Authors: Dark Desires
Her lover. The thought was strange, exciting, and baffling all at once.
“I am famished,” he stated.
She blinked, taken off guard by his statement. The words could by no means be construed as a statement of fondness.
He smiled. “Come on. Cook should have a fine meal just about ready to serve. I'll have them set a second place.”
Startled, Darcie surged to a sitting position, clutching the rumpled sheet over her breasts. “A second place?” she asked. “In the formal dining room? With you?”
One eyebrow rose questioningly. “Do you prefer to eat there alone?”
“Yes…No…I mean, I eat with the other servants.” She felt a hot blush steal into her cheeks.
Damien's expression hardened. “A situation I should have remedied the first day I brought you above stairs. My oversight left you in an awkward position. You are not my servant.” He kissed her, trailing his fingers through her disheveled hair. “You were never meant to be a servant.”
“But, Damien, what will they say?” Even as the words left her lips, she realized that she did not think that she cared what the others said. She wondered if that meant she was brave, or merely foolish.
“This house belongs to me,” Damien stated with quiet determination. “Any who disagree with the way I choose to live my life may leave. Besides, do you honestly care what anyone says? After all you have lived through, can any whispered condemnation harm you?”
She shook her head. Her life had been so unorthodox, her position in society so depleted, that she could never again hope to be the innocent, naive girl who had shopped and gossiped and entertained polite company. For heaven's sake...she was Mrs. Feather's sister!
Still, a tiny corner of her heart bled at the thought that her place in Damien's life would surely be transient, that she would be his mistress, not his wife. There was a small part of Darcie Finch that remained the wide-eyed girl, the innocent who dreamed of hearth and home. And children.
With another small shake of her head, Darcie pushed aside those dangerous thoughts. In her present situation, she could hardly offer a child the kind of life she would wish to provide.
Damien read her movement as a negative answer to his question. “Good. You should have no care for small minds and wagging tongues.”
He caught a stray strand of her hair, running the length of it through his fingers before tucking it behind her ear. Then he bounded from the bed and began to dress.
“Come on, then.” He sent her a roguish grin over his shoulder. “Unless you have a mind to lure me back to bed…”
Darcie laughed, allowing herself to enjoy his infectious good humor. She would not spoil her time with him by worrying about what was yet to come. While tomorrow might bring heartache, today was truly lovely.
Chapter Twelve
Seated to Damien’s right at the formal dining table, Darcie finished her raspberry tart, and looked up to find him watching her, a frown creasing his brow. His own tart sat untouched.
“You will never forget.”
Darcie placed her cutlery on her empty dessert plate, and dabbed her lips delicately with her serviette. “Forget?”
“What you suffered in Whitechapel. The hunger. The deprivation.”
She was about to answer, when Poole entered the dining room and began to clear away the dishes. As he moved to Damien’s side she glanced at the butler in the same instant that he turned his attention to her. Darcie felt certain that he knew what had passed between Damien and her, certain that he would make no attempt to hide his anger, his disgust of her, his condescension. He had been unkind to her from the moment of her arrival.
To her surprise, she felt neither consternation nor concern. His opinion meant nothing to her. And then, as she held his gaze, she saw that Poole’s expression held none of the emotions she expected to see. For an instant, she thought she read concern in his eyes.
He looked away, breaking the connection.
How odd. She felt disoriented for a moment, and her attention remained fixed on Poole as he silently exited the room.
Deliberately returning her thoughts to Damien’s earlier comments, she resumed their dialogue. “Forget Whitechapel? No, I would not even try. It is part of who I am. I shall never forget what it was like to be desperate, alone, hungry.” She smiled ruefully. “Which is why it may be a good idea to ask Cook to avoid serving pudding. You do not seem to favor sweets, and I have this terrible urge to eat everything that is served. If I continue my consumption at this pace, I shall soon be the size of a house.”
Damien examined her, unsmiling. “You will not return there, Darcie. To the streets of Whitechapel. You will never know hunger, or cold. Never be destitute. That is your past.”
She stared at him, confused by his declaration. Was this Damien’s avowal of affection, his version of love words? Did he mean that she could trust in him to protect her, or did he mean to imply that she was stronger now, that she would never allow those terrible things to happen to her again? Pressing her lips together, she acknowledged that whatever his intent, she had learned that she could fully trust only in herself.
There came the sound of hurried footsteps. Poole returned to the dining room, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder. He leaned down and spoke quietly in Damien’s ear, and when he straightened she saw a look of agitation cross the butler’s features. He turned and strode briskly through the door.
The butler had barely exited, when there was a shuffling sound, a huffing, and Damien’s friend—the man Darcie had met the previous day—appeared in the doorway. Dr. Grammercy. His boots were mud splattered and he yet wore his coat. Darcie wondered at the urgency that had prevented him from handing the garment to Poole.
“Cole—” Dr. Grammercy huffed and puffed as he strode across the room, one hand pressed to his side as he fought to catch his breath, the other coming to rest on Damien’s shoulder. He glanced at Darcie, and bobbed his head apologetically. “Miss Finch. So sorry to interrupt you meal.” He wheezed. “Cole, I’ve come to warn you. I’ve had a visit from an Inspector—huh…who0o…” His reddened cheeks worked like a bellows as he sucked in air and blew it out again. “He was asking about that terrible misunderstanding at the University, the dead girl, your dismissal… I told him nothing. That business in Edinburgh, as well… What did the man say his name was? Inspector… Inspector…”
“Trent. Inspector Trent.”
Darcie whirled in her seat as an unfamiliar voice supplied the information that Dr. Grammercy was struggling to find. A man stood in the doorway, his sharp gaze taking in the lot of them. His bearing was erect, military. He was dressed in a tweed suit, but Darcie could easily picture him in a uniform. Their eyes met, and his attention lingered on her for a moment, before moving on to Damien.
Poole hovered in the hallway behind the newcomer. “I am sorry, sir,” he intoned. “The gentleman refused to wait until I announced him. Shall I call the constable?”
“That would hardly prove beneficial, Poole. The man is an officer of the law,” Damien observed dryly as he rose and strode to Darcie’s side, offered his hand, and helped her to her feet.
His fingers squeezed hers reassuringly before he dropped his hand to his side.
“I am Dr. Damien Cole.”
Inspector Trent inclined his head politely. “I would like to have a word with you, Dr. Cole.”
“Perhaps we could adjourn to the comfort of the front parlor?” Damien suggested.
“By all means,” Trent agreed equitably. “We should
all
adjourn to the parlor.” His gaze rested pointedly on Dr. Grammercy before shifting to Darcie.
She felt as though she were being examined under a quizzing glass. For a moment, she was acutely aware of her worn and mended day dress, her plain hair, the lack of adornment on her person. Raising her chin, she forced herself to meet the inspector’s gaze squarely, forced herself to recall that she was a woman tempered by life’s fires. She refused to feel awkward or ashamed of her choices. Like a tide ebbing from the shore, the feeling of inadequacy passed.
“My assistant, Miss Darcie Finch,” Damien said, performing the introduction.
“Your assistant, you say? A woman? Most unusual. In what capacity does she assist you?” the inspector asked.
There was an undercurrent and an implication in the man’s tone that made Darcie uncomfortable.
Damien stepped in front of her, shielding her from Trent’s perusal. “She assists me in my laboratory. And she is a lady under my protection.”
The tension in the room was palpable.
“A
lady
under your protection, you say?” Trent drawled.
Darcie had the peculiar thought that the man was purposefully trying to irritate Damien, to intentionally raise his ire.
“So I say,” Damien replied, his quiet tone at odds with the edge of steel underlying the words.
“To the parlor, shall we?” Dr. Grammercy interjected. “I would welcome a glass of your fine brandy, Damien, my boy.”
The tension temporarily contained, they proceeded from the room.
In the parlor, Damien seated Darcie in a chair by the fire, positioning himself behind her, his hand resting on the carved wooden chair back. Inspector Trent took a seat on the small velvet settee to their right, and Dr. Grammercy sank onto the overstuffed cushions of the large brocade sofa across from them.
Damien offered brandy first to Dr. Grammercy, who accepted a glass gratefully, and then to Inspector Trent, who declined.
Darcie noticed that Damien took nothing for himself. She shifted uncomfortably on her seat, feeling inexplicably wary, even afraid.
“I may wish to speak with each of you privately,” Trent began, “but for the moment, I simply wish to inquire if any of you recognize this.”
For the first time, Darcie noticed that Inspector Trent carried a long, thin sac. He untied the twine that secured the top, and used his handkerchief to carefully withdraw a slim, metal instrument. It was a scalpel, similar to the one she had seen Damien use for dissection. Trent placed the instrument on the low table that was between them.
“Good heavens, man. It’s a scalpel. Of course we recognize it.” Dr. Grammercy’s tone was incredulous, and he dismissed the object in question with a wave of his hand.
The inspector’s keen gaze remained fixed on Damien. “And you, sir? Do you recognize this instrument?”
“As my esteemed colleague pointed out, it is a scalpel.” There was a brittle edge to his voice.
Inspector Trent rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Is it common for surgeons to engrave their initials on their instruments?”
“Yes, yes, indeed. Some do. Some don’t.” Dr. Grammercy nodded his head vigorously.
“Miss Finch…”
Darcie jumped at the sound of her name on the inspector’s lips. She felt as jittery as a cornered fox.
“Have you seen this instrument before?”
“I have seen a scalpel,” she affirmed.
“
This
scalpel?”
“I cannot be sure.”
“Please, look closely if you wish.” He gestured at the table.
Leaning forward, Darcie stared at the instrument. The blade was dirty, caked with what appeared to be dried blood. She shivered. There was something terrible about this blade. She could sense it. Mesmerized, she leaned even closer, stretching out one hand to touch the handle.
Suddenly, she found her wrist caught in the inspector’s rough grasp.
“Do not touch it, if you please.”
Damien stepped from behind her, and Inspector Trent glanced up at him before letting go his hold on Darcie’s wrist.
“Do you see the initials on the handle?” he asked.
Darcie swallowed, and being careful not to touch the scalpel, she leaned close enough to see what was engraved there. But she knew even before she saw the letters. With a cold and certain dread, she knew.
DWC.
Damien Westhaven Cole.
“This instrument was found in the yard of 10 Hadley Street,” Inspector Trent said conversationally as he stared intently at Damien. “Is there anything familiar about it?”
“The scalpel belongs to me.” Damien bit the words out impatiently.
Darcie’s fingers curled involuntarily into the wooden arms of her chair. The muscles of her shoulders knotted and bunched, and her stomach lurched with dread. So great was her tension that she thought she might lose the entire enormous dinner that she had eaten.
The inspector rose from his seat, staring fixedly at Damien. “Perhaps you should come with me, Dr. Cole.”
Darcie half rose from her chair, but Damien’s hand on her shoulder stopped her.
“Yes, that might be for the best,” he said. “Grammercy, if you would stay and keep Miss Finch company for a short while, I would be in your debt.”
The older man’s florid face reflected his concern. “No trouble at all, my boy. None at all.”
Darcie watched with a sense of unreality as Inspector Trent packed the scalpel away in his sac. Rising, she faced Damien. He smiled at her, and she knew that he meant to reassure, but his expression was strained. Resting his hand on her shoulder, he guided her back into the chair she had just departed. His fingers tightened momentarily, conveying to her a message of comfort, and then he was gone. Darcie pressed her fingers to her lips, watching Inspector Trent warily as he followed Damien from the room.
“This is not possible,” she whispered into the ensuing silence, dropping her hand to her lap. “There must be some explanation—”
Her gaze shot to Dr. Grammercy, who stared back in gloomy silence, his jowls sagging, his expression cheerless.
“Please, Dr. Grammercy. I must know. What happened at the University? You made reference to an episode…”
He shook his head. “I cannot say.”
“You
will
not say,” she challenged. Darcie looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap, the right fingers closing and unclosing with obsessive repetition about the left, then sliding across the raised ridge of her scar. She hadn’t even realized she was doing it.
Taking a deep breath, she purposefully moved her hands back to the arms of the chair. She rested them there, consciously choosing a calm demeanor, forcing the agitation from her thoughts. Panic would do her no good. She must think clearly.