Bloodlines and Birthright (The Uncensored Memoirs of a Book Hunter #2)

Chapter 1

On the eve of Oscar’s and my departure from London, the most discussed topic as we left the dockside tavern with Willie wasn’t the weather for the upcoming channel crossing, or the amount of luggage still to be packed, or even the book we hoped to find in the abbey near Milan.

It was Willie’s bottom. Or, more specifically, the tattoo decorating it.

“My ass cheek feels like it’s on fire.” Willie plucked at her buckskin trousers at her hip, only to wince when that made the fabric rub against her tender skin more. “Why didn’t you warn me it would hurt so much, Barratt?”

“Did you think being stabbed many times by a needle would tickle?” Oscar couldn’t quite keep the amusement out of his voice, although he managed to school his features and not let his grin break free.

“I thought it would involve more pricking and less stabbing.” Willie nodded a greeting at a woman sitting on a step in a recessed doorway of a run-down building with boarded up windows.

It wasn’t abandoned, merely derelict, rather like the woman herself.

Despite tired eyes and missing teeth, she’d pulled her dress up to her knees and sat with legs apart in an attempt to entice a paying customer.

Fortunately, she didn’t proposition Oscar or me. Or Willie, for that matter.

A light rain began to fall and I suggested we hail a hackney or find an omnibus to take us back to Mayfair. It was Willie’s home, but also the London residence of our patrons, Matt and India Glass—Lord and Lady Rycroft. We were due to meet them to discuss final arrangements before our departure.

“I ain’t sitting in a bone-shaker!” Willie declared. “My ass is sore enough. We’ll walk.”

“But it’s miles to Mayfair,” I said.

“Quit whining, Prof. You need the practice. There ain’t no omnibuses where you’re going. You might be able to ride a donkey, but mostly you’ll walk.”

“I think you’ll find Italy is as civilized as London, Willie. Milan has omnibuses, hackneys and trams, too.”

“Milan might but the abbey won’t.” Willie may not have called me an idiot, but it was certainly implied in her tone. “Matt reckons they live a simple life of austerity.”

“I don’t care if they make us sleep on stone slabs, as long as they have the book we want,” Oscar said.

The book he referred to contained a spell that could make a tattooed person fly like a bird.

Although it may be pure legend, Oscar was determined to try it for himself.

As an ink magician, if anyone could make the spell work, it would be him.

We’d learned of the book’s location from another book we acquired in Scotland, and immediately wrote to the abbot.

It had taken months to receive a reply, then our departure was delayed by winter and, more recently, a delay in securing passage. Finally, we were ready to leave.

But first, Oscar wanted to experiment with making Willie fly by speaking his ink floating spell into her new tattoo. The location of it might make that a little difficult.

“So when can I see it?” Oscar asked.

“You ain’t seeing it, Barratt. It’s on my ass.”

“I didn’t realize you were such a prude.”

“I ain’t, but Jasper is. He won’t like you seeing my ass.”

Knowing her husband, Detective Inspector Brockwell, I didn’t think he’d particularly mind.

He was aware that his wife lived a colorful life, both before and after their marriage.

Willie still went out drinking with her friends, swore like a sailor, and showed no signs of being more conventional.

Nor did he strike me as the jealous type who’d worry that Oscar would desire Willie if he saw more of her body than was accepted by polite society.

Brockwell was quite a calm, rational fellow.

He had to be, to survive marriage to Willie with his sanity intact.

“I don’t want to see all of you naked, just…” Oscar wagged a finger in the general direction of her derriere.

Neither of them blushed, but I felt the familiar heat rise up my neck to my face. It was grossly unfair that I was the one to suffer visceral reactions to the thought of nudity, when I was neither the one who’d be naked nor the one who’d witness it.

“How do you expect me to make you fly if I can’t see your tattoo?” he went on.

“There ain’t no rule that says you have to see the thing you’re putting a spell into.”

Oscar didn’t look convinced. “You should have got it in a more visible place.”

“Jasper wouldn’t want it to be visible.”

“Nor would Matt and India,” I added.

Willie rounded on me and stamped her hands on her hips. “Do not tell them I got a tattoo.”

I pushed my glasses up my nose and quickly nodded.

“Why don’t you want them to know?” Oscar asked her. “They’re familiar with your, er, eccentricities. It won’t take either of them by surprise.”

“’Cause they’ll want to see it. They’ll tell Cyclops and Catherine then they’ll want to see it, too.”

“And you don’t want all and sundry to see your naked arse,” Oscar finished. “Understandable, but you should have thought of that before you got it in a delicate location.”

Willie continued walking, her strides purposeful. “That ain’t the reason I don’t want them seeing it. It’s because they won’t like what they see.”

For a moment, I thought she meant her naked arse, as Oscar so bluntly put it. Then I realized she meant she didn’t want them seeing the tattoo itself.

Oscar’s strides matched Willie’s and he easily caught up to her. I had to trot along in their wake. “Now I’m even more intrigued,” he said. “What did you get tattooed?”

“If I wanted you to know, I’d have let you watch the tattooist at work.”

Oscar flashed a grin at me over his shoulder, elevating his features from handsome to extraordinary.

It was wonderful to see him smile these days, as well as a relief.

After we exchanged cross words after returning from Scotland, I worried that our easy friendship would never be the same again.

Fortunately, he didn’t seem to have taken the argument to heart and simply continued on as we were.

I was not quite as unaffected. Although it happened months ago, deep down, I still worried that he thought I’d lied about having no romantic interest in men.

Even worse, I now worried that everyone I met thought that way.

Oscar had assured me it wasn’t an issue and that we could continue our book hunting adventures together.

Unfortunately the law, and society, would care very much.

Also, I hadn’t lied. I’d said what I believed to be true at the time.

Since then, however, I’d questioned a number of things about myself.

“Is it a depiction of a vulgar body part?” Oscar asked, still smiling.

“No,” Willie said.

“A vulgar hand gesture?”

She shook her head.

“A vulgar word?”

Willie grabbed Oscar’s arm and pulled him into a narrow lane.

I followed, covering my nose at the smell.

The recent warm weather had hastened the rot of the scraps and other waste in the neglected passage and turned the air into a foul miasma.

How anyone could live in these slums was a mystery to me.

“You’re going to show us your tattoo here?” Oscar asked, peering into the dank, dark depths of the lane.

“No, Idiot,” Willie said. “I’m going to let you speak your spell. I didn’t want to do it out there where folk will gawp if it works.”

Oscar waited, but when Willie didn’t start unbuckling her belt, he sighed. “Very well. Take hold of Gavin’s hand to stop yourself flying off. Not that I think this will work if I can’t see the tattoo, but I’m not entirely sure.”

Willie grasped my hand and announced that she was ready.

Although the words Oscar recited were foreign to me, they formed a poetic rhythm that was quite mesmerizing, particularly when spoken in his deep, undulating tones. It wasn’t until Willie squeezed my hand that I realized I’d been staring at him.

The squeeze snapped me to attention. “Is something happening?” I asked her, my voice rising with excitement.

“No.”

Oscar muttered, “Damn,” before directing us out of the lane.

“Never mind,” I said as we continued on our way. “We didn’t expect your ink floating spell to work on a tattoo. I’m sure we’ll find the book containing the right spell in the Abbazia di San Vittore al Lago.”

“You ain’t worried about the anarchists?” Willie asked. “Matt says there was a state of siege declared after peasants and workers rose up.”

“That was in Sicily and parts of Tuscany, not the Lombardy region where we’re going.

Oscar assures me the unrest hasn’t affected other parts of the country.

” We both glanced at Oscar, but he didn’t seem to notice as he fixed his gaze directly ahead.

“It’s very kind of you to worry about us, Willie. ”

“I won’t worry if you take this.” She flipped back the flap of her jacket to reveal a gun tucked into the waistband of her trousers.

“There’s no need,” Oscar said.

“Willie!” I cried. “Put it away.” I glanced around to make sure no one had seen the gun. “As I said, we’ll be nowhere near the unrest. Isn’t that right Oscar?”

He quickened his pace. “The rain’s getting heavier. I’m going to take transport. Coming, Gavin?” He strode off, not waiting to see if I’d follow.

I hurried to catch up, but when I realized Willie didn’t fall into step alongside me, I stopped. “You could stand if you don’t want to sit.”

“I’ll see you at the house,” she said. “And Prof, if you want to borrow my Colt, just let me know.”

“Thank you, but we’ll be quite all right. If Oscar says the anarchists aren’t in the Lombardy region, I believe him.”

She grunted as she watched Oscar signaling to me to hurry to catch the omnibus speeding toward us. I clutched the brim of my hat and hastened toward him.

I spent much of the journey to Mayfair in silence, stewing on the topic of unrest in Italy.

By the time we reached the Park Street townhouse, I’d become rather cross with Oscar.

He must be keeping the truth from me because Willie loved her gun.

She’d never offer it to someone unless she was truly worried.

We’d reached the front steps of number sixteen when it suddenly occurred to me that the unrest may have been the reason our passage to Italy was delayed.

I was about to confront Oscar when a hansom cab pulled to the curb.

I thought Willie had decided not to walk after all, but it wasn’t her who stepped down onto the pavement.

It was Matt’s aunt, the dowager Lady Rycroft, and her middle daughter, Miss Charity Glass.

The dowager ignored Oscar and me and stormed up the steps, black silk skirts whipping her heels. Charity, however, studied Oscar from head to toe. Slowly. Languidly. Her tongue flicked out over her upper lip before she smacked her lips, as if tasting something sweet.

Oscar, usually so charming and confident with women, bumbled through a greeting.

She laughed and clasped my arm so tightly that I couldn’t politely slip out of her grip. “Look, Mother. It’s Matt’s friends, two of London’s happiest confirmed bachelors.”

Up ahead, the dowager’s tall, slim frame pushed past Bristow the butler as he opened the door. “Where is she? Where is Letitia, my selfish, cruel sister-in-law?”