“But you were born out of wedlock and that changes everything, doesn’t it? Trust me, I do understand your position. What will you do now that your scheme to become Lady Ackland has gone up in smoke?”
“You are the one who ruined my plans, you and Gabriel Jones. But I fought my way up the ladder of Society once and I will do it again. This time, though, I will try my luck in America, where it should be a simple matter to pass myself off as the widow of a wealthy British lord. They tell me that titles are very popular in America.”
“Be reasonable. If you leave here now you can escape with no one the wiser. But if you kill me I assure you that Gabriel will hunt you down, no matter how far you run or how many times you change your name. Hunting is something Gabriel is very good at. He is better than John Stilwell ever was. You will notice which of them survived.”
“Yes, I know.” Rosalind’s face twisted and the feverish look in her eyes intensified. “John suspected that he and Gabriel Jones shared similar paranormal talents. I assure you, I have no wish to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. Therefore I have arranged to make certain that your death and that of your shopgirl will appear to be just another unfortunate photographic gallery accident. I understand they are all too common.”
Maud made a distressed noise.
Rosalind ignored her. She motioned with the pistol. “Go into the darkroom, Mrs. Jones.”
“Why?”
“You will find a bottle of ether in there.” Rosalind smiled. “Everyone knows how dangerous it is. Why, one hears that fires and explosions happen all the time in darkrooms where the chemical is present.”
“I don’t use ether. It was required in the old collodion-plate-process days but not with the new dry plates.”
“No one will know what chemical actually started the fire,” Rosalind said impatiently.
“Ether is highly flammable and explosive. You will likely kill yourself as well as Maud and me if you attempt to ignite it,” Venetia warned.
Rosalind’s smile was terrifying. “I do understand that igniting a fire in a darkroom is an extraordinarily risky activity. Therefore, you will do it for me, Mrs. Jones.”
“You cannot possibly believe that I will assist you in an action that will bring about my own death and the death of Maud. No, Mrs. Fleming. You will have to do this yourself.”
“On the contrary. I can make you do anything I desire. What is more, you will do it willingly.”
“I understand that mesmerism does not work well in situations where the subject is unwilling, and I assure you, I am not at all willing.”
“You are wrong, Mrs. Jones,” Rosalind said softly. “You see, I drank the formula.”
Venetia’s mouth went dry. “What are you talking about?”
“The alchemist’s elixir, of course. John prepared a batch of it using the recipe in the old notebook. He did not know that I knew about it. I saw him store a quantity of it in a cupboard in his laboratory. When I realized that he was determined to have you, I went to the mansion while he was away and drank the stuff.” Rosalind grimaced. “It tasted dreadful but I knew this morning that it was working.”
“Don’t you know why Stilwell didn’t drink the elixir himself?”
Rosalind shrugged. “I suspect that he lost his nerve. He was afraid to experiment on himself.”
“He didn’t drink the formula because he discovered that it was a slow-acting poison. He wanted to be certain he possessed the antidote before he downed the elixir.”
“You’re lying.”
“Why would I lie about something like this?” Venetia demanded.
“Because you think you can convince me not to kill you if you promise to provide me with an antidote. It is a very clever move, Mrs.Jones, but I thought I had made it clear that I am not a fool.”
“Dear heaven, it seems Stilwell was secretive to the last. He didn’t even confide in you. But I suppose that is only to be expected, given his nature.”
“That is not true,” Rosalind said. “He trusted me. He was going to marry me.”
“Stilwell trusted no one. Listen to me, Rosalind. I am telling you the truth. The alchemist’s brew may work for a time but soon it will drive you mad.”
“I don’t believe you,” Rosalind said. Her eyes were hot coals now. “You are trying to manipulate me but it won’t work. I will force you to admit the truth.”
“How?”
Rosalind smiled coldly. “Like this.”
Energy slammed across Venetia’s senses, striking with such speed and force that she crumpled to her knees. Her skirts spilled around her. There was pain but it was unlike any she had ever experienced. It was as if her nerves had been touched with electricity. If this kept up for very long she would be the one who went mad, she thought.
“You will now be unable to speak anything but the truth, Mrs. Jones. You will tell me what I wish to know.”
Venetia sought refuge in the only place she could think of, the paranormal plane. Still on her knees, fighting a haze of pain, she forced herself to look at Rosalind Fleming as though viewing her through the lens of a camera.
Concentrate.
The world around her became a negative image. The pain was different now. It was still intense but it was transformed into a more familiar sort of energy. She could keep this energy at bay.
An aura appeared around Rosalind’s figure. It was sharper and stronger than Venetia remembered it. There was a new shade at the edges, a metaphysical color that exhibited a distinctly unwholesome aspect. The poison was already starting to affect Rosalind.
“Is the alchemist’s formula a poison?” Rosalind asked.
“No,” Venetia gasped.
“I thought not. That is all I needed to know. You will now rise to your feet and walk into the darkroom.”
Venetia stood slowly, very nearly losing her balance. It was always awkward to move in the normal world when she was viewing it from this other dimension.
Maintaining her concentration while attempting to move about and converse in a normal fashion was next to impossible. She could only hope that Rosalind would attribute her lack of coordination and short, clipped responses to the force of a mesmeric thrall.
She reached the door to the darkroom and opened it slowly. Rosalind followed but she was careful to keep a considerable distance between them.
“You are doing very well, Mrs. Jones,” Rosalind said. “Not much longer now and it will all be over. I placed an unlit taper on the workbench next to the bottle of ether. Strike a light and make a flame.”
Venetia looked at the bottle. It was still sealed.
She fumbled for the taper, managing to knock it to the floor.
“Pick it up,” Rosalind ordered from just outside the doorway. “Be quick about it.”
Venetia stooped to retrieve the taper. When she gave it an unobtrusive little push it rolled away beneath the counter that held the sink. She crawled after it.
“Get the taper, damn you.”
From her position outside the door, Rosalind could no longer see anything except the skirts of her gown, Venetia thought.
She collected the taper and struggled back to her feet. She gripped the edge of the counter to steady herself. The glass jar she used to measure some of her chemicals stood near the sink. In the eerie reversed light world in which she moved it was almost invisible. If she had not known it was there, she would not have noticed it.
Concealing the jar at her side amid the folds of her gown with one hand, the taper clutched in the other, she went slowly back to the workbench.
“Strike a light and be quick about it,” Rosalind said urgently. “I want to be certain the taper is lit before I leave. I do not want any mistakes.”
The blast of psychical energy that accompanied the command overrode Venetia’s mental defenses. For an instant she lost her concentration. The world snapped back into focus. Pain slashed across her senses.
It took all of her willpower to shift back into the revers
ed-image world. Her heart was pounding so hard now she wondered that Rosalind did not hear it.
Keeping her back to the open door, Venetia set the glass jar on the counter next to the bottle of ether. Rosalind would not be able to see either from where she stood.
Venetia struck a light and lit the taper. She did not turn around.
“Very good, Mrs. Jones.” An unnatural excitement and anticipation vibrated in Rosalind’s voice. “Now you must listen to me very closely. You will wait until you hear the front door of the shop open and close and then you will unseal the bottle of ether. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” Venetia said tonelessly.
“You will spill the ether on the floor and then you will touch the flame to the ether.”
“Yes,” Venetia said again.
“But you must not open the bottle until after I am out on the street,” Rosalind emphasized. “We would not want any unfortunate accidents, now, would we?”
“No.”
Her back still turned toward Rosalind, Venetia picked up the jar. She hurled it to the floor at her feet. It landed hard. Glass exploded violently.
Her full skirts hid the shards from Rosalind’s view but there was no mistaking the sound of shattering glass.
“What was that?” Rosalind shrieked. “What did you drop?”
“The bottle of ether,” Venetia said calmly. “Can’t you smell the fumes? They are very strong.” She turned, the blazing taper in hand, and looked at Rosalind very steadily across the flame. “Shall I light it now?”
“No,” Rosalind screamed. She edged backward. “No, not yet. Wait, wait until I am gone.”
The storm of energy that had been battering Venetia’s senses ceased abruptly. Rosalind had lost her control.
Venetia stooped toward the floor, lowering the taper.
“Stop,” Rosalind shrieked. “You stupid fool. You must wait until I am gone.”
Venetia continued to lower the flame toward the floor. “They say the fumes alone are highly explosive,” she observed in the same uninflected voice. “They are quite strong. This won’t take long.”
“No.” Fury lanced across Rosalind’s face. She raised the gun in both hands.
Venetia realized that Rosalind was going to pull the trigger. She threw herself to the side. The gun roared; deafening in the small space.
Ice-cold pain slashed Venetia’s arm. Already off balance, she fell to the floor, instinctively trying to hold on to the burning candle.
Rosalind whirled and fled through the curtained doorway.
Venetia heard the front door of the shop open.
“Don’t rush off on my account,” Gabriel said from the other room.
“Let me go,” Rosalind yelled, panic-stricken. “This place will go up like a torch at any moment.”
Gabriel pulled aside the curtain. Venetia saw that he held Rosalind by the scruff of her neck. The gun was in his other hand.
He looked at Venetia. “You’re bleeding.”
He released Rosalind and started forward, yanking a small knife and a large, square linen handkerchief out of the pockets of his greatcoat.
Venetia looked down at her arm. The sleeve of her gown was soaked with blood. Stunned, she did the only thing she could think of that made some sense. She blew out the candle.
Rosalind stared, shaken. “You aren’t in a trance.”
“No,” Venetia said.
Gabriel crouched beside her and went to work with the knife, slicing away the sleeve of her gown.
“The ether,” Rosalind whispered.
“I would never open a bottle of ether around an open flame,” Venetia said.
Rosalind whirled and ran, disappearing through the curtain.
Gabriel looked up briefly from his task. Venetia could feel the hunting lust radiating from him in waves.
“Your prey is escaping,” she said dryly.
He turned his attention back to her injured arm. “I have other priorities at the moment.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling a little in spite of the searing pain. “You are first and foremost a protector of those in your care.”
His eyes met hers. “Nothing is more important to me than you.”
He meant it, she thought. He meant every word.
She wanted to tell him that the feeling was mutual but she was starting to feel light-headed. She hoped she was not going to faint.
Gabriel surveyed the wound in her arm. “It is quite shallow, thank God. I must get you to a doctor, though. It will need to be properly cleaned and bandaged.”
That information steadied her.
A thought struck her.
“Gabriel, Mrs. Fleming drank the alchemist’s formula.”
“That is unfortunate.” He concentrated on wrapping the handkerchief around her arm.
“What about the antidote?”
“It is too late. I just finished deciphering the last passage in the alchemist’s formula. It states that the antidote only works if it is mixed with the formula and consumed at the same time.”
45
SIX DAYS LATER Venetia and Gabriel met with Harrow in the park. Harrow had a copy of the Flying Intelligencer tucked under his arm.
He looked at Venetia with concern. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “There is no sign of infection. The doctor tells me my arm will heal quickly.”
“You have seen the news?” Harrow asked.
Gabriel nodded. “They pulled Mrs.Fleming’s body out of the river two days ago. Suicide. Evidently she jumped off a bridge. We can only hope the authorities are correct and that this is not another one of her tricks of psychical mesmerism.”
Harrow’s brows rose. “It is no trick.”
The absolute certainty of the statement made Venetia go very still.
“How can you be sure?” she asked.
“Mr. Pierce made arrangements to view the body personally. He wanted to be certain that there was no mistake.”
“I see,” she said.
“Speaking of Mr. Pierce,” Harrow continued, “he has asked me to convey his gratitude to you and to Mr. Jones. He said to tell you that he is in your debt. If there is ever anything either of you needs and if it is within his power to obtain it for you, it is yours.”
Venetia glanced uneasily at Gabriel.
“Please thank Mr. Pierce for us,” Gabriel said to Harrow.
Harrow smiled his cool, ethereal smile. “I will do that. Meanwhile, I trust I will see you at the next photographic exhibition.”
“We will look forward to it,” Venetia assured him.
“Good day to you both.” Harrow inclined his head in a graceful bow and walked off across the park.
Venetia noticed that Gabriel was watching Harrow with a meditative expression.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I am thinking that the alchemist’s poisonous brew worked very rapidly, indeed. According to the notebook it should have taken several days before it induced a state of madness and melancholia.”
“Given the nature of the brew, I doubt if the alchemist was able to conduct many experiments,” Venetia said. “The length of time it took for the elixir to turn into a poison may have been only an estimate on his part.”
“Perhaps,” Gabriel said. He did not take his eyes off Harrow.
She turned to follow his gaze. Harrow had almost disappeared in a grove of trees but when she concentrated she could catch glimpses of his aura. A frisson touched her spine.
“Gabriel,” she said suddenly. “Do you think that Mr. Harrow is Mr. Pierce’s very good friend? The person Mrs. Fleming tried to blackmail?”
“I think that is a very interesting theory.” Gabriel’s smile was very cold. “But one I have no interest in attempting to verify. Pierce may or may not possess psychical powers of his own but the hunter in me tells me that he is quite capable of protecting that which he values. I think we can assume that there is at least one very plausible explanatio
n for why the alchemist’s formula acted so swiftly in Mrs. Fleming’s case.”
“Are you implying what I think you are implying?”
“Let’s just say that I would not be surprised to learn that Mr. Pierce took steps to make very certain that Rosalind Fleming jumped off that bridge.”
46
TWO DAYS LATER Hippolyte strode into the library of the town house, waving a handful of cards.
“I just lost damn near twenty pounds to Miss Amelia and young Edward,” he roared.
Gabriel looked up from the newspaper. “I did warn you not to play cards with that pair.”
Hippolyte grinned, satisfaction radiating from him in waves. “Why didn’t you tell me that they’re both showing signs of psychical abilities?”
“I knew that you would figure it out soon enough.”
“Realized it as soon as I sat down to play with them, of course.” Hippolyte chuckled. “I could feel the energy around the table. It was astonishing. Miss Amelia is already quite strong. Young Edward is just coming into his own. Not sure what sort of talent he’s got yet, but it will be interesting to find out.”
“Guiding those two as they develop their psychical skills will give you something to occupy your spare time.” Gabriel turned the page in the newspaper. “You’ll be needing a new hobby now that you’ve finished with matchmaking.”
Venetia entered the library, a photograph in her hand. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Would you care to see the latest addition to the Men of Shakespeare series? I think Caesar is going to be quite popular.”
Gabriel got to his feet to greet her. He glanced down at the picture of Caesar. The man in the photograph was blond and endowed with the sort of features ladies were known to admire in men. The model was also extremely well muscled. A great deal of that muscle was on display.
“What the devil is he wearing?” Gabriel asked.
“A toga, of course,” Venetia said. “What else would Caesar wear?”