CHAPTER 12

"What secret?" I asked, hardly daring to breathe.

"I've inherited something other than my coloring from my mother." Lincoln grunted softly. "At least, I think it's from her. I doubt it's from my father."

He was talking as if I knew more than I did about his parents, but I didn't want to interrupt him to ask for details. It was so rare for him to talk at all, I didn't want to startle him into stopping.

"Go on," was all I said.

"She may have been a seer."

Good lord! "But you're not sure?"

He shook his head. "I found a reference to her in the ministry archives. At least, I think the woman mentioned was my mother. The general wouldn't answer my questions when I asked."

That seemed grossly unfair. Surely Lincoln had a right to know about his parents. "So why do you think she was your mother?"

"The text was very old and written in a style that was difficult to read. The general probably thought I'd have no interest in old records, so didn't hide them particularly well. Not then, anyway. It was only a sentence or two, but it stated that the woman who bore the next leader of the order would herself be a seer."

"Did this information come from the same woman who foresaw your birth and role as that leader?"

He nodded.

"No name was mentioned?"

"No."

"But since you are the leader, then the detail must be correct."

"Yes."

I stared at him a long moment, trying to gauge how he felt about having a seer for a mother, and possessing some of her supernatural power, but he'd once more assumed a stony face. "How much can you foresee?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I can't tell the future. I can't see very far ahead at all. What I possess is a superior ability to anticipate things before they happen, but not everything. I don't know how people will act or what they'll say, for example. Gambling and fighting seem to be different. I can almost always anticipate the way the die will fall, as well as what my opponent's next move will be."

"That's useful."

The corner of his mouth twisted. "Very."

"I wonder…"

He frowned. "Go on."

"I wonder if your supernatural instinct has melded perfectly with your skill and natural instinct."

He arched a brow.

"You're highly skilled when it comes to combat of all kinds," I explained. "Anyone who has practiced for years would possess excellent instincts in a fight. But couple that natural instinct with your hereditary one, and you've managed to take it to new heights. Perhaps if you were as skilled in non-combative interaction, you could anticipate what people would say and do. It seems your inherited ability enables you to occasionally guess when someone is seeking you out, or is speaking about you, but that's all. If you were more sociable, your instincts with people could improve too."

"Is that your way of saying I don't have much empathy?"

I smiled. "Some would say you lack charm and witty conversation. Not me, of course."

"Witty banter is a waste of time. I'd rather get to the point of a conversation."

"Sometimes the witty banter is the point of the conversation."

"Then those conversations and the people who have them are dull."

I rolled my eyes and tried to contain my smile. "Then you're not going to enjoy yourself at the ball tonight."

"Probably not."

My smile faded altogether as he turned to look out the window again. The last time we'd spoken of the ball and the reason he was going, he'd wanted me to think he didn't know who his father was. I didn't dare ask again and risk his ire.

"Thank you, Mr. Fitzroy," I said. "I appreciate you confiding in me. I won't tell a soul."

"I know."

The certainty with which he said it shocked me a little. Then it warmed me. I would do everything in my power to keep his secrets if it meant that much to him.

The carriage slowed as we turned onto Ratcliffe Highway. We came to a stop, and Lincoln opened the door and alighted first. He helped me down and we headed into Lower Pell Lane, leaving Seth with the horse and carriage. It looked less forbidding during the day, but more derelict. Paint peeled off ever door and window frame, while the windows themselves were gray from soot. The buildings looked as if they'd sprung up haphazardly, with a wall of brick here, a crumbling plastered one there, and a wooden arch connecting them. Children played on the street, their own imaginations as their toys, while their mothers hung out washing from the upper levels.

Lincoln knocked on the dragon's nose carved into Mr. Lee's door, but there was no answer.

"Is Mr. Lee in?" I asked some of the children hovering nearby.

Several of them nodded, others merely shrugged. One of the older ones stepped forward, and I recognized him as the boy who'd brought me the message the night before. I smiled at him, but he didn't smile back.

"Mr. Lee is out marketing, miss," he said.

"We've come to see the body of the man who died there last night," Lincoln said.

"They took it away in a cart."

Damn. We were too late. The captain had returned and claimed the body already.

"They?" Lincoln asked the lad.

The boy lifted one shoulder. "Men. There was writing on the cart. English writing. But I can't read." He drew some lines in the air.

"An M," I said.

"That's all I remember," the boy said with another shrug.

"You've done very well. Thank you." I opened my reticule, but Lincoln already had coins in hand. He gave the boy two and one each to the other children. They beamed and rushed off with their loot.

"M?" I said to Lincoln as we left the lane. "Is that linked to the captain, do you think?"

"The captain wouldn't have returned. He was too scared of both Gordon and of capture, or he would have put up a stronger fight, perhaps even shot someone. M is most likely for Mortuary. The authorities have collected the body. I know where to find the nearest one."

Seth drove us the short distance to St George in the East church, Wapping. The mortuary had been built behind the church, almost on top of a cluster of gravestones. It was unattended and the door locked. Lincoln dismissed my idea to seek out a clergyman and instead used some long pins he withdrew from his pocket. He had the lock open in a moment.

"Impressive. Did one of your tutors teach you to do that?"

He nodded. "Mr. Jack Plackett was a master thief in his time, but was an ancient cripple when he came to tutor me. He was as sharp as a knife, though. I learned more useful things from him than from any of my other tutors."

"Including your female tutor?"

"Not for lack of effort on her part."

I covered my smile with my hand. It seemed inappropriate to laugh in a mortuary.

He pushed open the door. "Do you mind if I go in first?"

"I was hoping you'd offer."

He hesitated. "You should stay out here."

"But we both know I'm not going to."

His lips flattened. "Then prepare yourself."

I stood back while he entered, then followed. I wish I'd taken his advice to prepare myself more seriously. The mortuary wasn't what I expected. Bodies didn't lie on tables and shelves but on the floor, wherever there was a space large enough. Nor were they covered for modesty; they lay naked and exposed. I wondered if the wealthier parishes treated their dead in such a shabby manner.

I counted six bodies, some quite decayed and four of them grossly bloated, their skin pulled tight over swollen bellies and faces. Those four must have drowned, a common cause of death this close to the docks. The only woman had her head smashed in, and the sixth body belonged to our man from Mr. Lee's. He was in the best condition of the lot, but was extraordinarily thin. His skin was like worn paper, and it was a miracle the bones didn't protrude through it.

I drew in a sigh when I saw him and instantly regretted it. The smell of rotting flesh was much fouler than the butcher's cellar. I covered my nose and mouth but it was too late. The putrid odor clogged my throat. I gagged.

"Charlie, are you—?"

I raced out of the mortuary and threw up in the bushes. To my horror, Lincoln's warm hand touched the back of my neck. I pulled away, not wanting him to see me like this, and certainly not wanting his sympathy. I should be used to death by now. I was a necromancer and had seen death up close numerous times; I’d even touched decomposing bodies. My weakness appalled me.

"My apologies," he said.

I held up my hand. "You have nothing to apologize for."

"I should have made you wait outside."

I accepted the handkerchief he passed to me over my shoulder and dabbed my mouth on it. I couldn't return it to him in that state, so I tucked it into my reticule. "I would have looked in anyway," I told him.

"There's no need for you to go back inside. I have the name."

"You do? How?"

"It was written on a card, along with the names of the next of kin, where the body was found, who reported it, and the likely cause of death. Either Lee lied, and he did keep records of his clients, or there was some identification. My guess is the latter. I'm not sure Lee cares for record keeping."

I drew in a breath, grateful for some fresh air. "I'll summon him, but I won't ask him to enter his body, if you don't mind. Considering the lack of clothing, it seems rather insensitive. But that means you won't be able to hear his answers."

"I don't need to hear them. You're capable of reporting what he says to me."

"What is his name?"

"Bertram Purley."

I looked around to make sure no one could overhear me, then said, "Bertram Purley, I summon you to me. The spirit of Bertram Purley, show yourself."

I thought the mist was a low lying cloud at first, until it coalesced into the form of the dead man from Lee's garret. He scowled at me and then at Lincoln, who was watching me.

"He's here," I told him.

"You again," the spirit growled. "What do you want?"

"To know the name of the man known as the captain. The one who spoon fed a liquid to you."

"Who cares? I'm dead now. It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters. It matters if we can save other lives. It matters if you'd like your body to stay buried."

The latter argument rather than the former elicited a response. Up until then, he’d looked both bored and irritated. "I told you his name last night, stupid girl."

And to think I'd felt some sympathy for him in the mortuary. "I can't recall what you told me last night. The opium affected me. Kindly repeat it."

"He told me his name was Jasper."

"First or last name?"

"I don't know. Captain Jasper, I called him." The mist swirled around me and up into the sky, only to swoop down again like a bird on its prey. He bared his teeth and snarled. "Why can't I go?"

"I must release you."

"Then do it!"

I looked to Lincoln and repeated the name Bertram Purley had given me. "Do you have any questions for him?"

"No," Lincoln said.

"Go, Bertram Purley. Return to whereever it is your spirit resides."

"I'm stuck in the waiting area," he said as he swept away again. This time he didn't return.

"He's gone," I said. "He had nothing else to tell me."

Lincoln held out his arm and I took it, but before we could leave, the vicar emerged from the rear of the church. He swooped down on us like a black robed version of Purley's spirit.

"You there!" he shouted. "Halt! What are you doing?"

Lincoln drew himself up to his full height and squared his shoulders. He was considerably taller than the vicar, but the clergyman didn't back away.

"That is none of your affair," Lincoln said.

I tightened my hold on his arm. "Don't snap, Brother dear," I said sweetly. "He was simply asking a question." I felt Lincoln bristle beneath my hand. I hoped he had enough imagination to go along with me. "We're visiting your charming churchyard," I told the vicar. "We'd heard of a distant relative who might be buried here, some years past, but alas, we weren't able to find his headstone."

The vicar blushed and stumbled through an apology. "I see now that you're just an innocent couple. Forgive me, sir, ma'am, but we've had trouble here only this morning and I thought you were he, returning to break the lock again." He nodded at the mortuary behind us.

"Trouble?" Lincoln asked. "Someone has burgled your mortuary?"

"How peculiar," I said. "Who would do such a thing?"

"The lock was broken mere hours ago. I've just replaced it."

"Did you see the burglar?" Lincoln asked.

At the vicar's odd look, I added, "My brother has an interest in law enforcement."

"You're a policeman?"

"Of sorts," Lincoln said. "Tell me what the man looked like and I'll see that the police are informed."

"That's good of you. I reported it to the police, but they said they were too busy to come immediately. I only caught a glimpse, but the man was middle aged, average height. He wore spectacles. I'm sorry, that's all I noticed."

Lincoln touched the brim of his hat and the vicar did the same. "God will see that the police catch him," the vicar said. "He must be reprimanded for his behavior. This is a house of God, not a place for childish games."

Lincoln and I walked swiftly out of the church grounds before the vicar noticed that his new lock had been miraculously unlocked without a key. At least Lincoln hadn't broken it, as Jasper had.

We found Seth waiting with the carriage nearby and climbed in. It was growing late and there was little we could do with the new information. Lincoln said he could find out where Jasper lived, but it would take some time. The easiest way was to see if the captain was indeed an army man. If so, military records would list his last known address.

Unfortunately, the general had gone out, and Gus returned to Lichfield without a response. He, Seth and Cook met us in the kitchen where Cook sat at the table, cradling his bandaged thumb, while Gus sliced up vegetables.

"The general's butler told me he would deliver your message as soon as he returns, sir," Gus said without looking up from the carrots.

"I'll send another message, this time with the name of Captain Jasper," Lincoln said. "It will narrow his search."

"I'll deliver it," Seth said. "I'm going out that way later."

Gus snorted. "To see your bit o' skirt again? Ain't she bored with you yet?"

"They don't get bored with me. And she's not a bit of skirt. As it happens, she enjoys dressing in men's clothing."

Gus whooped and even Cook's hound face lifted. "Seth," Lincoln warned, most likely for my benefit.

"Does she prefer gentleman's clothes or a workman's outfit?" I asked with a wink for Seth.

He chuckled. "Depends on her mood."

"How is your thumb?" I asked Cook as Lincoln headed out.

"Still bloody hurts," he muttered, holding it to his chest.

"Stop your whinin'," Gus growled. "It's still attached, ain't it? Most cooks I know are missing a finger or two. Goes with the territory."

Cook scowled at him. I patted his shoulder. "I'm sure it throbs terribly," I said gently. "You just rest for a while and we'll take care of everything in here."

Gus shot me a withering glare. "What do you think I been doing while you were out having adventures?"

"I threw up in the bushes outside the St. George of the East mortuary. I don't call that an adventure."

He pulled a face and returned to his chopping, only to be told by Cook that he wasn't doing it right. I thought it best to leave them to their bickering.

I retrieved my apron from its hook and set to work in the scullery, then cleaned bedrooms and the bathroom. I paused only for a light lunch and to inspect Lincoln's collar when the laundress delivered it mid-afternoon. I took it upstairs along with the pressed shirt and mended jacket and knocked on his door.

He was writing at his desk but set his pen aside when I entered and flipped the lid of the silver inkwell closed. "Thank you, Charlie, I can take them from here," he said, rising.

"I'll lay them on the bed. You'll be the most dashing man there tonight." It wasn't easy to keep the sigh out of my voice, but I managed it.

"Every gentleman will be dressed as finely. I'll blend in."

I rejoined him in the sitting room. "That's not what I meant."

He sat on the edge of his desk, his hands gripping the desktop on either side of him. He didn't say anything further, so I took that as my dismissal.

"Is there anything I can get you?" I asked.

"No."

"Will we continue with our training this afternoon, or do you require time to prepare for the ball?"

"I think I can manage after training concludes." The dryness of his tone made me smile.

"Your hair might take longer than you think," I teased.

"Should I cut it?"

"No!"

Both his brows rose.

"I…think it suits you at that length." It more than suited him. It set him apart from the other gentleman, marked him as a little wild and uncontrollable, which he certainly was. While I ordinarily preferred a man with short hair, I couldn't imagine Lincoln's any other way. "Do you have a black ribbon to tie it? That leather strip won't do."

"There's one in a drawer somewhere. I'll look for it later."

"Very well. Come fetch me when you're ready for training." I smiled somewhat awkwardly and turned to go.

"Charlie. Wait." He knuckles whitened and his gaze didn't quite meet mine.

"Yes?" I murmured. "Is there something you need?"

"Your help."

"To tie the ribbon?"

He shook his head. "With…conversing."

"Oh? You mean you want to know how to engage someone in a conversation that has nothing to do with the paranormal, fighting, or grave robbing?"

"Don't tease me."

"Being teased and knowing how to tease is part of the art of conversing and flirting. Not that I think you ought to flirt just yet," I added quickly. "Leave that for when you're more comfortable with small talk."

"So how does one begin?"

"That depends. You need to adjust what you say according to the people you're with. Perhaps observe and listen for a few minutes before joining in. See what topics interest the group and gauge their general mood, then offer an opinion on something they're talking about. The gentlemen will no doubt discuss politics, and I've seen you read the newspapers. You must be able to say something appropriate."

"And if politics isn't the topic?"

I shrugged. "You're a clever man and very knowledgeable about a wide range of subjects. I'm sure you'll be able to offer something interesting to a conversation."

"Whenever I try, the conversations usually stop dead."

"Perhaps you try too hard. It's best to keep your strongest opinions to yourself until you're fully comfortable with someone. Say something witty—" I cleared my throat. "Say something clever, but be sure it's nothing too gruesome, inappropriate or dull."

"Therein lies the problem. How do I know if what I want to say is any of those before I get a reaction?"

I sighed. This was proving tougher than I thought. "I'm not sure I'm the best person to give advice. The art of conversing in ballrooms is beyond my experience. I'm far more familiar with juvenile jokes that amuse boys than mature banter. And as for flirting, I've never practiced it, I'm afraid. I've never had the opportunity."

He pushed off from the table and came to stand in front of me. "You're wrong. Your skills are equal to any woman I've met. Perhaps it simply comes naturally to you."

My stomach tied itself in knots as I blinked up at him. He wouldn't think it came naturally to me if he knew how his attentions affected me, and how his praise made me want to earn more. "Perhaps," was all I said.

"Your childhood was spent in polite society, and the habits of good manners and conversation were drilled into you by your adopted parents. I grew up isolated from society for much of my life. It's a limitation of my training that the general didn't identify until it was too late."

"Training," not upbringing. Did he see his childhood as one long training session to be endured? How awful and sad; cruel, even. "Oh, Lincoln."

His eyes flared then, and he backed away. He turned to his desk and shuffled a stack of papers. "Thank you, Charlie. You may go."

I opened my mouth to apologize but shut it again. I wasn't sorry for pitying him, only for letting him see and hear my pity. I needed to be more careful in the future.

"Sometimes all that's required is silence and a smile," I said, in a lame attempt to return to our topic. "Indeed, a smile can achieve much, particularly with women." I regretted saying it immediately. I didn't want him to bestow a smile on another woman. I wanted him to bestow one on me. Yet he'd never done more than twitch the corners of his mouth, and I doubted he ever would; for me or anyone else.

"I'll keep that in mind. You may go."

One day I would get him to shed a little bit of his pride, just for me. But I suspected that day was a long way off.

***

Lincoln disappeared into his rooms after our training session. I hovered in the library, a duster in one hand and a book in the other, and waited for him to come down. I didn't want to miss him before he went out. Training hadn't eased the awkwardness between us—it had only amplified it—and I hated to part like that. I hoped he did too and would come looking for me.

It was growing quite late, however, and I was about to go in search of him to see if he'd changed his mind and wasn't going after all, when the crunch of gravel beneath hooves and wheels announced the arrival of a coach. I peered through the window just as Lady Harcourt's footman opened the door for her and she stepped out of the large carriage.

What was she doing here?

I set down the book and duster and went to open the door for her. She seemed surprised to see me and not Gus or Seth. I bobbed a curtsy.

"Good evening, my lady," I said. "Are you expected?"

"I'm not." She smiled as she swanned inside, the hem of her deep blue gown skimming over the floor tiles. It was the first time I'd seen her out of mourning, although it was a dark enough color to keep most sticklers for propriety happy, even with the silver thread embroidered into it. She stood beneath the chandelier and every diamond on her person sparkled. She wore them at her earlobes, over the gloves on her fingers and wrists, and those were merely the ones I could see. The high collar of the gray fur coat probably hid even more at her throat and décolletage. She even had them in her hair and I had to admit her dark tresses set them off beautifully. She was breathtaking.

"I thought I'd collect Lincoln in case he changed his mind," she said.

How odd. She must know that if Lincoln didn't want to go to the ball, she wouldn't be able to sway him. No one would. "He's getting ready."

She smiled. "And men say we females take too long. Never mind. I'll wait here with you." She glanced at the stairs and lowered her voice. "There's something I'd like to speak to you about anyway."

I glanced at the stairs too, willing Lincoln to come down before she could say anything further. A terrible foreboding had settled into my stomach. "Oh?"

She smiled again, but this time it was like the diamonds she wore—beautiful yet hard and cold. I swallowed heavily.

"You need to raise the spirit of Mr. Gurry for me," she said.

"Lincoln's tutor? No!"

She placed a gloved finger to her lips. "I suspected that would be your first reaction, but listen to what I have to say before you refuse. After we spoke on this matter recently, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. I need to know why Lincoln killed him. You could speak to him for me. His spirit, that is."

"I won't go behind Mr. Fitzroy's back."

"You mustn't tell him!" She glanced at the stairs again. Then she took my arm and patted my hand. "I know you're curious too, Charlie. Lincoln never has to find out. It's just to ease our consciences on the matter."

"My conscience is eased. I don't care why he did it. He must have had a reason."

"I'm sure he did too, and that's precisely why it's important to get to the bottom of the mystery. Lincoln deserves nothing less than our full support."

"He has my full support already."

"Does he? Come now, Charlie, we both know this matter will bother us until it's resolved. It will always color our perceptions of him. That's why we need to remove it from our minds. You're a better woman than me, if you can do that without knowing the truth."

While she had a point, and I was wildly curious, I couldn't bring myself to go behind Lincoln's back again. He'd forgiven me once, but I wasn't sure he'd do so a second time. Yet I hated to offend Lady Harcourt. I needed her on my side.

"I couldn't even if I wanted to," I told her. "I need a full name to summon spirits that have crossed. Unfortunately we only know the tutor as Mr. Gurry."

"It's Nelson Hampton Gurry." At my startled gasp, she added, "Lincoln isn't the only one capable of looking through ministry archives."

"Oh."

"Come into the library. We don't want him walking in on us." She took my hand and tugged me toward the library, but I wouldn't budge.

I slipped my hand out of hers. "I'm sorry, my lady, but I won't raise Mr. Gurry's spirit. Not for you, or for me."

Her lips pinched together, deepening the tiny lines at the corners of her mouth. "Those are quite strong morals you have now. What a pity you didn't employ them when you went to the General Registry Office."

I fell back a step and my stomach plunged to my toes. "How do you know about that?"

"That's not your concern." She lifted her chin. "Your concern is whether I will inform Lincoln of your betrayal or not. I don't think he'll be too happy if he discovers you've gone behind his back to investigate him."

"But that's what you want me to do now!"

She smiled, and it wasn't at all beautiful. For the first time, I saw the cunning, ruthless woman who'd pulled herself up from being a mere teacher's daughter to a grand lady. I didn't like her. "It's a sticky situation, isn't it? So what will it be, Charlie? Raise Gurry's spirit, and Lincoln is none the wiser, or don't raise it and Lincoln learns of your treachery?"