“Thank you for helping her . . . and me. But now I must get her home.”
“Aye, I’ve made the arrangements. Now, will ye sit and take a sip o’ tea wi’ me?”
I took the cup he offered and settled in a chair between Lilly and Pix. The tea was fragrant and sweetened, without milk. Just the way I liked it. How did he know?
And how, I wondered not for the first time, had he known my name? My vocation?
“Better’n th’ale?” he asked, watching as I sipped.
“I think I could get used to the ale.”
His lips curved. “Aye, I’d expect nawt less from ye. An’ now I’ve a question for ye, luv,” he said as, all of a sudden, I realized how exhausted I was. My eyelids grew heavy, and weariness rushed through my limbs. It had been busy night.
“What’s that?” I replied, taking another drink of the soothing brew.
“Why did ye let me win?”
I smiled at the hint of aggravation in his voice.
“Because I could.”
I set the teacup down, and despite the fogginess that had begun to swim over me, I added, “And so now you owe me one.”
He chuckled in that low, rumbly way of his. “And so it is. Now, close yer eyes. I’ll see ye and yer friend ’ome safely.”
Blast him! “You drugged my tea!” I struggled to sit upright. But my muscles were loose and my brain was foggy.
“Now, luv, a bit o’ laudanum ne’er ’urt anyone—so long’s it’s jus’ a bit. An’ I can’t ’ave ye leavin’ ’ere, and rememberin’ where my crib is, can I? I’m not one for unexpected guests.”
His dark gaze, focused on me from beneath the ever-present cap, was the last thing I saw before darkness enveloped me.
Miss Holmes
An Unsettling Interrogation
The next morning, I received a cryptic message from Miss Stoker. Written on paper from Fergus & Fenrick’s, it said
Lilly Corteville home and in ill health. Discovered in Whitechapel. Come as soon as able.
Aside from the fact that she didn’t seem capable of using proper subject/predicate grammar, Miss Stoker’s girlish penmanship was bothersome with its distracting flourishes. As it was hardly dawn when I received the note, I felt a detour home to freshen up was a good use of time and would keep me from arriving on the Cortevilles’ doorstep at an unreasonable hour.
I had attempted to convince Dylan to accompany me, but he elected to remain in the small dark chamber with his so-called telephone.
“I’m going to have to figure out a way to recharge it soon,” he said, looking at me with haunted blue eyes in the glow of the device. “I only turn it on when I’m in this room. But it’s still getting low.”
“Very well,” I said, unsure of his precise meaning, but unable to take the time to further investigate.
I was worried about the young man. On the one hand, I understood his need to return home, to remain in the spot where he’d been shunted through time, in hopes that a miracle would happen and he’d get shunted back. But on the other hand, I suspected that keeping himself cloistered was only causing him more anguish. Before I left him in his dank dungeon-like chamber, I shared this opinion in rather passionate tones. He didn’t seem to care; instead, he continued to stare down at his illuminated device.
I had no choice but to leave him there. Having been locked away in the British Museum on a self-imposed exile for five days, I found the change of scenery refreshing. The sun had chosen to show herself today, and I felt the welcome warmth of her rays seeping through my clothing. For a wild moment, I thought of removing my gloves or tipping back the brim of my hat, just to feel the sun on my skin. I’d already allowed my parasol to rest on a shoulder instead of fulfilling its purpose of providing shade.
Now, as I waited on the porch of the Corteville residence—an imposing, grand mansion in the elite area of St. James, not more than two blocks from Cosgrove Terrace and Miss Stoker’s own Grantworth House—I became even more determined to help Dylan. Not just to return to his time, but to help him accept his current situation until we could get him home.
The door lurched open and instead of the butler I was expecting, I found myself face-to-face with Inspector Luckworth.
Drat.
“Miss Holmes,” he said in an unwelcoming voice. “Why should I not be surprised to see you here.” It was clearly not a question.
Patting my bonnet to ensure it was still in place, I stepped over the threshold and offered my parasol to the mechanized umbrella stand by resting it on a set of open mechanical claws. A soft groan emitted from the device, as if it were waking. The brass fingers closed over my accessory, then the Brolly-Keeper turned and slipped my parasol into a neat cubbyhole in the wall. Several other small cubicles contained parasols, umbrellas, and walking sticks.
“Good morning, Inspector Luckworth. Kippers and sausage for breakfast I see,” I said, noticing the remnants on his collar. “Perhaps you should look into an adjustment on your mech-leg; it’ll keep your hip from being so sore. And you should see to replacing the lamp to the left of your mirror as soon as possible.”
He gawked at me as I sailed past him down the hallway, following the sound of low voices. They were coming from the parlor, outside which stood the butler I’d expected earlier.
“Miss Holmes,” I told him, offering my calling card. “I’m expected.”
He nodded and opened the door.
I paused before entering, adjusting my gloves and hat and patting at my hair again. Why was I suddenly nervous? I was dressed and groomed appropriately.
My skirt was a sunny yellow flowered polonaise, pulled back up into a bustle that exposed a cheerful gold, blue, and green ruffled underskirt. The tight-fitting basque bodice I wore over it was pale blue, trimmed with yellow, green, and white ribbons, making the ensemble bright and summer-like and complementing my golden- brown hair and hazel eyes. I would never look as elegant or stylish as Miss Adler or Evaline Stoker (neither of them had to contend with a nose like mine), but at least I was attired in clothing that befitted a visit to a home such as the Cortevilles’. Viscount and Lady Fauntley were of the upper crust of Society, and the latter, as Miss Adler had told us, was an intimate friend of Princess Alexandra.
When I stepped into the chamber, I took in the room and its occupants at a glance.
Miss Stoker sat on a chair nearby. She was dressed in ratty men’s clothing, and her black hair hung improperly loose in long curling waves over her shoulders. I noticed the bulge of a pistol as well as a variety of other implements on her person, along with dried mud and offal on the edges of her boots. She appeared annoyed and restless, and when she saw me, she sprang to her feet.
“Ah, you’ve arrived,” she said, hurrying to my side. “Took you long enough. I’ll be off now.” Before I could respond, she made her excuses and slipped out of the chamber, clearly glad to be leaving.
I turned back to the room.
Lady Fauntley was seated on a settee, speaking with two women. One of them was Lady Cosgrove-Pitt, and the other Lady Veness, the wife of another leading member of Parliament who’d more than once called on my father for assistance. They appeared to be soothing the distraught mother—although why they should be soothing her when her daughter was alive and safely home, I wasn’t entirely certain.
Lilly Corteville was indeed home and safe—and by the look of it, she was also being soothed herself by none other than Inspector Ambrose Grayling.
It was a touching tableau: Lilly half-reclined on a small chaise, looking pale and weak, and Grayling had drawn up a chair so close it touched the upholstery of the chaise. He leaned toward her, holding one of her hands in his, speaking earnestly.
