The Perils of Presumption (The Conclave Series Book 1) Page 4

  There were plenty of plans to be made and people to meet, but first Charlotte needed a thread to tug. Something loose, a trailing clue that she could use to unravel the tapestry. Until then, she could only think in the abstract, and it infuriated her.

  But she would find it. She would find it, and follow it to the very end, no matter who tried to get in her way.

  Chapter Seven

  The Devil’s Acre

  Ben stared out the window of the carriage, fixing his eyes on the far horizon in an attempt to overcome his nausea. Each rattle, bump and sway felt as if it were reaching into his gut and wrenching it this way and that.

  Charlotte was insane.

  No, not insane, an idiot.

  Perhaps not an idiot, but foolish.

  That was the word, foolish.

  He had known it would be a difficult visit. Lady Charlotte was always difficult. She would go traipsing about the countryside on mysterious errands and refuse to share the details. She deftly and consistently evaded Ben's attempts to figure out what her secret was, exactly, and how it worked. All year she had snipped at him, at the Conclave, undermining his authority at every opportunity.

  He had never met a woman so unwilling to be cared for. Wilfully independent, stubborn, idiotic - no, foolish -

  He should warn the Conclave that she was coming. She would undoubtedly try to inveigle her way into their drawing rooms and ask all sorts of impertinent questions. If there was one thing a magical practitioner hated above all else, it was being questioned impertinently.

  As that thought settled in, Ben took a few deep breaths, pushing back the nausea again, calming his mind. It would be all right. He would warn the Conclave, the members would close ranks. The Conclave was aware of her existence now, but not that she had any magical ability. Ben and Oliver had agreed with Avery's decision that she be kept hidden away in the countryside.

  And now she would be in town. Ben knew she would not ask it of him, but he couldn't help but appoint himself her protector. He had to. He'd never forgive himself if any harm befell the silly, hare-brained, imprudent--

  His internal diatribe was cut short by an abrupt and intense burning sensation in his closed fist. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and turned his hand over, opening his clenched fingers to reveal the swirling spark of orange and black that formed in the centre of his palm. It felt as if the skin would blister and peel, as if his whole hand might burn off.

  In the midst of the spark, the blackened edges of a piece of parchment began to unfurl. At first the words were obscured by ash and smoke, but then the burned charcoal began to clear to white once more, and the elegant, overly-embellished calligraphy became legible. Finally, as the parchment finished materializing and landed in his palm, the burning stopped.

  He exhaled a sigh of relief and unfurled the parchment. He hated that spell.

  B,

  Come to the Devil's Acre, Duck Lane, find my carriage. There's been another. Oh, I would recommend removing the stick from your arse on your way over; this time it's a dollymop.

  -O

  A dollymop. If Ben was remembering Oliver's ridiculous slang correctly, that meant a prostitute. He hoped the crime scene wasn't at a brothel. He hated going to brothels. His friends did tease him a bit because of his aversion to the flesh trade, mocking him for being "too stuck up for a bit of easy quim."

  God knew he understood an unmarried and long-single man needing release. He also comprehended that most prostitutes had no choice in the matter. It was the sight of the young ones in particular, some no more than twelve or thirteen, working the streets to support their families. It broke something inside him to see, and in his opinion, it ought to be illegal.

  Ben leaned his head out the window and rapped on the side of the coach. The fresh, sun-warmed breeze felt like a remedy to his motion sickness. "Abel! Take us to the Devil's Acre. Duck Lane."

  The young, blonde-haired coachman poked his ruddy face down and gave a salute. "Aye, milord, have you there in a tick."

  "So you say. Bloody sadist," Ben grumbled and pulled his head back into the coach. It seemed like the sicker Ben was, the more chipper Abel became, to the point that Ben suspected the boy was driving over potholes deliberately just to hear Ben swear.

  Indeed, the journey felt considerably longer than 'a tick,' whatever that meant. They passed from muddy country roads to cobbled streets; the shouts of fishmongers and merchants, the cries of streetwalkers, the laughter and shrieks of children, the clop of hooves against stone, all the noises of London rose up around him. Ben couldn't help the slim smile that pulled his lips up at the corners. He loved this city. Corrupt, boisterous, filthy as it was, it was still home.

  The traffic was heavy at midday, and after forty more minutes of lurching forward, then stopping again, Ben had enough. He stuck his head out the window once more. "We're nearly there. I shall walk the rest of the way."

  Abel stuck his face down and gave a dubious glance. "You sure, milord? Unsavoury lot around these parts."

  Ben lifted his brows. "I assure you I can take care of myself."

  The coachman shrugged and eased back on the reins. "Suit yourself, milord. Shall I wait here?"

  Ben pushed the door open and stepped out into the muggy atmosphere, wobbling a bit as his boots landed on solid ground once more. Thank God. "No, take it back to Windy Oaks. I shall have Oliver return me home when our business is concluded."

  "Very well milord." Abel touched his cap respectfully, waiting until Ben removed his satchel and cane, then with a light tap of his reins, rattled off in the imposing Conclave carriage.

  Ben strode to the side of the road and turned his feet towards Duck Lane, only a few more minutes' walk. The Devil's Acre was one of the most heavily populated areas of London, and rife with reeling drunks, hard-working lower class citizens dressed in rags with shadows under their eyes, and street merchants strutting their wares under the bright noonday sun.

  Ben weaved his way through the hordes of people, instinct sending his feet down the right paths to avoid puddles of vomit and streams of excrement being tossed out the windows from buckets. It wasn't long before he turned off Old Pye Street onto Duck Lane; it was quiet, with less traffic passing through. It was easy to spot Oliver's large black carriage emblazoned with the familiar phoenix crest. It was outside a humble suite of apartments, and Ben took heart at that sight. Not a brothel, then.

  A small crowd had gathered around the carriage and stared at the building curiously; Ben elbowed his way through them to reach the front door. Once he pushed his way inside, he paused to let his eyes grow accustomed to the dim interior. There was a single lamp placed on a rickety wooden table by the door, and it flickered to cast ominous shapes down the narrow hallway.

  He could hear muffled voices, which became clearer when the door at the very end of the hallway opened, and Oliver emerged followed by a short, plump woman. She had spots of red high on her cheekbones; the same look that appeared on many a woman's face after a few well-crafted compliments from Lord Oliver Stoneworth.

  "I doubt very much that this will impact your business. We should have it all cleared up soon." Oliver's pleasant voice seemed to be setting the lady's nerves at rest, and she gave him a grateful nod before turning to bustle off down the hallway.

  Ben raised one eyebrow at Oliver. "Working hard I see. Don't you generally prefer them less... matronly?"

  "When it's a matter of business I have no preferences, you knave." Oliver gave a strained grin, but the expression vanished quickly into one of grim concern.

  "It's bad," Ben guessed, joining his cousin at the apartment door.

  Oliver nodded and nudged the door back open, allowing Ben to enter and stepping in to shut it behind them. Ben's breath caught in his chest at the sight. The woman's body was on its back, knees propped up and thighs spread, her skirts up around her waist. It was clear she had engaged with a customer before she was killed and posed. The sheets beneath her were soaked in blood that pooled
from underneath the bed as well, and her arms and legs were covered in dark knife slashes. Her hair tangled across the pillow, skin waxy and pale, limbs rigid.

  The rest of the room was simply furnished, and it didn't appear that the place had been robbed or tossed. There was a notebook on the table by the side of the bed, and a quill placed at its side.

  "Is that..."

  "Seems to be. Found it in the drawer, locked away."

  Ben crossed the room and picked up the quill, examining it closely. It was carved with intricate scrolling, of excellent quality. "Could be a coincidence."

  "Could be," Oliver replied.

  "Don't patronize me, just disagree if you disagree," Ben snapped.

  Oliver pinned him with a hard glance, a look that rarely appeared in his merry blue eyes. "You're being more of an arse than usual."

  Ben stiffened, preparing to level another insult across the room at his cousin, but the sight of the woman on the bed sobered him, and the wind left his sails. "Apologies," he muttered under his breath, picking up the notebook and opening it.

  "What's got your knickers in a twist?" Oliver turned away from the bed, clasping his hands behind his back and peering into the mirror above the wooden vanity.

  "Charlotte says hello." Ben skimmed through the pages. It looked like diary entries, mostly complaints from the day to day life of a doxy.

  "Ah." Oliver smirked, eyeing Ben in the mirror. "How is she?"

  "Fine. She's coming to town." Ben scowled and his fingers paused on one of the pages. Simple sketched glyphs, wards of protection. It looked rough, unpractised, but there was a drip of candle wax on this page, too. "Looks like our lady of the night was a practitioner."

  "Yes, I noticed. Did you say Charlotte's coming to town? As in London? What for?"

  "I had to tell her that the Conclave was closing the investigation. It would've looked suspicious otherwise. Then she said she was going to continue it by herself." Ben's teeth ground together at the memory and he snapped the notebook shut, tucking it and the quill into his satchel. He needed to examine those further back at his office.

  "Ah."

  Ben glanced at his cousin. "Stop saying 'ah.' What do you mean, 'ah'? Surely you don't think it's a good idea."

  "Of course not," Oliver said, straightening his cravat. "But she's grieving. Makes sense she'd need somewhere to channel all that energy. I hope you didn't tell her not to."

  "Of course I did. I insisted she stay home."

  "Of course you did." Oliver's voice was laden with sarcasm. "Haven't you learned by now the best way to encourage someone to do anything is to tell them not to do it? Good God, man. It's a wonder you survived to adulthood."

  Ben's brows knitted together and he pondered that for a moment. That might be true. It sounded like the sort of thing Oliver would know. "Well then what do you suggest?"

  "Be supportive, keep an eye on her, and trust she won't get anywhere. She has no training, no resources, and no clues. We've hidden the existence of the quills from almost everyone. She'll come to town, ruffle a few feathers, and leave again." Oliver gestured to the body on the bed. "Now can we focus?"

  Ben approached the bed and pulled out his own notebook. He made note of the patterns of slashes on the arms and legs.

  "Are we sure it's connected?" he asked after a long moment. "No signs of black magic here."

  "Looks less controlled than the other attacks too," Oliver agreed. "But there's the quill. We've found the same one at four of the seven other scenes."

  It was true. It was also a constant point of frustration that they'd been unable to locate where these quills had been purchased or manufactured. "Perhaps it was the involvement of sex that made it messy," Ben mused, "and he forgot his normal process."

  "Possible." Oliver thrust his fingers through his hair, tousling its neat waves. "It's becoming increasingly difficult to think these murders were all perpetrated by one individual. There are too many differences. First there's random glyphs drawn everywhere, then signs of actual rituals, and now... Nothing but a hacked-up body."

  "I still think it's too great a coincidence not to be connected. It all started with Avery. It must have."

  Oliver shrugged. "Maybe. I suppose there's no way to know for certain until we catch whoever did it."

  "How did we come to be called to this scene, anyway? Since it shares so few similarities with the others?"

  "Officer Harcote. He's been keeping an eye out for any quills and has promised to alert me first for any crimes involving them. He'll be returning soon with the coroner, so we should remove anything the Conclave wishes to be kept private."

  Ben nodded. "Well, let's look the place over thoroughly, just in case."

  The two cousins began to shift the woman's body out of the way to reveal anything hidden beneath. Ben couldn't keep the frown off his face.

  He hated this. This uncertainty. Knowing people would continue to die, tortured, alone and unprotected, because of his inability to make progress.

  He hated lying to Charlotte, telling her there were no leads, telling her they were giving up. Absolute secrecy was the only way to be sure their information was not corrupted or tampered with. That didn't make it easier to bear her disdain.

  He hated knowing that whoever had killed Avery was still out there. Still killing.

  But most of all, he hated feeling helpless.

  Chapter Eight

  The Journey to London

  Charlotte resisted the urge to push her nose against the carriage window as it rattled through the streets of London. Her belly fluttered in excitement, and she found her feet pressing against the floor of the carriage in an effort to push it forward faster.

  From Sophie's descriptions of her home, they must be getting close. They had passed Hyde Park already, where hundreds of fine lords and ladies in sophisticated riding habits cantered their horses through the dewy grass. Now the carriage traversed to the row of fine town houses on the other side.

  The carriage at long last lurched to a stop before an elegant blue-painted townhouse, white trim lining the large window facing the street. Charlotte imagined Sophie was leaping up and down in excitement behind that window, though the sunlight glinted off the glass too brightly to see within.

  Her theory was confirmed when the front door burst open and a beautiful woman emerged. Charlotte nearly didn't recognize her at first. The wild brown hair was drawn back into fashionable coiffure, with ringlets artfully escaping across the forehead. The plump, creamy shoulders were clad in an expensive pink gown which cascaded in ruffled pleats to brush the steps as she hurried down them.

  The sparkling brown eyes and wide mouth stretched into the most heart-warming smile imaginable were all Sophie, though, and the nerves vanished from Charlotte's belly as if they had never been. She could wait no longer, and before the carriage had even completely rolled to a stop, she pushed the door open and descended.

  "Lottie! Good lord, it really is you." Sophie hurried through the front gate. "I was beginning to doubt myself and think your last letter was all a fever dream. You are truly here! Really, truly right here in London. And you've brought Duncan with you! Will he need a place to stay as well? You can bring the carriage around to the--"

  Charlotte reached her and cut her off mid-sentence by wrapping her arms around the shorter woman, squeezing her tightly. As soon as her fingers touched Sophie's skin, she cast her mind out, allowing her awareness to open and surround her friend. She was well, no sign of a babe in her womb, and only a faint ache in her neck from stooping too long over a novel, no doubt. Charlotte sent a surge of soothing energy towards Sophie's neck before stepping back and blinking away the tears gathering in her eyes.

  "I am so happy to see you," she whispered. "It has been too long."

  Sophie's whole face was transformed with her beaming grin, and she planted a noisy kiss on Charlotte's cheek. "Of course it has. It has always been too long since I saw you last. Sometimes I truly do hate Hollis for marrying me and
taking me away from you lot. But of course, I also love him so dearly that I forgive him again immediately."

  Charlotte laughed through her tears before wiping them away. "Where is he? How is he? How are you both?"

  Sophie squeezed Charlotte's hands again. "You must come in for a spot of tea while we talk, there's been too much. And I do expect some of that treacle tart with it, too."

  Charlotte turned to face the dark-haired young footman who had driven her to town. "Do you mind unloading my things, Duncan? And then take the carriage to the stables. Once you introduce yourself around, you may take all the time you like to explore London."

  Duncan tipped his cap and climbed down to begin lugging the trunks off the top of the carriage while Sophie guided Charlotte inside. The front hallway was open, inviting, with stairs leading to the upper floor, but Sophie led Charlotte down the hallway to the door at the very end. After one quick rap with her knuckles, she opened the door to reveal a man's office, lined with bookshelves and smelling faintly of cigar smoke. Seated at the desk with his boots propped up one over the other was Lord Hollis Kenward, the lucky man who had made Sophie his wife. He had dark, shaggy hair that drifted around his ears and neck, pleasant features, though a bit too square in the jaw to be truly considered handsome, and dreamy blue eyes which were fixed upon the wall map. The scene made Charlotte's eyes sting in remembrance of Avery, but she took a deep breath to chase away the melancholy.

  "Holly, darling, Lottie's arrived! Do get up and greet her, or she will think us uncommonly rude." Sophie clasped her hands together at her chest.

  He blinked rapidly, kicking his boots off the desk and standing up, brushing crumbs from his jacket with the air of a man coming out of a daze. "Oh, hello Soph. And Lottie. Er, Lady Whitcomb, that is. So sorry, welcome to town."