“Almost there,” Doyle said, guiding me through rows of desks where property clerks and secretaries ogled me like I was a naked strumpet.
I noted the stark black lettering on the door glass of the office he ushered me into. “Chief Inspector Doyle, is it? Very impressive.” I watched him draw the curtains so that no one in the station could look in. “Working the Hill’s done great things for you.”
“Pity I can’t say the same about the dispelling business for you.” He led me over to an old leather-covered armchair and sat me down before retrieving a care kit from his desk and a ewer of water from the adjoining lavatory. “Let’s have a look, then.”
I shrugged out of the jacket and held out the rent, bloodstained sleeve on my right arm.
He scowled. “Why didn’t you tell me you were cut?”
“It’s just a scratch. One of them caught me with the tip of a blade as I went down.” I tore the remnants of the sleeve away from the wound and inspected it. “See? It’s not too deep.”
He dampened a cloth in the ewer and gently cleaned the cut. “What were you doing on that side of town, Kit?”
“I needed a dress for a dinner engagement.” I winced as he took a pair of tweezers from the kit and plucked a bit of gravel from the wound. “Why were you out following me?”
He met my gaze. “How do you know I was?”
“Men generally stay out of the high fashion district.” I saw him take out a small brown bottle marked with a marigold label. “No, Tommy, not calendula,” I begged. “It’ll sting like blazes.”
“It’s the only thing to keep it from infecting and help it heal,” he told me as he soaked another cloth with the tincture. “So stop whining.” He ignored my hiss and began cleaning the gash. “I wasn’t following you. I was following Lady Walsh.”
“Really—” I let out the breath I’d been holding. “What for?”
He set aside the cloth and took out a roll of bandaging cotton. “That’s none of your business.” He straightened my arm before he began winding the bandage over the cut. “Why would someone send two snuffmages after you?”
“They weren’t especially attached to their money?” I grimaced as he pulled the bandage tight. “Are you cleaning me up or torturing me?”
“I’m questioning your involvement in a violent public altercation.” When I didn’t respond, he added, “A man died in that alley, Kit. It’s my job to find out why.”
My shoulders sagged. “I don’t know who they were, other than snuffmages,” I said honestly. “They were waiting outside the dressmaker’s for me. They heaved a couple of their ridiculous snuffballs my way, and when that didn’t work, they came after me with their blades.” I would not mention the man in the black cloak. “That’s everything I know.”
“Rumsen snuffmages like to use bloodbane in those silly snuffballs,” he informed me. “It’s enchanted to kill anything it touches.”
“They were filled with black powder.” I picked up a fold of my skirt spattered with the stuff, smeared it on my fingers, and held it up in front of him. “Look, I’m not dying. Praise heaven.”
“You turned it into that.”
I chuckled. “Sure I did. Right after I pulled a hare out of my hat.”
“Magic has no effect on you,” Doyle continued smoothly. “My grandfather remarked on it several times before we left Middy.” He tied off the bandage and gave me a hard look. “Said your mother had the same gift.”
“How lucky for me.” Panic surged through me as I checked my battered brooch watch, which fell from a tear in my bodice into my hand. “Oh, look at the time. How dreadfully late it is. I must be off.”
“You’re not leaving,” he said, standing.
“I’ve answered your questions, Tommy. I’m in desperate need of a bath and new clothes, and I don’t think you have either tucked away in your kit.” I tried to stand, felt my knees wobble, and sat back down. “Damn me.”
“You’ll feel better after you have a rest.” He nodded toward the wide couch on one side of the office. “It’s more comfortable than it looks.”
I couldn’t imagine sleeping in a police station, even one supervised by my handsome savior. “So is my bed.”
“I’m sending our staff warder over to your flat to have a look.” He held up a hand to stop my protest. “The snuffmage who got away has his reputation to mend. He’s likely already set a trap.”
“But you said that magic doesn’t work on me,” I reminded him.
“On you directly, no,” he agreed. “But he can get to your boiler, your ceilings, or your walls. They like to make it look like a tragic accident.”
“Father and Son, Tommy, that’s all magic ever is—” I stopped myself. “You can’t enter my flat without my permission.”
“You’re still under suspicion of extortion, and you’re a woman.” He leaned down. “Which we both know means I can fair burn the place to the ground if I wish.”
He smelled of wool and soap, and I wanted to bury my face against his broad chest. “You wouldn’t do that to me.”
His stern expression thawed to something gentler. “Kit, you’ve no idea what I might do.”
The door to his office opened, and a sweet-faced elderly woman wearing a feminine version of a beater’s uniform and carrying a cup and saucer came in.
“Hot and sweet, my dear,” she said, as she put the cup in my hands. She frowned at the bandage on my arm. “Shouldn’t she be in hospital, Tommy?”
He made a disgusted sound.
“Wouldn’t let him take you, dear? Can’t say as I blame you.” She began tidying up around us. “Dreadful places, they are. Whenever I go to visit one of the lads, it sucks all the energy out of me.”
“The stench doesn’t help, either.” I spotted the embroidered symbols on the lapel of her dark-blue jacket. “You’re a mage?”
“Staff warder,” she corrected, beaming. “Mrs. Mary Harris, at your service.”
I turned to Doyle. “You send sweet old ladies into potential crime scenes?”
“She has more arrests than any three men in the station,” he told me. “And trust me, you wouldn’t want to go up against our Mary in some dark alley. Last time someone did, we needed three whitecarts.”
“Stop that, Tommy, you’ll frighten the lass,” the warder scolded. To me she said, “I’ve had some scuffles with snuffmages, and they’re not a pretty bunch. What can you tell me about them?”
“They didn’t kill me,” I said.
She chuckled. “I meant, what did you notice about them?”
“There were two, a bruiser and a dink,” I said. “Dressed head to toe in dark red. They threw snuffballs filled with dirt at me, and then went for their daggers. Neither said a single word.”
“They don’t put dirt in snuffballs.” Mrs. Harris thought for a moment. “Sounds like rogue partners—ex–guild members who hire out their services to very bad men,” she tacked on when she caught Tommy’s frown. “They work in pairs to insure the killing’s done. The one who escaped, was he the dink?” At my nod she sighed. “It’s the little ones you always have to mind; they develop their spellcraft a bit more to make up for their lack of stature and muscle. The local guild master’s a head shorter than me.” She glanced at Doyle. “Speaking of the little pest, he’s waiting for a word with you, Tom. Expect he wants to protect the guild by disavowing this lot.”
Tom took my keys from my reticule and handed them to the warder as he gave her my address. “She’ll need a full sweep, Mary. Do take Caldwell and Nelams with you.”
“Nicholson as well, I think. Lovely to meet you, dear.” Mary left before I could reply.
“You know where I live?” I demanded.
“I know where you live, and that you bought the entire building for a pittance,” he said. “I also know you live there alone, that you are very good friends with Madams Eagle and Duluc, and that you’ve banked a modest sum, some of which you use now and then for home improvements.”
I coughed. “You have been busy
.”
“Your business has also made you a fair number of enemies among the magic community.” He cocked his head. “Would you like to know what they say about you?”
“I’m a demoness sent from hell to plague them,” I said dutifully. “An evil harpy who feeds on magic. Satan’s strumpet, Beelzebub’s bawd, Houdini’s whore . . .” I stopped and sighed. “The names change occasionally, but the whining never ends.”
“One of them might have sent those snuffmages after you,” Doyle said. “Or perhaps it was someone from the Hill.”
“Magical assassination. You’d think they’d save a few quid and simply have me run down in the street.” I sipped the tea, which was horribly sweet but settled my stomach. “There’s no need to go to all this fuss. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re an unprotected woman operating a dangerous business, tramping about the Hill and offending the tonners right and left, and now someone’s tried to snuff you.” He folded his arms. “It’s not anyone’s definition of fine, Kit.”
I tried to stare him down, but it was impossible. “I hate being female.”
“I rather like that you are.” He astounded me by bending down and pressing a quick kiss to my dirty brow. “Now be a good gel and have a nap.”
Chapter Nine
Inspector Tom Doyle hadn’t charged me with murder (a great relief) but had treated me like a wayward younger sister (a great pity)—and he didn’t trust me. I discovered that as soon as I tried the door and found it locked. Bars covered his window from the inside, and they were padlocked.
I wasn’t going anywhere until the canny sod released me, so I trudged over to his leather couch. The stiff-looking cushions felt like clouds under my weight, and I curled up on one end, propping my hurt arm against my side.
I’d made enemies of any number of charlatans, but they’d never attacked me. The few I’d confronted had muttered uncomplimentary things about my virtue and my supposed allegiance with the forces of darkness, but for the most part I’d scared them off. Gert was the only persistent one, but she couldn’t afford a half sack of bruised fruit, never mind snuffmages. I’d always thought my disbelief in their nonsense had frightened most of the magic peddlers; this because they depended so heavily on faith in their abilities to pull off their tricks. That and I’d exposed too many of them too easily.
Magic has no effect on you.
It had no effect on me because it had no effect, period. It was all daft words and colored rocks, harmless powders, useless runes, and worthless . . . something. Despite the fact that I never napped, I was suddenly so tired I couldn’t even open my mouth to yawn. My eyes closed on their own, my body went lax, and then I was out like a wick in high wind, drifting into a memory of the last man I wished to think of.
I’d met Dredmore at the home of a merchant named Wiggins, one of Rina’s regulars. She’d brought me to the nice old gent’s to look at a collection of bacco boxes, which Wiggins claimed had been bespelled. I’d just begun my examination when Dredmore had swept in.
I’d taken in the swirling greatcoat, mirror-polished boots, and impossibly intricate weave of his cravat before I resisted the urge to bob and looked directly into his dark eyes. I expected to see the languid contempt of a tonner, but he showed no emotion at all. I might have been gazing into silverblacked mirrors. The experience should have left me cold, but I made the mistake of looking at his mouth, which had been fashioned for all manner of intimate sin. My mouth went dry, and when I met his gaze a second time, I saw something fierce and hungry looking back.
Mr. Wiggins’s voice shook as he performed the quickest of introductions. “Such an honor to have you here, milord,” he added. “I’ll leave you to get acquainted with Miss Kittredge and Mrs. Eagle, then.” He scurried out of the room.
“Ladies.” Dredmore made it sound like an insult. “I am here on behalf of Mr. Wiggins’s business partner.” He looked down his nose at me. “Doubtless you have little real experience in dispelling enchantments, Miss Kittredge, but you and your friend may remain and observe.”
Normally I didn’t mind being patronized by a member of the ton. They were raised from birth to believe anyone without money or connections was beneath their notice. He likely assumed I’d feel flattered to be personally addressed by him, theatrical arrogant ponce that he was.
But something about the man put my teeth on edge, and I reacted accordingly.
“How generous of you.” I set down the box I was holding so I wouldn’t chuck it at his head. “As it happens, milord, I have a vast amount of experience in exposing charlatans who convince the ignorant to believe in enchantments. Perhaps you should leave.”
He stiffened. “Are you calling me a fraud?”
“Dear me.” I feigned dismay. “Did that shoe fit?”
“We should go, Kit,” I heard Rina say.
She sounded nervous, and since no man ever made her that, I eyed the intruder again. “Why? We were here first.”
“I am a deathmage, Miss Kittredge,” he informed me, his voice all midnight and silk. “Those who cross me do not live to regret it.”
All manner of mages swindled the cits of Rumsen—heartmages hawking love potions and marriage spells, birthmages who chanted over new mothers and infants, even painmages who pretended to cure headaches, sore backs, and the like—but none trifled in the business of death. I’d heard only a handful had ever been licensed to practice the blackest of the dark arts, and then only under very specific circumstances.
“Oh, so you’re billing yourself as a thoughtful, magical killer.” I ignored the strangled sound Rina made as I nodded agreeably. “Thriving market for death curses these days, what with the economy waffling about and so many pockets to let. Do you scare old tonners to the grave exclusively, or are you chasing after whitecarts as well?”
“Kit,” Rina almost shrieked.
“You have said quite enough, madam.” Dredmore took a step toward me and held up a stone. “You will be silent and do exactly as I say.”
Now Rina looked ready to murder. “You leave her alone.”
I eyed the blue pebble he held in his hand, clutched the front of my throat, and made a strangled sound. As the first glimmer of triumph appeared on his face, I dropped my hand and laughed. “Oh, dear, that didn’t work out very well, did it? Bad luck. Want to give it another go?”
“Jesu, Kit.” Rina dropped into a chair and covered her eyes.
“You’re still speaking.” Dredmore peered down at me as if I’d grown a second head. “What manner of protection do you carry?”
“A brain, you dolt.” I went back to the bacco boxes. “I don’t believe in magic, charms, curses, or any other supernatural power, which is why you can’t scare me into holding my tongue. So leave off.”
“He might cut it out, though,” Rina muttered, before grimacing at Dredmore. “Not a suggestion, milord.”
“Quiet now, both of you.” I turned over one of the boxes, produced my magnifying lens, and closely examined the felt. “Interesting. Mr. Wiggins said these boxes are solid silver and as old as he is, which should make them all at least a hundred years old. Yet this felt appears to be quite new.”
Dredmore came to stand beside me. “I sense no spell at work here.”
“Oh, brilliant.” Carefully I peeled back one corner of the felt, revealing the metal base. Although the top and inside of the box were dull silver with a very convincing patina, the base was a bright, rosy color. “As I expected. Made of copper.”
Rina joined us. “It’s a fake, then?”
“Yes, and not a very good one.” I went to the door and called for Mr. Wiggins. When he came in, I brought the box to him. “Is this one of the boxes that popped in and out of your collection?”
He nodded. “It belonged to Lord Cornwall, and I always display it next to Sir Walter Raleigh’s. It disappeared that night and reappeared in the afternoon on Friday.” His eyes bulged as I turned it over to show him the copper bottom. “Good heavens. That’s not my box.”<
br />
“No, it isn’t. It’s a replica of the one that was stolen from your collection.” I set it down. “A counterfeiter would need about two days to make a mold from the original, cast the copper, and silverplate it.” I rubbed my finger against one blackened whorl on the lid and showed the streaked tip to Wiggins. “Boot polish, not tarnish. They use it to dull the new plating, make it look old.”
Wiggins looked at the rest of his boxes. “But that means . . . more than half of my boxes . . .”
“Have been stolen and replaced with fakes.” I took out my kerchief and wiped the polish from my finger. “Who dusts your collection, Mr. Wiggins?”
“I believe that would be Bertha.”
He turned and shouted the name, and a few moments later a plump maid strolled in.
“Bertha, someone has been stealing my bacco boxes and replacing them with counterfeits.”
“Someone like you,” Rina guessed.
The maid paled. “Please, sir, I didn’t want to. It’s me husband. He gambles, you see, and he lost his position, and he said you have so much, and we so little . . .” Her voice trailed off as she removed a cloth-wrapped bundle from her apron and held it out. “I can put this one back. I won’t do it again, I swear.”
“You’d spend twenty years at hard labor, all for a worthless sod.” Rina shook her head as she opened her reticule.
Wiggins looked down at the large handful of coin Rina gave him. “What’s this for?”
“Pawnshops,” she said. “To avoid suspicion she’ll have sold them to several, so have her take you round to each one. Tell them the boxes are stolen goods, mention the Yard, and they should sell them back to you for whatever pittance they gave her.”
“Thank you, miss,” Bertha gushed. “I promise, I’ll never steal again, no matter what—”
“And once you’ve gotten your things back,” Rina said to Wiggins, “send this stupid, thieving cow to me. I’ll take her round to see some of the gels that have gone to prison for their men. Maybe that’ll make her more honest in the future.”
Dredmore came up behind me. “That was exceedingly clever of you, Miss Kittredge.”