Chapter 1 #2
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ It wasn’t ridiculous at all.
She was quite certain that is exactly what Sir Robin had done, and she was inclined to agree.
A beautiful bastard, perhaps, but trouble, nonetheless.
Unease rippled through her. ‘One might ask why you are here, and what you are doing, though I would never deign to do so in the rude fashion you have demonstrated. Such language, sir, in the presence of a lady. Shocking.’ She pressed her lips together, the lie bitter on her tongue.
She was many things, but certainly not a lady.
Her blood ran as red as any other commoner, even if her bank account was richer than most peers of the realm.
While Aunt Rowan’s apothecary shop on Savile Row, All Things Bright and Beautiful – catering solely to the beau monde’s most distinguished ladies seeking the elusive recipe for eternal youth – had made Clio and her family richer than most of their Mayfair neighbours, it hadn’t bought them a title.
Not that Clio cared. Titles were as useless as suitors.
They both required the same thing from women.
Submission to rules neither benefitting nor protecting them.
A woman was required to sacrifice her land, wealth, and autonomy on the altar of matrimony.
A husband could do with them, and her, as he pleased.
Hardly a worthy trade in Clio’s estimation.
Her mother tried to follow convention, and it ended in her death. She was the one ghost Clio desperately wished to see but never had. Aspen Blair abandoned her daughters in life, and so too did she slip away from them in death. She gave every part of herself to a man, and it killed her.
No love is worth such a sacrifice.
In Clio’s five and twenty years, she knew several ways to keep herself safe from all manner of danger. Always hang a mirror facing the door, sprinkle each entrance of a home with black salt and sage, and stay far away from handsome men with smouldering eyes and a lying tongue.
Bollocks to men and their false promises.
And bollocks to this gentleman who glowered at her like a bull seeing red.
‘You are reproving me for base language when that crow on your shoulder just accused me of being a bastard. I’ve called men out for less,’ the man growled, his low voice echoing in the entry.
Clio rolled her eyes as Sir Robin fluffed his feathers. ‘Sir Robin Goodfellow is hardly a crow. He’s a raven. Any fool can see that. And it would be rather silly to call out a bird, don’t you think? He couldn’t possibly hold a gun, let alone pull the trigger. Ridiculous notion.’
Lowering his walking stick, the man blinked, no doubt trying to process all that comprised Clio Blair.
Good luck with that, sir.
He stepped across the threshold of Viscount Beachley’s home. ‘A profane raven named Robin. And you call me the fool?’
Clio frowned. Did this man know nothing of literature?
‘He’s named after the mischievous sprite, Puck, from Shakespeare’s play. Surely, you’ve heard of it, A Midsummer Night’s… oh, never mind. I doubt you’re much of a reader.’
His high cheekbones flushed.
Dear me, I’ve managed to embarrass the man. Well done me.
Recovering quickly, his jaw muscles jumped in irritation before he spoke.
‘I doubt you understand the danger of assumption. I can’t imagine any play by the Bard would help me comprehend why that bird is currently perched on your shoulder.
’ His gaze moved from her face to Sir Robin, then continued down in a bold assessment before he stalled at her waist, where her gloveless hands were loosely clasped together.
A young lady should never be seen in public without her gloves.
Neither should she speak to ghosts, control flames, or walk the streets with a raven as her only companion, but that is neither here nor there.
Heat tingled in her fingers.
Refusing to pull out her gloves and cover her scandalously naked flesh, Clio held his disconcerting stare. ‘Because he is my pet.’
Sir Robin ducked his head and nipped Clio’s earlobe. He did not appreciate being reduced to a mere pet, but she could hardly tell this stranger that he was her familiar or that they were bound together by mutual choice, magic, and some undetermined plan of the fates.
Clearing his throat, the man stiffened his spine and stretched his wide shoulders.
‘Excuse my bluntness, madame, but this is a crime scene. Certainly not the place for a lady and her… pet.’ He layered the last word with a heavy coating of sarcasm.
‘Which brings me back to my original question: who are you and why are you here?’
‘That’s two questions,’ Clio pointed out. ‘And I don’t answer queries posed to me by rude men.’
Before he could respond, another gentleman appeared in the open door. His neat coat, high white collar, matching cravat, and crisply pressed trousers were at odds with the wild curl of his hair.
‘Ah, Clio. Here already. I was no’ sure if your aunt would give you the mornin’ off after we met.
I know how demanding she can be.’ The Scottish burr from Superintendent Lachlan MacDougal’s childhood still flavoured his words.
‘And good mornin’ to you, Sir Robin Goodfellow. ’ He tipped his top hat to the raven.
‘Lollygagger,’ the raven replied, prompting a wry smile from Uncle Lachlan.
‘I see you’ve been chatting with Rowan, Sir Robin. Watch out for that one; her tongue is sharper than any sword.’
The bird chirped his agreement.
Clio turned to her uncle and stretched her mouth into a friendly smile.
‘Hullo, Uncle Lachlan. Aunt Rowan doesn’t need me at the apothecary for a few hours yet.
’ She wasn’t about to tell her uncle that Aunt Rowan had no idea she was even at Viscount Beachley’s house, let alone that she was taking on the case.
He might not get along with her aunt, but he would never defy the woman when it came to her nieces.
Uncle Lachlan cared too much about his own bollocks to risk them so easily.
‘I thought I would come and er…’ She glanced at the man glowering in the shadows.
She could hardly tell her uncle she was here to see if the ghost still lingered.
‘Determine if my services will be of use.’
‘Uncle? This is your niece?’ The man in black swung his focus to Superintendent MacDougal.
Uncle Lachlan was not small – indeed, he stood well over six feet tall – but his companion had several inches on him, though the stranger’s frame was lankier.
Still, her uncle clapped his hand on the taller man’s back in the hard, brutish way men had of showing affection to each other.
‘No’ by blood, perhaps, but close enough.
Allow me to introduce Miss Clio Blair.’ He turned to Clio.
‘And this is an old friend of mine from our military days. Lieutenant General Grey, son to the Earl of Thornbrook, so mind yer manners, Clio.’
‘I always mind my manners,’ she hissed through clenched teeth, unaccountably annoyed that her uncle had so easily given up her name when she was determined to thwart him. He now knew who she was, even if he did not yet comprehend why she was at the crime scene.
Cocking her head, she tried to guess his age.
She knew Uncle Lachlan was several years older than Aunt Rowan, putting him somewhere just beyond forty.
A safe bet would place Lieutenant General Grey in his mid to late thirties, perhaps ten years older than herself.
While she was considered a spinster most firmly on the shelf, he was very much in his prime.
Not that any of that mattered. She would rather boil her own entrails in bull urine than enter into any binding union with a man.
No man wanted a woman more powerful than himself. It was a truth Clio, Eleanor, and Helena had watched come to fruition with both of their mothers. In direct contrast, Aunt Rowan kept her heart buttoned tight against the insidious lure of love, and she was wealthy, powerful, and content.
Grief, old and worn, blended with anger, fresh and powerful.
Clio could never forgive her mother for being such a fool.
Using a man to slake one’s desires or to bring new life into the world was one thing, but sacrificing one’s elemental power for something as weak and paltry as love was sheer lunacy.
The stranger, his silver walking stick clutched in his large fist, recovered once more from his shock at discovering her connection to Uncle Lachlan, and his features hardened.
‘If she is known to you, that is even more reason to keep her away from such rough business. This is no place for a gently bred lady.’
‘There is nothing gentle about me, Lieutenant General Grey, including my breeding.’ Clio gave him a blistering smile.
‘Clio, behave. And she canna’ stay away from the crime scene if the lass is going to help you find Viscount Beachley’s killer, now can she?’
‘I am going to help him?’ Clio pointed a finger at the man, her abrupt movement disturbing Sir Robin, who hopped off her shoulder and resumed his exploration of the entry.
‘She is going to help me?’ Lieutenant General Grey spoke at the same time, pointing his walking stick back at Clio.
‘Killer,’ Sir Robin added helpfully from the corner before pecking at something on the floorboard.
‘Exactly.’ Uncle Lachlan tucked his fingers in the pocket of his coat and rocked back on his heels, nodding like a teacher whose pupils had just mastered a complicated concept.