Nero's Fiddle (37 page)

A sneer touched Fraser’s face for a second before he turned it into a smile, however cold. “It would appear we must work together once again, Lord Lyons, but please don’t try to throttle me this time.”

“What?” Cara glanced from Nate to Fraser and back again.

“You deserved it,” he said and moved to stand behind Cara.

“We are missing something here,” Fraser muttered. As he thought, he tapped the end of his pencil on the arm of the sofa. The soft rhythm filled the room until the noise stopped and he pointed the pencil at Nessy. “Has anyone pulled your hair recently?”

Nessy frowned and raised a hand to her head where the grey intertwined seamlessly with the blonde. “Pulled my hair? No, why do you ask?”

“Of course!” Cara said. “The killer needs a hair from your head to make the artifact work. He needs it to string the lyre.” They could yet save Nessy from bursting into flames, as long as the killer didn’t have a hair, she was safe. “As he plays the lyre, the hair will smoulder and burn and so does the body of the victim. He cannot touch you without a hair from your head, it is the connection between artifact and prey.”

A gasp came from Nan, who held a hand to the side of her head. “A man, in the village yesterday. I was jostled and the basket fell from my hands. I felt a tug on my head under my bonnet. He apologised and said that his gauntlet became caught as I bent over. I thought nothing of it, market day is so busy and people are always bumping into one another.” Her voice trailed off as they all realised the implications.

“Oh, Nan. Because of grandfather’s ring, the killer thinks you are Victoria’s mother, not Nessy.” Cara would not let anyone harm her grandmother. She certainly was not going to be Dalkeith’s final victim. She would see to that. She punched John Burke for hitting Amy, there was no limit to what she would do if anyone physically harmed her family.

“We must take Nan and Nessy back to London with us,” Cara said.

“No,” Fraser said. “They are better here, exposed.”

Cara hissed. “You will not use my grandmother as bait for one of your traps.”

Nate’s hand curled around her shoulder. “Think, Cara. The killer needs proximity. Nero invited his enemies to a feast. What is the maximum distance to make the lyre work?”

She narrowed her eyes at Fraser. “Thirty yards, perhaps up to a maximum of fifty, but the closer the better. What is your point?”

His thumb stroked along her shoulder. “How many places are there to hide within fifty yards of the house in Mayfair? Or that distance from a carriage in the streets?”

She didn’t like it, not one bit but could see his rationale. The Leicester house sat alone in a five acre field. The only cover were the trees and gardens, and familiar faces surrounded her grandmother. A stranger would be far more visible here than on the busy London streets.

“We leave Brick here and we finish this tonight,” she said, holding Nan’s hand.

Nate nodded. “I don’t like sending you in alone.” His hands still rested on her shoulders.

She looked up at her husband, wearing his best game face and scowl combination. “I doubt Bertie will agree to an intimate tête-à-tête if you are there and we need to confirm it is Dalkeith silencing those involved. There is still the very slim chance it is Bertie, and I know how to extract the answers we need.” She planned to test Helen of Troy’s fan and find just how willing and compliant it made men. It could be a very handy little item to keep nearby.

Fraser rose to take his leave. “We will return to Headquarters and look into the history of the Dalkeiths and do some quiet digging. I believe our man stood at the top of poor Claudette’s stairs so he could question her.”

Cara rose and bent her head closer to Fraser. “You think he will want to make sure Nan is the last person to know?”

He flicked a quick glance to Lady Morton. “Yes, why else would he be inside her home, why did she try to reach him? I believe some conversation passed between the two.”

Fraser and Connor climbed back into the steam carriage and headed for London at top speed. Cara used the house’s aethergraph and sent a message to Skittles, asking her if she could arrange an assignation with the prince.

They paced, waiting for the reply, the second hand on the clock overloud. Each tick fell into a void and it seemed to take several seconds for the hand to move.

The day moved into early afternoon before the answer came.
Seven o’clock.

“If he touches you he bleeds,” was Nate’s only comment.

London, Wednesday 12
^th
February, 1862

hey stood in the shadows cast by a brick wall as they waited in a small cobbled courtyard. Night fell early in the harsh winter. Black velvet reached down and embraced them from a starless sky. Nate’s breath skated over the nape of Cara’s neck as he stood close. The heat from his chest soaked through her back and she swayed against him, needing a physical touch in the dark. A reminder he was flesh and bone, not some spectre sent to tease her senses. Despite the growing threat to her grandmother’s life, calm lulled through her body coming from Nate.

“You relish this. The hunt, the danger,” she whispered, as she waited for the door to open that would lead her through to the prince’s private suite.

“Hmmm. I believe spy master is a better use of my skills than politician.” The Prime Minister still tried to pull him to Parliament but Nate dug his toes in like a stubborn mule.

She sighed. She couldn’t figure why he still hadn’t taken Victoria’s offer even though he implied he would. Before she could ask, Big Ben struck the hour.

“Time,” she said.

For a moment, his arms tightened around her waist. “I will be near. Make sure Bertie is not involved and you have only to ascertain Dalkeith is there, no more and leave. Fraser is not far away; he wants to take the man alive, to see him brought to justice.”

She stood on tiptoes to kiss him. “Don’t kill anyone in front of Fraser, he’s a stickler for law and order and you might find yourself in a tower I can’t spring you from.”

A segment of wall broke away and a faint light revealed a man holding the hidden door open, a glow lamp in one hand. Pulling her fur hood over her head, she walked toward the figure, Prince Edward, and the man who planned to kill her grandmother.

The door closed behind her and the only light came from the phosphorous lantern held by the servant. Stones loomed over Cara in the narrow stairway as they spiralled up inside the thick wall. She wondered how many women had been ushered up and down these stairs over the centuries to secret assignations with members of the royal family. Quite a few she figured, judging by the worn tread in the centre of each stair.

He pushed through a door that revealed a parlour more opulent than anything the courtesans would favour. Now off the leash of parental restraint, the prince found bottomless lines of credit open to him. Anything bright and garish found its way to his rooms, from gilded candlesticks to gold-worked carpets. The door closed and blended into the velveteen wallpaper and moulding, the passageway concealed from the casual glance.

Cara stumbled through an Eastern bazaar with strange and beautiful objects clustered around every surface and expensive embroidered silks from India draped from the ceiling.

Bertie stood at the fireside, his posture rigid in his deep blue Turkish gown and fez. A golden tassel slumped over his forehead. Cara bit her tongue to stop the laughter. The prince arranged his tableau for impact, to impress her. He failed and it only highlighted the stark difference between Nate’s calm command and Bertie’s puppy dog eagerness to please.

“Your Royal Highness.” She curtseyed as the servant took her cloak. She hoped it would be Dalkeith, but this retainer looked closer to sixty than thirty.

“Bertie, please,” he said, moving from his spot to grasp her hand and draw it to his wet lips.

“Why don’t we have a nice chat and get to know one another?” she said, smiling while willing him to release her hand.

“Chat? Yes, let’s chat.” He indicated the chaise and sat, patting the seat next to him. The glazed look in his eyes as he lingered over her décolleté suggested chat was the last thing on his mind.

Bother
. Cara had limited time and didn’t want to waste it handling the prince with kid gloves. She tugged on the cord around her wrist and flicked open Helen of Troy’s fan. The faint scent of sandalwood drifted on the air with each stroke of the artifact. The delicate object was painted with a scene of naked Greek gods and goddesses in various poses of enjoying one another’s company. The risqué art work grabbed the viewer’s attention while the fan worked its magic.

“You want to chat,” she said, hiding all but her eyes behind the fan.

Bertie’s eyes widened and fixed on the scene dancing before his face. “Yes I want to chat,” he intoned.

“You were telling me all about your man, Dalkeith.”

“Dalkeith, yes, good man. Knows what it is to serve royalty.” He didn’t blink, his attention focused on the vignette before his eyes.

With his full attention and no wandering hands, Cara got straight to the point. “Did you ask him what he took from Albert’s room?”

“Yes, some old Latin scribblings Poppa used as a bookmark. He liked the penmanship.”

The missing pages. If he has them I bet he has Nero’s Fiddle as well.

“Anything else?”

“Some toy instrument.” His voice was monotone, as though he was hypnotised by the movement of the ancient fan.

“Have you used the instrument, Bertie? Did you play the fiddle?”

A frown settled between his brows. “No, I’m sorry, do you want me to play for you?”

Cara gave the fan an appreciative look.
This really does make them eager to please.
“Where is Dalkeith now?”

A slow shake of his head. “Gone. Some old relative is about to die, he has gone to see her off. Took a horse from the stables at lunch time.”

Cara huffed and snapped the fan shut.
Gone. We have to get back to Leicester.

Bertie blinked and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He let out a big sigh and raised puzzled eyes to Cara. “Where were we?”

He shook his head and the glaze dropped from his eyes. Then leaned in close and reached one hand out, grasping the fabric of her skirt and pulling it up to reveal her ankle. His tongue left a slick trail over his lips as he took a handful more and watched the silk slide up her calf to her knee.

She wasn’t having any of this, so waved the fan at him. “We’re having a lovely evening but I’m afraid we drank far too much champagne, which accounts for your terrible headache.”
I’m so sorry Bertie, but I have to do this
. Cara reached out with one hand while Bertie remained fixated on her exposed flesh as he pulled her skirt higher to reveal more leg.

She struck him hard with bucket and he fell forward, into her lap. She stood and rolled him onto his back on the chaise just as the secret door pushed open to reveal Nate.

His gaze flicked from the dented champagne bucket at her feet to the unconscious prince. “Déjà vu.” One black eye browed arched.

She retrieved the bucket and dropped it back into the cradle. “It’s becoming my favourite weapon. Far less mess than pistols or blades.” She turned the bucket so the dent was behind on the holder’s upright arms and dropped the bottle back in place.