THE WITCH'S KISS
(Third in the Gaslight Series)
by Nene Adams ©2005 - all rights reserved

CHAPTER ONE

Late June, 1889
London, England

The house was unnaturally silent.

Sherrinford Pike, by his own consideration the premier consulting detective in London (and the Continent as well, if not the world), paused outside the baize-green door, his gloved hand poised to take the brass knocker that was shaped like a heavy-breasted mermaid. On either side of the door, heavy Mazerine-blue jardinières were heaped with limp ivy helixes, and dying periwinkles and petunias, their once-colourful petals seared brown and yellow by neglect. No one had watered the plants in what Pike deduced was a good long while (at least three weeks, he estimated), nor had any servant seen to sweeping the threshold, scattered with the curled husks of dead leaves. In a fashionable, respectable neighbourhood of immaculately kept homes, this lack of care was troubling.

Pike squared his shoulders, put on a brave face despite his forebodings, then seized the mermaid doorknocker by its tarnished brass fish’s tail, and beat a brisk tattoo upon the panel.

There was no answer.

Black brows drawn together in a frown, Pike tried the knob and was not really surprised to find that the door was unlocked. His frown became more thunderous at this further sign of carelessness. Pushing the door open, Pike entered the darkened house and pulled off his gloves at once, stuffing them into the pockets of his jacket. The dragon-headed walking stick he carried concealed a sword blade; a twist of his wrist, and a shining, sharpened steel length slid partway from its concealing sheath. He did not wish to fully draw the weapon unless it proved necessary, however there was no telling what he might find inside, so some degree of caution seemed to be prudent.

Inside, the rooms were dim, the curtains drawn, the gas-jets unlit. The atmosphere was stuffy and oppressive; silence hung over the house like a shroud. A quick check of the kitchen revealed that the fires which ought to be roaring were merely ash, and had not been lit in some time. Since June 12th, Pike deduced, judging from the masthead on a scrap of unburned newspaper (The Times, he noted) that he found in the cold firebox of the cooking range (a ‘Birmingham’ model made by Hassell & Singleton that had not been blacked in a fortnight, judging from the speckles of rust creeping on the edges). There was no sign of the servants; all the people who ought to have been running the household appeared to have vanished, leaving little trace behind. At least there were no signs of violence, although the complete lack of noise was eerie and not a little unnerving. Pike ventured out of the kitchen and made his way to the study. The doors were closed but he slid them back, and almost reeled as an noxious cloud of spilled liquor, unwashed body and worse odours slapped him in the face.

Pike turned his head to the side, nostrils pinched, but that did not help, so he deliberately took a breath to accustom his nose to the smell. Silently, he reminded himself that it could have been worse – much, much worse. At least it was not the sickly sweet scent of decomposition that greeted him so harshly. As he entered the study, broken glass crunched underfoot. He glanced down and identified the detritus as the remains of whisky bottles. Pike turned a large piece over with the toe of his boot and read the label – Cragganmore, a twelve-year old Speyside single malt. As he recalled, the taste was smoky and peaty, smooth on the palate. From the amount of glass scattered on the thickly carpeted floor, he estimated that there were at least a dozen broken bottles. It was a shame to waste such good whisky on a mindless binge, he thought. Pike bared his teeth in a humourless grin. Cheap rotgut would have done the job as well, if one sought oblivion in the grape and grain.

The exquisite Chinese screen that normally concealed a bookcase had been knocked over but was, as far as Pike could tell, undamaged. The broad flame-mahogany desk was piled high with crumpled foolscap. Ink spots splattered a wall where a pen had been flung in what he presumed to be frustration or anger, or possibly both, given his knowledge of human nature. More aborted attempts at letters, covered in blotches of ink and tear-faded lines, were piled in the cold fireplace grate.

He found her unconscious on the settee, a wealth of dirty black hair hanging over the edge of the scrolled arm in a tangled, disordered mass. Her mouth hung open; there were lines of tension and suffering in her strong-boned face that even sleep could not erase. She reeked of vomit and alcohol, and had clearly not bathed in days. Her silk dressing gown was haphazardly fastened with a knotted sash; the garment was filthy, and gaped open in the front, showing her breasts. A partially empty whisky bottle lay on its side on the floor next to the settee.

Lady Evangeline St. Claire – the second best consulting detective in London, as far as Pike was concerned – lay snoring, dead drunk and oblivious to the world.

Pike sighed. Matters were not as bad as he had feared, but they were dire enough to cause him great concern. He removed his hat and left it, as well as his walking stick, in the outstretched paws of the great, snarling stuffed bear that reared behind the door. He exited the study and returned after a few moments bearing a floral-patterned ewer. Without a moment’s hesitation, he upended the ewer and dashed cold water into Lina’s face.

“Damnation!” Lina spluttered, going from horizontal to vertical in a single jerk. Water dripped off her face. Her swollen, bloodshot gaze fell upon Pike, and she grimaced. “What do you want?” Lina croaked, not bothering to be polite.

“How’s your head, St. Claire?” Pike asked, his voice sharp enough to make her wince. Some petty sense of triumph that he would never have admitted aloud took satisfaction in this proof of his friend’s delicate condition. “I’ve complied with your wish for solitude long enough, for I see that you’ve been over-indulgent to a fault. You’re turning into a veritable Silenos, judging from the empty bottles and the stench of drunken debauchery. Good God, woman… have you been sober even a day since you returned from Paris?”*

Lina pushed dripping locks of hair away from her face. “What business is that of yours?” she muttered, eyeing him sullenly.

“None, I suppose, except that due a friend from a friend.” He stared down at her, his dark eyes hooded. “When will you cease this abominable display of self-pity and cowardice?” he asked bluntly. “It has been three weeks…”

“Three weeks and five days,” Lina replied, still sounding hoarse. She reached for the whisky bottle on the floor, either unaware of or not caring about her partial nudity.

Pike gritted his teeth, then reached down and yanked her dressing gown closed. “For God’s sake, St. Claire! Miss Moore is in London, comfortably ensconced in Swiftways Hotel, not dead and buried!”

“She might as well be dead, Sherrinford, for she is not here with me!” Lina roared, then turned pale, clutching her head with both hands and whimpering.

“Go to her,” Pike urged.

Lina gazed at him with red-rimmed eyes. Her face was stark with pain. “I cannot. Rhiannon has been painfully clear – she does not wish to see me or have any contact with me. Every day, I have a nosegay sent to the hotel, the only way I may remind her of my continued existence, but she does not reply or acknowledge my overture. I am reduced to donning disguises and lurking about the Embankment in the hopes of catching a glimpse of her. I dare not approach, do you understand? Not until she gives me leave.”

“And in the meantime, you intend to kill yourself with excessive drink. Bah!” Pike’s lips twisted, and he stared at her in disgust. “Where are the servants?”

“A paid holiday.” Lina sounded sulky. “I wish to be alone, Sherrinford. Go away.”

“Not until you solemnly swear to abandon this scheme of yours to drain Scotland dry of its whisky supply. It will lead to the grave, St. Claire. You know it will.”

Lina hesitated, peering at him sidelong. Pike went on, his tone as unyielding as steel, “If you’ll recall, when you thought that Victoire had died in the warehouse fire, misplaced guilt drove you to embrace the bottle. Must I remind you of the torments you suffered when you were forced to put drink aside? The severe anxiety and agitation, the mental confusion and hallucinations, the tremors and violent convulsions… I could go on, St. Claire, but we both know the consequences if you refuse to keep your demons leashed.”

“It is the only way I can forget her, though liquor is not as effective as the mythical river Lethe in that regard,” Lina said. She rested her elbows on her knees, her head bowed. The half-empty whisky bottle dangled from her left hand. She shrugged. “Perhaps I ought instead to drink of the Styx, since I prefer death to abandonment,” Lina half-whispered, staring at the balled-up papers in the grate.

“Oh, Lord… I have had enough!” Pike cried, impassioned by fury. He removed a revolver from his jacket pocket – a .45 calibre snub-nosed British Bulldog with a 2 ½ inch barrel and a rubber grip, the most reliable short-range man-stopper produced by the Webley factory. He tossed the weapon at her bare feet. “If you mean to die, St. Claire, then you should go about it properly instead of wasting away by inches and causing trouble for all concerned.”

Lina’s gaze transferred to the revolver, and she shivered, her emerald eyes dull.

The tension broke when Pike blew out a weary breath, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Between our mutual histrionics, St. Claire, I believe we comprise an entire amateur dramatics society. Be so kind as to give me the Cragganmore, if you please. I feel in dire need of a restorative for my poor shattered nerves.”

Lina raised her brows but gave him the whisky. Pike put the bottle to his mouth and took several healthy swallows, not bothering to take the time to savour the taste. A pity, really. It bordered on painful, treating a twelve-year old whisky in such a cavalier fashion, but sheer need overrode more aesthetic considerations.

Pike lowered the bottle. “These are the times that try men’s souls, if I may borrow a phrase from our American cousins,” he said, wiping his mouth uncouthly on his sleeve. “I cannot fault you for showing some degree of heartache; that is normal and natural under the circumstances. You love Miss Moore, and the pain of losing her is extreme. I can only imagine how I should feel if Ormond were to… well, that is understood.” He paused, then continued, “Do you truly believe that Miss Moore will never see you again?”

Lina looked more defeated than ever. She seemed to crumple in on herself, and her face, already pale, turned an unhealthy shade of grey. “I do not know,” she finally answered.

“What you mean, St. Claire, is that you have no faith in Miss Moore’s ability to forgive.” Pike scowled. “Look at yourself! You frankly stink. You haven’t been eating properly, either, or taking care of yourself. I’ve known beggars in Calcutta and opium eaters in Shanghai with healthier habits. If I were not your friend, I should give you the widest possible berth!”

For a moment, something of Lina’s old temper shone through her grief. “And I have known men who were better able to keep their opinions to themselves!” she snapped.

“Do you think your lady-love wishes to return to this?” Pike swept a hand at the mess. “Or this?” A wave indicated Lina’s state of dishabille and dirtiness. “Does she want a snivelling coward who crawls into a whisky bottle at the first sign of trouble? Or do you think Miss Moore might prefer a strong lover and protector, one who does not crumble in the face of adversity? Are you a woman of straw, St. Claire, or flesh and blood?”

Lina did not so much as glance at him. “You do not understand. I betrayed her, Sherrinford. I betrayed Rhiannon in the worst way, and I do not blame her for hating me.”

Pike took hold of her upper arm and hauled Lina off the settee. She was unusually tall for a woman; they were almost the same height and build, both being slender, but Pike was stronger by virtue of being a man. Ignoring the acrid, offensive odour of stale sweat that poured off her skin, he shook her a little, appalled by the wasted flesh beneath his hand. “Damn you! I refuse to stand by and watch you destroy yourself again!” he shouted. “You claim that I cannot comprehend the matter, but here is a trifling bit of information that seems to have escaped your notice – without you, without your love, Miss Moore will surely perish.”

That statement caught Lina’s attention. Her head swung up; she transfixed Pike with a glare. “Do not speak such rubbish.”

“It is true,” Pike insisted, releasing her. “I speak not of literal death, but a metaphorical slaying of her soul. You’ve broken her trust; that fact cannot be denied. Nevertheless, she still loves you. I’m certain of it, and you know that I never state a conclusion unless I can prove my statements are true. The sort of devotion I have perceived in Miss Moore’s character is not easily cast aside, regardless of the provocation. Do you not think she will feel responsible if you lose yourself to a drunkard’s folly? Guilt may well drive her to desperation.” His voice lowered to its most persuasive tones. “Go and see her, St. Claire, I beg you.”

For a bare second, Pike thought that he had convinced her. His heart sank when at last, Lina shook her head. “No,” she said. “No, Sherrinford, I will not incommode Rhiannon with my undesirable and unwanted affections.”

He decided to try the last ammunition in his arsenal. “It’s just as well, I suppose,” Pike said in his most cutting tones, shrugging a shoulder, “for I doubt she’d much admire a craven who is too weak to curb her own self-destructive habits!”

Lina’s arm swung back and snapped forward; Pike easily deflected the blow. Exhausted by that simple act, she stumbled and fell back on the settee, her dishevelled hair covering her face. His patience at an end, Pike went to collect his hat and walking stick from the stuffed bear behind the door.

“Get out,” Lina rasped.

Pike could not resist a final sally. “Think of the woman that Miss Moore fell in love with, St. Claire. Surely you can recall her to your memory? It was not an abject crawling worm. It was not an alcohol-ridden hag who reeks of her own vomitus. The St. Claire with whom I have crossed swords many times in the past is not in this room. She was a foeman worthy of my steel. This pallid shade that you’ve become is but the reflection of a disgusting indulgence, an unbecoming orgy of self-pity, and I wish you the full, seething misery of it. I shall refrain from bidding you good day, as I doubt you would even take the sentiment under advisement. I will tell Ormond that you send him no compliments. Adieu, St. Claire. Do not bother to see me out; I know my way.”

Without a backward glance, Pike made his exit, drawing about him the hauteur of a stage tragedian – which he had, in fact, learned from a leading actor of the day. The stiffness in his back and shoulders was, however, not entirely counterfeit. He held himself rigid as he walked out of the house in Grosvenor Street because he was not sure if he would ever see his friend (closer than a friend, really, closer than a sibling; he could admit that only to himself, only in the secret depths of his soul) alive again.

There was not a thing he could do about it.

Behind him, Pike heard the crash of shattering glass, and supposed that Lina had thrown the bottle of whisky at the wall.

He shut the front door behind him and made his way down the street, not daring to look back lest his resolution be tested. Lina’s survival was in her own hands now; he had at least given her food for thought to counteract the poison that was destroying her mind and body. The rest was up to the woman herself.

Pike was not a religious man, but he prayed that she would get over her sickness; not only for her sake, but for Miss Moore’s as well.

CHAPTER TWO

Rhiannon Moore stifled a yawn behind her hastily raised fist. Dr. Ormond Sacker, the partner of the famous consulting detective Sherrinford Pike, had graciously requested the pleasure of her company at the Royal Adelphi Theatre in the Strand to attend a performance of A Dead Shot, a farce written by John Buckstone, as well as a revival of Dion Boucicault's popular comic melodrama, The Shaughraun. Despite the impressive spectacle of the second piece – including a marvellous bit of coup-de-thêatre in which the hero swung across the stage on a rope – Rhiannon found it difficult to concentrate.

The theatre’s newly installed electric lights were dazzling, a far cry from the mellow warmth of the old gaslights that had been such a fire-hazard to the building’s dried timbers. This new illumination seemed overly harsh to her eyes, drawing acrid tints from the actor’s costumes and the sets themselves, or so it seemed to her aching head and burning eyes. Even the box that she shared with Sacker was not dim enough or sheltered enough to dispel the clashing light and stuffy atmosphere that contributed to the migraine that was squeezing a steely band of pain around her head.

Cognizant of Sacker’s kindness, however, Rhiannon forced herself to endure until the end of the play, often taking restorative sniffs from a little silver-topped bottle of lavender-scented smelling salts. As soon as they exited the theatre and the crowd on the pavement had thinned, the cool evening air was like a balm on her flushed face. The tightness in her temples eased a bit. She took Sacker’s crooked arm and allowed him to lead her to a nearby restaurant, Romano’s. Its butter yellow front made a splash of startling brightness in the gathering dusk.

Signor Antonelli (second-in-command after the ‘Roman’ himself, Rhiannon learned) greeted Sacker with happy cries; it seemed that both he and Pike were well-known habitués of the establishment. Antonelli showed them to a table near the door, where a glass screen shielded the occupants from drafts. The gilt-framed paintings that lined the walls of the dining room featured seascapes, castles, islands and mosques, most in shades of deep blue with touches of crimson. Burnished gold ceiling mouldings reflected mellow candlelight and gaslight from sconces, while the seats were upholstered in a plush wine-red velvet that added to the sense of Byzantine décor. In the front window sat an aquarium full of goldfish, flecks of bright orange colour swimming amongst freshwater weeds.

The atmosphere was as Bohemian as the clientele. Rhiannon recognized the portly, bespectacled John Corlett, the journalist who ran the popular Sporting Times (called the Pink ‘Un), seated in majestic splendour at the large table to the left of the door, along with a group of men that she supposed were on his staff. Sacker told her that it was to Corlett that Romano’s owed its fame, for when it was a modest little place called Café Vaudeville, the master of the Pink ‘Un had taken a great fancy to it, and Romano’s fame had spread until it became a kind of unofficial club for men and women from every strata of London’s social scene, both high and low. Glancing about the tables that formed a triple row in the dining room, Rhiannon also saw actors and actresses and other folk of the greasepaint crowd among the throng, seated near prize fighters with battered faces; officers of the Army and Navy; journalists and authors who ate with one hand and scribbled with the other; and racing touts with betting slips stuffed indifferently into their pockets.

Sacker excused himself a moment to visit the flower stall in the hall; he returned with a nosegay of white rosebuds that he gallantly presented to Rhiannon with a bow. No sooner had he seated himself than another man appeared, taking a chair at their table without a by-your-leave. It was Sherrinford Pike, and the man was scowling fiercely, brows drawn into a ‘V’ above his aquiline nose. Gaslight struck vague red highlights in his slick brilliantined hair.

“I take it that your mission was unsuccessful,” Sacker said calmly, reaching for a dish of olives that formed part of the hors d’oeuvres. The stocky, fair-haired gentleman with the ginger moustache and the twinkle in his hazel eyes made quite a contrast to his leaner, saturnine lover, whose heavy-lidded, dark gaze seemed full of shadows and secrets.

“You may take it as you please,” Pike retorted, then turned to Rhiannon and helped her to a portion of grilled sardines on toast with anchovy sauce. He took some for himself, as well. “Miss Moore,” Pike said more solicitously, “how do you fare this evening?”

“I miss her,” Rhiannon said, staring at the sardine on her plate; the fish stared back at her with its cold glassy eye. Her heart was as heavy as a stone in her chest. She laid down her knife and fork, certain that she would not be able to eat a bite. “I miss Lina every day, Mr. Pike, but I’m still so very angry at her...” Rhiannon took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax. She was not going to make a spectacle in public. Since she had moved out of Grosvenor Street and into Swiftways Hotel, both Pike and Sacker had gone out of their way to keep her company. It would not do to repay their kindness with hysterics, no matter how badly she felt.

“I don’t know what will happen to us,” Rhiannon continued, trying not to sound too woebegone. “I’m miserable and yet, I can’t see her. I just can’t.”

“My dear Miss Moore, no one is urging you to undertake any action which you feel disagreeable in any way,” Sacker said, shooting a quelling glance at Pike. “You must do as your heart dictates,” he went on, picking through the dishes of almonds, celery and radishes on the table. “If you require time to heal, so be it.”

Pike paused in the act of carefully conveying a dripping forkful of sauced sardine to his mouth. “If you will be advised by me,” he told Rhiannon, “you will not wait too long.”

Instant alarm clamoured in Rhiannon’s mind. “What do you mean?” she asked, her turquoise eyes slitted in suspicion. “Mr. Pike, have you seen Lina? Is she alright?”

“I can’t say.” Pike returned her glare with an innocent look that would not, in Rhiannon’s opinion, have fooled a person who was both blind and devoid of all wit.

“You mean you won’t say.” Unbidden, Rhiannon’s fingers clenched around the handle of her butter knife. Sacker laid his hand atop hers, a heavy warmth that she welcomed to dispel the sudden chill that ran through her.

“I beg you, Miss Moore…” Sacker paused to wave away the waiter, who had approached their table laden with bowls of soup. That done, he regarded her with a kindly expression. “Do not ask either Pike or myself to become embroiled in the difficulty between you and Lady St. Claire. Despite what has happened, both you and she remain our friends. Can you understand the position in which we may place ourselves if we convey information about one to the other?”

“In other words,” Pike said, hastily wiping his mouth with a napkin, “we’ve no wish to play favourites, as we enjoy both your companies, and therefore we shan’t be telling any tales. Placing oneself in the midst of a lover’s quarrel is the surest method of alienating everyone concerned. If you wish to inquire after St. Claire, you must apply to the woman herself.” He signalled for the waiter to bring the soup. “Ormond, do cease decimating the almonds, as you know full well that you’ll suffer from dyspepsia for a sen’night if you continue to devour them in that greedy fashion.”

Sacker heaved a long-suffering sigh, and put down the almonds he was about to eat.

Rhiannon pushed her bowl aside as soon as it was laid before her, not at all interested in the crayfish bisque that was one of Romano’s specialties. “Just tell me if she’s well. That’s all I want to know.”

Pike shook his head. “I regret that I cannot say, Miss Moore. Fortunately, your curiosity may be relieved by the simple expedient of sending a note round to Grosvenor Street.” He settled himself in his chair, called for a bottle of Rhenish wine, and proceeded to eat his soup as though he had no further concerns.

Rhiannon bit her bottom lip and waited until the soup was cleared, and plates of truite meunière – sautéed trout in butter lemon sauce – had been placed before them. “Mr. Pike,” she said, “if it was your intention to pique my curiosity, you’ve succeeded. I don’t mean to say that I haven’t worried about Lina; I think about her every day. I wonder if she’s well, if she’s eating enough, if she’s locked herself in that damnable study to drink and smoke and brood the way she does when she’s overcome with the blue devils. I love her. I never stopped loving her. It keeps me awake at night, but she broke my heart, and I can’t forgive her yet.”

Pike nodded, but his reply left no doubt that he was abiding by his decision to reveal nothing. “Eat your dinner, Miss Moore. The trout is excellent, and you’ve no wish to offend the chef by returning a full plate to the kitchen.”

Since he had indicated that he did not wish to continue speaking on the subject, Rhiannon took a few bites of the trout, more out of politeness’ sake than any genuine hunger. She had expected the fish to taste like ashes in her mouth, but the dish was delicious, the sauce perfectly balanced between velvety creaminess and a touch of acidity from the lemon juice. Her appetite awakened with a vengeance; it was not that long ago when she had known what it was to starve for a crust, in those awful days when she had scraped a living as a prostitute in Whitechapel. Rhiannon was nevertheless surprised to find that she had finished the fish, her fork chasing cleanly picked bones around the plate.

A waiter cleared the table. Red wine replaced white. The next course was lamb cutlets with petits pois and pommes, followed by a casserole of pheasant, and then artichokes with sauce hollandaise. Rhiannon did not pick at her food anymore; she ate well but refused dessert, nor did she wish to linger for coffee or cognac. Sacker’s offer of champagne was equally undesirable. The thought that Lina might be in trouble had been preying on Rhiannon’s mind since Pike first made his enigmatic announcement. What had he meant by that warning? Ought she to send a note to Grosvenor Street? Or perhaps go herself?

It had been nearly four weeks since she had seen Lina – four weeks of suffering, of nightmares and the pain of a broken heart. Rhiannon had forgotten how horrible it felt to be utterly alone. Of course, dinners and theatre nights with Sacker and Pike helped alleviate some of the awful loneliness, but in spite of the men’s friendliness, they were simply not Lina. It was Evangeline St. Claire that she craved, and no substitute would do.

Rhiannon sometimes caught a ghostly whiff of the woman’s signature lilac scent, the barest trace of floral sweetness in the air that made her breath catch in her throat - an illusion brought on by absence and longing, she thought. She had told the truth; she still loved Lina with all her heart and soul. This enforced separation from her lover ranked among the most agonizing times of her life, including her mother’s death and her father’s suicide. Rhiannon would do anything to relieve that hurt… anything except return to Lina, who had loved her as no other, but who had also betrayed her with a murderous madwoman. If Victoire Rousseau had been a less skilful shot, Rhiannon would be mouldering in the grave instead of having dinner at Romano’s. She found it hard to forgive. Impossible to forgive, perhaps, but Rhiannon was not ready to even consider the possibility that this separation from her lover was anything but temporary. She had to believe that things would get better, that the hurt would ease, that the memory of Lina being kissed by Victoire would fade from her mind, because otherwise, she might go mad.

After procuring a hansom cab, Sacker and Pike escorted her from the restaurant to Swiftways Hotel, where she had been staying since her return from that ill-fated journey to Paris. The green painted door was flanked by tall stone urns that held bright scarlet geraniums; inside the tiny lobby, the black-and-white tile floor was marred with streaks of mud, no doubt the result of a rain shower earlier that day. Rhiannon bid her escorts good-night behind and went to the mahogany desk that stood next to the steep staircase. She did not need to ring the brass bell. The beaded curtain in the doorway behind the desk was thrust aside, and a very tall, very rotund woman glided out, her fat face wreathed in a smile. Her bright mauve dress fairly glowed against the backdrop of theatrical posters that were pasted haphazardly on the walls.

“Good evening, duckie!” The ‘woman’s’ voice was a deep rasp – far too deep and rough to be feminine – and dark beard stubble showed beneath the heavy stage maquillage that had been applied to his face The female impersonator’s cheeks and chins and jowls quivered as he nodded in greeting, as did the high mound of brunette hair on his head that was precariously secured with Spanish combs.

“Good evening, Salome,” Rhiannon replied. She had grown used to the man’s bizarre appearance; his surname was Hodges, and he had been an actor who specialized in petticoat roles before he had retired to run the hotel. “May I have my key, please?”

Salome propped an elbow on the top of the desk and leaned in closer to Rhiannon, using his height to good advantage. His smile turned conspiratorial. “Enjoyed your evening with your gentleman friend, eh? What would Gussie say, I wonder?”

Rhiannon rolled her eyes at Salome’s insinuation. The persona of Augusta ‘Gussie’ Girdlestone was one of Lina’s alter egos, developed specifically for Swiftways Hotel, where she had a permanent room reserved – one of the many bolt-holes that the woman had throughout London, in case she needed a refuge during a case. This habit had come in handy for Rhiannon; the room was already paid for, so she need not feel guilty about being a drain on Lina’s resources. Of course, Lady St. Claire’s vast wealth would hardly be troubled by her modest expenses – the notion was laughable - but Rhiannon was trying to be as independent as possible, despite Lina’s offer to pay her bills. She still had the salary that she had saved, as well as a tidy sum garnered from her partner’s unthinking financial generosity. If she was careful, Rhiannon would be able to survive for several months on the cash she had at hand.

Would it come to that? Would she never see Lina again? Rhiannon could not say. The future seemed bleak and uncertain. At this point, she only knew that she was miserable without Lina, but she knew that she would be miserable with her, too. The spectre of Victoire Rousseau stood between them. Rhiannon had no idea if she would ever be able to banish the Frenchwoman’s memory. She needed more time.

Aware that she had hesitated long enough, Rhiannon shrugged at Salome and forced a friendly grin. “Gussie’s on the Continent,” she replied, “and what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Besides, the gentleman’s a friend, nothing more.”

Salome put the key on top of the desk, and tipped her a flirtatious wink. His lashes had been darkened with lamp soot, and his eyes outlined with kohl. “Don’t worry, duckie. I won’t tell Gussie a thing, next time I see her.”

“Thank you,” Rhiannon said, picking up the brass key. “Good night, Miss Salome.”

“Good night, Miss Moore.”

Rhiannon felt Salome’s gaze follow her up the narrow staircase. The man’s gentle flirtations did not bother her; she knew that he was harmless and meant nothing by it.

Number Five was small but clean, and neatly if sparingly furnished. A bed was jammed against the wall, and an oak wardrobe had been shoehorned into the space at the base of it, leaving room for a dressing table on the opposite wall. An ormolu-framed mirror hung above it, flanked by gas jets. The surface of the table had once held a selection of pots, jars and bottles, mostly theatrical supplies, but Rhiannon had asked Salome to store the things for her. She had also gone through the contents of the wardrobe, which had mainly contained second-hand clothing and accessories in a variety of sizes and styles, useful for the disguises that Lina enjoyed assuming. Salome had agreed to put these things in storage as well, leaving Rhiannon with enough space for her own garments and other impedimenta.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Rhiannon removed her hat, threw the steel-headed hatpins and the key in the direction of the dressing table, and sat down on the edge of the bed. The springs creaked under her weight. Despair nibbled at the edges of her barely contained composure. She put her head in her hands, sniffed back tears, and wished, not for the first time, that she and Lina had never gone to Paris.

Her feelings were a confused morass of jealousy and anger and pain, created by the unwanted knowledge that Lina had loved another. In the past tense, certainly; Rhiannon could not imagine that Lina might want Victoire now, after all that had happened, and after the woman had been revealed for the monster that she was. Yet knowing intellectually about one’s lover’s former inamorata, and watching said inamorata cling to one’s lover’s lips in front of one’s eyes were two different things. Her head understood that Lina did not love Victoire, but her heart was having difficulty forgetting the image of the two of them on the Eiffel Tower, in a fateful confrontation that all but destroyed Lina, and Rhiannon, too. The kiss that Victoire had forced upon Lina had been a hideous parody of true love’s embrace, but it had hurt Rhiannon all the same; at that moment, she had felt a sick, gnawing emptiness in the pit of her stomach that had never gone away.

There was also the matter of her own betrayal of Lina, and that hurt, too. Knowing that Lina had a real fear of being abandoned, Rhiannon had sworn over and over not to desert her. And what had she done, despite those extravagant vows? She had been foresworn; she had left the woman alone, to bear the damnable weight of heartache and loss without any support whatsoever. Rhiannon had fled to nurse her own wounds, cherish her own injured pride, and that selfish act – though necessary for her survival – made her feel guilty. She despised herself, and was ashamed of her cowardice.

Oh, God, love… what have we done to each other?

Rhiannon was concerned about Lina. Pike did not obfuscate unless it was to the purpose, and as far as she knew, he had no reason to lie. He had said that she ought to see Lina soon, implying that something might happen to prevent it. She opened a drawer in the dressing table and removed a sheet of foolscap, a bottle of ink and a pen.

In the morning, after her morning tea was delivered, she would ask someone to take a note to Grosvenor Street.

THIS NOVEL WILL BE PUBLISHED BY CAVALIER PRESS
PUBLICATION DATE TO BE ANNOUNCED