Her Majesty's Necromancer (3 page)

I crossed over the threshold into the corridor. I decided it was best not to ask him why he'd killed the man named Gurry, or about his family. Things were tense enough between us as it was.

"I'll see you soon for training," I said.

"Not today. I have too much work."

"Oh." I tried not to sound disappointed, but I wasn't successful. "Tomorrow, then."

He nodded. "Thank you, Charlie," he said as I turned to go.

"You've already thanked me."

"Once wasn't enough."

***

"Go to bed, Charlie," Gus said when I yawned into my hand of cards for the fourth time. "You've lost the last five rounds."

I tossed the eight of diamonds onto the table. "I'm not tired."

Cook snorted. "Are you waitin' up for Seth or Death?"

"Neither!" I threw another card down.

Gus slid it back to me. "It ain't your turn."

"Might not be back hours yet," Cook said as he added another card to the small pile.

"Do you know who he's seeing?" I asked. "Seth, not Fitzroy." Lincoln had gone to The Red Lion to see if he could learn something about Jimmy and his friend. Seth was visiting the same widow he'd called upon several times over the last few weeks. All he'd told me was that she was wealthy, attractive and restless. I wasn't entirely sure what restless meant, but from the smile he sported every morning after he visited her, I had an inkling.

Gus shrugged. "Lady Harcourt?"

I stared at him. "Surely not."

He shrugged again. "Maybe. Maybe not." He poked the back of my hand of cards, pushing them upright. "You ain't too good at gambling."

"I thought she was still in love with Fitzroy," I muttered.

Cook snorted. "Love ain't got nothin' to do with fu—"

Gus thumped the burly cook on the arm. "None of that talk around the girl."

"She be the one who mentioned love." Cook winked at me.

Gus's face flushed. "I wasn't talking about love. I meant the other…"

"Do you think she expected to marry Fitzroy?" I asked them.

"Fitzroy, marry?" Cook threw down a card and scooped up the pile. "Not him. He ain't the marryin' kind."

"All gentlemen must marry," Gus said in a falsetto toff voice as he shuffled the deck. "It's their duty."

"Does Fitzroy have a family line to continue?" Cook asked. "We don't know who his father be."

Gus shrugged. "Lady H wouldn't marry him anyway. He ain't important enough for the likes of her."

"But she can afford to do what she wants," I said. "She has money and position enough for both of them, surely."

"Those that got much always want more, Charlie." Cook got up and placed the kettle on the cooking range. "There ain't no such thing as enough."

"Aye," Gus said. "Toffs only want one thing. Power. The more, the better."

"I think that's a little unfair," I said. "Fitzroy's a toff and I wouldn't say he desires power above all else."

"He ain't a real toff. Not like them committee members. He's different."

"He be that," Cook muttered.

I yawned again and Gus gently ordered me to go to bed. "Will you take up a jug of water for Death? Saves me doin' it later."

I waited as he filled a jug from the large pot that sat at the back of the range. It was warm now, but would likely cool by the time Lincoln returned. It was still early, and I doubted he would be back for hours.

With jug in one hand and candlestick in the other, I made my way upstairs. My rooms consisted of a bedroom and small sitting room down the hall from Lincoln's. He hadn't moved me into the servants' quarters in the attic, perhaps because the men slept there and I'd have little privacy. The informality of Lichfield's arrangements was one of the reasons I liked living there.

The door was unlocked so I entered. I was familiar with the layout of Lincoln's rooms, having been held prisoner in them for a few days. I set the jug beside the empty bowl on the washstand in his bedroom. I should cover it with a lid to keep the water as warm as possible. A book wouldn't do—the steam would damage the cover.

I looked over the surface of his desk for something to use, but could only find papers and writing materials. The top drawer contained a blotter, spare ink and quills, but the second drawer was more promising. Beneath some papers was a slate of the kind children used in school. It was just the right size to cover the jug. My fingers touched a thin chain at the back from which the slate could be hung. I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to hang a slab of slate on the wall, but I flipped it over to make sure it wasn't something that could be damaged by steam.

It wasn't a chain for hanging the slate, but a necklace that had been nailed to either side of the wooden frame. A flat, oval pendant dangled from the center. Something had been carved into the pendant and I held the candle closer to see. It was a blue eye, rather crudely rendered.

How curious. Why was it nailed to the back of the slate? Had Lincoln done it or someone else?

The soft click of the door made my heart leap into my throat. I dropped the slate back into the drawer and shut it with my hip, but it was too late. Lincoln stood in the doorway. He held no light and I couldn't see anything more than his silhouette, but I felt the force of his glare nevertheless.

"What are you doing in here?" he growled. "I haven't given you permission to enter."

"I'm not stealing anything!"

"I asked what you were doing." His sharp voice cut through me as savagely as a blade.

"I brought up a jug of warm water, and I didn't want it to cool before you returned so I came out here looking for something to cover it. The steam would damage a book or papers, so I searched through the drawers." I sounded like a rambling simpleton, but he was making me nervous. I swallowed heavily. "I know it looks like I was stealing or sneaking around your rooms, but I wasn't. Well, I
was
looking around, but not for valuables. Gus asked me to bring up the jug. Ask him if you don't believe me! The water will be still warm too, if you want to check."

He left the door open and strode toward me. I backed away and stumbled into a table, causing the lamp on it to wobble. His hand lashed out, reaching past me. He caught the lamp, but the action brought him closer. We were a mere inch apart. His breath fanned my hair. His pitch black eyes searched mine and instead of anger, I saw something else in their depths. Desire. I was certain of it. Almost.

My heart stopped dead in my chest. It didn't dare beat for fear that any movement might frighten him away. I waited for his kiss.

It never came. He drew in a slow, deep breath then turned away. He pressed his hands to the surface of the desk and lowered his head. My eyes fluttered closed and I tried to will my chest to stop aching. I should have encouraged him instead of remaining still. If only I'd had enough courage to instigate a kiss instead of hoping.

"Lincoln—"

"Next time Gus asks you to do his chores, tell him no."

"Your knuckles," I muttered. "They're cut and bruised."

He crossed his arms, hiding his hands. "I had to interrogate some of the patrons."

I smiled a little, but my heart wasn't in it. "And did your interrogation reveal anything useful?"

"That people don't like to lose at dice," he said, not quite meeting my gaze.

"Let me see your knuckles."

"They're fine."

"You ought to rub a salve onto them. Let me fetch—"

"There's no need," he growled. "Goodnight, Charlie."

Well. So be it. I turned to go, but he called my name softly before I reached the door. I expected him to approach, but he remained near the desk, his arms still folded. He didn't look quite so fierce, however.

"I'm sorry for my temper," he said. "I mean no offence."

I sighed. "I know. I'm used to it now."

The corner of his mouth quirked to the side. "Take the day off tomorrow."

"Your apology was sufficient."

"You've been working hard and haven't had an entire day to yourself since you started."

"That's because I don't know what to do with all that spare time." Although Lincoln paid me a wage every month, I had nothing to spend it on. There was no need for clothing, since I wore a maid's uniform, and the Lichfield library housed enough books to keep me occupied for another year or so.

"Go to the theater," he said. "Or the museum."

"Alone?"

He lifted one shoulder. "You don't like to be alone?"

I'd spent five years feeling utterly alone in the world, despite always being in the company of boys, and ought to be used to it. But I disliked solitude now that I'd found friends. I craved company more than ever. "Not particularly."

He leaned back against the desk and clutched the edge with his hands. He looked down at the rug. "You'd better go."

I slipped out and shut the door. The conversation had been odd, but at least he hadn't remained angry with me. Nor did he seem to assume I was stealing. I would have hated for him to think that I was.

I undressed for bed and drew on my nightgown quickly, as it was a little chilly in my room. By the time I snuggled under the covers, I had three ideas for occupying myself on my day off, none of which involved museums or theaters. First thing in the morning, I would find out where Lady Harcourt lived.

***

Lady Harcourt's late husband had left her their London residence in his will, while his eldest son from his first marriage inherited the "crumbling country pile," as Seth called it. Seth seemed to know quite a lot about Lady Harcourt, but perhaps that was because he was from a noble family too. I still couldn't imagine she would risk losing Lincoln's respect by secretly dallying with his employee.

I caught an omnibus to Mayfair, where most of England's nobility lived when in London. The streets were lined with five story townhouses, strung together like pale jewels on a necklace. Their tall windows and smooth façades commanded attention. The view from the top floor of Lady Harcourt's residence must take in much of the city.

I wasn't sure whether to knock at the service entrance below street level or the main front door. In the end, I decided I was calling on the mistress of the house and had every right to use the same door as her other callers. It was answered by a smooth faced butler of indeterminate age. He took in my drab housemaid's attire—minus the apron—and wrinkled his beaky nose.

"Go downstairs. Someone will let you in." He went to close the door, but I stuck my foot through the gap. Unfortunately he didn't notice and the door came down rather hard on it.

"Ow!" I cried. "Bloody hell."

"There'll be none of that language here," he whispered hoarsely. "Be off with you."

"I'm here to see Lady Harcourt and I won't be leaving until I do."

"She's not home."

I sighed. "We both know it's too early for her to be paying calls. Tell her that Miss Charlotte Holloway is here to speak with her about Mr. Fitzroy. She'll agree to see me."

Lincoln's name must have meant something to him. He let me in and indicated I should wait in the entrance hall. While the hall wasn't as grand as that at Lichfield, it was very impressive, with a white marble staircase sweeping up to a balconied second floor where Lady Harcourt appeared a few minutes later. She glanced down at me then dismissed her butler with a small nod.

"Good morning, Charlie," she said as she glided down the stairs. Her black hair hung loose around her shoulders, softening her features and making her look far lovelier than any of her fancy arrangements did. She clutched the edges of a lavender over-gown at her bosom. It was more like a feminine version of a smoking jacket than a dress, and a long white chemise was visible where it remained open below her hand.

"Good morning, my lady." I bobbed a curtsy as she'd shown me to do soon after joining the Lichfield household as a maid. "I'm sorry to have woken you."

"I wasn't asleep, although it is rather early. Is everything all right? Lincoln…?"

"He's well, my lady. I saw him last night." I was about to tell her that his knuckles were a little bruised, but decided that she didn't need to know every detail of ministry business. If she did, she could get the answers from Lincoln himself.

She smiled in relief. "I did think it odd that
you
would be sent if something was wrong."

I arched my brows, but she didn't elaborate.

"You told Millard that you wanted to speak to me about Lincoln," she prompted.

It would seem we were going to have our discussion in the entrance hall. Perhaps I wasn't fit to be invited into the drawing room. So be it. "I wanted to ask you about Mr. Gurry."

Her lips parted and she stared at me. "Gurry?"

"Yes."

"How do you know about him?"

"Seth and Gus."

"Oh. Of course. They were there." She pulled the gown tighter at her throat as if there was a draft. The entrance hall wasn't very warm, but it wasn't cold either and there were no drafts. "And why do you wish to know more about him?"

"They told me Mr. Fitzroy killed him," I said quietly, so that no servants who might be hovering in one of the adjoining rooms could overhear. "Is that true?"

"Yes." She didn't appear to notice my avoidance of her question by asking one of my own.

"But nothing ever came of the murder? Mr. Fitzroy wasn't arrested?"

"Of course not. He's a gentleman, and the matter was an internal ministry one. Lords Marchbank and Gillingham saw that nothing came of it."

It was more than I'd hoped she would say. I decided to press my luck. "How did Mr. Fitzroy know him?"

She adjusted her over-gown again, this time letting the edges part, revealing her lush bosom through the nightgown laces. "Gurry was one of Lincoln's tutors as a child. He taught international politics and relations, I believe."

"Why did Mr. Fitzroy kill him? It would have been some years later, long after Mr. Gurry stopped tutoring him."

"I don't know, and if you want my advice, Charlie, you won't ask him. I did once and he…made it clear to me that he didn't like that I knew about Gurry's death. He'd be furious with us both if he knew you'd come here seeking answers and I'd told you this much."

It begged the question then, why had she told me anything at all? Getting answers from her had seemed rather too easy; although, to be fair, she knew very little. At least I now knew Mr. Gurry had been Lincoln's tutor.

"Thank you, my lady. I appreciate you speaking to me."

She smiled. "I know things haven't been comfortable between us lately. But I hope you understand that I was quite upset when you didn't take up my offer to work for me."

"I'm sorry I offended you. It wasn't my intention." Considering she'd recanted the offer when Lord Marchbank suggested exile was better for me, I didn't feel all that sorry.

"How is Lincoln?" she asked. "I thought he seemed a little distracted yesterday. Does he get enough exercise, do you think?"

"I suspect so." In addition to training me, he also continued with his own exercise routine in the evenings, according to Seth and Gus.

"Good. I do worry about him there, all alone in that big house. I know he has your company, and Seth's," she added quickly, "but I'm not sure it's enough for a man like Lincoln."

From what I could see, Lincoln didn't require much company at all. He seemed content to spend time alone and work. Then again, I didn't know him as well as Lady Harcourt. Perhaps she was right and he ought to get out into society more and befriend his peers.

"I can't picture him attending a ball or soiree," I said, trying hard not to laugh at the image of Lincoln dancing or making idle conversation with toffs.

"What a grand idea!" She beamed, dazzling me with her perfectly white teeth. "A ball would be just the thing."

"Are you sure?"

"Very. He needs to get out of that macabre old house of an evening. It's stifling. I'll see that he's invited to something."

She would be disappointed when he refused, but I smiled anyway. She seemed pleased with her plan.

"Thank you for stopping by, Charlie. Next time, however, go down to the service stairs. Millard is a stickler for the proper order of things."

I gave her a tight smile. "I wouldn't want to upset your butler."

The front door suddenly burst open and a man sauntered inside. He was a little older than me and clearly a gentleman, going by his tailored suit. His tie was askew, his brown hair disheveled, and he wore no hat. Heavy lids drooped over red-rimmed eyes and his slack mouth firmed into a sneer upon seeing Lady Harcourt.

"Good morning,
Mother
dear," he drawled.

Mother? This must be one of her stepsons.

"Andrew." Her tone was as crisp as the morning air outside.

"What are you doing down here, dressed like a harlot?" His gaze slid to the deep V of her bosom, visible through the gap of her unfastened over-gown.

Lady Harcourt clutched the edges of the gown closed. "Miss Holloway has called upon me. She was just leaving."

Andrew regarded me with lazy indifference then dismissed me with a sniff. "You're inviting the riff raff in through the front door now, Mother? How amusing."

She didn't bother with a reply, merely stepping around him. She gave me a forced smile. "Thank you for stopping by, Charlie."

I bobbed a curtsy and left. She shut the door, but not before I heard Andrew tell her to "Be a good mother and keep the noise down" while he slept. What a horrid man.

I thought about Lady Harcourt and her stepson on the omnibus to Kentish Town. Or, more specifically, the way they'd treated me. Servants were supposed to be invisible. A maid wasn't worth acknowledging, except when it was to give her an order. Lady Harcourt hadn't introduced me to her stepson, and he'd not addressed me at all. None of that bothered me. I wasn't in the least concerned about what Lady Harcourt or her family thought. But it did cast a light on something that I found more upsetting. Two months ago, I was important to the ministry, a curiosity because of my necromancy and because I'd lived as a boy for so long. Even when I'd revealed myself to be female, I'd been the daughter of a respected vicar. Now I'd sunk to being a maid, and maids were a step below vicars' daughters.

It was no wonder Lincoln treated me differently. Ever since I'd accepted the position of housemaid, he'd avoided me except during our training. It was only natural that he'd want to keep me in my place and not allow me ideas above my station. I'd wanted a friendship with him, at the very least, but it was becoming clear now that he couldn't allow that to happen. The only thing maids were good for, besides cleaning, was keeping their master's bed warm, and Lincoln was too much of a gentleman to offer even that. I wasn't sure if it would be enough for me anyway.

I was trying to wade through the quagmire of my thoughts when the omnibus sailed right past the squat gray building of The Red Lion. I called out for the driver to stop and he pulled the coach to the curb for me and another passenger to alight. I hurried back to the tavern and was surprised to find that it was open. Only two old drinkers hunkered down at each end of the long polished bar like bookends, their gloved fingers grasping tankards as if they were anchors in a storm. Both looked around as I entered and straightened. One even shot me a gap-toothed smile.

"Mornin', miss," he said. "Come join me for drink." He patted the stool beside him.