Accursed (16 page)

“Nonsense,” William told Frederick, holding up a hand to forestall any argument. “It’s only natural that you would come.” He tugged at his sleeves, smoothing out his morning coat for his journey to the office. “You’re welcome here anytime. And Tamara and I are pleased that you sought us out in this dark hour.”

Tamara remained silent. Her focus was on Frederick Martin, for she noticed that his speech seemed oddly stilted. It was as though each word, each turn of phrase, was rehearsed, like dialogue from a play. Perhaps it was a result of his tragedy that he seemed so distant and disoriented. Yet there was something else.

Wasn’t there?

Indeed.

Their visitor nodded. “That means a great deal to me.” He glanced at Tamara, and a flicker of something in his gaze made her tighten her robe again. “I didn’t want you to hear word of her death from anyone else. And to be honest, I think I wanted a few moments in the company of others who loved her.”

He lowered his gaze, and for a long moment Tamara felt guilt beginning to creep into her heart.

This was Frederick. Had her experiences with demons and magic made her so thoroughly callous that everything and everyone became suspect, that she could not bring herself to lend comfort to or share her pain with a friend?

Frederick sighed heavily and shook his head. “I ought to be off, as well.” But there was a question in the cadence of his voice, leading Tamara to respond.

“Not at all. Stay and talk, if you’d like,” she said quickly, hoping that Frederick would take her bait.

He did, nodding as he offered a wan smile of gratitude, first to Tamara and then to her brother. William twitched, brows knitting as he turned to look at his sister.

“Tam, I’ve just said I’m due at Threadneedle Street. I’m afraid it would be inappropriate—”

“Inappropriate?” she said, challenging him with her gaze. “For me to offer a fresh cup of tea and some biscuits to a man I’ve known since he was a boy? When he’s had the shock he’s had today?”

She tried to communicate her intentions with her eyes. She needed her brother to understand. He had to let her continue her subtle observation of Frederick. There was something important to be gleaned from him about the tragedy. She was certain of it.

Then she laughed softly, and shook her head. She crossed the room and took Frederick by the hand. He had been standing, close to William, but now she led him to a high-backed chair by the window.

“If you cannot stand the thought of company just now, Frederick, by all means go along. I shall certainly understand. But otherwise, please do stay, and have another cup. We’ll talk of Helena—”

Just saying her friend’s name brought images into her mind again, but they were no longer pleasant. She had seen enough blood and death in recent months that she couldn’t help but paint a mental picture of the gruesome death Frederick had described. The woman had fallen four stories to her death. Her skull must have been shattered on the stones of the street, and who knew how many bones. There would have been blood, but before that, tears and terrible anguish.

“I do wish she’d have come to me, if she was in distress. If only I could have spoken with her, perhaps—” Tamara whispered, and her own voice quavered such that when she looked at William again, she saw sorrow mirrored in his eyes.

Her brother nodded. “I’ll speak to Farris. Martha is engaged at the moment, so I shall have Farris attend you in her stead.”

William gnawed his lip for a moment, and then turned to Sophia. “Since your own chaperone has traveled with you this morning, Miss Winchell, would it be possible for your carriage to convey me to my office?”

Throughout the exchange she had remained silent, showing sound judgment for once. She had met Helena perhaps three times, and Frederick only once, so their contact was comprised entirely of social pleasantries. Now, though, she stood up as though tugged by marionette’s strings.

“Indeed,” Sophia agreed, as though her opinion mattered. “Under the circumstances, William, it’s the only sensible thing.”

Tamara almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of their charade. Then she realized the subtlety of what William was engineering. Martha was engaged in her household duties and certainly could have been brought to the sitting room. No, William wanted Farris there.

So you
did
sense something wrong, something unpleasant,
Tamara thought.
And you’re going to let me continue the investigation.

Sophia, of course, only wanted the chance to be as alone with William as she could manage. Tamara saw through that, as well, and the thought turned her stomach.

Just give in, once and for all, dear brother,
she thought.
Have a scandalous romance, and be done with it. Even marry and have a thousand babies. But put an end to this absurd charade!

“That would be fine,” she said aloud.

She glanced at Frederick again, and he replied with a pitiable smile. Once again she was troubled by guilt over her suspicion. But not so much as to make it disappear.

W
HEN THE ARRANGEMENTS
had been made and William had gone off in Sophia’s carriage, Tamara stood in the foyer of Ludlow House and the loss began to sink in.

The news had hit her quite hard when Frederick had first arrived, but as she had tried to understand what had happened and to comfort him, she had pushed her own feelings away. Now that she had a moment to herself, the truth cut her deeply again. Her hand fluttered up to cover her mouth and she took several deep, shuddering breaths. Fresh tears sprang to her eyes and streaked her cheeks.

There was a hollow in her chest, an emptiness that broke her heart. Helena had been her friend, yes, but she had also been Tamara’s contemporary. It was as though she, herself, had died, or a part of her.

“Oh, sweet Helena,” she whispered.

Then, with a final, deeper breath, she gathered her wits and wiped away her tears. Her eyes were bound to be red, but she could do nothing about that. And it was a silly concern to begin with. Frederick would expect her to grieve. Her tears were the natural response, and nothing to be ashamed about. If she was worried about appearances, she would have retired to her rooms and changed her clothes.

“That’s just what you ought to do,” she told herself, comforted somewhat by the sound of her own voice. By its realness, the assurance that she, at least, was still alive. Foolish, yes, but necessary.

Farris was standing outside the sitting room when Tamara reached it. Despite her intentions, she hadn’t yet dressed.

“Are you all right, miss?” he asked, and though he stood with his hands crossed in front of him, the true gentleman’s gentleman, some of the reserve normally required for the job had slipped. There was concern in his eyes, and she appreciated it greatly. With her father inaccessible and her grandfather dead, there was no paternal figure in her life.

“Not by half, Farris,” she confessed, patting him on the arm. “But I shall be.”

When Tamara entered the sitting room, Frederick was no longer in the high-backed chair by the windows, where she had placed him. He had retreated, instead, to the settee recently vacated by Sophia. That corner of the room was swathed in gray shadows that seemed somehow appropriate for mourning, as though they fed upon the grief left in the wake of Helena’s death.

Frederick looked up at her arrival, and in that instant something flickered across his face. A flaring of the nostrils and narrowing of the eyes that caused Tamara to utter a tiny gasp. Was there something else there, as well, a gleam in his eyes that—in those shadows—could not have been the glint of reflected sunlight?

She thought that there was.

For a moment she forgot to speak, forgot even her covert purpose. She had planned to announce that she would go upstairs and dress properly, but now all thoughts ran from her head.

“Is there anything you require, miss?” Farris asked. “I’ve ordered up a tray of tea and biscuits for Mr. Martin.”

Tamara stared at Frederick for a moment longer, before turning to shake her head. “No, thank you, Farris. If I have another cup of tea this morning, I’m afraid I shall float away.”

The comment was tossed off without a thought. Her mind was focused entirely on Frederick now. With one glimpse of him in those gray shadows, the conflict was over, and suspicion had won out over grief and guilt.

“Farris, give us a moment, would you?”

The butler arched one eyebrow, but did not question the propriety of her request. The Swift household had functioned, of late, quite differently from an ordinary English home. Certain things took precedence here over decorum.

“Certainly, miss.” He excused himself with a nod and left the room.

When Tamara turned back to Frederick, she thought to catch that look upon his face again. But there was only pain there now. She felt the distant echo of it in her own heart, yet for the moment, her grief would have to wait.

“We have known each other a very long time, Frederick,” Tamara began, crossing toward him, moving out of the sunlight and into the shadows near the settee.

“Since you and Helena were children.”

Tamara crossed her arms. “Indeed. Then you’ll forgive me, I hope, for being frank.”

He blinked, and there was something odd about it. A hint of something behind his eyelids. Tamara stared at him for a moment, but he did not blink again, and it would have been far too awkward for her to simply gaze at him until he did.

“By all means,” he said, gesturing for her to continue.

Still she hesitated. She realized now that something about his face wasn’t quite right, but she couldn’t determine what it was that was catching her attention. His skin looked dry and pale, and in the shadows there seemed to be a faint green hue, as though he was about to be sick.

“Are you all right?” Tamara asked. “Perhaps the tragedy has taken too great a toll.”

Frederick smiled, then, and it was the smile that unsettled her the most. Sickly and far too wide, it lent a madness to his aspect that was more than grief. He seemed to her like a man who was on the verge of a scream.

“I’m as well as can be, pet.”

Pet.
When had Frederick Martin ever had the audacity to call her that? Never, of course.

Once again Tamara cinched her robe tight. Then she sat on the edge of a chair, only a few feet from the settee. Out of arm’s reach, but close enough for her to see him clearly in the shadows, and watch his eyes. Her hair rustled in an unseen wind that did not come through the windows. Unexpectedly, there was the crackle of magic around her, and she let it surge up inside her. If he saw the way the dust motes in the air seemed to swirl in tiny storms around her fingers, sparking from time to time, so be it. Something was wrong here. Very wrong. And Tamara was determined to get to the bottom of it.

“Frederick, for some reason that I can’t explain, I cannot help but feel that you haven’t been completely honest with us. That there is some detail of Helena’s . . . of her death that you’ve omitted. I can’t imagine why. Perhaps you wish to save her”—
or yourself
—“some embarrassment or other. It occurs to me that there might also be some danger, and perhaps you hope to protect me from it.”

There was that smile again, disappearing quickly, as though he had forced it away.

He shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the settee. He seemed on the verge of becoming agitated, as though it was difficult for him to remain seated. Frederick flinched several times in quick succession, and his chin flew up as though out of his control. He recovered, scratching the back of his head, but she felt sure this was an effort to make it appear as if his actions were voluntary. But she wasn’t convinced.

Dear Lord, what is wrong with him?

Finally Frederick rested his hands on his knees, gripping them so the knuckles were white. He averted his eyes, as if he could no longer meet her gaze.

“Please,” Tamara said. She reached out to lay her hand upon his. “Clearly, you are troubled by more than grief. I can see it. Speak to me, Frederick. What haunts you? Did you see her die, is that it? Was there something . . . unnatural about her end? How
did
Helena die?”

There it was. The question.

The shadows around Frederick’s face deepened as he turned to face her, so that she could barely see his eyes in the pools of darkness. Then he leaned forward, and she saw the pain etched into his face, the weight of it, and her heart broke for him. This was what she had seen in him before. It had to be. The poor soul had witnessed some horror, something his imagination could not bear, and his mind was fraying at the edges.

His hand felt cold in hers. The skin papery. She ran her thumb over it and heard it rasp.

“No,” he whispered.

Tamara felt her chest tighten, and a sick knot of realization twisted in her stomach. She glanced down and saw that her thumb was cracking his skin where she touched him. And there was something else.

Patterns.

There were scales on the back of Frederick Martin’s hand.

She went to pull her hand away, but he grabbed it, held it, his strength uncanny.