Tarnished Page 15

  I frowned. “What is that?”

  He smiled. “A heart, miss.”

  Fanny groaned.

  Compton stepped up beside me, and although I wouldn’t admit it, I was glad for the solid weight of his arm against mine. “An actual heart?” he demanded. He removed his spectacles, folding them neatly and sliding them into a pocket. “From where?”

  I silently thanked him for asking. That made my work here so much easier.

  The professor’s smile faded, and he scratched behind one ear as he thought for a moment. “I can’t recall,” he finally admitted, sounding more perplexed than anything. “But if you’d like, I could locate the records. My organs come from legal hands,” he added quickly. “All done proper, I swear it.”

  “I’d be interested in seeing them,” I said, studiously avoiding both Fanny and Compton’s raised eyebrows.

  The professor’s smile once more split the dingy gray stubble at his cheeks. “I went to university with your father, you know,” he declared, as if I hadn’t just said anything at all. “That’s how we know each other.”

  I stared at him. “You what?”

  “Your father,” he repeated, slower now as if I were dim. Or slow. “Abraham St. Croix. A fine man, your father.” His eyes blinked again, hard and fast. “A fine doctor. A terrible shame about his laboratory. A terrible loss. Your mother was the best of us.”

  “She . . . was?”

  “Of course,” he said solemnly. “She was a brilliant mind, for all the university wouldn’t allow a woman. That didn’t stop her, you know. Truly the best of us . . .” With mounting horror, I realized tears glistened in his magnified eyes.

  I hastened to reassure him with the only thing I knew. “She was much loved by Society,” I said, perhaps a little lamely.

  “Yes. Yes, she was. This is her idea, you know.” The man waved at the tank, and I stared at it in surprise. “I mean, certainly the mechanics are mine, and the plans, but the theory was sound. It never would have come to pass were it not for her.”

  Compton lowered his head. “Is this man . . . all there?” he murmured in my ear.

  “One never knows.” I desperately wanted to ask more, but not in front of the earl. And certainly not until I could speak to the professor on my own, intellectual terms. Eager to distract him, I pointed at the tank. “Professor, what does this do?”

  “Oh!” His expression cleared, even as he once more returned to wringing his apron between both hands. “A switch causes the electricity to enter the heart, and then it creates a loop by which the current liquefies—” He paused. “No, no, not liquefy, that’s not correct, but the concept is sound. A better word is—” He stopped again. “Look, I can show you!”

  But he didn’t move, and I was left watching him as one would a dog that one wasn’t quite sure was stable. Or toothless. “Professor Woolsey?”

  “It’s only. . . .” He shifted from foot to worn foot. “Are you . . . like him, Miss St. Croix?”

  “Like who?”

  “Your father.”

  I didn’t know how to answer that.

  “You look just like her,” he said, seemingly unaware that he was repeating himself. “Just like her. It’s just that one never can be too careful,” he said over my sound of disbelief. “There’s a great deal of rivalry in this world. Always has been, you know. Secrets, formulas.” He cocked his head. “Why, I remember at university when I—” He stopped again, then darted to the switch. “Watch your eyes! Sometimes, the flesh catches fire. Just a spark or two, nothing to—”

  “Oh.” The sound didn’t come from me.

  Behind us, Fanny crumpled to the ground.

  Chaos erupted.

  Compton darted to catch my chaperone as the professor all but vibrated in place, the switch caught somewhere between on and off. The whole building shuddered; the tank pinged as if warming up. Somewhere in the depths of the warehouse power source, machinery groaned. I heard a terrible clicking noise, like an aether engine on the blink, and pink sparks flashed across the pockmarked organ.

  Pink?

  I clapped both hands to my face, torn between laughter at this terrible farce and a deep confusion.

  A madman, certainly. But decidedly not a killer. I couldn’t picture the birdlike Woolsey overcoming any healthy woman, even a doxy. It seemed this was another case of rumors warping fact. Someone else had to be killing the sweets.

  Although, hadn’t the druggist claimed two men? But here was only one. I needed to find out if the man worked alone.

  “Air,” I finally said, and turned on the professor. “Sir! My chaperone requires air, please.”

  “Oh, dear, oh, dear.” Woolsey flung the switch fully to the off position and bustled to Fanny’s side. She moaned weakly, pale and stricken as she sagged against Compton’s side. “Please, madam, please, this way,” Woolsey said, not unkindly.

  He didn’t walk so much as half scamper, as awkward as a crab with oddly spry legs. Compton followed, and though I made as if to hurry after them, I took a turn that pulled me wholly out of view.

  So it wasn’t exactly sporting. But I did come here to learn what I could, and though I doubted that the frail-appearing Elijah Woolsey could be responsible for overpowering healthy women, the man himself had engendered many more questions.

  How well did he know my father? Where, in fact, did his organs legally come from? Did he work alone? Why did he say that my mother was the best of them?

  With my head ringing with questions, I hastened along the aisles, searching for an office. A storage room. Something.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t count on Lord Compton’s determination.

  I made it across the warehouse, several empty shelves deep when a shadow fell over my shoulder. “Mrs. Fortescue is in safe hands.” There was censure there. Mild, but apparent.

  Caught, I stared into a tank labeled with LIVER, DISEASED. The tank, like all of them piled in this corner, was empty. “She only needed a breath,” I said quietly.

  “One might consider that she needs the safety of her charge as well.”

  His footsteps clicked against the floor, and I turned to frown into his eyes. “You must think me a lost soul.”

  “Lost?” He seemed to take this into consideration, easing beside me as I made my way down the aisle. I couldn’t look for anything while he shadowed me, so instead I only meandered. Hoping something would stand out amid the ghoulish bodies dismembered all around me.

  There was a statement on my life if ever there was one.

  “Not lost,” he finally said. “Perhaps just a little off course.”

  I chuckled. “Because I enjoy science and thought?”

  “Because when reminded of your parents, your face betrays your emotions.”

  I stopped. Slowly, I turned to look up at Compton, bewildered and oddly elated to find him already facing me. My eyes narrowed. “Should I not?”

  “Feel?” He tipped his head. “Or reveal that you do?”

  “Do I reveal so much?”

  “Not to all.”

  “Just to you?” I queried, trying and failing to inject levity into a conversation I had never expected. Not from the so proper Earl Compton.

  “Perhaps not on purpose,” he allowed quietly. “There is no shame in not remembering them, you know. By all accounts, you were quite young during the . . . incident.”

  The words bit deeper than they should have. I must have winced, because he moved forward, taking a single step that closed much of the distance between us.

  His eyes sought mine. Held them, as if he’d closed a shimmering cage around my attention.

  A steel green net. Surprisingly understanding, and searching. Hesitant.

  I swallowed, though my mouth had gone dry. “I . . .” What could I say? That I held no memories of my own parents? That much was obvious. That I had no guilt or shame or sorrow for the deaths of people I didn’t know?

  That seemed . . . too honest.

  “All of London knows the t
ale,” he said gently. “The papers carried the details, and of course much of the peerage hold estates in Scotland. There’s no shame in any of it. Not for you.”

  “The tale,” I repeated bitterly. “You mean that bedtime story they share when the children are feeling uppity and the dark is closing in. ‘Behave, or Mad St. Croix will come to collect your bones,’ ” I mimicked nasally.

  He caught my hand in his, pressing my gloved fingers between his palms. “You mustn’t take it so personally,” he said seriously. “The story is not a common one. People are drawn to the fantastical nature of it.”

  “It’s not fantasy,” I said impatiently, pulling my hand away. “It’s science. His laboratory in Scotland caught fire, that’s all. It was . . . it was a trick of luck that trapped them inside. It’s happened to others.”

  “It has,” Compton said soothingly. “Although perhaps to no others quite as engaging as you, Miss St. Croix.”

  I opened my mouth. Found no words.

  He took my hand once more. “I must confess,” he said, and his voice slipped around me in this small pocket of light and electrical noise. I drew it to me, wrapped myself in it the way I imagined I would wrap myself in his coat should he offer.

  In his hands, should he draw me closer.

  I shook my head hard. “My Lord Compton,” I began, only to gasp as the tip of one gloved finger settled across my lips.

  It was warm. He was warm, his heat reaching out to mine through the constraints of his coat. I sucked in a breath, my eyes flying to his once more. They seemed so close. His hair settled over his forehead in a sandy curl and I found myself struggling not to brush it away.

  “I must acknowledge how much admiration I hold for you, Miss St. Croix.”

  “Admiration?” I repeated the word dumbly.

  His lips curved beneath his trimmed mustache. His handsome face seemed at ease, even shadowed as it was by the unusual light. “There are few ladies who could bear the burden of this society as gracefully as you. To have suffered and lost so much in the death of your parents, to have persevered with only a small staff to assist you.”

  “They . . . do well by me,” I managed. When I inhaled, his cologne pierced my thinking mind. I smelled man and sweetening water; the affluence of his grooming and something warmer.

  Long gloved fingers touched my cheek, soft as a feather. Unsure as a breeze. I swayed, drunk on the moment. The uncertainty. “You are a marvel,” he murmured.

  I hadn’t realized how close he was. How warm his breath as it whispered across my lips. “M-my lord—”

  “Forgive me,” he breathed, and touched his mouth to mine.

  The exhibit around us had been put together for one reason: to study the effects of electricity on dead tissue. But had the odd professor asked me, I could have written a proposal on the effects of electricity through live flesh on the spot.

  The instant Lord Compton’s mouth joined with mine, a current arced through my lips, down into my chest to set my heart pounding. It sizzled into my stomach, pooled lower into that soft, dark, wet place that had been so affected by my accidental view of the Menagerie just the night before.

  My eyes drifted shut.

  I think I made a sound; I must have leaned closer because Compton’s breath caught on a low note—surprise, maybe—and those fingers curved behind my head. I felt my hairpins as they dug into my scalp; they didn’t matter. All I knew was that his lips pressed firmly into mine. His chest was suddenly warm and solid against my own, and I curled one hand into the front of his coat.

  His mouth was sweet, clean and warm and his lips tasted faintly of the tea he must have had before arriving. Softer than I expected. His lips clung to mine as they moved in a wordless inquiry, his mustache tickling.

  “There you are!”

  We leapt apart as if a spring had uncoiled, separating ourselves with as much grace and speed as we could muster. My fingers flew to my lips, tingling and too warm, while Compton cleared his throat and said perhaps too loudly, “Professor, how is Mrs. Fortescue?”

  All I could do was stare in soundless disbelief.

  “Good, good,” the professor said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling far above. “Out with your footman, Miss St. Croix. Er, my lord.”

  “Right,” I managed. Then again, stronger, “Right. Thank you, Professor Woolsey. Truly, I find your work fascinating. But I feel my chaperone should be taken home.”

  “Ladies,” Woolsey replied knowingly. His fingers plucked at his rumpled apron as Compton offered a short bow, then extended his arm to allow me to precede him.

  As I passed, the professor caught my hand, his fingers once more pressing into my hand. “Delighted to see you, Miss St. Croix.”

  A hard edge curved into my palm.

  I smiled at him, though my ears burned as I curtsied quickly and hurried for the entrance doors. I was keenly aware of the professor’s owlish stare in my back as I left, and Compton’s warm, solid presence at my side.

  As the earl escorted me to the gondolas, I clenched my fist around the small object the professor had pressed into my hand.

  Curious, indeed.

  The instant I was safely ensconced in the gondola, I lowered my hand to my side and, using my skirts as a shield from Fanny’s smug, not unwell regard, unfolded the scrap of parchment.

  10 o’clock.

  I read the cramped, slanted handwriting, frowning.

  Was I to meet the professor at ten that night? Surely, or else why risk being caught passing notes to me?

  “Tonight’s ball,” Fanny said, breaking the charged silence, “will be the end of your isolation, my dove.”

  I bit my lip before I said something to ruin what tenuous truce my chaperone and I had achieved. The bloody ball. It seemed as if the skeins of my memory had become as ephemeral as a breeze; I was forgetting more than I remembered.

  Ten o’clock. And here I was committed. Lady bloody Rutledge.

  Damn and blast.

  Chapter Ten

  I spent the rest of the day arguing with Fanny and Betsy both. I drew the line at more flowers in my hair, compromising instead with a handful of soft gilt-touched feathers, and I wasn’t inclined to listen to either woman’s sly inferences about Lord Compton’s intentions.

  Marriage was not, would never be, and has never been foremost in my mind. At least, inasmuch as I resolved to spend my life a free woman. That both maid and chaperone seemed convinced it was only a matter of time before I found myself settled by the earl galled me.

  Nevertheless, I was once more dressed and perfumed and bedecked in all manner of feathers and trim. This time, the gown was a daring chocolate hue, flattering my hair and turning my skin to milk. It was darker than strictly suggested, but the fabric shone with every step I took. As if I’d been sculpted in bronze.

  It was also daringly low at the décolletage. I eyed Betsy as she affixed the pale ivory feathers into my hair. Each bob and sway of the delicate tines caught the light in glints of gold, gilded just for that effect. “Are you attempting to force me to snag a husband in here?” I asked baldly.

  She burst out laughing. “I would pay good coin to see it.”

  “As would I. To someone else, please.”

  “Oh, nonsense. You look beautiful.”

  I rolled my eyes, but refrained from tugging at the bodice. To be truthful, I did look . . . well, rather eye-catching. My waist had been drawn to a narrow span, emphasizing the unfortunately broader curve of both hip and bosom. The shimmering fabric hugged my body as if the gods themselves had come down to paint me in their gold-flecked favor, and my hair gleamed with the fire of the darkest rubies from the far-flung Orient.

  I took as deep a breath as my corset would allow, smoothed my hands over the bustle to ensure it remained flouncy. “I believe I am as ready as I can ever be,” I announced.

  Betsy wrapped her arms around me from behind, surprising me. “You look beautiful. Whatever happens, miss, you’ll outpace them all.”

  I r
eturned her embrace, but my look was suspicious in the mirror. “What’s happening, Betsy? You’re acting very strange.”

  She sniffed a little, but shook her head. “I’m just pleased to see you looking so grown-up,” she confessed, fanning her reddening cheeks. “Truly. Your mum, she’d be happy.”

  “Hmph.” Less than gracious, I knew, but as she draped my cloak about my shoulders, I kissed her forehead. “Good night, sweeting. Go home to your patient Mr. Phillips.”

  “When I’ve cleaned up,” she assured me, and hastened me out the door.

  Compton arrived precisely at nine. The very picture of cordiality, there was nothing in his carriage or word that even hinted at the impropriety of this morning’s clandestine kiss, and I mimicked his care as I sank into a formal curtsy.

  “I shall be the talk of the city,” he declared simply, replacing his formal top hat upon his head. “With such beauties at my side.”

  Fanny couldn’t hide her smile, or keep a little extra sway from her step as she followed us to the gondola. She wore a beautiful shade of violet, not so dark as to bring gloom to the event but not inappropriate for a widow, either.

  My Lord Compton sat across from me in his spacious gondola, and Fanny beside.

  All throughout the ride, I was torn between the knowledge that I had kissed the marchioness’s son, the awareness of his eyes on me, and the realization that the haphazard professor would be awaiting my presence at his odd warehouse.

  I would go back to the exhibit first thing tomorrow, I decided. Make my apologies.

  Chatter was polite and appropriately light. Although it was comprised of absolutely nothing of consequence, I found myself enthralled with his voice—mild but not meek. Sure and polished and—was it my imagination? Did it warm when his eyes met mine?

  How strange a man he was, I thought, who could seem so proper and kind, and yet whose footsteps led him—like me—to opium dens in the dark and smoke.