Tarnished (10 page)

“Don’t be daft,” I said sharply.

But the memory of the earl’s hands on my waist wasn’t fading as quickly as it should have. I wanted to know why.

Even as I really didn’t.

“Truth be told,” I went on, treating the matter as if it were only a puzzle. A case to be studied, solved, and then discarded. “You know as well as I that any such invite must have been given with her blessing. She went out of her way to set me up in as public a crush as possible,”

“That much must be true,” Teddy allowed. “The fine ladies of L.A.M.B leave a certain something to be desired in terms of kindness.”

“She’s hated me for years,” I said, suddenly sullen. “She and her little salon think I’m the devil.”

“Oh, come now.”

“As good as,” I replied, wrinkling my nose.

He raised a dark eyebrow, his grin edging in. Quick, far from innocent, and impish as he could be. “Maybe your raw beauty scared the woman senseless.” I snorted, a most unladylike sound. “She happened to see her precious son dancing with the prettiest lady in the room and saw a future trapped in a dowager house, far from London. Exiled to the country.”

Color swept into my cheeks, and I flung a dismissive hand at him. “Oh, be serious. You know I’ve no intent to marry.”

His expression sobered. “I know. Why should you? Your estate is yours in a year’s time.” Then a kick of something at his mouth; a glint in his eyes as he lowered his head and studied me through lashes I’d always envied. “Don’t think I haven’t considered asking, you know.”

“What?” I straightened. “For me? Why ever for?”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” He shrugged fluidly, thin shoulders moving. Typical
laissez-faire
ease. “We’d be a good match. We get on famously enough, and you know I’d never touch your fortune.”

He was serious. I looked at the honesty written clear as day on his hawkish features and something softened inside me, soothing away the tension of lies, fatigue and worry. Heedless of propriety, I rose, crossed the parlor and settled to the cushion beside him. “Of course we’re friends,” I assured him, taking his gloved hand in mine. “And a kinder, sweeter, more courageous friend I couldn’t ask for.”

He squeezed my hand, and I saw the same softening reflected in his expression. Even if that lazy half smile lingered at his mouth.

“Which is why,” I continued in the same tones, “I will do you the enormous favor of saving you from myself.”

His half smile twitched. Widened. “You’re sure?”

“Well.” I paused, as if deep in thought. “How do you like the taste of arsenic?”

Teddy’s laugh cracked like a gunshot. He threw his head back with it, letting it free with the forthcoming familiarity that I loved so much, and he squeezed my hand between his. “Your point is well made,” he said when he could again, chuckling still. “What a bloody idiot, that Compton.”

I blinked. “What?”

A finger tucked a stray tendril from my cheek, but there was nothing in Teddy’s expression but lingering humor, that defensiveness he always displayed on my behalf, and a touch of devilish mischief. “He could have found in you an excellent companion,” he told me. “Even if you do like to stick your face in the fireplace.”

My hand flew to my cheek, even as my stomach turned over.

“Only a smudge,” he told me. “I’ve gotten it. See? I’m a real gentleman, I am.”

“So you are.” But my chuckle wasn’t entirely easy. Had I missed a spot of lampblack? Was it in my hair still?

“A fine catch,” he added, but with a wicked, teasing grin.

I rolled my eyes. “I am going to send for Booth,” I said evenly, without heat. “And he’s going to bring this week’s periodicals. Let us just focus on Mr. Horatio’s theory of aether-to-oxygen ratio, shall we?”

“If you insist.” Teddy laced his fingers behind his head. “You go first.”

I smiled, innocent as an angel. “I think it’s bollocks.”

Another crack of laughter escaped from his lips, and everything was once more as it should be. “Which bit?” he asked, grinning.

“The one where he insists that aether can be lit in an enclosed tank,” I said. “Enlightened men have proven time and again that if you enclose something without air, it will fail to burn.”

“But aether itself is a compound that we know nothing about.” This was the Teddy I know. Quick minded, sharp and opinionated. I flicked my fingers at him as I pulled the bell to summon my staff.

“Not true,” I corrected swiftly. “We know what it can be used for, and what it is similar to, which gives us insight into its makeup.”

We could go ’round like this for hours, and as Booth brought in the stack of periodicals painstakingly delivered from around the globe, we launched into a debate that could rattle the ears off a saint. Mid-debate, I snatched the fireplace poker from its resting place and brandished it like a sword at him, as if I’d pierce my point to his heart. “If
anything
contains aether,” I said, “then it means we do, too. Is aether just
life
simmered down to a single compound?”

“Impossible,” Teddy replied, watching me swing the poker warily. “Air holds aether, and air isn’t alive. Aether is just
a
compound, one of many required to
make
life.” He reached up, having long since stripped his gloves for tea, and I yanked the poker away from his grasp.

“Aether is not, in fact, life. Then we’re agreed,” I said triumphantly, and tossed the poker to him. “
Allez, hop!
”

Teddy snatched the heavy iron out of the air, his eyes narrowing on me.

I grinned, wiping my now sooty hand on my skirt heedlessly. “What?”

He turned the poker in hand lazily as he sat back into his chair. We were terribly opposite in that regard; I was always pacing, while he expended as little energy as possible. “What of alchemy?” he asked thoughtfully.

I screwed my face into an incredulous grimace. “Don’t even start,” I said, flinging a hand out at him as if to ward away the thought. “There’s no such thing.”

“No such thing as magic, no such thing as alchemy.” He pointed the poker end at me. “For a scientist’s daughter, Miss St. Croix, you are awfully closed minded.”

I rolled my eyes. “Alchemy is what a bunch of old men called magic, just so we wouldn’t think them crackers when they went looking for things like everlasting life and gold from metal,” I scoffed. “Let’s stick to true science, shall we?”

“Like aether?”

“Exactly.”

He grinned, the way he did when he felt he’d scored a point. “Aether,” he repeated, “which until fairly recently was thought to be nothing more than magic?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, dropping into the chair across from his so smug scrutiny. “But it’s
not
,” I countered. “Ergo, it’s science.”

“And alchemy isn’t?”

“It’s not real,” I said evenly. “Therefore, no, it’s not science. It’s a bedtime tale.”

Even when he got a bee in his bonnet about such things, our debates were an excellent way to spend the time, and it focused me for the hours I had to let pass before my mission later that night. When Teddy finally made his good-byes, I was all but crawling out of my skin with anticipation.

I still had to sit through dinner. Every minute was an excruciating wait. Fanny seemed in decent spirits, however, and I blamed the earl’s visit for that.

Finally, I could claim a headache and retire. I returned upstairs and found my collector’s uniform. Only this time, I wore my corset on the inside, hidden under a man’s shirt and working coat. It would be a bit of a struggle to get to my weapons in time, in the off chance I’d need them, but as I drew a cap low over my ears and covered my blackened hair, I told myself I wouldn’t need them.

I left Betsy muttering darkly behind me, appalled at my appearance, and hurried below.

Chapter Seven

I
had never traveled as much as I did today. I was always careful, mindful of followers or interested eyes. I had to be even more careful now; the more I took the ferries in a day, the likelier the talk.

I was several days out of a bounty, though, and at the end of my patience.

I made my way to the Menagerie. As it always was, the grounds were lit just well enough to see where one trod, and the fog remained at bay. Amid the colorful lanterns, a few patrons—mostly men—strode from one point to the next. I didn’t bother wondering from whence to where, as the Menagerie could quite literally cater to nearly all tastes and pleasures.

And I knew more than most how well a façade could hide those deeply rooted desires.

Pulling my coat more firmly around me, I hurried along the well-tended paths, each Chinese lantern lighting my way in a multitude of hues. I bypassed the private gardens, and this time, I decided to make at least an attempt for courtesy.

A pair of women halted for me, but all beginnings of flirtation ceased when I lifted my hat in wordless introduction. Talitha and Jane, midnight sweets promenading arm in arm in gowns fit for a moonlit ball, were this shift’s lure, then.

Pretty enough girls. Each golden-haired and fair-skinned, near enough alike that in the theatrical gloom, they could easily be sisters. Lures would stroll the grounds in apparent idleness, engage those in between pleasures, or those patrons who hadn’t yet decided where to go.

Many is a man, gentleman or otherwise, who has been trapped behind the gates until dawn, lured back each time by the pretty temptations of the Midnight Menagerie.

I knew them both, albeit in passing. Asking for the whereabouts of their employer raised Jane’s eyebrows, and her painted lips curved in a smile I was sure she practiced in her boudoir. Wicked, it was, and knowing. “He’s out at the amphitheater, love,” she told me, lacing her fingers over Talitha’s arm. “ ’Tis a feature tonight. You want to see this yourself.”

“Isn’t he—”

But Jane patted Talitha’s arm, tipping her bright head toward the girl. “Let the collector do her business, then,” she said cheerfully. “Come by and see us soon, won’t you?”

There were evenings when I came by not for business, but to visit with the women I knew and pass an idle hour between collections. I had not, to my recollection, spent much time with Jane.

Still, my reputation here tended to invite speculation. A woman collector, and one the ringmaster tolerated.

“Of course,” I said, and doffed my cap—as gentlemen do. Talitha’s cheeks turned pink.

I took my leave, but did not have to change course too much. The amphitheater had been situated well away from the din of the main structures and circus tent. As I followed the lantern-lit path, I went over my questions in my head. Over and over, they flitted in and out, haunting my every step.

I passed others on the paths. Some working, some patrons. It wasn’t until I passed a group of boisterous young men clad in Greek togas that the first inklings of trouble crept upon me.

Like much of the Menagerie’s façade, the theater looked simple and elegant from the outside. The gilded edges were appropriately burnished, decoration stylish without edging into an eyesore, highly reminiscent of Vauxhall’s now faded glory.

I pushed through the doors, murmured, “Collector business,” to the men who guarded them, and was directed toward the interior.

At least Hawke hadn’t ordered me kept out this time.

I didn’t go through the front entryway, knowing it would lead me into the very front of the amphitheater. That was one of the many hidden tricks of the Menagerie. You were often placed in the eyes of those you mingled with. Though discretion came at a price, subtlety was not for sale.

So forearmed, I stepped into the servant halls, followed the faceless walls until I came to another door, and carefully cracked it open.

The strains of a violin slid through the gap, low and sultry. I saw a sliver of light, a brush of mysteriously healthy plants, and an alcove just beyond.

I would wait there, then, and gain Hawke’s attention as I could. Quickly, crouching low, I pushed open the door just enough to let me through, and gently closed it behind me. As the unnatural warmth of the theater seeped into my clothing, I hurried into the shrouded alcove.

It wasn’t until I’d situated myself just beside the lush foliage of a hanging plant did the scene shimmer into complete focus.

I stopped. I stared.

The theater had been transformed into a decadent bathhouse, with verdant plants hanging all about and steam vented through mysterious contraptions in the walls. Water sloshed from long, shallow bathing pools, and laughter mingled with the occasional husky cry of something less than innocent taking place beneath the water’s surface.

My face flushed as I saw naked limbs and bared bosoms. Men and women entwined together; some lazily, as if luxuriating in the total absence of demand, and others tightly, impatiently. Skin gleamed. For the first time in my handful of years frequenting the Menagerie for business, I had an unfettered view of more flesh than I ever thought to see in one immoral tableau.

Men’s flesh.

Women’s flesh.

I gripped the pillar beside me, my fingers digging into the cool grooves. Unbidden by me, my eyes slid over the lengthy flank of a man’s exposed buttock. The muscle flexed as he rose over a woman who rolled under his grasp in the water, laughing and splashing.

My mouth opened. It closed again.

I saw the rosy tip of a woman’s nipple painted with wine before it vanished into another woman’s mouth. I recognized some; sweets, of course, earning their keep.

And how.

My throat went dry. My heart, once in my chest, now pounded somewhere lower than my stomach.

What the devil had I wandered into?

Sucking in a deep breath, I forced my attention away from the bathing pool and toward the dais raised in the center. Wry amusement slipped in beneath sudden, horrific embarrassment as I recognized Micajah Hawke upon the throne.

Like some reincarnation of the hedonistic god of wine, the wicked man sprawled lazily on a throne entwined with grape vines. A woman sprawled at his left, another at his feet like some nymphlike supplicant. The latter was draped in a sheer bit of nothing, lavender and damp with sweat, and the press of her breasts were obvious through the thin fabric.

The other, beautiful at his arm, was naked. Milk-white skin, flushed pink with the steam and heat, golden hair, luscious mouth. She was perfect.

I found myself envious.

Unlike his guests, he wore formal dress again. His trousers were black and molded to the powerful line of his thigh, draped carelessly over the vacant arm of the throne. His boots were perfectly shined. This time, it was a violet waistcoat, but as my eyes trailed up the perfectly accentuated line of his chest, I realized that his shirt was open to the waist, revealing the heavily muscled edge of his chest and one flat nipple.

I’d never seen Hawke in anything like this.

My legs squeezed together. The sensation this unconscious act provoked sent sparklers into my mind, and I clenched my teeth. This was the Menagerie, I reminded myself. This is what they did.

It was no different from the bidding rings of Monsieur Marceaux’s circus. Much more expensive, to be sure, but the end result was the same. Flesh peddled; flesh owned.

I wasn’t so stupid as to consider the sweets’ role here as ornamental, right? Then certainly, the same could be said of the ringmaster.

My grip tightened on the pillar. Another low moan reached my ears, masculine and throaty, and I don’t know why the sound curled into my skin and caught fire.

I leaned my feverish temple against the pillar, relieved as the cool stone soothed that bit of skin.

Then stiffened again as one of Hawke’s gloved hands skimmed over the thigh of the woman beside him. She stretched languorously, the soft skin of her belly tightening, and his fingers danced across it lightly.

Someone called something to him, and he answered in his husky voice. Teasing, tempting. Doing what he did best; inciting and inferring. I don’t know what. I couldn’t make heads or tails of the tableau in front of me, inside me.

All I knew was that his hand slid over the woman’s breast, over her throat, and his laughter rose rich and throaty.

I’d never seen him laugh before.

It changed him, softened the planes of his face without losing the edge that made him so mysterious and terrifying and beautiful all at once. It filled his eyes and spilled from his mouth and entered my skin as if it were his hands on
me
; his fingers in
my
hair.

I gasped.

And although I would swear the sound wasn’t nearly enough to be heard across the vast, crowded theater, his head rose. His dark eyes pinned on my dark alcove; it had to be the opium that caused me to fancy that I could see the burning streak of blue from this distance.

His eyes narrowed.

I forgot how to breathe. Sweat gathered along my spine. The room was hot, too bloody hot, and if I let go of this pillar, I’d fall to a useless tangle of melted limbs.

And still I watched him as his smile started slowly. Stretched like a wolf’s, all teeth and sensual, seductive leisure. He reached out an imperious hand, still gloved, his other still settled possessively at the sweet’s narrow, naked waist. That hand beckoned me.

Come to me.

A demand. A dare.

Every nerve ending in my body shuddered. I met that gaze from across the amphitheater, no longer sure that he couldn’t see me. That he couldn’t see my pink cheeks, smell the salt and sweat of my body.

See my fear.

I withdrew. Forcing every limb into action, I peeled myself from that pillar, stumbled through the shadows of the alcove and fell back to the relative safety of the servants’ halls.

I was used to tracking prey through all manner of conditions and environs. I had been in the ruins of Vauxhall at the stroke of midnight, stalked a ruffian through the Underground tracks and even caught a man just on the edge of my own district above the drift.

But I knew this wasn’t the same.

Here, I was the prey, and I didn’t like it one bit.

Or . . .

Did I?

As soon as my wobbling knees could support my weight, I fled the amphitheater entirely.

I didn’t make it out of the Menagerie before I was caught.

I was halfway across the grounds, talking myself into coming down again another day to face—I mean,
confront
Hawke, when I heard a familiar voice. “
Cherie!
”

Turning, I scanned the dark stalls and cleverly arranged walls. On a market night, the stalls would have been brimming with wares, from the sublime to the sensual. Human or otherwise. Right now, everything was dark, and I had to strain to see the shadow flitting between the slats.

As it passed under the lamps, I relaxed. “Zylphia, what are you—?” Then I saw my friend’s face, and I hurried to meet her. I wanted to reach for her shoulders, to grab her, make sure that she was as hale as she appeared, but Zylphia didn’t like to be touched.

She got enough of that every night. Whenever I kept her company, I made it a point, a courtesy, to respect her wishes. So instead, I tucked my hands at my hips and demanded, “What happened? Whose fingers shall I break?”

Zylphia was a prostitute, a Midnight sweet. Retained exclusively by the Menagerie, she was one of many beautiful women to choose from, and I knew that they lived a much better life than many of the fallen women who worked below.

She was truthfully the most lovely woman I’d ever seen. An exotic mulatto, with skin the same color as my favorite black tea lightened with a dollop of cream. Her eyes were shockingly blue, legacy of her unknown white father, and her hair a full mass of wavy black, with enough unusual kink to point to her Negro slave mother. It hung rich and heavy to her hips, thicker even than mine.

Tonight, it was twisted into exotic braids and peppered with speckled feathers. Much of her skin was bare to the cold, clad in some fur-trimmed frippery, but it wasn’t a sight that shocked me anymore. I was used to Zylphia’s unusual dress, for she often wore costumes designed to tempt the palate of whatever men—or women, she’d once told me—bid to buy her company.

The Menagerie maintained order on its own ground, and the women were not cruelly treated; but one look at Zylphia’s grim expression, and my annoyance flipped to worry.

“I’m glad I found you,” she said, bending to catch her breath. “Need . . . to talk.”

I let her catch her breath, which allowed me to grab ahold of my own mind and focus it firmly on my friend. Of all the sweets at the Menagerie, Zylphia had somehow become a confidant of sorts. A friend where I hadn’t expected to find many. While I’d never given her a name to call me, she liked to call me the French
cherie
.

It was close enough to
Cherry
that I had to keep from snickering every time I heard it.