Bloodline (Whyborne & Griffin Book 5) (4 page)

“There!” Griffin cried. The lantern’s beam penetrated the
shadows of a narrow alley, no more than a slot between two crumbling brick
buildings. Dark liquid glistened near the entrance, and the stench of blood overrode
even the reek of fish.

Guinevere lay just inside, half propped against the wall,
her head lolling to one side. Her arms hung limp, and her legs bent at
uncomfortable angles. Blood soaked the bodice of her dress, a shabby brown frock,
which might have belonged to any woman of the working class.

“Guinevere!” I ran to her, falling to my knees. Cooling
blood soaked my trousers, but I didn’t care. I touched her face, tilting her
head back to see her better. Her skin was like ice under my fingers.

Her pupils were blown wide, only a thin ring of brown iris
showing. “Percival,” she mumbled.

Griffin tore off his coat and pressed it to her chest,
trying to keep what little blood remained inside her. “Go for a doctor,
Whyborne—I’ll stay with her.”

“No,” she gasped. Her hand groped blindly for me. Cuts
lacerated her fingers all the way to the bone. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was
faint. “Randolph, please forgive me.”

“Your husband will forgive you,” I assured her, although I
hadn’t the slightest idea what she asked forgiveness for. Twisting about, I
called out to the street behind us. “Help! Police! We need a doctor!”

Her poor fingers closed on mine. “Listen…have to tell you…”
She swallowed convulsively. “Persephone…one for the sea…”

“It’s going to be all right,” I said frantically. “Griffin,
go for the doctor.” I reached for his coat, intending to hold it in place, but
to my surprise, he sat back and let it fall. “What are you doing?”

“It’s too late.”

“No, it…” But her eyes had gone glassy, and her fingers
slowly uncurled, gravity tugging them away from mine. No breath stirred the
bloody bodice.

“No,” I said again, like an idiot. “Guinevere? This is all
some foolish trick, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

“She’s dead, Ival.” Griffin’s bloodstained hand rested on my
shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

Tears burned my eyes. Despite all of our animosity, she had
still been my sister. I couldn’t seem to let go of her hand. “S-send for Father,”
I managed to say.

Griffin nodded and slipped away. I sat alone in the freezing
alley with Guinevere’s body and tried not to cry.

Hours later, I sat in the drawing room of Whyborne House, my
elbows resting on my knees, hands clasped in front of me, and my gaze directed
to the Persian carpet beneath my feet. Despite the warmth of the fire crackling
in the enormous hearth, the freezing cold of the night still clung to my bones.

Griffin’s shoes appeared at the corner of my vision. He’d
gone home, changed, and brought a suit for me as well. The one I’d worn earlier
was too soaked in blood to be fit for anything other than burning.

I lifted my gaze sluggishly, and discovered he held a
tumbler of brandy out to me. I took it with an automatic murmur of thanks. The
burn of alcohol restored a tiny amount of warmth to my core and gave me the courage
to look around.

Father stood by the ornate liquor cabinet, one hand holding
a brandy, the other thrust into his pocket. His gaze seemed locked on some
far-off place only he could see. Stanford slumped in a chair. He’d been drunk
when Father, the butler Fenton, and I brought Guinevere’s body back to the
house. Father had ordered her laid in the cellar where the most expensive wine
was kept, a room to which only Fenton had a key.

God. Guinevere. The entire time I’d been sitting in the
dreadful saloon, cursing her, she’d been dying in an alley only a block away.
Why hadn’t I worried more? Why hadn’t I insisted we search for her immediately?
She would have still been alive if I’d only
done
something.

All of my sorcery, and yet it had been my indecision that
cost my sister her life.

Mother sat in a chair beside me, her back very straight. Her
eyes were reddened, as if she’d wept before joining us, but no tears showed on
her cheeks now. I’d never seen her cry in all of my life. It wasn’t the sort of
thing our family did in front of each other.

Father tossed back his brandy and set the empty tumbler on a
small table. The loud clack of glass against the marble top made everyone jump,
including him. Folding his hands at the small of his back, he went to stand before
the fire.

“The circumstances of Guinevere’s death cannot go beyond
this group,” he said. Taking charge, just as he’d no doubt taken charge after
the carnage of battle, during the war between the states. “If word got out she
visited such an unsavory part of town, there would be scandal. There could also
be ramifications for her son back in England.”

In other words, if the earl’s wife was prone to going to low
places, perhaps she consorted there with low men. Doubt would be thrown on my
nephew’s paternity. My gut clenched at the thought, and I took another sip of
brandy, hoping it would settle my stomach.

While Father spoke, Griffin moved quietly from his position
against the wall to stand in front of the door, head cocked. Listening for any
potential eavesdroppers, no doubt.

Thank God he was here. I didn’t know how I would have faced
this otherwise.

“Percival.” Father’s voice fell across me like a heavy
weight. “You said Guinevere arranged to meet you at this saloon. Why?”

 “I don’t know.” I wanted to bury my face in my hands,
but it would show too much weakness, so I forced myself to meet his gaze
instead. “She asked if I was a sorcerer. She asked if I’d heard of the
Norfolk
Siren.
When I said yes to both, she pleaded with me to meet her. She
wouldn’t tell me anything more.”

“Fuckin’ useless,” Stanford slurred.

“Language, Stanford!” Father shot him a glare.

My right hand curled into a fist, the scars tugging. How
could Stanford, no matter how drunk, turn this moment to our old rivalry? Had
he no consideration for our parents?

I took a deep breath and willed my hand to unclench. “She
said…” God, how could I say this? How could I speak my sister’s last words
aloud to Mother and Father? “She asked her husband to forgive her.”

“She wasn’t entirely lucid,” Griffin said gently, from his
post near the door.

No doubt, but if the newspapers heard of it…well, they
wouldn’t. No one here would repeat such a thing. “Yes. And then she said
something strange. ‘Persephone. One for the sea.’”

Stanford glared blearily at me. Did he blame me for
Guinevere’s death? “It doesn’t mean anything. Just a dying woman’s babbling.”

Mother flinched. Damn Stanford…but attacking him wouldn’t
improve the situation. I returned his glare, but moved my left hand to rest on
Mother’s.

“Persephone…it sounds like a name?” Griffin suggested.

“Yes.” I sometimes forgot Griffin didn’t have a classical
education. “From Greek legend. Her mother, Demeter, was an earth goddess. The
god of the underworld carried Persephone away. From then on, she could only
visit the upper world for half a year. Spring and summer. The other half of the
year, Demeter mourned her lost daughter, thus bringing about fall and winter.
But her legend has no connection with the sea. Probably it doesn’t mean
anything.” Just the last thoughts flitting through a dying brain.

“Did she say anything else?” Mother’s voice trembled, but
didn’t break on the question.

I shook my head. “No.”

Silence fell over us like a burial shroud. After a few
minutes, Father’s shoulders straightened. I hadn’t even noticed when he
slumped.

“We shall put about Guinevere was suddenly taken ill,” he
said in a tone brooking no argument. “Not even the servants will know, save
Fenton, of course. Due to the severity of the illness, we sent for a doctor,
who immediately ordered her to a sanitarium in New York to recuperate.
Naturally, the name of this sanitarium will not be given out, in order to
protect her privacy from nosy journalists. I will send a telegram stating as
much to her husband tomorrow morning. After…after two weeks, I will send a
second telegram, saying she s-succumbed to her illness.”

I stared at Father, who still stood with his back to us. Did
those small stumbles in his speech mean he actually felt grief? I wouldn’t have
thought him capable.

“I must impress upon you all,” he went on, “this is not to
be spoken of to anyone outside of immediate family. Ever.”

“Well then,” Stanford said, flashing me a nasty sort of
look, “I suppose Mr. Flaherty’s trip to the bottom of the bay will be quick?”

I stiffened sharply. Curse it—if Father meant to harm
Griffin in order to preserve our family’s wretched secrets, I’d…

I’d pull the very house down around us and not give a damn.
The air roused in response to my anger, rustling the heavy curtains and sending
a stream of sparks up the chimney.

“Don’t be a fool,” Father growled at Stanford. “Percival has
been obstinate since the day he was born, and there is no changing it. The rest
of us must live with his ways, no matter how unconventional.”

The wind died away. I blinked. Father…defending me? From
Stanford?

“And, in this case at least, his notions will prove useful,”
Father added. “Mr. Flaherty?”

Griffin raised a brow, calm and collected as if they hadn’t
just been discussing whether or not to murder him in cold blood. “Sir?”

“Someone killed my daughter. I intend to discover who. To
that end, I find myself in need of your detective’s skills yet again. I believe
I can adequately compensate you for your time.” He named a sum far in excess of
what Griffin might hope to earn in a year.

Griffin’s shoulders stiffened, and his brows drew down
sharply. “I did not think to find myself so insulted tonight, sir.”

Father glared at him. “I’m not in a dickering mood. Name
your fee and be done with it.”

“You mistake me. To suggest I would enrich myself by this
family’s suffering is a slight against my character,” Griffin replied coolly.
“I will excuse it due to your grief, however.”

Father’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. He looked
rather like a landed fish; I would have laughed, had the circumstances been
different.

“I will do everything in my power to find Lady Gravenwold’s
killer,” Griffin went on. “Should I require some unforeseen expense beyond our
ordinary budget, I will of course request assistance, in order to further the
investigation. Otherwise, keep your damned money.”

Father stared at him for a long moment, as if wondering what
ulterior motive Griffin might possibly have. Then he nodded. “Yes,” he said
gruffly. “Forgive me. I recall from our earlier conversation, when I asked you
to look into Threshold Mine, you have certain principles. Thank you, er,
Griffin.”

I bristled slightly—Griffin certainly hadn’t given
Father permission to use his name. But Griffin only nodded back. “Think nothing
of it, Niles.”

Touché.

Mother rose to her feet, and Stanford and I hurriedly did so
as well. She held out her hands to Griffin, and he crossed the room and took
them. “I know you and Percival will find justice for my poor Guinevere.” Her
voice threatened to crack, and she closed her eyes briefly.

Griffin clasped her hands. “We will, Heliabel. I swear it.”

Their hands parted, and she turned to the door. Her step
stumbled, and Father hurried to support her. “Lean against me,” he said.

But she didn’t. “I’m fine. Summon Emily—she’ll help me
upstairs.”

I watched my parents depart, Father offering his shoulder,
Mother refusing to lean against it. “Come,” Griffin murmured, touching my arm.
“We should go home.”

I nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

As we left, I glanced over my shoulder at Stanford, who had returned
to his chair. His eyes fixed on me, contempt and hatred in their depths. For a
moment, I would have sworn he wasn’t as drunk as he’d seemed. Then he slumped
back, eyes closed, and I decided I’d been wrong after all.

~ * ~

The early gray light of dawn touched the eastern sky when we
arrived home. Saul, our marmalade cat, ran to greet us as soon as we entered
the yard. Perhaps sensing my mood, he clung tight to my legs all the way up the
walk, not even scratching impatiently at the door while Griffin unlocked it.

“Is there anything I can get for you?” Griffin asked,
putting his hand to my shoulder as I stepped past him.

I shook my head. Everything felt very far away at the
moment, obscured by a haze of exhaustion and numbness. “No. I’m for bed. I’ll send
my excuses to the museum later.”

“Let me lock up, and I’ll join you.”

I carried Saul upstairs, soothed by his rumbling purr.
Griffin and I alternated the bed we slept in, in order to have two sets of
soiled sheets to present to our cleaning woman each week. Which one had we
slept in last night? I couldn’t recall, so I chose Griffin’s. We’d spent our
first night together there, and it always seemed more inviting than my own.

Putting Saul on the bed, I stripped off my clothes. Griffin
slipped in just as I crawled under the covers. Instead of lying down, I
remained sitting up, my arms wrapped around my knees while he undressed.

“Your family seems to be taking Guinevere’s death in
stride,” he said tactfully as he unknotted his tie.

I shook my head. “No. Tears are a weakness. And not just in
the men. Mother never cried in front of me.”

He set aside his tie and began to remove his vest. “No doubt
she feels she has to remain strong for her children.”

“Probably.” I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against
my arms. “I don’t think she ever knew how Stanford and Guinevere treated me. I
couldn’t bring myself to tell her.”

“To show weakness.” Soft slithers of cloth marked the
removal of more clothing.

“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. She was always so sick, I
couldn’t bear to add to her burdens. So I kept it all to myself.”

The bed dipped beneath his weight. “But you’ve cried in
front of Christine and me.”

“I trust you.”

His arm slipped around my shoulders, and I leaned into him
gratefully. “Then tell me how you’re really faring.”

I kept my eyes closed, unable to bring myself to look at
him. “My sister is dead, and it’s all my fault. How do you think?”

“What?” Griffin turned me to face him. “Ival, look at me,
please. You aren’t responsible for Guinevere’s death.”

I opened my eyes, because he’d asked it. He gazed back at me
with a stricken expression. “Of course I am,” I replied. “When she didn’t
appear promptly at midnight, I should have insisted on searching for her.
Instead, I convinced myself she was playing some stupid prank, and dawdled at
the saloon while sh-she bled to d-death—”

Griffin pulled me to him, his arms strong and sure around
me. “You couldn’t have known, my dear. Why would you think she’d be on foot,
alone? It seems impossible…” He trailed off, then shook his head. “You had no
reason to believe anything had happened to her.”

“You did. You’re the one who suggested we retrace the path
she would have taken from Whyborne House.”

Griffin sighed, his shoulder dipping beneath my cheek. “It
was merely a precaution. I didn’t want to think I’d completely misjudged her
earlier, when she had sounded so desperate to meet you. If I’d truly thought
anything was wrong, I would have suggested leaving earlier. So if you are to
blame for her death, then I am as well, in equal measure.”

“No!” I tried to pull free from him, but he refused to let
go. Defeated, I slumped into his arms, pressing my face against his over-long
hair. “You trusted my assessment of the situation.”

“Of course, but I also think for myself.” He stroked my back
soothingly. “The only person responsible for her death is the one who murdered
her.”

I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t. But she was my
sister,
and she’d died in my arms, and…

Griffin only held me quietly, his hands stroking my back.
Once, he pressed his lips against my temple.

“Thank you,” I whispered, when I could speak again.

“For what?”

“Everything. Going with me tonight. Fetching me a suit to
change into, and pouring me brandy, and making sure none of the servants were
listening in, and putting up with my awful family, and this…”