Cold Stone and Ivy (6 page)

Sebastien Laurent St. John de Lacey. The Mad Lord of Lasingstoke. Of his brother, Christien was notoriously silent. She honestly didn’t know what to think.

“That’s a strange portrait,” she said. “Why can you not see his face?”

“’E wasn’t there, miss.”

“What’s that? He wasn't there?”

“Not for the sitting, miss. The painter came every week for four months, but each time, ’is Lordship was unavailable or away. A painter can only paint what ’e sees, miss, and the painter did not actually
see
’is Lordship.”

“What an odd story,” Ivy mused under her breath, eyes still glued to the figure in the painting. There seemed to be far more than two dogs at his feet. “You’ve met him, then?”

“Oh, yes, miss. Ah ’ave.”

“And? What is he like, then?”

“Well, miss, ’e’s, ah, ’e’s . . .”

“I won’t talk. Promise.”

“’E’s kind, miss. ’E’s very kind to me mother and Ah.”

“Is he strange?”

“Of course ’e is, miss.” The girl beamed at her. “As strange as can be.”

And with that, she trotted down the last of the steps, and Ivy followed, but not without throwing one last look at the painting of the Mad Lord de Lacey, seventh Baron of Lasingstoke.

DAVIS HAD ALREADY
enjoyed his breakfast in the dining room and he perked up at the sight of them.

“Hallo,” he said, tugging the brim of his cap. “I’m Davis.”

“Lottie, sir.” She blushed and curtsied.

“Are you the lady of the house, then?”

“Oh no, sir!” She laughed. “Not me, sir. Ah’m just the maid.”

“You’re far too pretty to be ‘just the maid,’ Miss Lottie.” He leaned his elbows across the table. “Does Lottie stand for Charlotte?”

“It does, sir.”

“Charlotte,”
he repeated, green eyes gleaming. “What a beautiful name . . .”

Ivy kicked him under the table but Lottie seemed not to notice. She curtsied once more.

“Ah’ll fetch me mum. She’s trying to get the mop working. One of its gears keeps sticking.”

As she ducked quickly through a doorway, Davis shoved a biscuit into his mouth and watched her as she went.

“Sweet,” he grinned.

“Davis,”
she growled but leaned forward conspiratorially. “This house is haunted.”

“I hope so. I’ll go bloody batty sitting around counting the sheep.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re obsessed.” Her brother turned his chair and straddled it beside her, tossing a newspaper down beside her plate. “Did you read this? There’s been another one.”

It was a newspaper, the
Lancaster Guardian,
and
her eyes scanned for the article. It wasn’t on the front page. The murder of a prostitute did not warrant the front page. In Whitechapel, things like that were happening far too often to be considered news. But her father had seemed to think that this was different, this shadow man who killed with a stroke and dissected with skill. She began to read when a door pushed open and a woman bundled in.

“’Ere.
That’s not fit for breakfast readin’,” growled Cookie. She was carrying a tray covered in breads and scones, jams and jellies, and, of course, a pot of tea. “It’s not fit for anytime, if ye ask me.”

Ivy swallowed. The woman was as fearsome this morning as she had been last night. Her voice was musical however, with a lilting Cumbrian accent that was likely tempered by years working in a great house.

“It’s just a newspaper, ma’am.”

“Don’t they teach ye nowt in London? Readin’ at the table is bad manners.”

Davis laughed. “Men do it all the time.”

“As Ah said, boy.” Cookie glared at his tweed cap. “Bad manners.”

Davis grinned but, naturally, did not remove the cap.

“I suppose you’re right,” said Ivy. “But my father is one of the investigators. I already know far more than the papers will print.”

“Yeah,” said Davis. “It’s one of the reasons we’re here, ain’t it? Ivy got herself a heart in the post!”

“An ’eart?” gasped Lottie from the door.

In her hands was a mechanism that Ivy recognized as an automated mop. It was an awkward contraption, not at all like the sweepers, with springs and levers to move the mop-head back and forth. They were all the rage in London and used the steam that powered them to scour the floors. It was supposed to be efficient. From the looks of it, it was anything but.

“It’s true,” said Davis. “Whitechapel’s not fit for any woman lately. That’s what Tad said. Murders here, murders there. He said, ‘There’s not enough in the pot for the coppers and the crooks is running the streets.’”

“Davis, please,” said Ivy.

“Well, he did.”

“There’s murders everywhere, lad,” Cookie snorted. “Lancaster is an ’ell-’ole for ’em.”

“Pelling, too,” said Lottie. “Tilly Barton got ’erself cut into pieces at the Solstice this summer.”

“Lottie!”

“But it’s true, Mum. The peelers still ’aven’t found ’er ’eart.”

Ivy shuddered, remembering the feeling. Smooth, cold, and rather sticky.

“She’s your
mum?”
asked Davis.

“Oh!
Mum!”
Ivy gasped. She had completely forgotten. Cookie held up her hand.

“Not to worry. She ’ad a good breakfast. Ate two bowls of me special pudding and toast and tea. Ah’ll put some meat on that ’en’s bones.”

“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” moaned Ivy. “I didn’t sleep much last night, with the ice and the cold and the stories in my head.”

“Ah’m taking care, child. She’ll be well with me.” The woman sharpened her eyes.
“Ye
. . . need to settle in like a proper young lady. Ye’ll be married soon enough and to a gentleman to boot.”

Ivy felt deflated. Like an airship, collapsing into a billowing mess of hot air and canvas. She had never forgotten her mum. Never.

“Thank you, ma’am,” she said in a small voice.

“Not
ma’am,
child. Cookie.”

“Yes. Of course. You’re the cook. Hence, ‘Cookie.’”

Those stony eyes bored holes into her.

“Me name’s Elizabeth Anne Cook, child. Hence, ‘Cookie.’”

Deflating. Deflating. A billowing mess all over Piccadilly.

“Yes, Cookie. Thank you, Cookie.”

“Lunch at one, ’ere in this room. Dinner at seven in Middling.”

And with that, Elizabeth Anne Cook, hence Cookie, left the room, taking most of the air with her.

Ivy dropped her head in her arms.

“I am a calamity.”

“So, Miss Charlotte Cook,” grinned Davis. “Middling?”

“The second dining hall, Master Davis,” said Lottie. “Lasingstoke has three.”

“
Cor.
Three dining rooms. Let me guess—this is the little one.”

“Exactly correct, Master Davis.” Lottie beamed at him. “This is Smalls. Then there’s Middling down the ’all, then Grande, in First.”

Ivy sighed and raised her head, just a little. “First?”

“First House, miss. First and Second make up the ’all. Third is where the servants live. It’s attached to the stables. The others mark a square along the property.”

Ivy shook her head, confounded by the sheer enormity of the estate. Honestly, most people did not live this way.

Lottie continued. “From Third, ye go east along the ponds. Ye can take a coach, but ’orse is best. Foot is good too, just mind the swans. They’re nasty. Chase ye as soon as look at ye.”

Davis’s smile stretched from ear to ear, charmed.

Lottie went on, oblivious. “Fourth is on the southeast corner. Fifth is southwest. Sixth is northeast. All good cottages. Very warm. Very welcoming.”

Davis leaned toward her. “And where do you stay, Lottie Cook?”

She blushed. Ivy had given up correcting him. Besides, the preserves were looking very good and the tea was steaming.

“I’m with me mum in Fourth.”

“And your tad?”

“Tad?”

“It’s Welsh. Means your father.”

“Ah love yer accent,” she said, in thickest Cumbrian.

“I love yors,” he said in thickest Welsh.

“I thought there were seven houses,” said Ivy before biting into her scone. She closed her eyes. The preserves were delicious.

“It’s a grand property,” answered Lottie.

“Where is Seventh?”

“Ehm, northwest, miss.” Lottie’s eyes flicked downward. “But ye won’t be going there. Not Seventh.”

“Why not?”

“Ye’ll pass by, surely enough. There’s the church next to it, and the graveyard and the woods, which is a lovely walk. But Seventh, ye’ll not be going. Not Seventh. Never Seventh.”

Ivy exchanged glances with her brother.

“But why not?” she repeated. “Is that one haunted as well?”

“Lottie!”
came a voice from outside the room, and the young woman snapped to attention.

“Ehm, Ah need to be fixin’ this mop,” she muttered, staring at the mass of copper piping in her hands. “Please excuse me, Miss Ivy, Master Davis.”

And she curtsied once more before exiting the room. Davis folded his arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair.

“Well, I know what I’ll be doing after I finish counting them sheep.”

Ivy grinned and reached for the
Guardian
and the story not fit for reading.

London Steam Standard

September 15, 1888

Regarding the story ran on the arm found off the Grosvenor Railway Bridge, Police Surgeon Dr. Bond has concluded that the arm assuredly belonged to a tall young female with a history of comfort, but has declined to comment whether or not she was a victim of a murder or whether this is the work of the same Leather Apron who is stalking the women of Whitechapel.

Information of the discovery has been forwarded to all the metropolitan police stations, and it is expected that the Thames police will today renew their search for other portions of the body. In the meantime, it is impossible to form an opinion as to whether another revolting murder has been committed in London, or whether the arm has been placed in the water as a grim joke by some medical student.

Of both crimes, the police are continuing to investigate.

Of Bond’s Boys, French Warmbloods,
and the Mad Lord de Lacey

IT WAS A
puzzle, he realized. A puzzle of blood and limbs and tissue and bone and he had to put her together before the doors opened on the gentlemen of the Ghost Club. The smoke was heavy, the lab was hot, the locket was flashing merrily, and it was very hard to know which body part went where. Both Williams and Bond were standing to the side, watching him with surgical blades in one hand, pocket watches in the other, and very quickly, he realized that the body was Ivy’s and that someone had stolen her heart—

There was a feather tickling his nose.

Christien opened his eyes.

“Dash it all, Rosie,” he groaned and he sat up, pushing the lanky form of Ambrose Pickett onto the floor. “Get off my bed.”

“You’re so pretty when you sleep, you know that, Remy?” Pickett grinned wickedly, his moustache tugging up at one end. “Like a regular French girlie . . .”

“Bloody ass . . .”

“Muddy
ass, old boy,” came a voice, and Christien looked to see Henry Bender sitting at his desk, dirty shoes up on the polished wood. Built like a bulldog, with thick ginger hair, pale lashes, and a wide jaw, he blew smoke out one side of his mouth and grinned. “It’s a piss hole out there.”

Christien rolled out of bed, grateful he was still wearing his trousers from the night before. He grabbed a freshly pressed shirt from his dressing stand.

“And you decided to bring it all into my room?”

“We did indeed, Remy boy,” said Ambrose Pickett. He was a tall, thin young man, with dark hair and a moustache that made him look quite sophisticated. He slapped Bender’s arm and was rewarded with a cigarette. “Your man
Pomfrites
was complaining of nothing to do!”

“Oh good heavens, sir . . .” moaned a voice from the doorway. “I just washed the linens yesterday, sir . . .”

Slim, prim, and proper, houseman George Claudius Pomfrey still wore the satin breeches, buckled shoes, and powdered wig of generations before him. Christien shook his head.

“I’ll take care of this, Pomfrey.”

“Oh no, sir. It is my duty, but by all that is holy, sir—”

“But we’re not holy,
Pomfrites,”
grinned Bender. He blew smoke in a thin stream. “In fact, we’re very
un-
holy . . .”