Tenfold More Wicked (3 page)

E
LIZA STEPPED AWAY, CASUALLY SLIPPING THAT
incriminating optical from her forehead. “Good morning, Captain Lafayette. I note your manners haven't improved.”

“My manners shall never improve, Dr. Jekyll. You may rest assured.” Remy Lafayette made a flashy bow. Gold braid glittered on his scarlet cavalry officer's tailcoat, with arc-pistol, sword, and spurs all fighting to outdo each other for shine. A decorative fellow, no mistake. Lush chestnut curls, brilliant electric-blue eyes fit to melt an iceberg—or a lesser woman's heart. Until, of course, one noticed the iron badge on his lapel, engraved with the words
N
ULLIUS IN
V
ERBA
.

“Why? Is there a new Royal Society moratorium on gentlemanly behavior? Or heaven forbid, is your incorrigible buffoonery unauthorized?”

“Admit it: it amuses you to scold me.” Lafayette bent to pet Hippocrates. “If I failed to outrage, my entertainment value would swiftly degrade to negligible.”

“And it has
such
a long way to go. Hipp, come away.”

Harley Griffin nodded amiably. “Lafayette, how we've missed you. Still inflicting yourself where you're not wanted?”

A jaunty tilt of sword. “I'm a Royal investigator, Griffin old boy. Being unwanted is my job.”

“And you perform it peerlessly.”

Lafayette laughed, and the fat frame-maker shuffled and averted his gaze. Even Reeve's constables edged away. A dangerous thing, this Royal investigator's mirth. The all-powerful Royal, under the dubiously enlightened guidance of their immortal Philosopher, made the rules. Science or superstition, orthodoxy or a burning for heresy—who was to know from day to day? And lately, the Royal's efforts to weasel out scientific heretics had escalated from irritating and invasive to over-zealous and violent. No one was safe. Especially not Eliza Jekyll, alchemy addict, dabbler in dubious crime scene science—and afflicted with what her father's notebooks liked to call a
transcendental identity
.

Inwardly, she shuddered. Remy Lafayette, IRS, hid uncanny secrets of his own, cursed with a metamorphic monster more terrible than anything Henry Jekyll had envisaged. They'd reached an understanding while they'd worked to solve the Chopper case—hadn't they?

Nullius in verba:
“take nobody's word for it.” An exhortation to see for yourself, to question blind assumptions. A rule she ought to keep in mind. She barely knew the man, after all. Any moment, he could lose his nerve and betray her to save himself a burning.

Bollocks,
whispered Lizzie gaily.
Ain't the real reason you've got ants in your knickers, is it?

Lafayette clapped a constable on the shoulder. “Fantastic work, chaps. Keeping the streets safe, all that. I say, Griffin, do you mind if I borrow the good doctor a moment?”

“Oh, dear,” she said smoothly, “I'm afraid I'm urgently occupied. Perhaps next week—”

“Be my guest, sir,” interrupted Griffin, with a wicked grin. “I'll muddle on without her.” And he wandered off, pretending not to see as she crossed exasperated eyes at him.

She swallowed on Lizzie's jubilation. “What can I do for you, Captain?”

Lafayette tucked his hands behind his back, a flip of scarlet coattail. “I'd hoped to ask you the same. I can't help but observe you've been avoiding me.”

She sidled around him, skirts squashing against the cluttered shop's wall. “Nonsense. Terribly busy, you know. Must go, can't stand around all morning indulging in chit-chat.”

He jumped into her path. “Up to your neck in it, are you?”

She sidestepped a pile of carved frame parts. “Didn't I tell you? I've a new job, at the parish workhouses.”

“I'm all admiration—”

“How gratifying.”

“—but enabling society's exploitation of the poor? Hardly up to your enlightened standards.” He blocked her way again, brandishing that disarming smile.

In fact, she'd already been dismissed from the job, for accusing parish officials of embezzling church funds. It was true, but that greedy beadle had fired her anyway. Despicable man, stealing food from impoverished mouths. Just the thought of him tickled an indignant itch up her arms. “I take what criminal cases I can, thank you.”

Lafayette glanced at the crime scene, faking a shudder. “Villainy in the foulest! The Empire's fate surely rests upon solving this enormity.”

Again, she tried to slip by in the cramped space. “Scoff if you will, sir. Police work isn't all murders and mayhem. Now, if you'll excuse me—”

“What if I could get you a
real
case?”

She halted, pulse thudding.

A knowing smile. “Gruesome, suspicious, the threat of sinister enemies unknown. A perfect chance to test your skills. Did I win you over yet?”

“Whatever are you blathering about?”

“A society murder, of course. High-profile case, get the jump on your charming constabulary colleagues. Naturally, you'll be paid for your expertise. If you're interested.” Lafayette let his gaze wander. “Perhaps you aren't. Perhaps you enjoy being insulted by idiots and working misdemeanors for pocket change.”

“Burglary's a felony,” she corrected automatically. But temptation warred with caution in her mind. Never mind the payment, which she could surely use. To solve a big case, yet again prove herself worthy of a proper job . . .

“Not a very glamorous one. So are you in, or shall I call the next on my list of stunningly attractive medical geniuses?”

She snorted. “Is that what passes for charm at the Royal these days? Since when is homicide your purview?”

A flippant shrug. “It isn't. But from time to time—I can't imagine why—people like to whisper to me of certain peculiarities. And this case is very peculiar.”

“Your spies, you mean. To save their own skins. Such public spirit.”

“Call them what you please. I thought you might enjoy it, that's all. Told you I could use a crime scene physician, didn't I?” He hesitated. “Perchance you recall that conversation?”

She fidgeted.

“In your consulting room, one evening six weeks ago? When I asked you to marry me? Whereupon the conversation abruptly ended?”

Light suddenly glared into every crevice, leaving her nowhere to hide. The constables grew deeply entranced by their tasks. Even Griffin examined a pile of coiled wire with unwarranted intensity.

Smiling blandly, she dragged Lafayette into a corner, beneath a pair of ugly spaniel portraits on the wall. “This is hardly the time nor place, sir,” she hissed. “If you're hoping to embarrass me into an answer, it won't work.”

Lafayette winced, and tugged his chestnut curls. A little too ragged for decency. A creature such as he needed frequent haircuts. “I didn't mean it like that. If you want the case, it's yours, regardless.” An irrepressible glint of bright eyes. “But I note you haven't yet said no to either. Dare one hope?”

Reeve strutted up, brandishing his cigar stub. “Are you two love bunnies quite finished?”

Eliza sprang a foot backwards, certain her face out-reddened Lafayette's coat. “Chief Inspector. We were just—”

“Spare me the sordid particulars, missy. I pay you to work, not pursue your little affair d'amours.”

Piss off, you rude little rat,
yelled Lizzie in her ear. Eliza fought to keep still, nerves jangling.

Lafayette bristled, stroking his sword hilt. “Were your French not such a tragedy, sir, I should take you to task for that insulting plural.”

Honestly. Add “gallant” and “idiotic” to his list of maddening attributes. “Gentlemen, please. Such primitive hostility.”

Reeve just grinned bullishly. “Watch it, Captain. This isn't 1815, and you're not the Duke of bloody Wellington. I could arrest you, Royal Society or not. Dueling's a capital crime.”

“Only if I kill you.” A chilly Lafayette smile. “Perhaps I'll just leave you to bleed.”

“With a dozen armed constables at my back? I don't think so.” Reeve chewed his cigar. “Now clear off. I don't remember inviting you to my crime scene.”

Lafayette didn't budge. “What a pity I don't need your invitation.”

Let Remy kill the little squeezer,
hissed Lizzie.
Better still, let ME tear the rude bastard's face off. Stuff that stinking cigar up his nose. Squeeze his scrawny neck until his eyeballs bleed . . .

Sweating, Eliza laid a hand on Lafayette's arm. “Captain, be so good as to refrain from gutting our Chief Inspector, at least not this morning.”

“If it please you, madam.” Lafayette's stare didn't defrost. A flat, disturbing, metallic shine. A
wolfish
shine. Oh, dear. Was it that time again?

Shakily, Eliza faced Reeve, with Lizzie roiling and thrashing beneath her skin. “As for the crime scene, sir? No forced entry, and your witnesses claim they saw no one. Either they're lying and someone let the thief in—in which case I've no doubt a man of your impressive stature will beat the truth out of them directly . . .”

Finally, Reeve scowled. “Or?”

She smiled brightly. “Or they're telling the truth, and the burglar has covered his tracks with an unorthodox trick.”

Ha ha ha!
Lizzie cackled.
Stick that in your cigar, weedbrain!

“Makes sense,” put in Griffin airily.

“Unorthodox, eh?” muttered Reeve, with a sharp glance at Lafayette. “Clever of you, I'm sure.”

Eliza widened her eyes. “Are you ill, sir? Or was that a glimmer of grudging regard?”

Reeve flicked away his cigar stub. “Don't push me, missy. I can't scour the streets for an invisible thief.”

“Can't you? And here I thought you were the expert.”

“Sting me with your wit, will you?” He gave her a hurt look. “Last time I do you a favor.”

Eliza stared, taken aback. Reeve was old-fashioned in more than his condescending attitude. He'd thrived on the old thief-taker's methods: informers, tip-offs, bribes exchanged in dark corners, confessions beaten from yowling unfortunates. But epic mulishness made him dogged, not incompetent, and impressing the Home Office with a swift result was his idea of a good day's work. Reeve truly thought this petty theft an important case.

What if he'd honestly intended to help her?

But Lizzie's rage made her shudder and sweat, and her mouth stung with sour need for the elixir. She wasn't inclined to show mercy. “Shall I do your job for you yet again? I suggest you put the hard word on your security guards and smoke out the burglar's accomplice. Otherwise, I believe only one invisible thief of note is at work in London, and that's Harry the Haunter.”

Reeve gaped like a half-skinned eel. “Harry the who?”

“The mythical miscreant who stole the Balmoral Diamond and robbed the Royal Exchange? Perhaps you'd have read of him in your divisional reports, if you weren't too busy hobnobbing with the Commissioner to pay attention to real detective work.”

She stuffed her optical into its leather case and shouldered her bag. “I shall forward my account in due course. Good day, Chief Inspector.” And in a satisfied swirl of skirts, she stalked out.

Outside, on Great Portland Street, acid bubbled in her throat, and her hair coiled like wound springs, yearning to
change
. She swallowed a scream.
It's not your turn, Lizzie. Stop it!

Hippocrates scurried after her, brassy feet clattering over the curb. Uncaring traffic hustled by, the din roaring in her ears. She inhaled deeply, then again. It didn't help. The foul air only wrung her throat dry with unbearable thirst.

The crowd jostled her, a barrage of skirts and coattails and careless elbows. She fumbled for her little phial of remedy—a drug to relieve the symptoms of her darker dependency on Lizzie's elixir—and gulped a mouthful.

Her eyes watered. The horrid salty flavor made her gag. Gradually, her squirming skin subsided, but still, the craving for that warm, strangely bitter drink that set Lizzie free writhed, a ghost trapped in a bottle, swirling in ever-tightening knots, until . . .

“That went well.” Effortlessly, Captain Lafayette matched her stride, dodging loping clockwork servants and costermongers yelling about strawberries or salted fish.

Curse him, but the man didn't give up easily. “Did someone speak? I'm afraid I heard only childish babbling.”

A sheepish glance. “Fair enough. I apologize. I lost my temper with him. Your hair looks stunning, by the way. Is that a new hat?”

“Lost your temper? If I'm not mistaken, you grabbed for your sword to defend my honor. I rather think you've lost your mind.”

“Well—”

“Or is it that you imagine yourself some swashbuckling Georgian highwayman, to duel at dawn for a lady's favor? Either way, I recommend a swift pistol shot as the better solution.”

He opened his mouth, and shut it again.

“Wise,” she remarked, wedging past a flower-seller, who waved a basket of red chrysanthemums. “I'm glad we're agreed you're a romantic fool, Remy Lafayette.”

“I prefer ‘foolish romantic,' but point conceded. I'm sorry.”

“Apology noted.”

“And accepted?”

“Your credit is limited, sir. Don't waste it all in one day.” But uneasily, she recalled that glint of wolfish eye. An impending full moon did strange things to those who
changed
. “I trust you're in good health,” she added belatedly. “It being, er . . . Friday quite soon.”

“Never better,” he announced, too readily. “Your concern touches my heart.”

“How quaint. From your daft behavior, I imagined it had touched your wits.”

“Ouch. Is it wrong that I've missed your tongue-lashings?”

“No, but it's timely.” She smiled sweetly. “I've been polishing my store of insults on the off chance you should show your irritating face.”