Grave Expectations (The Ministry of Curiosities Book 4) (5 page)

"Why?" Lady Harcourt asked, with a defiant tilt of her chin. She looked lovely in a lavender gown, cinched at the waist to show off her feminine figure, her hair arranged in a style that must have taken her maid an age to do. "Are you still insisting we call her your assistant? That's all well and good, but Lichfield needs maids for now."

"We've placed an advertisement in
The Times
for a housekeeper."

Her face froze. "We?"

"Where did you go, Fitzroy?" Lord Gillingham cut in.

"On holiday," Lincoln said.

Gillingham snorted a laugh but when no one else joined in, he said, "To where?"

"That is none of your affair."

"It damned well is, man." Whenever Gillingham grew angry, his face turned the same reddish hue as his hair. He was well on the way to that color already and the meeting had only just begun.

Lincoln said nothing. He stood by the fireplace, a severely drawn frown on his brow. I sat in the only vacant armchair, and he switched to the other side of the hearth to be closer to me.

"You're the ministry's leader," Gillingham went on. "It's your
raison d'être
and ought to be your priority. It's not work from which you can come and go. It's your life."

I took a breath to counter him, but Lincoln put his hand on the back of my chair. I would stay silent if he wanted me to—for now.

"Gilly is correct," Eastbrooke said. The general's physical presence always commanded attention when he entered a room, but it was his military authority that made him the unspoken leader of the four-person committee. That and his age. At sixty-odd, he was the eldest. "Holidays are not for the likes of you, Lincoln. Do not disappear like that again."

"Stop it, both of you," Lady Harcourt hissed. "Of course he should be allowed to get away, from time to time. As long as it's not in the middle of an investigation, or for long, what's the harm in it?"

"What's the harm?" Gillingham echoed in a high-pitched voice. "Julia, in light of what's happened in his absence—"

"What happened?" Lincoln snapped.

"Two supernaturals are dead."

"Murdered," Lord Marchbank added.

I gasped. "How?"

"You don't ask the questions," Gillingham sneered.

"Both shot." Marchbank was the least talkative of the lot, but when he did speak, his words had far more impact than anyone else's. "It appears the killer was the same man."

"Or woman," Lady H added. Why did she look at me when she said it?

"How do you know they were supernaturals?" Lincoln asked.

"They had files in our archives."

"You've memorized the names on file?" Disbelief edged the blandness.

She stiffened. "I looked through them during the investigation into my stepson's disappearance in the hope a name from my late husband's journal would match one on file. I remembered Reginald Drinkwater, since it's an unusual name. When his death was reported in the papers, I checked the address and it turned out to be the same one in our files. The second victim, Joan Brumley, died in the exact same way as Drinkwater, and it was the newspapers that linked the two deaths as having been committed by the same killer. If it weren't for that, we would never have realized she was a supernatural too."

"What was Drinkwater's magical ability?" Lincoln asked.

"It's listed as levitation, but we now believe it was something more."

"According to the police and the papers, Drinkwater was a scientist," Eastbrooke said, folding his hands over his considerable girth. "He was involved in the area of mechanics. Specifically, mechanical limbs for people who've lost them through accident or birth defect."

Another scientist in the medical field. My stomach rolled.

"His devices were very good, apparently," Lady Harcourt said. "They worked well, but only while Drinkwater was in the room. Based on that information, we think he was using his magic to make the mechanical limbs work like real ones, seemingly of their own volition."

"The man was a charlatan," Gillingham said. "The limbs never could have operated without him present. They needed his magic."

"Indeed." Eastbrooke nodded. "Very devious practice, if you ask me."

"He hadn't sold any," Marchbank pointed out.

"I'm sure he would have, if he hadn't died first."

"Perhaps that was why he was killed," I said. "Perhaps one of the trial patients found out that the limb didn't really work and was so angry that he killed Drinkwater."

"Your opinion was not sought, Charlotte," Eastbrooke intoned. "If Lincoln insists that you're an assistant now, and not a maid, then make yourself useful and fetch the tea or take notes instead of espousing on things you know nothing about."

Lincoln's cool fingers skimmed the hot skin at the back of my neck. "You'll refrain from speaking to Charlie in such a manner in this house."

Eastbrooke spluttered a protest, but the rest was cut off by Gus and Seth's arrival with trays.

"The second victim, Joan Brumley, was an historian whose opinions were often controversial," Marchbank went on, setting his teacup aside.

"Why?" Lincoln asked.

"She claimed to have spoken with the spirits of historical figures in person."

"Bloody hell," Gus muttered, earning a glare from all four committee members. He went back to serving tea then sank into the shadows near the door.

"It was a recent claim," Lady Harcourt added, "and not made in one of the respectable academic periodicals. She was soundly ridiculed of course, and there was even discussion of having her committed to Bedlam."

"But we believe her," Marchbank said.

My chest constricted. My heart stilled. A woman in communication with dead historical figures could only be one thing.

"She must be a necromancer." Lady Harcourt turned hard, glittering eyes onto me as she accepted a cup from Seth.

I arched my brow at her in what I hoped was defiance, when all I felt was cold through to my bones. A necromancer…dead. And someone had tried to kill me too.

"
S
tupid woman
," Gillingham muttered. "Joan Brumley could have caused panic on a grand scale with her claims."

"Not to mention drawing attention to herself," Eastbrooke said. "There are enough madmen in this country who would believe her and try to use her necromancy for their own ends, as they tried to do with Charlotte."

"It's just as well she died then." Gillingham sipped his tea, oblivious to my shocked gasp and Lady Harcourt's quiet chiding.

Lincoln shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Aside from them both dying in the same manner, and both being magical, did you discover any other links?"

"What more do you need?" Eastbrooke asked. "They both have the potential to use their magic for harm."

"But did they?"

"That isn't the point."

"I think it is."

"The point is," Eastbrooke ground out, "that if they fell into the wrong hands, they would have been very dangerous tools."

Like me, he could have said. The look he gave me from beneath his bushy eyebrows implied he was thinking it.

"What were they like?" I asked suddenly.

"Pardon?" Lady Harcourt said.

"It seems to me that neither of them were doing anything harmful. Giving working limbs to those who have none is charitable, and historical research is benign enough. Drinkwater and Brumley don't sound like people who want to use their magic for ill. No one can force them."

"We don't know that for certain," she said. "Everyone has a price."

"Not everyone," Lincoln said.

She bristled. "And if money fails, then blackmail or a threat to a loved one will work. Even a saint can turn bad if the right sort of pressure is applied to the right place."

She sounded ruthless. Knowing her background as a dancer, I almost understood why, except that she continued to want to climb higher up the social ladder and grow richer, despite being rich and powerful now. She'd even admitted as much when she claimed she couldn't marry Lincoln. Even though she knew he was the son of a prince, she also knew that could never be publicly acknowledged. Lincoln was a step down from her previous husband, and she wouldn't have that.

"We've seen what can happen," Gillingham said with a nod at me. "The girl was kidnapped for just such a reason."

"I helped neither Frankenstein nor Jasper," I snapped. "Nor would I, under any circumstances."

"Do you think so?" Lady Harcourt's flinty gaze slipped to Lincoln. "What if they'd captured someone you love?"

I swallowed. There was no winning against that argument. Everyone in that room knew I would do anything to save Lincoln, even if it meant jeopardizing others.

His hand rested on my shoulder, but it wasn't very reassuring. "Leave Charlie out of this."

"We can't," Eastbrooke said. "It's as simple as that. Which brings me to my next suggestion."

"
No
." Lincoln growled the word with all the force of a blunt hammer.

"You must go somewhere safe, Charlotte. Somewhere that no one will look for you. I know just the place. Leave it to me."

Lincoln's fingers dug into my shoulder. I wasn't certain he knew how hard he was holding me. "She's not leaving."

"We're being extra vigilant," I said. "Once this killer is found—"

"There will be another," Gillingham said. "Then another and another. There will always be someone after you."

"He's right," Lady Harcourt said, in a tone that was a little too silky to be genuinely sympathetic. "Let us find you somewhere safer to live. London is too—"

"If Charlie leaves Lichfield then so do I," Lincoln growled. "We're engaged."

Dense silence filled the library. Seth and Gus exchanged glances, but otherwise, nobody moved. It was as if time had ceased, trapping us in that moment.

"What!" Eastbrooke's explosion shattered the eerie quiet.

"We are to be wed." Lincoln's voice was all calm authority, with a hint of steel that perhaps only I noticed.

"You bloody fool," Gillingham sneered.

Eastbrooke's hand curled into a fist on the chair arm. "We cannot allow it."

"Agreed."

"It's not up to you," Lincoln said.

"Think, man," Gillingham said. "Think what you're doing. You'll ruin yourself."

"Then I'll be a happily ruined man."

I touched Lincoln's hand at my shoulder and smiled up at him. His troubled gaze watched me intently, perhaps for signs that the tirades upset me. They did not. I didn't care what these people thought.

"You can't," Eastbrooke stated with an emphatic shake of his head. "We forbid it."

"You have no power to forbid me to do anything."

"You're the head of the ministry and we're the committee—"

"I'm the leader because of the prophecy, not because you
chose
me. The committee has no power over Charlie or me."

Eastbrooke hauled himself to his feet and took a step toward us. I felt Lincoln's fingers tense again. "I raised you," the general snarled. "I took you into my home and treated you like a son, and this is how you repay me! By going behind my back to court this…this…"

"Tutors raised me, and occasionally the housekeeper. Granted, you provided a roof over my head, for which I am grateful, although I hold no illusions that you did it out of the goodness of your heart. You never treated me like a son, General. Don't pretend otherwise."

Eastbrooke sat down heavily. He stared at Lincoln, his mouth ajar, his chest heaving with his deep breaths.

"This is outrageous," Gillingham said. "I knew we should have gotten rid of her as soon as the matter with Frankenstein ended. None of this would have happened if you'd all listened to me."

"That's enough, Gilly," Marchbank said. To us, he added, "Your mind is made up?"

"It is," Lincoln said.

"Then we must live with it, I suppose, although I agree that there are some concerns."

"She's safer here with me to watch over her."

"I'm not referring to
her
safety, but to the ongoing effectiveness of the ministry, and yourself, Fitzroy. Hear me out. Say she is kidnapped again and forced to raise a witch with the power to overrule her commands. Say the only way to send the witch back is to kill Charlie. Will you do it?"

"That is an unlikely event."

"But not impossible."

"There will be other ways to send the witch back, we just don't know what they are yet."

Gillingham snorted.

Marchbank turned to Lady Harcourt. "Julia, what do you think?"

She had gone very pale. She hadn't moved a muscle or uttered a syllable since our announcement. It must be quite difficult for her to accept our relationship, since she believed Lincoln still loved her until quite recently. Her gaze shifted from Lincoln to mine then back again. "Do you have consent from her father?"

"Not yet," Lincoln said.

"If he doesn't give it, you'll have to wait until she's of age.

Lincoln said nothing. It would seem he wasn't going to tell them about our plan to get Holloway's guardianship overturned.

"Ha!" Gillingham slapped his hand down on the head of his walking stick. "Good point, Julia. It's unlikely he'll give it."

"He's ill," Marchbank said. "So Governor Crease from the House of Correction tells me. Perhaps he'll die."

Gillingham used his walking stick to push himself up and approached us. I steeled myself for more insults. Lincoln tensed. "This will pass, you know," he said to Lincoln. "What you think is love is just a passing…urge." He looked pleased with himself for choosing that word. "You're still young and ruled by your cock, but—"

Lincoln let me go, stepped forward, and punched Gillingham in the nose. Gillingham fell to the ground, clutching his face and choking out the vilest obscenities. Nobody went to his aid.

"Really, Lincoln," Lady Harcourt chided. "Was that necessary?"

"Get up, Gilly," Eastbrooke said. "It can't be that bad. He pulled back."

"I'm bleeding!" Gillingham lurched to his feet, one hand covering his nose, the other pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket. A trickle of blood seeped through the cracks of his fingers.

"Seth, Gus, show his lordship to the door." Lincoln held out his hand to me and I took it. "This meeting is over."

"
B
loody
…minded…
arses
." Cook interjected every word with a severe chop of his knife through an onion. "Don't listen to them, Charlie. Their hearts be cold."

"I don't care what they think," I assured him. "As Lincoln pointed out to them, they have no power to send me away. They'll grow used to our marriage, in time."

"Wish I'd seen Fitzroy clock Gillingham."

"It was rather satisfying." I smoothed my hand over the book in front of me on the kitchen table. It was a hefty tome about supernatural creatures, mostly demons. I'd found nothing yet on imps captured in amber, but I hadn't given up.

Lincoln had gone out after the meeting, taking Seth and Gus with him. They were hoping to learn more about the murders from the police, neighbors and other witnesses. I'd decided to read in the kitchen for company. I probably should have tackled some housework but it was almost dinnertime, and I really wanted to know more about the imp.

I'd found the necklace in Lincoln's desk drawer. It wasn't stealing, since it was mine anyway. I didn't put it around my neck but set it beside the book.

"Any luck?" Cook asked with a nod at the book.

"None." I sighed and slammed it closed.

"It be a pretty piece."

"It is, albeit somewhat peculiar with the creature inside. You can hardly see it with the naked eye, but it's in there."

He wiped his hands on his apron and picked up the pendant. He held it to the lamplight and squinted. "You should wear it, for safekeeping."

"It'll be safe in Lincoln's drawer."

"Not the imp's safety, yours. If your mama wants you to wear it, you should listen to her."

"She also said it was unpredictable and mischievous. I shouldn't risk it."

"Wear it, but don't let it out." He shrugged. "I don't see no harm in that. Your mama wouldn't give it to you if it be dangerous."

"No-o, I suppose not." I took the necklace and placed it around my neck, leaving the pendant exposed against my dress so that Lincoln could see it when he returned. I wasn't going to try and hide my actions from him. "He probably won't like it."

"If anyone can convince him it ain't a problem, it be you."

I smiled. "Thank you, Cook."

"Just don't tell him it were me who suggested it."

"I suppose there's no way of releasing it accidentally. I don't speak French, and I'm hardly about to say 'I release you' in a foreign language when I don't—Oh!"

The pendant glowed a bright orange and its warmth seeped through my dress above my breast. I fumbled with the clasp and threw the necklace on the table as if it were a spider that had fallen in my lap.

"What have I done?" I whispered.

"You weren't to know it be bilingual." Cook picked up his knife and raised it to strike at whatever came out of the amber.

A sudden blast of yellow light blinded me. When my vision returned, a small creature blinked back at me from the table. My rapidly beating heart calmed a little when the creature didn't move, and I was able to get a good look at it. It resembled a hairless cat, with long pointy ears and slanted green eyes that followed me as I edged around the table toward Cook.

"Do you understand me?" I said, speaking slowly.

It tilted its head to the side and the catlike mouth opened. A small mewling sound escaped as if it were trying to talk to me.

"I see why my mother called it a pet."

"It looks like a plucked chicken."

"I think it's rather adorable, with those eyes and the way the skin wrinkles above its nose like it's frowning at us."

"Touch it," Cook said.

"No! You touch it."

"I ain't going near that thing."

"Big baby." I shifted closer, smiled at the creature and made cooing sounds. I'd befriended alley cats when I lived on the streets. They were good at keeping the mice away. Perhaps the imp would respond to my soothing voice. "Come here, little one. Go back into your amber."

"It ain't moving."

I reached across the table, but it shifted back, out of my reach. Those large green eyes didn't leave mine the entire time. "Perhaps we should feed it." The alley cats had become more friendly if we spared them some of our food. "Pass me some beef."

"That be dinner!"

"This is an emergency, Cook. If Lincoln finds out I released it, he'll be furious with you."

"Me? Why me?"

"Because you didn't allow me any beef to coax it back into the amber."

He wiped his shiny brow and bald head with the back of his sleeve. "It can have some meat, but I ain't feeding it. It be your pet, you do it."

"Very well."

He chopped a slice of beef into small pieces and handed three to me. I put them down on the table and stood back. The imp crept on all fours to the beef, sniffed it, but didn't eat. It tilted its head and looked at me as if it were waiting for something.

"Go back into your amber," I urged. When nothing happened, I tried a different command. "Return, imp. I send you back."

It mewled again.

"It don't look magical," Cook said.

"What does a magical creature look like?"

"Don't know, but if I be a magical creature, I'd make meself prettier for a start, and bigger, with fur. Lots and lots of fur everywhere."

I kept my gaze strictly averted from his bald head and hairless face. Cook couldn't even grow eyebrows. "What shall we do?" Lincoln might walk in at any moment. I eyed the door and chewed my lip.

"Maybe it understands French for 'go back' better than English."

"That's all well and good, but I don't know the French for 'go back.' Do you?"

"I dozed off when me tutor were teaching them words in French lessons."

I gave him a withering glare. "This is not a time for jokes."

"I think you have to hold it and touch the amber too."

"Now you're just making things up." But I recalled my mother saying something similar. The suggestion was as good as any. "If it bites me, fetch the medical kit." I picked up the necklace and dangled the pendant where the creature could see it then caught the pendant in my hand. "Come here, little—"