CHAPTER 7

I didn't see Lincoln again for the remainder of the afternoon. I dusted the entire house until Gus fetched me to train with him. Apparently Lincoln had given him instructions to do so. Seth was still out. The gloomy day promised rain so I suggested we use the ballroom again.

The exercise helped clear my head and distract me from the conversation with Lincoln. By the time we'd completed moves that were designed to strengthen me, I had completely set it aside. I rarely trained with anyone other than Lincoln, so it was good to go up against Gus. He was a scrappier fighter, his footwork not as polished as either Lincoln or Seth's, and that made him somewhat less effective. I was able to extricate myself from his headlock and send him crashing to the floor by the end of the session.

Cook applauded from where he sat on the covered table. "You made a bored man very happy, Charlie." He grinned at me. "I been wantin' to set him on his arse since I met him."

Gus got to his feet and dusted off his hands. "She would do it to you in half the time, you oversized slab of lard."

That only had Cook grinning wider. He hopped off the table. "Want to learn how to throw a knife so it always hit its target?"

I'd seen how accurate his knife throwing was. He'd planted a meat cleaver into Anselm Holloway's shoulder when my adoptive father had attacked me in the courtyard. It would be a useful skill. "Yes, please."

"We should run it by Death first," Gus warned.

"He ain't here," Cook said, signaling for me to follow him out the door.

"Why wouldn't he want me to learn to throw knives?" I asked.

Gus fell into step alongside me as we trotted down the stairs. "He will, when he feels you're ready."

"Why aren't I ready now?"

He sighed. "I don't know. All I know is, he hasn't given permission."

"Stop worrying, Gus. It's not like you."

We headed out to the courtyard at the back of the house. It was an area set aside for receiving deliveries and for the servants to use as a recreational space during their spare time. Although I'd sat on the bench seat and read often during the early weeks of my arrival, the colder weather had driven me indoors lately.

"There be any wooden barrels in the stables?" Cook asked Gus.

"Aye, but you can't use those. They'll be no good to anyone if you put holes in 'em. There's some spare planks in the carriage house."

He disappeared into the building adjoining the stables, while Cook returned to the kitchen. They both emerged a few minutes later, wooden planks and knives in hand.

Gus set three planks up on their ends and leaned them against the wall of the storehouse at one side of the courtyard. Next he drew a smiling face on the middle one with chalk. "A point if you hit the face. Extra if you get an eye."

He joined us and Cook handed me a knife. "The heavy end be thrown first," Cook said. "A knife with a heavier blade than handle should be held by the handle. One with a heavier handle, hold it by the blade. What's yours? Blade or handle heavy?"

I tested its weight by balancing it on my palm. "Neither."

"Good. It be a balanced knife. Best for beginners. Mine be blade heavy." He gripped his by the handle and I did the same, taking careful note of where he placed his fingers and thumb. "Don't hold it too tight or too loose. Now put your left foot forward, but keep your weight on the right. Bend your arm. Not so close or you'll cut your ear." He adjusted my arm for me. "Move your weight onto your front leg, unbend your arm, and release the knife when it be fully stretched out. Watch me."

He did everything he'd just instructed me but in rapid motion. The knife lodged in the eye Gus had drawn.

Gus whooped and clapped.

"Where did you learn to do that?" I asked Cook.

"My pa taught me. He were a knife thrower with a travelin' troupe of carnival folk. They performed at country fairs and the like."

"You didn't follow in his footsteps?"

"For a bit, aye, but the travelin' life weren't for me."

"How did you come to be here at Lichfield?"

"I were assistant cook for Lord Gillingham."

I pulled a face. Gillingham was one of the committee members and he'd made it abundantly clear that he didn't like me. What wasn't clear was whether he didn't like me because I was a necromancer, had lived on the streets, or both. "He stole you from Gillingham?"

"Gillingham dismissed me, the little turd."

"Why?"

"Thought I'd been drinkin' the wine from his cellar on the sly, but it weren't me. Were his cook, but the cook blamed me. The cook were jealous because I cooked a meal for his lordship's guests one night when he were sick, and they all thought it were the best they ever had."

"Did you defend yourself and tell Lord Gillingham you didn't drink the wine?"

"Course, but then the cook found out I been to jail for theivin' a few years back, and there were no hope I could stay after that. Ain't no one who wants a thief in their house."

"Except Mr. Fitzroy," I said wryly. I'd also been a thief and had only escaped jail by raising a dead man's spirit and frightening the guards. "Did Fitzroy feel sorry for you and decide to employ you here?"

Both Cook and Gus snorted. "He don't feel sorry for nobody," Cook said. "He employ me because I the best cook in London."

Gus rolled his eyes.

"Go on, Charlie," Cook said. "Your turn."

I set my feet apart like he'd shown me and held the knife near my head, arm bent. I released it in a smooth motion. It missed all the planks and bounced off the brick wall. "What did I do wrong?" I asked, going to retrieve it.

"Your aim be off."

"I gathered that. Anything else?"

"Maybe stand closer. You be weaker than me."

I came in another foot from my previous position and set myself up again. I was just about to release it when Lincoln rode into the courtyard on his horse.

"What is this?" he growled, dismounting.

Gus rushed over to gather the reins.

"Target practice." I held up the knife and indicated the planks. "Cook is teaching me how to throw them to wound someone."

"I didn't give permission."

"It was only a little practice. Why do we need your permission?"

"Because I am your employer." He stalked into the house, flinging his cloak from his shoulders.

I handed the knife to Cook, rolled my eyes, and went after Lincoln. "That is not a reason."

"You need to learn to obey my orders, Charlie. You all do. If you want to help with ministry business then you need to learn to do as I tell you. I can't have you all going off in different directions on a sudden whim. It's imperative you do as I say, or plans will fall apart."

I quickened my pace to keep up with him. "While that does sound reasonable, we are simply training here at Lichfield. We're not out on ministry business. I think you're over-reacting."

He suddenly stopped and rounded on me. "Do you? Then you won't be surprised to learn that I'll dismiss Cook."

"What? You can't!"

He walked off again. "He should know better."

We'd reached the stairs now and I was beginning to breathe heavily from the effort of following him. "You're being unreasonable."

He said nothing, just took the stairs two at a time.

"Mr. Fitzroy, slow down." He didn't. "This is absurd. I won't let you dismiss him. He won't get another position in a large house, not with his history."

"You have no say in the matter. You're a maid."

"I don't care!" I shouted, stopping on the landing. "Dismiss me too, if you will. It was my fault, after all. I asked him to instruct me." I resisted the urge to look back down to see if Gus and Cook were listening and would tell Lincoln that wasn't true.

"He should know better," he said again. He didn't sound quite so angry, and I suspected I was getting through to him.

"You'll regret this tomorrow."

"Will I?" He came back down the stairs toward me, but remained on the step above so that I had to crane my neck to look at him. "You presume to know me that well?"

I stepped up beside him and folded my arms. "I think I do, yes."

The muscles high in his jaw bunched. "You're wrong, Charlie. You don't know me at all."

"Bollocks."

His eyes narrowed.

I took his silence as permission to continue. "I do know you will regret speaking to me like this. I also know you'll regret dismissing Cook."

"Why would I?"

"He's a bloody good cook, for one thing. His sponge cakes are delicious. More to the point, it would be several days before we could replace him, and you do not want to eat my cooking. I imagine Seth and Gus are equally inept in the kitchen. Cook also saved my life. So, please," I said, softer, "keep him on. It was a trifling thing he did, after all."

He placed his hands behind his back and regarded me from beneath heavy-lidded eyes. "Why are you so intent on defying me lately?"

I baulked. "Am I?" I shook my head. "I disagree."

He ached a brow.

"Yes, well, while that does sound insolent, I would hardly call standing up for Cook defiant. You never said not to learn how to throw knives. I actually don't see the problem with it."

"I will oversee your training. Not Seth, or Gus, or Cook."

"You weren't here."

"And I will not have my staff going against my orders," he said, walking up the stairs again.

"You never actually gave a direct order not to teach me knife throwing."

He paused and glanced over his shoulder at me.

I shrugged. "If you're going to be particular about this then so will I."

He marched up the stairs again. "Tell Cook he can stay," he tossed back. "He's fortunate to have you as his champion."

***

Lincoln didn't join us for dinner, but came downstairs afterward and announced he was heading out to Mr. Lee's Lower Pell Lane establishment.

"Again?" I asked, setting aside my mending.

"There is no again. I haven't been yet." He threw on his riding cloak and picked up the gloves he'd set on the kitchen table.

"I thought that's where you were this morning."

He shook his head without looking at me. Indeed, he'd not met my gaze since entering.

Gus yawned and slumped further into the chair. "So where were you this morning?"

"The orphanage in Kentish Town." Upon my quiet gasp, he finally met my gaze. "I asked Mr. Hogan, the administrator, if he'd kept a copy of the letter he'd received from the person inquiring after your adoption."

"And?"

"And he hadn't. Nor could he recall where he sent the response. If he were my employee, I'd dismiss him for ineptitude."

"He must receive a lot of correspondence." I picked up my sewing again to hide my disappointment. "Thank you for trying. I know you're very busy."

I wasn't aware he'd moved closer until his gloved hand rested on the table in my line of sight. "Someone wants to know more about your origins, Charlie. They're possibly even searching for you."

"We don't know that certain."

"No."

"If they wanted to know where I'm living, they could simply question Anselm Holloway. It's not like he's difficult to find, locked away in a jail cell." I glanced up at him. "I won't live here as a prisoner."

"I know."

His response surprised me, after his earlier over-reaction. Then it had seemed as if he were trying to protect me to the point of being unreasonable, but now I wasn't so sure.

"Will you take one of the men with you?" I asked.

"Seth is still out and Gus can't stay awake."

Gus grunted and sat up straight. "I'm awake!"

Cook snorted.

"Besides, I don't wish to alert Mr. Lee to my interest," Lincoln said. "A single gentleman whom he already knows can make discreet inquiries. An entourage will raise questions and shackles."

"Why have you been to Mr. Lee's before?"

"Why does anyone go to Lee's? Don't wait up for me. I'll probably be out all night."

I blinked at his back as he walked away. Once he'd left the kitchen, I turned to Gus. "Did you know he'd been to an opium den before?"

"No, but nothing about him surprises me," Gus said, settling back down into the chair.

"Aye," Cook chimed in from where he sat beside me. "Best not to think about all the places our leader has been. He be a worldly sort."

Worldly was one thing, but frequenting an opium house was quite another. There was only one reason to go to a place like Lee's—to smoke opium.

I returned to the mending, wondering if I would get any sleep at all as I alternately pondered this new piece of information and worried about him. One thing would help me rest easier, however—he seemed to have calmed down and forgiven Cook for the knife-throwing incident.

***

Cook informed me over breakfast that Lincoln had not yet returned. I tried not to look worried, since he didn't seem to be. Gus had relieved Seth at the cemetery a few hours earlier and the latter was now asleep upstairs in his attic room.

"Cheer up," Cook said as he handed me a boiled egg in a cup. "There be sponge cake later."

"Delicious! Are we expecting guests?"

"Don't think so. Fitzroy asked me to bake it."

"But he hardly ever eats cake. Why would he ask for it specifically if he's not expecting guests?"

His hairless eyebrows lifted. "You can't guess?"

"No."

"He knows it be your favorite."

I scoffed. "I doubt that's it."

He smirked but said nothing further. Perhaps he was right and the cake was a peace offering for his bad temper. Since it wasn't something he actually had to bake himself, it was hardly a very convincing one.

I cracked the top of my egg open with a spoon and peeled off some of the shell. "He's rather hot and cold lately. Have you noticed that?"

Cook sat with me, two boiled eggs in front of him as well as a slice of toast. "He been that way ever since you moved in."

"That's not a comfort. Indeed, I feel rather guilty now, thank you."

He held up his hands. "I just be tellin' it as I see it."

I couldn't know if he was right or not, but I felt Lincoln's bad humor had increased recently—since he'd learned that I'd asked Lady Harcourt about Gurry. I hated to think that my prying had put a wedge between us that might never be fully removed, but I wasn't completely sorry. How else was I meant to learn more about him?

Seth finally awoke late morning, about the same time that Lincoln returned, along with Gus. The latter had deep blue-black circles under his eyes and a spider web of red lines on his eyelids. He pounced on the soup Cook placed on the kitchen table in front of him and devoured it in a few gulps.

Lincoln set a large rectangular box on the table and took a seat. A blue silk ribbon was wrapped around the box, tied up in a bow. Silk ribbons were expensive. Seth, Gus, Cook and I all exchanged glances, but if Lincoln noticed, he didn't say. He merely sat at the table and accepted the bowl of soup Cook placed in front of him. He ate with less greed than Gus, but asked for more when he'd finished.

"Don't spoil your appetite for cake," I told them.

"There's cake?" Gus asked.

"Sponge. I believe we have you to thank for it, Mr. Fitzroy."

Lincoln's gaze slid to Cook and turned frosty. "We haven't had one in a while. I thought it was time."

"Actually, we had one only last week."

"I forgot."

"Is that so? And here I thought you forget nothing." I thought it best not to tease him too much, since he was trying to broker peace. Poking the bear would be unwise. "Sponge cake will go nicely with a cup of tea later."

He accepted the second bowl of soup from Cook and gave me a somewhat hesitant nod.

"Do you want me to return to the cemetery?" Seth asked from where he was leaning against the doorframe.

"Not yet," Lincoln said. "There's been no sign of the captain so far, and I suspect he'll be hesitant to return there. He's unlikely to risk trying to retrieve them."

I removed my apron and joined him at the table. "That will set him back, if he was specifically after those bodies."

"I'd say he was. He picked them for a reason. I questioned Mr. Tucker this morning and he claims three of them are from his cemetery, the first one taken and the last two."

"Gordon Thackery being the very last."

"The first was the one you witnessed, Charlie. His name was Lieutenant Martin Jolly, and another was Captain John Marshall. Mr. Tucker also spent yesterday traveling to the other London cemeteries. He discovered the second body to be dug up came from Kensal Green."

"Did he learn his name?"

"William Bunter. All except Bunter were in the army."

"Or was he, but it wasn't inscribed on his tombstone?"

He shook his head. "I checked with his family. Bunter was a shopkeeper in the family's Piccadilly ready-to-wear shop."

I eyed the box. "You did some shopping while you were there? What did you purchase?"

"Blimey," Gus muttered with a roll of his eyes. "Just like a woman to think about shopping in the middle of an important discussion."

"A cloak," Lincoln said.

"What's wrong with your old cloak?" I asked.

He regarded me with those deep, black eyes of his and I clamped my mouth shut. I'd overstepped the boundary he'd laid between us again. I needed to learn to behave as a maid should.

"My apologies," I muttered. "So not all the dead men were linked through the army."

He shook his head.

"There must be another connection," Seth said, joining us at the table. "There has to be a reason why the captain chose to dig up those four specifically."

"The Bunters mentioned their son had been acting strangely before he died," Lincoln went on. "He would disappear for days on end without word, and when he returned home, he was inexplicably tired. He also seemed to be losing money but claimed not to be gambling. He'd grown thin too."

"Opium," Cook said quietly.

Lincoln nodded. "I suspect so. The Bunters didn't know where William went during his missing days. He wouldn't tell them, despite their pleas."

"What did you discover at Mr. Lee's house?" I asked.

"He admitted that a man matching the captain's description frequented the house from time to time, but never partook of the opium. Lee claimed not to know what the captain was up to. He paid well for privacy."

"And Lee allowed him to be alone with the men while they were so vulnerable under the opium's effects?"

"The likes of Lee don't care about anyone's safety," Gus said. "Only money."

"I'm unclear on how much Lee did know exactly," Lincoln told us. "He could be withholding information."

"Is his English good? Perhaps you need a translator."

"We understood one another."

Seth leaned in to me. "Mr. Fitzroy speaks perfect Chinese."

"Cantonese, and a little Mandarin."

How impressive. I wondered how many other languages he'd mastered. "What else did Mr. Lee tell you?"

"That the captain hasn't returned since the morning of Thackery's death, and that perhaps all four of our dead men frequented his establishment in the weeks and months before their deaths, but he can't be sure. It stands to reason that most were soldiers."

"Gordon said opium relieves the pain of war injuries."

He nodded. "Soldier's curse, some call it."

"Mr. Lee doesn't note down his customers' names?"

He shook his head. "The addicts like the anonymity he offers." He rose and picked up the box. To Seth and Gus he said, "Tucker and his staff are going to keep a close eye on Thackery, Marshall and Jolly's graves and report any visitors to me. We'll focus on watching Lee's instead."

"I'll go," Seth said, also rising. "Gets me out of scullery duty."

"What if the captain goes to a different opium den next time?" I asked. "If he thinks he's been found out, he'll be wise to change his pattern if he wishes to continue doing whatever it is he's doing."

Lincoln nodded, thoughtful. "We'll ask at other places I know."

"After a rest," I told him. "You must be exhausted."

He didn't answer, but strode out of the kitchen, the box under his arm. "Charlie, come with me."

"You've been summoned," Gus intoned in an imperial voice.

"Let us know what's in the box," Seth said, pushing me in the shoulder to hurry me up.

I wasn't sure if I was going to find out, or simply be given specific duties for the afternoon. I expected to be admonished for not blacking the fireplace in the parlor, but he went to the library instead. It was the one room that was perfectly clean. The more I cleaned in there, the longer I could spend browsing through the books.

He stood at the table and held out the box to me. I paused by the door, half expecting Seth or Gus to creep up behind me to watch, but there were no sounds. The house had fallen silent. Only my heartbeat made a noise as it pounded against my ribs.

"What is it?" I asked.

"The Bunters' shop didn't sell gentlemen's clothing."

"Oh."

"Take it." His curt reply dismissed all excitement. It was probably just a new apron.

I came further into the room and accepted the box. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me until you've seen it. If you don't like it, Mrs. Bunter said I may return it and you can choose another."

I placed the box on the table and carefully undid the bow, not wanting to damage the beautiful length of silk. My heart's hammering picked up speed as I lifted the lid with trembling fingers. I suspected that whatever was inside would be lovely—one didn't wrap up aprons with silk ribbons.

I set the lid aside and removed the plush black garment from the box. It was a short cloak, trimmed in gray fur, with a curlicue pattern was embellished all around. The royal blue silk lining was the same shade as the ribbon.

"My goodness," I said on a breath. I studied it from all angles, and brushed the soft plush against my cheek. "I…I don't know what to say. Are you giving this to me?"

He folded his arms over his chest. "You don't like it?"

"I do, it's beautiful. Thank you. But…where shall I wear it? It's much too fine for going to the market with Cook. I don't want to ruin it."

"Wear it whenever you want. That's why I bought it—to be worn." He sounded put out but I didn't see how my question could cause offence. The cloak must have cost him a considerable sum, and I didn't want to wear it just anywhere. It was the sort of cloak one should wear strolling around the park with wealthy and titled friends. My friends consisted of the other Lichfield Towers servants, and my old cloak was more than adequate in their company.

"Why did you buy it for me? You already gave me a cloak when the weather turned cool."

"This one will be warmer. I noticed you shivering the other night."

"Oh. Thank you, Lincoln. It's the loveliest thing I've ever owned."

He inclined his head and, with his hands behind his back, marched out of the library. He hadn't even said anything about me calling him Lincoln. I held the cloak against my chest, half expecting him to return and take it from me, to give to someone more deserving, like Lady Harcourt. But he didn't, and I stayed there in the library for some time, stroking my new cloak.

***

I wasn't expecting Lincoln to conduct my training that afternoon. Between rest and work, he had very little spare time. But after sleeping for a mere four hours, he found me helping Cook in the kitchen and ordered me to change and meet him outside, on the lawn at the front of the house.

The day had cleared up nicely but the miserly sun failed to take the chill out of the air. It was perfect weather for the vigorous exercise regime Lincoln put me through for the next two hours. The lack of warmth didn't stop me from sweating by the end of it, but not quite as much as I had two months ago.

There was no sign of his ill humor anymore, or the strangeness that had shrouded our encounter in the library. He was all stiff formality as he ordered me to repeat the various maneuvers, over and over. It was just as it always had been between us. I almost preferred the simmering anger. It was at least an emotion.

We still had quite a bit of our session to go when we had to stop for a visitor. The carriage rumbled up the long drive and it was some time before I realized who it belonged to. Lincoln must have recognized the horses and driver because before the carriage turned so we could see the escutcheon painted on the side, he ordered me into the house.

"Change into your uniform," he said quickly. "And stay in the kitchen."

I intended to do exactly as he asked, and only paused on the steps to see who had arrived unannounced in such grand style. As the carriage swept into a wide arc and pulled to a stop in front of Lincoln, I groaned. The escutcheon was that of a snake wrapped around a sword. Lord Gillingham's crest. I headed up the steps.

"You there! Girl!" Gillingham's barked order set my teeth on edge. I stopped, turned and inclined my head in question. I refused to curtsy to that man.

"What do you want?" Lincoln asked as Gillingham stepped down from the cabin.

The sun picked out the flecks of gray amid the red of his beard. He planted the end of his walking stick on the gravel and regarded first me then Lincoln with those insipid eyes of his. "Lady Harcourt has called a special meeting. It seems I am the first to arrive."

"A meeting? Why wasn't I informed?"

"I am informing you now." He went to walk off, but Lincoln stepped in front of him.

"What is the meeting about?"

"Ministry business." He stepped around Lincoln and pointed at me with the end of his cane. "Why is she dressed like that?"

"That's none of your affair."

"I'm training," I told him. Lincoln glanced over his shoulder at me. His face was positively rigid with fury. "Mr. Fitzroy is teaching me to fight and protect myself in the event of an attack."

Gillingham's red-gold eyebrows rose. Then he burst out laughing. "Is that a joke?"

Neither of us answered.

"You are trying to teach this girl to fight? Good lord, Fitzroy, you're softer in the head than I thought. Do you suppose that dressing her in boys' clothes will give her the strength, speed and aptitude of one? That's absurd."

"Nobody is concerned with what you think, Gillingham," Lincoln said. "Keep your opinions to yourself or leave."

I didn't trust Gillingham's smile. It was all lips and no teeth. "You'll find out soon enough what I and the others think at the meeting. You've been allowed free reign for too long, Fitzroy, and it's gone to your head. That time has come to an end. You cannot be allowed to make foolish decisions when the lives of so many depend upon you."

I had no idea what he was talking about, and if Lincoln did, he gave nothing away. He didn't even answer Gillingham; he simply turned and strode up to me. "Come inside," he said in a low voice.

"Wait a moment," Gillingham called. "Girl, come and collect my hat and scarf." He pointed into the cabin where the hat and scarf sat on the seat.

I went to fetch them, but Lincoln caught my arm. "Let him get them himself."

"It's all right. I am the Lichfield maid, and he's our guest. I ought to do it."

"He's no guest of mine," he growled.

"We have to tolerate him, for now, if a meeting has been called. It's all right," I said again. "I'll do this. You go inside and tell Cook to prepare tea."

He hesitated before removing his hand. I trotted down the stairs to Gillingham and the carriage. I reached into the cabin, but just as my fingers touched the silk of his hat, the crunch of gravel had me whipping around.

Teeth bared, Gillingham lunged at my head with his walking stick.

And Lincoln was too far away to stop it hitting me.