If I didn't get away from Lichfield Towers—from Fitzroy—I would be found out. If I were found out, I would be in danger. I'd been a fool to allow myself to succumb to the comforts. He'd deliberately lulled me with food and clothing, a soft bed, pleasant walks. It was working. All he had to do was wait for me to confess so that I could stay at Lichfield.
Stay with him.
But I hadn't lost my will to survive. It had been with me so long that it was a difficult habit to break. It overrode everything else, even my desire for comfort and for him.
I rolled onto my side and reached under the mattress. My hand closed around the knife. I drew it out and slipped it under the pillow near my head, then I closed my eyes and waited.
Some time later, Fitzroy entered. He did not carry any light and he was as silent as a mouse. He climbed into the bed, and I listened to his breathing. He didn't snore, but his breathing became more audible as he fell asleep. I continued to wait then, when I calculated that it must be the early hours of morning, I quietly got up.
With the knife in my hand, I checked the bed. He didn't stir. The bedroom door was open, but I needed the key to unlock the main door. It was dark and I was unfamiliar with the room, but I found the clothes stand where he'd draped his waistcoat. The pocket was empty.
Where was the damned key?
I searched it again, then moved onto his trousers. Perhaps he'd put it in his jacket. But he'd not worn a jacket all day. I'd seen him put the key in his waistcoat.
"It's not there." His voice startled me, even though he'd spoken softly. I felt his chest at my back, his breath in my hair, and his fingers around my hand. I couldn't move it or my arm. I was trapped.
I should have felt afraid. He was stronger than me, faster, a skillful fighter, and I didn't trust him. Yet I felt no fear. What I did feel was a thrill skipping down my spine with abandon. His scent filled my nostrils, his touch left me tingling in the places where our bare skin connected. I tried to steady my breathing, but it was impossible. It came out labored and shuddery.
The anticipation was exquisite torture. I wanted him to touch me, to hold me, to see me as a woman. Yet being discovered terrified me. The devil's daughter was only good for doing the devil's work.
Without a word, he took the knife off me. My back suddenly felt cold and I turned around. He set the knife on his bedside table then climbed into the bed. He lay on his side, but it was too dark to see if his eyes were opened or closed.
I returned to my trundle and lay down, but I didn't sleep until after dawn when he rose and left me alone in the bedroom. I checked the bedside table, but the knife was gone.
Fitzroy didn't mention the knife incident the following day, but I was curious about something. "When did you realize I had it?" I asked as we ate breakfast.
"When I sat at the desk, I felt for it and noticed it missing."
Almost immediately then. "Why didn't you confront me at the time?"
He flattened the newspaper on the desk, his back to me. Clearly he didn't think me a threat. "I wanted to see what you would do."
"But what if I'd caught you by surprise, when your guard was lowered?"
"I never lower my guard."
"Not even when you're alone?"
He half turned so that he was in profile, and considered his answer before he said, "Sometimes."
"Which times?"
He turned a little further and regarded me through narrowed eyes. "You expect me to tell you?"
I grunted a laugh. "I suppose not."
He cracked the top of his boiled egg open with a spoon. "You won't catch me at such a moment, anyway."
"You're very arrogant, aren't you?"
"So I've been told."
After breakfast, he proposed another walk around the estate, and I readily agreed. The day was overcast and warm, with dark clouds gathering on the horizon. I got hot quickly. Sweat trickled down my spine and gathered in uncomfortable places. Fitzroy didn't look the least bit hot, but he only wore a shirt with no waistcoat or jacket, whereas I kept my jacket on. Taking it off would reveal too much now that my shirt was damp.
This time we stopped at the stables to see to the horses. Fitzroy rolled up his sleeves and mucked out their stalls, but I hung back. My father had not owned a horse, and while they were always present in the street, pulling carriages and carts, I'd never gone too close. Those hooves looked dangerous and the teeth large. I filled a pail with water from the trough and another with feed, but passed it to him instead of going in. I admired the way he walked behind them, without a care for the hooves, and rubbed their noses, getting close enough to have his own bitten off.
"Do you ride often?" I asked.
"When I have the opportunity," he said, closing the stall door and rejoining me.
"For pleasure?"
"Not anymore." He handed me an empty pail and I returned it to the back of the stables. "You don't like horses?"
"I like them well enough," I said. "As long as they are over there and I am over here."
"They frighten you?"
"I don't want to get too close to an animal that could crush me, kick me or bite me. What if it were startled? What if it didn't like the way I smelled? Or it liked my smell too much?"
"Unless you smell like an apple, there is little danger that a horse will eat you."
He led the way outside, and once again I had to trot to catch up to him. I passed a number of sharp and heavy looking tools that I could have grabbed and used on him, but he didn't seem worried. Either he knew I couldn't go through with hurting him or he had faith in his ability to stop me, even with his back to me.
"Fitzroy," I said, "slow down. I wish to ask you something."
He slowed his pace. "You should refer to me as Mr. Fitzroy."
"Or I could call you Death. Or do you prefer Mr. Death?"
He walked off. "Go on."
I blew out a breath. "What will you do when you cannot trace me as far back as you wish to go?"
"You think we'll fail?"
"Yes."
"I don't fail." He didn't look like he was joking. Not that he ever seemed anything other than deadly serious.
"Everyone fails from time to time."
He said nothing, but his strides lengthened as we crossed the courtyard. We did not go the back way into the house this time, but headed toward the side. It would seem our walk wasn't yet over.
"Let's assume you fail," I said. "Let's also assume that I continue to deny that I am a necromancer, which I will because I'm not. What will you do with me?"
He stopped and a small crease settled between his brows. He didn't look at me but at the corner of the house. "Come with me." He set off again, his strides longer and faster. Keeping up meant I had to half walk and half run. When we rounded the corner of the house I saw what he'd heard—a glossy black carriage approached.
When it pulled to a stop I saw that it was a private landau, not a hansom cab, with a gold escutcheon painted on the side.
"Is it Lord Gillingham again?" I asked. Cold sweat trickled down my spine. I shivered.
"It's not his carriage, but if he's one of the party, he won't hurt you."
"How can you be certain?"
He walked forward as a footman jumped down from the rumble seat and opened the door. Lord Gillingham emerged, a new walking stick in hand. He paused on the step when he spotted us. He nodded at Fitzroy and glared at me. Fitzroy didn't respond.
"Keep moving, Gilly," came a gruff voice from inside the cabin.
Fitzroy moved forward as Gillingham stepped onto the drive, allowing the man behind him to alight. The new fellow was very tall and strongly built, with shoulders as wide as Fitzroy's. Even at his age, which I guessed to be about sixty, he looked in good health with the figure of a much younger man. His age showed on his face, however, in the deep grooves across his forehead and around his eyes, and the full gray mutton chops.
"General Eastbrooke," Fitzroy said in greeting.
The man took Fitzroy's offered hand and shook it heartily. "Dressed for the occasion, I see, Lincoln."
"I didn't know you were coming, sir."
Their hands parted, yet Fitzroy didn't offer his to Gillingham. He didn't acknowledge the lord at all, and Gillingham grew more and more agitated as he waited. With a stomp of his walking stick into the ground, he turned to me. His cold eyes drilled into me.
I sidled closer to Fitzroy. The irony wasn't lost on me that I felt safer with my captor.
"Is this the boy?" General Eastbrooke said, in a deep, blustery voice. He placed his hands at his back and approached.
I remained where I was and tilted my head up. Fitzroy didn't seem to detest this man as he did Gillingham, so I assumed the general wasn't as willfully cruel as the lord.
"It is," Fitzory said, looking down at me. "Charlie, this is General Eastbrooke."
I crossed my arms. "Another committee member?"
Eastbrooke's thick gray brows lifted. "You're supposed to say it's nice to meet you, sir."
"But I don't know if it's nice to meet you or not." I was being deliberately irritating, but I didn't care. The more people I annoyed during my stay, the less likely they were to keep me when they realized I wouldn't help them. "You could be an arse, like him."
Gillingham raised his walking stick, but lowered it upon a glare from both Fitzroy and Eastbrooke. "I don't know why you protect him," Gillingham snapped.
"He's valuable to us," Eastbrooke said.
Fitzroy's gaze slid to the general's. Gillingham snorted. "For the time being," he muttered.
"How old is he?" Eastbrooke asked.
"Thirteen," Fitzroy said.
"Gilly tells me he's tried to escape."
"He has."
"And yet you allow him outside?"
"He needs exercise."
I
needed exercise? Ha!
The general regarded me. "He'll try to escape again while he's free."
"Then I'll catch him."
"I'm sure that will not be a problem for you. He looks rather scrawny."
"Street urchins usually are."
"Hmmm." He paced around me, hands at his back, then came to a stop in front of me again. He thrust his chin forward. "Show your face, boy."
I backed away and kept my gaze down.
"You're going to defy me?" He clicked his tongue. "I don't think you're in any position to do that, do you?"
"I'm ugly," I said. "My ugliness embarrasses me."
Gillingham snorted, but the general simply continued to regard me with his cool eyes, his out-thrust chin. If he ordered Fitzroy to hold me while he swept my hair back, I would not be able to resist.
"Time is running out," Eastbrooke said. "You have this necromancer, but what of the other? If the girl is found by V.F, he will succeed. We need to win her to our side first or the battle is lost."
"We'll find her through Charlie. I'm sure of it."
Hearing Fitzroy speak about his suspicions of a link made my heart stop in my chest. How much did he know, and how much was a guess? He gave nothing away.
"And how will you do that?" Gillingham sneered. "He doesn't care what we're trying to achieve. He only cares for his own skin."
"I can't blame him for that, considering how he's lived."
"You're too soft, Fitzroy. Never thought I'd hear myself say that, but there you have it."
"Enough, Gilly!" Eastbrooke snapped. I wasn't sure if a lord outranked a general but Gillingham shut his mouth. Perhaps he was as awed by Eastbrooke's military bearing and powerful frame as I was.
"Do not forget what we're trying to achieve here," Gillingham muttered to Fitzroy.
"I haven't forgotten," Fitzroy said. "It's all I think about. It's all that matters to me."
Eastbrooke nodded. "Your loyalty and dedication to achieving the ministry's goals are not in doubt." He cut a flinty glare at Gillingham.
Gillingham bowed. "You're right, and I didn't mean to imply otherwise. It's just that your methods—"
"Are not up for discussion," Fitzroy told him.
Gillingham cleared his throat. He tapped the carriage steps with his walking stick. "Shall we leave your man to his work, Eastbrooke? It's too hot to stand around out here, and it doesn't seem as if we'll get an invitation to go inside."
His man?
What an odd thing to call Fitzroy. He didn't seem like he could be anyone's anything. I would have called him his own man. Yet Fitzroy did call him "sir," while Eastbrooke called him "Lincoln" in turn. I still wasn't sure what that implied about their relationship.
"I look forward to your report, Lincoln," Eastbrooke said. "Let's hope I don't have to wait too long." The general turned to me. "If the queen or her family suffer because of your refusal to help us find the other necromancer, you will be blamed."
"And if
I
suffer because I helped? Who will be blamed then?"
"Nobody cares about you, boy," Gillingham said from inside the cabin. "Never forget that."
"How can I, with people like you to remind me?"
Eastbrooke sighed heavily. "You ought to instill some manners into him while he's here, Lincoln. You should know how to go about doing that. I seem to recall you lacked quite a few manners when you were young." He gave a wry smile as he turned away to climb the coach steps.
Because he turned away, he didn't see the muscle in Fitzroy's jaw bunch as he ground his back teeth. I wondered what methods the general had used to instill manners in him.
The coach rolled away and we returned inside before it was out of sight. "You've known those men a long time," I said as he closed the front door.
"Yes."
"How long?"
"I'm thirty. I've known Eastbrooke since birth and met Gillingham some years later."
"He was cruel to you as a child? General Eastbrooke?"
He blinked at me, and I could have sworn he was surprised. "He never touched me."
I frowned but didn't question him further. He strode away, and I suspected he wanted the conversation to end. He suddenly stopped at the foot of the stairs.
"I forgot to show you something yesterday, on our tour," he said.
"I would hardly call it a tour. You were the worst guide."
"I showed you every room worth seeing."
"With the blandness of an automaton. There was no vivid description, and no stories about the previous occupants or the rooms themselves."
"You didn't need a description since you could see the room for yourself, and I'm not a storyteller."
"So I see. So what room did you forget to show me?"
"The dungeon."
I gasped. "There's a dungeon under our feet?"
"The previous house on this site was medieval. When the house was removed, the dungeon was not filled in. It still has chains hanging from the walls. Would you like to see it?"
"No! What makes you think I'd want to see a dungeon?"
"Boys like gruesome things."
I strode past him up the stairs. "Not this boy. I've seen enough gruesome things in my life without needing to see more."
He followed me up in silence and together we headed back to his rooms. Once inside, he locked the door and pocketed the key in his trouser pocket.
"So what happens now?" I asked, throwing myself on the sofa. "Are you going to question me again? Has the visit from the committee members rattled you enough that you want to throw me in the dungeon and apply the thumb screws?"
"No."
"Then we have hit a wall. Your men will learn nothing of use by roaming around London, and you have learned nothing of use by roaming around the grounds with me."
"You're mistaken." He touched a teapot sitting on a tray on his desk to test its temperature then poured two cups. He handed one to me then sat on the chair opposite. "I've learned a great deal from our conversation."
He couldn't have. I'd not said a thing about my gender, my necromancing, or my home. I'd been very careful. I sipped, watching him through my hair.
He sat back and sipped too, never taking his gaze off me. He seemed to enjoy drawing out the moment, teasing my frayed nerves to breaking point. Finally, he placed the cup in the saucer. "You're witty and observant," he said, "and educated."
"That's not very useful."
"And your accent changes when you're not thinking about it."
I lowered my cup. Had my accent changed or was he bluffing? None of the boys ever commented on the way I spoke. I was always careful to sound like one of them.
"When you feel comfortable, it becomes more refined. It's a north London accent, middle class, perhaps originating not far from here. You only resort to gutter language when you think it will make an impact and drive home the disguise you've built for yourself. When you're having a conversation with me alone, it changes. My guess is that you haven't lived on the street all your life, but came from a good home before your circumstances changed."