyes narrowed. “So that was the night I was following Ormond.”

“Yes.”

He groaned. “Deuce take it, Nellie. You’re an intelligent woman. Why the devil did you get into Sir Thaddeus’s carriage? After the way he treated you, surely you must have been cautious.”

“It’s all very well saying that now, but at the time I didn’t know how ruthless he could be. I was desperate to find Pip again, and Sir Thaddeus was my best hope, so I went with him.”

“And?”

An icy shiver crept down her spine. “And it was not long before he revealed his true colours.”

As soon as the carriage lurched off, Nellie turned to the man sitting opposite her. He was dressed in black, his head covered by a felt cap. In the rocking dimness of the carriage, he was all but invisible, but his inimical presence filled the interior, stifling Nellie’s throat with trepidation.

“Where is Pip?” she asked loudly, determined not to be cowed by his menacing aura. When he didn’t reply, she continued, “Have you kidnapped him? Prevented him from contacting me? Answer me, Sir Thaddeus. Where is my husband?”

“He is not your husband,” Thaddeus suddenly snapped. “He is engaged to another woman. Has been for the past two years. He had no business running off with you.”

Nellie gaped at him as the carriage jounced over the rough road. The blinds were shut, and she had no idea where they were going. “What nonsense. Pip would have told me if he was affianced to someone else. He wouldn’t have hidden something as important as that from me.”

“Wouldn’t he?” Sir Thaddeus arched one of his thick eyebrows. “You obviously don’t know my son very well, or you’d be aware that he can say or do anything to please himself, including forgetting the childhood sweetheart he is bound to marry.”

Engaged to a childhood sweetheart? Could Pip have concealed such momentous knowledge from her simply to persuade her to run away with him? “No, it’s not true. It can’t be true.” But her protest was fainter this time. Pip was in the habit of construing the world to suit his purposes. It was quite possible that in his mind he’d dismissed this earlier attachment as unimportant.

“The marriage contracts have already been drawn up. The nuptials are planned for this spring.” Sir Thaddeus’s relentless voice drove home each point.

“He cannot get married,” she protested. “He’s already married to me.”

“It appears my son would have done anything to get into your petticoats, but why he would stand up in front of a vicar with you beggars belief.” He sneered at her in undisguised disgust. “No matter. Every error can be solved if one has sufficient determination. You are one mistake who will not be allowed to blight my son’s future.”

“No, no, I’m no error.” She gouged her fingernails into the upholstery of the seat as nausea spiralled through her stomach. No wonder Pip had been slow to arrange their wedding and had only done so at her repeated requests. At the time she’d thought he was merely worried about the extra expense of procuring a marriage licence, but now she knew there was a solid reason for his reluctance—he had not been free to marry her. He was promised to another. He had lied to her most grievously…

“My son had suffered a mental collapse when he eloped with you. He cannot be held accountable for his actions. A divorce will be easily obtained.” His basilisk eyes held her captive. He was so contemptuous, so sure of himself. He had her beaten, and he wanted the sadistic satisfaction of watching her squirm.

“I’m sorry for the woman he was engaged to.” She cleared her throat. “But—but everything has altered. Pip and I are married, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You must accept that.”

Thaddeus drew back. “I accept nothing from a brazen hussy. You think I’ll let you bring shame upon my family? What kind of imbecile do you take me for?”

The threatening hiss in his voice ought to have been sufficient warning, but hot anger flooded her veins, loosening her tongue.

“Not an imbecile but a bully, Sir Thaddeus. An oppressor of the worst kind. You’ve been persecuting Pip all his life. Why do you think he ran away and suffered a nervous collapse? Because of you, because of your constant bullying and hectoring. Pip is afraid of you, but I’m not. I shall stand by Pip, no matter what, and I’ll help him to break free of you. He did it once, he can do it again.”

“Insolent slut! You dare to defy me?” Flecks of spittle flew from his mouth. “Phillip wants nothing more to do with you. He waited until you were out before running back to me, pleading with me to help him out of this mess. He’s tired of your coarse manners and vulgar behaviour.” The corners of his lips lifted in a sneer. “I’ll admit you’re a toothsome wench, but my son requires more when it comes to choosing a wife. Now, I’m prepared to give you a generous sum of money if you cooperate with my lawyers in the divorce and never bother my son again. Fifty pounds should be more than sufficient to compensate you for any inconvenience.”

Nellie sucked in a breath. Her head reeled as though she’d been struck with a hammer, but her anger seethed.

“Take me to Pip. Let me talk to him in private.”

“He has no wish to see you.”

“So you say, but I’ll not agree to anything until I’ve spoken with him.”

Thaddeus expelled a derisive hiss. Under the brim of his cap his eyes took on a sinister sheen. “Foolish ninny, I knew you’d be too greedy to go quietly. You leave me no choice.” Lifting his cane, he banged on the roof of the carriage. The driver cracked his whip, the horses picked up speed, and the carriage jerked forward.

Nellie clung to her seat as the vehicle careened around a corner. “Where—where are you taking me? I demand you stop at once and let me off.”

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I did that? London at night is a dangerous place for a young woman on her own, full of pickpockets, cutthroats and ruffians. It would be very remiss of me to throw you into such danger.”

The silky menace in his tone sent fright spearing through her heart. She tried desperately to cling to common sense. They were riding in the Ormond carriage with their coat of arms on display. Surely Sir Thaddeus wouldn’t risk his carriage being involved in a criminal act? Too late she realised the folly of her hot words. His perverse antagonism demanded her subservient capitulation, and instead of arguing she should have pretended to do his bidding until an opportunity for escape presented itself.

“Sir Thaddeus…” She gulped, her throat constricting painfully. “I—I have reconsidered your generous offer. If you will just let me go I promise I—”

“Oh, it’s too late for that. I can’t have you hanging in the background, a threat to my family’s future. God knows, I’ve made my sacrifices, marrying that vulgar cow for the good of the family, and I won’t have my son throwing all that away on you.” He pulled a face as he slapped his gloved hands together. “Bah! I’m tired of this. Tired of having to tie up loose ends all the time. First that insolent whippersnapper, and now you. Seems I’ve been fighting off dross for years. This country is going to the dogs. Foreigners pouring into London, brewers and millers buying estates. Nowadays any upstart with a bit of brass can set himself up in Mayfair and give himself airs and graces. To hell with ’em all. It sickens me to see these parvenus aping their betters. They should know their proper place in society.”

He was working himself into a proper fury when the carriage abruptly lurched to a halt. Sir Thaddeus took a peek under the blind and nodded.

“Well, this is where you get off.” He swung open the door and nodded towards the night outside.

“You’re letting me go?” Nellie peered out the carriage. Outside it was pitch black. The faint smell of the river drifted on the night air. “Where—”

Before she could say another word, he shoved her out the carriage. She had no sooner fallen to the ground than a strong pair of hands grabbed her and hauled her upright. The door slammed shut, and the carriage rattled away.

Nellie stared up at the stranger holding her prisoner. He was almost as broad as he was tall, and his hands were like iron manacles. He smelled of animal fat, and the skin around his eyes was pitted with pockmarks.

He grinned at her. “Evenin’, love.”

“The rest, you know.” Nellie pressed her hands to her cheeks. The cool mesh of her glove gave her an odd comfort against the lurid recollections of her attack.

A hand descended on her shoulder. She turned to find Julian mere inches away, his countenance a warring mixture of compassion and chagrin. “So Sir Thaddeus delivered you into the clutches of a hired murderer. But why did the brute sever your fingers? Was that barbarity ordered by Sir Thaddeus?”

“I don’t think so. The man wanted my rings, my wedding ring and my mother’s betrothal ring, but I refused. Stupid, I know, but I—I was so furious.”

“Not stupid. Your struggles gave me time to come to your rescue, or he would surely have killed you and thrown your body in the river.”

She shivered. Julian’s hand on her shoulder emanated warmth through her chilled body. The urge to press her scarred cheek against his hand gripped her so hard she almost moaned with the effort of resisting.

“And now, Nellie? Do you still believe Phillip is the innocent dupe of his father? Or do you think he connived with Sir Thaddeus to get rid of you?”

The black depths of his eyes mesmerised her. Dark stubble peppered his jaw, spots of ash clung to his sideburns, the tang of honest labour perfumed his rumpled clothes. His muscular body, mere inches from hers, pulsed with power and purpose. He was so vividly alive, so dangerously attractive, and his robust masculinity threatened to obliterate all reason.

She sensed herself teetering on a knife-edge. Just a few minutes ago, his kiss had shattered through her defences and ignited desires she never knew she possessed. Yet she had made her vows to her husband. She should not be tempted by Julian, no matter how seductive she found him.

“I want to believe Pip is innocent,” she murmured. “I have to believe it, until I know otherwise.”

Julian let out a small sigh, and his hand fell away from her shoulder as he stepped back a few paces. “What will you do? Will you talk to him?”

Instinctively her fingers shielded her damaged cheeks. “I can’t…”

His eyes hardened. “You think he’ll recoil when he sees you?”

She wanted to think the best of Pip, but he wasn’t used to the uglier side of life. “No, I don’t, but…” But could she take that risk?

“A husband who’d blench at a few scars is not a husband worth keeping.”

“It’s more complex than that. I—I’m leery of showing my face to anyone, not just my husband.”

Julian folded his arms across his chest, his stance belligerent. “So you’re going to hide yourself from the world for the rest of your life? Is that it?”

She pushed up her chin to glare at him. “It’s my decision to make. I won’t be bullied by you.”

“And I had no idea Sir Thaddeus was your father-in-law! So you’ll forgive me if I’m a little testy.” A muscle twitched in his clenched jaw as he scowled at her.

Her chest constricted. Was Julian riled because she was connected to his nemesis? Did the fact that she was Pip’s wife offend his sensibilities?

“I should have told you sooner,” she said. “I had no reason to hide it except reluctance. I’m sorry. I abused your hospitality, and…and I should probably make other arrangements.”

Julian snorted. “You’ll do no such thing or you’ll have Elijah haranguing me. You must stay for as long as you wish. I insist.”

A voice from within warned her to leave this house. She was too caught up with Julian Darke. He was clouding her judgement, stirring up wanton desires, threatening her emotions. She had been at Monksbane nine days. Her wounds were sufficiently healed, but she’d made no plans for the future. She’d been focusing only on taking one step at a time, but it was time to lift her head and decide which path to take into the future. She ought to leave and make contact with Pip, try to sort out this awful mess. But as she stared at Julian, she knew she couldn’t leave this house, this man. At least, not yet. Something was brewing between her and Julian, a storm of cyclonic proportions, and the vortex was drawing her in inexorably.

“Very well,” she murmured. “I shall stay. For a while longer.”

Chapter Seven

A rare camellia plant, the likes of which Nellie had never seen before, stood lost in the wilderness of the garden. Its soft pink flowers glowed like jewels against the wintery surrounds, destined to be appreciated only by a very few. Once upon a time, someone had lovingly tended this garden, filling it with rare species, but now it had been left to be reclaimed by nature.

The untamed confusion suited Nellie. Protected within the old stone walls, the garden was a tranquil oasis from the clamour outside. As she neared the far boundary of the south wall, her steps slowed. From here she could see the sludge-coloured fog hovering on the horizon which marked the city. Quiet fields and pockets of woodland kept the metropolis at bay, but for how much longer?

Turning west, she passed the path which led down to the old icehouse, its semi-submerged roof just visible through the thick shrubbery. Elijah Darke used the ancient structure to store his many specimens. She’d been curious to see them, but Elijah did not invite visitors down there, and the icehouse was out of bounds.

Elijah Darke was unfailingly courteous towards her, but she could not say his company was completely relaxing. Beneath his politeness he was a man of mystery, she’d decided. At his urging, she had appropriated more of his late wife’s wardrobe, altering them to better suit her figure. Though the dresses were decades old, they’d been lovingly cared for by Mrs. Tibbet and were made of expensive materials—wool, velvet, lawn, silk. Most of them were far too good to be worn for her day-to-day tasks, including the rich red frock she wore today, but she had little alternative. Elijah didn’t seem to mind, though his was a difficult expression to read. Indeed, at more than one occasion she’d sensed him studying her closely, weighing her up, as if he hadn’t yet finalised his opinion of her. Perhaps because he was chary of her impact on his son.

Sighing, she plucked a sprig off a nearby lavender bush. If only she could clear her muddled thoughts about Julian. Ever since she’d told him about Pip two days ago, he had treated her with cautious civility, and she was growing heartily sick of it. Yet she understood the root of his coolness. She was still married to Pip—regardless of his previous betrothal—and his involvement in his father’s diabolical plans remained in question. She wanted nothing more than to resolve the matter one way or another, but as yet she was too afraid to act. Time was not on her side, though; sooner rather than later she would have to decide a course of action.

Moving away from the icehouse, she headed for the rear of the house. As she neared the corner of the building, she heard scuffling noises and the sound of male voices jesting each other.

“Ha, is that the best you can deliver?” Julian’s voice sounded. “I’ve had a buss on the cheek harder than that fisticuff.”

“Well, you just ain’t courting the right sort of woman,” the other man drawled.

“And you’ve been courting too long, judging by your soft, pudgy body.”

“Soft, eh? We’ll see ’bout that.”

Nellie hesitated as she recognised the voice of Gareth Derringer, the family friend from whom she’d run away because of his startled reaction to her scars. Since then, he’d visited once more, and she’d been properly introduced to him. She’d been embarrassed by her earlier behaviour, and he’d been excessively polite, something not natural for him, she’d sensed. All in all, it had been an awkward encounter, and she had no wish to repeat it. But the sound of Julian’s voice drew her closer, and she couldn’t resist peering around the corner. An overgrown juniper bush shielded her from view as she edged forward to peek through the shrubbery.

Not far away Julian and Gareth circled each other, their bodies crouched in sparring positions. Both men had stripped off jackets, neckties, shirts and boots, and were clad in nothing more than their trousers which were rolled up to the knees. The sight of two seminaked men had Nellie riveted, but it was Julian who absorbed all her attention. Perspiration gleamed on his chest, highlighting the fine curvature of his muscles and the solidness of his shoulders. Dusky hairs tracked over chest and stomach before arrowing down past the waistband of his trousers. His calves were powerfully sinewed, his bare feet solid and strong. Wisps of ebony hair clung to his temples, and his face was flushed with his exertions.

Gareth shot out a punch towards Julian’s head. He ducked and counterpunched, chuckling beneath his breath. “Nice try, laddie.”

“We’ll see who’s the laddie.”

With a sudden lunge, Gareth grabbed him in a bear hug. Julian groaned as his friend squeezed him like a nut before he raised both arms and chopped down hard on Gareth’s neck with his hands. Gareth collapsed to the ground, dragging Julian with him.

Nellie watched on, spellbound, as the two men wrestled in the dirt. Any genteel woman would have been appalled at such barbarity, but she wasn’t appalled, far from it. The sight of Julian’s naked sweaty chest incited a hornets’ nest of illicit desire in her. Heat flared low and heavy in her abdomen. Dampness sprang out on the back of her neck, between her breasts, and even—heaven help her—beneath her drawers. As Julian wrestled with his friend, his trousers stretched tight around his thighs, drawing her attention to his flagrantly virile thews. Nellie swallowed hard as erotic sensations surged over her, followed quickly by hot, hedonistic and deeply disturbing imaginings of Julian gloriously naked and rampant, bending over an equally naked and impassioned woman—herself.

Dear heaven, how could she lust after a man with such a powerful and primitive hunger? What kind of wanton was she turning into? She stepped backwards, her hand to her throat, conscious of the rapid thumping of her heart and the heat writhing in her loins. The injuries she’d sustained must have affected her, she desperately reasoned. This voluptuous sensuality throbbing through her was not her, was someone else.

She’d been an innocent maiden on her wedding night. Being a doctor’s daughter, she was aware of the rudimentary facts of life, but she’d no inkling of what to expect in her marital bed. Pip had been tentative, apologetic, and after it was swiftly over, she concluded that she had conducted herself properly, and that to lie supine and not complain or whimper was how a good wife was supposed to behave. And so she’d done her duty the few times Pip had reached for her.

But now she’d transformed into something else, some shameless creature with primitive, insistent urges. Or perhaps it was Julian who was the cause. Perhaps she’d always carried these latent feelings buried deep within, and it was only Julian who could bring them to the surface.

The idea perturbed her. She screwed her eyes shut, but still Julian’s image floated in her mind. His bronzed body was a thing of beauty, the sculpted lines of muscle, bone and sinew a hymn of virility. And of course it was Julian’s personality who powered this physical charm. It was his strength of character, his passion and his vulnerabilities that made her heart tumble over.

She could not lose her head over Julian. Her father had relinquished all ties with her, her husband had at best abandoned her, at worst connived to do away with her. Had she not learned her lesson? Tenderness was a trap, and she could not allow herself to be snared by Julian’s appeal. She must get away from him. She must make her escape before her desires pulled her into the seductive vortex.

The juniper bush rustled as she spun round and hurried away.

Out of the corner of his eye, Julian glimpsed a flurry of red skirts disappearing around the corner of the house. Nellie. He barely had time to register before a heavy mass struck him in the midriff and tumbled him backwards to the ground.

“Oof,” he grunted as Gareth’s considerable weight landed on top of him.

“Ha!” Gareth wrestled him into a headlock. “Do you concede?”

Julian grimaced as the ex-soldier began to crush his neck. “Never,” he gasped out.

His opponent was bigger and stronger and knew every dirty trick, but he was also overconfident. Julian made himself go limp, and as Gareth started to chuckle, he jerked his knee up and drove it into Gareth’s flank. The headlock loosened just a fraction, but it was enough for Julian to twist free and roll to his feet.

“A neat recovery, boyo.” Heaving for breath, Gareth raised his hand in acknowledgement. “We’ll call it a draw, shall we, even though I almost had you then.”

“Almost, but not quite.” Julian squinted past the juniper bush, but there was no sign of Nellie. How long had she been standing there?

Gareth plucked his grubby shirt off the grass and mopped his streaming brow with it. “You want to watch out getting the wibble wobbles over a woman. It could be fatal.”

“Wibble wobbles? I’ve no idea what you mean,” Julian scoffed.

“Oh, come off it, man. It’s as plain as the nose on my face you have a yen for Nellie. You were gawking after her so badly just then I coulda slung you a haymaker and you wouldn’t have seen it coming.”

With a scowl Julian grabbed his shirt from the ground and slung it over his shoulder. “Leave it, will you?”

The levity faded from his companion’s face. “My apologies. You’re deadly serious about this one, aren’t you?”

“It matters naught what I feel.” Julian thrust one arm into the sleeve of his shirt and then the other. “She is a married woman.”

“Perhaps, but she married a man who promised himself to another.”

“Regardless of that, in Nellie’s mind she is married to Ormond’s son.” Even though he’d repeated that fact to himself several times, still it came as a shock to Julian. Nellie was not a free agent; she had promised herself to another man, and he had no right to lust after her.

Gareth shrugged. “There is married, and then there is married. She’s not hotfooted it back to her spouse, and the dear Pip has made no apparent attempts to find her. Those facts are more important than any mumbo jumbo some priest might have muttered over them.”

Julian worked the dirt beneath his feet, scuffing the muddy earth between his bare toes. “I must disagree. It would not be honourable to pursue her in such circumstances.”

“Honourable!” His friend snorted. “Julian, that is why you are the gentleman, while I am the buccaneer. I have a suggestion. Why don’t you let me track down the truth about this so-called prior engagement? If you give me the name of the alleged fiancée, I will go and shake the truth out of a clerk or two.”

Julian eyed his friend warily. Gareth’s chequered past had included working as a military spy, and doubtless his methods of interrogation were as unorthodox as the man himself. “What do you mean by ‘shake the truth out’?”

“Oh, I meant that only in a manner of speaking.” The big man grinned. “Come, let me do this for Miss Barchester, at least. I feel terrible for acting the way I did the first time I met her and would like to make amends. I promise to treat the clerks like newborn babes.” Still grinning, he cracked his knuckles.

“In all fairness you should ask Miss Barchester’s permission first. She might not like you interfering in her personal affairs.”

“You’ll vouch for my discretion. ’Tis my profession to investigate matters like this.”

“True enough,” Julian conceded. It would be something at least to have the question of Pip’s betrothal cleared up one way or the other. In the interim, he was still pursuing the matter of Mr. Cazalet’s deadly house fire. He’d managed to question the brigade captain, whose opinion it was that the conflagration had been caused by Mr. Cazalet not positioning the fire screen correctly before going to bed. According to a neighbour, the old man had done that once before and almost burned his house down but for the vigilant neighbour. There was no suspicion of any foul play, and though Julian was outwardly relieved by this, he wanted to question all the neighbours until he was satisfied. “I’ll broach the subject with Nellie,” he said finally.

“It’s Nellie now, is it?” Gareth jested.

Stung, Julian retorted, “It’s Miss Barchester to you.”

“Damnation! Another good man lost from the cause of glorious and perpetual bachelorhood.” Gareth slapped his thigh. “By that mournful look of yours, Miss Barchester has you well and truly by the nutmegs.”

Julian shot his friend a scathing glare. “Mind your tongue, Derringer.”

“I always do.” Unrepentant, the other man clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s forget those vexing females for the moment and go inside. I could murder a jug of ale right now.”

Inside the house Nellie sought the sanctuary of the library. Of all the rooms this was her favourite, as the walls of books formed a cosy cocoon against the outside world. She shut the door softly behind her and moved towards the window seat with some vague hope of stealing a further glimpse of Julian, even though she knew it would do her no good.

From behind a wingback armchair, a newspaper rustled before Elijah Darke stood up. “Good afternoon, Miss Barchester.”

She turned, surprised to see him. At this hour he was usually out seeing to his hospital or visiting patients; rarely did he use the library during the day. “Good day, Dr. Darke.”

“I hope I didn’t startle you.” He folded up the newspaper and tucked it under his arm before advancing towards her. “I saw you taking the air outside. It’s good you’re recovering so well.” He paused, and it seemed he was waiting for her to say something, but she couldn’t fathom what it might be. “Soon you’ll be venturing beyond this house,” Elijah added.

Ah, so he was questioning her about her future plans. “I know I’ve trespassed on your hospitality for too long, and I assure you—”

“No, no, you mistake my meaning entirely. I’m very appreciative of everything you’ve done with Mrs. Tibbet. The meals are as they should be, Mrs. Tibbet is less confused and therefore happier, and the house looks so much better.” He gestured around the room, now clean and tidy thanks to her efforts. “Your labours have not gone unnoticed.”

“Thank you. I dislike being idle.” As her energy had returned, she’d found plenty to occupy herself. With Mrs. Tibbet’s help, she’d begun to give each major room in the house a thorough going-over. Figgs had assisted in moving the heavy furniture, and she was making progress in understanding his lisping speech. She knew the routine of the house, knew the long hours both doctors put in, and was glad to make their lives a little easier.

Elijah continued, “We would be more than happy if you remained here permanently, not just as housekeeper, but as nursing assistant. Your skills would be greatly appreciated.” He cleared his throat. “Naturally you would be well remunerated for your work.”

“Why, I don’t know what to say,” she stuttered in complete surprise. “Such a kind offer…”

“Please, Miss Barchester, you would be doing us a kindness. We need an assistant. Both Julian and I would welcome you joining our eccentric little household if you have the mind to.”

At the mention of Julian’s name Nellie’s gaze flickered downwards. Despite his enigmatic ways, Elijah was a good and loving father to Julian. It was plain to see in their daily interactions, even when they disagreed. She held Elijah in high regard, which made her surreptitious admiration for his son all the more discomfiting, now that Elijah knew of her marital status. If he had seen her walking outside, she hoped to high heaven he hadn’t spotted her spying on Julian. “Thank you,” she murmured in some confusion. “I shall give your offer my utmost consideration.”

“Indeed. No need to rush into a decision.” The elderly man rocked back and forth on his heels, his expression gradually becoming more sombre. “Miss Barchester, there is another matter I must mention. You’ve endured a great many tribulations for such a young woman, and you will have many more trials to face, but I feel you have the necessary strength to cope with them.”

“What do you mean? Is—is there something I’m not aware of? Some dire news?”

“Well…” Elijah adjusted his spectacles on his long, narrow nose. “I’m unsure if it can be classified as dire, but there has been a further development.” He paused, frowning slightly. “Perhaps it would be best if I left you here to absorb it on your own. Yes, that is probably best.” He drew out the newspaper from under his arm and held it out to her. “Second column. Third item down. You have my sympathies, Miss Barchester. I shall be in my examining room should you need me.” After a quick bow, he retreated from the library.

Nellie scanned the folded newspaper and quickly located the article. She read the news item in a matter of seconds, then reread it a dozen times. Finally she sank into an armchair, the newspaper crumpling between her hands.

The article was brief and to the point. A woman’s body had been fished out of the Thames. Her face had been violently mutilated, and that, together with the ravages of the river, had rendered her features unrecognisable. But she had been identified by the rings attached to her fingers. She was Eleanor Ormond, nineteen, wife of Phillip Arthur Ormond of Mayfair.

Her body was shaking, Nellie realised. Relinquishing her death grip on the newspaper, she opened her hands and saw ink smeared across her damp palms. She scrubbed her handkerchief back and forth over her hands until her palms stung. She pinched herself everywhere, her hair, her cheeks, her earlobes, her knees, her thighs. She was alive, she was flesh and blood and beating heart. She existed.

Yet the newspaper said otherwise. To the world, she was dead and gone. Nothing but a hacked and bloated corpse.

She stood and moved to the window to feel the sun, but her skin remained cold and clammy, and when she raised her hand to the light she could barely make out any veins beneath the pale skin. Like the wraiths in the asylum, she was a person who did not exist. A woman buried alive.

A cool zephyr filtered through the cracks around the window and streamed over her face. Well, she might be legally dead, but she was still living flesh and blood. Her heart pumped, her blood flowed, her brain functioned. Holding up her gloved hand, she flexed her mechanical fingers pensively. By now she looked forward to putting on the glove each morning. The artificial digits were an integral part of her; at times she even fancied there was genuine feeling in them and not just wayward tingling in her finger stumps. The old Nellie Barchester would’ve had trouble recognising her today. If she were a ghost, then, just as ghosts did, she could roam about when the sun set. Exposing herself to the harsh light of day was still an ordeal, but she’d been looking at the problem the wrong way. Now that she was a spectre, she could turn her back on the light and instead embrace the shadows.

Chapter Eight

The youth shoved past Nellie and knocked her hat askew, causing her to stagger back. She clutched at the thick veil draped over her face as the boy guffawed and ran after the rest of his gang. The night market was far more crowded and boisterous than she’d anticipated. Booths and carts had sprung up like mushrooms out of the packed dirt, their wares displayed by the flickering light of torches and lamps. Sellers of pies, oysters and sheep’s trotters jostled with those hawking knives, matches, buttons and second-hand boots. All manner of people pressed past her, some in rags, some dressed in hard-wearing labourers’ clothing.

“’alloo preety gurl.” A man lurched towards her, attempting to tweak at her veil.

She drew back from his gin-soaked odour and pushed past him. His was not the first foreign accent she’d heard tonight. This part of London teemed with new arrivals who’d fled from the upheaval on the Continent and now found themselves scraping for survival in an overcrowded and ruthless city.

The youth and the foreigner had distracted her from her mission. She threaded her way through the crowd, fearing she’d lost her quarry. No, there he was up ahead. The smell of roasting chestnuts wafted after her as she pursued him. Dampness beaded her brow, and her scalp itched beneath the cumbersome hat. How good it would be to feel the fresh air against her cheeks, even this greasy, noisome atmosphere around her. One day she’d have the nerve to travel about without the hat and veil, but not yet.

The man she was tailing paused outside a mean little gin shop. Nellie stopped behind a tottering pile of crates filled with rotting cabbages. Now she was nearer she could make out the man’s fair curls peeping below the brim of his fashionable top hat. He dithered on the threshold of the shop, then plunged in and emerged a minute later, shuddering and wiping his mouth after his quick dram. His Savile Row suit and polished boots attracted a few sidelong glances and mutters, but he appeared not to notice as he hurried down a side street.

Nellie skulked after him. This secondary road was darker, quieter, the cacophony of the night market gradually subsiding to a low hubbub. Fog wreathed the dwellings and dulled her ears. The heels of her boots clicked on the cobblestones. From an alleyway, a cat yowled. Up ahead, the man dipped past a hazy pool of gaslight from a lone streetlamp.

Footsteps sounded behind her. She glanced over her shoulder. Nothing but wraiths of mist. It must have been those rats rooting through a rubbish heap she’d heard. She pushed on. A moment later the footsteps behind her resumed. This time she spun round, the hairs on her nape standing on end as she scanned the length of road she’d just crossed. Through the gathering fog, she could make out nothing. Then, from one of the nearby houses, an enormously fat crone meandered out, bunched up her skirts and squatted in the gutter to relieve herself.

Nellie expelled a deep breath and turned around just in time to see the object of her pursuit enter the last house of a row of terraces. Well, she’d suspected this was his destination as soon as she’d realised he was heading for Aldgate. This would be the third visit she’d witnessed; who knew how many times he’d come before? She edged her way to the shadow of a high, blank wall opposite the house and settled down to wait. A few minutes ticked by. On the upper floor of the house, the light shining from the windows faded and remained dim for a further five minutes. Slowly the windows brightened, and moments later the young man clattered out of the house.

As he approached her, Nellie’s heart beat faster. He was so close! She had just to step out of the shadows and call out his name. Pip. It was so easy, so tempting. Pip, I’m still alive. I’m not dead.

He drew nearer, and she opened her mouth, but at that moment she caught a glimpse of his face and slowly shut her mouth. She’d never seen such a confusing mix of emotions on someone. Pip seemed to be simultaneously stricken and relieved, as if he was suffering some terrible pain and had just received a temporary respite. So dazed and euphoric was he, if she didn’t know better she might have suspected he’d been drugged.

She gazed after him as he wove his way down the road. Oh, Pip. He shouldn’t be wandering around here at night dressed in his finery. But she couldn’t go running after him until she’d found out a few answers for herself.

She crossed the road and slipped into the house. From previous inspections, she knew it was divided into tenements. The hallway and stairs were deserted, and no one seemed to be home on the ground floor. She hurried up the staircase and quickly knocked on the first-floor door before her courage could desert her.

“Come,” a guttural voice spoke from inside.

Her every nerve tingled as Nellie entered the apartment. She found herself in a small sitting room crammed from ceiling to floor with furniture, every surface crowded with cheap knickknacks. In the centre of the room was a round table where a woman sat facing the door.

“Come, seet down,” the woman instructed in her thickly accented voice. She was a heavyset woman of indeterminate age, clad in a profusion of colourful shawls, with a crimson scarf draped over her hair. Her skin was pasted with powder, her eyes heavily kohled, and her ears and wrists dripped with pinchbeck jewellery.

Nellie cleared her throat. “Are you…Madame Olga?”

“I am.” The woman inclined her head. “Madame Olga at your service, spiritual intermediary between ze living and ze dead. How may I assist you zis evenink?” Her bangles jingled as she waved Nellie towards the empty chair on the other side of the table.

Nellie slipped into the seat. An embroidered cloth of Eastern design covered the table, and on it were an unlit candle and a small plate containing a chunk of bread. A vague scent of Oriental spices mixed with cheap incense hung in the air. Behind the spiritualist was a gaudy velveteen curtain covering a doorway which led to the back offices. Madame Olga sat like an impassive sphinx, her magpie eyes studying Nellie’s appearance.

“You veesh to remove ze veil?”

Nellie started. “Oh, no. I prefer to keep it on, if you don’t mind.”

Madame Olga shrugged. “Ze fee is five shillings, payable in advance.” She stretched out a palm towards Nellie.

“Five…?” Nellie gaped at the medium. “Isn’t that an exorbitant sum?”

The medium pursed her carmine lips. “Vhat price can you put ven you can talk to ze dead through me?”

“Talk to the dead?” Nellie glanced around at the cluttered, nondescript room, the cheap furnishings, the frowsy woman. Was Pip so gullible he’d been taken in by this tawdry show? “Is that really what you do?”

“You are an unbeliever. Tell me, do you believe in ze afterlife?”

“I suppose so,” Nellie reluctantly conceded.

“Vell, vhy is it so impossible to believe that communication between this life and ze next can exist?”

“Through you?”

“Ze spirits move in mysterious ways. I did not choose to be their intermediary, but I bow to zer wishes. I am zer servant.” Madame Olga rested her elbows on the table, her indolence dissipating as her gaze sharpened on Nellie. “Tell me, ’as someone important to you died?”

Nellie instantly thought of her mother. “Yes.”

“Your mama, per’aps?”

A cool breeze skittered across the back of Nellie’s neck. Her heart skipped several beats. This woman was a mere sham, but nevertheless there was something chilling and unnatural in the atmosphere. Ghostly spirits clamouring to be heard through the medium? Perhaps. Perhaps her dead mother was indeed here, waiting patiently to tell her something. The fingers of her maimed hand twitched, causing the mechanical digits to cramp in sympathy. No, it could not be. Madame Olga had simply taken a calculated guess about her mother. Gripping her hands, Nellie nodded.

“Vould it not be a comfort to you to be able to contact her, to speak to her? She vorries about you. Vould you not like to reassure her?”

She tensed. “How do you know she worries about me?”

The medium’s eyes lit up. “I sense a great unease in you. You are deeply troubled, are you not?”

Nellie shuffled her feet beneath the table. This was not what she’d intended when she walked in here. She didn’t believe in spiritual mediums and talking to ghosts. The coolness on her nape had been just a stray eddy of night air. There were no phantoms here, and Madame Olga was a fraud who made money off susceptible people’s miseries. Nellie’s only purpose coming here was to uncover the truth about Pip.

Nellie leaned forward. “The man who left here a few minutes ago. Did he want to speak to a spirit?”

Madame Olga’s dark eyebrows beetled into a deep frown. “I do not talk about my clients.”

“Who did he wish to contact? Was it his wife? What did you tell him?”

“Avay wiz your pesky questions.” The woman flounced the fringe of her crimson shawl at Nellie. “Madame Olga does not betray her customers.”

“Oh, you don’t, do you? You merely light a candle and pretend to call up the spirits and feed your customers a lot of folderol in exchange for five shillings. That is not betraying them, I suppose.”

Madame Olga sputtered. “How dare you! Vhat cheek!”

Realising her mistake, Nellie raised her hand. “I beg your pardon, I only came here to transact a little business. Look, I will pay you if you can tell me what the gentleman asked of you. A couple of shillings is all I have, but—”

“Leave at once, whoever you are!”

“But I need to know—”

“Vhy do you hide behind zat veil? Vhat are you concealing?” The woman’s hand shot out and snatched hold of Nellie’s veil. Using her gloved hand, Nellie grabbed the woman’s wrist. A spontaneous reaction caused her thumb to trigger the two claws which gouged into Madame Olga’s flesh.

“Eek!” Madame Olga let out an ear-splitting squeal and reared to her feet, her solid frame knocking the flimsy table over Nellie. As Nellie tumbled to the floor, the woman shrieked, “Tibor! Tibor!”

The curtain behind Madame Olga exploded as a giant ogre charged into the room. Small, mad eyes sunk into the craggy buttresses of his head fastened on Nellie as she struggled to get to her feet.

“Knife! She’s got a bleeding knife,” Madame Olga screamed, her foreign accent disappearing under the pressure of the situation. “Get ’er, Tibor.”

The behemoth tossed aside the fallen table. Nellie backed away on all fours, air wheezing past her tight throat. With the mammoth blocking her exit, she appeared to be trapped. Tibor sniggered as her predicament became apparent, but his chortle cut off as the main door to the apartment crashed open without warning. Julian rushed headlong into the room, driven on by the momentum of his shoulder charge.

He glanced wildly around the room. “Nellie! Are you hurt?”

Tibor growled at the fresh intruder. “Julian, watch out,” Nellie cried out as the brute lowered his head and charged towards Julian.

At the last second Julian jumped out of the way, and Tibor crashed into the doorframe with a shuddering thud.

“Here, can you stand?” Julian held out his hand towards her, wincing as she clasped it. “Do you mind retracting the claws? They’re rather uncomfortable digging into me.”

“Sorry.” Quickly she sheathed her weapons. In her heightened state, she was not fully in control of herself. Julian’s crashing into the room had set her heart leaping, and the grasp of his hand on hers kept it hammering at a topsy-turvy rate. “But how on earth did you know I was here?”

“Murderers! Robbers!” Madame Olga shrieked.

Julian ignored the medium while keeping a wary eye on Tibor who was heaving himself to his feet. “Simple. I followed you.”

“You followed me! How…why…?”

“Get them, Tibor.” The spiritualist shook her fists in rage, causing her shawls to flap around her like vulture’s wings. “Get them both.”

“I knew you’d been sneaking out at night.” He picked up a small stool as Tibor ominously cricked his neck from side to side and smacked his meaty fists together. “Gareth has been helping you, hasn’t he?”

A guilty blush heated her cheeks. “Only to procure a horse for the night. He did not—mind, he’s coming!”

Tibor thundered towards them. Her warning was superfluous as Julian had already taken the measure of their opponent. He unceremoniously pushed Nellie to one side before brandishing the stool as though he were a lion-tamer. The wooden floorboards shuddered as Tibor stampeded forward, a snorting, bellowing buffalo. Julian held his ground, and at the last second he darted sideways and swung the stool at Tibor’s head.

Bits of wood flew in the air as the stool shattered against the giant’s gleaming skull. He roared and shook his head. Madame Olga screeched like a banshee.

“I think we should leave,” Julian said.

Nellie hung back. “But I still need to ask her about—about…”

Julian sighed. “You mean Pip? You’ve been following him for several nights, have you not?”

The weary accusation in his tone made her bite her lip. She was about to speak when Tibor let out a high-pitched squeal and pawed at his screwed-up eyes. The ogre became a babe, blubbering unintelligibly while tears streamed down the boulders of his cheeks.

“You’ve blinded my poor Tibor.” Balling up her fists, Madame Olga rained blows on Julian’s shoulder. “Monster! Barbarian!”

Shrugging her off, Julian moved towards the weeping man. “I’m a doctor. Sit down and let me have a look.”

At his authoritative tone, the man sank down into a chair, submissive as a lamb. His massive shoulders shook like jelly, and he moaned as Julian persuaded him to lift his head.

“A large jug of clean water, if you please,” he ordered Madame Olga. She obeyed him without a word and returned with an earthenware pot. He proceeded to flush out Tibor’s eyes with water, while Madame Olga hovered close by, anxiously kneading the man’s shoulder. Finally, when the giant sat up blinking, his vision restored, she muttered something to him, he nodded, heaved himself out of the chair and disappeared behind the curtain.

“You can apply a chamomile compress to his eyes,” Julian instructed Madame Olga. “That should help ease any lingering discomfort.”

The woman nodded, her manner far more subdued. “Thank you. The poor sod has a lot of trouble with his eyes sometimes.” By now the medium had dropped all pretence at being foreign. Flouncing back her scarves, she slid her gaze towards Nellie. “So you know this veiled one and her prying questions?”

“She didn’t mean to upset you. She was merely seeking some information regarding the gentleman who visited you earlier.” He paused, then dug into the pocket of his coat and drew out a handful of coins. “Perhaps this will help with your memory.”

In a flash the coins disappeared into the folds of the woman’s shawls. She gestured towards the fallen table. “Why don’t we sit?”

Julian righted the table and chairs, and they all sat. Madame Olga repositioned the scarf on her hair, pushed up her jingling bracelets, and crossed her arms over her plump bosom.

“The gentleman calls himself Pip Barchester, but I’d bet a tenner that’s a false name. My clients often want to remain anonymous. He comes here several times a week, usually during the day, but at night too. He doesn’t stay long. He gets nervous, can’t keep still.”

“And what does he ask you to do?”

“First couple of visits ’twas his late mama he wished to talk with. I didn’t see him for a bit, but he started visiting again with a vengeance, and ever since then it’s just been the one thing. Always wants to get in contact with his dead wife. Nellie Barchester, she was.”

Nellie gulped audibly, but Julian did not look at her. “Go on,” he said to the medium.

“He tells her how sorry he is that she’s dead, how sorry she met with such a terrible end, how awful he feels about everything. He gets quite upset.”

The heavy veil pressed down on Nellie like a shroud. She felt a scream building up inside her. Next to her, Julian’s hand was a granite fist on his knee.

“And what do you tell him?” Nellie blurted out.

“I tell him his wife is at peace, that she loves him dearly and harbours no ill feelings towards him.”

“And he believes you?” Her voice pitched high in disbelief.

Madame Olga shrugged. “My clients come to me for absolution, forgiveness, for peace of mind. I give them what they seek. I need to put food on the table,” she added defensively as she registered their disapproval. “And besides, I’m being paid to soothe Mr. Barchester’s fears.”

“What do you mean?” Julian retorted.

“Last week a man came here. Said he was Mr. Barchester’s father, and he was very worried about his son on account of him being on the verge of a breakdown. He wanted to know why his son was coming here—much like yourselves, except he paid better—and when I told him everything, he said he’d pay me if I kept on telling Mr. Barchester the same things about his wife, except for one extra addition. I also had to tell him that his dead wife wanted him to remarry, insisted he promise to remarry, in fact.” She paused for a moment to contemplate their incredulous expressions. “Well, who’m I to argue with a bit of extra cash, especially as I was already doing as he wanted? Good little earner, this Mr. Barchester has turned out to be, but what a mess he is, poor wretch. I’m glad I never married him.”

Nellie leaped to her feet. Her head was pounding, and she thought she was going to be sick. She had to get out of this stifling room, away from Madame Olga’s clinking bangles and mercenary eyes. Half-blind, she pushed her way out of the room, stumbled down the stairs and rushed out into the street.

“Nellie, wait for me,” Julian called from behind.

She sucked in the night air, grateful for its coolness despite the whiff of urine rising from the gutters. Mercifully, the threat of throwing up passed. “I’m sorry I behaved so queerly, but I had to get out of there.”

“Why didn’t you tell me what you were up to?” he asked, his tone stiff. “If I’d accompanied you, you wouldn’t have run the risk of that lummox Tibor.”

She busied herself with her veil, pushing it this way and that. “I wanted to avoid an argument,” she finally muttered. “I guessed you might disapprove.”

“Disapprove of you roaming the streets of London at night by yourself? Disapprove of you shadowing your husband? The husband who seems weighed down with guilt over your death? You guessed correctly.”

She winced even as she tipped up her chin. “You’ve been urging me to venture abroad, and yet you’re displeased now that I have. How contrary of you.”

“Do not twist my words, Nellie.”

“Heavens above, I am married to a man whose father tried to do away with me. Is it any wonder that I’m chary of trusting people again?”

“I saved your life. Doesn’t that put me in a category beyond mere ‘people’?”

She swallowed. If only he knew how important he was becoming to her. Every discovery she made of her weakling husband only exacerbated her growing tenderness for this dark-eyed, golden-skinned man scowling before her.

“Julian,” she slowly replied, “you are in a category all of your own.”

“And what category is that?”

The keenness of his gaze became rapier-sharp, peeling back her layers. Her veil and the darkness were no defence against him. Did Julian want more from her? How shocking and exciting and terrifying all at the same time. Her blood fizzed at the idea of him wanting her, of she giving him everything, but fear and melancholy tamped her desire. A man so handsome as he surely couldn’t desire a woman so disfigured as she. No, it was madness. Besides, how could she bring herself to put her heart and trust into another person’s safekeeping again?

She moistened her lips. “Champion, saviour, hero.”

“Humpf.” His frown remained. “And yet, after all my championing, you seem quite cavalier about your safety. You must promise me to cease these nightly trips at once.”

She couldn’t do that, not when she was so close to uncovering the truth, but neither could she lie to Julian. “Your concern is duly noted, and I’m eternally grateful to you, but I absolve you of any further responsibility for me. You’ve done more than enough for me. From here on I must solve my problems on my own.”

“You seem quite willing to involve Gareth with your problems,” he shot back, his gaze becoming acrimonious. “I didn’t realise you and he were so intimate.”

Her cheeks burned under the sting of his words. It was true that her initial dealings with Gareth Derringer had been rocky, but the man had gone out of his way to mend fences. He’d insisted no favour was too much to ask of him, and when she’d tentatively enquired where she might find some means of independent transport, he had directed her to a small inn a half mile away from Monksbane. She was merely to mention his name to the innkeeper, he informed her, and the fellow would provide her with a reliable horse, no questions asked. She would not even have to pay, as the innkeeper was somehow in Mr. Derringer’s debt, the circumstances of which Mr. Derringer did not elaborate upon.

“Mr. Derringer and I are not intimates,” Nellie said steadily. “He merely helped me to find a mount for the night.”

Julian snorted. “Mr. Derringer,” he stated with heavy sarcasm, “is a man of many connections, not all of them entirely reputable.”

“I myself am hardly reputable these days, so who am I to complain?” She tucked the ends of her veil inside her jacket. “Now, I’m sure you’re as tired as I am, and we’re miles away from home. Perhaps we should continue this discussion elsewhere.”

He frowned at her for several more moments. Eventually he shrugged as if he’d tired of her and all the trouble she’d caused him. “I stabled my horse at the same inn where you left yours. Let’s go.”

As she fell into step, his weary countenance pinched at her heart. How could she have imagined that spark of passion in his eyes a few minutes ago? She’d caused him nothing but concern, and he had his own problems to deal with, problems which were just as vexing as hers. Was she becoming a tiresome burden to him? She hoped not. She wanted them to be the best of friends. In truth, what she felt for him was far more than mere friendship, but considering the circumstances and what he’d already done for her, she had no right to ask for anything more. No right, no courage and no hope, either.

Chapter Nine

They reached Monksbane as the moon was waning. Julian’s mare jingled her bit and picked up her pace as she sensed that her stable, water, and a feed of oats were close by. Beside him, Nellie sat astride her raw-boned nag. Julian had already suggested she ride all the way back with him, that Figgs would return the mount to the inn the following day, and she’d readily agreed. They clip-clopped down the gravel drive towards the darkened house. At this hour everyone would be asleep, and Julian was loath to drag Figgs from his bed. He dismounted and turned to help Nellie, but she’d already slithered down from her saddle.

“Go to bed,” he said to Nellie, taking the reins from her. “I’ll see to the horses.”

He led the horses into the stable, where he busied himself unsaddling and watering them. He was rubbing his mare down when Nellie reappeared just outside the stall.

“Julian,” she began hesitantly. “I realised I hadn’t thanked you for coming to my rescue—yet again. That was churlish of me.”

On the ride home she’d discarded her hat and veil, and the night wind had brought colour to her cheeks and teased her hair until it fell in loose curls around her shoulders. The sight of her dishevelled hair gleaming in the lamplight made his heart behave queerly. He worked his cloth harder over the horse’s flank. Devil take it, why did she have such an effect on him?

“Will you make contact with your husband?” he asked, deliberately emphasising the last word.

Nellie plucked a wisp of dried grass out of the mare’s hay net and twirled it between her fingers. “I…I’m not sure.”

“Why not? It’s plain you wish to.”

“It is?”

“Is that not why you fled from the medium? Because you were all aflutter at the thought of Phillip?” He made himself stare at her. “I had a good gander at him tonight. He’s a fine-looking toff with those blond curls and milky complexion and soft hands. I can see why you married him.”

Her lips tightened. “Sarcasm does not become you, Julian.”

“No? But then, I’m just a rough-and-ready fellow, a swarthy cove who likes to tinker with bodies and machines, not a pale and sensitive milksop with a rich papa like Phillip Ormond.”

Her cheeks flamed. “I did not marry Phillip for his money!”

“Why the devil did you marry him at all?”

At his harsh outcry, the mare skittered sideways and knocked over her pail of water. With a muttered curse Julian lunged for the fallen bucket. When he rose, Nellie was still standing there, her arms wrapped around herself, a stricken look on her face. His jaw dropped, the pail tumbled to the straw as he strode forward and put his hands tentatively on her shoulders.

“Nellie…” All the rancour he’d worked up on the trip home dissolved as he stared down at her. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I don’t know why I married him. I was naive and yearning to escape from the asylum and my father…” Gulping, she pressed her fingers against her face. “I had these girlish notions of what it was to fall in love, and Phillip appeared, and I transferred all those fanciful ideas onto him, but—but it was a fantasy, I realise that now, for both of us. He was looking for solace, and I was seeking an escape from the loneliness of my life, but I should never have eloped with him. And then I insisted we get married with all possible haste. I badgered and pestered him. That’s why…” She broke off, her distress causing his gut to clench.

“What? What are you trying to tell me?”

She lifted darkened eyes to him. “Mr. Derringer sent me a note earlier today. You recall he offered to find out the truth about my marriage, whether Pip had concealed a prior betrothal from me. Well—” she drew in a quick gulp of air, “—it appears Sir Thaddeus was telling the truth. Pip has been engaged to a Miss Montague for more than two years and the wedding was to be held this spring.”

“My God!” Julian couldn’t help himself bursting out. “He’s as devious as his damned father!”

“No, I don’t believe that. He lied to me, yes, but not out of deviousness. He’s simply misguided and…and desperate.”

“He’s a fraud. He lied to you and tricked you into giving yourself to him.” He stopped short, gulping hard as the image of an innocent Nellie offering her maidenhood to the wretched Pip blighted his mind. With a small gasp, she turned her head, and the action hurt him even more than his taunting imagination.

“I’m not entirely without blame,” she muttered. “I was a prude, caught up in notions about my respectability and the fantasy of marriage. Pip is a soft soul; he needs someone who can be his stalwart, but I could never be that, especially when his father turned on him. After that, I became a burden to him.”

Julian tightened his grip on her trembling shoulders. “Ye gods, he doesn’t deserve you. He’s a lily-livered featherweight.”

“No, he’s a tortured soul. Isn’t it obvious? Why else does he visit Madame Olga so often?”

Julian wanted to howl with frustration at her stubbornness. “Because he’s wracked with guilt over your death. Because he connived with Thaddeus to have you abducted and murdered, that’s why.”

“No, I refuse to believe that!”

“But you’ve contemplated it.” She did not respond, but her clouded gaze gave him answer enough. “Of course it horrifies you to think your phony husband would plot your demise, but you know it is a distinct possibility. Phillip scurried back to his father while you were out looking for employment. He had no means of support, and he was utterly incapable of living in poverty. His only option was to go crawling back to his father, cap in hand. Sir Thaddeus wanted you gone, but a public divorce would be too scandalous and take much too long. So Sir Thaddeus gave him an ultimatum. Get rid of your inconvenient wife immediately or live a life of penury forever. Phillip agreed, but he was too yellow-bellied to carry out the deed himself, so Sir Thaddeus organised the ambush. The bastard who assaulted you was supposed to have drowned you in the river, no doubt, but he was greedy. He wanted those rings of yours, and when I came to your rescue, he was in a quandary. He’d fouled up the job he’d been given, but he didn’t want to confess to Thaddeus. So instead he killed some poor streetwalker, hacked up her face, and put your rings on her. And now you’re dead, Phillip can live life on the hog again, as long as he does his father’s bidding.”

During his impassioned speech she’d said not a word. Now, with face set, she slowly disentangled herself from his grip. He wondered if he’d gone too far, but when she spoke her voice was low and hesitant.

“Everything you say is probably true, but I cannot condemn Pip without giving him a chance to defend himself.”

His gut clenched in protest. She must still nurse feelings for Phillip Ormond. How could she not see how feeble that boy was?

“Well, then, you must accost him with the truth.” Folding his arms, he regarded her brusquely. “You must show yourself to him.”

“I…haven’t decided that yet.”

She dipped her head to hide her scars from his sight. That was the first time she’d ever done that to him. He reached out to her chin and tilted her face back to him.

“Don’t ever hide yourself from me like that,” he said roughly. “I’m not your pernickety spouse. To me your face is perfect. Perfect, I tell you.”

A tide of colour rose in her cheeks. “Now who is the fanciful one?”

He brushed his thumb over the dimple in her chin, relishing the feel of her warm skin and delicate bone structure. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. If your boy flinches at the sight of your scars, then he is not worth having.”

“Perhaps, but…” She chewed her lower lip pensively. “Perhaps I will write him a letter first.”

“A letter? That is hardly the way to confront him.”

“But I have no desire for confrontation or accusation. I wish only to know the truth.”

Reluctantly Julian released her chin and tucked his hand into his trouser pocket. He would never stand a chance with Nellie if she continued to harbour these conflicted feelings for Phillip. Once and for all the truth had to be wheedled out of Phillip, and without the need for Nellie to show herself.

“I have an idea on how we could trick Phillip into revealing himself,” he said, “but you may not approve.”

She glanced up, her interest piqued. “Oh? Why not?”

“It involves Madame Olga.”

“I see. Well, go on.”

As he proceeded to outline his plan, she remained silent, only the startled flickering in her eyes showing her response. Finally he stopped. Her furrowed brow did not auger well for her reaction.

“Well, what do you think?” he prompted when he grew tired of waiting.

“I think your plan is quite outlandish.”

“I hardly think insults are—”

“And I approve.”

He blinked. “You do?”

“Yes. Yes, I think it’s so peculiar it just might work.”

He rocked back and forth on his heels. “Ah. Well. A lot depends on you, you realise. You will have to give quite a performance.”

“Indeed. I’ll take instruction from Madame Olga and practice my part thoroughly.” For a few more moments she contemplated his plan, and when she lifted her gaze to him there was suffusing warmth in her eyes. “Oh, Julian, you’re brilliant. This has given me fresh hope.”

The glimmer in her moss-green eyes lit a spark in him. Without warning, desire rippled through his veins, causing his fingers to tremble, but he made himself give her a bland smile. “At least you will have a resolution of sorts.”

She moved forward and touched his arm. “You’re so ingenious. I never would have thought of such a scheme. In fact, you’ve done so much for me already. Thank you, Julian.”

Leaning forward, she rose on tiptoe and planted a light kiss on his cheek. For a split second he just stood there, transfixed by her action. A moment later, his body responded viscerally, and he wrapped an arm around her waist and slid his mouth over hers. She made a tiny gasp, and he feared she would pull away, but then her lips softened and yielded against his, and it felt as though the blazing summer sun had burst through. The honey of her kiss poured out like hot lava through him, surging to every region. It was as if he’d been frozen for eons, and now the heat of her mouth was flooding his body, dissolving all the ice.

Lifting his hand to the back of her neck, he cradled her head as he bent her over his arm and ravished her mouth once more. Her fingernails dug into the sleeves of his coat. For a moment it seemed she was about to rip herself away, but instead she pulled him closer, so close their bodies were plastered together and he could feel every delicious inch of her. The mounds of her breast pressed urgently against his chest, the layers of cloth between them insufficient to disguise the hardening of her nipples. The discovery of her arousal only fed his own. He plundered her lips once more, only to find her tongue sliding into his mouth, shy and teasing and lascivious all at the same time. His heart leaped. How sensual and abandoned she was! Sweet and carnal, adorable and voluptuous, she was an intoxicating concoction that went straight to his head. He tasted her tongue and penetrated her mouth, all the while conscious of the pounding need building in his body. The tightening of his trousers came as no surprise. By heaven, he was in the grip of an unaccustomed fervour! He’d long ago discarded his chasteness, but Nellie in his arms triggered new sensations of such overwhelming power he wasn’t sure he could control them.

Lifting his head, he gazed down at her. Their panting breaths rose in the still air and mingled with the steam rising from their heated bodies. Nellie’s face was flushed with ardour, her lips swollen and wet and utterly enticing. Her glittering green eyes and striped cheeks gave her the exotic allure of a feline in heat, and the need to get her naked and on her back clawed at him like a ravenous beast.

“Nellie,” he groaned, smoothing his hands over her hair as he battled to control his primitive desires. “I didn’t mean to… You took me by surprise…”

“I am a shameless wanton,” she whispered back. As her hands moved feverishly over his chest, her spurs unsheathed and caught in the soft fabric of his shirt, tearing a rent at his collar. She sucked in a breath, then bent her head and licked at the patch of bare skin exposed.

Julian inhaled as the warm moist tip of her tongue swirled over his skin. “Sweet Jesus, don’t stop.”

She laved him again, her tongue and claws switching between playful and greedy. Sensations spiralled out of him, layer upon layer. He lanced his fingers through her tumbled hair, and the silkiness of her curls sharpened the pleasure of her lapping tongue. As the edge of her teeth nipped at his flesh, she drew back, dazed and panting.

“I—I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t mean to bite—”

“Don’t apologise, my sweet. I want to feast on you too. Every inch of you.”

Her eyes widened, but she did not seem appalled by his suggestion. “I don’t—I’ve never…” She licked her lips nervously, and the sight of her wet mouth made the blood pound harder in his loins.

She’d never experienced such an explosion of desire, he conjectured. Never felt such primitive lust. Well, neither had he, despite his former experience. This was something new, something altogether different, for both of them.

“Yes,” he murmured against her mouth. “I understand. This is unfamiliar for me too.”

This time the heat of his kiss flared even higher. She didn’t shrink away but wound her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. Spurred on, he slipped his hand down her back, following the contours of her spine until he reached her bottom, where he squeezed her flesh through her skirts. She let out a miniscule squeak against his lips as her buttocks perked in delightful fashion beneath his greedy grip. Before he knew what he was doing, his hand lifted the hem of her skirts and sought out her leg. A rounded knee was the first thing he encountered. He smoothed his hand northwards over her cotton drawers and closed his palm around the firm mound of her derriere. The heat of her flesh radiated through the thin material like fire.

“Nellie, sweet Nellie. You are Venus come to tempt me sorely.”

Though lust hazed his brain, he hung on to the remnants of his self-control. Nellie was not her usual self, understandable after the events of the night, and he had to be mindful of this though she clung to him and kissed him with wild abandon. He had to maintain command of the situation. But even as he thought this, his exploration of her bottom drew his hand to the cleft between her buttocks, and to his enchantment he discovered her drawers were of the open-crotch variety. Without pause, his fingers slipped involuntarily through the opening and sought out the sweet moistness between her thighs.

Nellie exclaimed, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she first tensed then slowly relaxed against him. Heat shot through him as he caressed her slick folds. He could no more stop himself as fly through the air. Indeed, his heart hammered so hard he feared his ribs would burst. He felt as though he were drowning in her melting, dizzying temptation. Moaning softly, she shifted her legs, rubbing herself against his urgent fingers. Sweet lover mine. How ravishing she looked with her head thrown back, her hair wild and her breasts heaving.

His gaze flickered to the stairs leading up to the hayloft. It would take a matter of seconds to get her upstairs, and once up there they would tear off their clothes, and she would recline naked on a pile of hay and spread her thighs wide. His crotch swelled even harder, the urge for release biting at him. His hand tightened on her bare thigh; he could practically feel himself thrusting into her.

Then his gaze fell upon her dazed and trusting face, and shame pricked him. Good God, Nellie was special and precious to him. She was no amiable tart to be carelessly tumbled in the stable. She deserved rubies and emeralds, the stars and the moon, everything her heart desired and more. And he wanted more, too. More than a befuddled coupling at midnight, he wanted her trust and regard, and groping at her like a lust-addled satyr was no way to win her esteem.

Slowly he withdrew his hand from her legs. He straightened her ruffled skirts and buttoned her jacket, all the while trying to ignore his baying, boiling need.

“Julian?” Nellie asked, her voice shaky. “What… Is something amiss?”

“Yes.” His hands shook as he smoothed her curls. The lure of her red mouth was almost too much. “I should not have fondled you like that. It was uncouth and brutish.”

Her mouth formed an O of astonishment. “You didn’t enjoy it?”

“Of course I enjoyed it!” To curb his frustration, he turned back to the horses and snatched up the forgotten pail. “I enjoyed it too much, that is the problem.”

He marched to the pump in the corner and filled the pail. When he returned to his mare, Nellie was still standing there, her fingers twisted together. “Julian, I am as much to blame as you.”

Blame. Why did she have to put it like that? “Look, why don’t we forget it happened? Least said, soonest mended.”

“Is that what you want to do? Forget it?”

Scowling, he dumped the water pail in front of his mare. “I don’t want to forget it, but for now it’s probably best, what with all your…dilemmas.”

She fingered the loose ends of her hair for a while. “I suppose you are right. While I’m all at sea, it would not be fair to you.”

“I don’t give a fig about fairness.” He grabbed a couple of blankets and threw them over the horses. “And I make no bones that I’d like you in my bed, but if that does happen, I want it to be your conscious, measured decision, not a temporary lack of judgement.”

“You—you make it sound so dispassionate.”

“Don’t worry. If the time comes, I’ll have plenty of passion to show.”

He turned his back on her, as there were limits to his self-control, and he was beginning to regret not taking her by the hand and leading her up to the hayloft. If it weren’t for his damned principles, by now they would both be buck naked and he’d be in seventh heaven.

He busied himself securing the blankets. When he looked up, Nellie had disappeared, leaving behind only a tantalising trace of her scent. He uttered a curse under his breath, and his mare whickered in response.

“At least you will be sleeping comfortable tonight,” he muttered into her ears.

The freshly lit fire gave off a flickering illumination over Julian’s bedroom. The air was growing warm, but beneath the crisp sheets goose bumps dappled Nellie’s skin. Sheer nerves. Even now, lying naked in Julian’s bed, she couldn’t quite believe what she’d done. What she was about to do.

Her gaze darted about the room. This wasn’t her first visit to Julian’s chamber. A few days ago, with the aid of Mrs. Tibbet, she’d given the room a thorough going-over. The carpet had been beaten to within an inch of its life, the windows and curtains had been washed, and the furniture waxed and polished. At the time, her only thought had been to provide Julian with the comfortable, clean room he deserved; she’d never dreamed she’d be bold enough to visit his chamber in the role of seductress.

Was this the right way to go about things? When it came to the seduction of men, she was an ingénue, and Julian was far more experienced than she. Would he find her sufficiently alluring? She’d brushed her hair until it gleamed like copper, and she’d washed the dirt and mud from her body and rubbed rosewater over her skin, and now she lay in Julian’s bed with her hair fanned out over the pillows. But was that enough? She had no diaphanous negligee or French perfume or artful skills. Nothing but her body and her burning desire. Would that satisfy a man like Julian? Perhaps she should—

The door latch clicked and Julian walked into the room. As soon as he saw her, he stopped short, his eyes widening.

“Well.” He shut the door and moved to the foot of the bed, his steps slow and deliberate. “I did not expect this.”

She held the sheet up beneath her chin as her bravado rapidly deserted her. “Um, if you would rather I leave…”

“Oh, no.” His eyes gleamed like jet, possessing her. “If I’d known you were here waiting for me, I’d have been much speedier.”

Her heartbeat quickened. Down in the stables it had been so easy and natural to fall into his arms and kiss him, but here, in the intimate confines of his bedchamber with his personal effects around them, it was a different matter.

As he pulled off his jacket, he continued, “I take it this is your considered decision?”

“I, er, yes, it is. My—my considered, measured decision.”

“I’m glad.” Next came his boots. She jerked in alarm as they went flying across the floor. “What has brought this about?”

He had good cause to ask, she conceded. Once, she had been too puritanical, and now she sat in an unmarried man’s bed without a stitch on. What had effected such a turnabout? “I’m not the same person anymore,” she answered slowly, choosing her words with care. “The old Nellie Barchester is no more, the new one is still in the making, and for now I am…in transition. I know not what I’ll become, but the feelings I have for you—the emotions you stir in me—they are so urgent and powerful that I cannot deny them.” She paused to lick her lips as her thoughts churned. “Julian, you are a force of nature I cannot withstand, nor do I wish to. For this one night, and this night alone, I wish to…to escape from all other ties and simply be with you.”

His chest rose and fell with the force of his breathing. His gaze pinned her to the pillows. “You wish to forget everything else?”

“Yes.”

“Are you nervous?”

“A little,” she confessed. “No, more than a little.”

His mobile mouth lifted at one corner. “So am I.”

“You?” She found her lips twitching in response. “I find that difficult to believe.”

His eyes darkened as he bent over her. “Believe it, my dear Nellie.”

The resonance in his voice shook her, and she knew she’d never regret her decision. Whatever happened in the future, she would have this night with Julian. This night was an interlude from the past and the future, an escape from reality, a dream carved out of time. And Julian was her dream lover, the man of all her erotic fantasies. Eager to touch him, she sat up, and the sheet fell away, revealing her bare body.

Julian sucked in a deep breath as his sight riveted on her exposed breasts. “Be careful, my crumpet. I’m only human.”

She breathed heavily, stimulated by his frank admiration. “If you do not get rid of those clothes of yours, I shall be forced to use my claws on you.”

In a matter of seconds he shucked off the rest of his clothes, then tossed back the sheet to take his fill of her naked length. Instead of pulling her into his arms as she expected, he drifted his fingers over the scars that peppered her chest and shoulders. Unhurried, he moved to her face and lovingly stroked the marks crisscrossing her cheeks, his touch almost reverent. In the reflected glow of his eyes, she felt infinitely beautiful and precious. Her heart swelled. How fortunate to receive such tenderness from such a man. Impatient for more physical contact, she twisted up onto her knees and curled her arms around his neck. Mildness gave way to animal appetite. His mouth came down greedily on hers as he toppled her onto her back with his weight. At the first touch of his lips, her senses sang. Their mouths melded together in a fusion of ecstatic heat. The warm scrub of his body against hers ignited her every nerve. He was hard muscle and soft skin, rough hair and delicate fingertips, brute strength and athletic grace. The bulk of his chest rubbed up against her breasts, exciting her nipples to hard peaks.

He was not tentative with her. He cupped one breast and possessed the other with his covetous mouth, his lips and tongue and teeth toying with her nipple. Rings of pleasure rippled out from her nub, joining with the erotic titillation caused by his thumb roughly and urgently caressing the other. She couldn’t control the sensations exploding through her, couldn’t stop—didn’t want to stop—herself arching her back, pressing her breast to Julian’s mouth and begging him for more. She was on a wild ride into the unknown landscape of sensual pleasure, with Julian as her guide. When his lips drifted away from her breast, she almost cried out in frustration, only to realise he was not abandoning her but rather following the map of her curves down to her stomach. He nibbled at her belly while his hands worked their magic on her hips and thighs. Against the white sheets and the paleness of her skin, his body glowed like a river of bronze, licked by the flickering firelight, enticing her to touch. Obeying her instincts, she trailed her fingers over him, exploring every sculpted inch, revelling in his glorious beauty. She traced her lips over him, lapping and sucking at his tangy flavour. Nothing was forbidden, no inhibition held her back. His eyes sparked with devilish humour as he let her have full rein on his body. Only when she’d explored his pulsating erection with her lips and fingers and tongue for several ecstatic minutes did he reluctantly draw her away.

“Now is not the time for that, my darling.”

Taking charge once more, he laid her on her back. His fingers reached between her legs and caressed her with long slow strokes until she was drenched and writhing. Wet and mad with desire, she could only think of one thing—Julian entering her and filling her to the core. Acceding to her wants, he claimed her with possessive force, the delicious hard thrust of his body the sole reality in her thrumming universe. Their bodies moved together in primitive harmony, heat and tightness and spiralling pleasure, their coupling earthy and urgent. As he reached the deepest part of her, he awakened new facets in her and she found herself in a place she’d never visited before. In a quick hot rush that was almost painful, they climaxed together, and when they fell upon the pillows, she felt as if she’d fallen from a great height, and she was grateful for the darkness that suddenly swamped her.

After a while she realised Julian was calling her name softly, and she blinked her eyes open.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, concern etched on his face.

She shook her head. “No, I merely…I was merely overwhelmed. With pleasure.” She gave him a weak grin. “You made me swoon.”

He tucked the sheet under her chin and felt her forehead. “I’m flattered you think so, but I’d rather my lovemaking didn’t render you insensible.”

She caught his hand in hers and pressed a kiss on the back of it. “Oh, Julian. Never have I experienced such—such magnificence. It was sheer bliss, was it not?”

“Magical,” he murmured.

Yes, it was like nothing she’d ever dreamed of, and now she’d had a taste she feared it would not be enough.

Sometime later the fire had died down to a glowing bank of ashes, and Nellie lay in Julian’s arms, her head curled upon his shoulder. The sweat was cooling off their bodies from their third coupling, and she hazily thought that she might be sated enough to sleep. Julian absentmindedly played with one of her tresses. His body seemed relaxed, but she sensed his thoughts were not so at ease. Glancing up at him, she felt a tremendous tug of emotion towards him. Always, in so many ways, he was there for her, even though he had equally pressing concerns of his own.

“Julian?” she murmured, twisting herself around the better to view his face. “Tell me about your birth.”

For a moment he looked startled. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. For instance, how do you imagine you landed here on Elijah’s doorstep?”

He stroked her hair meditatively before saying, “I have no solid proof as yet. This is all conjecture, but…I imagine my mother, once her pregnancy was discovered, would not have been allowed to remain in the family’s Mayfair home. She would have been bundled off to spend her confinement in anonymity somewhere.”

“Somewhere like around here, perhaps?”

He nodded. “Perhaps. At the time of my birth, this place was quiet, remote. Mr. Cazalet mentioned my mother was accompanied by some old governess of hers. She must have been a confidante, if she went with my mother to have her brooch repaired. Perhaps this governess came from nearby, knew of Elijah’s kindness, and decided to leave the baby—me—on his doorstep, knowing I’d be well cared for.”

From the flow of his words she knew he’d already mulled over this possibility many times, and her heart went out to him. She didn’t quite understand the need that drove him, but she could see how the uncertainty gnawed at him, and that only increased her ire towards Sir Thaddeus a thousand-fold.

She placed her palm over his heart, wishing to feel his heartbeat. “And what will you do next?” she asked.

“I intend focussing my enquiries on this old governess. If I can identify her, she may be able to tell me more.”

“About what?”

“About the circumstances of my birth. I’m convinced that Ophelia Ormond was my mother, but I know nothing about her or how she came to be in such a dire situation.” He paused a while, his jaw flexing. “I wish to know who my father was, and why he abandoned my mother to such a cruel fate. Perhaps he was unaware of her condition or was forced out of her life…or perhaps he was simply an opportunistic rake with the morals of an alley cat.”

Beneath her hand, his heart beat faster. She smoothed his skin, longing to soothe the tumult festering within him. “Do you really want to discover that?”

“Like you, I want to discover the truth, however unpalatable.”

But Sir Thaddeus would thwart his every attempt. She knew without him having to state the obvious. How awful if Julian never achieved his goal. How terrible if he spent the rest of his life pursuing the unattainable.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, suddenly overcome with emotion.

“Sweetheart…” Perplexed, he reached for her. “Whatever for?”

Leaning over him, she cupped his face with her hands. The stubble on his jaw prickled pleasurably against her palms. “For being such a burden on you, for compelling you to pursue my aims to the detriment of yours.”

“You’re no burden. Far from it.” He ran a finger over her bottom lip. “Nothing as sweet as this could be a burden…”

The tenderness of his touch ambushed her heart, filled her with goldenness. She had come to his bed seeking physical release and comfort, yet she’d received something far more, something precious and terrifying at the same time. She wrapped her arms fiercely around him, desperate to savour every moment they had left of the night. Soon sleep would come, the sun would rise and the world would intrude, but for now they were simply a man and a woman in thrall with one another, and that was all she wanted.

Chapter Ten

“Well? How do I look?” Holding out both arms, Nellie spun around in front of Julian, causing the layers of multicoloured shawls and skirts to swirl about her.

“Suitably gaudy,” Julian said. “But you shouldn’t dance about so. Remember, you’re playing an eerie and mysterious woman.”

“Ah, you’re right.” Nellie adopted an ominous expression and paraded around Julian’s workroom with a ponderous gait, the stiff skirts rustling against her legs. “Is this sufficiently spine-chilling?”

He chuckled. “Madame Dariya, the resemblance to your cousin Madame Olga is quite uncanny.”

Her grin faded as she contemplated herself in the full-length mirror. Easy enough dressing up for a lark, but could she convince Pip that she was a genuine replacement for his spiritual medium? Would he be satisfied that she hide her face behind a thick veil? Or would he recognise her voice beneath the fake accent she would assume? And, more importantly, could she convince him that she was in touch with the spirit of his dead wife? The evening could end in disaster and humiliation if he was not taken in by her disguise.

“You appear worried,” Julian interrupted her milling thoughts. “You think my plan is too bizarre and desperate to succeed. Well, it’s not too late to change your mind.”

But if she did, she might never uncover the truth, and she would be condemning herself to a life in the shadows. She didn’t want to cower forever. She wanted a new start, a new life. And there was Julian to consider. Her eyes sought him out unerringly as he leaned against a workbench. Dressed in black, he was lithe and muscular and dangerously alluring. Vitality emanated from every inch of him. She curled her hands into fists, fighting the temptation to reach out and touch him.

True to her word, their night of passion had not been repeated. Not because her attraction for him had waned—far from it, her hunger for him grew stronger every hour until she could barely stand it—but that one night was the only respite she could afford until she had resolved matters with Pip once and for all. Only after she’d settled her lingering doubts and fears would she be able to consider her future, a future which might conjoin with Julian’s, although she couldn’t be sure. It was no easy task ignoring the heat between them. Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—Julian had concurred with her decision, for if he’d decided to press her for another night, she doubted she had the necessary firmness of purpose to deny him.

“No, I cannot change my mind,” she said. “Whatever the outcome, this needs to be settled. And besides, you’ve already paid Madame Olga for the use of her rooms tonight. We can’t let that go to waste.”

He nodded, a gleam of approval shooting through his coal-black eyes. “Very well, then. We’d best be off.”

They mounted their horses and set off in the direction of the city. After a few days of clear weather, the road was almost dry, but winter lingered in the razor-sharp night wind that gusted over them. Nellie drew her cloak closer. The chill enveloping her was due only in part to the weather.

Four days had passed since she had first rushed so impetuously into Madame Olga’s rooms. Since then, she’d returned once with Julian, after he had persuaded the woman by means of a large purse of coins to give them the use of her rooms when Pip made his next appointment. At first Madame Olga had been suspicious, but the lure of easy money was too much, and eventually she’d agreed and consented to give Nellie a few instructions on how to conduct a spiritual session. By now the outright chicanery of her spiritualism was tacitly agreed on by all—it was a purely business transaction between them. Pip had sent word to Madame Olga that he would stop by at eight that night, and Madame Olga had passed on the message to Julian and assured him she and her brawny bodyguard would not be seen near her apartment all night.

The journey to Madame Olga’s was some miles, but for Nellie it was over far too quickly. They tethered their horses in the courtyard behind the spiritualist’s house and found the key beneath the broken flowerpot near the back door as Madame Olga had instructed.

As they entered the apartment, stale air greeted them, musty with the odour of cheap incense and boiled cabbage. Nellie resisted the urge to fling open the windows. The authenticity of the atmosphere had to be preserved. She lit the single candle on the table, arranged the bread on the plate, settled the heavy veil over her head, and sat down.

“Vell, meester,” she addressed Julian in her best foreign accent. “Iz zis goot?”

He leaned towards her. “Hmm. Let me see… The shadows hide your face well, but as an extra precaution we need less light.” He dimmed the lamp shining in the corner. “Yes, that’s much better. And keep the accent lighter. It will be easier to maintain it as the séance progresses.”

She nodded, her fingers plucking nervously at her skirts as their starchy discomfort intensified her tension. “I never realised Pip believed so strongly in spiritualism. I find it quite dismaying.”

“He needs a crutch, and the kind of spiritualism Madame Olga dispenses gives him that crutch.”

And once, she had been Pip’s crutch. That was what had made her so important to him, the promise of undying support, that was what he’d sought from her.

“Yes, people like Madame Olga feed upon people’s insecurities, but wouldn’t it be a marvel if we could indeed communicate with the dead?”

Julian gave her a sharp look. “Surely you’re not serious?”

She recalled the first time she’d confronted Madame Olga and the uncanny sensation she’d experienced, the spine-chilling suspicion that the room was populated not only with the living. But tonight only stale odours filled the air. She smiled ruefully. “No, I suppose I’m being fanciful. I acknowledge there’s no rational proof backing spiritual mediums, but…but some phenomena cannot be explained.”

“The unearthly rapping noises? You’ve seen for yourself how Tibor produces them for Madame Olga’s sessions.”

She hesitated to tell him of her passing, unearthly alarm in this room, but there had been other instances in her past. “No, I mean other less tangible things, like—like the prickling of my nape I sometimes got when checking the wards at night.” At the memory she couldn’t help rubbing her upper arms.

“You were alone at night in an asylum,” Julian said, all prosaic sense. “Who wouldn’t get the occasional attack of nerves? It was simply your imagination.”

She gave him a sheepish smile. “You’re right.” And yet she was not entirely convinced. Suffering and misery lingered on beyond the grave; indeed, the walls of the asylum had been soaked with the tormented remnants of past ghosts.

“Are you afraid you will accidentally conjure up a spirit?” He gestured towards the candle, his expression jesting.

“No, of course not.” Squaring her shoulders, she sat more upright. “I’m just a little anxious, that’s all. Look, it’s almost eight o’clock.”

“There’s nothing to be anxious about.” Reaching over, he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “I shall be right behind that curtain all the time, ready to leap out at a moment’s notice. Just remember why you’re here and what you wish to accomplish, and you’ll do well. Trust me.”

She started to smile back at him when a sudden knock on the front door rang out, and her lips froze.

“Pip! He’s early,” she whispered frantically.

“Good. We’re all set. Do your best and it will be over very soon.” With a final squeeze of her shoulder, he hastened away and disappeared behind the curtain.

Nellie straightened the tablecloth, patted down her veil and shawls, and drew in a deep breath. “Enter,” she said in a guttural voice.

The door cracked open, and Pip eased in. As soon as he caught sight of her, he halted dead in his tracks.

“Where is Madame Olga?” he blurted out in a high-pitched voice.

Nellie cleared her throat. “Good evening, Mr. Barchester. Madame Olga was called away unexpectedly this morning,” she said carefully, lacing her tone with just a touch of foreignness. “She knew you were coming, so she asked me to give you this.” From the folds of her sleeve, she drew out a spurious note and passed it to Pip.

He took the note warily and read it with an anxious frown. Nellie battled to keep herself perfectly still.

“So you’re Madame Dariya?” Pip asked, eyeing her doubtfully.

Nellie inclined her head. “That is correct. I am a spiritual medium, just like my cousin. I will conduct your session tonight, if you are willing.”

Pip fiddled with his necktie and pulled at his lip. “I’m not sure if I wish…I’ve been coming to Madame Olga many times. I know her, but you I don’t know at all…”

As his voice trailed off uncertainly, Nellie found her hands clenching beneath the tablecloth. Pip was staring straight at her. Even though she was hidden beneath veils and shawls, surely he could discern something familiar about her? Surely he could recognise his own wife? But as she took in his worried confusion, she knew he saw only what he wanted to see, heard only what he wanted to hear. Madame Olga must have rubbed her hands in glee at landing such a plump pigeon as he.

“You are worried about the veil, yes?” she said, deciding to take the bull by the horns. “As a young girl I had a bad attack of smallpox which left my entire body scarred. Usually I keep my face covered for the sake of my clients, but—” she picked up the corner of her veil, “—if you don’t mind seeing my disfigurement I can take it off.”

“No, no, please!” Pip flinched away, unable to hide his aversion. “Please, er, Madame Dariya, please retain your veil.”

Pip worshipped beauty and perfection. She’d suspected he’d not have the stomach to view a damaged face, and he’d proven her correct. She lowered her veil. As though ashamed of his squeamishness, Pip stared at her hands, both of which were covered in net gloves, her artificial fingers cleverly disguised.

“Mr. Barchester,” she continued, “if you are unsure, I have a proposition. I will conduct the session for you, and at the conclusion, you will pay me only if you’re satisfied. Will that do?”

“We-ell…” Pip tugged at his bottom lip even harder. “I suppose with Madame Olga gone for an indeterminate time, and I have come all this way…” He plumped himself down in the seat opposite her. “Very well, I agree. Conduct your séance, Madame Dariya, and I shall reserve judgement.”

“You understand that I am not Madame Olga. The spirits may have a different message for me, perhaps something you are not prepared for.”

“Oh, yes, yes.” Pip rubbed the back of his neck.

“Who is the spirit you wish to communicate with?”

“My—my wife. Her name was N-Nellie. Nellie Barchester.”

At the sound of her own name, Nellie felt her heart thump hard in her chest. She managed to keep her voice even as she asked, “Tell me about your wife. Did she meet with an untimely death?”

Pip almost jerked out of his seat. “Why do you ask that?” His eyes were round and bulging. “Madame Olga never asked me any questions!”

“Every medium is different. I ask only to gain a sense of your wife. It will make it easier for me to connect with her, but you needn’t tell me if you don’t wish to.”

Gulping, he ran his fingers through his floppy blond curls. “Well, it’s just that she—she did meet her end in rather, er, unpleasant circumstances. I’d rather not go into that,” he added stiffly.

“As you wish.” Beneath her smooth response, she was seething. Unpleasant circumstances? Is that what he termed unpleasant, having her face hacked beyond recognition and then being drowned in the Thames? “We shall begin.”

Gathering her self-control, she raised her arms slightly with palms facing upwards and took a deep breath. “Spirits of the afterlife, we salute you,” she intoned in a sonorous voice. “Beloved Nellie Barchester, we bring you gifts from life into death. Be guided by the light of this world and visit upon us.”

She paused for a moment. The candle burned steadily. Pip sat motionless in his chair, his eyes fixed on her. The quiet of the night pressed in on the room.

She repeated the chant, then waited. A moment later came an unearthly rapping which echoed around the room. The noise was merely generated by Julian knocking on a pipe from behind the curtain as Madame Olga had instructed. Pip jolted in his chair, a line of moisture beading his upper lip.

“A spirit walks among us.” She addressed her words to the space above Pip’s head. “Thank you for your presence, O spirit. Are you Nellie Barchester?” She paused, then nodded. “Thank you, Nellie Barchester, for your presence. Your husband wishes to communicate with you.”

She transferred her gaze to Pip. “What do you wish to ask of your wife?”

Pip’s face contorted as if he were wracked by pain. “Ask her—ask her if she is at peace in the afterlife. Ask her if she is happy and well.”

Nellie lifted her gaze upwards and repeated Pip’s words. “She is well, Mr. Barchester,” she said after a short interval, “but she is not happy or at peace.”

“She’s not?” He wrenched his body straight, his mouth dropping open in dismay. “But—but I don’t understand. She’s always told Madame Olga she’s happy.”

The sight of Pip’s slack-jawed expression made Nellie wince inwardly. How feeble he was. Why had she never noticed that before she’d consented to run away with him?

“I am not privy to Madame Olga’s communications, but I cannot go against the spirit world for fear of retribution. I must report what the spirit tells me.”

Pip shrank away from the table. “Oh, dear. What should I do?”

His ineffectualness spurred Nellie on. “Your wife is deeply aggrieved. She was murdered most brutally, her body mutilated and flung into the Thames like a piece of rubbish.”

“Oh…” He groaned and dabbed at his sweating forehead with a cambric handkerchief, his expression ghastly. “Poor Nellie, poor girl…”

Strange how his agitation moved her not one whit. “What do you wish to say to your wife, Mr. Barchester?” she asked him coldly.

Pip’s lips worked in unintelligible turmoil as he wrung his hands. “I—I don’t know,” he stuttered. “T—tell her how sorry I am. I did not mean for her to get hurt.”

Nellie stiffened. What did he mean by that? Had Pip just revealed his culpability? “Your wife knows who is responsible for her death,” she continued implacably. “She was murdered by a common thug in the employ of a man called Thaddeus Ormond.”

Pip’s complexion turned to ashes. He gawped at her like a hooked fish, but no sound came out of his white lips.

“Thaddeus Ormond is your father, is he not?” She brought her hands down on the table with a sharp bang which made Pip start. “Your wife has a question for you, Mr. Barchester. She wants to know if you conspired with your father to get rid of her. She wants to know if you are responsible for her death.”

He jolted back so hard his chair toppled over, carrying him with it. Nellie’s heart jumped as he crashed to the floor but she strove to keep her calm, knowing the situation teetered on a knife-edge.

Pip scrambled back to his feet. His necktie was awry, and his complexion had turned putty grey. “You—you are a charlatan,” he cried, wagging a shaking finger at her. “I don’t believe a word you say.”

“I am merely the conduit to the spirit world, Mr. Barchester. I cannot control the messages I receive.”

“Well, then you must be talking to the wrong spirit. Yes, yes, that’s the problem, you silly cow. You’re not talking to my wife.”

Nellie drew herself upright and snapped back, “You question my abilities? How dare you! I have been communicating with the spirits since I was a girl of ten.”

“Nevertheless, I don’t believe you’re talking to the right Nellie Barchester.” Despite his bravado, a shadow of doubt had crept into Pip’s expression. “Ask the spirit for some proof that she is my wife. Ask her to tell you something only she would know.”

“Very well.” Nellie sighed and cast her gaze upwards. “O spirit, your husband asks you to prove your identity.” She glared back at Pip. “Your wife says you have a scar on your foot left from an operation to remove a vestigial toe.”

Gulping, Pip sagged into the chair and clutched at the tablecloth. “Well, that is something, but—but I am not yet convinced.”

“When you have nightmares, you cry for your mother, over and over again.”

“My mother!” His Adam’s apple bobbed convulsively. He stared at her, stricken with grief. “Oh, Mama, my darling mama! How I’ve missed her all these years.” Tears filled his eyes as he gibbered. “Dearest mama!”

A spurt of indignation stung Nellie. This was the first time he’d cried tonight, and it wasn’t for her but for his mother. She quickly quelled her mean-spirited thoughts. If ever a son had needed his mother, that man was Pip.

“Madame Dariya,” Pip called out urgently. “I wonder if you could summon up my dear mama’s spirit?”

Nellie drew back. “No, I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“But why? I miss my mama so much. She did all she could to shield me from—well, from things, and when she died I was bereft. Oh please, Madame Dariya. I beg of you.”

“Some spirits do not wish to communicate with the living,” she blustered. “They wish only to be left in peace.”

“But you won’t know that if you don’t try.” Pip leaned his beseeching face forward. “Please, Madame Dariya. I will pay you extra—double!— if you allow me to speak with my mother.”

Heavens, what was she to do now? She longed to steer the conversation back to the murder and what knowledge Pip might have had of his father’s plans, but it was obvious he was fully distracted by the notion of contacting his long-dead mother. Nellie saw no option but to pander to his wishes. She would pretend to call up his mother’s spirit, tell him regretfully that she’d failed, and return the focus to his dead wife.

“Very well,” she conceded. “What is your mother’s name?”

“Felicity Ormond.” Expelling a heartfelt sigh, Pip sank back in his seat and gazed at her with eyes large and hollow in a face burning with expectation.

Pip’s fervent expression discomfited Nellie. His mother’s death had dealt Pip a devastating blow from which he’d never recovered. He’d been his mother’s pet, she surmised, and her death had left him exposed to the harsh treatment of his father. Anyone who grew up with a brute of a father like Thaddeus Ormond could be excused a little weakness. But it was not her place to give him false solace, however much he wanted it. She would simply pretend his mother’s spirit did not want to contact him.

Raising her arms, she delivered her incantation, using Felicity Ormond’s name. Pip craned forward, breathing noisily through his parted lips, the tip of his tongue darting in and out nervously. Nellie repeated her words once more, then shook her head softly at Pip.

“I’m sorry. Your mother’s spirit does not present itself.”

“Try again, I beg of you.”

“It’s no use—”

“Please!” Moisture gleamed on his puckered forehead. “Just once more, please.”

Suppressing her unease, Nellie resumed her position. How much longer could she continue with this shameful charade? It was one thing to make Pip think she’d raised his dead wife’s spirit, but his mother was truly dead, and she knew how much she meant to him. It was not right to delude him, but she had no choice. She lifted her hands higher.

“Beloved Felicity Ormond, we bring you gifts from life into death. Be guided by the light of this world and—”

Suddenly her tongue seized as air rushed out of her lungs in one great whoosh. An invisible force squeezed upon her chest. She could not speak or move. Coldness swept down on her in an arctic squall, freezing her every cell. She gasped and choked, but not a sound escaped her mouth. Mother of God, was she suffering some kind of seizure? Her eyes rolled upwards, her head tilted back of its own volition. All she could see was the dirty ceiling above her festooned with grey cobwebs. Out of the grime, an orb of light glowed in the centre of the ceiling. It pulsed and grew until it seemed to envelope her.

I am dying. That light must be the tunnel to the afterlife.

The light shifted, became a column and entered her mouth. It felt as though she’d swallowed a live fish. It squirmed about in her throat, and she heard words flowing out of her mouth, but the voice sounded nothing like hers.

“Pip, my dearest boy!” she cried in a faint, high-pitched voice. “How wonderful to speak with you again.”

White-faced, Pip fell to his knees. “M-Mama? Is that really you?”

“Of course. Don’t you recognise my voice? Why, I used to sing you your favourite lullaby every night. Do you remember?” A strange tune warbled out from Nellie’s mouth. She had no control over herself, had never heard this song in her life, yet the phrases poured out in a quavering lilt.

Tears streamed down Pip’s cheeks. “Dearest Mama, how I’ve missed you.”

“You’ve grown into a handsome man, my son. I’m proud of you.”

Pip sobbed louder. “There isn’t a day goes by I don’t mourn your passing.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left you. It was not my choice.”

Pip scrubbed at his wet cheeks. “What do you mean? Of course it was not your choice to bleed to death in your bed.”

“I mean I…well, I might have survived the miscarriage if…”

“If what?”

A mournful sigh rose from Nellie’s lips. “You may recall that I died during the night I lost my unborn child, unable to rouse any assistance, and my maid found my dead body the following morning.”

Pip shook his head in sorrow. “Mama, I shall never forget that dreadful morning.”

“Well, the truth is, I wasn’t entirely alone that night. Your father came into my room…”

“He did? He’s never mentioned any of this to me.”

“He came into my room and saw I was in the throes of a miscarriage. He said he would summon the doctor immediately and left the room, never to return again.”

Pip stared at her in horror. Sweat rolled off his brow. He moved his lips, but remained mute.

Words continued to flow from Nellie’s mouth. “I rang the bell but no-one came. I think—I think Thaddeus must have cut the wires outside my room.”

“But—but why?” Pip’s eyes bulged out with terror. “Why would he do such a monstrous thing?”

“Because he despised me. He always did. He married me for my wealth, but he despised my family, my humble origins, my gauche manners, and as time marched on he found it harder and harder to hide his disgust. For years he wanted another son from me. You weren’t enough; he needed to secure the Ormond lineage. That was the only reason he tolerated me, and he was genuinely pleased when at long last I became with child again. But that night when he saw I was about to lose the baby, he couldn’t bear my presence any longer. He saw his chance to be rid of me, and so he left me to die.”

A hoarse gibber fluttered out of Pip as he staggered to his feet. He lifted his forearm to shield himself from Nellie as if she were too ghastly to look at.

“No, no…” he muttered. “It cannot be true…” He backed away from the table, bumped into a chest, turned and fled from the apartment.

As his footsteps clattered down the narrow staircase, Julian burst into the room, flinging the dusty curtain aside. “For God’s sakes, Nellie. What was all that blather about?”

Nellie tried to turn her head towards Julian, but the force which had invaded her body held her captive. Julian darted forward, his expression darkening as he sensed something was deeply amiss. “Nellie, talk to me, in heaven’s name.” He shook her shoulder urgently.

At his touch the light rushed out of her body, leaving her coughing and gasping for air but mercifully back in command of her faculties. As she tore off her veil, she heard Julian’s concerned voice, but it was some minutes before she had the power to speak.

“I’m fine,” she choked out, wheezing with every breath she took.

Julian disappeared into the other room and reappeared with a glass of wine. Her hands shook as she took a cautious sip. The sour wine almost peeled the roof off her mouth, but she was grateful for its bracing roughness and glad she was still in one piece.

Julian drew up a chair near to her. “My dear, what got into you there? Why on earth did you pretend to be possessed by the spirit of Pip’s dead mother? It gave me quite a turn hearing you speak in such a strange voice.”

She shook her head and kneaded her aching temples. A deep exhaustion gripped her, and she could barely see straight. “I don’t know what came over me.” She lifted her head to glance at him cautiously. “Julian, this will sound like utter nonsense, but I think I was genuinely possessed by his mother’s spirit.”

His face grew rigid under the clenching of his jaw. “You know that is not possible, Nellie, because there is no such thing as communicating with the dead. Spiritualism is nothing but a fraud. You know that.”

“I know, but…I have no other explanation. It was not me who spoke to Pip. Some alien force took control of my body, my mouth, and uttered those words.”

“Impossible!” A deep furrow marred his brow. “As a man of science I cannot accept that. You must have suffered some sort of seizure. Let me examine you.” Tired, she submitted to his examination, docilely allowing him to lift her eyelids, take her pulse, and breathing in and out as instructed. He did not appear to be satisfied with his findings. “Well, I can find nothing physically wrong with you.”

“I’m sorry, Julian. It seems I have wasted the entire evening. After all our efforts I didn’t get any proof either way of Pip’s involvement in my death.”

“Your attempted death,” he retorted grimly. “Don’t speak as if you’re dead.” He rubbed the back of his neck before expelling a long breath. “By Jove I’ve had a gutful of spirits tonight. We should go home so I can conduct a more thorough examination of you. Perhaps you suffered a hallucination of some sort.”

Would hallucinations be preferable to being a channel for the spirit world? Before tonight she’d scoffed at the idea of contacting the dead, but she didn’t know what to believe anymore. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself, and as she did so, she became aware of the skirts chafing at her limbs.

“Before we go, I would like to get rid of some of these skirts. They’re most uncomfortable.”

“Of course. Um, do you need some assistance?”

The thought of Julian helping her undress sent a frisson down her back, but this was neither the time nor the place for tomfoolery. “I can manage,” she said.

While Julian turned his back on her, Nellie swiftly removed several layers of skirts and shawls and bundled them into a holdall. Without the extra weight, her body felt cold and weak. The thought of the long journey home ahead of them brought a sigh to her lips. She’d give anything to be in bed right now.

Julian swivelled back. “Ready?” he asked.

Just as they moved towards the door, footsteps pounded on the staircase outside. They glanced at each other, but there was no time to do anything as the door crashed open. A familiar figure stood in the doorway, blocking their escape.

“You!” Thaddeus Ormond exclaimed as he gaped at Nellie. “You’re supposed to be dead.” He transferred his stare to Julian. Ormond’s eyes bulged, as hard and black as the onyx pin stabbed in his cravat. “Well. Now this is a nasty surprise. I never would have guessed. All my bothersome fish in the same basket. That will save me a lot of trouble, I suppose.”

Chapter Eleven

Julian shouldered his way past Nellie and stood in front of Sir Thaddeus. “What an unexpected displeasure, Uncle.”

Sir Thaddeus sucked in his cheeks. “Insolent pup. I’m no uncle of yours and never will be.” To emphasise his words, he thunked his ebony cane on the floor.

Julian lowered his head as a slow-burning anger built up inside him. In the past few weeks his obsession with discovering his parentage had abated somewhat, swept aside as he focussed his energies on Nellie’s behalf, but now, confronted by his tormentor, his resentment blasted back to the fore.

“It gives me no joy to acknowledge our blood tie,” he snapped. “Given the man you are, I’m ashamed to be related to such scum. But tonight I’ve received even further proof of our dismal connection. Your unfortunate son revealed he was born with a vestigial toe, a characteristic I too bear. A rather telling fact, don’t you think?”

Above his high-necked frock coat, Sir Thaddeus’s face swelled up. The tips of his waxed moustache quivered in outrage. “That fool son of mine. The sooner I get him settled the better.” He turned his inimical glare on Nellie. “And you. Why am I not surprised to see you still so unpleasantly alive? I knew something was fishy about your death.” Twisting his neck, he hollered over his shoulder, “Kray! Get up here now.”

Heavy feet clumped up the stairs. Julian tensed in anticipation. His fears were confirmed as the familiar burly figure of Thaddeus’s hired thug appeared in the doorway, the distinctive pockmarks around his deep-set eyes affirming his identity.

“Aye, guv’nor,” he muttered, his gaze darting towards Nellie.

“Well, then? You’re not taken aback by the sight of a ghost?” Thaddeus jabbed his finger at Nellie. “Despite the mess on her face, doesn’t she look remarkably like the woman you were supposed to dispatch?”

Beside Julian, Nellie was breathing hard, her fists clenched at her sides. “You filthy mongrel,” she burst out at Sir Thaddeus. “You lying, despicable monster.”

“P’shaw.” He sneered at her down the length of his bony nose. “You refused to go quietly, so you got what you deserved.”

“And what of Pip? Did he know what you were up to? Did he want me dead too?” Two spots of colour stained her white cheeks.

Sir Thaddeus merely sniffed and turned to his henchman. “What happened that night? How in hellfire did a slip of a thing like her get away from you?”

The man raised his hillocky shoulders. “I were set ’pon.” Scowling, he jerked his brick-like chin in Julian’s direction. “By ’im. ’e must a followed you and me, and then ’e attacked me.”

“The devil take it!” Thaddeus huffed in exasperation. “What’s the matter with you, you dolt? You’re more than a match for that stripling. Who was the woman you threw in the river, then?”

“Some doxy no one would miss,” the dolt confessed resentfully.

“But she had the rings.” Sir Thaddeus’s face grew thunderous. “I knew it. You were after the rings, even though I’d paid you. That’s why she escaped, you no good dunce.” He lifted his cane threateningly.

Kray ducked. “Oi, sir, I’ll have none of that.” A surly scowl folded up his features. “She were a right little wildcat, she were, biting and scratching me like a hussy. I ’ad a devil of a time trying to snuff ’er.”

Nightmarish images of Nellie fighting for her life seared Julian’s brain. This was the beast who’d assaulted her, who’d slashed off her fingers and hacked up her face. Volcanic fury spurted through him, and a second later he charged towards the other man. Bent low, he drove his shoulder hard into the thug’s belly. Kray let out a grunt and staggered backwards as Julian flung his arms around his waist in a tight bear hug. The man was taller and heavier than he, but Julian had the advantage of surprise. Using his own weight, he thrust at the man and toppled him to the ground. The floorboards shuddered under the impact. Nimble and driven by fury, Julian shifted position and collared the ruffian from behind in a suffocating chokehold. The man thrashed about, his meaty fingers clawing to free himself, but Julian had both forearms braced around the man’s thick neck. He knew he could maintain that stance indefinitely, and with every struggle the man merely added to his own choking misery. Not realising this, the man fought even harder, but inch by inch, Julian simply increased the pressure on the man’s throat. The man’s cheeks started to mottle, and flecks of spittle frothed from his mouth. His eyes, wild and desperate, bulged in their sockets. Julian pressed down even harder. Threads of red appeared in the whites of the man’s eyes. Someone cried out. It sounded like Nellie, but his ears seemed muffled. All he could focus on was the man gasping in his stranglehold.

A storm of blows suddenly rained down on him, landing sharply on his head, shoulders and back. Wincing, he twisted round to find Sir Thaddeus laying into him with his cane. As he flinched away, Nellie launched herself at Sir Thaddeus, her lips drawn back in a primitive snarl. Her gloved hand was extended, ready for her claws to bite into him, but at the last minute Sir Thaddeus spun round and slashed his cane hard upon her arm. The sickening crack of wood against bone echoed through the room. Gasping in pain, Nellie fell to her knees.

“Nellie!” Julian cried, his hold slackening.

The momentary lapse was all the man in his grip required. With an almighty heave, he broke free of Julian’s hold, drew back his fist and ploughed it straight into Julian’s jaw. White stars exploded in his vision as agony shattered through his chin. He struggled to his feet, instinctively putting up his fists in a defensive stance. Kray threw another punch at him. This time he managed to duck, but it still caught him a glancing blow on his cheek. Hot salty blood spurted into his mouth. He spat, dodged another haymaker and slammed his fist onto Kray’s nose. Cartilage crunched beneath his knuckles. The man staggered back, bellowing as blood gushed from his nostrils.

Fully occupied with Kray, Julian did not see the cane swinging towards him until the last second when he heard it whistling through the air. By then it was too late. With agonising force, the rigid cane cracked against his left temple. Excruciating pain burst through his skull. He felt his knees collapsing beneath him. He cursed his weakness but could do nothing as he slid to the floor.

Nellie rushed to his side. Through the blackness fogging his senses, he felt her hands moving anxiously over him, before she was suddenly wrenched away from him. He shouted and received another blow to his pounding temple. Nausea gagged his throat. Rough hands grabbed the lapels of his coat, before a series of brutal punches rocked his head from side to side. Nellie screamed. The battering continued until Sir Thaddeus barked out, “Enough. You’re making too much noise and wasting time. Take him to the other room.”

Julian flailed his arms at the man holding him, but his body refused to obey him. He felt his feet being lifted before he was unceremoniously dragged out of the room. As he slid past the curtain, he made one final attempt to lift his head. Through his bleary eyes, the last thing he saw was Nellie facing off against Sir Thaddeus, her scars jagging like lightning across her white face.

Nellie glared at Sir Thaddeus. Pain reverberated through her arm where his cane had struck her and found its echo in the headache pounding against her skull. “Why are you here?” she flung at Sir Thaddeus. His fastidiously dressed figure filled her with revulsion. At the back of her mind lurked the sour possibility that she and Julian had walked into a trap set up by Madame Olga and Sir Thaddeus. “Why are you so concerned about Pip’s visits to a spiritual medium?”

Sir Thaddeus flicked at some dirt on the sleeve of his coat. “I’m interested in everything he does. I have to be, or that foolish boy will wander into more trouble.”

“You enjoy your power over him, don’t you? To you he is a mere commodity, a pawn in your machinations. You cannot abide him slipping out of your control. That’s why you took the trouble of visiting Madame Olga and paying her to say certain things to Pip. You would stop at nothing to maintain your hold over him.”

Sir Thaddeus pulled a face. “Pah, the boy’s a nincompoop, but he is still an Ormond and my only son and heir. I won’t leave anything to chance. I had a specific arrangement with the filthy witch who lives here. Where is she?”

Nellie’s heart sank. Madame Olga had made no mention of Sir Thaddeus visiting her tonight. Perhaps she’d forgotten, or, more likely, she hadn’t cared, her greed for Julian’s money overriding everything. Nellie cast an anxious glance at the curtain. What was that brute doing to Julian back there? She could hear some shuffling sounds which did not sound like blows, and for that she was grateful.

“You’ve played some hoax on my son. I see that now.” Sir Thaddeus glowered at her as he took in the full detail of her dress. “The devil take you, you hellcat. What nonsense did you fill that boy’s head with?”

He poked the end of his cane hard against her stomach. She choked with anger and thought about lunging at him with her claws unsheathed. If she aimed correctly, she’d hook his cheek nicely. But just as she tensed her hands, he jabbed at her again, harder this time, causing her to stumble backwards. With chilling speed, he grabbed her gloved hand by the wrist and twisted her arm behind her back. The bruised bone and muscle of her injured arm cried out in protest, but she bit her lip to silence herself.

“Pip is frightened of you,” she managed to pant out, “but he’ll never respect or love you. Never.”

“As if I care tuppence about that.” He wrenched her arm harder. “It’s naught to me as long as he marries the girl I’ve picked out for him.”

“Oh, yes. The so-called message from beyond the grave you paid Madame Olga to deliver. So who is this Miss Montague? Some weak-chinned inbred miss with high arches and thin blood?”

“Hold your tongue, harpy.” He cuffed her across the head. She ducked, but he grabbed hold of her hair and yanked her upright. “Now move,” he ordered. Her scalp stinging, she had no option but to obey.

She staggered past the curtain and into the room beyond. They were in some sort of grubby kitchen which reeked of stale drippings. The shabbiness of the room only highlighted the horror of seeing Julian lying on the floor, arms and legs bound with stout rope, a filthy cloth gagging his mouth. His eyes were shut, and he appeared insensible, while the bestial lout stood over him, one dirtied boot resting on Julian’s shoulder.

“What now, guv?” From his coat Kray drew out a long knife and ran his thumb along the wicked edge, his eyes never leaving Nellie. “I wouldn’t mind finishing the job I started on this hoyden. I could add a few more stripes to ’er face. Make ’er real pretty.”

At the sight of that familiar knife Nellie shuddered, the scars on her face itching and tingling at the memory.

“You’re all talk and no show, I’m beginning to suspect,” Sir Thaddeus grumbled. “Why should I pay you when I have to correct your bungles?”

The man kicked pettishly at Julian’s comatose form. “Killing ain’t as easy as it looks.”

“Of course it is. You just have to go about it with purpose.” He pushed Nellie forward. “See to the wench. Tie her up properly.”

Nellie’s determination to struggle dissolved as the knife blade glinted closer. That same knife had carved into her face, had sliced through her fingers, had stabbed at her defenceless body. Dread and loathing numbed her as Kray dragged her to the far side of the kitchen. He fished out a length of rope from his pocket and swiftly bound her hands behind her back. Forcing her to the ground, he tied her ankles together, his hands jerking the rope viciously, then shackled her to the leg of a cumbersome table. When he balled up a greasy rag and kneeled down, she twisted her head from side to side in protest, but to no avail. He stuffed the loathsome cloth into her mouth until she was almost gagging.

“Don’t you look dainty?” He pinched her scarred cheek hard. With both feet, she aimed a kick at his exposed ankle. He yelped and backhanded her across the face.

“Stop that racket,” Sir Thaddeus barked. “I can hear someone on the outer stairs.” A knock sounded on the front door. Fixing his glare on Nellie, Sir Thaddeus muttered, “You’ll keep your mouth shut. One peep out of you and Kray sinks that knife into his gut.” He pointed at Julian.

Kray hunkered down next to Julian’s inert body and positioned his blade at Julian’s exposed stomach. Her mouth dry from fear and the noisome cloth, Nellie could only nod her acquiescence.

Sir Thaddeus disappeared past the curtain just as the knock was repeated, louder this time. There was a creaking noise as if the door was swinging open, and then Nellie heard Pip’s voice, sharp with shock.

“Father! What the…what are you doing here?”

“I could say the same of you,” Thaddeus retorted.

“I-I came to speak with Madame Dariya. W-where is she? What have you done with her?”

“You’ve already spoken with the woman. Why did you return?”

“How do you know that? Have you been following me?” Pip’s voice pitched upwards. “Oh my heavens. Is there nothing you won’t do to manipulate me? Why can’t you just leave me be?”

“You’re my heir, the last of the Ormonds. Your wishes are the least of my considerations,” Thaddeus thundered. A thud followed as he kicked over a piece of furniture. “From now on there’ll be no more visits to fortune tellers. You’ll do as I say and marry the Montague girl, and that’s the end of it.”

“It—it’s not the end of it.” The desperation in Pip’s voice made Nellie’s stomach contract. “I have a few questions for you, Father, and I d-demand your answer.”

There was a brief silence. “Oh? And what questions might they be?” Thaddeus asked in a deceptively mild tone.

Pip swallowed audibly. “Nellie’s disappearance and death. D-did you have any part in that?”

“What! What poppycock. Who told you that? I’ll have his guts for garters, I swear.”

“So you deny any involvement in my wife’s d-death?”

Nellie leaned her head back against the table leg and shut her eyes as relief of sorts trickled through her. Pip had just proven he’d known nothing about his father’s plans to get rid of her. Cold comfort now, but it was something to know he hadn’t betrayed her so completely.

“That fortune hunter was not your wife,” Sir Thaddeus said. “You promised yourself to the Montague girl.”

“Only under duress.”

“Why did you come running back to me then as soon as your little gold digger’s back was turned? Answer me that, son.”

“I came to you asking for assistance.”

“And I gave you the best possible assistance. Now you’re free of that tawdry association, you can start behaving like a proper Ormond.”

“A proper Ormond. I see.” Pip’s voice quavered. “And does a proper Ormond discover his wife bleeding and leave her to die alone?”

Fraught silence. Nellie’s legs shifted spasmodically. Across the room Kray bared his teeth at her in a silent snarl.

“Well, Father?” Pip continued. “Why won’t you answer me?”

“Your aspersions don’t deserve an answer.”

“Why? Because they’re true?”

“Because they’re ridiculous,” Sir Thaddeus growled. “You are ridiculous.”

“Me, r-ridiculous? Well, p-perhaps this will alter your mind.”

A strangled gasp of disbelief. “Phillip! No. Put that down—”

“Answer me, Father. Did you murder my mother?”

“Stop this farce, boy. You don’t even know how to fire a pistol. Give that to me, you idiot—”

Scuffling, bumping, furniture knocked over. Two men grappling with each other. Grunts and shouts. Confused and flummoxed, Kray stood irresolute over Julian. Clearly he was hesitant to interfere until told to by his employer.

“No—” A loud explosion severed Thaddeus’s bellow. Something heavy crashed to the floor.

Gripping his knife, Kray charged for the other room. As he rushed past, his hip jarred the table. The lamp, left on the edge, teetered for several moments and fell to the floor. Its glass broke on impact, and oily fluid spilled everywhere, alight, the greasy floor only fuelling the flames further.

From the next room Kray yelled, Pip shrieked, and a second gunshot rang out, followed by another weight toppling over.

“Sweet Jesus, what have I done?” Pip screamed. “Father, are you alive? Speak to me, please.”

Nellie shouted through her gag, stamped her feet and yanked against her bonds, but all her efforts appeared to be for naught. Pip was clearly too distraught to notice anything besides his fallen father, his weeping and keening from the other room drowning out all other sound.

“I’ll get you home, Father,” he wailed. “I won’t leave you here, I promise.”

The shuffling sounds told Nellie that Pip was dragging his father out of the apartment, leaving her and Julian alone, tied up in a burning kitchen. She fought against the cloth stuffed in her mouth, but only choking noises stuttered past her arid, aching throat. In a desperate attempt to make any sort of noise, she pulled at the table but it was too solid, the grime-encrusted legs looking like they’d never been shifted in years.

By now she knew Pip had gone, and it was futile trying to attract his attention. The oil from the lamp burned, licking at the residue of drippings and tallow left on the kitchen floor. A rivulet of fire trickled slowly across the uneven floorboards towards a pile of greasy rags and newspapers mouldering in a far corner. Even as she looked on, the lit stream reached the pile of rubbish, and seconds later a thin trail of smoke spiralled up.

Her heart thumped with growing fear. Suddenly it hit her. Her claws. She could use her claws to cut through the rope tying her hands. Why hadn’t she thought of that earlier? She set to work, but it was not as easy as she’d anticipated. Time and again, instead of rope her claws found her own flesh. After several botched attempts, her wrists were stinging and blood oozed through her fingers, but she could not afford to give up.

On the other side of the kitchen, Julian stirred and groaned. He lifted his head to peer groggily around him, stiffening when he caught sight of her. She tried to give him a reassuring countenance, but his face filled with rage. Struggling to an upright position, he started to shuffle towards her.

At that moment, the pile of rags and newspaper burst into flame. Thick smoke billowed out and swamped the kitchen in seconds. The fire roared and spat like a furious beast. Heat and noxious fumes buffeted Nellie’s face and scorched her lungs. Tamping down her fears, she concentrated on her bonds. Her claws snagged the twine once more, finally sliced through the fibres, and her hands pulled free.

At last. Within seconds she’d wrenched the reeking cloth from her mouth. Out of the acrid smoke, Julian crawled towards her. She cut through his bonds, and together they surveyed the burning kitchen. By now the fire had engulfed a dresser laden with crockery and pots. Flames leaped higher and licked at the crumbling ceiling hungrily. There were no brooms or rakes or any other means of fighting the fire, so by mute accord they turned and stumbled from the smoke.

“My God,” Julian exclaimed as they burst past the curtain into the front room. “Who did that?”

Kray’s mountainous body lay sprawled across the centre of the room. A bloody hole gaped where his face used to be, and he was very dead.

Nausea roiled in the pit of Nellie’s stomach. She stared down at the man who had mutilated her, and she could find not one scrap of pity for him. He’d died instantly, a mercy he hadn’t afforded his own victims. But there was no satisfaction in her, only a deep relief that he would never walk this earth again.

“Pip,” she said to Julian. “He returned, and when he saw his father here, confronted him about my disappearance and the death of his mother. He had a gun.”

Julian grunted. “I didn’t think he had it in him.”

“He shot his father and then Kray.” She shivered at the memory. “I think Thaddeus is still alive, as Pip took him away.”

Julian gazed down grimly at Kray’s corpse as if he regretted not being the one to mete out justice, but the roaring fire behind them left them no time to linger. They ran out and hammered on the doors of the other apartments to rouse the inhabitants. Soon a huddle of anxious people gathered out in the street while others ran to alert the fire brigade.

Julian and Nellie slipped away from the commotion and made their way to the back of the house where their horses were pawing restlessly, made uneasy by the fire. Working swiftly, Julian untied the horses, helped Nellie into her saddle, mounted his own horse, then led them down the alley and away from the house at a swift pace. Half a mile later, he reached for her reins and pulled them both to a halt.

“Wait, you’re bleeding,” he said as he manoeuvred his horse closer. Frowning, he held up her hands for inspection.

“’Tis my own clumsiness when cutting my bonds,” she said ruefully. “I haven’t fully mastered my claws yet.”

Still frowning, he tore off a strip of his shirt and bound her cuts. “My loathing for Thaddeus put you in terrible danger, Nellie. I could have easily overpowered both him and Kray if I’d only held my temper and not attacked so rashly. It is a deep flaw of mine, to charge in recklessly without due consideration.”

“Oh, but to me it is not a flaw at all. Quite the opposite.” She gazed at his dirty, smoke-streaked face. Bruises and swellings had begun to make their mark on him, but all she could see was valour and strength. “You are worth ten generations of Ormonds. Why you would want Sir Thaddeus’s acknowledgement is a mystery to me.”

He smiled a little. “I’m also a stubborn cove. It’s not recognition from Thaddeus I want, only the details surrounding my birth.”

“If he dies of his wounds, you may never get your wish.”

His smile faded. A biting breeze blew down the street, sifting the piles of refuse across the gutters. “And you, Nellie? Tonight did not exactly go according to plan. Did you still get your wish?”

Tonight something otherworldly had happened to her, something beyond the realms of rational explanation. The memory of her acting as though possessed by Pip’s dead mother brought a deathly shiver to her. She couldn’t explain her behaviour and did not even want to discuss it, so she merely replied, “I’m satisfied that Pip knew nothing about his father’s plot.”

She paused, and Julian added, “But?”

“But there are other questions unanswered.”

His expression grew withdrawn. “You wish to speak with him face to face,” he said flatly.

For the first time she became aware she was not wearing her veil. She’d not worn it while she and Julian were rousing the neighbours, nor when they’d gathered in the street. Darkness and urgency had distracted attention from her face, though she recalled a few askance looks directed her way. But she would not be deterred. She had worn that veil for the last time. She had nothing to be ashamed of, and she was tired of hiding in the shadows. It was time to step out into the daylight.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m afraid I do.”

By the time they returned to Monksbane, the moon had set, and the night was old and sour. As soon as they dismounted, Julian told Nellie to go retire.

“But your injuries need tending. I must clean them,” she insisted, though her face was pinched with fatigue.

The thought of Nellie bathing his wounds sent a shiver through his bruised and battered muscles. If only he could be sure of her feelings. But he wasn’t, and she wasn’t, and after everything that had happened this night, he had no strength left to fortify himself against her touch. “No need. I can fend for myself.”

At his rebuff she pressed her lips. “Julian…” she began uncertainly.

Silence and doubt hung between them. Tonight he’d hoped to draw Nellie away from Pip, but perhaps he’d only succeeded in bringing them closer. Melancholy settled into his aching bones. He was about to wave her away when hurried footsteps crunched on the gravel as a young boy ran up to them. Between panting breaths, he delivered his urgent message. A woman in childbirth needed medical attention immediately.

“You’re in no state to go,” Nellie said. “Why not rouse your father?”

“My father is on duty at the hospital. I must go.” Besides, helping someone in need would distract him from his gloomy ruminations. He remounted his horse and hauled the messenger boy up behind his saddle. “Go to bed,” he repeated to Nellie and, not waiting for a reply, cantered off.

Dawn was bleaching the eastern sky when he finally clip-clopped home on his weary mare. Figgs was there to take his horse, which was fortunate as he had no energy left to spare. Entering the house, Julian stood for a while in the hallway, breathing in the stillness, the peace, the aches in his body subsiding. His night had been turbulent, violent even, but stepping into this house was a benison. Monksbane was his home, but more importantly its inhabitants were his family, its harmony his source of strength. How could he not have seen that before?

“Julian?”

He turned to see Elijah standing in the doorway to his examination room.

“Father.” His voice cracked.

Elijah’s eyes widened. “Good God, you’re injured again! What am I to do with you, boy?”

Julian opened his mouth to explain, but his father hustled him into his room and pushed him onto a wooden stool. As Elijah fussed over him, emotion, sorely tested throughout the night, swelled in Julian’s chest to bursting point whereupon several shudders racked his body.

Elijah paused, even more worried. “Why, what is it, son? Is there something else amiss? I heard you were called away earlier to a childbed. Did it go badly?”

“No, indeed,” he managed to choke out. “It was a difficult labour, but both mother and child are safe.” He paused to inhale deeply, perplexed at his lack of composure.

Elijah squeezed his arm. “Good, good. You are exhausted. As soon as I’m done, you must get yourself to bed.”

The loving concern in the old man’s face made Julian reach out and grasp Elijah’s hand. “May we talk? Now?”

Slowly Elijah set aside his cleaning swabs, his gaze never leaving Julian’s face. “But of course. Should we go into the library and make ourselves comfortable?”

Julian shook his head. “If I sit somewhere comfortable, I will fall asleep instantly.” He drew in another breath, striving for some self-control as Elijah drew up a chair opposite him. “It was a good thing the midwife sent for me. The labour was difficult, and the child was born with its cord wrapped around his neck. He was blue, no sign of breathing, but I blew several times into his mouth and massaged his chest, and suddenly he let out this thin wail.” He blinked at the memory.

“You did well.”

“He was such a tiny fellow, yet his cry filled the room. His father came rushing in at the sound, saw the babe, and burst into tears along with the mother. I’d never seen such prouder parents.”

Elijah smiled but said nothing, as if sensing that Julian needed the space to collect his thoughts.

“They’re not wealthy, but what they have to give their son is more precious than any gold.” Swallowing, he slid from the stool and bent down on one knee before Elijah. “I’ve been a colossal fool these past six months. I was seeking something when what I already had was infinitely priceless. I took your affection for granted. Can you ever forgive me?”

Elijah breathed in audibly. Seconds ticked by before he responded, an unfamiliar tremor in his voice. “There’s nothing to forgive. You were curious about where you came from. That’s only natural in a young man, and I should have been more understanding.”

“Confound it, Father. Why must you be so humble and benevolent?”

Elijah smiled faintly, an unfamiliar sheen in his eyes. “Would you prefer I harangue you?”

“You make me even more ashamed.” Reaching out, he touched his father’s hand. Elijah’s hands folded around his, rough, gnarled, gentle. Julian blinked fiercely at the treacherous moisture behind his eyes. Fumbling in the inner pocket of his jacket, he pulled out the delicate bee brooch. “Here, take it, Father. I have no more use for it.”

“No, ’tis yours, son.”

Julian shook his head. “It has brought me nothing but doubt and self-loathing. It reminds me only of my shortcomings. My mother loved me, I know this, but I don’t need proof of it. Not anymore.”

Slowly Elijah reached out for the bee brooch and twirled it between his fingers. Something dark and tormented flashed through his eyes, and when he spoke his voice was rough. “You shouldn’t be kneeling before me, son, for the truth of it is, you saved me as much as I saved you. You saved me from the life of selfish misery I’d sunk into when I lost my beloved family. Your mewling cry on the doorstep woke me from the depths of my apathy. You made me see that I was still needed, that my life could yet have meaning. When you began your quest, I feared slipping back into the darkness. I…I was afraid of losing you and myself.”

“Father.” Julian could scarcely see for the tears in his eyes. “That could never happen. You’re stuck with me for the rest of your life.”

A suspicion of moisture shone in the seams surrounding Elijah’s eyes. “This brooch is yours. You must do with it what you will.” He tucked the jewellery piece into the top pocket of Julian’s jacket and, gripping him by the upper arms, rose from his seat. “Come, you mustn’t kneel before me any longer. We are men. We must stand together, and if you continue looking at me like that you will quite unman me soon.” His voice quavered perilously.

“I would hate to do that.” Standing, head to head, Julian gazed into his father’s face.

Elijah cleared his throat loudly. “May I ask what brought on your epiphany? Was it the infant you saved this morning?”

“Not entirely.” Threading tired fingers through his hair, Julian attempted to order thoughts which had milled in his head throughout the long night. Expressing them to his father would help himself make sense of it all. “My injuries resulted from an adventure of sorts Nellie and I had last night, the details of which I’ll not divulge right now. Suffice to say that I saw both Sir Thaddeus and his son, Pip, and I realised that the sum of a man’s worth is made up of many parts and the lineage of a man is of far less importance than his conduct. The Ormonds’ treatment of Nellie has made me ashamed to share their blood.” His lips twisted into a rueful smile. “Isn’t that ironic, given how excited I was to discover the illustrious ownership of my brooch?”

Elijah nodded in sympathy. “Often the path to self-knowledge is littered with blind alleys.”

“In all honesty I cannot regret my circuitous path, for it brought Nellie into my life.” Julian drew in a deep breath. “Without her, I wouldn’t be standing here saying these things to you.” And without his dogged pursuit of Sir Thaddeus, she would be dead and forgotten. Their fates were as closely interwoven as the fibres of the carpet beneath his feet.

His father smiled. “Yes, we’re all the better for having Nellie in our lives.”

But for how much longer? He studied the faded Turkish rug. The edges of the carpet were frayed, the weft threads coming apart. Even hard-wearing, tightly knitted rugs could unravel. Nellie had grown stronger, more independent. She didn’t need him as much, perhaps not at all. And he? For months he’d been chasing the past, but now the future beckoned him, filled with hard work and possibilities, the most important of which was: would his future continue to lace with hers?

Chapter Twelve

From across the broad street, Julian watched Nellie as she rang the bell of the Ormond townhouse. The rich green wool of her riding habit suited her colouring and figure. He admired her straight, narrow back and trim shoulders, her head held high and proud. Her abundant chestnut curls glinted in the sunlight, unhampered by any veil or hat. On their journey to Mayfair, she’d attracted a few stares, and some street urchins had pointed at her and screwed up their faces, but Nellie had been unperturbed. She was done with all disguise.

Now, as a footman opened the door, he knew she would have no problem penetrating the inner sanctum of the Ormond residence. But once she saw Pip, what would happen then? Would her old feelings for him be revived? At Madame Olga’s apartment Pip had finally demonstrated a bit of gumption. He’d stood up to his father, although pulling a gun on him had not been quite worthy, but nevertheless he’d shown some mettle, and perhaps that would relight the spark for Nellie.

Disgruntled by his thoughts, Julian turned his attention to the horses and looped the reins over the iron railings bordering a garden square. He flexed his shoulders, which still twinged on occasion, and rubbed his jaw where the bruises were beginning to fade. It had been three days since Nellie had declared she must see her husband. They did not even know if Sir Thaddeus had survived the gunshot, though none of the newspapers they’d avidly scanned had announced his demise. When Nellie had decided this was the day to visit Mayfair, Julian, as stubborn as ever, had been too proud to ask her intentions, even though he’d insisted on accompanying her, so here he must wait for her return.

“Muffin, sir?”

Julian glanced round to see a muffin boy standing on the pavement, a huge tray on his head threatening to topple over. “Boy, why don’t you put that down before you drop it?”

The youth lowered his tray to the ground and rubbed his flattened hair. “Cor, that feels better.”

Several inches of scrawny arm protruded beyond the sleeves of his tattered coat. His boots seemed to be more holes than leather. He looked about ten, although it was hard to tell, street urchins invariably being undernourished. The boy unwrapped his tray to reveal a sorry collection of lumpy, burnt muffins.

“Three for a ha’penny, sir.” The boy eyed Julian warily, no doubt cautious of his bruised face.

From the quantity and condition of the muffins, it was clear the boy had not made many sales that day. “You should try plying your trade around Spitalfields, perhaps,” Julian said. “You’ll not sell many of those muffins around these parts.”

The urchin’s face fell. “T’ Chapel is where I usually go, but yesterdee two dollymops set ’pon me and stole me money. So I thought to try a safer area today.”

“Do you have a mother or father? Any family at all to take care of you?”

The boy shrugged. “Don’t need no taking care of. Bin on the streets long’s I can remember.”

Julian took in a slow breath. This ragamuffin could have been him, if Elijah hadn’t taken him in. Not just taken him in, but loved him, cared for him, and treated him like his own flesh and blood. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket and fingered the bee brooch nestled there. The sharp end of the pin pricked his fingers. Ever since his and Elijah’s heartfelt exchange, the brooch had remained in his jacket pocket. He hadn’t yet decided what to do with it, but each day the bagatelle seemed to grow heavier in his pocket.

“Will ye buy a muffin or two?” the urchin wheedled.

Julian nodded. “I will, but on one condition. You are to eat as many muffins as you like, and I will pay for them.”

The boy’s mouth fell open, revealing a pitiful collection of rotting teeth. “But, sir, I only et the broken bits at t’ end o’ the day.”

And that was probably the only food he had all day. “You must eat as much as you can before my friend returns.” Julian waved at the tray. “Well, boy, what are you waiting for?”

The urchin stared at him a few more seconds, then fell on the muffins like a ravenous little stoat.

“Your poor, poor face. Oh, what an awful thing to happen!” Pip stretched out his hands tentatively towards Nellie. She thought he was going to touch her cheek, but at the last moment he pulled back. “How terrible, terrible.”

Did he really need to carry on so? Could he not see how his gushing sympathy only drew more attention to her injuries? And she did not much care for the way he’d shrunk from touching her.

“It’s not that bad,” Nellie said. “I don’t feel much pain in my face, and my new fingers work splendidly.”

He winced as she flexed her artificial fingers in front of him. “But those dreadful scars… You must consult the best doctors in London. At my expense, of course. I insist.”

“Thank you, but no. I am growing quite accustomed to my new look.”

“You are?” He goggled at her in disbelief. “Oh, Nellie, I’m so glad you’re alive and well…”

His voice trailed off. When he’d gotten over the shock of seeing her, he hadn’t embraced her, she’d noticed. Nor had he said he’d mourned her or behaved with any of the joy a husband might have felt for a wife he’d thought he’d buried. In truth, Pip did not seem overwhelmed with pleasure at discovering he was once more a married man.

She glanced around the drawing room where Pip had received her. The elegant room stunned the visitor with its dazzling plasterwork and intricately carved woodwork, its rich furnishings and soaring proportions. All this grandeur, but it had been paid for by Pip’s mother’s inheritance. The magnificence of the Ormonds was merely a wafer-thin facade. Once, it had awed her, but now it repelled her to realise how much human misery it had cost.

She narrowed her gaze at Pip. “How is your father?”

At her abrupt question, his cheeks flushed bright pink. “He’s met with an untimely accident a few days ago.” He toyed with the cuffs of his frock coat. “He, er, accidentally shot himself while handling his pistol. He is upstairs, gravely ill.”

“I see. And the prognosis?”

“Not good. The doctors tell me the bullet is lodged in his neck and cannot be removed. Even if he survives he will never be able to move or even speak.”

“An accident, you say.”

“Yes!” Pip pushed his hands into his pockets, pulled them out, raked his hair and looked thoroughly perturbed. “Yes, a complete accident.”

“Oh, Pip,” she murmured, shaking her head slowly. “I know it was you who shot him. I was there that night. Can’t you guess? I was Madame Dariya.”

He gaped at her as if she’d run him through with a lance. “You? Madame D-Dariya? You mean it was… it was all…”

“Yes, it was all a hoax. I’m sorry, Pip, for pulling a deception like that, but after my near death at the hands of your father’s henchman, I didn’t know whom to trust. I didn’t know if you were part of the plot. After all, you did disappear from our lodgings without a word. I thought you’d abandoned me and run back here to your father.”

“Oh God, Nellie, I’m so sorry!” he cried hoarsely. “I did come back here, but it was to beg him for a small loan. We were in such dire straits, and the thought of you working revolted me, so I came here. I petitioned my father, but he insisted I go out with him. He took me to several clubs and then the theatre. We had dinner, and he urged me to drink more than I am accustomed to. I went along, thinking to humour him, but then I must have passed out, because I woke up in my old bed here a day later, and when I rushed back to our lodgings, you’d gone and the landlady had sold off all our belongings.” He cast her an imploring look. “Oh, Nellie, you do believe me, don’t you?”

“I had my doubts, but not anymore, not after that night at Madame Olga’s.”

“That night…” He chewed at his lower lip, his expression agitated. “I didn’t mean to shoot my father. I only meant to—to shake him up a little. But he grabbed the gun, and we grappled together, and in the struggle the gun went off. And then that great brute came charging at me. He took me by surprise and the pistol was in my hand. I fired instinctively. I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“You killed the fiend who did this to me.” She gestured at her face. “And he murdered an innocent woman to make it look as if I had died. No one will mourn his passing.”

Pip nodded, eager for vindication. “Precisely. I acted in self-defence. Well, I never twigged you were Madame Dariya. You were very convincing.”

“Pip, you have to realise that Madame Olga is no spiritual medium. She merely told you what you wanted to hear because you paid her. Everything that happened in that apartment was mere trickery.”

“But when you spoke to me in my mother’s voice, surely that was no trickery.”

Nellie pretended an interest in an exquisite porcelain vase nearby. Even now she couldn’t explain to herself the strange trance that had gripped her. She thought spiritualism was nonsense, and she didn’t believe it possible to communicate with the dead, but that night something bizarre had happened to her for which there was no logical explanation.

“I—I don’t know what came over me, Pip,” she confessed. “I’m sorry, but I cannot explain it.”

“But you spoke the truth. I’m sure of it! When I challenged my father, I knew it was the truth from the fear in his eyes. I’ve never seen my father frightened before, but at that moment he was in terror because the truth had come out. He is responsible for my mother’s death.” His breath hitched in a sob.

“But, Pip, even if the doctor was called, your mother could have died anyway,” she said gently.

“Perhaps, but at least she wouldn’t have died alone and in fear.” He dashed the heel of his hand against his moist cheeks. “Oh, Nellie, you must think me such a fool, visiting these spiritual mediums in a vain attempt to soothe my conscience.”

“I don’t blame you for seeking some comfort.” She sighed, but aimed a glare at him. “However, I do blame you for marrying me under false pretences. You knew very well I’d never have married you if you were engaged to another woman. I know about Miss Montague.”

Blushing furiously, he stared down at his shoes before giving her a meek sidelong look. “I don’t know if I was properly ‘engaged’ to Alice. My father and hers had an understanding between them. It wasn’t of my choosing.”

“Oh mercies!” She threw up her hands. “Surely you could not be engaged against your will?”

“You’ve seen how ruthless my father can be. And Alice can be just as dogged.” Pip pouted a little. “She’s a termagant. And she has the most awful freckles. Between her and Father, I felt like a nut being squeezed by two pincers, and so I…so I…”

“So you fled London and ended up in my father’s asylum,” Nellie said with a sigh. It all made sense now. “You used me as an escape from your troubles. Well, I cannot blame you too much, for I used you in equal fashion, but even so you should have told me about your fiancée, Pip.”

“But then you would never have eloped with me. I meant to tell you when we got to London, but our circumstances were too dire then. Plus, you were so insistent we marry as soon as possible, and of course, you were right to be concerned for your reputation. I would hate to be called a bounder for convincing you to elope with me and then refusing to marry you! That would have been most unchivalrous.”

She exhaled in annoyance at his obtuseness. Pip had his own strange view of the world which would never concur with hers.

He reached out and gingerly took both her hands. “But now everything is different. With my father incapacitated, I have free rein to do as I please. All the Ormond resources are at my command. If—if you wish, we could live here.”

She could only stare at him. “You truly wish to remain married to me?”

“Is there any alternative?”

The resignation in his voice shouted out the truth. Even the faintness of his grasp betrayed his true feelings—he was leery of touching her. And in all honesty, she could muster no passion for him either. In her callowness, she’d dreamed up a fantasy hero and projected that image onto Pip, but he was no hero of hers, not in the past and not in the future. She was different now. She didn’t need unreal fantasies any longer. She’d already met a real hero, and he was everything she could want.

Quietly she disentangled her hands from his. “Yes, Pip, there is an alternative. You must divorce me.”

“Oh…” He drew in a quavering breath, relief lurking in his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. We would never make each other truly happy.”

“But what of the scandal? You would be labelled an adulterous woman.”

She lifted her shoulders. “I care nothing for scandal, for I’ve no designs on London high society.”

He nodded, looking both mollified and shamefaced. “But what will you do now? You cannot be thinking of returning to your father. I could make you an allowance—”

“No, Pip. That’s very generous of you but quite unnecessary. I have…employment of my own.”

“Ah, very well, then.” He cleared his throat and examined his shoes once more.

“Goodbye, Pip. I will send you the address of a lawyer through which you may contact me, but I won’t visit you again. This is farewell.”

“Oh, really? You won’t stay to tea…?” The relief behind his embarrassment was too obvious to miss.

“I won’t put you out any longer.” She gestured towards the ceiling. “After all, you’ve an injured father to look after.”

“That I do.”

She found herself curious about Sir Thaddeus lying upstairs in his bed, as helpless as a newborn babe. “I suppose he’s been largely unconscious these past few days.”

“No, quite the contrary. He’s been mostly awake.” As Pip accompanied her out of the drawing room, she caught a gleam in his eyes, a hint of an emotion she’d never detected in him before. “I find myself enjoying my little visits to my father’s sick chamber. The doctors advocate I talk to him, you see, so I relate to him everything I can think of. The poor man cannot respond, but he understands every word I say.”

“How can you tell?”

“Oh, he retains some movement in his left eye. It bobs this way and that whenever I chat to him.”

“And what do you talk about?” Nellie asked, her curiosity even more piqued.

“What I intend to do to the house, who I’ll invite to dinner, what parties I’ll be attending, all my plans for the future, really. It’s most entertaining to relate my schemes to my poor, helpless father.”

They were at the head of the grand staircase leading down to the front door. Nellie glanced at the stairs winding up to the floor above. Somewhere up there lay Thaddeus, paralysed and mute, but perfectly cognisant of everything around him. And Pip, aware of this, was deliberately embarking on a calculated journey of retribution. Thaddeus, she was sure, would have preferred death to being at the mercy of his son. But it was none of her business now. Her life and her future lay elsewhere.

She said her goodbyes and left the house forever. Outside, the sullen clouds overhead parted momentarily to emit a thin ray of light. She stood and lifted her head to savour the watery sunlight before it disappeared. A few passersby cast curious glances at her, but she merely smiled at them.

On the other side of the street, Julian was waiting for her. He gazed directly at her, his black hair falling untidily around his sombre, bruised face, his lean figure carelessly elegant and beautiful, his eyes intent upon her. Her heart leaped. Never would she tire of the sight of him. Her feet skipped across the cobblestones, carrying her towards him. As she approached, she noticed a gaunt street urchin strolling away, an empty muffin tray tucked under his arm.

“You’ve been eating muffins?” She gave Julian a teasing smile. “You’ll spoil your dinner.”

“That depends what we’re having for dinner.” The smile he gave her in return did not quite reach his eyes. He quirked an eyebrow at her. “So?”

She turned to her horse and patted its neck. “So, I believe Mrs. Tibbet is making roast suckling pig with parsnips.”

“Nellie…”

She smiled in apology. “Thaddeus is permanently incapacitated. He is paralysed from the neck down and cannot speak, but it appears his comprehension is intact.” It dawned on her that with Thaddeus forever silenced, Julian might never get the knowledge he craved. Her smile faded. “There’s not much hope of asking Thaddeus about your mother. I’m so sorry, Julian, but perhaps some of the servants would know about his sister’s governess, or there may even be some correspondence in the house. I could ask Pip—”

“Oh no, don’t trouble yourself. I’m over that.”

“You are? But you’ve gone to such lengths. It’s been so important to you.”

He gazed down the street at the departing muffin boy. “I was young and headstrong, but I’ve learned my lesson. Whoever my mother was, I know she cared about me, and she left me in the best hands possible. That’s all I need to know.”

Nellie stared at him. “You came to this conclusion while you were waiting for me?”

“No, on the night Thaddeus was shot.” He offered her an apologetic smile. “It’s taken me a few days to adjust, but now I’m here standing outside the Ormond house, I’m convinced it’s the right decision.”

Would she ever fathom this complex man? Ever since that eventful night he’d been preoccupied, but she’d assumed he was plotting a new strategy. It seemed incredible that he should give up a quest he’d pursued so relentlessly. But she saw that he meant it, and her heart lifted for him.

“I’m glad, Julian. Truly, I am.”

“So am I.” He leaned against the iron railings. “There are far more important things to occupy my mind.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, what of you and Pip? How did he react to your sudden resurrection?”

“With great shock, of course, but Pip has matured somewhat in the past few days. I think he’ll find happiness in the future.” She cast him a sidelong glance. “He suggested I live here in Mayfair with him, as I’m still married to him.”

Julian grew rigid. His eyes glinted at her like granite. “And?” he ground out between clenched teeth.

“I declined, much to his relief. No, Pip and I would never have been happy.” She inhaled a breath and squared her shoulders. “So, I will soon be a notorious divorcée.”

He continued to glower at her. “You seem very cheerful at the prospect.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I am free to commit adultery with whomever I want.”

His gaze sharpened. His shoulders bunched up beneath his jacket. “No, you are not. Not if I have anything to do with it.”

At the sight of his thunderous expression, happiness came bubbling up in Nellie. She’d never felt so light-hearted, so carefree, and she knew it was because of this man she’d learned to trust and love. Safe in the knowledge of his tenderness for her, she could truly give free rein to every passion and desire she felt for him.

Bending forward, she cupped his cheek in her gloved hand. “You’re right, Julian. You have everything and more to do with it. But will you be happy with a fallen woman?”

“Let me demonstrate how happy I can be.”

His eyes glowed as he put his arms around her and lowered his mouth to hers. Uncaring of the shocked passersby, he kissed her with renewed emotion, his initial gentleness melting into searing ardour that ignited all her senses. She kissed him back fervently, so drunk on the sweet perfection of the moment that when he finally lifted his head she let out a small moan of protest, only gradually becoming aware of what a spectacle they were providing.

He pressed the pad of his thumb against her throbbing lower lip. “Come, my sweet, let’s hasten home, or we will be dining on porridge tonight.”

She didn’t care what they dined on, but she knew how they would spend the night. They mounted their horses, and soon they were speeding back home.

The muffin boy looked on as the gentleman and his lady cantered away down the road and disappeared around a corner. He rubbed his stomach, which was straining with the unfamiliar weight of several muffins. Tonight he’d sleep easy with all that food in his belly. He’d use some of the money that gentleman had given him to buy his urchin friends muffins too, or maybe some nice beef pies.

He slipped his hand into his trouser pocket to reassure himself the coins were still there. As he did so, he touched something else and drew out the object. The brooch, fashioned to resemble a bee, was the prettiest thing the boy had ever seen. The gentleman had said it was made of real diamonds and rubies, that it would sell for a good sum. The boy wasn’t so sure about that. If it was valuable, why would the gentleman give it to a complete stranger, and a street urchin at that? Still, it was beautiful, and he didn’t have much beauty in his life.

He pocketed the brooch, and as he sauntered down the street, he began to whistle a jaunty tune.

About the Author

Coleen Kwan has been a bookworm all her life. At school English was her favourite subject, but for some reason she decided on a career in IT. After many years of programming, she wondered what else there was in life—and discovered writing. She loves writing contemporary romance and steampunk romance.

Coleen lives in Sydney, Australia with her partner and two children. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys avoiding housework, eating chocolate, and watching The Office.

Contact Coleen at her website www.coleenkwan.com and sign up for her newsletter. She can also be found on Twitter www.twitter.com/ColeenKwan and on Facebook www.facebook.com/coleenkwan.authorpage.

Also Available from Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

The worst of times, the most passionate of loves.

The Bookseller’s Daughter

© 2013 Pam Rosenthal

In her family’s bookshop, Marie-Laure Vernet had adventure, romance and mystery at her fingertips. And intrigue, in the form of an enigmatic stranger as unsettlingly attractive as the scandalous books he smuggled. But he disappeared, and so did the bookshop’s meager fortunes.

Forced to work as a scullery maid, Marie-Laure struggles to keep the china in one piece—and herself away from the aristocrats’ wandering hands. Until unexpectedly, the Duc’s estranged son comes home, and Marie-Laure once again finds herself face-to-face with the fascinating stranger.

Joseph has braved every conceivable danger during his secret adventures outside France, but he knows no one is in greater peril than a pretty servant in the employ of his lecherous father. And the only way to protect her is to pretend to be her lover.

Behind his bedroom door, their chaste friendship blooms into a connection more erotic than the stories in any forbidden book. But desire, even love, may not be enough to overcome the forces society has arrayed against them…

Warning: Contains a relationship between a couple who love books almost as much as they love each other.

Enjoy the following excerpt for The Bookseller’s Daughter:

Provence, August 1783

Six years before the French Revolution

The rule at the chateau was never to hire a pretty servant. And yet there was no denying that the copper-haired girl serving tea in the library this afternoon was pretty. Clumsy too: if she continued rattling that Sèvres cup and saucer she was going to spatter hot tea all over the Vicomte’s impeccable white stockings.

Bored with each other’s company, the family of the Duc de Carency Auvers-Raimond directed keen eyes in the girl’s direction. Sèvres was shockingly expensive; a servant who broke a piece could expect to be punished—even, or especially, a servant as pretty as this one. The cup rattled more loudly. The family waited in dreamy stillness for the shivering crash of china on the parquet floor.

But none came; only a few faint beige drops of tea marred the Vicomte’s shins, for at the last possible moment, he’d put out a long, deft hand and rescued the cup from imminent destruction.

“Thank you, Marianne,” he murmured.

She managed a curtsy, lowering her eyes from his and blushing beneath the freckles scattered over her cheeks.

Teatime finally over, she made her way back to the kitchen. A narrow escape; catastrophe barely averted. No broken china to sweep up, and—more importantly—no punishment to anticipate. The Comtesse Amélie had only glared at her. Ah well, a glare was nothing. What one had to look out for was the Comtesse’s scowl, the Gorgon-face that meant a thrashing was in order.

She wouldn’t be hurt and she wouldn’t be fired. No servant would be fired today; there was too much work to do. All right, she told herself, she should be glad of the work then. Because her job was the main thing, wasn’t it? Her job, her salary—surely these things were more important than the fact that he had clearly forgotten he’d ever seen her before.

Yes, of course. He was of no importance whatsoever.

Though it rather pained her to admit that she’d recognized him the instant she’d entered the room. The set of his shoulders, the dark gleam of his eyes: she’d known him immediately. No wonder she’d stopped breathing properly; of course she’d rattled the china.

And, she warned herself, if she continued thinking of him so…so physically, she was still in danger of dropping things—this time the whole damn tray. She hurried into the kitchen, laid down the delicate tea things, and tucked her thick curls into a cap, to protect them against soot and grease.

Be honest, she thought. Admit the whole truth and be done with it. She winced; the appalling, humiliating fact of the matter was that since last December she hadn’t let a day go by without thinking of him.

Thank you, Marianne.

And thank you, Monsieur le Vicomte. Even if you don’t remember that my name is Marie-Laure and not Marianne.

She pinned a stained apron to the front of her dress. One couldn’t expect an aristocrat to know a servant’s proper name.

Heaps of work awaited her in the scullery. A mountain of pots to wash, a bushel of onions to peel and chop. Plenty of distraction from her troublesome thoughts. She took a heavy knife and sliced off the tip of an onion. Predictably, her eyes filled with tears. Well, of course, she scolded herself. What else could one expect, from such a strong onion?

There would be a banquet. A chandelier of Bohemian crystal had been installed in the mirrored dining room; tomorrow evening thirty guests would feast under its light in celebration of the Vicomte’s visit.

He’d arrived only this morning, together with his mother the Duchesse. No one among the chateau’s army of servants knew what had brought about the sudden family reunion.

“The Duc’s illness could have taken a turn for the worse,” Jacques, the Duc’s valet, had speculated that morning at breakfast. “The doctors looked graver than usual, last time they visited.”

“Perhaps they’re selling off some property,” someone else suggested. “That will usually bring a family out of hiding, to clamor for their share. Or perhaps it’s time to find a wife for the Vicomte Monsieur Joseph.”

It would have to be a matter of some import, everyone agreed, to pry the Duchesse away from the convent that had been her home for the last few years.

“Of course, the Duc was always a wretched husband, even when he had his wits about him.” Nicolas, the chateau’s general manager, prided himself on his knowledge of the family’s history. “Joked in public that the Duchesse was a prune in bed. Had a list of mistresses as long as your arm, and you couldn’t keep him away from the maids and village girls.” Which was why, now that the old man was too enfeebled to have a say in things, his daughter-in-law tried not to hire pretty servants.

But even Nicolas hadn’t known Monsieur Joseph’s whereabouts these past few years. There were rumors of duels, prison, exile, even a sojourn in America.

“America?” Marie-Laure was an enthusiastic supporter of the recent revolution in the English colonies. How wonderful, she thought, if Monsieur Joseph had joined the Marquis de Lafayette in the fight for American independence. How worthy. And how utterly improbable that a member of this nasty, spoiled family would do any such thing.

The group in the kitchen would have been pleased to gossip the morning away but Nicolas hustled them off to work. And so all Marie-Laure had learned of the Duc’s younger son was that he’d been his father’s favorite and hadn’t visited in more than a decade.

But I know something that Nicolas doesn’t, she thought, putting aside the last onion and moving over to skim the foam from the veal stock. I know what he was doing last winter. He was smuggling forbidden books into France. And cheating booksellers. Well, at least he cheated me and Papa.

Of course, last winter she hadn’t known who he really was. But she’d suspected he wasn’t what he seemed. She’d liked that about him.

The sights and smells of the busy kitchen dissolved into the steam rising from the stockpot. She was in a shabby, beloved room—with books, books everywhere.

Home.

Love is madness.

An Indiscreet Debutante

© 2013 Lorelie Brown

When Miss Charlotte Vale isn’t running a school for impoverished factory women, she takes tea with an insane painter—the mother she adores. Determined to avoid her mother’s legacy of madness, Lottie refuses to marry and nurtures the ton’s bemused disregard for her reputation.

Through her door strides a man who threatens all she holds dear. Her cherished school, her careful control and her guarded heart.

Sir Ian Heald has tracked his sister’s blackmailer to her last-known location—Lottie’s school. Although he would burn the place to the ground if it would save his sister’s reputation, Ian is drawn to Lottie’s bold candor and indifference toward polite society.

To find his sister’s blackmailer, Ian follows Lottie into a twisted world of illegal gambling clubs and eccentric parties. Even when their mutual passion ignites, Ian knows their affair cannot last. Lottie was never meant to be tucked away on his quiet pastoral estate, and she staunchly refuses his desire to wed. Yet fiery kisses and scandalous showdowns tempt this proper country gentleman to win the woman he loves and never let her go.

Warning: This book contains gambling in low-class clubs, deliciously deadpan dialogue, an unplanned swim to rescue doused women, and a fast, furious spanking. She wants it though, so that hardly counts.

Enjoy the following excerpt for An Indiscreet Debutante:

He couldn’t have been more shocked to see her. His lips parted on silence. Someone had found him a banyan. The dark blue silk wrapped around his torso, and he wore dark trousers beneath, but under that his feet were bare. He had pale and slender feet and toes with a tiny sprinkle of dark hairs across the top.

Her fingers curled into her palms.

They’d brought the tea, and he sat at a table next to the window. A tree’s leafy green canopy obstructed most of the view through the window, but she knew that was no hardship. Next door was a brick townhouse.

She needed assistance keeping her brain inside her skull because she was losing it. The throbbing, heavy weight in her blood was expanding through her whole body, the way she’d always feared.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said after a long moment.

Likely he’d tired of waiting on her to be less insane. “It’s my house. I’m allowed to be anywhere I like.”

“I doubt that.” He leaned one elbow on the arm of the chair. The embroidered lapels of the robe parted enough to display three inches of his chest. There was a division between two thick muscles. He was a man who hadn’t ignored his body.

He made her want to not ignore her own body.

Losing her virginity had been an idle thought, one born of convictions and supposition. Not need. Not any amount of want. She ranged closer to the table, closer to him. Her fingers trailed over the cold metal edge of the tea tray.

“I’m all but mistress of this domain.” She nudged a plate of iced biscuits to the side in order to get at a tiny dish of cubed sugar. The piece she picked up was rough between her thumb and finger. She rubbed it over her bottom lip, then licked away the grains left behind. Sweetness burst over her tongue.

He never moved. His hands didn’t shift, nor did his feet, nor any other variety of limbs. The tilted-down angle of his chin stayed still, and he watched her from under thick, dark lashes.

Despite not moving, he was…alive. Aware of her and of the heat that flowed back and forth between them. Far, far away in the recesses of the house a timepiece chimed. Between them was the thick molasses of promise and potential. His eyes all but burned her skin, turning the stretch between her shoulder blades into a tickling, sensitive place that begged for his touch.

Except instead of following through with those silent promises, he shook his head, so very slowly. “You don’t want to head down this route.”

She edged closer. Near enough that her skirts folded over and around his calves. His knees. She managed to smile, but no one would ever know what it cost her. The way her lips felt nearly numb. She wanted to run her tongue over them, just to feel.

Maybe she could feel his mouth instead.

She still held the sugar cube. When she lifted it to his lips, it almost seemed that the room would implode from what built and wove between them. He speared her with that wicked gaze, and despite the reluctance she could feel rolling off him, the tiniest quirk of his lips said she hadn’t gone too far astray.

His lips parted for the cube. His tongue darted out enough to wet the tip of her index finger. A full-body shiver rolled over her skin and dove into her veins, turning her into both more and less.

“Maybe I don’t want to wander down the route. Maybe I want to run.”

Ian knew better.

Sugar melted on his tongue. Granules rubbed across the top of his mouth with sweet abrasion. Comparatively, her finger had little flavor, with the slightest hint of warmth and life.

She made him feel like he were Genghis Khan. A conqueror who didn’t need to be bent on taking because the slave girl was already offering him everything she had. Everything she was.

Her lush bottom lip trembled, but her eyes were wickedly hot. Her gaze scalded him, made his brain fuzzy at the edges. She wanted to be taken, or so she implied.

Unlikely.

His fingers locked around the arms of his chair, but he wasn’t sure what he braced against. The rising need, maybe. He didn’t have time for her. Hell, he shouldn’t have agreed to resting in her house long enough for his clothes to dry. The likelihood of him catching sick in a short carriage ride was negligible. But he’d wanted to help her. Those wide eyes, the obvious distress on her face. It all combined into a compelling desire to give her what she wanted.

Not taking what he wanted. “No,” he growled.

She twitched, her elbows tucking in closer to her ribs. “No?”

His hips shifted in his seat, tipping forward toward her. He slid his knees out a fraction and made room for her voluminous skirts. Apparently his own body didn’t believe his words. “It’s a common word. Do I need to explain its meaning? I’m sure you don’t hear it often.”

She smelled so sultry and edged with temptation that his mouth watered. The sugar slid and spun and washed through him. No substitution.

She laughed. “I hear it often enough.” She leaned down closer. Her hands rested on the chair’s arms. Her dress was modest. Tight. All the way up to her collarbones, with more white lace edging toward her slender, graceful neck. He hated the damn thing. “I don’t like the word.”

He couldn’t reach up and trace her pale neck the way he wanted. Otherwise all his control would snap. He shifted the first two fingers of each hand enough to rest them on her knuckles. Supple and hard in one, she was bone covered with silk. Barely concealed, barely hidden.

Though she didn’t realize it, her every emotion rode right beneath the surface. He was shocked she triumphed in society. Sharks should have scented her blood and taken her down.

“You might be improved by a little extra experience with denial.”

She shook her head. When she’d changed her clothes, someone had tried to repin her hair from the tumbled mess created during the park’s drama. They’d succeeded for the most part, but feathery red tendrils curled around her cheeks and temples. “I’m perfect the way I am. You should kiss me and find out.”

He hadn’t ever laughed while kissing a woman before, but both responses rose together. His lips took hers. His hands lifted to cup her jaw and trace over delicate ears.

All the while, laughter wove between them, trading between their lips and teeth and tongues. She kissed exactly how he’d expected. Complete abandon and rapidly growing joy.

He leaned up even as she leaned down. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, thumbs tucking beneath the open collar. Those two touches of skin were more than enough. Their lips clung, and Ian and Lottie laughed at the same time. There wasn’t enough air between them. He’d lost control of the situation.

His body woke. Wanted. Needed.

He didn’t dare lower his hands from her face, but he tilted them. Let his thumbs coast over that tender flesh under her jaw. He felt it move and work as she so eagerly kissed him, and he loved that sense of delicacy, with that extra hint of tenderness.

She was gilt. A shiny and beautiful layer over harder, more base emotions underneath. He wanted to see underneath that artificial brightness.

That wasn’t his right. He didn’t get to peel her apart the way he needed, because he’d be damned if he stayed long enough to put her back together. He’d return to his regular existence soon enough, in order to reassure Etta their world was safe. Maybe he’d revisit London to find a wife next Season, but he’d find someone more of his own sort. Ordinary.

He didn’t get to keep Lottie, which meant that he didn’t have the right to take everything he wanted.

His laughter faded.

With his hands as gentle as he could manage, he pushed her away, but he couldn’t resist one last nip of her bottom lip. Flesh gave under his teeth.

She didn’t straighten fully. With her cloud of red hair, she hovered over him like a depraved angel. He liked it. He liked her a hell of a lot, for that matter. Especially the way she grinned. “See? Perfect.”

He chuckled again, until he realized that he’d been unable to let go. His fingertips smoothed over her soft skin, from her nape to her shoulders. “I concede the point.”

Darke London

Coleen Kwan

The only way to save her life is to resurrect the dead…

Uncanny Chronicles, Book 1

Julian Darke was only a newborn when he was abandoned on the doorstep of a gentleman doctor. Though raised with love, he is driven to discover his true origins.

Convinced Sir Thaddeus Ormond knows something, Julian shadows him one night—and is shocked to see a young woman thrown from Ormond’s carriage and accosted by a thug. Julian manages to save her life, but not her face and hands from horrific injuries.

Nellie Barchester doesn’t recognize the scarred, disfigured stranger in the mirror. Though the gifted doctor and engineer has done his best to repair the damage, scars ravage her body, and chill her soul with the realization that her own husband may have plotted her death.

Julian’s tenderness is a balm to her soul, and Nellie is drawn to the edge of passion by a man not repelled by her deformities. But as their pursuit of the truth draws them into London’s underbelly, they cross the path of a ruthless enemy who will stop at nothing to fulfill his schemes.

Warning: Can a brilliant but troubled doctor find happiness with a woman scarred both inside and out? A hint of the supernatural plus a night of passion spice up this Uncanny Chronicle.

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eBooks are not transferable.

They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B

Cincinnati OH 45249

Darke London

Copyright © 2013 by Coleen Kwan

ISBN: 978-1-61921-557-3

Edited by Anne Scott

Cover by Kanaxa

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: September 2013

www.samhainpublishing.com

Content

Darke London
Uncanny Chronicles 1
by
Coleen Kwan

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

About the Author

Also Available from Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

The worst of times, the most passionate of loves. The Bookseller’s Daughter © 2013 Pam Rosenthal

Love is madness. An Indiscreet Debutante © 2013 Lorelie Brown

Darke London Coleen Kwan

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