The Ripper Affair

Of course, if what he suspected of Miss Bannon’s origins was correct, she was not of a quality to feel the lack of such treatment.

She is of a quality of character you have witnessed several times, and you are behaving abominably.

Clare climbed from the carriage as an old man would, despite the fact that he did not feel in the least physically decrepit. No, the problem lay within the confines of his skull.

She had assured him there would be no dimming of his mental abilities. Very kind of her.

Cease this nonsense. His shoes struck the cobbles, swept twice daily by the disfigured stable-boy, and the jarring all through him dislodged the roaring in his ears for a moment.

Miss Bannon swept ahead, her head bowed as if walking into a heavy wind. Mikal had not followed. Instead, the Shield paused, watching the black-veiled figure whose faltering steps clicked softly.

Then his head turned, with slow terrible grace, and he examined Clare from top to toe. Weak sunlight picked out the nap of the black velvet he wore instead of his usual olive-green–perhaps because Miss Bannon had insisted. The Shield’s opinion of Valentinelli had always seemed to hover about the edges of condescension mixed with outright distrust, and Clare had finally decided it was Miss Bannon’s fondness for the assassin that…

The chain of logic drifted away, for Mikal’s tone was quiet, pleasant, and chilling. “Mentath.” A slight pause, during which Miss Bannon disappeared through the side-door. “I do not know what has passed between you and my Prima.”

I suspect that is a very good thing. “No?”

A ghost of a smile curled up one corner of the Shield’s mouth, and for an instant it seemed–no, it was. His pupils flickered into a different shape.

Clare all but reeled back against the carriage’s side. The edge of his calf struck the step, a deep bruising blow. No more irrational wonders for today, please. I am quite finished.

“No, sir, I do not.” The honorific escaped on a long hiss of air. “Pray I do not discover it.”

“Do you threaten

me, sir?” He meant it to sound less fearful.

“Not a threat, little man.” Mikal’s smile twisted further, a hideous drooping movement. “A warning.”

With that, he was gone, striding across the carriageyard.

Harthell the coachman cooed at the gleaming black clockhorses, and the stable-boy, his wide, black eyes gleaming as his hunched and corkscrewed body twitched out from the shadow of the stable, scurried to help. The beasts snorted and champed, gleaming flanks married to delicate metal legs, their hooves chiming almost bell-like as sparks struck from the cobbles.

Clare leaned against the carriage’s mud-spattered side. A thin misting rain began to fall, and the low venomous smell of Londinium’s fog filled his nose. His calf throbbed, his head was full of noise, and he began to suspect he was not very well at all, at all.

A fraction of coja would set him right in a heartbeat. First he must change his clothes, then tell Ludo to hurry…

But Ludo was gone, closed in cold earth with a sorceress’s blood spattering his coffin. It was perhaps what the Neapolitan would have wanted. The only thing better would be a burning boat, as the pagans of old in cold countries had sent warriors into the beyond.

Clare’s eyes were full of hot liquid. He hurried into the house, creepingly thankful few of the servants had returned from the graveside yet, to see him in such disarray.

Chapter Eight

I Shall Enlighten You

“Person to see you, mum.” Finch’s face had squeezed in on itself in a most dreadful fashion. Rather as if he had sucked a lemon, which could either mean he was impressed by the visitor’s status, or quite the opposite.

Emma lowered the chill, damp handkerchief over her eyes. Her study was very dimly lit, and the leather sopha she had collapsed upon was a trifle too hard. Still, it was not the floor, and if furniture witnessed her déshabillé, or behaving not quite as a lady should, it would not speak of the matter.

Nor would Finch, and she took care to answer kindly, “I am not receiving, Finch. Thank you.” The shelves of leather spines–each book useful in some fashion, if only for a single line–frowned down upon her, and the banked coal fire in the grate gave a welcome warmth without the glare of open flame.

Finch cleared his throat. Delicately.

I see. “A rather fine carriage, following us from the graveyard,” she murmured. “Yes. Did they, perchance, present a card?”

“No mum.”

Of course not. “Mikal?”

“Is aware, mum.”

I certainly hope he is. “And what do you make of the carriage, Mr Finch?” For though her butler appeared a gaunt dusty nonentity, he most certainly was not thick-headed. Or easy to ruffle.