Chapter Four #2
“Dismal. To hear Mrs. Rose say it, I am positively feral. Doubtless because my mother died so young, leaving me to run wild under the reign of my father. She believes my education is a detriment, as education is also a masculine quality. But—like my other unfortunate quality, my scar—I am stuck with it. Unless I find a quick way to forget a lot of obscure things about plants.”
“Perhaps brandy can help you there, too. I find it makes me positively stupid.”
Elswyth leaned forward, resting her elbows on her crinoline. She took another sip, looking out the window at the darkening city. “Surely there must be another way.”
“You can write your father. See if he changes his mind,” Percival said.
Elswyth frowned; thinking of her father filled her with sadness.
How had he fared since her departure? Had his warping spread?
At this time of evening, he’d be asleep before the fire, tincture of laudanum by his side.
She found she missed him dearly. She felt as though a vital piece of her had gone missing, and a mournful gale whipped through the space where it should have been.
Home—Father—Persephone. All things she would likely never see again.
She composed herself to speak. “I penned a letter to him the moment I was free of her. But I do not expect a favorable response. Likely he will suggest I return and wed Cousin Ficus.”
“I never liked that man. I always thought he quite smelled like anchovies.”
Elswyth laughed so unexpectedly that she almost spit brandy on the desk. “That is the smell. I’ve never been able to name it so precisely.”
Percival laughed as well. “Repulsive, isn’t it?”
“And here I was, repulsed by mere incest.”
Percival grimaced. “Barbaric practice. Not that I would say that publicly, lest I offend our dear queen. But I think we in the nobility may be a touch too concerned with the purity of our ancient blood, if it supersedes the health of our children.”
Elswyth paused. Percival’s criticism of Queen Viscaria, even in the privacy of his own house, bordered perilously on treason. An eccentric or a dissident? And one with a seat in the House of Lords.
“Well, all the more reason to marry quickly,” Elswyth said, “if Mrs. Rose ever lets me leave this house. Is etiquette in London really so stringent that I must spend weeks preparing before I am even allowed in public? I don’t think I shall ruin my prospects completely if I wear the wrong fabric.”
Percival looked hesitant. “Do not underestimate the ton. There are too many wealthy people with endless time and nothing to do. Society’s rules are a little game to keep them occupied.”
“And yet you do not seem to play,” Elswyth said, “or you would not be plying a lady with brandy.”
Her uncle smiled. “I am not considered polite society. The rules are different for bumbling eccentrics. I also have no interest in marriage, which is, unfortunately, your aim.”
Elswyth frowned, running her finger along the rim of her glass.
Why had Percival never married? She had begun to realize that Lord Devereux was something of an outcast. Was it only because of his eccentricities?
Or had society rejected the great hunter for some other reason?
Did his lust for bloodsport like hunting extend elsewhere?
Did society shun him for his strangeness, or did they sense something darker in him, like a herd of sheep aware of a wolf in disguise?
She lingered on the thought over a sip of brandy.
Then she said, “And if I have other aims, with my time in London?”
Percival considered her, his blue eyes shifting from mirthful to something more discerning. He put down his glass and folded his arms over his chest. “I take it you do not speak of pursuing scholarship, but of pursuing Persephone’s murderer.”
“Is that so offensive? That a woman might seek justice for her sister, when it seems as though no one else will?”
Percival considered. “That is not so offensive. Your searches of my house, however…”
Elswyth froze, watching his face. She had indeed searched Percival’s quarters the day before, once Percival had left for Parliament. She’d found nothing suspicious, but number 4 Devereux Place was a large house and an old one. She was sure it had its secrets. “Uncle, I—”
Percival raised a hand to stop her. “I do not fault you for suspecting my involvement. The constabulary certainly did. I am, after all, the closest man to a missing young woman. If we had not been at the Explorers Club the night of her disappearance and had many to attest our presence, I think I would be in prison now. Kehinde, even with the score of people who saw him that night, almost wound up taking the blame. It took an unfortunate amount of political sway to ensure he was not made a scapegoat merely for the color of his skin. The police have mostly stopped pestering us, but I think we will never be free of suspicion. At least until the real killer is found.”
Elswyth struggled to meet the man’s eyes. She felt sudden guilt at suspecting him, even more at suspecting Kehinde, though many in the ton would be eager to pin the blame on a servant.
She wanted to believe Percival. She wanted to trust this man, to have an ally, a confidant. But something—something cold inside her, something deeply suspicious—held her back.
“You disapprove, then, of my search,” Elswyth said.
Percival shrugged, swirling his brandy. “On the contrary, I understand. I would expect nothing less from Cerise’s daughter. And if it had been my sister, I would have done the same.”
Elswyth straightened in her chair. “Perhaps, then, you could assist me. I intended to visit the Metropolitan Police today and discuss—”
“I said that I understand,” Percival said, cutting her off. “But I cannot encourage you.”
“But—”
“But nothing. You are a young lady in a dangerous city. You must be chaperoned at all times. I would escort you, but this business with the famine is rattling the government, and the city is in hysterics over these murders. I cannot spare the time.”
“And what of Kehinde? Perhaps—”
“Kehinde has his own life and his own business to attend to, Elswyth,” her uncle said. “You will stay put unless you have a proper escort.”
“You cannot simply lock me in this house.”
Her uncle fidgeted. “It is not a prison, Elswyth. It’s merely—”
“What else does one call a building that they cannot leave?”
“As I said, you can leave. With a proper chaperone.”
“Which you will not provide for me.”
“Mrs. Rose—”
Elswyth laughed again, but the sound was cruel. “I think I would prefer imprisonment. As if she would allow me to do anything of import. Am I to search for Persephone on my strolls through the park? Shall I find her body in a tree?”
When Percival responded, his voice was slow and grave. “The day Persephone went missing, I allowed her to go shopping on her own. I will not make that mistake again.”
“But—”
To her surprise, her uncle raised his voice. His cheeks wobbled as he spoke. “I have been responsible for the death of one of my sister’s children! I will not… I will not be responsible for another.”
Elswyth paused, looking at him. For the first time she saw her uncle’s age, the wrinkles on his forehead and the jowls beneath his beard.
He blinked twice, and Elswyth thought she saw tears forming in his eyes.
That much emotion—it did not seem like an act.
Even with Elswyth’s shortcomings when it came to reading people, she could see that Percival grieved for her sister, that he felt shame at his inability to keep her safe.
Her uncle cleared his throat and then forced a thin smile. “I really must retire, Elswyth. I hope that this will not sour your opinion of me. I do enjoy having you around the house. Shall I see you at breakfast tomorrow?”
Elswyth nodded slowly. Percival stood, shuffling his letters into a pile. Then he took his cane, limped toward the door, and was gone.
Elswyth slammed the bedroom door behind her.
Dust shook from the ceiling, and the sound echoed through the house.
She didn’t care. She wanted to scream. She’d come all the way to London to find her sister, and now she was trapped.
Trapped with Mrs. Rose’s lessons, trapped in her uncle’s house.
How could she find Persephone if she could not search for her?
She moved to the far wall and began peeling out of the ridiculous gown.
She wanted to tear the thing off of her and rip it to shreds.
But it was a piece of Persephone, after all.
Everything in the room was. All the letters from her friends and acquaintances, all the hideous gowns.
There had to be something relevant, something other than the bouquet.
She was unfastening the gown when she heard a sound behind her—a strange noise, coming from somewhere in the room. It was a chittering, an eerie clicking that echoed off the high ceiling. Like a large insect, fluttering chitinous wings, crawling somewhere out of sight.
She stood perfectly still, eyes scanning the room.
It was as she remembered it. Persephone’s letters lay half-read on the writing desk.
The old bouquet with the menacing message sat drying in its spot on the vanity.
Curtains hung limply by the balcony door.
She took a deep breath, chided herself for being so easily startled, and continued unfastening her gown.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, Elswyth saw something move.