Page 7 of The Phantom Duke
“You have known of my affliction for some time. Why are you suddenly so keen to understand it?”
“Unlike your scarred face and shoulder, I do not understand your sensitivity to light. Over the last twelve months, I have studied in Antwerp and learned a great deal. I wanted to try out some of the things I have learned— to look at your condition through a new lens.”
Damien grunted, taking a swallow of his tea. The red scar that Simon mentioned so casually covered the entirety of the left side of Damien’s face and extended down his neck to his shoulder and upper arm. It was covered by the mask and had been seen by no one since the death of his father.
My scar, as the old duke called it. I will not call him father as he does not deserve the name. My dark stain. My curse. The curse that damned me in his eyes from the day I was born.
“I can see nothing that I would not expect. No obvious abnormality,” Simon said. “But there is a great deal of other tests we can carry out.”
“Simon,” Damien said, his voice low but firm, “it is not that I do not appreciate your dedication and intelligence. But this darkness is simply my fate, just as this scar is the mark of a curse I wear like a second skin. And I have no desire to change what I am.”
For a heartbeat, Simon’s bravado slipped. Then, forcing a laugh, he exclaimed, “Pshaw! Stuff and piffle. There is no such thing. Nor is there any such thing as curses. Simply lazy-minded people who did not care to look closely enough for their answers.”
“Have a care, sir, I am one of those who believe in curses and fate,” Damien replied quietly.
Simon held up his hands defensively. They were long-fingered and as fine-boned as a bird. By contrast, everything about Damien was blunt and forceful. He was an eagle, proud and dangerous. Simon was a magpie, inquisitive and intelligent, with a hint of insolence thrown in.
“No insult intended. I am a man of science and enlightenment…”
“While I am a man of darkness and shadow?”
“Quite literally if left to your own devices!” Simon exclaimed, “As we have established. Well, I see you’re not in the mood for scientific curiosity this evening, so I will throw in my cards while I am ahead.”
Damien sipped tea, letting it cool his temper as he watched his only friend from the outside world fuss with the instruments. Simon was brilliant, certainly. But brilliance often came with the foolish belief that everything could be fixed.
Some things, like phantoms, are better left alone.
“Well, as you have given up on your examination, perhaps a walk is in order. I was about to take my evening constitutional when you appeared unexpectedly at my door. Not that you’re unwelcome,” Damien said, his voice colored with a rare show of fondness. “It was just unexpected. Let us both take a walk, shall we? The good thing about living this far south of the river, and within sight of Bedlam to boot, is that at this time of night there is little chance of coming across another soul.”
Maria left the orphanage and steered her one-horse trap in the direction of Bethlem Hospital. Securely behind her belt was a letter to Doctor Henshaw Gould, chief physician at the dreaded hospital known better as Bedlam. Drayford had given her the letter which asked for supplies of olive wood, linen and quinine. She put a hand to it frequently to reassure herself it was there.
Hold on, my poor Gilbert. Be a brave boy for me, and I will get you what you need! The roads be dashed. I will make the journey faster than Doctor Drayford would believe.
But in the dark and filled with a fear that verged on panic, Maria took the wrong road. She came to a dead end. The lane terminated in a tall wooden gate, set into a high, brick wall that stretched to either side. She stared at it in confusion, wondering if she had missed a turning in the dark.
She heard the sound of heavy boots approaching from behind and looked over her shoulder. Three figures stood in the lane behind her. All carried what looked like cudgels. They were coming closer, their faces lost in shadow, intentions dark as night.
“I have nothing of value!” Maria cried out, standing on the seat and turning to face them.
“Those cases on the back of your trap say different. Since when does a lady travel without jewels?” one of the men said.
“When she is visiting an orphanage,” Maria said, resting one foot on the bench seat, preparing to leap from the trap, though where she would go once she reached the ground, she did not know.
One of the men dashed forward and seized the bridle of her horse. Another hauled himself onto the cases strapped to the back of the trap. Maria leaped as the third swung his cudgel at her legs. She escaped the blow but landed awkwardly in the dark, her ankle rolling beneath her. She fell to the road with a cry,pain lancing up her leg. Her head struck a stone embedded in the hard earth of the lane.
For a moment, her vision went white. When she could see again, a shadowed figure was hunched over her. Rough hands touched her, running over her legs and her hips.
“Nothing down here for a woman like you. Lots for us, though,” the man said in a liquid tone, a tone that promised dark things and reveled in the promise.
Maria opened her mouth to scream, but the sound never reached her lips. Something seized the man, hauling him backwards at speed and flinging him through the air. He crashed into the wheel of Maria’s trap. A towering dark figure now stood between her and him. Maria’s eyes blurred as pain pulsed through her head. Something warm and wet trickled from her temple.
Her attacker was now gibbering with fear, staring wide-eyed at the face which Maria couldn’t see. One of the other men shouted something as he ran. Boots pounded the ground, passing inches from Maria.
“The Phantom! God save us!” one of them shouted in a voice strident with panic.
The figure turned as his quarry clambered over the wheel and the trap, leaped to the far side, and ran. Maria’s vision swam in and out of focus.
“It seems you owe me your life now,” came a rumbling voice, low and far too close.
