The Diabolical Miss Hyde (15 page)

Eliza clutched her bag strap tightly, mustering courage. Hippocrates crouched inside the bag, cogs clicking, his little head poking out from a gap in the flap. “Dragon,” he grumbled. “Illogical. Re-examine evidence.”

“Hush,” she murmured, tucking him deeper inside. “We shan't be long. Just a few questions.”

“Questions,” he muttered reluctantly. “Home, one mile. Recompute.”

She pushed the door open, and ripe warmth assailed her. Tobacco smoke swirled, mixed with the tart scents of gin and sweat. A scrawny fellow perched on a stool, playing an accordion, his bare feet dangling from trousers that ended a foot too short, and a few men already in their cups roared some filthy ditty.

They didn't appear to notice her. Didn't stop singing or sloshing their gin cups. But like a flower in the desert, her confidence wilted. She could feel their stares, sliding like fingers over her face, her well-nourished body, her clean dress.

She slid her hand deeper into the bag, grasped her electric
stinger tightly. This was foolhardy. But how else to discover what had happened? Anyone who attacked her would get a prompt dose of
zap!
, make no mistake.

A grinning white-haired fellow hunched over the pile of gin barrels in the corner, wearing only a smudged one-piece undergarment. On the floor, a mad boy with a bulbous forehead and no legs dragged himself up to her on a wheeled trolley. His arms were monstrous, over-sized. He leered, toothless, and poked his nose beneath her skirt. Startled, she shoved him away with her foot and edged up to the rough wooden bar.

“I'm seeking Miss Jemima Clark,” she announced, to anyone who'd listen.

A one-eyed man behind the bar grunted at her, surly. His scar was angry pink, fresh. “Don't want no teetotaller mopsies here. Fuck off.”

Her ears burned. Was that who she looked like? The Christian Temperance Union? “I assure you, good man, I've no wish to—”

“Who's asking?” Someone pulled her around by the elbow.

Instinctively, she back-pedaled a step.

Tall fellow, thin but healthy, a shock of black hair over sharp ears. He wore a dusty blue frock coat, and he surveyed her with dark, misaligned, oddly handsome eyes. He put her in mind of Lysander Maskelyne, only Lysander was chilly and unpleasant and this fellow was . . . not.

She took a steadying breath, a whiff of sweet flowers, and ghostly memory fingered the back of her neck. She knew him. She'd never seen him before. “I'm looking for Miss Jemima Clark—”

“Who? Reckon you've come to the wrong place.” He glanced down at her skirts, her bag, up to her high lace-trimmed collar and neatly coiled hair. “I'd wager it, in fact.”

“I don't mean to intrude. I merely wish to ask her a few questions . . .” Her words trailed away at the way he was staring at her. Frowning. Suspicious.

“Don't I know you, lady?”

Flashes of rough purple cloth, the vile taste of gin, a breathless laugh . . . “Me? Ha ha. I really don't think so . . .”

The one-eyed barkeep spat into the sawdust. “Just give her a slating and be done, Johnny. That rum rig will fetch a few bob on Petticoat Lane.”

Still Johnny stared at her, scratching his untidy hair. “Indeed it would, Charlie.”

She clutched her bag closer. Inside, Hippocrates wriggled, frantic. “Now look here—”

“Customers'll pay good coin for that fine mouth, too,” observed Charlie the charmer. “Ain't every day you get sucked off by a
lady
.”

“Speak for yourself,” returned Johnny, eliciting a crude laugh.

Inwardly, Eliza cursed her foolishness, and whirled to run.

But Johnny's long fingers pinched her elbow cruelly. “Hell, Charlie, this is my drinking time. Just get out of my sight, woman. Go on, clear off.” And he hustled her towards the door.

Hippocrates squawked against her hip. Somehow, she'd lost her grip on her stinger. How infuriating. “I say,” she began, stumbling, “there's no need for—”

“Don't kick up a shine,” Johnny hissed secretly in her ear.
“I don't know who you are, madam, or what you're about, but scuttle before you get fleeced, or worse. And don't come back.” And he dumped her unceremoniously onto the street and slammed the door.

How rude.
Lizzie, who on earth was that?

But Lizzie just murmured dreamily. Smothered by Finch's remedy, trapped in a dark miasma of slumber.

Damn it.

Eliza straightened her skirts, catching her breath. But her palms itched, and her skin crawled, and she raked her fingers through her hair and growled, frustrated. No one in this part of town would talk to her. Not without a policeman's authority, and probably not even then.

Lizzie, on the other hand, could navigate these treacherous waters with ease. Find this Jemima, discover what she'd seen. If she didn't get her red-skirted behind arrested by Reeve first. Not forgetting the irritatingly persistent Captain Lafayette, who had at least as much information as the police, probably more . . .

That rich, dangerous hunger burned inside her, scorching her resolve thin. Yes. Why wait for the relief she craved? She had the elixir ready. No time to lose. Prowl down here tonight, discover the truth once and for all. And it'd feel so good . . .

Her hands shook, sweating, and she clenched them. Not tonight. She couldn't, no matter how tempting the prospect. Set Lizzie free and she'd ooze off into Seven Dials and not come back until morning.

And Eliza needed to be home at midnight. To meet her mysterious A.R.

She hurried along darkening Broad Street towards the mist-twinkled lights of New Oxford Street, anticipation eclipsing the gnawing hunger, at least for the moment. How could she have forgotten? She had a bath to take, her hair to wash and curl, her best clothes to make ready.

It wouldn't do to disappoint A.R. Not at all.

A
T TWENTY TO MIDNIGHT, ELIZA EASED OPEN HER
study door on the first floor.

Firelight gilded the bookshelves, the fringed carpets, her leather-topped desk. Plum-red velvet curtains hung floor-length over the window. On the mantel, above the glowing coals, a clock ticked, brass cogs clicking behind a cut-glass face.

She sat on the cream upholstered chaise, putting her candle on the table. Her light skirts puffed, and she smoothed them carefully. This was her best dress, pale golden silk with an embroidered bodice, tiny cap sleeves and matching gloves to the elbow. Something a young lady of not-quite-sufficient fortune might wear while she swanned around from
soiree
to house party to court reception for the season, trying to attract a lord's son or a rich officer.

Or on a dark midnight in a Chelsea loft, holding palaver with a murderer.

Her shoulders were almost bare, and a hint of cleavage swelled at her rounded neckline. She'd pinned up her hair
under a pearl-studded net. All she needed was a feathery fan to bat her eyelashes behind.

She was just glad no one could see her. In any other setting, she'd have felt faintly ridiculous, not to mention fraudulent. But A.R. was old-fashioned. It pleased him to see her “ladylike.”

Besides, he'd paid for most of this. Might as well wear it for him, if no one else . . .

But you did wear it for someone else, didn't you? You was due to meet A.R. that night, but instead you scuttled off on a killer's trail, and look what happened. Can you still smell oil paints, Eliza, even though the silk's long since cleaned?

. . .
but with the receipt of A.R.'s letter, after so many months of being ignored, all the old questions bubbled once more to the surface. She fidgeted, the dress uncomfortable and strange. She'd eaten only the barest of morsels for supper, and the fire's heat made her sweat.

Who was he? What did he know of her father, the mother she'd barely known? Why did he spend so much effort and money on keeping an old friend's orphaned daughter, when a few simple financial transactions would have divested him of responsibility for her forever?

Keeping.
The word bothered her. Like a museum exhibit. Or a pet.

Never ask about me,
he'd whispered from behind the velvet curtain that first fateful night.
Never follow me. Stick your pretty nose into my affairs, princess, and I'll make you wish you'd never been born.

Why had he forbidden questions? And why wouldn't he show her his face? Was he ugly? Deformed? Notorious? Did
he fear she'd . . . what? Run, scream, make a scene? Go to the authorities?

And what if, one night, instead of obediently presenting herself to his summons . . . she sent Lizzie?
I want you to meet your new sister,
he'd said that night, as she trembled, the hot sweet scent of elixir watering her thirsty mouth.
Perhaps you've dreamt of her. Her name is Lizzie Hyde, and she wants you to be happy . . . but you mustn't ever make her angry, my sweet. You mustn't ever betray her. She won't understand.

But the idea made Eliza blush. The things Lizzie would say . . . No, it'd never do. If A.R. wanted to see Lizzie, he'd say so. Wouldn't he?

So here she sat, in her ridiculous peacock outfit with pearls in her hair, while in Seven Dials, the hunt for Billy Beane's scarlet-skirted killer no doubt carried on. In her heart, shadows stirred like angry snakes. This was pointless. She should rush down there, winkle out this Jemima, find out exactly what the dirty chit knew . . .

“Don't go.”

She froze, halfway to her feet.
Don't look. Don't turn . . .

A warm draft puffed on the back of her neck, and her candle flickered, as the curtain behind her swayed. Leather, tobacco, a whiff of some bitter alchemical tincture.

She tried to breathe normally. “Uh . . . good evening, sir.”

“Is it?” Gruff, roughened with liquor or sin. An edge of weird-city drawl. Kindly, after a coarse fashion. “Sit, why don't you? I don't bite.”

She took her seat. The chaise pressed uncomfortably beneath her thighs.

A melancholy pause. “You look beautiful, my sweet.”

She cleared her throat. “I, er . . . I was pleased to receive your letter.”

“Were you?” A hair-tingling chuckle. “I think you'd like it better if I stayed away.”

“Not at all, sir.” It tumbled out in a hurry, and she gave an embarrassed little laugh. “I look forward to your visits. It's just that . . .”

“You'd prefer we met in public? Like normal people? Take tea and biscuits, make social calls?”

“It had crossed my mind.”

“Ha! We'd make a fine spectacle in society, you and me.” Cloth rustled, as if he sat or fidgeted. “Get ourselves invited to Lady Whoever-the-Hell's absurd summer ball. I'll parade you in on my arm and thrash the lights out of all the love-struck young fools who'd chase your hand. You'll wear silk and diamonds, and we'll dance the waltz by candlelight.”

She gave a little laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “I'm afraid I'm a terrible dancer. Do you waltz, sir?”

He chuckled. “Bet your pretty ankles I do. Would you like that, Eliza? The clever little vixen and her fierce guardian angel of ruin. People would gossip that we're lovers.”

She opened her mouth and shut it again. Impossible man.

But not for the first time, she wondered exactly what Henry Jekyll had intended their relationship should be.

“We can't ever do that, my sweet. Society, I mean.” A bitter, wistful tone. “I'm sorry for you. If Henry were here, you'd be the toast of this god-rotted town.”

Was that a flicker of shadow, in the corner of her eye? She laughed, shaky. “I really don't think so . . .”

“God's blood, girl, don't flay me with that smile of yours.”
A jagged edge, bottled-up rage. How could he see her face? A reflection from some shiny surface, a window . . . ? “You look so much like your mother. May her ghost wander alone in the dark.”

The sentiment shocked her. But the ever-present itch of questions was irresistible. “Did you know my mother well, sir? I'm afraid I barely remember her.”

“
Know
her.” His laugh was ugly. “Now there's a double-bladed question. The woman's dead and forgotten. Do you really want to dig up her murdered bones?”

She blushed. “I apologize. I didn't mean to pry.”
Ask the question,
urged Lizzie impatiently.
What are you, a coward?

“Never you mind. I hear you're having trouble with some strutting cock from the Royal.”

As usual, she scrambled to catch up with his abrupt change of subject. Had Finch said something? “Oh. Yes, but . . . how did you know?”

“I know everything about you. For one, I know you met an old friend today. How did that make you feel?”

She shivered on the seat's edge, hardly daring to move. Finch knew nothing about
that
. “I'm not sure to what you're referring—”

“Entertaining, isn't he? An expert in his field. If you can stop him spouting rabid nonsense.” A snort. “Always did have too many dreams in that tragic head of his. Did he ever show you his paintings? Now
there's
a zoo.”

Unexpected connections dazzled her, and she struggled for clarity. Her father's associates, the photograph outside Mr. Fairfax's office. She didn't know them all by name. It was years ago; some were doubtless long dead. Was A.R. in the photograph? And as for Mr. Todd . . .

She suppressed the urge to rush to Bethlem to study the photograph. “I'm confused.”

“No, you're just pretending to be stupid. It doesn't suit you.”

“How do you know Mr. Todd, sir?” His challenge made her short.

She felt him smile, a warm current on the air. “I know everything interesting that happens in my town. And Todd's interesting, you have to give him that. Answer my question: How did he make you feel?”