The Dark Lady (3 page)

Eva half nodded in the darkness. “We’ll buy ices and eat just a bite before we toss them away.”

“Because we can.”

“Exactly.” But they never would. Neither of them would ever leave this place.

Footsteps thudded down the hallway, drawing close. Lone footsteps. Boot steps. Eva froze, her voice dying swiftly. It was important to know what shoes made what sound. If one knew what shoes, then one knew who was coming.

Mary tensed, her sheet rustling. “Do you hear that?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“God, not tonight,” Mary whimpered. “Not tonight.”

“Shh.” Eva’s fingers clutched her raspy sheet. If they just lay still enough, quiet enough, he would pass.

“I hate him. I hate, hate, hate—”

“Mary!” she hissed, reaching across the short space between their cots and grabbing the girl’s hand. Their fingers intertwined for a moment.

The boot steps paused before their narrow cell and the ghoulish light of a lantern drifted in through the small cracks lining their door.

Eva’s heart thudded painfully. Even her medicine couldn’t dull the sudden fear that crawled along her neck. Fear for herself . . . but even more fear for Mary, who endured the keeper’s advances.

Keys chinked together and the keeper Matthew coughed. It was a loud, wet cough full of phlegm. The light swayed, doubtless as he looked for the key he wanted.

Mary’s fingers tightened around hers, and Eva willed her to be silent. If they were quiet, he would not pick them. He wouldn’t. She had to believe that.

The squeal of long-neglected hinges drifted through their door. They could hear his boots as he entered the room next to theirs. The girls on the other side of the thin wall scrambled on their cots.

A shriek followed, then the smack of human flesh to human flesh.

The girl’s continuous cries filtered down the halls, mixed with Matthew’s grunts. Every girl would hear it, Eva knew. She’d stayed in many of the rooms. She had heard many a cry. And tonight she was just thankful the cry was not hers. Or Mary’s. She’d cried enough, her body beaten and bruised. But such were the punishments of fighting off the keepers. ’Twas perverse the way the keepers had their favorites, and though Matthew beat her regularly he did not care for her body, bearing
as it did the traces of childbirth. So she had never been touched in such a way at the asylum. Matthew and his fellows preferred a slight, young body like Mary’s, unmarred by anything but their corruption.

And so she and Mary clung to each other. Listening. Listening to the sounds that would be their own some other night. For the battle they would have to fight to retain whatever was left of themselves.

Eva stared into the blackness, thoughts of the sea fading away with all the other memories that had died in this place of punishment.

No one would come to free her. And after what she had done, no one should.

The burning scent of lye assaulted Ian’s nose, stinging his eyes. He wiped at the water abruptly lining his lids and looked up at the house. If it could be called a house. Blackened brick walls stood in austere determination against the muddy, grave-strewn yard. There were no windows, except for a few on the first floor. Smoke curled like devil’s forks from a series of chimneys lining the crown of the slate roof. Even the snow piling up against the sides of the building could not purify the misery leaking through the mortar.

Ian marched up the worn, uneven stone steps and slammed his gloved fist against the wood paneling. Moans filtered from the other side of the door, and then high-pitched laughter cackled from above. The kind of wild laughter that came with minds lost and broken.

A shiver twisted down his spine. He’d been to madhouses before, brought poor chaps whose brains had just shattered after battle, but those places had been different. They’d been unpleasant, filled with chained-up men
scratching at themselves, but there had been a cleanliness and air of concern.

This place? Out in the middle of the Yorkshire moors?

Ian fingered the burgeoning sack of gold guineas tucked in his coat and then slipped his fingers to the pistol secured at the back of his trousers. This place was meant to suck the hope out of a soul. To render a person silent and lost.

And there was no way in hell he’d let that happen to Eva.

Metal clattered and chinked on the other side of the door. At last it swung open. The man before him was a good six feet tall and his chest was as broad as a bull’s. A dark brown coat covered his shoulders, swinging open to reveal a dirt-streaked shirt. Lank brown hair slicked the sides of his pockmarked face. The stink of grease and slop buckets rolled off him. His piglike eyes roved up and down Ian. He rolled black iron keys in his sausage grip, contemplating what appeared to be exceptionally rare: a visitor. His thick lips worked for a moment before spitting out, “Whot?”

Ian stood his ground, knowing his nobility would at least see him inside. “I’ve come to see the head of this establishment.”

The man blinked vacantly as if he had never seen an outsider, then squared a belligerent chin. “You have an appointment?” he challenged. “If not, shuffle on.”

Ian lifted an imperious brow, calling upon the innate air that came with title, estates, and an education at one of the high-brow Thomas Aquinas philosophical institutions in Oxford. He may have been born to a second son, but fate had dictated his ascension to the title of viscount upon his uncle’s death. And as his uncle’s heir, he’d been raised to wield authority. A lackey was not going to stand
in his way now. “I didn’t think an appointment was necessary. I am hardly checking myself in.”

The man hesitated, shifting awkwardly from one lard-filled leg to the other. “Whot name?”

“I am Lord Carin.” The lie slipped past his lips with ridiculous ease. One learned to lie swiftly in the army and with as much conviction as a Methodist protesting the evils of liquor.

“Fine, then.” The servant edged back from the door, his body eclipsed by shadows. “Follow me.”

Ian nodded and stepped into the asylum. Instantly, he was bathed in shadow. It took a moment for him to adjust to the gloom. And as his eyes adjusted, the scent assailed him. Lord, the smell of lye was far preferable to the wretched stench of unwashed human and raw fear permeating the stagnant indoor air.

A chain slithered down the hall, its big, sooty links heavy upon the floor. Ian followed its length with his gaze and his heart slammed in his chest. A girl, no more than twenty, sat upon the floor, her blond head shaved but with errant tufts sticking in wiry brushes. Her ratty dress hung in stained scraps about her thin frame. A big, black metal cuff circled her ankle. And as any chain would do, it had cut sores into her delicate flesh. Unattended, blood slipped down to her foot. Absently, she picked at the loose splinters in the floor.

“Why is she tied?” Ian whispered, his voice sticking in his throat.

The servant laughed. “Well, they will try to run away, won’t they? There’re only five of us keepers, and there’s more than a baker’s dozen of them.” He walked over to the girl, who cringed and pulled back as far as she could to the wall. Patting her head, he crooned, “You’ve tried to run three times, haven’t you, pet? But Matthew caught you.”

Ian had seen enough horror for one lifetime, enough innocents slaughtered, but this was an entirely different level of hell. Ian cleared his throat. “I’m by no means a patient man.”

Matthew shrugged his hulking shoulders, then gave the girl a chuck under the chin. She didn’t jerk away and, after her earlier cringe, remained bizarrely still as if she’d slipped away to some unseen world. The keeper laughed softly, then straightened. “Come along, my lord.”

God, he needed to see Eva, to see that she was unharmed. But in reality, he knew he might see her terrorized like the poor creature on the floor.

Perhaps . . . The thought hit him hard enough to make him sick. Perhaps Thomas, the true Lord Carin, was correct. It might have been better if she had died than be condemned to a place such as this.

They headed down the dim, austere hall, scratching sounds coming through the walls. “Why are there no candles?” Ian finally inquired.

“They’re more quiet in the dark.”

Or more afraid in the dark.

They remained silent as they wound down the halls to the back of the establishment.

“Here we are.” The man knocked on the paneled door.

A light voice called, “Yes? Do come in.”

As the door swung open, Ian prayed that Thomas had never met the master of this interminable place. If he had, the ruse was up. But he had a strong feeling that Thomas wouldn’t want to have dirtied his hands with such a place or transaction.

Surely, even Thomas, Eva’s legal guardian, had soul enough not to knowingly deposit her in this pit?

As golden light slid over his boots and he crossed the threshold, he realized he had been mistaken: there was no master.

A mature woman of about five and thirty sat behind a simple desk. Her large, wine-colored skirts flowed around her, and a snowy lace cap covered auburn blond hair. She stood with surprising grace, completely at ease in the office filled with paintings of pastoral scenes and little shepherdess statuettes. “Good afternoon.” Her voice was soft. Comforting. Like a deep flowing river.

Ian forced himself to give a slight bow. “ Good afternoon. Mrs . . . . ?”

“Mrs. Palmer, of course.” She gestured with a delicate yet capable hand to the chair before her desk. “Do sit down. And you are?”

“Lord Carin,” Ian announced as he crossed to the plain wood seat, polished to a sleek finish. It positively gleamed. In fact, everything in the room was in exacting order. There was no clutter atop her pristine desk or ornament on the table before the window. Everything was in a perfect place, just like the folds of her gown and the strands of her contained coiffure.

Ian lowered himself onto the chair, keeping his gaze fixed upon her.

“Tea?” she inquired.

“No.” Somehow the very idea of tea while sitting just a few feet away from such misery seemed especially disgusting. Though he had known a few generals who sipped their champagne as battles unfurled before them.

She closed the ledger before her, careful of the spine, then set it aside like a well-loved child. “We rarely receive visitors.”

Ian rested a brown-gloved hand over his knee. “Yes, I understand it’s not best for them.”

She laughed softly, folding her hands before her on the desk. “Or for their guardians.”

It felt as if he’d been thrust into some topsy-turvy world. The woman looked as if she should be surrounded
by a host of teasing admirers, not be the mistress of a madhouse, its victims tortured and harried. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand your sentiment.”

“Please, my lord, this is a house of secrets.” She smiled, a tight, calculated gesture. Not too broad, not too small. “You need not worry. I take very good care of my clients.”

Just exactly how did she take care of them? Or what, rather, did she do for them? “I do appreciate your discretion.”

She inclined her head modestly. “Thank you. My discretion is what ensures my prosperity. Now, I must admit your presence is . . . odd.”

Ian braced an elbow on the chair’s arm, forcing himself to nonchalance. “I’ve come to see Lady Carin.”

Her brows lifted ever so slightly. “Have you?”

“Yes.”

“I assure you she is quite happy here.”

“I am not questioning her happiness or your ability to provide it. I simply require that I should see her.”

Silence stretched between them for several seconds. “Of course.” She eyed him carefully. “Our dear Eva is still very beautiful.” A strange smile tilted the woman’s mouth and her eyes lit up. With hunger. With anticipation. “Would you like me to arrange a private room for the two of you?”

Ian’s first reaction was to reach over the desk and throttle the woman with his clenched fists. A direct assault, however, would not likely free Eva. But what was this? A bordello? To Ian’s disgust, he admitted that it very well might be. After all, it was a house of secrets. And secrets came in many forms. Well, he would rip down every shred of wood before he left Eva here. “Yes, a private room would best suit my needs.”

She gave the barest of nods. Her hand moved to rest
lovingly on her ledger. “You contribute generously to keep your ward safe and that is much appreciated.”

Oh, he contributed generously, did he? Thomas was paying this woman to keep Eva’s existence a secret. Still, Ian had to admit, to a man like Thomas a madwoman was indeed a horrible secret to be kept from society. After all, the ton would worry such a scandalous thing like a dog with a bone until there was no more marrow to be had. The Carins would forever be known as a family touched by madness. A family to be shunned.

Ian shifted in his chair and smiled at Mrs. Palmer. A reassuring smile. The same kind of smile a man wore when facing the evil sights of an enemy. Cocky and determined. “Lead me to her, then.”

She tutted, leaning back into her chair. “We shall first have to collect her from the yard, my lord. She was being exercised. As soon as she is presentable, we will ensure you are brought to her.”

Fury burned in his throat, acidic and harsh, but he controlled himself, focusing on what he truly wanted: Eva’s release.

Eva had always been beautiful and full of life, the first to play games, to ride, to run, despite the lack of female virtues attributed to such actions. Now she was being exercised—as one might walk a dog or put a horse through its paces.

Mrs. Palmer tilted her gleaming head to the side. “Would that be satisfactory?”

“Indeed.” He forced himself to remain calm. As satisfying as it might be to rip this woman to shreds, the only thing that mattered now was freeing Eva.

No, he would stick to his course, keep his reserve. Mad or no, Eva would be gone from this place.

W
hen he had stepped aboard that ship in India to set sail for his mother shore, Ian had felt certain he had left the worst horrors of his life behind him. He had been certain nothing could be worse than watching the blood pour from Hamilton’s body, his friend’s eyes wide, panicked . . . betrayed.