Page 24 of A Vocation of Violence
My heart skipped a beat at this revelation. Could Albert Victor’s connection to Vivienne be bound up in this clandestine society?
I leaned forward to share my own conspiratorial whisper. “Do you remember the strange and immediately squashed rumors that Albert Victor might have been Jack the Ripper himself?”
“I must admit,” Oscar said, “the idea had crossed my mind. He is certainly worth taking a closer look at.”
The shadows cast by the flickering firelight upon the vibrant tapestries seemed to whisper secrets of their own as I took in all that Oscar had shared with me. My thoughts tumbled like a swift current through my mind, carrying me toward unknown depths and murky truths.
“Oscar,” I said, my voice tinged with both gratitude and steely determination, “your insights have proven invaluable. You’ve given me much to ponder, and your candor has not gone unnoticed, nor unappreciated.”
He waved away my thanks with an elegant flick of his wrist. “It is but a simple offering, dear Fiona. As a fellow seeker of truth, it would be remiss of me not to aid you in your quest.”
“Still,” I insisted, “I am eternally grateful for your assistance.” Rising from my seat, I felt the weight of my purpose settle around me like a cloak of iron resolve. “I shan’t forget this, Oscar.”
“Ah, but who could forget such a captivating conversation?” he replied, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he stretched languidly across the velvet chaise lounge. “Though I do hope our next tête-à-tête involves less murder and more merriment.”
A small smile played at the corners of my mouth, despite the gravity of our discussion. “I promise nothing, but I shall endeavor to oblige.”
“Good luck with your investigation, Fiona,” he said, raising a hand in farewell. “And remember: ‘To define is to limit.’”
“Indeed,” I murmured, turning to face the door that led back into the cold night and the twisted path that lay before me. But Oscar’s words echoed within me, emboldening my spirit and sharpening my senses. I was ready to embrace the darkness, to untangle the web of deceit and betrayal that ensnared those who held the power to shape our world.
As I stepped into the night, the inky sky swallowing me whole, I knew that I would not rest until the truth was revealed.For justice demanded it, and so too did the restless ghosts of my past.
Chapter Eight
As a nocturnal creature by profession, it didn’t occur to me that I might be calling a bit late to accuse someone of murder.
Even in Belgravia, with its opulent façades and grandiose airs. I was a world away from the gritty streets where the Ripper’s name still lurked in the dark, though one could travel between the two in the space of an hour.
A quick glance at the watch dangling from a chain on my vest told me I was, in fact, tardy for traditional calling hours. But the dark still reigned over the winter half of the year, and no self-respecting noble house would be sitting for the evening meal just yet.
The moon hung aloof in the velvet sky, a sole witness to my solitary arrival at the grand residence. The baron and baroness’s address was a testament to the opulence that wealth could afford—a stone façade kissed by the ghostly caress of ivy, windows aglow with the golden warmth of gaslight, and a door as imposing as the reputation of those who dwelled within.
A chill wind whispered through the autumn foliage that flanked the garden walkway, stirring the fallen leaves into restless eddies around my skirts as I approached.
I hesitated at the hip-high gate, my hand trembling slightly as it hovered above the latch. To face the baroness alone was a daunting prospect. She was a woman woven from the same cloth as the night: dark, mysterious, veiled in elegance, but capable of unspeakable things.
“So am I,” I muttered. My heart pounded in my chest, but I steeled myself against the fear that threatened to freeze me in place. There was no turning back now. I owed it to Vivienne and to Darcy to uncover the truth.
As I took a deep breath and prepared to ascend the steps to the grand entrance, I could not help but feel a sense of foreboding settle over me like a shroud.
“So are you what?” came a voice from the shadows, low and laced with an accent that was neither fully English nor entirely foreign.
I spun on my heel, a gasp escaping me before I could cage it.
Aramis Night Horse emerged from the inky tendrils of fog like a specter, his presence both startling and strangely compelling. His dark eyes held mine with an intensity that sent an unexpected shiver down my spine.
“Sweet baby Jesus, you’ll be the death of me,” I scolded him, scowling at his long, inky black leather coat.
“No, I won’t.”
Something in the solemn set of his eyes made my throat constrict, and I cleared the gathering of nerves with an irate sound. “Has anyone ever told you it’s rude to move with the quietude of a reaper?”
“Given my current occupation? No,” he said, the corner of his mouth tilting into a half-smile that did little to soften his fearsome mien. There was a grace to him, a deadly elegance that spoke of danger as plainly as his name.
The Blade.
He blinked down at me in his enigmatic way that made one wonder if he were amused or contemplating which of your many veins to slice first.
