Transmuted (2 page)

Bastards. I’d see this kidnapper and his ilk rot for this.

Squaring my shoulders beneath my wrap, I picked my way down the hall. The floorboards creaked. This home was not so well-built as the Cheyne Walk residence I had once occupied.

I entered the kitchen, a small affair cluttered with tools of Mrs. Booth’s trade, and paused to shake out my cloak. In the farthest corner, the darkest away from the stove’s heat, I vaguely picked out the outline of my sleeping houseboy.

That was, to my relief, at least one member of my staff free of whatever vultures this bloke had brought with him.

“Hurry,” began my captor. He’d meant to say more, but he froze at the distinct and altogether tooloud sound of a revolver’s hammer unnecessarily cocked.

Wise man.

Of all things, not least of which being a remarkable butler possessed of a perfect sense of propriety, Booth was a weapons aficionado. He had served for a time in Her Majesty’s Army, and lost much of his leg below his left knee whilst serving.

I had little doubt that few in Society would have allowed him to pursue the respectable position of butler with a missing limb, yet Ashmore was not by any stretch an average employer. He had installed Booth in my household before I had been plucked from my wayward existence and deposited back in the Society I was born to.

Booth was an older gentleman, broad in shoulder and tall of build, with a full head of leonine white hair and thick, lush chops to match. He walked with a peculiar rhythm, as familiar to me as my own heartbeat;
step-thunk-step
, thanks to the steel and brass false limb affixed to his knee. While many might find it all rather off-putting, the elegant whorls carved into the support had always been lovely to me, and my butler something of a gentleman pirate in my esteem.

Now, as he held one of his many pistols in hand—this one a Colt, if memory served, one of the early revolver models disseminated among the British military—I wanted to jump for joy. Awkwardly paced he may be, my butler still knew a thing or two about how to go unnoticed in the dark.

“Please step away from the lady,” Booth intoned, his deep voice mild and respectful. As though he was well used to standing in a hall in a nightshirt and trousers. Bless his sense of propriety; he’d pulled his customary butler’s jacket firmly over his nightclothes.

He had even remembered the white gloves of service.

My captor turned an inquisitive gaze upon me.

I returned a stare lacking in the faintest impression of modesty. Angry I might be, even chilled by the threat the sneakthief had levied, but if he thought my butler a mere old man, he deserved all that was coming.

Challenge had been issued. What would he do?

In the faint light, I noted that his apparel was nothing that gave clue to his identity. Plain togs of no particular fashion, simple frock coat and trousers, with no accessories but his gloves. Quite drab, really.

A crumpled hat had been shoved into one pocket, similar to that of the streetcaps I wore when I needed to mask my long hair.

I could not resist the desire to put a bit of the verbal boot in. “Your men appear to have vanished.”

“And yours to have not,” he replied. He grabbed me by the arm, no gentle thing, and tugged me in front of him. The pistol he held, a common enough Webley, lacked something of intimidation when compared to the beautiful gleam of Booth’s steady firearm.

It would nevertheless end me if it were to fire so close to my head.

Booth’s gray eyes narrowed.

“I apologize,” said the gentleman who was anything but. “I am afraid I’ll have to take your lady.” He backed up slowly. I held on to the arm braced around my throat and tried not to lose my balance. “It would go better for us all if you stood down, sir.”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that, sir,” replied Booth, with ferocity about the mouth and eyes.

“Booth,” I said, my voice slightly higher thanks to the pressure my assailant applied at my throat. “Summon—”

A hand folded over my mouth. The barrel of his pistol nudged my temple. “That’s enough of that.”

We passed the stove. He sidestepped a footstool as though he knew it was there.

He must have come in through the kitchen.

Booth’s weapon lowered, his eyebrows drawn together.

“Good man,” the gentleman absconding with me said quietly. “Now if you’ll—”

There was no real sound, only a sense of movement. I felt him stiffen against my back. Quick as I could, I threw all my weight to the front as he tightened his hold to wrest me to the side. This sent him off-balance enough that his turn became something of a wobble.

There was a sound like a club through the air, followed by a terrible
gong!

My captor was lifted off his feet. He rolled across the floor, then collided with the closed range stove Mrs. Booth cooked with. That, too, rang like a dull bell.

The cloak I’d held on to drifted to the floor as Booth and I stared at the sleepy face of Leviticus, the young houseboy.

He had always been small for his age, much younger in appearance than the thirteen he swore he was, but he had shot up in the past year to nearly my height—easy to do; my stature was not an impressive one. The learning of his trade, a glassmaker’s apprentice, had thickened his shoulders and arms.

In his hands, held like a stick ready to swing and not at all shaking for it, was one of Mrs. Booth’s heavy iron frying pans.

With his brown hair sticking straight out in every wild direction and his eyes red-rimmed from his interrupted sleep, Levi yawned widely and asked, “Is it mealtimes yet?”

My sudden urge to laugh outright was cut abruptly short when a woman’s angry shout pierced the awkward emptiness that filled the kitchen.

Booth spun, hurried back down the hall and towards another small room; this one reserved for use by Zylphia, who was both friend and guest of the house, for all she insisted upon working in it.

I followed, my aborted laughter turned to fear. While I knew full well Zylphia was no victim to be coddled, possessing of a certain mysterious heritage that made her a dangerous enemy, she was also carrying her unborn child. Were anything to happen to her, to the child she shared with Ishmael Communion, I would never forgive myself.

Yet as I tore through the hall in my butler’s astonishingly speedy wake, I understood that my distress was premature.

The door flung wide ere any of us got there, and a man dressed in much the same as his mate came flying out, voice strangled—the sort of gurgle that stems from a punch to the throat. He collided with Booth, sent the older man spinning, and tumbled to a heap at my feet.

From the interior, Zylphia—a girl of exquisite beauty and no small martial ability— caught her weight against the doorframe. Her nightclothes were rumpled, but to my relief, she did not appear harmed. One hand came to rest against the swell of her belly. “What in blazes is going on?” she demanded, eyes narrowed with the heat of her anger. “Why’s there a toff in my room?”

“Here, now,” called the voice of Esther Booth, wife of my butler and the housekeeper who had maintained my home for as long as I’d known it. “What’s happening here?” She loomed like a ghost from an overwrought Gothic, all white nightclothes and frilly white sleeping cap. “Lord Almighty!” Freezing at the entry to the quarters she shared with her husband, her eyes went round and wide beneath her ruffled nightcap. They flicked to Levi, lingering in the kitchen door. “Leviticus! Is that my pan?”

He looked at it as though unaware he’d held on. “Oh.” He frowned. “Sorry, marm. I’ll wash it.”

Silence descended like a shroud.

As one, all eyes turned to me.

“Well,” I said, preamble to an explanation I had no understanding to give. The man at my feet groaned, blood dotting the floorboards he sprawled upon. A bit of a mash to his nose, likely. “I suppose we’d best truss these gents up, don’t you think?”

Chapter Two

That what separated the Chelsea home, in which I had lived prior, from this home in Little Chelsea was a matter of engineering.

Early in Her Majesty’s reign, when the peerage had begun to kick up a fuss about the lung-scarring smoke pouring from the industrial districts into their so-fashionable boroughs, Her Majesty posited a bit of advice that altered the face of London forever: “Rise above it.”

After years of planning, decades of building —and shortly after the Herr Baron who headed the design went stark raving mad and was succeeded by his son—what came to pass was a markedly different face of the city. Those districts deemed well-heeled and those of historic import were lifted atop the fog via massive hydraulic lifters.

Any resident titled, of substantial wealth or standing, and those upper and middle class denizens whose appearances would not sully the sensibilities of the peerage they served, were ensconced comfortably above the peasouper.

The effect was that of a city floating on a roiling cloud, each district framed by canals that bore a thick mist instead of water.

Chelsea was one such lifted, and due to planning, the district once known for its fashionable interests in the arts and those who patronized artists was shifted closer to the East India Docks.

That left behind was Little Chelsea, which spread like a weed to fill in behind the fashionable quarter’s loss. For that reason, while it rested close enough to the Thames that a stiff breeze across the water might carry with it the pong of rotted fish and sewage, it remained relatively clear of the worst of the fog. A good day might bring with it brighter light and fresher air.

Much like the Philosopher’s Square, a historical quarter that played home to a university and many academic places of study, Little Chelsea was decidedly unfashionable by word and only occasionally acceptable to visit when deemed necessary.

For that reason, there was precious little to excuse a social call at the late hour my doorbell chimed.

Aside from the obviousness of the impropriety, there were other concerns to address. The highly inappropriate fact that I remained in my nightclothes, the unfortunate matter of my staff caught unprepared for visitors, and most certainly the unavoidable circumstance that left two unconscious men of uncertain origin tied up in my parlor.

Booth, having taken the time to dress himself appropriately, turned a quizzical eye upon me.

“I haven’t the foggiest,” I replied in hushed tones. It could be an associate of these unconscious men, or perhaps a Baker bantling with word from Ishmael. Certainly, my tutor would have no need to ring the bell of his own home.

My butler tucked a gloved hand into the pocket of his coat, where he had stored a different pistol—this one smaller and snub-nosed. His footsteps faded down the hall.

Levi, desperately weary thanks to his long days of apprenticeship, had helped Booth long enough to wrest the men we’d collectively clobbered into place upon the sofa, and then returned to his bed. The lad seemed only vaguely aware of the gravity of the situation.

Mrs. Booth had taken the opportunity to retire upstairs, where my dear Fanny slept. My companion had not woken from the noise; a small relief, and one I’d take with gratitude.

Merciless though Mrs. Booth could be upon dust and clutter, the art of coshing a man was not one that came naturally to her. Allowing her to sit with Fanny, to avoid whatever scuffle might stem from these new antics and watch over the frail matron we all loved, was a kindness I would not deny her.

Unlike my generally well-mannered staff, Zylphia was neither trained servant nor helpless female to be deposited out of sight. She sat upon the narrow settee, her dusky hands folded in her lap, and focused upon me a stare that might have felt too direct from anyone else. I was long familiar with Zylphia’s company and did not flinch.

She, too, waited to see what consequence would follow.

Once a sweet of the Midnight Menagerie, one of them striking beauties what sold their flesh to any with the often hefty coin to purchase it, she retained much of the exotic. Her skin was the color of black tea lightened with cream. Her hair was long, dark and thick, with enough kink to the heavy mass to harken to her Negro mother. Her eyes, a lovely shade of blue, were the legacy of her white father. The whole created a startlingly lovely portrait.

When she played the role of sweet, she fetched quite the price—one of the highest, I was led to believe, and not always from the purse of a man.

Now, as my friend and something of an enigma still, she slept in Fanny’s home and helped Mrs. Booth about the house. Her role in the mutiny that had helped destroy the Menagerie she had once served remained something of a badge of self-assurance that she wore with pride.

Servant she might have been, sweet or slave or worse, but none could shackle her.

I admired her greatly.

Ishmael Communion, the father of her unborn child, often came by to see her—a gentle and somewhat awkward romance that seemed rather out of place upon the Baker built more like a mountain than a man.

She carried no weapon here, but she needed none. While she was a fair aim with a longgun, and deadly enough with a blade, her unusual heritage ensured she was never quite defenseless. I did not know exactly what it was she did, or where such heritage came from, but I had seen her go toe to toe with Ikenna Osoba, the savage lion prince of the Veil’s employ, and come out the victor. Whether it was magic—a thing I no longer scoffed at quite so readily—or something else, I could not say.

If Zylphia ever wished to confide, I would be there. Until then, I trusted her. If we were to be assaulted again, she would be ready.

As would I.

A low murmur from the door was the voice of my butler, who no doubt looked down his aquiline nose at any who dared bother his household at such an early hour. The clock in the hall had chimed three of the morning, and while those of Society might have only just found their beds, it was no time for visiting.

Dawn would see the servants rise soon enough.

A quieter reply seemed of a masculine sort to me, but I could pinpoint neither tone nor intent. All I could say for certain was that it did not yell.

Zylphia’s frown appeared more puzzled than angry. “These aren’t Ferrymen.”

The men remained conked, the dark-haired one who had accosted me leaning upon the shoulder of the flaxen-haired bloke with the stiff mustache. They were bound securely enough to ensure that even should they wake, they would not move with any degree of ease.

“No,” I agreed thoughtfully. They were too posh for a street gang. As inconspicuous as their togs seemed to be, there was a simplicity in the workmanship that spoke of tailoring, and a neatness to their general features. “Servants, perhaps, or men of a certain breeding.”

The arrhythmic step of my butler preceded his entry into the parlor. His carriage, as always expected, was rigid, and his features a formal mask, but as his gaze settled on me, I thought I saw a bit of a twitch to an eyebrow.“Mr. Renalto P. Darlington,” he intoned. There was no card with the announcement, which suggested that either Mr. Darlington was no gentleman, or that he had not come prepared for a social call.

Because it was expected that I reply, and I was curious enough to allow it, I said with some asperity, “He may come.” And let this Mr. Darlington make of the chaos within as he would.

Booth stepped aside.

The man who bore the name Darlington no doubt suffered its consequence, for he was barely taller than I. Next to Booth, he appeared little more than a youth, though the large sideburns that framed a delicate jaw seemed meant as much to counter this appearance as emphasize it. He was pale-skinned, given to a ruddiness about the cheeks and nose, and dressed most dapperly in tweed.

His bowler, tucked firmly under one arm, sported a bit of red feather, and the thin knot of his necktie laid flat beside his narrow lapels, which winked a matching red gleam upon a stick pin.

He clicked his heels once, bowed in succinct courtesy, and with his hazel eyes fixed upon me, he said, “With all due respect, you are requested upon Her Majesty’s order to remand custody of the men currently enjoying your hospitality.” His voice was as fine an instrument as a flute, somewhat effeminate in tone, yet delivered with a crispness that allowed no hint of sardonicism.

While it might be rather apparent that the hospitality the men enjoyed was not at their own request, Mr. Darlington did not appear to address this apparently insignificant detail.

I raised my eyebrows, for I had never mastered the art of raising one. One might have been rather too crass for Mr. Darlington’s method of subtlety, in any case. “At order of Her Majesty, you say?”

“Yes, my lady.” His gaze remained upon me, yet I was left with the distinct impression that the seemingly delicate man had already marked the exact whereabouts of all in the room. Zylphia watched him with deliberate suspicion.

I stood. The many layers of my wrapper flounced about my slippers. “All due respect, Mr. Darlington,” I replied, utilizing his manner of speech, “I would like to know why these men crept into my home like common thieves, put my staff in danger and otherwise intruded upon my privacy.”

Mr. Darlington’s features, set in an expression of cultivated tolerance, did not so much as twitch. “I am not at liberty to explain,” he said, “however—”

“I’ve little enough patience for these games,” I cut in.

There. A tic etched in one eyelid.

“Either I be directed to one who has the authority to explain to me this farce, or Her Majesty can come herself to collect these men,” I declared, with rather more gusto than likely expected.

Zylphia’s mouth wobbled as she fought to hide what I expected to be a snicker.

Mr. Darlington said nothing for a beat. Whether he thought it over or swallowed irritation, I could not be sure. “Of course,” he finally said, inclining once more in a bow I suspected was meant to be courteous. It bore, instead, the makings of thinly veiled disapproval. “My apologies. If Your Ladyship is so inclined,” he continued with such mild gentility that I admit to a certain pang of remorse, “I have been instructed to request your presence.”

That earned him a sharp frown. “Where?”

“I am not at liberty to say.”

I glanced at Zylphia, who tilted her head in a faint indication of uncertainty.

This, I echoed. “Whom shall I have the privilege of meeting?” I asked in the same measure of forced formality.

Mr. Darlington did not move from his spot by the door, and Booth remained behind him upon the other side. When the former repeated simply, “I am not at liberty to say,” my butler’s expression shifted to one of thoughtful regard.

I knew what he was thinking, for I was beginning to suspect the same.

Had I unwittingly bested agents of the Crown?

“Mr. Darlington,” I said, hands clasped at my waist as expected of a lady. “While I am not averse to taking you up on your ever so kind invite, might you be willing to allow me the courtesy of dressing?”

To his credit, the youthful-faced Mr. Darlington did not blush. Nor did his eyes drift to the frothy material of my wrapper. He simply inclined his head once, stepped away from the door, and said, “Please be quick.” And then, because Zylphia rose as well, he added, “You may bring your companion for the sake of a chaperone.”

As if I needed his permission.

Tossing my head sent the long plait of my hair bouncing over my shoulder.

To claim that I had never dressed so quickly would be something of a lie. In previous years, when I still maintained the balance of a Society miss and the collector I played at night, I had more than once been forced to undress from one and dress again as the other with extremely limited time to do it. My maid at the time, a dear girl called Betsy, had been the only one who knew my secret, and often facilitated such things.

When Zylphia had taken on the role of maid, in part because the Karakash Veil forced her to and also because doing so afforded her a measure of protection, she had learned of my Society identity.

This made her an ideal companion to take with me, especially as she could help me dress rather quickly.

The apparel of a Society lady was never a simple matter. Petticoats, crinolines, bustle, a multitude of skirts, camisole, corset, fitted blouse and jacket provided altogether too many layers to rush. To say nothing of the hair, the accessories required of the fashionable and other such details.

That I wore a skirt and jacket in stiff black was a matter of course, for regardless of my currently reviled standing in Society, I was nevertheless a widow—and the requisite two years of mourning had not yet passed.

Were I in truth the countess I refused to embrace, I would be locked away in a home draped with black crepe, only just beginning to accept the occasional somber visitor.

I grieved for my husband, of that make no mistake, but I refused to play the caged bird for the marchioness that blamed me for his death. Forcing me behind the gilded bars of a title’s trappings would never have allowed me the opportunity to achieve vengeance against the man who’d killed him.

Yet my views on the matter were not and never had been appropriate for a widow. That the late earl’s murderer no longer walked among the living would be an irrelevant ripple in the greater scheme of his mother’s expectations.

Zylphia helped me with my hair, tucked it within a woven black net. While I refused a widow’s veil, I pinned in place a small hat fashioned like a gentleman’s top hat, with black mesh netting. I could see well enough, and while I might have foregone it entirely, the fact that I might soon find myself in the company of a greater station was cause for such care.

Zylphia dressed in apparel she had often worn for her role as companion and maidservant. The severe lines of the dark navy gown and minimal bustle drew the swelling of her belly into starker relief. She was but five or six months along, with room yet to grow.

When we rejoined Mr. Darlington in the parlor, there was no sign of the unconscious men. He gave not a word of approval nor of courteous flattery at my appearance. He simply stood from the sofa and said, “Let us be off.”