“You are right, sir,” she said gently. “I see now that Delbridge is a grave threat to my person. But you cannot deal with him while you are under the influence of the poison. You must recover your senses so that you will be able to protect me from him.”
“I vow I will keep you safe from him and any other man who dares to try to take you from me.” He drew one of the pins from her hair. “You are mine.”
“Yes, indeed,” she said briskly. “I am yours, and therefore you will fight Delbridge’s poison tonight. For my sake, sir. You will not let him destroy your sanity because then you would be in no shape to guard me.”
“For your sake,” he repeated, as though taking an oath. “I would walk through the gates of hell to protect you, Leona.”
Energy shimmered invisibly in the small confines of the carriage and not just inside the crystal. Her own senses were responding to his dark, drugging aura. The stuff drew her like an intoxicating scent. A fever began to build deep within her. Part of her suddenly yearned to enter into his dreamscape and share it with him.
He drew another pin from her hair. Then, very deliberately, as though staking a claim, he wrapped one hand around the nape of her neck and crushed her mouth beneath his own.
It was a kiss of possession and thrilling power. Her aura flared to meet his. Their energy currents clashed, merged and then began to resonate together. Through half-closed eyes she saw lightning flash inside the crystal.
Thaddeus drank from her as though she offered him some rare nectar. She longed to follow him to wherever the currents of the dream might take them.
With a low, husky sound, Thaddeus raised his head and started to pull her down onto the seat.
“Mine,” he whispered.
It was now or never. She had to act for both their sakes or all was lost. Another one of her uncle’s sayings came to her: “Always give the audience a show.”
She gripped the crystal in both hands.
“Look into the stone, Thaddeus,” she whispered in the same voice that she would have used to invite him to her bed. “See how your energy has set fire to it.”
He responded to the small seduction and looked down at the glowing stone.
She was waiting for him. The instant she sensed his attention was focused on the crystal, she pounced, slamming every ounce of her own power into the stone. There was no time to finesse the currents of her own energy as she would have done with any other client. She could not afford to be delicate or cautious about the business. Overwhelming Thaddeus’s churning energy with her own raw power was the only hope.
The storm inside the crystal pulsed wildly one last time, and then it faded.
It was over in seconds. Thaddeus shuddered and sank back against the cushions.
“I am no longer in the nightmare,” he said, dazed.
“No,” she agreed.
“You saved my sanity and, no doubt, my life. I owe you my most profound thanks.”
“We are even, sir. I owe you my gratitude for helping me escape Delbridge’s house tonight.”
“Delbridge. Right.” With a weary gesture he turned up one of the lamps. “He is going to be a problem, Leona.”
“There is no need to worry about Delbridge, Mr. Ware. Now you must rest.”
“I do not think that I can do anything else.” He picked up the wig she had worn and examined it as though he had never seen it before. “I cannot recall ever having felt so exhausted.”
“You expended a great deal of energy tonight. You require sleep, a lot of it.”
“You will be here when I wake up?”
“Mmm.”
He tucked the wig into the pocket of his coat and smiled faintly. “You’re lying.”
“Really, sir, this is not the time to engage in an argument. You need rest.”
“There is no point running from me, Leona. You and I are bound together now. No matter where you go, I will find you.”
“Go to sleep, Mr. Ware.”
He did not argue. He settled deeper into the corner of the seat, legs outstretched so that his thighs brushed against hers. She watched him for a long time.
4
WHEN SHE WAS SATISFIED that he was, indeed, sound asleep, she rose, kneeled on the cushions and pushed open the trap door to speak to Adam.
“How is your patient?” Adam asked, over his shoulder.
“Sleeping. The poison was very strong. For a time there I was afraid that I would not be able to save him.”
A gust of cold wind carrying the first splatters of rain blew into the carriage.
“What sort of poison induces nightmares?” Adam asked.
“I don’t know. Mr. Ware claimed that Delbridge used it to cause two men to go mad. Both victims died within hours.”
Adam flicked the reins, urging the horses to a faster pace. “Delbridge is obviously more dangerous than we believed. He was supposed to be nothing more than an eccentric collector.”
“It is worse than you know. I did not get a chance to tell you earlier, but there was a dead woman in the museum at the mansion. Her throat was slit open. It was . . . ghastly.”
“Bloody hell.” Adam was so shocked he hauled on the reins, throwing the horses off stride. Hastily he corrected the action. “Who was she?”
“I don’t know. She must have been one of the women that Delbridge brought in to entertain his guests. Evidently she went to the gallery to meet a man. The killer got to her first.”
“Please do not tell me that our passenger was the killer.”
“No.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Two reasons. First, he did not murder me when I came upon him standing over the body. If he was guilty I’m certain he would have wanted to get rid of a witness.”
“Good lord above. You found him standing over the body?”
“The second reason I am convinced that he is not the murderer is because he did not kill the two guards patrolling Delbridge’s gardens.”
“What two guards are you talking about? There weren’t supposed to be any guards there tonight.”
“It appears that Mr. Pierce’s information was wrong on several counts.”
“Bloody hell,” Adam repeated, this time very softly. “Leona, this is shaping up to be an unmitigated disaster.”
“Nonsense. I admit there were a few complications, but they have all been sorted out.”
“Trust you to think positive in a situation where any sane person would be contemplating the purchase of passage to America or some other conveniently distant place.”
“Only consider the facts, Adam. We are safely away from the mansion, and there is no way Delbridge can ever discover who took the crystal.”
“You are forgetting one major complication,” Adam said darkly.
“What is that?”
“The one that is presently asleep in the carriage. What do you know about him?”
“Very little, aside from the fact that he is an incredibly powerful psychical hypnotist,” she admitted.
“A psychical hypnotist?”
“He dealt with the two guards as well as one of Delbridge’s guests by putting them into an instant trance. It was astonishing. I have never seen anyone do what he can do with mesmerism.”
“And we are helping him return to London?” Adam was appalled. “You must be mad, Leona. Everyone knows that hypnotists, even those without paranormal powers, are dangerous. We have to get rid of him at once.”
“Calm down, Adam. There is no need for panic. All will be well.”
“I must warn you that Mr. Pierce is not fond of hypnotists, especially those with psychical talents, and neither am I,” Adam said grimly.
“You encountered a hypnotist with paranormal abilities? Good heavens, I had no idea. What happened?”
“Suffice it to say that the hypnotist in question is dead. Suicide. Perhaps you read about it in the papers. Her name was Rosalind Fleming.”
“Now that you mention it, I do seem to recall the name. B
ut there was nothing in the papers concerning her mesmeric talents. She was a lady who moved in high society, was she not?”
“Before she manipulated her way into elevated social circles she made her living as a medium. She employed her skills to blackmail her clients.”
“She jumped off a bridge, as I recall.”
“Yes.”
The perfectly neutral response set off warning bells. Leona knew it meant that the subject was closed. That, in turn, probably meant that the topic of conversation threatened to probe a little too deeply into the mysteries surrounding Adam’s very good friend Mr. Pierce.
“The question now,” Leona said, “is what are we to do with Mr. Ware?”
“You say he is asleep?” Adam asked.
“Yes.”
“Is it a deep sleep?”
“Very deep,” Leona said.
“In that case, I suggest that we leave him in the woods beside the road.”
“You can’t be serious. The man saved my life tonight. Besides, it is starting to rain. He would likely catch his death of cold.”
“You cannot take him home with you as though he were another stray dog,” Adam muttered, exasperated.
“Perhaps you could put him up for the night?”
“Absolutely not. Mr. Pierce would never approve. He had strong misgivings about our scheme from the outset, if you will recall. If he were to learn that I dragged home a hypnotist—”
“All right, let me think a moment.”
“Why was Ware in Delbridge’s museum tonight?”
Leona hesitated. “He went there to get the crystal.”
“Your crystal?”
“Well, yes, as it happens.”
“Damnation. In that case there is something else you should take into consideration while you are pondering what to do with your hypnotist.”
“What?”
“You had best assume that when he awakens he will still want the damned stone.”
Leona felt her usually resilient spirits plummet. Adam was right. If Thaddeus came looking for her it would only be because he wanted the stone, not because he wanted her. That electrifying kiss a short time ago was a product of his hallucinations, part of a nightmare. It was hardly the sort of encounter that would inspire desire in a gentleman’s heart.
“From what little I saw of him earlier,” Adam continued, “I suspect that he will not gracefully abandon his quest and allow you to claim the stone.”
“You are correct,” Leona said. “We must get rid of Mr. Ware. I have an idea.”
5
THE CLOCK STRUCK THREE.
Richard Saxilby awakened and looked around the gallery. Confusion struck first. What was he doing up here? He had accompanied the others on the tour that Delbridge had insisted upon conducting earlier in the evening, but he had not enjoyed the experience. He had little interest in antiquities and had fully expected to be bored. But boredom had not been the problem. Instead, the collection of relics displayed in the gallery had given him a distinctly unpleasant sensation.
Why had he come back?
Memory returned in a stomach-churning rush. He was here because of Molly. The saucy little baggage had suggested they meet here after the dancing began. She had told him that no one would think to look for them in this place.
But Molly was dead, savagely murdered.
He whirled around, heart pounding. No, it had not been a dream. She was still lying there on the floor. So much blood, he thought. Her throat was sliced open. She had been slaughtered.
His guts rebelled. For a dreadful moment he thought he would be ill. He turned away from the sight of the body.
Someone should tell Delbridge so that the police could be summoned.
The police. Panic tightened his chest. He could not afford to be associated with murder. The investment scheme he had worked so hard to put together was at an extremely delicate point. Very important gentlemen were about to decide whether or not to finance the project. Gossip spread quickly in the clubs.
Worse yet, the police might think he was the one who had killed the pretty whore. How could he possibly explain his presence here in this damned gallery to the men from Scotland Yard? And then there was his shrew of a wife to consider. Helen would be furious if he dragged the family name into a murder investigation. She would be even angrier if she discovered that he had come here tonight to keep an assignation with a prostitute.
He had to get out of here before anyone else arrived. He would go back downstairs and mingle with the guests, make certain that everyone saw him dancing with some of the women Delbridge had supplied for the evening.
Let someone else find the body.
6
Two hours later . . .
DELBRIDGE PACED the long gallery, ignoring Molly Stubton’s bloody body. She was the least of his problems at the moment. He was furious. He was also very worried.
"What the devil is wrong with the guards?” he said to Hulsey.
Dr. Basil Hulsey shook his head and fidgeted with his spectacles. There was no telling when his fringe of graying hair had last been washed, let alone cut. The ratty tufts stuck straight out in a disgusting halo as if he had touched an electricity machine. His perpetually rumpled coat and baggy trousers hung from his skeletal frame. Beneath the coat he wore a shirt that had no doubt once been white. Now, however, it was a grayish-brown, the result of years of noxious chemical stains.
All in all, Hulsey looked like what he was: a brilliant, eccentric scientist who had been dragged from his laboratory—a laboratory that Delbridge had paid for—in the wee hours of the morning.
“I have no idea what ails the g-guards,” Hulsey stammered nervously. “Mr. Lancing brought them into the k-kitchen as you ordered. We both tried to wake them. Threw a bucket of cold water on them. Neither so much as stirred.”
“I would say that they both passed out after drinking too much gin,” Lancing said. He sounded elegantly bored, his customary mood when he was not pursuing his favorite sport. “But neither reeks of drink.”
Hulsey concentrated intently on cleaning his spectacles. He always appeared anxious when he was outside his laboratory but never more so than when he was obliged to be in the same room with Lancing. Delbridge did not blame him. It was like forcing a mouse to share a cage with a viper.
Delbridge contemplated the creature named Lancing, concealing his own wariness of the man. Unlike Hulsey, however, he knew better than to show fear. Or perhaps he was simply more adept at hiding the instinctive response.
He was simmering with rage, but he was well aware that he had to be careful. In the glary light cast by the nearby wall sconce, Lancing looked like an angel from a Renaissance painting. He was an exquisitely handsome man with eyes that were the blue of pale sapphires and golden hair so pale that it appeared almost white. Women were drawn to him like moths to a flame. But looks were most definitely deceiving in Lancing’s case; the man was a cold-blooded killer. He lived for the hunt and the kill, and his favored prey was human, preferably female. He was frighteningly good at the business. Indeed, nature had endowed him with a talent for pursuing and bringing down his victims that could only be described as preternatural. When his paranormal hunting senses were aroused, he could detect the psychical spore of his victim.
His talents also endowed him with the ability to see clearly in the darkest night. When he attacked he could move much faster than even the most skilled soldier or boxer. His speed was that of a beast of prey, not that of a normal man.
Delbridge was a member of the Arcane Society, a secretive organization devoted to the study of the paranormal, the vast majority of whose members possessed at least some demonstrable talents. In recent years the Society had undertaken an organized effort to research, study and catalogue the various types of abilities that had been recognized thus far. Thanks to the growing catalog, there was now a name for those who exhibited Lancing’s peculiar and extremely dangerous syndrome of skills: parahunters.
There were many w
ithin the Society, especially those who subscribed to Mr. Darwin’s theories, who were convinced that psychically enhanced hunters were, in truth, primeval throwbacks. Delbridge was inclined to agree with them. Lancing, however, took another point of view. As far as the elegant viper was concerned, he was a superior, more highly evolved man. Either way, he had his uses.
Delbridge had tracked him down after accounts of a savage killer who preyed upon prostitutes began appearing in the sensation press. It had been easy enough to lure the Midnight Monster, as The Flying Intelligencer had labeled him, out of hiding. Molly Stubton, with her blonde hair and pretty face, had fit the description of the Monster’s victims. She had posed as a poor streetwalker plying her trade in the part of town where the Monster was known to hunt. Delbridge had hovered close by in the shadows, two loaded pistols in his pocket and a vial filled with one of Hulsey’s potions in his hand.
For years he had been frustrated by his own talent. It was gratifyingly strong but of extremely limited usefulness. He was able to sense very distinctly others who possessed strong paranormal talents. In addition, he could identify the nature of their particular powers. The ability had finally been put to good use the night he detected Lancing.
When the Midnight Monster had emerged from the fog one night, dressed like an elegant gentleman and smiling his angelic smile, even Molly, who possessed some extremely well-honed street instincts, was fooled.
Lancing’s hunting senses were fully aroused, however, and Delbridge had immediately identified the nature of the disturbing aura that surrounded him. Even if there was no name for the Monster’s talent, Delbridge would have recognized him for what he was: a killer.
He had offered the parahunter employment and something that he sensed intuitively would be vastly more important to him: admiration and acknowledgment of his extraordinary powers.
He had quickly learned that Lancing had a second weakness, one that he was forced to pander to in order to control the Monster. Lancing came from the streets but yearned to rub shoulders with his betters in a world that, because of the circumstances of his birth, had always been denied him. The bastard craved acceptance among the elite the way a starving man hungered for bread. Clearly it stuck in his craw that he, a superior sort of man, lacked the social status and connections required to be invited into exclusive circles.