The Deathsniffer’s Assistant (The Faraday Files Book 1) (55 page)

Gods, he didn’t even want to think about what happened then. His mind couldn’t go that far, and couldn’t take the pain of trying.

He needed a solution, but solutions just weren’t bloody coming.

When he felt the first drop of rain on the end of his nose, it seemed only logical. With a sigh, he pulled the brim of his trilby hat down further over his face, resigning himself to the deluge that followed. At least, in one of the Three and Three’s few mercies, it wasn’t a cold rain.

By the time he reached the estate, he was soaked to the bone and had come to one conclusion, that being he had to get Rosemary out of Darrington. Somehow, he’d make it happen. He’d have to. It was that simple.

It was an obvious resolution. It solved absolutely nothing. And yet, he still felt as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders when he passed through the soundshield and felt it stirring the few dry hairs that curled behind his ears, protected from the rain by the brim of his hat. The conviction was a start, at least. Work upwards from there.

He expected Rosemary’s voice, either excited to see him, or gunning for a new battle, when he opened and closed the front door, but silence greeted him. A flash of panic went through him, as it had every time he’d woken up the last two days and didn’t immediately see evidence of her presence, until he looked up and saw Miss Albany standing at the banister at the top of the staircase, her hands clutching it. She smiled down at him in her prim way, grey skirts and sensible shoes and carefully arranged bun as fantastically drab and out of fashion as ever. He smiled back up at her, making a face as he pulled off his drenched hat and settled it on the rack. “It didn’t go very well,” he said, trying to inject false cheer into his voice. “But the doctor seems…very well.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Miss Albany said. She hitched her skirts and started down the stairs. Chris could see her ankles and averted his eyes quickly, clearing his throat. Heat touched his face as he pulled off his soggy topcoat with disgust.

“Bloody chucking it down out there,” he murmured awkwardly. He used his toes to pull off his shoes. They were soaked, too. He sighed as he took a moment to study them. He’d been spending an inordinate amount of time walking through puddles, of late. “Where’s Rosemary?”

“Your adviser came and took her out not long after you left,” Miss Albany said. “Iced cream, I believe he said.”

Well, so long as Fernand was paying, that was just fine. Rosemary was easier to manage when she was being spoiled by someone, and it certainly wasn’t him, of late. He sighed. This entire period of time would have been so much easier if she’d burned herself out again, but the lifeknitter who’d seen to her, Doctor Jameson, had been shocked at how quickly she’d adapted to the new stresses she was juggling into her established ‘binding abilities.
She’s a savant,
he’d said, shaking her head.
I’ve never seen anything like her.

“If you don’t mind, Mister Buckley,” Miss Albany said, and Chris finally found the courage to raise his eyes to her once more. She stood at the foot of the stairs, her hands folded before her. She looked…nice, he reflected. The soft edges he sometimes saw in her where in full force, today, and she seemed to be holding herself differently. More confidently, but less stiffly, somehow. He dragged his eyes to her face, trying not to embarrass himself any more than he already had. She smiled encouragingly at him. “There’s something I’d very much like to discuss with you. Would you come with me?”

Without waiting for a response, she turned and climbed back up the stairs. After a moment’s consideration, he shrugged off his waistcoat as well, and loosened his tie. Perhaps it was inappropriate to be clad in only his shirt and trousers in the company of a lady, but this was his home, and as far as he was concerned, there was very little worse than being fully dressed in clothing that was soaked through.

He followed after Miss Albany to the second floor. To his surprise, she walked past the solar there, and past the little parlour tucked into the corner of the hallway. In fact, she kept walking all the way to the end of the hall, and stopped, turning back to look at him with her hands folded neatly before her, in front of the door to the master bedroom.
His
bedroom.

His feet stopped walking before he reached her. She was only six paces from him, but the hall seemed to distort the distance between them, growing longer and then shorter, and he put a hand to the wall to steady himself as a wave of dizziness overtook him. “Miss Albany,” he said, with his most polite voice, but the words seemed to be coming from somewhere far away. “Miss Albany, as we are unchaperoned, I think I would feel more comfortable―for your sake―if we spoke in the solar.” He indicated a vague location somewhat behind him, and he smiled. He could always find it in him to smile.

She smiled, as well, though hers was considerably less measured and courtly. “Mister Buckley,” she said softly. “You needed concern yourself with my honour. There is something I feel I should show you in your bedroom.” Her eyes fluttered down from his, then, and he watched her fist her hands into her skirts. “And really,” she said. “You might call me Rachel.”

“That would be unprofessional, Miss Albany,” he said. It came out as little more than a whisper. He thought of how she had looked with her hair all around her shoulders in the darkness of the front parlour, the way her womanly curves had looked so soft and appealing in the dim, soft light there. She looked a bit like that, now, he thought, unable to help himself from running his eyes over her. Did her lips look puffier than usual? Did her breasts look slightly larger? Was there something in her eyes, something…something…

Inviting
was the word, and he shook his head, taking a step away from it. “That would be very unprofessional,” he repeated, more firmly. “And I would be remiss to take advantage of…” He didn’t know how to finish. Of whatever madness had overtaken her, some mystery of womanhood that none of his very limited experiences with the breed had prepared him for. He smiled, instead.

Her eyes fell and two spots of colour bloomed high in her cheeks. “Yes…” she said smally, and nodded. “Yes, of course, sir. I only thought…”

“I don’t―” he growled in frustration. She sounded so wounded, looked so rebuffed. No, that wasn’t how this was supposed to be. He was behaving the gentleman, and she should react with gratitude. Shouldn’t she? In a bizarre, dizzyingly out of body moment, he caught a glimpse of the situation from her perspective. She was plain, sparrowish, tightly wound and apparently in possession of a nightmarish brother who certainly would make all her attempts at courting a hell. And he, why…he was handsome. Very much so, everyone agreed. And kind to her. And
fond
of her, which she would
feel
from him and certainly interpret in whatever way she wanted to. Wasn’t that what women did? Gods, he didn’t know.

“Miss…” he faltered. “Miss Albany, I just―”

She was moving, he realized, walking towards him at quite a brisk pace. Her skirts swirled about her ankles and he saw determination in her eyes and the set of her jaw. He barely had time to take a step back and babble out a confused protest, and then she was throwing her arms around him, closing her eyes, tilting her face upwards, and for
some
reason, Chris’s body just did what felt natural.

The kiss stole his breath away. His heart stopped beating entirely, and then started again, thumping like a mad drum in his ears. His blood rushed and pulsed, and he gasped into her mouth, wrapping his arms tightly around the firm lines of her body, pulling her closer against him so she…

No.
Something is wrong,
he realized with the clarity of a pealing bell, and every muscle in his body stiffened―

―a
moment
before he felt the press of cool steel against his temple.

“I don’t understand normal men,” said a familiar voice that did
not
belong to Rachel Albany. “What must it be like, living in a world where it’s all so
easy
as that?” And then, sharply. “Put your hands above your head or I bloody swear I’ll melt your brains.”

Chris did as he was told, and then let his eyelids flicker open. Before him, dressed in a grey wool gown ten years out of style, stood Ethan Grey, and his face was illuminated by the soft orange glow of the firepistol he held to Chris’s head.

he barrel was pressing up against Chris’s forehead. The metal was cool, and Chris could see the orange nimbus that buzzed around it from the corner of his eye. His heart thumped in his chest like a marching band.

The dress. Oh, Gods, the dress. “Where is she?” Chris asked breathlessly, unable to help himself. And then, following the thought to its logical conclusion, he moaned and felt as though a sack of bricks had hit him in the chest. “Mother Deorwynn,” he gasped. “Where’s Rosemary?”

Ethan Grey’s soulful, artist’s eyes were flashing with anger, now. “I warned you,” he said tightly. “I thought I made it perfectly bloody clear what was going to happen if you kept asking questions.”

No. Oh, no. Gods, no.
“I’m sorry.” Chris swayed on his feet. His stomach shrivelled into a tiny little ball that sent waves of pain all through his body, radiating from his middle. “I’m sorry, I’m―”

“He’s sorry! Well, lovely. That certainly does something about the coppers all swarming my flat, the streamviewers at every bloody intersection looking for anyone casting an illusion. It
certainly
bloody well helps me get my arse out of Darrington!”

Do you want me to feel sorry for you?
Chris wanted to scream.
You killed three people! You’re a bloody faceshifter! There’s nothing worse than that, nothing!
But every surge of his blood through his veins was singing
Rosemary, Rosemary, Rosemary
, and all that came out from his lips was a tiny whimper. “Please,” he said, his vision blurring. “Oh Gods, please say you didn’t hurt her, I, Gods, please…”

Grey gave a growl of disgust. He took a step back from Chris, gripped the pistol in both hands, pointed the barrel down, right between Chris’s eyes. Chris could see his finger stroking the trigger. “She’s fine,” he said.

Chris gasped and moaned as a wave of relief threatened to knock him off his feet. Tears fell from his eyes and slid down his cheeks. “Oh, Gods,” he breathed. “Oh, thank all the Gods.”

“The governess, too.” Grey squirmed uncomfortably in the grey dress, looking down at it with disgust. It was Miss Albany’s dress, it had to be. Gods, had he hurt her to get it for his sick illusion? “For
now
, and
only
for now. If you want them to be breathing when the sun sets tonight, you’ll do what you’re told.”

“Anything,” Chris gasped. “Anything you say. Just don’t hurt them.”

Grey looked him up and down, more slowly this time. One corner of his mouth crooked as though something had occurred to him. A chill touched Chris’s spine. He remembered the feeling of the Duke’s whiskers rough against his cheeks.
No
, he reminded himself, that had been Ethan Grey standing in that room, holding that knife, not him. Ethan Grey, coming to the Duke as his mistress. “Do…” Chris hesitated. He swallowed. “Do you…”