Chapter 2 #2
Sir Robin flew to her shoulder, gold glinting in his beak as his wings disturbed a lock of Clio’s hair.
She twisted her head to see what trinket he had found.
Putting out her hand, she gave him a warning tsk.
‘Sir Robin, we don’t take things that aren’t ours.
Even if they are shiny and pretty. Drop it. ’
The raven shuffled from one foot to the other on her shoulder.
‘Now, Sir Robin.’ She kept her voice firm, though there was no stopping the twitch of her lips. How could she ever be angry with her mischievous friend?
Sir Robin reluctantly dropped his treasure in her bare hand. A gold locket. As she closed her fingers around the cold metal, the vision came fast and furious.
Clio reached out a large hand that was not hers and closed strong fingers around a woman’s arm. Spinning her, Clio saw Viscountess Beachley’s face. She had never met the woman before, but she knew it was Beachley’s wife because she wasn’t Clio any more. She was someone else.
‘You must stop yelling. You are frightening sweet Anna, darling.’ Clio’s voice was the rough register of the viscount. She was part of his memory. He was worried; she could feel the anxious fear thrumming through his veins as if it were happening to her. His heart pounded hard against his chest.
‘Do not speak to me of our daughter.’ Viscountess Beachley was young, not much older than Clio. Her unremarkable features were twisted with rage as she spat the words like poison. A gold locket glinted around her neck, the flash blinding Clio for a moment.
‘She is sick, Violet. She needs our support more than ever.’ Viscount Beachley’s voice came from Clio’s throat.
Ripping her arm free, Violet let her hand fly on the wind to land with a stinging slap against Viscount Beachley’s cheek. Clio’s head swung to the side from the impact. She reached up with the viscount’s hand and pressed it against the stubbled skin.
Violet turned and wrenched the door open.
‘Don’t walk away from me, Violet.’ Desperation, fierce and frightening, filled Clio. ‘Please!’
But Violet ignored his plea, her skirts billowing behind her as she disappeared down the darkened hall.
The vision ended as swiftly as it began. Nausea, familiar and annoying, rolled through Clio’s belly in an oily wave. Sir Robin rubbed his sleek head against her hot cheek, clicking his beak in concern. The hard outline of the locket was still pressed into her clenched fist.
Her uncle’s face slowly replaced her vision of the past like mist solidifying into sculpture. ‘Are you all righ’?’ Uncle Lachlan’s brow creased.
‘I’m fine.’ But she knew her skin was already starting to redden from the slap.
That was new. Corporeal ghosts could harm her, but never had she experienced a vision so viscerally.
And never had people in memories from the past caused her physical harm.
Aunt Rowan would not be pleased if she found out about this new development.
She would certainly forbid Clio from helping Uncle Lachlan.
So, I shall keep the secret. For now.
She could apply a healing balm as soon as she reached the apothecary. By the time she returned home that evening, her cheek would have nary a blemish.
‘Did you see something?’
‘I think Viscount Beachley wanted to say hello. This belongs to his wife.’ She opened her fingers, and when Uncle Lachlan held out his hand, she dropped the locket into his palm.
‘One thing is certain: Violet knew how to land a smack.’ Her hand shook as she reached into her bag for an aniseed drop mixed with a little something special from Clio’s store of herbs and spices.
The candy helped to dissipate the sickness brought on by her visions.
‘You’re hurt.’ Uncle Lachlan’s voice roughened with concern as he brushed his fingers over her cheek.
She pulled away. ‘It’s nothing. Sometimes, it happens when a vision is particularly vivid.’ If she was going to lie to Aunt Rowan, she might as well practise. ‘It will fade in no time.’ At least that part was true, with a little magical help.
She knew Uncle Lachlan, much like her aunt, wouldn’t let her work the case if he thought she might be hurt.
But the opposite was true for Clio. If she had been undecided about whether or not to take the case, Viscountess Beachley’s vicious smack sealed the matter.
She would find the killer and hold them accountable for their crimes.
Clio didn’t take kindly to being attacked, even if it was by the missing wife of a dead viscount. ‘Where is Viscount Beachley’s daughter?’
Before Uncle Lachlan could answer, Lieutenant General Grey strode down the hall. His all too intelligent eyes stalled on Clio’s cheek, then swung to MacDougal. The man’s features were striking in repose, but when anger hardened them into sharp angles and hard lines, he was fiercely handsome.
More like foolishly and rather inconveniently handsome. Blast. How are we going to explain this to him?
The slap mark was a clear indicator something had happened.
It was obvious Lieutenant General Grey assumed Uncle Lachlan hit her.
Most men would mind their own business or not care enough to notice, but by the thundering rage rolling in Lieutenant General Grey’s eyes, it would seem he wasn’t most men.
Clio had to give him a smidge of grudging respect.
At least he didn’t support women being beaten for no good reason.
It was Uncle Lachlan’s grand idea to include this man in the investigation. She should leave it to him to create an excuse. But men were hopeless, and based on Uncle Lachlan’s panicked look, Clio would need to take the lead.
Before Lieutenant General Grey could say anything, Clio lifted her hand and slapped her uninjured cheek with a cracking smack.
Sir Robin jumped off her shoulder, landing in a disgruntled fluff of feathers by her feet.
Damnation, that hurt!
Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away and forced her lips into a wide smile as both men – and Sir Robin Goodfellow – looked at her like she might have gone mad.
‘Right, well, I must be off to All Things Bright and Beautiful.’
‘What the bloody hell is going on here?’ Lieutenant General Grey’s eyes, greener than a broken bottle and just as sharp, swung from Clio to Uncle Lachlan and back again.
Uncle Lachlan shook his head, equally stunned.
‘The price of vanity, I’m sorry to say.’ Forcing a giggle, Clio ignored Sir Robin’s mocking imitation of her laughter. ‘It’s all the rage in Paris. Apparently, pinching cheeks is out. Slapping is a far more expedient way to achieve that rosy glow.’
What a load of tripe. But if Clio knew anything, it was men’s ignorance of all things relating to female beauty regimes. She spared Uncle Lachlan a glance.
This is the price I pay to keep my powers hidden, Uncle Lachlan. You owe me for this.
At least he had the decency to look ashamed.
She turned her focus to Lieutenant General Grey.
‘We need to speak with Viscount Beachley’s daughter.
As Uncle Lachlan believes your connections with the beau monde will be beneficial, I’ll leave it up to you to arrange a meeting with the girl.
Let me know when and where, please. It was—’ She stalled.
Clio could hardly say it was lovely to meet him.
Nor could she say it was pleasant. Disastrous came to mind.
‘Interesting to meet you, Lieutenant General Grey.’ Not completely honest, but neither was it a blatant lie.
‘Interesting bastard!’ Sir Robin blinked his black eyes at the lieutenant general.
‘Come along, Sir Robin.’ Clio tapped her shoulder, and the raven gave a clack of his beak before flapping his wings and gently landing on her.
Tugging on her gloves, she ignored the heat in her reddened cheeks and breezed out of Viscount Beachley’s home to her cabriolet, taking the ribbons from her groom.
He helped her up the steps and into the hooded carriage before she felt the dip of him hopping onto the bench in the back.
She clucked and flicked the reins, directing her horse onto Grosvenor Street and east towards All Things Bright and Beautiful Apothecary on Savile Row.
Lieutenant General Thomas Grey was rarely confounded. Yet, in the space of a quarter hour, Miss Clio Blair had managed the task with inordinate ease. Her feathered friend certainly helped.
A woman who keeps a talking raven as a pet. Ridiculous.
And the things her bird said. Thomas couldn’t help but suspect he was being insulted by the bloody creature. Intentionally.
He couldn’t shake his encounter with the enigmatic young lady as he sat at a corner table in his club, Boodles, and ignored the looks and whispers emanating from members he once called friends.
It had been eight years since Thomas’ shameful scandal made all the newspapers, but still, men he had known since childhood looked at him with a mixture of sympathy and disgust.
Hang their opinions. They mean nothing to me.
They meant a great deal too much to him, hence his infrequent visits to the prestigious club where his family had held a membership since its inception.
The rooms at Boodles had been more familiar to Thomas than his own drawing room, with shouted invitations calling him to one table or another.
He once drank, gambled, and caroused with fellow members of the peerage, confident of his place in society.
Now he felt like a stranger in an unwelcoming land.
Gentlemen went out of their way to avoid him.
Pushing away the useless anger and awkward awareness of so many eyes locked onto him, Thomas refocused on the man sitting opposite him.
Superintendent MacDougal shifted in his seat, not attempting to hide his discomfort at being in a gentleman’s club that would never deign to offer him membership.
No doubt the whispered discussions circulating the room were just as focused on MacDougal’s presence in the elite club as they were on Thomas’ return.