Accursed (28 page)

Tamara pointedly ignored him and, instead, closed the attic door and came farther into the room.

“We are the Protectors of Albion, William. We’re quite capable of dealing with a bit of trouble.”

William crossed his arms and gazed at her coolly.

“Could we discuss this later? Horatio and I are right in the middle of casting an extremely tricky spell. We’re using an invisibility enchantment to hide the idols, in case anyone—or anything—should come looking. You’re disturbing the delicate nature of the—”

“Oh, surely we’re through with that business, are we not, young Master William?” Horatio asked.

William arched an eyebrow and stared at him. It was no secret that Admiral Nelson had a paternal fondness for Tamara, and enjoyed stirring the pot in her favor. Bodicea had confided to William that Tamara reminded Nelson very much of his own daughter, Horatia, who had been born out of his affair with Lady Emma Hamilton. Afterward, Nelson had married Lady Hamilton, following her husband’s death. But Horatia had still carried the stigma of being illegitimate, so the admiral had never really managed a relationship with her. Bodicea expressed the opinion that it still haunted him, even long after his death, contributing to the way he doted on Tamara.

Tamara sighed. A tremor of what he thought was suppressed emotion went through her. “This has been one of the worst days of my life, William. Yet I keep my head high, and I forge ahead, because we have a duty. Regrettably, I learned little of consequence this evening. Mr. Haversham did confirm, however, that he was at the bishop of Manchester’s party, and that the earl of Claridge, in the midst of the filthy transformation we have seen ourselves, attacked a young girl there. John himself tore the monster off her.”

“So it’s John now, is it?” William asked.

Tamara rolled her eyes and sniffed dramatically. “You have no need to worry where Mr. Haversham is concerned. He has made it clear that he would like to be my
friend,
and that is all.”

William narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

But he held his tongue. It was obvious that she had been rather roughly charged with this knowledge, her pride wounded in the process.

“I see. And you learned nothing more?” William inquired hopefully. He was sorry to have forced his sister into an unhappy situation, but he was glad that John Haversham had embraced reason. He was no match for Tamara. His courtship would have only brought her dishonor.

“I am sorry that I am not a better spy, William. I fear that I did not feel very well this evening, and my interrogative skills were much dulled. But I am entirely prepared to make up for my earlier shortcoming.”

“I trust you did your best,” William replied. “Now, look, back to this discussion of the East End—”

“Yes, back to that,” Tamara said archly. “As Byron tells it, we’ve word of this curse having spread to the Indian population that lives there.”

“Yes,” Horatio confirmed. In that strangely empty room, the lamplight filtered through the ghost and made him somehow both more transparent and more substantial, all at the same time. “Though apparently they think of it more as a plague than a curse. Colonel Dunstan was a highly regarded soldier of both English and Indian descent. His ability as a translator made him invaluable in the Seven Years War. Though only a teenager at the time, he distinguished himself admirably, and later became one of Wellesley’s most trusted men.”

“He believes that the plague actually
originated
in the slums, Tamara,” William said. “We cannot be certain, of course, which is why I must investigate as the Protector of Albion—”

“Protector?”
Tamara countered, her voice rising. “As if there were only
one
? Do not allow yourself to think for one moment longer that you are going to investigate this curse alone.”

William took a deep breath. “Actually, I hadn’t thought I’d be alone. I’d have the ghosts for company.”

Tamara glared at him. “Just because I haven’t been myself of late, William Swift, doesn’t mean I intend to shirk my duties,” she said hotly.

“Now don’t argue, my friends—” Nelson began, but he stopped as both Swift siblings turned and glared at him.

“I think I shall go and visit Byron, and Father—or Oblis—or
whoever
is in residence in Father’s body at the moment,” Tamara said. “At least there I am given
some
respect.”

At that she turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.

William raised an eyebrow as Tamara slammed the door loudly behind her.

“Women,” he said under his breath. “They truly are an enigma to me. I find them harder to fathom than calculus, and I had once believed
that
was going to be the bane of my existence.”

Even as he spoke the words, he heard the familiar low trilling noise that so often accompanied the manifestation or departure of a ghostly presence. He frowned, thinking Horatio had abandoned him, but when he turned he saw that Nelson was still in the room and that they had been joined by Bodicea.

The spectral queen held her spear as though it were a walking staff, but there was an uncommon wariness in her aspect. Normally her manner was as brazen as her nakedness. At first William presumed that she had overheard and was offended by his words.

“Bodicea, I assure you that I meant nothing by—”

“I have failed you,” Her Majesty declared. Her gaze was grim as she lifted her eyes to regard him. “I allowed myself to be baited by the man, Carstairs. Or by whatever he had become.”

William hesitated a moment. It was Horatio who asked the question.

“Bodicea,” the ghost said, “what have you done?”

“I killed him. Inadvertently.”

William sighed. He’d entertained the idea that they might still learn something from Carstairs . . . that if they could determine the circumstances of his theft of those particular artifacts, they might find the ultimate source of the curse. Now that possibility, no matter how remote, had been erased.

“Inadvertently?”

“He forced my hand,” said the queen.

T
AMARA TOOK THE
stairs two at a time, propelled by her fury. She had spent the entire day vacillating between grief, anger, and embarrassment, and now, finally, anger had won.

She opened the door to the room in which her father was kept and barreled inside, unmindful of the conversation that was already in progress between Byron and Oblis.

“The last time I put the old Nebuchadnezzar out to grass—” Oblis was saying. With a gleam in his eye he paused to glance up at Tamara. The face was her father’s, but the malignance of the demon’s mind shone through. He looked at her so hungrily that she paused and shuddered, feeling almost as filthy as she had when Frederick Martin had pawed her that morning.

“Excuse me,” Tamara said curtly as she turned to leave.

“Tamara, wait,” Byron said. The foppish poet gazed at her with a mixture of guilt and concern, and floated in pursuit. Their conversation had, no doubt, been more than vulgar, but Tamara thought Byron looked rather sheepish for one who was usually so open about his debauchery.

“Tamara, please, forgive me,” said the ghost. “Boys will be boys, you know . . .” He looked at her hopefully, but she shook her head.

“This isn’t something that can be accepted casually, Byron! You are not chatting with some stable boy or poet. He is a demon, not some drinking companion! A demon that has possessed the body of my father. Simply the fact that you sit here sharing an easy camaraderie with this fiend feels like betrayal to me, and I have had enough of disappointment for one day!

“And don’t think that your tone escaped me. I’m quite familiar with your lascivious insinuations and obsession with all things sexual. Honestly, can you not think of anything else? Is there no
meaningful
conversation to be had with you that does not involve carnal lust? What next? Shall we speak of
my
sexual escapades?”

The ghost and demon both gave her a curious look.

Tamara blushed, but did not look away.

“There
are
none, you fiends! I am unwanted!” She coughed, and realized her throat was raw.

“Excuse me—”

She spun and started toward the door again, not wanting them to see how upset she really was. As she flung it open she was startled to find Byron’s ghost already in the corridor. Tamara looked back into the room, where Oblis watched warily from behind her father’s eyes.

“Tamara,” the spirit said, reaching for her with insubstantial hands. His eyes were kind, though, and without guile or accusation. “Come and tell Byron what has happened to his dear girl.”

It was his manner more than his words that drained the anger from her. She bit her lower lip and shook her head as she sagged back against the doorjamb.

“I . . . I was made a fool of this evening,” she began in a rasping whisper, not wishing for Oblis to hear.

Byron tried to put a supportive arm around her shoulder, but it only passed through her.

“Oh, Byron,” Tamara said. “I appreciate the sentiment.” She sighed and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, dabbing at her red-rimmed eyes.

“A man, John Haversham. He invited me to an art exhibit at the Egyptian Hall this evening. I did not want to attend, after the news of the morning, but William insisted that I go. It seems I was wasting my time with a man not at all enamored of me, while William was off trying to prove his worth as a Protector . . . as
the
Protector, to hear him tell it.”

Byron issued a sigh that seemed to ripple through his spectral form.

“You know that isn’t true, Tamara. Your brother is constantly comparing himself with you—how could he fail to, when the rest of us do the same? But he saw your rendezvous with Haversham as an opportunity to pursue a line of inquiry he could not, even as he pursued a different route. Doubly efficient.”

Tamara knitted her brows and gazed at him. “You sound suspiciously like Horatio.”

“He did inform me of the events of the day, a short time ago.” Byron gave her his most intimate smile. “But don’t damn me to the Hell of Horatio’s precious propriety simply because we are all fighting in the same war.”

She couldn’t help smiling in return. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good. Now tell me all about this man.”

Tamara was surprised to find that she had no more tears. Instead the heat of her embarrassment and disappointment had settled back into embers of anger. “I thought his interest lay in courting me, but now he has said that he seeks only my friendship, and I have done a terrible thing—”

“Yes?” Byron asked, without bothering to veil the prurience of his interest.

Tamara shook her head indulgently. “It was nothing. A trifle, really. The troubling bit is that I made
my
interest known to him, before I was made aware of his lack of intention.”

She took a deep breath and let it out through her nose.

“Now I am humiliated.”

Byron began to laugh, but stopped abruptly when Tamara glared at him. “My dear, we have
all
been spurned upon occasion. I, myself, have been made a fool of more times than I care to admit. I once even found myself called out over a misrepresentation of interest—”

The door was still open to the old nursery, where Oblis was kept prisoner. From the gloom that lay within, Oblis snorted. “The girl informed you that she did not require your services?” the demon asked.

Tamara started and turned to stare into the room. Candlelight flickered on the walls, casting the face of her father in dancing shadows. She ought to have known better than to forget, even for a moment, how keen the demon’s senses were. How Oblis seemed to survive by picking at their lives like a carrion bird.

“Not precisely,” Byron said, eyes twinkling as he glanced once at Oblis, and then back to Tamara. “You see, I was certain this particular young man was of a more
flexible
persuasion. Sadly, he was not.”

“Byron!” Tamara said, raising a hand to her mouth in faux scandal. “You’re
terrible.
”

“Oh, yes. Certainly,” Byron countered. “But I’ve made you smile, and that is worth a galaxy full of stars. Now I must take a moment to speak with Horatio, since you have so kindly consented to watch your father.”

“I have?” Tamara said.

Byron nodded.

“Yes, you have.” And with that, he disappeared into the ether.

Tamara hesitated outside the room, but then forced herself to enter again under the watchful gaze of the demon. She sat stiffly in a velvet chair that had been a favorite of her mother’s. Her fingers tapped the soft gray fabric that covered the armrests. When she was a little girl, her mother had spent many an hour sitting in this chair quietly embroidering. She had rested at her mother’s feet, fascinated by the quick movements of fingers on the cloth—

“What memory are you thinking on?” Oblis asked, shattering the vision she had conjured of her mother’s long, beautiful fingers.

“Nothing,” she replied quickly. “Nothing of import.”

Oblis stared. “Tell me more of your evening, Tamara.”

“Are you mad?” she said sternly.

“Share the tale with me, and I shall make it worth your while,” Oblis hissed.