Chapter 24
Lord Francis’ Molly House
Sam gasps. “Cornelius?”
Cornelius’ gaze dips to the music box laying on its side next to us and his eyes widen.
“Friends of yours, Connie darling?” The man beside him stares down at us and exhales a thin, elegant stream of smoke, seemingly unconcerned by his semi-nudity.
“Ah…yes, Lord Francis, excuse me, this is…” He reaches down and helps both of us to our feet.
“Harrison Ames,” I interject at Cornelius’ cue. “And this is Samuel Stone, my…uh… associate.”
“Oh, hush now, darling, we don’t judge here. Well, except for Judge Trubridge, but as he’s currently in the parlour with a very pretty young man perched on his balls, I hardly think he’s in a position to cast stones.”
“Um…” I really don’t know what to say to that. I glance over to Sam who, although looking as confused as I feel, is trying not to smile.
“Don’t worry, my little strawberry bonbon, you’re perfectly safe here.” The man turns to Cornelius and admonishes, “Although, you naughty man, I really should have been informed if you were going to invite new guests. We don’t need the constabulary barging in here and arresting everyone.”
“My apologies, my lord, you were otherwise engaged,” he lies convincingly.
“Well, no harm done.” Lord Francis reaches out and traces his fingers along my jaw. “Such a pretty young man,” he mutters. “Better he’s here than trawling Hyde Park, especially with a killer on the loose.”
“A killer?” Sam blinks.
“Samuel, is it?” he asks, and Sam nods. “My goodness, have you been living in a monastery? There’s a beast, dispatching young men in a most gruesome way indeed. He also seems to favour the ones that frequent the Molly houses. Why, we lost our own dear Charles to that fiend. It was most upsetting.”
Molly houses?
Just where the hell are we?
I glance around quickly and note the silk wallpaper, the narrow hallway, the scent of tobacco smoke hanging in the air. None of it really gives me a clue until my eyes land on the gas lighting mounted along the wall that gives off a dim glow.
There’s no electricity.
I look back at the way the two men are dressed—or, in Lord Francis’ case, undressed. Factor in the Victorian fixtures and Cornelius Crawshanks himself, alive and in the flesh, and perhaps a more pertinent question would be not where are we, but when?
Oh my god, please let this be a weird dream.
Lord Francis is appraising me thoroughly and I flush, not just at the intense eye fucking I’m receiving but also at the realisation that I’m wearing my bright purple lounge pants decorated with bats and cauldrons and a T-shirt, which, if I’m being honest, is a bit too small for me and slightly see-through.
“Um, my lord, is it?” Sam clears his throat, unamused by the fact that I’m being ogled. “I know this may be a bit of a strange question, but where are we?”
“Good grief, dear chap, have you been at the poppy?” Lord Francis smirks. “You must’ve overindulged if you can’t remember where you are.”
The poppy? Does he mean opium?
“You’re in Islington, my dear man.”
“Islington?” I reply, my tone sharper than I intended.
“Oh dear,” Lord Francis chuckles. “You too? Perhaps just stick to the brandy for the rest of the evening, or you may not be in a fit state to find your way home.” His eyes trail appreciatively over Sam’s naked torso and land on his very tight-fitting black boxers.
“Of course, you’re both welcome to stay the whole night.
I’m sure I could find something to do with you.
” I grind my teeth together, fighting the urge to block Sam’s body from this pretty but odd man.
“Hmm, I very much like your undergarments,” he remarks to Sam.
“You’ll have to tell me who your tailor is. ”
“Calvin Klein,” he answers, and I elbow him in warning. “My lord,” he tacks on.
“I’ve not heard of him,” Lord Francis murmurs. “Is he French?”
“American.”
Francis takes a slow drag of his cigarette and exhales. “Hmmm.”
My gaze tracks to Cornelius as he leans down and picks up the music box, turning it over in his hands. When he sees the name Cordelia etched into it, his brows furrow and his mouth tightens.
“Where on earth did that thing come from?” Lord Francis remarks in surprise.
“My lord,” another voice intrudes before anyone can answer. We all turn as two men approach.
One is young, maybe early twenties, dressed in a slightly rumpled Victorian suit.
He has dark hair and a very pretty face, although his expression is serious.
The man accompanying him is older, in his fifties, his faded red hair streaked with white, and although his face bears a few lines, he’s still a very attractive man.
One I recognise.
“Ichabod,” I blurt out.
He looks at me in surprise, his eyes trailing over my unusual clothes, and then to Sam standing beside me in his underwear. “I’m sorry, do I know you?” He frowns.
“Of course you do, Ichabod,” Cornelius says, his eyes widening in emphasis. “This is Mr Ames and Mr Stone, don’t you recall?”
“Oh yes, of course,” he mutters, his gaze flitting to his lover. Cornelius gives the briefest, almost imperceptible shake of his head, and Ichabod turns his attention back to us. “How very nice to see you again.”
I give a polite nod and glance across at Lord Francis as he comforts the young man, who seems to be upset.
“Oh dear, tell me what the trouble is, Darling Dickie,” he croons, rubbing the young man’s back.
“My lord.” He swallows. “I don’t—” He breaks off and shakes his head.
“Dr Shaw and I performed the autopsy, and Inspector Franklin was there…it was just so awful. What that monster did to Charlie…and the Inspector was asking so many questions. I had to tell him I knew Charlie, but I couldn’t say how.
I couldn’t risk leading them back here.”
“There there, darling boy, you come with me,” Francis soothes.
The pair of them appear to have completely forgotten that we’re still standing here, but it’s clear to me, at least, that Lord Francis seems to care for the young man.
“Connie, I’ll leave you to entertain your guests.
” He looks over to Cornelius. “I’m trusting you. If they bring any trouble down on us?—”
“You have my word of their utmost discretion, my lord.”
“Hm,” Lord Francis huffs, then takes Darling Dickie’s hand and leads him away, leaving Sam and I staring at Cornelius and Ichabod.
I open my mouth, unable to bear the uncomfortable standoff any longer, when Cornelius shakes his head sharply. “Not here.” He strides off down the corridor, glancing over his shoulder at us. “Come with me.”
Ichabod indicates that we follow, so we do, with him bringing up the rear. Cornelius leads us through the house and up the stairs to a small, unoccupied bedroom. After Ichabod enters behind us, he locks the door and leans against it, his eyes narrowed and his arms crossed.
“Now.” Cornelius rounds on us, holding up the music box.
“Would you care to explain how you know who we are when we must certainly have never met before, how you came to be in this house”—he eyes Sam’s boxers and mostly naked body and then my very inappropriate pyjamas—“but mostly, how the hell you came to have this in your possession?”
He gives the music box a little shake. “This belonged to my sister.” His voice cracks slightly on the last word before he braces himself.
“And I know without a doubt that this was left in her bedroom in my house. A room that has been locked for nearly forty years, something of which I am absolutely certain as I have the only key.”
“Forty years?” I whisper.
“Answer me,” he demands. “How did you come by it? And why does it reek of magic?”
I swallow. “W-what year is it?” I mean the context clues are a little obvious, but hope springs eternal.
“What the devil do you mean, what y?—”
“Cornelius,” Ichabod interrupts, his eyes widening as they land on my undoubtedly pale face. He pushes away from the door and steps closer. “It is eighteen eighty-six.”
“Eighteen—” My lungs suddenly feel too tight and tiny flecks of lights start to spin in front of my eyes.
“Whoa.” Sam’s arms tighten around me, and he guides me to a chaise longue, where I sink into the seat. “Just breathe.” Sam rubs my back as I gulp in air. “That’s it… Slowly.”
“Eighteen eighty-six,” I say faintly. I look up at Sam, who’s looking just as concerned. “What do you think the chance is that we’re both having some weird hallucination thanks to that cursed music box?”
“Not favourable,” Sam replies. “Especially not with the way our luck has been lately.”
“How can you not know what the year is?” Cornelius frowns, then murmurs, “Or…where you are.”
Ichabod adds, “And how did they get here? Lord Francis is very discerning with his invitations. I can’t imagine any of the guests committing a kidnapping.”
Cornelius looks down at the music box and turns it over in his hands, his brow once again furrowed in thought. “It brought you here, didn’t it?” he murmurs as he looks over to me.
I nod slowly.
“Where did you come from?”
I look up at Sam, who says, “I think you’d better tell him the truth, Prickles. All of it.”
“But—”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know why we were brought here, but I do know we may not be able to get home without their help.”
He’s right. Given no other viable option right now, I shift my attention back to Cornelius and Ichabod.
“Not where, but when,” I begin, taking a deep breath. “We’ve been thrown back in time, over a hundred and forty years.”
Ichabod snorts. “Impossible.”
“Until an hour ago, I would’ve said the same thing.”
“Why this, though?” Cornelius stares at his sister’s music box.
Sam’s fingers tighten on the back of my neck to ground me, and I know I have to tell them all of it.
“Because I’m one of you,” I confess quietly.
“I beg your pardon?” Cornelius replies.
“I’m a Crawshanks.” I watch as his eyes widen. Wow, it’s really strange to finally say that out loud. “I am a direct descendant of your sister Constance.”
He blinks slowly and shakes his head. “How can I know you are telling the truth?”