Lady Killer (40 page)

Miles took both her hands in his and his eyes rested on hers. “Clio Thornton, I love you beyond all comprehension. I loved you before I even met you, loved you when I thought you were just the best figment of my imagination. I wasted my life chasing shadows, when all along it was you I was looking for.”

In his room at the Painted Lady, Doctor LaForge prepared.

Later, when they had sampled the veal cutlets in sage and the juniper-berry fed capons stuffed with apples and raisins and the asparagus wrapped in puff pastry and the globe artichokes drizzled in butter and the tiny hens glazed with apricot marmalade and the beef stewed in rich red wine over caraway seed noodles, later, after they had eaten steamed pudding studded with gold currants and let lemon ices slip down their throats and of course had large pieces of hazelnut cake with honey-infused cream poured over it, only then did Miles lead Clio from the table into the little clearing behind it.

They laughed and talked and whispered and kissed and held hands and smiled shyly at each other as they ate, but they were both strangely silent as they approached the large square building at the center of the clearing. Clio’s first thought was that it was an oversized jewel case, but then she saw it consisted entirely of fabric. It was a tent, made of silver silk embroidered so that when it was lit from within, it looked like the walls were covered with flowering vines, and as if the ceiling were a canopy of leaves. Yellow pennants lined with small disks of gold and bearing the Dearbourn arms flapped at the four corners of the tent, and the gossamer drapes of the entrance billowed toward them welcomingly.

Inside was a bed, covered in purple satin painstakingly embroidered with sliver thread. From the bedposts hung two silver burners that scented the air with an exotic mixture of jasmine and cardamom. The floor was strewn with lavender rose petals, atop which, in front of the bed, lay an enormous silvery gray fur rug. Outside, a light breeze rustled though the gold disks hanging on the flags, filling the tent with their soft, tinkling music.

Beneath the music of gold on gold, unspoken, lay another message. Clio understood what all this luxury meant. This would be their last real night together. Tomorrow the final, ceremonial betrothal ball would take place, the last one before the wedding, and the viscount Dearbourn would have to spend the entire event glued to his betrothed’s side. Tomorrow if Clio came here she would come alone, and she would be able to watch as the viscount and his soon to be viscountess greeted their guests in the garden, watch as the handsome couple circulated arm in arm. Tonight was their last chance to be Miles and Clio, together, just them, for hours. This was their wedding night, their wedding bower. Clio knew this was Miles’s real present to her, the gift of time, from the master clockmaker himself.

Miles and Clio undressed one another silently, tenderly. Hands moved across shoulders and down arms, across chests, along stomachs and waists and hips and thighs and bottoms, memorizing them forever. These were not erotic touches, not really, but something far more powerful, something that left Clio and Miles feeling more naked than they ever had before.

Wearing nothing but the Loredan amethysts, Clio lay down on the fur rug next to the bed and pulled Miles toward her. They did not speak. They did not make love. They just held each other tightly, exchanging a lifetime worth of hugs and caresses, making a few hours count for the years they could never have together. They breathed only one another, filling their lungs for a life apart, looked at one another, storing away each wrinkle, each dimple, the way lips curved into smiles, the way cheeks shined through tears.

Below them, as London slept, the search for the vampire went on. Below them, soldiers, guardsmen, and constables patrolled the streets, passing his description from mouth to mouth, from informant to tavern owner. Below them, hundreds of men searched for the closest thing to evil incarnate any of them would ever encounter. On the roof of Dearbourn Hall, Miles and Clio conducted their own search, a search for something to hold on to as the hours between this night and the rest of the nights of their lives added up, for a way to preserve the closest thing to pure happiness they would ever know.

Much later, they moved to the bed, sliding under the cool satin cover. Then they did make love, the satin slipping around them, their bodies twining together entirely. Their joining was slow and gentle and perfect. When it was over, Miles felt a tear roll down Clio’s cheek. And into his chest he heard her whisper, “Nothing perfect can endure.”

4 hours after midnight. Moon—three degrees less than a quarter full. Waning.

In his room at the Painted Lady, Doctor LaForge smiled.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Nothing perfect can endure,” Clio repeated, sitting up. “Miles, don’t you see?”

“Yes,” Miles said through clenched teeth. He understood that lesson all too well.

“No, I am not talking about us. I am talking about the vampire. I knew it. I knew there was something wrong. It is too perfect.”

“Now I am afraid I do not see.”

“Everything about the vampire conforms exactly to his description in the
Compendium.
”

“Not the gardenias. Or the guard dogs.”

“True, but everything beyond that. Down to the last detail. He kills women from only one region. He always takes souvenirs. And if his rate of killing is any indication, he is getting stronger.”

Miles propped himself on one elbow. “So?”

“It is as if the book were patterned after him. Or, to put it another way, as if he were patterned after the book.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I think he is not a vampire after all. I mean that it is too neat. I mean that he is a regular if somewhat evil man trying to cover his murders under the guise of being a fiend.” Miles was about to object when her eyes grew enormous and she rushed on. “And it makes sense of the gardenia and the guard dogs. My God, why didn’t I see this before?”

“What?”

“He kills his victims by poisoning them. He pricks them on the neck. And he uses the gardenias to cover up the smell of the poison.”

“Poison does not smell,” Miles pointed out.

“This one does. He is using ourali.”

“Ourali? That stuff taken from New World savages? If someone were buying large quantities of ourali, I would have known about it.” Miles had made a slip, but Clio did not seem to notice.

“He wasn’t buying it. He stole it,” Clio explained, remembering the apothecary Copperwith’s accusations against Toast, and her having to promise him ten pounds in order to spare the monkey’s ears. Then a strange smile crossed her face. “Not only that, you paid for it.”

“What?” Miles asked, then waved it away. “Never mind. I do not want to know. Assuming what you said is true,” he went on in a voice that made it clear he was prepared to assume no such thing, “what does it have to do with my guard dogs?”

“Experimentation. He was experimenting with different quantities of poison, different doses. You said it yourself. The first dogs did not die right away but slowly, over time. Whereas the last two were dead on the spot.”

Miles frowned over this for a while. He shook his head. “But I saw him. I saw him with blood on his lips. I saw him with his mouth on that woman’s neck.”

“That is why it has to be ourali,” Clio explained excitedly. “Because ourali can make you ill if you ingest it, but it is only
lethal
when used to prick someone. The savages use it to poison their spears and arrows.”

“How do you—never mind,” Miles interrupted himself. “I am sure you read it in a book.” Clio nodded. “So you surmise that he actually does bite the woman he is killing? That he puts the ourali on his teeth and then sinks them into her neck.”

“Not exactly. I suspect he attaches some sort of pointed device to his teeth first and puts the poison on that. Otherwise the marks would be different.”

“Why would he bother to bite his victim if he was actually murdering her with poison? No man would do that.”

“No sane man,” Clio pointed out. “In some ways, his not being a vampire makes his crimes worse.”

Miles was pensive. “You said the other night that his being a fiend meant we did not have to look for a reason behind his killings. But if he is a man, we do. What could possibly be motivating him?”

“I don’t know,” Clio said, shaking her head. “That is the one thing I cannot figure out.”

Very shortly, she would have an opportunity to ask him.

When the chambermaid went to Doctor LaForge’s room the next morning with his breakfast, she found it empty. “I knew something wasn’t wholesome,” she reported in her testimony to the Special Commissioner later. “T’was tidier than usual, and everything was all moved around. Looked like he was expecting a visitor. And I’ll tell you plain, I’m glad it wasn’t me.”

Clio’s eyes snapped open. Her heart was thudding and it was daylight. It took her a moment to realize where she was, because she had left the bed and was standing in the middle of a clump of shrubbery. A clump which she saw was the only thing between her and plunging off the edge of the Dearbourn Hall. There were footsteps behind her and when she turned around Miles was standing there, his arms crossed over his chest.

“You look marvelous in green,” he told her. “And I think you should always sport twigs in your hair. But if you wanted something to wear, you only needed to ask.” He reached toward her and wrapped her in his arms, the tightness of his embrace belying the lightness of his tone. “Are you all right,
amore?
”

Clio nodded into his chest, and pressed her palms against his back. “I was dreaming. At home, I often walk in my sleep, but I have not done it since I have been here. I sleep better with you.”

“I sleep better with you, too,” Miles returned, remembering the years of long nights that ended only in drunken oblivion. “What did you dream about?”

“I don’t know exactly.” Clio closed her eyes and tried to summon back the images. They floated through her mind like ghosts. “Women. Flying around, calling to me. And they all had stains on their dresses. Like blood stains. But then the stains went away. I must have tried to follow them. It was nothing.”

The sun shined down on them, warming their skin, and Clio took several deep breaths of Miles. Her hands were moving down his back, along his bottom, and she was just considering slipping one of them forward to caress the long shaft straining against her stomach when there was a knock, followed by a squeak, and the door that led back into the house opened slowly.

Miles pushed Clio behind him as Corin stepped onto the terrace. “Sorry to bother you, my lord,” he said, his eyes looking everywhere but at the naked form of his master, “but you’ve got an appointment with your cousins and Sir Edwin and the lawyer to go over the settlement papers in half an hour.”

From her vantage point, Clio saw every muscle in Miles’s body ripple.

“Thank you, Corin,” Miles said. “I will be down shortly.”

The door closed and Miles turned to Clio and she saw that his face had changed. Before he could speak she was pulling his lips over hers, demanding him.

She would siphon his pain from him. She would show him it would be all right. She would be strong for him, for both of them. He had given her so many gifts, this was the least she could give him back. She pushed him down onto the terrace, warm now with the heat of the sun, and made love to him, milking the anger and hurt and tension from him.

He wrapped his hands around her bottom and pulled her over him harder, as if he were trying to lose himself inside her body. He was wild and wanton with her, pressing into her, holding her with desperation and desire, with insatiable need. He felt he loved her more with each thrust, needed her more, possessed her more. And then, just before he was going to find his release, he took one of his hands and slid it onto her chest, between her breasts. “Mine” he whispered as he arched into her the final time, and Clio thought at first he was referring to the amethysts she still wore.

Then she realized he had been feeling for her heart.

When he was slightly recovered, she heard him whisper, “Thank you,” into her hair.

She drew herself up on both elbows and looked down at him. “You are welcome. But I have to go now. I have things to do today and cannot waste all this time dallying.”

“What things?” Miles looked puzzled. He did not want her doing anything or going anywhere. He wanted her to stay right where she was. Forever.

“I do have a client, you know,” she told him, sliding away from him onto her side. “And a household to run.”

“They don’t need you,” he said with solemnity that was only partially pretend.

“Oh?”

“No. Not like I do.”

She brushed the hair off his forehead. “Miles, you are not even going to be here today,” she told him, struggling to keep the pain out of her voice. “I will come back tonight,
amore
.”

Miles smiled at her. “I like it when you say that.”

“I like it when you say it, too.” Something about the heat of the sun and his body and the deep blazing gold of his eyes all together broke through Clio’s reserves then. “Go on,” she urged him, helping him to stand and pointing him toward the door. “Corin is waiting for you.”