“Daisy Margaret Ellis Craigmore!” Poppy’s eyes flashed under censorious brows. “I cannot believe you refrained from giving Miranda this bit of information before she married Lord Archer!”
Daisy’s mouth fell open into a little round O as she glanced from Poppy to Miranda. “Well, I would have, had I not forgotten entirely about it.”
Poppy’s straight brows tilted. “Even when Father told us the name of Miranda’s intended? It isn’t a thing I’d likely forget.”
Daisy went beet red, and Miranda put a calming hand upon her arm. “It’s all right, Daisy. I knew of Archer’s fight with Marvel.” She looked pointedly at Poppy, who seemed inclined to interject. “I simply didn’t know it was over Victoria.”
Miranda’s eyes followed the little blood-red satin top hat tilted upon Victoria’s raven locks as it bobbed about in the fine china department. “And what of Victoria,” she murmured. “Did she stay with Marvel?”
Daisy absently toyed with the cloth beneath her fingers, her blue eyes tracking Victoria. “No. She returned to the Continent and hasn’t been heard from since.”
“The question is,” Poppy said, her brows slanting severely under her red fringe, “why is she using Archer’s name?”
“I have to believe that she would like to renew her dalliance with Archer,” Miranda said.
Her sisters erupted into twin volleys of outrage, hissing about what they’d do to Victoria should she come near.
“You might have your chance,” Miranda muttered. “She is coming this way… no wait.” She clutched Poppy’s elbow. Another option suddenly appeared much more agreeable. If she wanted information on Archer and Victoria, she might as well get it from the horse’s mouth.
“Let me handle this, please. After all,” she said, letting her voice drop to a whisper, “you know what they say.”
“What?” Poppy asked darkly as Victoria drew near.
“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer… Victoria”—Miranda stepped round the table and inclined her head—“I thought I recognized you.”
“It is a shame we could not persuade your sisters to come along,” Victoria said as they stepped into the small yet bustling teahouse of Victoria’s suggestion. It catered to mainly middle-class women, physicians and barrister’s wives who fancied a bit of refreshment after a hard day of shopping.
“On the contrary,” Miranda said. “I must thank you for rescuing me from an afternoon of bickering. My sisters, I fear, are far too divergent in their opinions to get along well.”
Victoria smiled. “Quite understandable.”
They settled into a private table. As soon as the maitre d’ left the little nook, Victoria turned to Miranda, and the lamplight flickered over her unnaturally white features, giving them the appearance of a mask. “It pleases me that we are having tea. I thought of inviting you before, but I got the impression that you might object.”
Miranda held her gaze. “Because of what I saw that night.” There was little use dancing around the subject.
Victoria’s painted lips curled slightly. “You must not think too badly of me, mon ami. Archer broke my heart once. And I’m afraid I’ve never forgiven him for it. I acted badly.” She shrugged. “I express myself too passionately, I suppose.”
Even with Miranda’s limited knowledge of love, she knew Congreve to be correct: Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned. “I did not mean to pry,” she said, hoping that the apology would ease Victoria into a talkative mood.
The woman’s smile turned genuine. “La, I expect no less. It is what I would have done.” She leaned in. “Only, I do not think we should tell Benjamin of our tête-à-tête. For if anyone was to object to our meeting, it would be he.”
Benjamin. Miranda’s stays pinched as she reached for her serviette. “Archer is…”
“Most protective?” Victoria finished with a light laugh. “I know this well.” She placed her napkin across her lap with an elegant flick. “He used to have this little saying, our Archer. Keep the ignorant ignorant, and the innocent out of the way.”
Tea arrived, sparing Miranda the trouble of a reply. White-liveried waiters laid out the service with sharp precision. A fragrant pot of tea in delicate bone china, meaty little tarts, flaky fruit pastries topped with crimson jam and saffron-yellow custard, and snow white dollops of clotted cream for their hot scones. Miranda had been famished before. Now all of it looked as appetizing as a still-life study.
“And you?” Miranda asked when the waiters had gone, and she began to pour her tea with care. Its fragrance released in a soft cloud of steam, mixing with that of hot milk and lemons. “Do you believe the ignorant should remain so?”
Victoria regarded her with eyes so gray and luminous that, for a moment, she could think of nothing but Archer. Miranda looked away.
“What is it that you wish to ask?” Victoria’s voice, low and rich, rolled over Miranda.
She set the cream pot down with a clink. “What do you know of the West Moon Club?”
She could have cursed aloud. The words were out. There was no taking them back. Save they were the wrong words. She had meant to ask her about Lord Marvel and Archer. She could not account for the slip.
Victoria’s smooth brow wrinkled as though she too were expecting another question entirely. “That is a name I did not expect to hear,” she said slowly. “And you, cher, what do you know of this club?”
Miranda fiddled with her napkin and then let it drop. “You knew him before his accident. His disfigurement occurred as a result of the club’s… activities.” She was unwilling to say more, yet knew she had already said too much.
“You think that what happened to Archer is the reason why its members are dying?”
“I cannot assume otherwise,” Miranda said stiffly.
Victoria shrugged. “I am no more enlightened than you. Is it the work of madness? Or cold revenge? I know not. Only that their secrets go back years. Their masks older than Archer’s.”
Victoria took a slow sip of tea, her gray eyes studying Miranda over the golden rim. She set her cup down with care before folding her slender arms before her. “But that is not what you truly want to know.”
“It isn’t?” Miranda challenged blandly, her heart slamming madly against her ribs.
Victoria’s slight weight fell onto her forearms. “You wonder if I have seen what lies beneath the mask.”
“I know that you have. I… how…” The line of Miranda’s jaw ached. She could not, would not, ask it of Victoria.
“Poor dear, he has not shown you then.”
It was not a question. Miranda looked away, to the small sliver of window peeking beyond the dining curtains where the dark shadows of carriages passed by as they rumbled down the street. “It does not matter.”
“But of course it does,” Victoria whispered, the smell of silk mingling with old flowers. “He is the man you lie down with at night. Rise up with to greet the sun. Where lies trust, if not in your husband’s arms?”
Miranda would die before she admitted this was not precisely the truth of the situation. The little dining nook wavered before her eyes, magnified to monstrous proportions as though viewed through a reading glass. She blinked back unshed tears, refusing to let them fall.
Victoria’s voice drifted across her skin, soothing and dark. “What if I told you it is something wondrous and beautiful he hides?”
The breath left Miranda in a pained gasp. The cruelty of it. Victoria’s smile merely grew.
“Infinite beauty. Not the hideous disfigurement he claims. Would it assuage your fears? Make it easier to bear, that you do not live with a monster?”
The thickness of Miranda’s tongue pushed past her dry lips. “I would say that you were a liar.”
Victoria studied her face for a moment and then laughed, like silver sleigh bells in the snow. “Ah, but it would be such a nice dream to dream, no?”
Miranda’s fingers dug into the slic
k silk of her aquamarine skirts. “It matters not to me what he looks like beneath the mask.”
“Yet here you sit, asking the questions you ask because your curiosity overwhelms your pride. How can you not want to know?”
“I asked you about West Moon Club because I want to help Archer. Not unmask him.” A lie. And they both knew it.
Victoria’s thoughtful expression did not change, and the silence grew. From beyond came the gentle murmur of the main dining room, the kiss of silver to china, then Victoria’s chair creaked as she shifted to rest her temple upon her knuckles. “Then, what is it you wish to know?”
“Why do you know so much about West Moon Club?”
“Not as much as you think.” The small curve of her bottom lip quivered. “My love was a member.”
The floor beneath Miranda tilted. “Who was he?”
“I…” Her eyes grew bright. “He was lost to me long ago.”
The genuine sorrow in Victoria’s eyes moved Miranda to touch her hand, but she stopped short, inexplicably unwilling to make contact. “They say time heals all wounds, but I don’t believe it.”
Victoria met Miranda’s eyes, and her tears threatened to spill. She gave a little laugh and brushed them away with a flick of her gloved hand. “Ah, well, it is a pity I have so much time on my hands.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“So it was not Lord Marvel, then?” Or Archer?
Victoria’s little smile returned, knowing and sure. “You are referring to the quarrel between Marvel and Archer.” She stirred her tea once more. Tiny clinks that hit Miranda’s nerves like an anvil. “Archer did not like the idea of Marvel taking his place.”
The cooled tea within Miranda’s cup began to steam. She let it go quickly. “Taking his place?”
Victoria’s cheeks plumped, her eyes gleaming as though she knew precisely how she tormented Miranda. “Of course, we were no longer together.” She tapped the rim of her cup thoughtfully. “Nevertheless, there was a modicum of jealousy involved as Archer does not like being replaced. In any capacity. So they discussed the matter.” Victoria’s brow lifted. “I assume you’ve heard the outcome of that discussion?”
Woodenly, Miranda nodded, and Victoria’s little teeth flashed like seed pearls beneath red-painted lips. “And did you, then, learn of how the elder members sent him away?”
When Miranda shook her head like an automaton, Victoria continued. “He was an embarrassment, a living testament to their failure. And one not easily controlled. Poor Archer never was able to govern his temper.” Her dark head tilted as she sipped her tea. “Quite the motive for revenge, is it not?”
Miranda could not argue the fact. So she sat as stone, her stays pinching her ribs, the cold length of silk encasing her torso tightening with each breath.
Victoria seemed to understand Miranda’s struggle between loyalty and logic. “Miranda, cher, I do not think it is he who does these things. Murder in secret is not his style. Archer in a temper is a glorious and vocal spectacle.”
She looked off fondly as though remembering something altogether intimate, and the collar about Miranda’s neck suddenly felt too tight. She swallowed hard, forcing a cooling breath as the room began to grow warm.
“Though you cannot deny,” Victoria went on, “he makes a most excellent target, should one want to make him appear guilt—”
“Do you still love him, Victoria?” She no longer cared to hear Victoria’s theories. Only to know where they stood.
Victoria tilted her head. The image of a great spider wrapping its victim up with silken threads to suck its life’s blood came to mind. And Miranda thought Archer had been quite correct in his desire to warn her away from Victoria.
“I believe you know that answer,” Victoria said in a voice like the gathering of a storm.
Cold sweat broke out over Miranda’s skin as her temper rose. The room heated, the gas lamps above their heads flaring white-hot. Victoria glanced at the lamps, her brow knitting. Miranda took a breath. Then another, pushing down that familiar feeling of need. The need to let go of her temper, and with it, the painful coil wound within her. Control, Miranda. Do not become that monster.
“Do you mean to try to win him back?” she asked.
Victoria’s lips pulled as if to offer the merest hint of apology. “And if that is my intent?”
The lamp about Victoria’s head wavered wildly as Miranda spoke. “Then you shall have to go through me.”
Victoria reached with shocking quickness, enfolding Miranda’s wrist in a grip like iron. “I find that I like you, Miranda. Despite myself, I do. So I shall give you a small piece of advice. If you intend to keep your husband, believe nothing you hear. Everyone lies. Most especially your husband. If he thinks it will protect you, Archer will not hesitate to employ the simplest equivocation to keep you in the dark. Do not let him, or risk losing him entirely.”
Chapter Seventeen
Everybody lies. Miranda could not stop Victoria’s warning from echoing in her head in a constant refrain. What were Archer’s lies? Why did he feel the need to tell them?
The muted song of a fiddle drifted through the din of caterwauls and raucous laughter. Despite the late hour, street urchins wove underfoot, brushing their little fingers light as spider silk over the pockets of the unwary. With any luck, they’d steal enough to keep them alive. Some were no older than three—little snakesmen and goniffs in the making.
Blue darkness cloaked Miranda, the scant lamplight saved for taverns. Her booted feet crunched over something that felt and sounded unnervingly like bones, and she decided that the darkness was a blessing. In more ways than one. With a bowler crammed down low and her shoddy coat collar pulled up high, most of her face was hidden. Dirt covered her skin, hastily smeared on as she’d crept through the garden after Archer had ridden off into the night.
Experience told her Archer would be gone for hours—doing what she couldn’t begin to fathom, though she suspected it was as clandestine as her mission tonight. Cheltenham’s murder, and the attack at the museum, lay heavy on him. Since then, he had gone out every night, when he thought her long abed. She knew he was in search of the killer. Even though he tried to hide it, she could see the frustration and rage in his eyes burning just below the surface. And it ignited a wild urge in Miranda to protect him and find out what she could, where she could.
Cold air, heavy with icy shavings of soot, filled her lungs. She resisted the urge to tuck her head farther into her collar. One walked with purpose here, or one would be quickly singled out. But the smell brought tears to her eyes. Onions, piss, shit, rotted meat… The thick stench of rot was the worst, working its way into mouth and throat, a promise of one’s future: death and decay. She pressed her lips tight and forged on.
Her mark stood beneath one of the few working lampposts. Nearly a head taller than the rest, he was as lanky as a garden ladder, his shaggy brown hair dull in the flickering light. He was older, just as she. Fine lines fanned out from his cheerful brown eyes. But the grin. That gap-toothed grin remained the same, an equal mix of ready humor and malice. A group of younger men and boys surrounded him, watching his every move, modeling their behavior to his. He was boss now to this small group, after having worked his way up through the ranks. His velvet green bowler and mustard-colored sack suit were a bit less shabby than the clothes of his mates. Perhaps one day he would run the whole area.
Her steps slowed. How to get him alone? It wouldn’t do to come upon him with his gang hanging about. Willing to wait, she leaned against an abandoned lamppost. The lamplighter had passed it by. Passed by most of the street lamps here. This neighborhood wasn’t deemed fit to have good light, or fresh water for that matter.
A sudden anger sparked hot in her breast, and with it an idea. Perhaps she alone could smell the acrid sweet tang of gas that had leaked out of the unused lamps to pool in the thin, trash-filled gutter running down West Street. It was enough to burn. One small spark would do the trick. H
er loins tightened with a throb of excitement, and a familiar power ignited within. She shoved her hands deep into her pockets to hide their trembling, and her fingers curled around the cool coin hidden there. She held onto it like a lifeline. Should the task be done incorrectly, the whole of West Street could ignite like a lamp. In truth, the very fog-fouled air of London was an incendiary bomb waiting to go off. Nothing too grand, she promised herself as a cold sweat broke out over her skin. Only a small spark, directed with precision at the gutters.
An organ grinder and his monkey danced by. Then she acted. A shiver of pleasure pulsed through her limbs, and the gutter along West Street flared to life with a sudden hiss. Gasps rushed through the night as a yellow river of fire ran between the throngs of people. Among the laughter of surprise and the general mayhem, Billy Finger lifted his head. His brown eyes glared round before catching hers. They narrowed for one cool moment. Miranda touched her brim, and the familiar gap-toothed smile curled in response. She was, as they say, all in it now.
“ ’Ello there, darlin’,” he said as he came near. “Know how to make an entrance, you do.” The overpowering scent of grease, sweat, and bay rum—most likely lifted from a recent house job—followed him. “An’ how’s me favorite mot on this fine night?”
“Don’t call me that,” she hissed in a low voice.
His feathery brows rose. “Wha? Mot?”
“ ‘Mot,’ ‘darling.’ ” She stiffened her shoulders to make them appear broader. “I’m a man, remember.”
The gap-toothed grin appeared again. “Right. An’ a very convincing cove you are.” He snorted, blowing stale breath over her. “Only a blind codger would happ’n upon you and not want to put his old nebuchadnezzar to the grass.”