Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1) (9 page)

TWELVE

I awoke to a dream. At first, I thought myself back in my old room, the one I shared with Aunt Agnes. But the familiar faded cornflowers were not there; they were replaced by delicate waves of ivory and gold, a wheat field rippling through paper. The walls themselves had grown, sprouting in height, blooming to ornate moldings and a pristine ceiling of snowy white. The instant I saw the rose-colored chandelier, with its carved brass arms like that of an octopus, I knew I was far from home.

I sat up—and fell back with a gasp as pain shot through my left arm.

"Ah, Miss Jones is back with us at last. Very good, very good."

My gaze veered wildly in the direction of the voice. A man with wire-rimmed spectacles and a graying beard and moustache was peering at me. When I tried to scramble back, I felt the pain again and a softness against which I could find no purchase.

"There's no need to be frightened, Miss Jones. If you'll simply let me—"

He leaned over me, aimed a steel spike with a gaping mouth over my heart.

Screaming, I fought for my life.

"Abby.
Abigail Jones.
Be still, you are safe."

The stern words pierced my panic. Hux's voice. I opened my eyes, not even realizing that I had closed them, and saw him standing beside the other man. His eyes held mine, commanded me to calm. Slowly, I released my breath. I was in a bed, I realized. The room was oddly familiar—one that I had been in before. I focused on the brass bed frame and remembered the care with which I had polished those gleaming bars.

I was back in the house, in one of the guest rooms on the first floor. I looked down at my left arm; it was wrapped in a linen sling.

"Wh-what happened?" The words scratched painfully against my throat.

"I am Dr. McCaberneth," the grey-bearded man said. "A physician from London. I have been attending you since this afternoon, after your accident. Now, do you know where you are, Miss Jones?"

"Hope End," I said. "Earl Huxton's residence."

"Excellent, excellent. And what day is it, young miss?"

I had to think. In doing so, it all returned in a flash: the accident ... the carriage and the mob ... and Lord help me, Mrs. Cunningham. The witch and her lair of depravity. I felt the tightening of the red satin around my throat. Terror welled, and my right hand flew to my neck. My fingers found the worn linen of my under-things rather than the sinuous silk. A whimper escaped before I could stop it. Liquid heat burned behind my eyes, and for once I couldn't stop that either.

I felt the mattress shift beneath me. I was enveloped in warmth, in Hux's scent.

"Shh, Abby, you are safe now. I won't let harm come to you. Trust me, little one, I will take care of you."

The words whispered into my ear and the gentle stroke over my hair undid something within me. A torrent of emotion gushed forth, and there was no stopping it. The sobs took over. All the while, the arms never let me go.
Hux
never let me go. To my shame I clung to him, to the strong haven of his embrace, even after the tears subsided.

"A shock to the nerves, my lord, I have seen it before," I heard the physician say. "Being a female and therefore of fragile disposition, Miss Jones may be gravely affected by the events of today. I would suggest laudanum to dull her overactive sensibilities. Phosphorus, as well, if her condition does not improve."

"
No.
" But the word came out dulled, slurred. My tongue felt thick in my mouth. "No l-laudanum. No medicines.
Please
,
Hux." I struggled to look up at him. I could not risk anything but a clear mind.

He kept my head tucked to his chest, his voice rumbling beneath my ear. "She will not have anything she does not wish, McCaberneth."

I nodded and slanted a look at the physician.

He was frowning and stroking his beard. "Do you think that wise, my lord? Though I have bound her arm, she will likely experience significant pain as the ligaments heal. There are the wounds on her feet as well. In point of fact, the cumulative shock of today's events has likely caused imbalances in her blood. At the very least, I should perform a bloodletting. I no longer use leeches, you understand, only the newest advances in steel blade technology—"

"No! Do not touch me!" Pushing out of Hux's arms, I tried to scramble off the bed. The motion jarred my left arm, and a wave of pain and nausea crashed over me.

"Abby, you must calm yourself. Trust me—I will not allow anything you do not wish." It was Hux's voice in my ear, his warmth caging me against the feather softness. His deep tones soothed over my senses. "Nod now, if you understand me. Or I will give the good doctor free rein with his quackery."

My head moved emphatically against the mattress; behind Hux, I heard Dr. McCaberneth give an affronted grunt.

"The letting blades were produced by Rodgers & Sons," he said stiffly. "They are the very latest in medical technology. Perhaps your servant does not understand how fortunate she is to be privy to such—"

"She does not wish it," Hux said.

A sullen pause. "Then it seems my services are no longer required."

"As you say," Hux said indifferently. "Send me the bill. You may see yourself out."

Moustache bristling, Dr. McCaberneth grabbed the handles of his medical bag and marched to the door. Hux went to the side table and returned with a glass. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he held it to me.

"Drink this."

I eyed the slosh of amber liquid. I was not in the habit of imbibing spirits of any kind. "Truly, I do not need—"

"It's this or the laudanum," he said calmly. "Your choice."

Seeing the firm set of his jaw, I saw no choice but to take the glass. I sputtered as the brandy trailed fire down my throat. He was watching me, ensuring that I drank every drop. After a while, the burning faded to a warming sensation, dulling the throb in my arm and other places. The edges of the pain, of my mind softened.

"Better?"

"Thank you," I said. "For this—and for getting rid of the physician."

"Damn quack. I should have known better than to consult him. But I had little choice, did I, given your shenanigans. Now that you are feeling more the thing—what the
bloody hell
happened today?"

Tread carefully, Abigail. Guard your secrets.

Hindered by the golden haze enveloping my brain, I tried to conjure up an adequate excuse for my actions. "I ... I needed to leave. I was afraid," I mumbled.

"Afraid? What in God's name were you afraid of at a dress fitting?"

 "Mrs. Cunningham," I whispered.

Tears blurred my vision as I thought of her red lips and slithering touch. No amount of brandy could dissipate that memory. She was the devil incarnate; in my bones, I knew this. Just as I had intuitively sensed the same malevolence in Lady Priscilla. Certainty flared: though I might be mad for having visions in the first place, I was not imagining what transpired
in
them. The evil was real.

For most of my life, I'd believed my trances random, a figment of lunacy. Before the last two visions, I had never encountered the people of the trance in the flesh, and, consequently, had thought they existed purely in my head. But I had not invented Lady Priscilla and Mrs. Cunningham; I'd been in the same room as them, interacted with them, and they had been unmistakably real. Unmistakably wicked. Even now, I could feel the churning darkness of the dressmaker's thoughts, the pull of her appetites more overwhelming than in any vision I'd had before—

"What happened? Did she say something to you?" Hux's stark voice snapped me back. With my thoughts jumbling, I could not summon words, and he growled, "Damn it to hell, Abby, you'll tell me now, or I'll have it directly from her. So help me God, we will go back there—"

"No! No, I won't ever go back."

"Then tell me."

Through the haze of tears, I looked up at his face; it was implacable, an austere profile carved in marble. In that instant, Mrs. Cunningham's voice poured into my memory, and I heard myself saying, "She ... she said you were her best client. That you always brought her the b-best raw materials."

A heavy pause.

"Damn her," Hux said, his voice strung tight with fury. "She had no right."

"Wh-what did she mean by it?" Not being daft and having perused Hux's correspondence, I had a pretty good notion. Yet, at this point, the best defense seemed a good offense. I had to focus, get my wits in order ...

His frigid eyes met mine. "You are many things, Abigail. Stupid is not one of them."

"Why did you take me to her? To that awful place, where you brought your ..." I could not think of a polite word to describe those perfumed letters.

"My lovers," he said harshly, "though that, too, is a euphemism. None of that particular emotion was present between the sheets."

I blinked at his crudity. 'Twas almost as if he was trying to shock me, to cast himself in a sordid light. But in this respect I was made of sterner stuff than he supposed. Compared to what I had seen in my visions ... In that instant, an unthinkable suspicion occurred to me. A thought so vile, I could scarce credit it.

Did Hux know about Mrs. Cunningham's debased business? Her ... perversions? God help me, had he participated in them?

"Is Mrs. Cunningham ... truly a dressmaker?" I asked in a stilted voice.

I prayed. Prayed to the deepest depths of my soul that he knew not what transpired in that den of iniquity—that he would never knowingly participate in, or expose me to, such evil.

He gave me an annoyed look. "What the bloody hell else do you think she is? A concert pianist?"

His irritation sounded genuine enough. Relief trickled through me, but I had to be certain. "When you bring your ... your women there, you've never noticed anything ... unusual?"

"I do not
bring
women there." His voice turned oddly gruff, and I thought I detected a slight ruddiness to his jaw. "Not, as you imply, in the present tense. There was a time, many years ago before I was—"

He stopped, cleared his throat.

I willed him to continue. When he did not, I ventured forth with a boldness I could only attribute to the blow I had so recently sustained to the head. That, or the fortifying effects of the brandy.

"Before you were married?" I asked.

His gaze returned swiftly to mine; the grooves around his mouth grew more pronounced. I thought he meant to rebuke me for my impertinence. Instead, he raked a hand through his already disordered locks and narrowed his eyes at me.

"I knew I would come to regret hiring Athena on as my secretary. Those eyes of yours—they're too bloody perceptive by far." When I continued to regard him with those self-same orbs, his mouth took on a wry curve. "Yes, Abigail, before I was married I did bring my lovers to see Mrs. Cunningham. 'Twas part of the allure for them, you see. My money."

His laughed suddenly; the humorless, bleak sound wrenched at my heart. I was jarred into remembering the other time I'd heard him laugh, the rich music of it on the carriage ride over.

"Never underestimate the power of
carte blanche
on a woman," he said.

Carte blanche
held little appeal for me, particularly as I did not know what it was. Some sort of expensive French trinket, I imagined. "But not ... after?" I asked.

His forehead furrowed. "After what?"

"You did not go there after you were wed?"

"No." The single syllable hung in the sudden silence. "No, I did not."

I stared down at the silk coverlet, experiencing an odd mix of elation and pain at his words. 'Twas just as Ginny had guessed: contrary to the rumors, he had been faithful to his wife. He had loved his countess enough to change his rakehell ways. That was why he kept her portrait with him in the library, why he hadn't remarried. Beneath that jaded exterior, there beat a heart capable of decency, of devotion.

"It would not have mattered if I had," he said with a cynical bent to his lips. "Despite her despicable manner, Mrs. Cunningham has always been the soul of discretion. No one would have been the wiser had I brought a mistress—or dozens—to her."

I thought I knew him better now. "Is that why you brought me there? Because you knew she would be discreet? You were trying to protect me from gossip, weren't you? You do care about proprieties after—"

The mattress shifted abruptly, jolting my arm. I winced at the shock of pain. Hux had risen and now stood at the foot of the bed. His head was turned from me, his knuckles white where they gripped the brass post. His posture spoke of his ambivalence to leave or stay. He remained there, a hulking, elegant beast enraged by the bonds of his own civility.

"Do not," he said, his voice dangerous and low, "mistake self-interest for kindness. I took you there because it was convenient for me. You are my employee, and I do not wish to suffer the sight of you dressed in clothes fit for the rag bin. 'Tis personal whim, not compassion, which drives my actions. Do I make myself clear?"

I possessed sufficient wit not to argue. "Yes, my lord."

"Do not presume to think you understand me—because you do not." He turned to look at me; I could not say if the mockery twisting his mouth was for me or himself. "Such darkness even you cannot penetrate, my clear-eyed goddess, nor should you attempt it. Stay in the light, where you belong."

Had I the choice, I would have followed his advice. But the darkness I knew was not a polite visitor, whose calling card might be turned away. It came as it pleased, and there was no stopping it. Though I now had more insight into the nature of my madness, it proved a cold comfort: why was
I
alone privy to these degenerate realities? What cursed flaw caused me to witness and experience what no other decent woman did?

Registering the speculative slant of Hux's gaze, I pushed away the rumination. Time enough for that later. My employer did not know of my familiarity with shadows, and I must do everything in my power to keep it that way. To hide my hated anomaly.

Lowering my gaze, I whispered, "Yes, my lord."