Spirited (2 page)

I gathered my skirts and swept to my feet.

“Jefferson Rumsay,” I roared, “play that infernal gramophone disk once more, and I’ll flay the flesh from your bones. I won’t stop there, no sir. I’ll stretch your skin over the disk and see what pretty songs your rotting hide sings beneath the needle.”

From below, a flash of dark hair, spindly limbs trapped in a day suit, and then Nora’s younger brother appeared, saying, “Someone’s testy.”

And someone was lucky to be alive.

“You don’t think I have cause? Of course not, because you don’t
think
. Ever. I almost had your sister feeling quite confident at the prospect of descending twenty-seven stairs while in full debut ball finery. Almost had her able to hold her chin high and face the scrutiny of the lowest echelon of New York society known as the upper class.” I gestured to Nora. “Now look at her.”

“Oh, that didn’t sound flattering, now did it?” Nora said as she struggled to her feet against yards of petticoat.

I shot her a reassuring smile and a low, “Of course you look lovely as always, my dear.”

I scowled down at the brat who stood at the base of the stairs, leaning a nonchalant arm on the intricate handrail.

I placed my hands on my hips. “We can’t have the debutante fainting every two seconds because her father insists on this ridiculous Specter’s Ball theme, despite knowing she’s scared witless of anything supernatural.” I smiled at Nora, all reassurance. “Not that I think you’re witless. Of course I don’t.”

Mr. Rumsay, however, was a different matter. The recent widower, and founding member of the New York branch of the Ghost Club, had no idea how terrified his daughter was of his occult dabbling since her mother’s death the year before. His obsession to prove contact with the other side was impossible had marked him as one of society’s most vociferous debunkers of spiritualism. To Rumsay, the inventor of numerous mechanical gadgets and the smallest steam-driven engines in the world, every supposed supernatural occurrence had a scientific explanation.

Yet the man also mourned his wife with a tenaciousness that was not healthy. If a way existed to contact her dead spirit, he’d discover it. By any means. Even if it meant embracing the possibilities of the magical world.

The fool.

Neither Nora nor her father were aware that I, Miss Amelia Strangeways, had proof Rumsay had done more than debunk the dark arts. He’d begun practicing them.

If the man hadn’t been about to call on the powers of hell, I’d have been impressed. Not many attempted the ritual known as the Widow’s Curse, mainly due to the sheer amount of time it took to see results. Those seduced by the power of the dark arts were prone to impatience—often the trait that got them killed by the very magic they sought to wield.

The Widow’s Curse required the soul of the initial sacrifice to burn in hell for a year and a day before the culmination took hold. The same amount of time as an old-world handfasting.

And the dead would walk once more.

Rumsay had the audacity to bring New York’s elite to witness his efforts and then planned to gut them like feted sheep.

On the eve of Nora’s debut.

A series of imposing chimes drummed through the house, announcing the arrival of the first of the two hundred and fifty-seven illustrious guests.

All soon to be pawns in the supernatural gamble of a madman.

No, I thought as I assisted Nora to her feet and hurried her back to her expansive rooms.

~*~*~

Maggie was a screamer. He’d told her he liked that in a prostitute. It was the main reason she’d been hired for this bizarre occasion. That and her ability to hold an entire dance hall transfixed by her gyrations.

Maggie knew where her talents lay.

Still, there was no call for this kind of treatment. She was a professional.

“Watch where you put those hands or I’ll slit your face.” Suspended two feet from the stone floor, Maggie slapped Jones, a cloddish buffoon, sharply across the face.

“Hanson,” Jones growled, tightening the rigging around her waist. “Control this one, or you’ll soon have to find another.”

Maggie tilted her head back and laughed. “You’ll never find a stand-in this late in the game, two hours before show time.” Nor one willing to pretend to be a dead girl.

Hanson, Rumsay House’s overseer, cleared his throat, reminding Maggie that he observed the preparations with narrowed eyes. Her back burned, recalling the sting of the switch he now tapped against his thigh.

“Indeed. But I have every confidence that our Maggie will give the performance of a lifetime,” Hanson said, the steel in his tone bringing Maggie to cooperation where the buffoon’s pinching and groping had failed. “Rumsay has requested we make it look real,” he continued. “If she gives you any more trouble, feel free to add a few flesh wounds for the sake of believability.”

Maggie’s fingers clenched into fists, though she didn’t fight any longer. What choice did she have? She had bairns to feed. Debts to settle.

Hanson strode across the room. Stood before her and took her pointed chin in his hand. “Your safety is assured. The ropes are harnessed to a stable structure. When you fall, you might earn a bruise or two.” His dark gaze slid down to the expanse of breast revealed by her tattered gown. “No more than the average night’s work, I’m sure.”

She didn’t return his patronizing leer and refused to flinch as Jones tightened the rope around her neck, though the coarse threads made her skin pucker and itch.

“Remember,” Hanson coached, “all you have to do is scream as if you’re terrified for your very soul.”

Maggie had a feeling that wouldn’t be a problem.

~*~*~

“Do lift the material if you’re going to keep pacing like a resident of Blackwell’s Island,” I admonished as Nora stumbled over the length of her skirt. Truly, I’d spent most of my life hiding what I was, what I was capable of, for fear of being sent to one of Blackwell’s institutions. Once you went Black, you never came back. “You’re going to fray your hems.”

“That’s not all that’s frayed. I’m coming unhinged.”

“Stuff and nonsense. You’re perfectly assembled. You’re beautiful. You’ll have them eating from your delicate palms. There’s nothing to fear.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re not the one about to be paraded before every eligible bachelor of suitable means, expected to look serene, yet dazzling. And all the while ghosts and ghouls are flitting about your head.”

True. That fate would never be mine. As the passably attractive daughter of a reclusive publisher of spiritualism texts, a debut would not be required. I was of the working class, barely tolerated by society as it was. If they knew the true nature of my family’s work, we’d all be sent to Blackwell’s. Not that I’d ever wish that fate upon myself—a debut and all the related trappings, I mean.

Marriage was a cage of expectation and obligation. I had duties beyond fulfilling the needs of one man.

Such as saving the souls of many.

Some might perceive my inheritance as a curse. I considered it a calling. And tonight I heard my mission in the sharp and piercing laughter that drifted from the lower level. Protect the pretentious creatures now stuffing their faces in the ballroom below from whatever demons Rumsay conjured and, more importantly, ensure Nora’s debut would be the stuff of societal legend.

It was the least I could do for the only girl to befriend me at the preparatory school my parents had insisted I attend—putting their hard-earned money to good use as usual.

The Hylo derringer in my skirts warmed, heating the material at my hip, reacting to the increase of electromagnetic energy in the air and setting the tiny boiler to life.

A specter was near.

I shot to my feet. “I must leave you,” I said to a pale-faced Nora, who seemed barely capable of understanding my words. “Won’t be long.” I paused. “If I miss your entrance, remember, don’t hold the handrail as you descend the stairs. Bad form.”

“Amelia, you can’t be serious…”

I shut the imposing walnut door behind me, drowning out Nora’s words. I knew she wouldn’t follow. Nora wouldn’t leave the room until she was called down to make her grand entrance. For all her explanations that it was the ghoulish theme of the night she feared, Nora was more scared of the devils her father had invited into their home.

The ton of New York society. The gossipmongers and those who would woo her for her father’s wealth.

But there were worse things to strike terror in a human heart.

I held my breath. Listening. Blocking out the muffled laughter and clink of glasses from below, where the guests awaited Nora’s entrance and the supernatural spectacle that Rumsay promised.

Gusts of wind whistled down the dim, gas-lit hall. Wooden floor beams creaked and shifted as if an invisible form stepped down on them. I withdrew my weapon, such as it was, and held it high.

I took a few cautious steps forward, scanning the shadows for movement. Hand-carved molding, heavy and gothic, hung over me like claws descending from the ceiling. With each step, hollow-eyed faces in gilded frames seemed to track my movements. I suspected the paintings lining the walls were not family portraits and that Rumsay had only purchased them for their unsettling effects on one’s nerves.

A whirring sound and the steady pulse of a metronome had me frozen in place.

Ack, not now.

I concealed my derringer in the folds of my skirt and spun to face one of Rumsay’s clockwork creations. The blithe smile on my lips wavered as the six-foot-tall automaton approached, the mockery of a bewigged footman in a Louis XIV embroidered coat with a ruffle at its neck.

“Miss Strangeways,” the guard spoke in a stringent voice, its mechanical mouth opening and closing just shy of the correct timing to phrase my name. “Do you require assistance? The needs of every guest must be met.”

“No, I do not require your aid.” I enunciated each word with the precision of a marksman. The creature would hover if I didn’t make my meaning clear on the first go. “However, Miss Rumsay seeks a tumbler of raspberry cordial before joining the party.”

The guard slid backward on ball bearings. “Miss Rumsay will be nourished. Needs must be met.” It darted down one of the servant corridors apparently to procure a drink.

I let out a relieved sigh.

How Nora could stand to live amongst such creatures, I’d never know. I stared down at my derringer, now cool to the touch. The specter had moved on.

Surely my cup of missed opportunities runneth over.

I shook the miniature weapon. Hard. This was my issue with such confounded gadgetry. Specters had to be too close for comfort for the thing to function. Adjustments would be required when my father returned from his own hunt.

So focused was I on my griping, that the hand that settled upon my shoulder pulled a startled screech from my throat and a reflexive jerk on my trigger finger. In seconds I’d spun and blasted a very shocked young man in the face with lukewarm, silver-infused holy water.

Oh, for suffering cats.

“Your presence is… refreshing as always, Miss Strangeways,” he said, calm despite the liquid dripping down his sculpted cheek. Warren Fox was brilliant in his beauty, robbing me of what little breath I had in my confining corset. His suit was of the most impeccable standards, cut to the breadth of his broad shoulders. His angular features framed dazzling gray eyes. Some would find him blinding, but then, if the good book was to be believed, even Satan disguised himself as an angel of light.

“Where the devil did you come from?” I sputtered, tucking my weapon away with shaking hands.

A dark brow arched. “If you must know, I started the evening off at the Knick, endured a dismal game of bridge, and then dutifully made my way to the
supernatural event of the season
.” His lips twisted as he repeated the phrase engraved upon the Specter’s Ball invitations. “Upon my arrival at this, the Rumsay’s mansion, I thought I’d have a chat with young Jonathan. The boy owes me substantial funds.”

Though just nineteen, Warren prefaced the name of every acquaintance of a lesser age with “the young.” A habit I found particularly off-putting, as I myself was one year his junior.

Warren paused a moment to dry his face with his handkerchief and return it to his suit coat pocket. “Instead, I encountered you and your water pistol. Fortuitous, wouldn’t you agree?”

I blinked. “Hardly. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I proceeded down the hall, intent on escape.

The blighter followed.

“What, no apologies for the drenching? No explanation of why you’re stalking Rumsay’s halls without young Nora at your side?” His long strides shortened to match mine. “I’m intrigued.”

“And I’m busy.”

“So I gathered. What is it this time, a table-rapping poltergeist? Another doppelganger?”

I shot him a dark look. “We both know Rumsay’s opening a Pandora’s Box tonight, still your presence here could be misconstrued. Are you here as a control measure? Or is the Hunter Council openly endorsing the dark arts now?”

“Never.”

Warren’s jaw clenched, bringing a smile to my lips. Served him right if my jibes were getting under his skin. Warren’s father, Mr. Fox Sr., had rejected each and every application I’d made to serve the council as an official hunter, though my own father had trained me to take his place. Father retained a unique role within the council, one that I would soon be qualified to fill, if the council could accept a young woman among their ranks.

“You shouldn’t be hunting on your own,” Warren said. “Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

I whirled, my skirts wrapping around Warren’s leg as if intending a lengthy stay. Traitorous taffeta. I pulled at the material with a harsh jerk. “For the last time, I don’t need the help of any man. Warm-blooded or mechanical.”

“Warm-blooded?” Warren grinned, took a step closer, where the space for such a step did not exist, pressing my back to the wall. “Am I overheating the little progressive? How dreadfully bold.”

I dipped my head, sucked in a breath, but made no move to push him away. It was true—each encounter between us was more combustible than the last. But I couldn’t let my confounded emotions make me stray from my intent. My handsome nemesis placed a palm on the wall, crowding me, adding fuel to the fire.